Orphan

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<<audio "jellyfish" fadeout>><center><h1>Prologue</h1></center> Your Might is <<print $might>>. Your Mobility is <<print $mobility>>. Your Mind is <<print $mind>>. A boy's earliest memory is colored by lavender flesh and the white glow of chrysanthemums, the flowers layered carefully amidst the beautiful blonde braids of a young girl. Her eyes are startling, bright blue orbs sparkling within her pale, oval face. He finds himself seated on a plush, cream-colored cushion, within the comfortable cab of a large, white-bleached duskwood carriage. It rattles and sometimes jolts gently as it's pulled along by a pair of ashen, manilla-furred yaks. He can't remember why he's here, but the day seems lively, peaceful even, the surrounding streets well-lit by the pale violet glow of the sky. And you, you watch from the shadows, lingering on the periphery. Quiet, forgotten. Briskly, your focus shifts. [[Lavender flesh.|intro_p1]]

<<audio "shallows" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "shallows">> <center><img src="images/darkelf_border.jpg" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> The lavender flesh of a dark elf. Her facial features, once-smooth and sculpted, now display the fine lines of a life well-lived. Crowsfeet gracefully trace the corners of her amethyst eyes, each gentle crease telling a story whilst retaining a sort of regal elegance. A silver gown is draped over her matronly figure, and the curls of a powdered white wig frame her angular face. Briefly, she turns and those almond-shaped eyes meet the boy's across the carriage. Pale lavender lips curve into a subtle smile, causing a low, warm blossom to flutter deep within his stomach. But her attention doesn't linger for long, that soft-lidded gaze returning to the street outside as the carriage teeters along. [[White chrysanthemums.|intro_p2]]

You've seen her before, that beautiful girl with bright, blonde locks adorned with the white glow of chrysanthemums. There she is beside the boy, her big blue eyes filled with wonderment as she gazes contentedly out into the busy city streets. Everything for her is a joy. She must be someone special in his life, you think. You can't help but wonder who she is, where she's from, and what their relationship is. But they never speak any words for you to hear, and you can never bring yourself to speak from where you linger, gazing upon them, helpless. Instead, you must content yourself with watching from afar, for her pure, childlike curiosity is only something that you can admire from the outside. [[Look around.|intro_p3]]

Alongside the carriage, two columns of what must be soldiers march in parallel, humans with sword-and-shield and squat hobgoblins with long pikes twice their height. Filling the street, a bustling crowd ebbs and flows, some pressing their way through, but most stand still, watching in awe, admiring those within the carriage much like you. If there was any room for unease, it's swept away by the reassuring smile and soft laughter of the blue-eyed girl as she tugs at the boy's arm beside her. Strangely enough, you feel like you're meant to be here with them. But something is wrong. A darkness stirs outside in the crowd and begins to shroud the world around you, touching the borders of your vision and pulling at you. This is how it always begins, a slow, spiralling descent that you have no control over. You can't move, you can't shout; you can only watch as it washes away the boy, the dark elf, and even the blonde girl who gives a shrill scream of distress. [[ The scream echoes loudly in your ears.|intro_p4]]

The crowd outside surges, the line of soldiers shatters, the street shakes and the door to the carriage rips open as the darkness creeps closer. She's on her feet, shielding the children, that woman with lavender flesh. The girl with bright blue eyes presses her hand tight atop the boys, their pale fingers entwining, and you almost feel the warmth yourself. You want to protect them, protect her, but all you can hear are the shrill screams as the darkness rips you away, far away from that pristine carriage and down into a deep, dark world of misery. There is no pain. Even your fear dissipates, as you're ripped from one world into the next. You're used to it now, this suffering. [[ Oblivion takes you.|intro_dream]]

<<audio "gasp" play>><<audio "shallows" fadeout>> <center><img src="images/chapter1banner.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> It was just a dream. It was //always// just a dream. A damp air had settled into the solitary confines of your room. You can tell it's early morning, through the dim sliver of light that peeks in through the cracked, horizontal slit that serves as a window. Beneath you, matted straw, tattered cloth and what must be clumped rat fur serves as your sleeping pad atop a slab of grey stone. This has been your home for the last thirteen years, ever since old Fredrick saved you from the Orphanage. It doesn't bode well to dwell on such memories so early in the morn, but already it's stuck in your mind, clinging, fragments of a ruined youth and tormented childhood. Your dream was the catalyst. You've never been able to remember your parents... Chances are in the Cradle, they're dead. Only glimpses remain of what might as well be a past life. The trouble is, one seems to reach an age where the past becomes like the future. Vague, uncertain, hopeful. A mere distraction from the labor and toil of your current existence. That's right - you should check on Fredrick. [[ Examine your room.|intro_myroom]] [[ Check on Fredrick.|intro_checkonfredrick]]

<<audio "lonely-darkness" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "lonely-darkness">> Some days when he's feeling unwell, you'll find the old man still stowed away beneath the blankets in his room. He's the same man that offered you refuge all those years ago, just older, limbs knotted and fingers warped from his decades of daily labor. You were just a child when he found you and offered to take you on as an apprentice, and you can't help but shudder to think of how things might've turned out without being presented with that opportunity. Being a cobbler's apprentice is far from a glamorous existence, but it's the life that you've come to know. Today, you find that Fredrick is already up and about, preparing for the workday ahead. [[Examine the workshop.|intro_theworkshop]] [[Examine Fredrick.|intro_fredrick]] [[Get to work.|intro_gettowork]]

Home, sweet home. You sit up atop your sleeping pad and peer over your room, bleary-eyed. Everything seems to be in order, not that there's much to manage. You'd still take it over the Orphanage anyday, and for that, you're forever grateful. A shoddy lakewood cabinet occupies one corner of the room, your sparse collection of clothing stuffed inside, with various baubles and trinkets that you've hung onto over the years strewn atop. A warped plank laid across several upturned bricks serves as a makeshift workbench, and a busted crate rests beside it as your seat. You've whittled away at many personal projects here, mostly hand carving blocks of scrap wood or rolling your own clove cigarettes. Anything to pass the time. It's a space full of simple memories. [[ Check on Fredrick.|intro_checkonfredrick]]

The workshop, which is really just the main room of your hovel, is crowded and crammed to the brim. The workbench takes up one side of the room, while the rest has been stacked full of material, crooked cabinets and staggered shelving. You find it cozy, despite the congested confines. You've spent many hours in here, assisting Fredrick in his work and learning the tricks of the trade. Nowadays, you're more or less entrusted to work on your own, though Fredrick still tasks you with running the occassional errand and making deliveries whenever necessary. You don't mind. It's nice to get out and explore the narrow streets of Undertown, and it's not especially dangerous if you stick to the main throughfare. Only fools and vagrants venture down the dark alleys below. In fact, there's a saying in the Cradle: good things happen high, and the bad below. Everyone knows that the high nobility live in tilted towers, stretching up into the open sky where the air is cool and clear. The worst that Cradle has to offer live in the lowest levels of Undertown, in hot, humid hovels where water evaporates and the steam sticks to every surface. The heat is just bearable where you live in Undertown. But one day, you hope to move up in the world. [[ Examine Fredrick.|intro_fredrick]] [[ Get to work.|intro_gettowork]]

The old man hasn't noticed you yet. He's too preoccupied with his morning routine, going over the workbench and conducting daily maintenance of his tools. Stone hammers, wooden awls, tapered knives from fromp bone and an assortment of material, mostly scrap, such as bits of spare leather and thread. Despite having grown into a sturdy young man yourself, Fredrick is still an inch or two taller than you, even with the slight hunch of his sloped shoulders as he continues to age. He must have been formidable back in the day, although he doesn't talk much of the past. In that way, he's a simple man, grounded in the present and focused on his work. He has served as a poignant example of how a bit of determination and grit can get you through life. Especially here in the Undertown, where things seem especially unkind, unfair, where life can be brutish and short for the vast majority. This isn't a place where many grow old and grey like Fredrick. [[ Examine the workshop.|intro_theworkshop]] [[ Get to work.|intro_gettowork]]

As you set about to start your day, the old man notices you. His voice is warm and gravelly, slow-paced, as though his attention is split between speaking and the work before him, ''"Morning, $name. How'd you sleep?"'' [[ Respond simply.|intro_gettowork_cowboy]] [[ Be a dick.|intro_gettowork_bastard]] [[ Treat the old man with kindness.|intro_gettowork_knight]]

<<set $cowboy +=1>> ''"Well enough,"'' Your response comes easy with a faint dip of your chin, ''"Ready to work."'' The old man responds in kind, ''"Good."'' You've always had a straightforward relationship as master and apprentice, although a small part of you, at least unconsciously, regards Fredrick as something of a father figure. He's a fair man, sometimes stern and stiff, but always fair. You try and return the favor by putting in an honest effort every day. ''"Need you to run and buy some tack nails. We'll need 'em for Buck's order later this week."'' You give a terse nod, ''"Got it."'' [[Fredrick tosses you a small pouch, the coins within jingling.|intro_leavinghome]]

<<set $bastard +=1>> ''"Mind your own fuckin' business,"'' You retort, rubbing tiredly at an eye as you meander towards the workbench. A low snort of amusement, gruff and bemused, registers from the old man. He turns his head to briefly examine you, grumbling back, ''"I see ya didn't get enough beauty sleep, princess."'' It's your turn to snort, and you can't help but give a brief smirk back to the old man, ''"We in for a busy day?"'' Your relationship with Fredrick is one of tough love, pushing and pulling between each other. You can be hardheaded and he can be a hardass. For the most part, it works out. ''"Eh, there have been worse days. I need you to run and buy some tack nails. We'll need 'em for Buck's order later this week."'' You give a loose nod in response, ''"I can do that."'' [[ Fredrick tosses you a small pouch, the coins within jingling.|intro_leavinghome]]

<<set $knight +=1>> ''"I can't complain, Fredrick. How're you feeling today?"'' You can't help but worry about the old man nowdays, at least a little bit, these concerns often lingering in the recesses of your mind. Age is a cruel, cruel mistress, that's what they say. While with each passing year, you seem to grow stronger, more capable, increasingly independent and experienced, Fredrick whithers. The least you can do is watch over the man that took you off the streets. ''"Fit as a fiddle and as strong as an ox, kid."'' But he's far too proud to ever show weakness. Everytime you show an ounce of concern or worry, he shrugs it off or shoots you an unconcerned wink. ''"I do need you to run and buy some tack nails today, though. We'll need 'em for Buck's order later this week."'' ''"Of course. Two dozen boots, wasn't it? That'll be a fun job."'' He bobs a nod of acknowledgement, ''"That it will."'' [[ Fredrick tosses you a small pouch, the coins within jingling.|intro_leavinghome]]

You catch it with a single hand and briefly weigh it in your palm, before reaching down to secure the pouch within one of your belt loops. This is a normal trip for you, made once or twice a week depending on the number of work orders that you and Fredrick get. It's always nice to get out in the morning, when the air still has a hint of coolness to it and the streets aren't overcrowded quite yet. Taking a deep breath, you glance towards the old man and notice that he's already refocused on his work. Diligent as always. Without expecting a response, not wanting to disturb him, you murmur a farewell, ''"I'll be back."'' And you barely catch his deep-spoken retort as you step towards the door, ''"I know ya will. Watch over yourself, $name."'' [[Outside, you're greeted by a familiar scent.|intro_leavinghome2]]

Piss. The familiar scent of piss, sweat and grime greets your nostrils everytime you step out into the narrow streets of Undertown. It barely bothers you at this point. The cobblestone streets are kept in a perpetual state of mismanagement, cracked and broken throughout, with numerous potholes and muddy puddles that promise to ruin the day of the unobservant or unsuspecting. As someone accustomed to their environment, you've memorized the most troublesome spots along your route. Tenaments, hovels and crumbling buildings line either side of the street, the majority of them constructed from stained stone or bleached brick. This is a neighborhood of simple laborers, craftsmen and stoneworkers, the type of people who barely make ends meet, and who have for the most part accepted their lot in life. Given the size of the streets here, one never sees carriages or mounts. Only the rare hand-drawn cart, most of them loaded down with raw goods. It's uncommon to see a patrol of guardsmen or soldiers here, as they mostly stick to the main throughfare, paying most mind to the merchants and vendors who can pad their pockets or fill their bellies with a free meal. As you walk, you pay special attention to the occassional alleyway; all of them painfully dark, narrow and treacherous. Barely any sun reaches Undertown, given how high the walls rise, but even less graces the forsaken labyrinth of side streets that give this place its seedy reputation. There are more dangerous districts, sure, but you've seen firsthand how unforgiving these streets can be. You are no stranger to death and misfortune. [[ There's a glimpse of movement out of the corner of your eye.|intro_leavinghome3]]

<<audio "lonely-darkness" fadeout>> A random passerby moves down the street adjacent to you, surely on their way to work. You recognize some faces but Undertown is a big place. There must be thousands of downtrodden souls tucked away in these narrow confines, only barely managing to navigate the daily hardships of the Cradle. This place chews people up and spits them out; dead, bent or broken. Surely you're meant for more... Right? It's nagging notions like these that sometimes cloud your thoughts as you make your way through the day, stepping over shattered glass, discarded bins and heaps of refuse that litter the roadway. But these distractions will cost you today. Much like a troublesome thought might tug at the back of your mind, something much more real happens to tug at the belt looped about your waist. And when you glance down, the pouch of coins that Fredrick gave you is gone. [[Fuck!|intro_thechase]]

You turn on heel just in time to catch a glimpse of a tattered dark cloak fluttering through the air and disappearing into the shadow of the nearest alleyway. Your adrenaline spikes, fists clenching, before you spring into action and throw yourself into that narrow, dark abyss. <<audio "footsteps-running" play>><<audio "antagonist" loop play>> Turning the corner, you bound down a pair of shattered steps and leap into a sprint, the figure ahead of you now, barely visible in the darkness. The entire street is sloped, letting you pick up speed as you race downhill at an angle. You're faster than this fucker, you think. You're already gaining ground. <<set $currentMusic to "antagonist">> [[ Get them!|intro_thechase2]]

But they're slippery and duck to the left, disappearing down yet another break in the black-stained walls. You turn after them, banking down the alley as fast as your feet will take you, hurdling over more trash and rubbish, still hot on their tail. Until - SHIT! You miss a set of crumbling stairs in the darkness. You can feel stone give away beneath your first footfall, and it all happens so damn fast, the next thing you know you're careening down towards the hardpacked ground. The impact knocks the breath out of you, your lungs already hot and screaming for air, but you can only writhe in pain. Finally, your chest expands and you draw in a shallow breath, then another, sucking in that hot, humid air. You can breathe, but all you feel still is pain, discomfort, agitation, alone in the dark. It's hard to know exactly what happened; if anything is broken, or whether you momentarily passed out. It's pitifully dark down here and your eyes haven't quite adjusted. What's worse is that as the pain and anger begin to subside, confusion fills their place. Fear. You've never been this far down an alley. Everyone always warned you against it. And when you finally lift your gaze towards the direction of your former pursuit, you see a deadend. There are two turns, a junction, left or right. You can't even hear their footfalls anymore, only the sound of your own breath. For a moment, doubt flickers through your mind. But you can't let the thief get away with that coin. [[Investigate.|intro_thechase2invest]] [[Left.|newintro_left]] [[Right.|intro_thechase2right]]

Stop and think. If you want to catch the thief, your best bet isn't to //guess// and keep tearing through the narrows blindly. Use your head, $name, you tell yourself before snapping to the task at hand. It's hard to see anything clearly in the dim, dank darkness of this forgotten place. But the harder and longer that you look, the quicker your vision seems to adjust. <<if $mind gte 1>> There. That's what you've been searching for. Admist the heap of dust, dirt and grime that has been packed into these winding pathways, you spot a footprint; it must be recent, given the indentions, the way that the garbage has sprawled out loosely around it from the impact. Yes, it seems that the thief took the rightmost alley. <<else>> Yet, there's nothing that catches your eye or sways your senses amongst the heap of dust, dirt and grime that has been packed into these long, winding pathways. There's only garbage, death and decay, nothing fresh that indicates which direction the thief took.<</if>> [[Left.|newintro_left]] [[Right.|intro_thechase2right]]

With a sudden surge of motivation, you force yourself onward, turning right and trotting down the alleyway before you. Stumbling and steering your way through the crumbling labyrinth of broken brick and shattered stone, you don't see any sign of the thief. Body sore, even your eyeballs pulse in their sockets, straining against the shadows as you continue your search in what may be a lost cause. But another winding turn contorts the alleyway before you, and when you pivot around the corner, you see the narrow path continue, long and winding out into the deep distance, with... A flutter of dark cloth and the small shape of the thief down below, escaping still, but within reach. You still have a chance. [[Calm and calculated.|intro_right_calm]] [[Let your instincts reign.|intro_right_instinct]]

You have to be smart if you're going to catch the thief. These alleys aren't a joke and they certainly shouldn't be treated as such. If you continue to tear through them without some amount of careful calculation, it's possible that you never end up leaving the narrows today. Many men have ventured down them, never to return, not to mention the tens of thousands that have been born into them throughout the Cradle, and there they stay. A life of abject poverty, confined between shattered, stained walls and crumbling structures, fighting for every single morsel of food and drop of clean water. What a miserable existence. Once you get your coins, you're leaving, and you don't plan on coming back. First, you have to make sure that you don't lose sight of the thief, or let them get too far ahead of you. You're not going to give them the opportunity to get away again. Your feet bound out onto the dusty cobblestones before you, carrying you over flattened heaps of rotten refuse and seeping, mud-packed potholes that look deep enough to swallow a man whole. [[You spot something up ahead.|intro_right_calm1]]

You're not going to give them the opportunity to get away again. No, you're either going to leave this pitiful place with your pouch of coins in one hand and the thief's throat in the other, or not at all. That's the murderous mentality that begins to grow inside of you as you pick up pace once more, intent on your target. Your feet bound out onto the dusty cobblestones before you, carrying you over flattened heaps of rotten refuse and seeping, mud-packed potholes that look deep enough to swallow a man whole. Eyes keen and feet swift, you're dialed in now. But as you tear through the alleyway, your thundering footfalls seem to alert the thief, who picks up their pace still far ahead of you. Fuck it! Blood pumping hotly through your veins, much like the humid air sucked into your lungs, you fully commit yourself to a mad dash after them. Arms swinging tight to your side, thighs thick and taut above every long stride, you propel yourself into the wild chase that consumes you. But even in your frenzied state, you spot something up ahead, lurking beneath the trash-strewn foilage of the street. <<if $mind == 1 and $mobility == 1>><br>A vague outline, netting perhaps; you don't have much time to react, but your mind processes the sight and your body is quick enough to still seize the opportunity. Avoid it, throw yourself to the side, survive!<br><</if>> [[Leap!|intro_right_instinct_captured]] [[Hug the wall!|intro_right_instinct_dodge]]

You can detect the outline of something unusual, buried beneath the street's top layer of trash and rubbage. Even now, you're not /exactly/ sure what it is, but if you'd been going any faster down the alleyway, you would've ran right into it. A trap perhaps, though you're not sure how the thief avoided it. If you hug the wall and stick close to it, you might be able to scrap right by without upsetting anything. That's exactly what you do, with no time to waste, setting your back to busted brick and scooting your way along tight to the wall. You swear, just for a moment or two, that you can hear something high above, like whispers on a wandering wind. When you stop to focus on it, there's nothing, only the low chitter of rats rustling through the refuse. By the time you feel confident in pressing off the wall and continuing down the alley as normal, you can't help but wonder whether your concerns were even valid. Better safe than sorry, you suppose. But now the silhouette of the thief has disappeared... [[You're forced to catch up.|intro_right_calm2]]

This narrow labyrinth of alleys is far from flat, constantly descending into deeper, darker and more debris-filled pathways that teeter with crumbling stonework and blasted brick, only to suddenly ascend and brighten once more with slivers of pale-violet light that shimmer down atop the muddy cobblestone beneath your feet. Your long strides and sure footfalls have made good progress in closing the gap. Once you turn the corner, you see them down the path before you, passing under the shadow of a stone archway. It stands derelict, the once-pristine marbling cracked by age and overgrown with a moist, pale green moss. You remain weary of any potential traps, watching for them as you duck beneath the same entrance and arrive in what appears to be a long-forgotten courtyard. And there they are, not but ten yards from you, the thief. Their dark, hole-ridden cloak conceals their true identity as they clamber up a stack of crates, bleached from years of exposure. They're positioned perfectly under a tilted, ceramic-tiled ledge, which they're deftly hoisting themselves up onto. [[You almost have them.|intro_right_calm3]]

You close the distance with a surge of energy, clambering atop the cluster of crates and grabbing for the edge of the roof. A piece of the nearest tile breaks clean off beneath the press of your fingers. ''"Fuck."'' You curse beneath your breath. You're quite a bit larger and therefore heavier than the thief. This might get dicey. But you didn't come this far to go home empty-handed. Drawing in a deep breath, you find a better handhold and haul yourself up with a bit of effort, just in time to see the thief scramble over a half-wall and disappear onto an adjacent rooftop. You can't let yourself fall behind again. And so you find yourself climbing atop crumbling structures and leaping between caved-in roofs, sometimes getting a glimpse between each building into the alleyways below. Sometimes the fall doesn't seem like it would be too bad, while othertimes, you reason that you'd be lucky to survive; such is the fluctuation in height that you experience throughout your pursuit. You never imagined yourself in a situation like this. [[The thief always appears one step ahead of you.|intro_right_calm4]]

They were certainly agile, weaving between a maze of obstacles in a desperate attempt to put distance between themself and you. An intricate labyrinth of uneven chimney stacks blackened by smoke, loose tiles and shingles that give way underfoot, narrow gaps that were only discernable when it was already too late; these were the potential pitfalls of your rooftop pursuit. Yet you're catching up, their cloak fluttering in the dim light just ahead of you, the pale-violet glow of the sky reaching these heights better than the darkened alleyways below. You both emerge onto a wider rooftop, adorned with weathered clotheslines and drying racks, turning round a crumbling wall to a sudden, unwanted sight. You're greeted by two figures, a thuggish man and a wiry woman, both armed. They look just as surprised as you, lingering by the roof's edge. But before anyone can truly react, the thief turns and takes a running leap across the yawning gap between buildings, landing on an adjacent roof. ''"Don't move a fuckin' muscle!"'' The man suddenly barks out, big and bulky, grimacing at you from beside a wide, wicked facial scar that stretches from temple to cheek. The woman, a scrawny lass with a gaunt face, bears what appears to be a club, positioning herself between you and the roofs edge from which the thief had just leapt. [[Find an escape route.|intro_right_calmrun]] [[Charge her and leap the roof.|intro_right_calmleap]] [[Talk your way out.|intro_right_calmtalk]]

''"Listen,"'' You manage to say, your mind going a hundred miles an hour as you try to think your way through this situation. ''"That thief stole something from me, that's wh--"'' They don't seem to be paying any attention to your words. The man signals to the woman, and they begin to close in on you. ''"Look, it doesn't have to go this way."'' You draw back a step, then another. She has a club, he has what appears to be a big, gravel-filled cosh, the type of weapon a mugger might use to beat an unsuspecting victim unconscious. These are thieves, thugs, brigands, something along those lines, you can tell that much. You're in trouble. [[Find an escape route.|intro_right_calmrun]] [[Fight your way through them.|intro_right_fightthrough]]

The decision is made near instantaneously after a split second calculation, sizing up the skinny woman between you and your prey. She's not limp-wristed, a seasoned woman of the alleys, but you'd rather take your chances than have this whole chase be for naught. Your muscles tense, your breath catches in your chest, and with a start, your legs pump powerfully beneath you as you propel yourself across the roof and charge the club-wielding fiend before you. Her eyes momentarily widen, and before her much larger friend can intervene, you're upon her. She goes to swing, but you're already too close, plowing into her with a dip of your broad shoulder. You almost unbalance yourself with the impact and go hurtling off the roof, but manage to steady yourself for several steps more, before bounding into a leap with the dark alleyway gaping up at you from far below. [[You even manage to land on both feet.|intro_right_calmleap1]]

Your eyes dart across your surroundings, a dark silhouette of dimly-lit, long-forgotten rooftops before you. There! On the far side of this roof, set into a pale wall, an old door stands crookedly, a potential pathway for your escape. It beckons you. You kick off across the rooftop, skipping over puddles of grime and muck, old bloodstains across the shattered tile and a rickety, open-faced grate, slamming sideways into the door and busting through it with a clatter of cracked wood and a broken frame. You can hear them rushing after you from behind. [[A dark staircase descends before you.|intro_right_calmrun1]]

Not wasting any time, you begin your descent, skipping a step or two with each long stride. They're barely visible beneath your feet, the stone solid, dark and shrouded by shadow. At the bottom, you whip around a corner and find another set of stairs. But below that, standing half-crooked open, another doorway. You might just have a chance. Their footfalls still echo out above you. ''"Fuckin' asshole."'' You hear the big, burly man's curse from above. You're not going to wait for him. Leaping down another series of stairs, you boot open the door and hurry your way through. Rather abruptly, you find yourself in what appears to be a grungy apartment. There's trash and junk scattered about, with a circular table set low, cushions and chairs, what looks to be a corner kitchen at the other end of the room. It smells of food, too. You wonder if this is where they live. [[You sense a presence; too little, too late.|intro_calmrun2]]

Someone grabs you, someone terribly strong, a thick, flubby forearm pressed hard against your throat as they pull you into a choke. You throw your head back and try to press free, but there's no slipping out from their gruesome grip. And when you manage to get a look at them, your heart sinks. Putrid pink flesh and a frumpy face, bleached tusks protruding from his piggish face. Mutations aren't all too uncommon among the lowest and poorest denizens of Undertown. You've heard that there's entire enclaves of them hidden away in the Lost Quarter. But all you can think about currently, is fighting for your life. ''"I got 'im Zhed! Zhed, I got 'im!"'' The beast chortles and struggles a couple steps forward with you dragging along, still putting everything you can muster into wrenching free from their hold. You can barely breath, let along get a word out to try and deter him. The burly man with the wide, wicked scar appears through the doorway, grimacing and breathily heavily as he swaggers towards you, a gravel-filled cosh in hand. "Hold the fucker still." The last thing you see is him raising it high and swinging it heavily towards your head. [[Darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]]

<<audio "antagonist" fadeout>> <<audio "wind-blowing" play>> It's peaceful here. Only the gusting of clean, clear wind feels your ear; air this fresh only comes from up above, high beyond the craggy edges of the Cradle. You're back inside the carriage again, as it teeters along an empty cobblestone road. And she's with you as always, that familiar girl with her beautiful blue eyes, blonde curls tousled and thrown about gracefully by the breeze. She's sitting close to you; her long locks tickle your face and chin. So soft, you think, like decadent silken strands. You reach for her hand, but when you grab it, it's terribly hard. It feels more of bone than flesh. A dull throbbing fills the base of your skull, reverberating through your consciousness as it slowly sweeps back into your weary mind. When you blink, groggily, the girl is gone. Your senses are dulled by the lingering haze of oblivion, the world dark and bleary, though you still feel her soft locks tickling your chin. ''"Ah, you're finally waking up."'' Once more, your eyes open and close, trying to focus on the silhouette of a seated man. ''"Shouldn't let the rats pick at ya like that, mate. They'll think you're food."'' You bring a hand to your chin, trying to brush away her lingering locks, only to find a scrawny, grey rat that has been nibbling at your chapped flesh. ''"HUA!"'' You find yourself invigorated, enough to swat the skittering rat away and sit upright, finding your back slumped against the hard bars of a cage. [[ This is no dream...|intro_right_knockedout1]]

Fuck it, you think. Now is not the time for reasoning. You can feel the titillating sensation of your adrenaline spiking, surging through your veins, accompanied by the hot pump of blood engorging your tensed muscles. Here goes nothing! ''"Stay nice an' still, and you'll be just fine pal. Now--"'' They don't expect your charge. Deciding to go for the female first, you plow through her with a booted foot, slamming into her thin-ribbed chest. You swear that you can feel bones shatter beneath the hard impact, whipping her backwards onto the crumbling rooftop. Before you can take a breath, you feel a sickening thud and a brief exposion of pain before your world turns, sending you spinning and staggered down onto the ruined tile. You stumble, fighting off the darkness spilling into the edges of your vision. The roof sways around you, a landscape of dark shadows, splotches of grey and brown, and a dim violet glow from high above. Now you can see his grim face clearly as he bears down on you for another brutal swing. [[Throw yourself at him.|intro_right_fightthrough1]] [[Try to disarm him.|intro_right_disarmthug]]

You immediately change levels and throw yourself forward, ducking under the swing of his cosh and somehow managing to throw him off-balance, both of your hands leveraged behind his knees, grabbing onto whatever you can, the greasy rat-leather of his trousers snagged between your fingers. He falls backwards and instead of trying to end up on top of him for an impromptu grappling match, you kick off against the rooftop and stagger away, heading for the edge. You still have a thief to catch; so you propel yourself forward, vision finally steadying as you charge towards open air. Muscles tensed, breath tight, your legs pump powerfully beneath you, before bounding into a leap with the dark alleyway gaping up at you from far below. It's a fall that could certainly kill you. Alas, you trusted your body, controlled your nerves and somehow survived that heavy blow. You're not stopping, not yet. [[You even manage to land on both feet.|intro_right_calmleap1]]

You go for his cosh, but your vision is swimming and your coordination suffers. What little chance you had to overpower him or knock away his cosh seems lost. His next blow crashes through your upheld hands, crushing your fingers and glancing off your temple, sending you sputtering back onto the filthy, grimy ground. Barely clinging to your senses, you try and scramble to your feet, but you're having trouble. He's right on top of you again, yellowed teeth bared in an ugly grimace, that wicked scar grinning down at you. The next blow, you don't even feel. You can't even remember it. [[Because darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]]

You hear sharp curses and a shout from the rooftop that you just left behind, but you spare nary a glance, continuing after the thief and your stolen property. Thanks to your quick thinking, they barely gained any ground on you. In fact, they seem to be slowing down; you imagine they're regretting their choice of victim today. After hurtling over another edge and skipping over a series of conjoined rooftops, hot on their trail, you're almost in position to put an end to this tiresome chase. You race after her, entering an enclosed archway that exits out into something of a shaded cove, shielded on three sides by a wall, nearly twice as tall as you. This must've been a nice spot, some hundred years ago, a rooftop garden perhaps; but now, it serves as the culmination of your chase. The //thief// stands before you. [[Look at them.|intro_right_calmleap2]]

<<set $intro_enslaved to true>><<audio "the-wanderer" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "the-wanderer">> You're in the back of a wagon as it wobbles and bumps along, stuffed full of several cyclindrical cages, tall enough to sit within but not much else. The man in the cage adjacent to yours speaks again, ''"They got you good, huh? I can see that welt from a league away."'' <<if $left_pit is true>> Tentatively, you lift a hand and smooth your dusty digits through your hair. When you feel along the back of your skull, you can't help but grimace in pain, a very sore and prominent bump marking where you hit the ground. Your pained breath serves as a sort of vague affirmation for your company. ''"So how'd you end up here? Forgive my nosiness, these other shods haven't been very talkative."''<<else>> Tentatively, you lift a hand and smooth your dusty digits through your hair. When you feel along the back of your skull, you can't help but grimace in pain, a very sore and prominent bump marking where the slavers had knocked you senseless. Your pained breath serves as affirmation for your company. ''"So how'd you end up here? Forgive my nosiness, these other shods haven't been very talkative."''<</if>> Surrounding your 'friend' were several other figures crammed into their own cages, faces etched with weariness and despair. Some sat huddled in silence, their eyes vacant and haunted, while others gazed blankly out into the street, lost in their own private torment. The man speaking to you looked sane at the very least, although slightly unkempt, which could be forgiven based on shared circumstances. He was slightly taller than average for a human, with an athletic, lithe build and long, shaggy chestnut-brown hair that sometimes crept in front of his dark-green gaze. ''"Gambling."'' He says as he notices you observing him, vaguely amused, ''"Always been a bad habit of mine, bettin' money and drinking whiskey. They finally sent someone after me. Bastards found me in my room with a lass and didn't even have the heart to let me finish."'' [[ Remain silent.|intro_wagon_silent]] [[ Those motherfuckers.|intro_wagon_fuckers]] [[ Introduce yourself.|intro_wagon_introduce]]

<<audio "runningbreath" play>> It was a goblin all along. She's not even five feet tall, short and slim, with narrow, almond-shaped eyes that bear golden irises, peering up at you unsteadily from beneath the shadow of her dark cloak. What little of her pale green flesh that you can see is covered by a faint sheen of sweat. She's tired, bent over awkwardly as she tries to catch her breath, yet she stands still in the middle of the walled rooftop with her focus locked onto you. Then you see it, clutched within the confines of one of her small, grubby hands; a curved dagger with a dangerously sharpened point. You stand before her, still full of adrenaline, although it's at risk of running low. The stress and fatigue will catch up with you eventually. But for now, it's finally time to bring this chase to a close. Do you just want your pouch of coins back? Or does justice demand to be delivered today, knife or not? [[Return what you stole from me.|intro_right_calmleap2_return]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_calmleap2_disarm]]

''"Return what you stole from me."'' Your demand is clear and simple, although your voice is haggard. She doesn't budge, staring back at you with her dagger gripped close, held somewhat outwards as though to ward you off. ''"My coins. I'm a cobbler's apprentice and I need those coins. Let's end this."'' You try and reason with her. But the glimmer of her gaze seems to grow hard and steely, determined. You're quickly growing tired of it; you didn't chase her through the narrows and across a dozen roofs all for naught. Finally, she snaps back in a light, springy and feminine voice: ''"No! You give it up an' leave me be! These coins can buy enough food t'feed me for a week!"'' She's not wrong. It's not a lot of coin, all things considered; just enough for a weeks worth of tack nails. But for some people, especially those of the narrows, it's enough to live on. [[Try and reason with her.|intro_right_calmleap2_reason]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_calmleap2_disarm]]

Carefully, you begin to edge forward and she reacts to your every movement, dagger raised, the sharpened edge glistening beneath a stray beam of violet-light. As you step aside, she moves the opposite way, circling, golden-eyes locked with yours in this dance of nerves. ''"You wanted this."'' You remind her lowly, which causes her gaze to narrow once more. And then she strikes, slashing at you in a long, diagonal arc that you easily sidestep. Calculated, you throw a kick, hard and low right behind her knee, causing the goblin to buckle and fall. You're on top of her like a predator on prey, snatching the wrist of her weapon-wielding hand and wrenching control of the dagger with your superior strength. But she's quick and nimble, abandoning the blade as she attempts to slip past you towards the only exit. [[You try to cut her off.|intro_right_calmleap2_disarmed]]

''"Look... I get it. But that doesn't mean you can just steal them."'' You keep trying to reason with the goblin, only drawing a small step closer, not wanting to startle her. Still, the thief's breathing seems to gradually be settling, gaze set upon you and narrowed in what seems to be blatant annoyance. ''"This is how we survive, you wouldn't get it. Now fuck off an' get back to your cozy home, roundear."'' She spits back; so much for trying to be reasonable. No, this goblin seems intent on keeping your coins. ''"We can split it,"'' You concede with a low breath, ''"I'm not heartless. Come on-"'' Before you can blink, the goblin suddenly shifts and turns with a flutter of her dark, threadbare cloak, attempting to dart beside you and dash off towards the only visible exit, the archway from which you both emerged. But you have time to react. Do you fight for what belongs to you? [[ Stop her.|intro_right_calmleap2_stopher]]

You're one step ahead of her this time, cutting off her retreat and nearly trampling the shorter, smaller goblin in the process. She gasps, still trying to fight against you, though it's no use. It should be clear that you're much bigger, stronger, and capable of controlling her little wrists. In the end, you have her pressed up against one of the rooftop walls, her green cheek smushed against the dust-smeared stonework. ''"Ow! Feck, you fuckin' bastard!"'' She kicks, yips and groans, struggling and squirming, forcing you to apply more pressure. Only then does she relent. ''"Fine- ow, fuckin' fine! You got me!"'' [[I want my coins.|intro_right_calm_wall_wantcoins]]

''"I only wanted my pouch back."'' You mutter, adjusting your grip on her wrists and making sure she's pressed tight against the wall. She's not going anywhere, you're going to make sure of that. ''"Fine!"'' She quips back, breathily, her body still tense as though she's looking for a way out. ''"Jus' take the damn coins and let me go, roundear. They're in my cloak..."'' Throwing up a shoulder and loosing a heavy breath, you give a faint nod, ''"Stay still."'' So you jut your hand beneath her dark cloak and feel around the lining, digits smoothing over various rips and holes, until you locate the familiar bulge of your coinpouch. Moments later, you have it in hand. Judging by the feel, she hasn't removed any of the coins, not that she would've had time during the chase. It looks like you've finally gotten back what belongs to you. Now the question remains, do you leave with what you came for, or is there still unfinished business? [[ Look at her.|intro_right_calm_lookather]] [[ Depart with your coins.|intro_right_calm_depart]] [[ Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_calm_hauloff]]

She's the smallest of her kind, a normal goblin, compared to the hobgoblins or trolls; the other types of goblinoids that you sometimes see throughout Undertown. As far as you can tell, they're the second most populous race in the Cradle, besides humans. Most of them seem to have it pretty //rough//. At least that seems to be the case for her, the goblin pressed between your body and the wall, who has fallen silent beneath your gaze with her face turned away and those gold eyes narrowed in annoyance. She must do whatever it takes to survive in these alleys. It's unfortunate that she picked you as today's target. Beneath that cloak, she has the figure of a woman; there's only a smallish bump representing her clothed chest, but her hips splay out wide, thick and feminine beneath the thin, tasseled leather of a tan skirt. You're surprised that she was able to run so fast, as she's certainly doesn't look built for speed. Dark, thick furrowed brows crest her almond-shaped eyes, effectively giving her something of a resting bitch face, which gives off the impression of her being continually annoyed. Not every goblin has a full head of hair, but she does, albeit cut short and braided atop a slender skull, pitch-gray in tone. [[Claim her (18+)|intro_right_instinct_shutup_claimher]] [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_calm_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_calm_hauloff]]

''"We're done here."'' You finally ease up, loosening your control over the goblin and stepping back from where you had her pressed tight against the wall. You can see, barely, where her cheek had been smushed up against it, leaving a vaguely moist spot behind on the otherwise untouched, dust-covered surface. She slowly turns around to face you, still somewhat weary, perhaps surprised that you're letting her go free after all of this. You consider what to say in parting, before embarking on the journey back home through the narrows. ''"Hey,"'' You start, causing one of her dark brows to tick upwards. [[Don't steal from me again.|intro_right_calm_depart_dontsteal]] [[Better luck next time.|intro_right_calm_depart_betterluck]]

''"You're coming with me."'' She tries to glare back at you, thick brows drawn together, ''"What do you mean?"'' She's completely still against the wall, but like a trapped animal, you can sense the stored energy in her limbs and the tautness of her body. It's not hard to imagine that she's looking for an escape route, that she'll surely seize as soon as the opportunity arises. Are you biting off more than you can chew? You barely made it through the alleys in one piece, after all. ''"I'm hauling you in and turning you over to the Legion. You're a thief."'' She doesn't like that response, as she suddenly shifts against you, shaking her head and screaming. ''"GET 'IM OFF ME, LEAVE ME ALONE! LET ME GO!"'' You fight to maintain control, keeping her pressed against the wall. There's no way she's getting away from you, unless her screams attract unwanted attention from other alleyborn denizens. [[Change your mind.|intro_right_calm_hauloff_changemind]] [[Knock her out.|intro_right_calm_hauloff_knockout]]

''"Sssh, sshh."'' You try to shush her, but she's in a state of fight or flight, evidently panicked by the idea of being hauled off to jail. You're not trying to press your luck today and get yourself killed; desperate, you reach around and smack a hand over her open mouth. Her muffled cries reverberate against your palm as you try and get her attention, ''"Listen. I won't turn you in, shut up already."'' She tries to peer back at you, eyes wide, until she suddenly stops and gradually seems to begin to calm down. Your serious expression must've done the trick. ''"I got my coins... that's all I wanted."'' And finally, you slip your hand from her mouth and she's silent. Good. [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_calm_depart]]

You have to do something quick before this goblin gets you gutted, deep in the alleys atop this nameless roof where no one will see nor care. You'll die alone, unfound and forgotten; only Fredrick will remember your name until time takes him, too. So you decide to take decisive action. It happens quickly. You shift your weight to the side and leverage your superior size, bringing your elbow down sharply towards her temple. The impact is solid, her head snapping to the side, lolling there until it thumps forward against the wall and settles there, still. You're not sure how long she'll be unconscious, but this is certainly preferable to her screaming and fighting you every step of the way, on the treacherous path to depart from the alleys. Keeping her propped up between you and the wall, you take a moment to reattach your coinpouch to one of your beltloops. [[ Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_calm_hauloff_knockout1]]

Stooping down low, you grab one of her arms, then the other, until you can heft her up and over one of your broad shoulders. She's heavier than you'd like, but all things considered, it could be a much worse haul. You'll just have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. Only splotches of dirty green flesh visible amongst the dark shroud of her crumpled cloak, you remember to snatch up the goblin's curved dagger from where it lay, carefully balancing her atop your shoulder all the while. And once you slip your newfound weapon beneath your belt and trousers, the hilt slightly protruding for easy access, you head for the archway that leads away from this fateful rooftop. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. It's possible that it belonged to the same pair that you ran into on the rooftops earlier. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day. You count yourself lucky, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey back through the narrows... [[Onward.|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend]]

//Sometime later, after a perilous trek...// <<set $knight +=1>> Unfortunately, the intrepid little goblin awoke not long after your journey back through the narrows began. You had to make do with what you could find, stuffing a dirty rag into her mouth to keep her quiet and procuring some tattered twine to bind her wrists and ankles. Still, she has put up //quite// the fight. ''"You don't know when to quit, do you?"'' Her response is throaty and muffled, barely audible, head dangling to and fro behind you with her body thrown over your shoulder. Despite her being so small and light (initially), you're exhausted, trudging along the streets of Undertown trying to find a patrol of guards to take her off your hands. The streets are busier than they were this morning, various craftsmen, laborers and merchants making their way through the burgeoning, bustling day. You can feel their eyes on you; people must be at least somewhat curious why a young man has a bound goblin held atop his shoulder, but thankfully most folk around here tend to mind their own business. Not that they would particularly care if it was just a //goblin// being kidnapped or taken advantage of. They're among the dregs of society after all. [[Up ahead, you spot the reddish gleam of bronze.|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend1]]

''"Don't steal from me again."'' <<set $knight +=1>> She looks at you somewhat oddly, still bewildered perhaps from the chain of events. ''"... Right."'' There's something of a scowl on her visage, but also a small semblance of what might be begrudging respect. You did chase her through the narrows and beat her in the end, after all. [[Time to go home.|intro_right_calm_homewithcoins]]

''"Better luck next time, eh? Pick someone slower, maybe."'' <<set $cowboy +=1>> She looks at you somewhat oddly, still bewildered perhaps from the chain of events. Though after a moment or two of processing what you said, a little smirk appears. ''"I'll try my best... roundear."'' You feel as though you earned some semblance of respect from her, however begrudging, after chasing through the narrows and beating her in the end. [[Time to go home.|intro_right_calm_homewithcoins]]

''"Don't follow me,"'' You add as you begin to turn on heel, ducking through the archway and departing from the walled-in rooftop. You remember to take a moment to reattach your coinpouch to one of your beltloops, feeling a brief surge of confidence from your victory. However, the feeling doesn't last forever. As you descend back into the narrows, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. It's possible that it belonged to the same pair that you ran into on the rooftops earlier. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day. You count yourself lucky, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[You depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

<<if $currentMusic is "no-love">><<audio "no-love" fadeout>><</if>> You've had enough excitement for one day. But as you walk home through the mean streets of Undertown, you find that your mind isn't your own. Not completely. You thought you would've questioned these decisions, these acts, that you take unconsciously without even a second thought. This isn't typical for you, not at all. <<if $currentMusic is "antagonist">><<audio "antagonist" fadeout>><</if>> For example, your decision to turn down an alley a few blocks from your house. Wandering alone, eyes narrowed, you press along further, deeper, the path growing even darker yet. It feels like you're descending into another world, an underworld, where gloom prevails and shadows pervade each and every crooked, cracked crevice in the ruined walls and streets. You can barely see anything now. A hand held out in front of you, feeling through the darkness, you're suddenly confronted with your thoughts. What are you doing? Why did you come here? And as you consider your choices, you realize that the air has turned silent. Not a single sound disturbs the otherworldly stillness of this deep, dark place. Even the heat of Undertown has given way to a still coolness. Usually a reprieve from the heat would be nice, comforting even. But as your adrenaline wears off, you can't help but feel sick, like something is off. A sense of dread sits heavily in the pit of your stomach. [[And that's when you hear it.|intro_turnedleft1]]

This stops here. You put a foot down, literally and figuratively, jutting out a leg to trip the goblin while remaining wary of her crooked dagger. Fate seems to be on your side. She doesn't expect your quick reaction and goes down hard, the blade knocked free to skitter across the old, dust-blown rooftop. Before she can find her feet again, you press your advantage and throw your weight down atop her. She's quick and slippery, almost managing to roll out from under you, but you grab onto a little wrist and leverage your superior size and strength. Soon, she's completely secured beneath you, squished flat. [[She cries out, "Get the fuck off me!"|intro_right_calmleap2_stopped]]

''"Come on, now. That wasn't smart, was it?"'' You're breathing heavily from the sudden exchange, shifting your weight to try and ensure she stays stuck beneath you. Meanwhile, you focus on calming yourself while she struggles and squirms, muttering all the while, ''"Feck you... Tall fuckin' bastard.. Fine, fine!"'' ''"Are you going to cooperate?"'' You ask her, looking the little lass over from above. ''"Yes! Take it easy, fuck."'' She curses back as you take a glance through the archway, steadying yourself. ''"I'm gonna stand you up. Don't move a muscle."'' Shifting your weight carefully, you maintain control over her wrists and haul the goblin to her feet as soon as you find yours. Not wanting to put anything to change, you shove her against the nearby rooftop wall and keep her secured there, tight, her cheek pressed against the dust-smeared stonework. [[ I want my coins.|intro_right_calm_wall_wantcoins]]

<<audio "antagonist" fadeout>> Quickly, you kick off from the hard-packed street beneath you and pitch yourself into open air. Before you can blink, your life takes an /unfortunate/ turn. You never would have imagined that you'd be caught in a net, your limbs bent, twisted, body folded over, effectively trapped and caked in a filthy layer of dirt and grime that was thrown up by the trap's activation. You hang taut in the air, one of your legs protruding through the net and dangling towards the dark alley ground below. ''"Fuck,"'' You spit before clenching your teeth and trying to manipulate the coarse netting around you. But you can barely move; it's tight and you don't have anything on you to cut at it. ''"This makes up for missin' the little one, don't it?"'' The voices are low, but growing louder and clear for you to hear. They seem to be climbing down from somewhere above, perhaps a nearby rooftop, and you can't even swivel your gaze to observe them. You have to do something, quick. But nothing that you do works. Your fingers pry feebly at the netting and your teeth barely put an indent in the rough, thick-woven fibers. You're trapped and there's no telling what they'll do with you, or who this trap belongs to. You'll have an idea soon. [[A trio of leather-clad humans peer up at you.|intro_right_instinct_captured1]]

''"Fuck!"'' The impact sends reverberations throughout your entire body as you throw yourself to the side, knocking into the ruined wall to your right and causing a cascade of dirt and grime, shook free by your collision. But it seems to have been the right choice; as exactly where you would've been running through, a net had whipped up into the air, empty. ''"You missed another one, idiot!"'' You hear the choked bellow from somewhere high above, perhaps the nearest rooftop, and a muted argument follows that you can't quite make out over the ringing in your ears. But you do know that you shouldn't stick around and meet whoever set this trap. You turn, dashing along the broken alleyway, right under the net that would've entrapped you and continue after the fastly fleeing, dark-cloaked thief. Blood-pumping and adrenaline-high, you can't wait to get your hands on them. [[Pick up the pace!|intro_right_instinct_dodge1]]

<<audio "runningbreath" play>> ''"Not bad,"'' The biggest among them murmurs as he cants a dark eye up and over your captured form. He's a bulky man with a shaven head and a wide, wicked scar that carves its way down his right temple and through his cheek. ''"Sorry kid. You look like you'll be a good sell."'' One of his companions, a frumpy man with bleached tusks, chortles as he gawks up at you. ''"See? I told ya I'd make up for it, Zhed."'' Mutations aren't all too uncommon among the lowest and poorest denizens of Undertown. You've heard that there's entire enclaves of them hidden away in the Lost Quarter. [[ What is this?|intro_right_instinct_captured1_whatisthis]] [[ Let me go, fuckers!|intro_right_instinct_captured1_letmego]] [[ Admonish the mutant.|intro_right_instinct_captured1_admonish]]

''"What is this?"'' You call down to them, trying to twist your gaze to follow the scarred man that appears to be the leader of this trio. It doesn't take long for him to call back to you, ''"We're slavers, kid. Stay still and you won't be harmed. Try anything funny and you'll find out the hard way."'' ''"Thas' right!"'' The frumpy tusked mutant excitedly joins in, stepping to the side of the alley and searching for something admist the muck. Zhed, the scarred leader, calls over to the third and final member of the trio: ''"Keep an eye on him, Wini."'' She's a scrawny lass, all skin and bones, but there's a rough look at her gaunt face, and what appears to be a club gripped loosely in her skinny hands. You might be able to take her... [[ You suddenly jolt, then come crashing down towards the ground.|intro_right_instinct_captured1_dropped]]

''"Let me go, fuckers! This has to be some kinda joke!"'' You shout down at the trio, spittle flying free as you try to squirm and remove yourself from the net. The scarred man squints up at you with a dark eye, before calling up, ''"Stop making a fuss, or you'll find out the hard way whether this is a /joke/."'' ''"Thas' right!"'' The frumpy tusked mutant excitedly joins in, stepping to the side of the alley and searching for something admist the muck. ''"Shut tha' feck up, before we kill ya. Right, Zhed?"'' But the shaven-headed man doesn't respond, turning instead to the third and final member of the trio: ''"Keep an eye on him, Wini."'' She's a scrawny lass, all skin and bones, but there's a rough look at her gaunt face, and what appears to be a club gripped loosely in her skinny hands. You can take her. Or die trying. These are slavers, that much is clear, and you don't intend on being kept like cattle. [[ You suddenly jolt, then come crashing down towards the ground.|intro_right_instinct_captured1_dropped]]

''"Keep that tainted beast away from me,"'' You call down to them, your gaze tilted to haphazardly follow the meaty, meandering mutant, who pauses in his wobble to glare up at you. ''"I don't want to /catch/ anything."'' ''"What'd he jus' call me, Zhed!? He's makin' fun of me!"'' The frumpy tusked mutant cries out. Zhed, the scarred man who must be the leader of the trio, squints up at you with a dark eye. ''"Stop riling him up. Stay still and you won't be harmed. Try anything funny or keep running your mouth and you'll find out the hard way."'' ''"What's the meaning of this?"'' You inquire back, but the shaven-headed man doesn't respond, turning instead to the third and final member of the trio: ''"Keep an eye on him, Wini."'' She's a scrawny lass, all skin and bones, but there's a rough look at her gaunt face, and what appears to be a club gripped loosely in her skinny hands. These people are slavers and they mean business, you can tell that much. [[ You suddenly jolt, then come crashing down towards the ground.|intro_right_instinct_captured1_dropped]]

You blink away the grit and grime, sputtering, sprawled atop the ground beneath a heavy bundle of netting. The impact wasn't gentle; you'll likely have some new bruises tomorrow, if you survive today. ''"Stay still,"'' comes the firm reminder from the piggish mutant, picking his way through the muck to get ahold of the net. Nothing is broken. You could still fight back. That lingers in your mind as the slavers surround you, the faint jingle and scrap of metal sounding from the scrawny lass as she passes something off to the mutant. Shackles, you think, catching the dull gleam of blackened iron. Your chances aren't getting any better. [[ Fight back.|intro_captured2_fightback]] [[ Comply.|intro_captured2_comply]]

Fuck this, you're not going down without a fight. You'll bide your time for a few moments longer and take the first opportunity that you see. ''"Listen up,"'' comes the deep voice of the burly, scarred man as he peers over you, ''"No funny business. Gonna remove ya from this net and secure your hands. All you need to do is cooperate."'' You plan on doing the exact opposite. They work quickly, an experienced crew as far as you can tell, loosening and gradually removing the net from around you while the big man, the apparent leader, watches over. Once your upper half is freed, the woman taps you on the head and speaks throatily, ''"Raise your hands."'' You're more or less surrounded, sat down while they stand, unarmed while they boast clubs and coshes. A few options float through your mind for consideration. Rolling out of here and running, trying to snatch away the nearest weapon to fight back, trying to take one of them captive. They all seem... rather bleak. But as you lift your hands out before you as commanded, you see that the woman has shoved her club into a beltloop as she handles and manipulates the shackles, ready to bind your hands together and take you prisoner. [[ You yank her club free.|intro_captured2_fightback1]]

You decide to comply for the time being, as your chances here don't exactly look favorable. Perhaps you'll still be able to talk your way out of this. ''"Listen up,"'' comes the deep voice of the burly, scarred man as he peers over you, ''"No funny business. Gonna remove ya from this net and secure your hands. All you need to do is cooperate."'' They work quickly, an experienced crew as far as you can tell, loosening and gradually removing the net from around you while the big man, the apparent leader, watches over. Once your upper half is freed, the woman taps you on the head and speaks throatily, ''"Raise your hands."'' ''"Is this really necessary?"'' You speak up, hoping to keep yourself out of the restraints. She glares down at you, unimpressed. You're more or less surrounded, sat down while they stand, unarmed while they boast clubs and coshes. Your chances of getting out of this seem increasingly bleak. Especially when you hear what's said next. ''"Let's not take any chances with this one."'' The boss decides, then dips a firm nod to the mutant, who confirms the order with a little, smug grin and a heft of his club. Before you catch on or manage to fully react, you hear and feel the momentum of the swing. You find yourself slumped forward, senses distorted, body numb, the edges of your vision slowly closing in. But you can't even remember the impact. [[Darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]]

You throw yourself forward, grabbing onto her belt and yanking the club free before they can bring any blows down upon you. The woman scowls like a banshee, dropping the shackles as she goes to grab onto your arm. But you fight her off and thrust the club forward, shoving it hard right into her stomach. She doubles over, giving you barely enough time to shift, whipping out with your newly acquired weapon to try and knock away the pigman's incoming blow. But he's terribly strong, the impact producing an ear-splitting CLACK and throwing you back atop the ground. You scramble, the net splayed out beneath you still, threatening to entangle you. ''"Bastard!"'' You're quicker and stronger than most, but both of them are already upon you, the pigman and his boss, bludgeoning down at you with weapons and their hard, studded boots. Your shoulderblade explodes with pain, buckling beneath the heavy blow of another club swing. A kick catches you directly in the chest, next, sending you backwards. You swing out haphazardly, thwacking one of them on the shin, resulting in a yowl of pain and plenty of pained cursing, before you suffer another pair of hard blows that blur your vision, that veil your senses in a hot, searing pain, that enshroud you in hurt. Another boot lands on your chest, pinning you down against the ground. The last thing you see is a cosh, heavy with leaking gravel, flung down towards your head. [[ Darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]]

<<audio "runningbreath" play>> It was a goblin all along. She's not even five feet tall, short and slim, with narrow, almond-shaped eyes that bear golden irises, peering up at you unsteadily from beneath the shadow of her dark cloak. What little of her pale green flesh that you can see is covered by a faint sheen of sweat. She's tired, bent over awkwardly as she tries to catch her breath, yet she stands still in the middle of the abandoned courtyard with her focus locked onto you. Then you see it, clutched within the confines of one of her small, grubby hands; a curved dagger with a dangerously sharpened point. You stand before her, still full of adrenaline, although it's at risk of running low. The stress and fatigue will catch up with you eventually. But for now, it's finally time to bring this chase to a close. Do you just want your pouch of coins back? Or does justice demand to be delivered today, knife or not? [[Return what you stole from me.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab2]]

''"Return what you stole from me."'' Your demand is simple and clear, although your voice is haggard, tone colored by an edge of exhaustion and sharpened by the adrenaline still surging through you. She doesn't budge, staring back at you with her dagger gripped close, held outward as though to ward you off. ''"My coins. I'm a cobbler's apprentice and I need those coins. Let's end this,"'' You try and reason with her. Your request isn't all too unreasonable, is it? But the glimmer of her gaze seems to grow hard and steely, determined. Finally, she snaps back in a light, springy and feminine voice: ''"No! You give it up an' leave me be! These coins can buy enough food t'feed me for a week!"'' [[That doesn't mean you can steal them.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return1]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab2]]

Carefully, you begin to edge forward whilst she reacts to your every movement, dagger raised, the sharpened edge glistening beneath a stray beam of violet-light. As you step aside, she moves the opposite way, circling, golden-eyes locked with yours in this dance of nerves. You lunge, and she slashes out in a wide arc. But you're quick enough to press a foot to the ground, pausing your momentum, allowing the blade to barely brush against your chest before you lash out with a clenched fist to her jaw. The momentum of the blow staggers her, nearly knocks her over, and you charge forward to grab ahold of the hand grasping her dagger. The force of the act sends both of you to the ground, you pressed atop her, fighting for control of the weapon. But it's not much of a struggle. You easily overpower her, knocking the dagger away and sending it sliding across the broken cobblestone. An eerie silence consumes the courtyard except for the rapid breaths of both of you. [[You control her from the top.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_atop]]

''"That doesn't mean you can just... steal them."'' You keep trying to reason with the goblin, not drawing any closer to her. The thief's breathing seems to gradually be settling, though her gaze is still intently set upon you, narrowed by what may be annoyance. It's possible that her victims don't tend to be this persistent. ''"Tell that to the alley an' Labyrinth folk! This is how we survive. Now fuck off an' get back to your cozy home, roundear."'' It seems like you won't be winning yourself a new friend today. No, this goblin seems intent on keeping your coins. It's enough to make you stop and consider whether you'd do the same, if placed in her position. These alleys are hard, mean, barren: a stolen pouch is one of the least offensive crimes that must be committed daily, in dozens or even hundreds of individual cases. Just another dark day in the narrows for hunter and prey. <<if $mind gte 1>><br>You notice her glance across the courtyard briefly, as though planning her escape.<br><</if>> [[We can split the coin.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab2]]

''"We can split the coin,"'' You decide with a low breath, ''"I'm not heartless. Come on-"'' The goblin turns with a flutter of her dark, threadbare cloak and darts off towards one side of the courtyard, and you instinctually follow after. She's heading for a cluster of crates, cracked and bleached from years of exposure, but positioned perfectly under a tilted, cermanic-tiled ledge that she might be able to climb onto. If you let her, she has a good chance to escape. She's fast but you're faster, the difference in leg length might have something to do with it. She reaches the crates, clambering atop the shortest before hoisting herself up onto the next, agile for her height, but you've already reached her. [[Grab her leg.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab]] [[Smash the crates.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_smash]]

Lunging forward, you try and grab one of her legs as she almost manages to slip away. Fortunately, you snag her ankle and hang on as she tries to yank herself free. You nearly don't have time to react when she suddenly pivots and sharply turns, the flash of her curved dagger descending down towards your arm. With all of your might, you pull her leg out from under her and send the thief tumbling down hard back onto the shattered stone of the courtyard floor. She's back on her feet before you can capitalize on her position, dagger in hand, peering up at you with grit on her face. [[Kick her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab1]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab2]] [[Tell her to surrender!|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab3]]

Lunging forward, you kick out with all of your might at the bottom crate, sending your leg straight through and shattering the old, stained wood. The impact sends the whole staggered pile of crates tumbling, unseating the goblin from what had been a balanced climb and potential escape route. You hear a squeak and a thud, along with the clatter of crates, as the thief is sent tumbling down hard back onto the shattered stone of the courtyard floor. By the time you free your leg, she's back on her feet, dagger in hand, peering up at you with grit on her face. She's not going out easy... [[Kick her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab1]] [[Attempt to disarm her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab2]] [[Tell her to surrender!|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_grab3]]

''"Give it up, surrender!"'' You hold your hands out before you, trying to diffuse the situation, your gaze leveled. When you draw forth a slow step, she draws back, her other hand sliding down into the shadowy confines of her dark, hole-ridden cloak. ''"Come on, it doesn't have to go this way. I just want my pouch back."'' Her hand is still stowed away within the deep confines of her cloak, whilst she glares at you, apparently not intent on having a conversation. ''"What are you--"'' You get cut off as her hand emerges, holding something; you can see the little, glossy sparkles, grains of what could be sugar spilling from between her fingers. By then, it's already too late for you. She flings the glistening powder right into your face. [[Your eyes have never been in so much pain|intro_right_instinct_blinded]]

You're no trained fighter, but your instincts propel you into the exchange. Hefting up a cracked boot, you leap forward and manage to plant a solid front-kick directly into the goblinoid's chest. You can hear the air get smacked out of her lungs, before she flies backwards and lands on her ass, the impact enough to jolt the dagger from her grubby hand, leaving her stunned. If there was ever a chance to bring this fight to an end, it's now. You charge forward and tackle her before she can bounce back up to her feet, knocking her hard into the ground. It's not much of a struggle, as you easily overpower her, an eerie silence consuming the courtyard except for the rapid breaths of the both of you. [[You throw yourself atop her.|intro_right_instinct_dodge2_return2_atop]]

''"Get off!"'' She gasps before giving a breathy groan, still trying to fight against you, though it's no use. It should be clear that you're much bigger, stronger, and capable of controlling her little wrists. You hold her hands to the ground on either side, keeping her pinned down beneath your weight. Your blood is still pumping from the excitement of the encounter, adrenaline coursing through your veins. You've been in your fair share of scraps and altercations, but never like this, deep down into the dark belly of Undertown; the alleys. For now, it just seems to be you and her. And your pouch of coins that you very much feel entitled to take back. What exactly do you have planned now that you've caught this daring thief? ''"Go on then,"'' she spits, a bit of blood threading from the corner of her lip, as though conceding, ''"Take your bloody coins. Break my fingers too, if it makes you feel bigger."'' [[Scrappy one, aren't you?|intro_right_instinct_scrappy]] [[Shut the fuck up.|intro_right_instinct_shutup]] [[You're under arrest.|intro_right_instinct_arrest]]

''"Scrappy one, aren't you?"'' You pant down at her, attempting to steady your own breathing. She's still putting up a bit of a fight, squirming beneath you, trying to sidle free. ''"This all could have been avoided if you just... gave up."'' Her almond eyes steady, burning up at you beneath a deep furrow of her brows. ''"Fine. You caught me,"'' She concedes, almost beneath her breath, as though embarassed by the whole affair. ''"Take yer coins and leave me be."'' Resentment coats her words like the glossy sheen of poison on a tainted dagger. This goblin definitely doesn't have a guilty conscience... She'd do it all over again if she knew she'd get away. Do you simply take what belongs to you and go about your day? Or does a punishment need to be delivered? [[Give me the coins, then.|intro_right_instinct_givemecoins]] [[Shut the fuck up.|intro_right_instinct_shutup]] [[You're under arrest.|intro_right_instinct_arrest]]

''"Shut the fuck up."'' Briefly reclaiming the use of one of your hands, you smack it down into a firm, open-handed slap against the goblin's green face. That seems to knock some sense into her for the time being, as she certainly quiets down, dazed and disoriented. ''"Didn't like that, did you? Now where's my damn pouch?"'' Adjusting your weight, you manage to get that same hand within the confine's of the goblin's dark, tattered and hole-ridden cloak, pilfering through the lining, looking for any pockets. You feel the shape of a bundle and eventually your fingers find the familiar texture of your coin pouch. ''"That's all I wanted..."'' Or is it? Now that her cloak has been peeled back and pulled loose, you can see her properly for the first time. The courtyard lay empty, barren and destroyed, only two figures - the both of you - sprawled atop the cobblestone. [[Look at her.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_look]] [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_instinct_hauloff]]

''"You're coming with me."'' She glares up at you, thick brows drawn together, ''"What do you mean?"'' She's completely still under you, but like a trapped animal, you can sense the stored energy in her limbs and the tautness of her body beneath you. It's not hard to imagine that she's looking for an escape route, that she'll surely seize as soon as the opportunity arises. Are you biting off more than you can chew? You barely made it through the alleys in one piece, after all. ''"I'm hauling you in and turning you over to the Legion. You're a thief."'' She doesn't like that response, as she suddenly shifts beneath you, kicking her little legs and screaming. ''"GET 'IM OFF ME, LEAVE ME ALONE! LET ME GO!"'' You fight her wrists back down to the cobblestone and shift your weight. There's no way she's getting out from under you, unless her screams attract unwanted attention from other alleyborn denizens. [[Change your mind.|intro_right_instinct_noarrest]] [[Shut the fuck up.|intro_right_instinct_shutup]] [[Knock her out.|intro_right_instinct_knockoutarrest]]

''"FUUUCK!"'' You can't see anything, let alone give chase as you hear the footfalls of the little goblin thief darting past you and disappearing from the courtyard, back into the darkness of the alleys from whence you came. You turn, stumbling, rubbing at your eyes in a desperate attempt to clear them, but that only seems to make things worse. Disoriented, you try to push through the pain and force your eyes open, but the world is a blur. You might as well be //blind//. You stumble through what you think is the archway, back into the narrows; maybe you can find the thief again, but at the very least you should be working your way out of this place, back home. This isn't //good//, you know that much. You're in danger. The best thing that you can do is try to retrace your steps, but everything is so bleary and unfamiliar. You trip, stumble, nearly twisting your ankle or breaking a wrist each time you have to stop a hard fall. This //sucks//. [[But what happens next sucks worse.|intro_right_instinct_blinded_captured]]

''"Sssh, sshh."'' But she keeps screaming, head tilted back, mouth wide open. You slap a calloused palm over her maw, and she glares up at you, her cries muffled by your mitt. ''"Fine. Look, fine, just be quiet. I'm not heartless, alright?"'' The muffled moans slowly come to a stop, leaving her staring up at you, clearly perturbed. ''"I won't turn you in."'' You promise, ''"I just want my pouch back."'' When it seems like she won't cause anymore of a fuss, you remove your hand from her mouth, and she mutters a little curse. ''"It's in my cloak. Take it an' get off me already."'' So you jut your hand beneath her dark cloak and feel around the lining, digits smoothing over various rips and holes, until you locate the familiar bulge of your coinpouch. Moments later, you have it in hand. Judging by the feel, she hasn't removed any of the coins, not that she would've had time during the chase. It looks like you've finally gotten back what belongs to you. Now the question remains, do you keep to your word or do you haul her in for her crime? [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_instinct_hauloff_liar]]

You have to do something quick before this goblin gets you gutted, deep in the alleys where no one will see nor care. You'll die alone, unfound and forgotten; only Fredrick will remember your name until time takes him, too. So you decide to take decisive action. It happens quickly. You free a hand, ball it up into a tight, curled fist, and suddenly leverage your weight into a brutal, downward stike, throttling her right in the jaw. Her head snaps to the side, lolls there, and then settles completely still. You're not sure how long she'll be unconscious, but this is certainly preferable to her screaming and fighting you every step of the way, on the treacherous path to depart from the alleys. Pressing up from your sprawl atop the now unconscious goblin, only splotches of dirty green flesh visible amongst the dark shroud of her crumpled cloak, you remember to snatch up her curved dagger from where it lay. You take a moment to reattach your coinpouch to one of your beltloops, and carefully slip your newfound weapon beneath it and your trousers, the hilt slightly protruding for easy access. You can never be too careful. [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_instinct_knockoutarrest_haul]]

Stooping down low, you grab one of her arms, then the other, dragging her up until you can heft her up and lay her across one of your broad shoulders. She's heavier than you'd like, but all things considered, it could be a much worse haul. You'll just have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day. You count yourself lucky, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey back through the narrows... [[You trudge through the narrows...|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend]]

''"We're done here."'' You finally ease up, loosening your control over the goblin and clambering up from where you had her pressed tight against the broken cobblestones. You can see, barely, where her cheek had been smushed up against the ground, leaving a vaguely moist spot behind on the otherwise untouched, dust-covered surface. She bounces up to her feet quick, but slowly turns to face you, still somewhat weary, perhaps surprised that you're letting her go free after all of this. You consider what to say in parting, before embarking on the journey back home through the narrows. ''"Hey,"'' You start, causing one of her dark brows to tick upwards. [[Don't steal from me again.|intro_right_instinct_depart_dontsteal]] [[Better luck next time.|intro_right_instinct_depart_betterluck]]

''"Happy?"'' She demands to know, as annoyanced and indiginant as ever. ''"Now what are you waiting for? Get the fuck off me!"'' You can't help but feel a slight twinge of amusement. Not because you necessarily enjoy what you're about to do, but because there's no one more deserving that you know of. It happens quickly; you know that you can't have her screaming again as you depart from these treacherous narrows. You free a hand, ball it up into a tight, curled fist, and suddenly leverage your weight into a brutal, downward stike, throttling her right in the jaw. Her head snaps to the side, lolls there, and then settles completely still. You're not sure how long she'll be unconscious, but this is certainly a preferable state for her to be in. Pressing up from your sprawl atop the now unconscious goblin, only splotches of dirty green flesh visible amongst the dark shroud of her crumpled cloak, you remember to snatch up her curved dagger from where it lay. You take a moment to reattach your coinpouch to one of your beltloops, and carefully slip your newfound weapon beneath it and your trousers, the hilt slightly protruding for easy access. You can never be too careful. [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend]]

She's the smallest of her kind, a normal goblin, when compared to the hobgoblins or trolls. That's to say, the other types of goblinoids that you sometimes see throughout Undertown. As far as you can tell, they're the second most populous race in the Cradle, besides humans. Most of them seem to have it pretty //rough//, many of them eeking out sparse existences in the lower quarters. At least that seems to be the case for her: the goblin pressed beneath you, who has fallen silent beneath your gaze with her face turned away bashfully and eyes narrowed in annoyance. She must do whatever it takes to survive in these alleys. It's unfortunate that she picked you as today's target. Beneath that cloak, she has the figure of a woman. There's only a smallish bump representing her clothed chest, but her hips splay out wide, thick and feminine beneath the thin, tasseled leather of a tan skirt. You're surprised that she was able to run so fast, as she's certainly doesn't look built for speed. Dark, thick furrowed brows crest her almond-shaped eyes, effectively giving her something of a resting bitch face, which gives off the impression of her being continually annoyed. Not every goblin has a full head of hair, but she does, albeit cut short and braided atop a slender skull, pitch-gray in tone. [[You want her. (18+)|intro_right_instinct_shutup_claimher]] [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_instinct_hauloff]]

''"Get up,"'' You command her, ''"You're coming with me."'' She glares up at you, thick brows drawn together, ''"What do you mean?"'' She's completely still under you, but like a trapped animal, you can sense the stored energy in her limbs and the tautness of her body beneath you. It's not hard to imagine that she's looking for an escape route, that she'll surely seize as soon as the opportunity arises. Are you biting off more than you can chew? You barely made it through the alleys in one piece, after all. ''"I'm hauling you in and turning you over to the Legion. You're a thief."'' She doesn't like that response, as she suddenly shifts beneath you, kicking her little legs and screaming. ''"GET 'IM OFF ME, LEAVE ME ALONE! LET ME GO!"'' You fight her wrists back down to the cobblestone and shift your weight. There's no way she's getting out from under you, unless her screams attract unwanted attention from other alleyborn denizens. [[Knock her out.|intro_right_instinct_knockoutarrest]]

''"Give me the coins, then."'' You mutter, keeping an eye on her all the while. ''"I //would// if you weren't ''on top of me''. The pouch is inside my cloak."'' Throwing up a shoulder and loosing a heavy breath, you dip a little nod and grunt your response, ''"Stay still."'' So you jut your hand beneath her dark cloak and feel around the lining, digits smoothing over various rips and holes, until you locate the familiar bulge of your coinpouch. Moments later, you have it in hand. Judging by the feel, she hasn't removed any of the coins, not that she would've had time during the chase. It looks like you've finally gotten back what belongs to you. Now the question remains, do you keep to your word or do you haul her in for her crime? [[Look at her.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_look]] [[Depart with your coins.|intro_right_instinct_shutup_depart]] [[Haul her off to the Legion.|intro_right_instinct_hauloff_liar]]

You’ve won. The purse is yours, heavy and comforting once again at your side. Yet still, you linger — her pinned beneath you, her wrists trapped easily in your calloused hand, the weight of your body an anchor that she can't slip free from. <<audio "antagonist" fadeout>> She's a goblin, short and squat. You're a human, tall and broad. But you can't deny the heat that stirs in your loins as your eyes rake over the shape of her. Beneath the grime and rags, she’s thick where it matters, hips generous, thighs pressing tight together in vain struggle. There was anger in your veins, yes, but something else too: a hunger sharpened by the chase, by the roughness, by the way she fought you tooth and nail like a beast with no master. <<audio "no-love" volume 0.5 loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "no-love">> Despite the circumstances — despite the stolen coin, the bruises you’ll feel tomorrow — you crave a taste of something more. She senses it. Her golden eyes slash up at you, devoid of fear, burning still with a bitter, reckless defiance, and perhaps something more. ''“What're you waiting for, big man?"'' she spits, voice hoarse and dripping with challenge, ''"Gonna break me, or too soft for that too?"'' A dare. Her words lash sharper than any blade. They sting and they stir. There’s no mistaking it her intent: not a plea, not a protest or simple surrender, but an invitation wrapped in barbs. Your grip tightens instinctively, hands grinding her slender wrists deeper into the muck, and watch as she arches her back in response — a feral taunt rather than submission. The soft curve of her loins presses hard against your hips, teasing a growl from low in your throat. ''"You think you're better?"'' She breathes, low and sharp, ''"Then show me."'' You search her eyes, hunting for even a flicker of hesitation. There is none. Only that wild gleam, daring you to cross the line she's already drawn for you. The stench of the alley — rot, sweat, smoke — fades beneath the pounding of blood in your ears. Shifting your weight, it's easy to feel the way her body shivers beneath yours, how her legs spread wider by inches even as she pretends to squirm free. A performance: for you, for herself, for the damnable world that made both of you. Her skirt is torn, barely clinging to the heavy curve of her ass, and it would take nothing — nothing — to tear it away entirely. Your grip eases for half a second, enough to catch the glint in her eyes, wild and bright, all but begging you to rise to the bait. ''"Go on,"'' she hisses, twisting her hips again, grinding herself against your thigh. ''"Ain't like I don't know the game."'' And you lean down in return, close enough to feel her breath against your chin, hot and ragged. ''"You asked for it,"'' you rasp, voice rough with the strain of holding back no longer. The last tether of civility inside you snaps. Whatever honor you were taught, whatever restraint the highborn whisper of — none of it means a damned thing down here in the gutters. There’s only heat. Need. Power. Two creatures locked in a spiral of survival, lust and pride, clawing for dominance in the filth of Undertown. She laughs, a breathless sound, and it only stokes the fire in your loins until it rages out of control. Enough teasing, enough restraint. No words now, no more challenges. Only actions. You reach down, fingers finding the tattered hem of her stained skirt — and yank. [[Her breath comes as a half-moaned hiss.|intro_right_instinct_claimher_doggy]]

You keep silent, wanting to remain private, especially when you don't know whether there are prying ears around or whether you can even trust this stranger. You sit back against the cage and somewhat slump forward, just trying to relax, ease your pain and clear your mind. ''"Not very talkative either, are ya? That's fine. We aren't getting paid to talk where we're going, anyway. Or paid at all."'' The shaggy-haired man's lips curve at the corners as he ruminates on his own words, apparently amused by the situation. Belatedly, he mentions over to you, ''"I'm Gant. If they end up keepin' us together, we'd be better off as friends than enemies. Highlord knows we'll need as many allies as we can get, where we're going."'' ''"Shut up back thar!"'' [[ A slaver peers over from the front of the wagon.|intro_wagon1]]

''"Those motherfuckers didn't let you finish?"'' You respond incredulously, imagining how disappointed and disatisfied you would be if you were refused a final release before your impending capture and enslavement. ''"It takes a special kind of person to be that shitty."'' ''"That's what I'm saying,"'' The shaggy-haired man agrees, his lips curving at the corners in a sort of low, rueful grin, ''"Fecker wasn't even a slaver, just a bounty hunter. That's an undignified line of work if ya ask me, especially if you're aren't willing to let a fellow man /bust/."'' Belatedly, he mentions over to you, ''"I'm Gant. If they end up keepin' us together, we'd be better off as friends than enemies. Highlord knows we'll need as many allies as we can get, where we're going."'' You dip a firm nod, ''"I'm $name. Do you kno--"'' ''"Shut up back thar!"'' [[ A slaver peers over from the front of the wagon.|intro_wagon1]]

''"It seems like today isn't going in either of our favors,"'' You reason with a faint twitch of your lips, managing to gather some amusement from the situation, however slim. ''"I'm $name. I was a cobbler's apprentice, up until today. I guess I ran down the wrong alleyway, after a thief..."'' ''"That's good, honest work."'' The shaggy-haired man decides, his lips curving at the corners in a sort of low, rueful grin, ''"I suppose your new line of work won't pay much worse! Chasing after a thief only to have your freedom stolen away from you. An unfortunate turn of events, ain't it?"'' Belatedly, he mentions over to you, ''"I'm Gant. If they end up keepin' us together, we'd be better off as friends than enemies. Highlord knows we'll need as many allies as we can get, where we're going."'' ''"Shut up back thar!"'' [[ A slaver peers over from the front of the wagon.|intro_wagon1]]

He's an ugly bastard, a gristled man with crooked teeth and a shaven head, a studded club shoved haphazardly down into his beltloop. You'll have to play by the rules if it means avoiding another beating. Gant seems to understand that much, as he shuts up beneath the slaver's lopsided gaze. The wagon continues to teeter down the road, a wide road, filled to the brim with a bustling crowd of all different sorts. It's a busy day, the street bright and well-lit, a main throughfare by the looks of it. You've never seen one that could fit so many people... or so many wagons. You must not be in Undertown any longer. Peering through the bars of your cage, you see all sorts of odd, interesting folk. Stout hobgolins with noserings, tapered ears and tunics emblazoned with noble sigils; many of them work as guards or soldiers for those with the coin to pay. Every once and a while, you'll see tufts of fur or a pair of gnarled tusks, as beastkin aren't an altogether uncommon sight. But for the most part, the average denizen of Cradle seems to be human, like you. Dwarves and elves, of either variety, are slightly rarer. From what Fredrick has told you, among other sources throughout your mundane existence in Undertown, dwarves tend to have their own communal enclaves that they rarely venture out of. They tend to serve in the Holy Orders, which you know even less about. Elves meanwhile come in two sorts. High Elves and Dark Elves. The former mostly exists as a slave class, completely subjugated, as owning an individual of this race is considered a well-respected acquisition. Dark Elves on the other hand, operate almost completely in the shadows, in the dankest alleys and deepest depths of the city. They're considered a treacherous race that resorts to the darkest of arts, sorcery and necromancy notwithstanding. [["Pssh, hey. Check that out."|intro_wagon2]]

Following Gant's voice, you immediately see //it//. A sprawling structure rises up into the dark sky; the imposing silhouette of a colossal colosseum dominating the horizon, its massive form crafted from weathered stonework, towering columns and bleached marble that seems to be reaching up in an ill-fated attempt to touch the looming abyss of space, high above the crumbling edge of the crater. As the wagon teeters closer through the crowded roadway, carrying you and your forsaken companions along, the sheer scale of the colosseum becomes even more apparent. Its circular outer walls, slick with moisture and deeply etched by the elements, stand defiant against the cruel passage of time. Despite the lingering numbness that accompanies your unfortunate situation, you can't help but wonder if this is where your destiny had been leading you. Was a bloody death in the sands your fate? A writhing, mangled mass of a crowd cheering for your demise? Beneath a misty sky and the shadow of the cracked columns, you can't help but feel //doomed//. Here, drawing closer still, the street is packed to the brim. Everyone around you seems to be seeped in sweat, drenched, steam coming off bodies. Only the low glow of lamps and flickering torches illuminates the gloomy, scarred faces of the wretched denizens that shuffle alongside your wagon. Gant's voice momentarily distracts you, ''"Ever seen a game before?"'' Almost unconsciously, you shake your head. No, you've never seen one with your own two eyes. But you've heard plenty of stories. How could you have not? Most slaves, if not especially beautiful, useful, or skilled, draw their final breath in the arenas. The games are so frequent, so bloody, so brutal, that the arena is said to save the Cradle from //famine// of all things. Yes, better they die in the sands than succumb to the shadow of hunger. ''"I have,"'' Gant eventually murmurs back to you beneath his breath, gaze still leveled on the colosseum itself as you draw even closer yet. ''"Can't say I ever imagined myself fightin' and dying in one..."'' [[The crack of a whip resonates through the choked air.|chp2_wagon3]]

<<audio "road-to-nowhere" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "road-to-nowhere">> A whisper tickles the back of your mind, like a thought, ''"The wall."'' ... What? ''"Feel along the wall. You will uncover what you seek."'' The alley has grown so narrow that you could reach out and touch either side if you wanted, and that's what you do, slowly pressing your palms against the cold, clammy brick and dragging your calloused fingers along as you go, focused intently on your task. You don't know exactly what you're searching for, but this insight was the motivation that you needed. Anything is better than being lost adrift in the dark. Just before you're ready to give up and question this sudden inclination, you feel something. A brick in the wall, somewhat loose, with smooth edges and- yes! Your fingers slip along a groove; they press into it, then pull, and the "brick" comes halfway free. Dust shakes loose in the dark as a section of the wall begins to shift and slide open before you, like nothing you've ever seen before. And before you can hardly blink, there's a passageway open before you, dimly lit by a mounted oil-lamp, but it looks like the normal interior of a house. Muted wood floorboards, panelled walls, that might even be a portrait hanging further on inside. It's hard to tell from the entrance. But still, you've yet to take a single step inside. This must be some sort of... hideout? Yet, it's eerily quiet and you don't see any sign of anyone. To either side of you, the darkness of the alley looms. Within, there certainly must be an answer to at least some of your questions. Still, you have no weapon. Only your clenched fists and dogged determination. If there's someone inside of here, you'll need to catch them by surprise, as they could be armed. [[Sneak inside.|intro_enteringthelair]]

One careful placement of your foot follows the other, and gradually you begin to work your way inside of the passage, or rather, down a rather dimly-lit hallway of what appears to be a well-kept residence. You can already see where the hall opens up, into what must be a living room or sitting area. Keeping to one side of the hall and turning yourself aside, shrinking the size of your body down to keep the element of surprise, you slowly peek around the corner into the room that has opened up before you. An upholstered chair dominates the dim room like a throne, facing away from you, colored a drab blood-red with sulking shadows dancing darkly across it, cast by flickering candle-light. Beside it, upon a circular ceramic side table, rests a glass ash-tray with still-smouldering embers. Opposite the chair there appears to be a fireplace, upon which are mantled several photo frames and statuettes. Against the far wall, on the rightmost side, appears to be another hall leading deeper into the house. You can't hear a thing, nothing, no distant clatter from a busy street, nor any creaking of walls or floorboards from within. Only the flicker of candlelight and subtle shadows greet your outward senses. [[Check the next hallway.|intro_enteringthelair1]] [[Examine the chair.|intro_enteringthelair_chair]] [[Examine the fireplace.|intro_enteringthelair_fireplace]]

<<audio "runningbreath" fadeout>> <<set $intro_first to false>> Placing yourself against the wall, you risk a glance down into what appears to be another abandoned hallway. It must be the overall length, or the lack of lighting except for a single mounted candle, but the house seems to get darker the deeper within it you go. This cramped corridor appears to lead to several rooms within the residence; from what your eyes can make out within the gloom, there seems to be three doors. Along the right side of the hall, there are two wooden doors. At the very end lay another, directly opposite your gaze, stained a darker color than the rest, though perhaps its just the shadows making a fool of your vision. When you awoke today, you didn't imagine yourself happening upon a place like this. Yet, you keep pressing on. [[The nearest door.|intro_enteringthelair_nearest]] [[The middle door.|intro_enteringthelair_locked]] [[The door at the end of the hall.|intro_enteringthelair_chambers]]

You can't seem to shake the feeling that someone is sitting in that chair. Surely you would be able to see the top of their head, the flank of an arm, or the bottom of a boot. Yet something inside of you demands a sense of certainty, an absolute clarification that the chair is indeed, empty. Slowly stalking forward from your hidden post, crossing the room with tentative steps, breath held tight within the confines of your chest, you find the throne empty; void of a sovereign. But they must not be far, you think. Those dying embers still give off their last light, like little supernovas silently pitching off into the void. There are a few cigar butts discarded within the tray, along with what must be a jute-wood pipe resting atop the cermanic surface. [[Check the next hallway.|intro_enteringthelair1]] [[Examine the fireplace.|intro_enteringthelair_fireplace]]

A thin layer of dust lay across the broad, dusk-framed mantel of the fireplace, which is only sparsely decorated by a number of picture frames and statuettes, most of whom appear to be constructed from wood or chiselled onyx, a dark and foreboding stone. At first, none of them really capture your attention; featureless heads and faces, muscular bodies of men and beast alike, dark sketches of what appears to be the human form, taut and sublime, as though it were an artist perfecting their eye, or a physician memorizing and mastering the mortal form. These certainly aren't common items that you would find on display. Most artisans that you know don't trouble themselves with such pursuits, only their labor. [[ Check the next hallway.|intro_enteringthelair1]] [[ Examine the chair.|intro_enteringthelair_chair]]

<<set $intro_first to true>> The door opens soundlessly, giving you full access to the room within. At first glance, it vaguely reminds you of the workshop back at home, crammed full of what must be... supplies? One side of the room is dominated by shelving; various boxes, clay pots and ceramic vases, trinkets and baubles of dubious origins, all tucked away in a somewhat disorganized and haphazard manner. A large, round table of dark wood takes up a large corner of the room, a chair or two stowed away beneath it. Capped beakers and jars of various sizes sit atop it, while yellowed parchments and leather-bound tomes have been scattered across the rest of it, only one of them left flipped open for you to ponder over. Unfortunately, the black ink and scrawled script means nothing to you. As with most lowborns in Cradle, you never learned how to read. However, there are a few objects that catch your interest only to leave you feeling rather disturbed. A bowl of what you recognize to be rat skulls rests upon the table, next to a shrivelled up scroll with a few crooked lines scribbled upon it. Worse yet, dangling and hanging from one of the shelves near the door, a collection of shrunken heads watch you as they sway in the gloom and shadow of this silent room. Maybe you shouldn't be here... [[Take the opened tome.|intro_enteringthelair_tome]] [[The middle door.|intro_enteringthelair_locked]] [[The door at the end of the hall.|intro_enteringthelair_chambers]]

<<if $intro_first is true>> Stepping through the dim, dark hall with nary a sound, you try the handle of the middle door. Unfortunately, it doesn't budge. It must be locked. As much as you'd like to try and force it open, you can't afford to make any noise. Not until you know that the house is empty. There's one more place to check... [[The door at the end of the hall.|intro_enteringthelair_chambers]] <<else>> Stepping through the dim, dark hall with nary a sound, you try the handle of the middle door. Unfortunately, it doesn't budge. It must be locked. As much as you'd like to try and force it open, you can't afford to make any noise. Not until you know that the house is empty. You could turn back to the first room or keep going... [[The first door.|intro_enteringthelair_nearest]] [[The door at the end of the hall.|intro_enteringthelair_chambers]]<</if>>

The door offers you no resistance, opening up to the darkness held within. Somehow, like a weight lifted from your shoulders, or a burden from your mind, the pretense that you came to this house through an act of your own volition begins to dissipate. A veil has been lifted before your eyes, and you realize that something else brought you here today; it was no accident. Rather, it was preordained. Much like a dreamer in a trancelike state, you calmly step into the room before you. A flickering candlelight disturbs the shroud of darkness deep within, a hopeful glimmer in the dark abyss, and slowly you gravitate towards it, blissfully unaware of the pair of yellow eyes that stalk you from just beyond it. ''"I'd like to welcome you, $name."'' [[You can't move.|intro_meetingwizard1]]

<<set $intro_tome to true>>You can't help but fixate on that unreadable tome, the pages precariously left splayed open for your lustful gaze to gleam over. Perhaps it was fate that led you to this place, a destined discovery for the poor orphan boy who hasn't had much luck in life. Who could possibly blame you for taking a single book from what must be a den of thieves, who already took from you. You deserve this much at the very least. Quickly and quietly, you take the tome and press it closed, before tucking it away securely beneath your tattered shirt and under the hem of your trousers. Now, you should finish what you came here for. [[ The middle door.|intro_enteringthelair_locked]] [[ The door at the end of the hall.|intro_enteringthelair_chambers]]

As much as you try, you can't move a muscle. Not even a wiggle of your fingers or a twitch of your brow. Yet, your eyes work perfectly fine, roving within their sockets until they find the source of the old, smoke-pitched voice. A figure has emerged fully from behind the candle, face half-illuminated like a waxing crescent. The man before you is surely as much a daemon as a man, with yellow eyes that gleam dangerously within a rough-hewn, weathered face; like pools of venom, they glisten, soaking in the sight of you before his thin lips part once more, ''"It's not often that I have visitors. No, none like you."'' Jet-black hair streaked with silver crowns the skull of this magician, while a neatly groomed goatee adorns his chin. An air of sophistication emanates from him, a sense of poise and confidence that you decide, in this moment, must not be missplaced. No, you seem to be very much at his mercy, the realization causing your fingertips to tingle. [[He peers at you evenly.|intro_meetingwizard2]]

''"Calm yourself and listen to me. You may call me Mearesdes... and while I recognize that the circumstances of our meeting may not occur to you as favorable, I assure you that there is a purpose behind it."'' He peers at you evenly, with eyes that are impossible to read. You only know that they must contain more knowledge than most men are capable of imagining exists in this forsaken world. ''"For it was I that spoke to you in the darkness of the narrows and led you into my humble abode."'' Those thin lips of his quirk ever so slightly at the corners as he gauges you. ''"I sensed your vigor... your energy, your essence, that fierce determination that led you down the wrong path. But there are worse fates that you could have happened into in these forgotten streets. I promise you that. Thugs, gangsters, slavers and rapists. Beasts and corrupted men alike, they all partake in sin and debauchery of the most cruel and senseless sort. Luckily for you, I am a man of knowledge and higher purpose."'' [[ A small breath of amusement escapes him.|intro_meetingwizard3]]

''"I don't blame you for doubting me. Alas, you remind me of myself when I was your age. Full of vigor, with nowhere definite to direct it. Hopeful in a world where little seems worth hoping for. How I was misled, my days full of misery. Tricked into living for the machinations of others. No, it took me a long time to wake up. It doesn't get easier, even when you finally decide to live for yourself. It's an existence of confrontation, strife, hunger, but to some... a select few... a rare breed- to me- it's worth it."'' Stepping further from the shadows into the dim-cast light directly before you, Mearesdes examines you with an what appears to be an earnest gaze, before dispelling a shallow breath, ''"I apologize for my rambling. I don't get many guests these days, and I imagine you might have questions. Go ahead - speak your mind."'' He nonchalantly splays out a hand and you suddenly feel, strangely enough, that you can speak. [[ Who are you?|intro_talkingwizard_who]] [[ What is this place?|intro_talkingwizard_what]] [[ How did you know my name?|intro_talkingwizard_name]]

''"Who are you?"'' You ask, lips and mouth moving, while the rest of your body remains frozen in place. The tingling sensation in your fingers intensifies when you try to wiggle them, but no amount of effort can budge them. You try not to strain in place in front of your host. That, would be awkward. ''"You may know me as Mearesdes,"'' The man returns, only one eye on you, his attention briefly turning over the rest of the room, peering off into the darkness as he ruminates and speaks in a casual, meandering way, deeply thoughtful and rather articulate: ''"I've been known by other names throughout my many years. None of them serve any use any longer. No, they're only used by those that begrudge and slander me. When one man breaks free from his chains, it tends to upset many... especially those still trapped by theirs, or the one whom put them on you in the first place."'' His thin lips press together ruefully before his gaze returns to you, considering, ''"Yes, that's all you need to know about me for now. There are still decisions to be made."'' He lapses into silence, looking at you expectantly. [[ What is this place?|intro_talkingwizard_what]] [[ How did you know my name?|intro_talkingwizard_name]]

''"What is this place?"'' As though to accompany your question, your eyes take a momentary sweep over the dark confines of the mostly unseen room before returning to the man before you. His goateed chin dips, consenting to your question and taking a breath to silently consider it, ''"A fair question, especially considering it was I who led you here."'' ''"This,"'' He says, raising a hand to indicate the room, then hall, the entire house, ''"Was initially acquired out of circumstances. Desperation, even. But it quickly became something of a home to me. A place of relative peace and isolation to conduct my studies. A base from which to operate and observe the city while going undetected. My days of showing face and ingratiating myself with the public are long behind me..."'' Another twitch of his thin lips, though his displays of amusement always seem to be sardonic in nature; tainted by some sorry memory. ''"There was a time when I wanted to help people. Partake in the masses. It feels good in the moment, especially when it's the first time you've been felt... seen. But it's never worth it, boy. Great things are accomplished by great men, and a small number of them at that."'' [[ Who are you?|intro_talkingwizard_who]] [[ How did you know my name?|intro_talkingwizard_name]]

''"How do you know my name? You said it when I came into this room..."'' You do the best to frame your accusation in the context of a question, a curious one, though your mind is spinning as you consider the possiblities. Surely you've never met this man before, and surely yours is a name not worth knowing. You're a nobody after all. ''"I did, didn't I?"'' Dark, ash-flecked brows crease in an evident display of mild amusement, before the magician gives an affirming nod, ''"Yes, I know many things. I receive knowledge like a hungry man receives the scent of fresh-baked bread across several city blocks. Names, faces, people, places. The truth is, $name, that I know some people better than they know themselves."'' Mearesdes steeples his fingers together and locks his gaze with yours, curious, ''"Do you believe me?"'' [[ Yes.|intro_talkingwizard_answeryes]] [[ Yes. (lie)|intro_talkingwizard_answerlie]] [[ No.|intro_talkingwizard_answerno]]

''"Yes, I believe you."'' You'd be foolish not to, you decide. Frozen into place, led into this dark, forbidden place, you've never witnessed such a display of power, however subtle. This is not a man that you want on your bad side. You answer truthfully and to the affirmative, gaze lingering on the man before you, gauging his reaction carefully. ''"Interesting,"'' comes the murmured response, followed by a breath of consideration. ''"I wouldn't blame you for being skeptical. In fact, I would encourage it."'' It almost feels as though he's lightly scolding you. It reminds you of a lesson that Fredrick might try to impart upon you, albeit with more grace. ''"But as you'll soon find out if all goes well, I do have your best interests in mind, and I do speak with the truth on my side."'' Expectantly, his shrewd gaze settles upon you once more. [[ Why did you bring me here?|intro_talkingwizard_why]]

<<set $intro_lie to true>> ''"Yes..."'' You respond after a moment of silent consideration, hedging your bets. You'd be foolish not to tell a white lie and appeal to Mearesdes. Frozen into place, led into this dark, forbidden place, you've never witnessed such a display of power, however subtle. This is not a man that you want on your bad side and there's no telling what he has planned for you. Your gaze lingers on the dark-haired man, gauging his reaction. He looks unimpressed to say the least, lapsing into a few moments of silence as he appears to consider you. ''"I see. I wouldn't blame you for being skeptical, $name. It would be a natural response... reasonable even. You haven't even begun to know me, nor my true capabilities. But you will in time if destiny so allows."'' Expectantly, his shrewd gaze settles upon you once more. [[ Why did you bring me here?|intro_talkingwizard_why]]

''"No, I don't believe you."'' You blurt out the response without much consideration, eyes straining within your sockets as you gauge the reaction of the man before you. You've never witnessed such a display of power before, and while you're unable to pinpoint the source of this man's powers or his intentions in bringing you here, you decide to speak your mind. It's cowards and weak-willed men that easily succumb to the schemes of others. You're going to stand your ground for the time being. And this, to your surprise, appears to bring a great deal of amusement to the old magician. ''"That's why I like you, $name. You possess a spirit entirely alien to the average denizen of this forsaken city. No, you're certainly not of a common stock. And that means you have /potential/."'' Expectantly, his shrewd gaze settles upon you once more. [[ Why did you bring me here?|intro_talkingwizard_why]]

''"Why did you bring me here?"'' A deep breath presses past the fine curve of his lips, ''"Ah, yes. The question of greatest import. I brought you here today, $name, because you remind me of... myself."'' His yellow eyes cast an appraising gaze over you, not unlike how an aristocrat may consider a sculpture, or a butcher a fine cut of meat. ''"And how I wish I would have been presented with an opportunity such as this at your age. I could have avoided much heartache... treachery... deceit. Better that I suffered through it, so that I may impart my wisdom upon you. See, when I sensed your presence in the alleyway beyond my hidden cove, I saw a flame deep inside of you. A yearning for something more and the potential to make that desire a reality. The ability, however latent, to exert your life force upon the world and bring those that would resist you, to their knees."'' Eyes locked with yours, he inquires calmly, ''"Does that ring true? Is there a fire within you, $name?"'' And in that moment's hesitation before you give a response, with Mearesdes peering deeply into your soul, you see before you all the years of agony, heartache and toil that you have endured up to this point. From your unfortunate childhood lost to the Orphanage, to your apprenticeship under Fredrick and the mundane decade of poverty-stricken toil that followed, there has always been the desire for something more. But is this the path meant for you? Are you willing to trust the man before you? If only for long enough to see what he has to offer you... perhaps it would be of great benefit to you? [[ Yes.|intro_talkingwizard_fireyes]]

Sometimes you have to hedge your bets and roll the dice. With great risk, they say, comes great reward. Mearesdes' eyes are half-lidded as he observes you, careful and considerate, lips attenuated as though deep in thought. And when you go to speak, you swear that you see his mouth curve, almost imperceivable, upwards at the far corners to show his subtle satisfaction. ''"Yes,"'' you affirm, ''"I do possess that fire."'' ''"I know you do, $name."'' He murmurs in agreeance, ''"Let us get started."'' [[ The wizard snaps his fingers.|intro_yeswizard1]]

Like a warm breeze rolling over your flesh, invigorating you, movement returns to your body. It's a strange sensation, suddenly being able to wiggle your fingers and toes, crane your neck, or scratch your nose. Mearesdes has turned his back to you, drawing away further into the darkness of the room. ''"Come now. We have more to discuss."'' And so you follow, stepping forth. To your surprise, the room begins to brighten. One candle turns to many, lining the burgundy walls, giving life to what had previously been a rather empty, isolating and foreboding space. Now, it almost feels as though it could someones home. ''"Welcome to my study,"'' He intones presently, ''"I spend a fair amount of time here and you shall too, when receiving your lessons and conducting your drills."'' Bookshelves, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, line the entire back wall of what turned out to be a rather impressive, rectangular room. There's a sitting area in the middle of the space, with a couple of wooden chairs and a wide, low-backed lounge that one could recline on if so inclined. Towards one of the narrow sides of the room, there's a collection of stained desks, scattered shelving and sprawling scrolls that completely cover a table. ''"I'm sure you have many questions. Still your mind as best as you're able and listen, $name, for your worries will be put to rest in due time. Your curiosity will serve you well if you're capable of taming it for the time being and fully considering what I have to say."'' [[ You find yourself standing before the scroll-covered table.|intro_yeswizard2]]

''"There is information in these scrolls,"'' Mearesdes murmurs, glancing aside at you briefly before directing your attention down to the table, ''"That many individuals would love to possess, but would never be capable of wielding. Firstly, one must be able to read the script."'' But you can't read. No one that you know is capable of reading, it's a privlege reserved for those that don't fight tooth-and-nail to survive on a daily basis. No, only the rich and noble possess such knowledge. That's why those at the top, stay on the top, while everyone else gets further and further from salvation. Or so you think. ''"Secondly, and more importantly, one must understand how to implement them. Scrolls that speak to their usage and requirements are much rarer... more valuable. I've garnered myself quite the collection over the years. But vitally, $name, you must know this. Knowing //when// to implement them is even more critical. With this knowledge and these skills, even the lowliest man may make himself known to the universe. But it takes //fire//."'' [[ Mearesdes reaches beneath his crimson cloak.|intro_yeswizard3]]

From within the unseen confines of his cloak, the wizard procures an amulet. A simple leather cord has been run through what appears to be a red glass marble. ''"You may use this to commune with me. Whenever you wear it round your neck, you will be able to find this place and know how to reach me."'' He holds the amulet out before you, and after a moment of consideration, you grab it. ''"After you leave here, you'll have three days to use it. If you don't find me by then, I'll assume you're uninterested in the opportunity that I've given you here today. In that case, you won't hear from me again and I would encourage you to forget of what you've seen and heard thus far of me."'' A lapse in silence follows shortly, his eyes resting on you. ''"If you do use it, you must know this. The power that I offer you is real and within your abilities. You just have to reach out and grasp it. But your desire must be real."'' The older man watches you, the age evident in his face from this distance, crows-feet pulling at his dark yellow eyes and wrinkles tugging at worn, high-boned cheeks. ''"What I ask in return,"'' He continues, voice low, calm and clear-spoken, ''"Is a sworn oath. One of the upmost seriousness, drawn out in blood."'' [[ A blood oath?|intro_yeswizard4]]

''"A blood oath, declaring your loyalty to me. If you take this opportunity and become my apprentice, I will expand your perspective and open you up to an entirely new world and power that you couldn't have dreamed of before. I won't ask of you anything that I wouldn't do myself. Therefore, betrayal will not be acceptable."'' Mearesdes casts a low gaze over you before turning slowly, fixing his attention upon a flickering candle. ''"If you prefer a safer, more mundane life... one where you just get by... You may reject my offer and I will leave you be. Not many are meant for this path, even if they have the potential. Only a few know how to truly leverage it. To strive upwards and become one with the universe. It's impossible to tell, even for the sharpest eye or clearest mind, until the moment of absolute success or abject failure."'' ''"Now,"'' he speaks, voice raising as his focus returns squarely unto you, ''"Any remaining questions before we conclude our time here today? Think carefully, $name. Your future may depend upon it."'' [[ What are your goals?|intro_yeswizard_goals]] [[ Why offer me this opportunity?|intro_yeswizard_whyme]] <<if $intro_tome is true>> [[ I want to return this tome...|intro_yeswizard_returnbook]] [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leavewithbook]] <<else>> [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leave]] <</if>>

<<set $intro_sorcerer to true>><<audio "road-to-nowhere" fadeout>>''"Very well,"'' The wizard intones once it's clear that the interaction between you is coming to a close. However, there's something about the way that his gaze lingers on you, as though prying away at any perceived vulnerbilities. It unsettles you, and quickens your resolve to be gone from this place. His thin, fleshy lips creak open and his smoke-pitched murmur sounds out clearly, foreboding, ''"Remember, $name... There's still a chance for you. I'm better a friend and mentor than an enemy."'' And before you can respond, Mearesdes suddenly bows forth with a sweep of his cloak. The fluttering threads are the last thing that you see before your vision starts to spiral, the world flickering into complete darkness. And with a shudder immediately after, as though waking up from the deepest depths of a dreary dream, you find yourself standing before the entrance of the alley that you had darted down earlier today. Yes, you're back on the main street of Undertown, just a couple blocks from home. The streets are busier than they were this morning, various craftsmen, laborers and merchants making their way through the burgeoning, bustling day. It's enough for you to start to question whether what you experienced was real... but before you get too far along that line of questioning, you feel something within your pocket. When you fish it out, you find a red glass marble twinkling up at you, attached to a thin leather cord... And tucked beneath your tattered shirt, stowed away securely under your torn trousers, is that stolen tome, unreadable, but the power within speaks to you all the same. [[You take a deep breath.|intro_finalhome]]

<<set $intro_sorcerer to true>><<audio "road-to-nowhere" fadeout>>''"Very well,"'' The wizard intones once it's clear that the interaction between you is coming to a close. ''"If we meet again, $name, it will be a meeting between a master and his apprentice."'' Bearing the shadow of a smirk on his thin, fleshy lips, the goateed magician locks eyes with you before showing a faint gleam of teeth. It's unclear for the time being whether you'll ever see him again... and you're certainly not looking forward to venturing home alone through these dark alleys. Yet, these thoughts dissipate as Mearesdes suddenly bows forth with a sweep of his cloak. The fluttering threads are the last thing that you see before your vision starts to spiral, the world flickering into complete darkness. And with a shudder immediately after, as though waking up from the deepest depths of a dreary dream, you find yourself standing before the entrance of the alley that you had darted down earlier today. Yes, you're back on the main street of Undertown, just a couple blocks from home. The streets are busier than they were this morning, various craftsmen, laborers and merchants making their way through the burgeoning, bustling day. It's enough for you to start to question whether what you experienced was real... but before you get too far along that line of questioning, you feel something within your pocket. When you fish it out, you find a red glass marble twinkling up at you, attached to a thin leather cord... [[You take a deep breath.|intro_finalhome]]

<<set $intro_tome to false>>''"... I have something that I need to return to you, Mearesdes."'' Carefully, you lift the edge of your tattered shirt and slip that dusty tome free from where it had been stowed away beneath your trousers. Perhaps you've had a change of heart, or perhaps you're now wary of the consequences that may result from taking a wizard's property. Brows lifted in a curious manner, Mearesdes lowers his gaze to the book in your grasp. With the smallest of nods, he reaches to take it and you draw forth a step to deliver it into his hand. The wizard's yellow gaze gleams over the cover before he goes and flips through several pages, giving the content within a cursory glance. ''"Interesting. Why did you decide to take it... and now return it?"'' [[I thought it belonged to thieves.|intro_yeswizard_returnbook_thieves]] [[I sensed the power within...|intro_yeswizard_returnbook_power]]

''"Why offer me this opportunity? Of all the people in Cradle..."'' You trail off, as the wizard already seems to grasp the nature of your questioning. ''"Why you, dear $name... I will be completely honest with you, for I believe it will be in your best benefit to know the truth. While you have the powerful potential within you to succeed, it's true that I've found that potential in others that have happened across my path throughout these many years."'' ''"Yes, there have been apprentices before you. More failures than I would like to admit. They all had potential, to varying degrees, but potential doesn't necessarily lead to success. Potential may be stagnated, or squandered, or completely strangled and stamped out, like a smoldering flame."'' Mearesdes watches you closely, peering intensely into your eyes and examining what must be the shape of your soul, buried deep within your being. There's some arcane quality to this man's gaze, you think, and you wonder just how much more he can see, and to what extent, compared to a normal man... a mundane man. ''"Consider it destiny that led you here, $name. Or complete dumb luck. But perhaps, just perhaps, it could all be part of a greater plan for you. There will be trials and tribulations still, but being presented with the opportunity is always the first step. Now... Was there anything else?"'' <<if $intro_tome is true>> [[ I want to return this tome...|intro_yeswizard_returnbook]] [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leavewithbook]] <<else>> [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leave]] <</if>>

''"I do have a question. What are your goals, Mearesdes?"'' The wizard inclines an understanding nod as he hears you out, a subtle smirk lingering on the thin curve of his lips. It seems that your inquiry leaves him with a strange satisfaction, as though he's happy to provide you with the answers that you seek. Or perhaps more accurately, the information that he sees fit to provide you with. ''"You'd like to know my intentions? My goals? A reasonable question, all things considered. If it is not yet clear, $name, I don't share the sensibilities of the common masses... nor of their masters, those in power. Nonetheless, I tire of a life stowed away in the shadows. It's a comfortable existence, I'm sure I could live out the rest of my days here in relative quiet. That is not what I desire."'' ''"However... whether it's a throne that I seek, only time will tell."'' Mearesdes seems content with offering that much to you for the time being, the older man lapsing into silence and returning his attention fully unto you, expectant. ''"Was there anything else that you wish to know?"'' [[ Why offer me this opportunity?|intro_yeswizard_whyme]] <<if $intro_tome is true>> [[ I want to return this tome...|intro_yeswizard_returnbook]] [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leavewithbook]] <<else>> [[ Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leave]] <</if>>

''"I thought it belonged to thieves... I was stolen from earlier today and I thought that might have something to do with this place... why I was led here. It turns out I was wrong, Mearesdes."'' You decide to tell him something close to the truth, as you have nothing to lose at this point. Hopefully it sets a good precedent between the both of you, moving forward. Mearesdes seems somewhat pleased by the explanation, lowering a faint nod and setting the tome aside on the scroll-covered table before you. ''"Yes, that is understandable. I'm glad you returned it unto me... It was the right choice to make, $name. And if you return to this place again, let it be under more favorable circumstances."'' [[Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leave]]

''"I sensed the power within... and I couldn't stop myself from bringing it with me."'' That much is true; you remember how the open pages leapt out at you and stole your attention away. Briefly, you add to your explanation with a soft and somewhat breathy murmur, ''"But now that I know it belongs to you, I can't take it, Mearesdes."'' Mearesdes watches you carefully, gaze cold and entirely expressionless, though the faint curve of his lips betrays some subtle bemusement. Eventually, he lowers the faintest of nods and sets the tome firmly aside on the scroll-covered table before you. ''"Returning it to me was the right choice to make, $name. It'd behoove you to never take from me, what I have not given you. Trust me. You will have all that you need in due time."'' [[Ready to leave.|intro_yeswizard_leave]]

<center><img src="images/cradlebanner.png" style="max-width: 100%;"><h3>Life in the Cradle is short, brutish and crude.</h3>In a deep metropolis buried at the bottom of an ancient crater, a crumbling city-state lay, ruined nobles struggling for dominance and power. Sorcery, rampant slavery and corruption rule the day. The common man exists in a state of servitude and poverty. //And you... you're just a nobody. For now.// <button data-passage="welcome_void" class="link-internal macro-button" type="button" role="link" tabindex="0"> Steal Back Your Destiny! </button></center> <center>If you enjoy this novel, please consider supporting my work on <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank">Patreon</a></center> Special benefits for supporters include casting votes in Patron Polls that will shape the future of //Orphan//: from game direction, to prioritized scenes and story decisions. Occasionally, we run events such as the Choose-your-own-Romance series where my privileged patrons get to help create and shape the characters that you'll meet along the way. From fight scenes, to shadowy intrigue and seduction, or more wanton conquest--you can let your voice be heard. <center>Vote in Patron Polls, peek at Special Previews, unveil Dev Scrolls and more. 💜 <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"><img src="images/support_orphan.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></a></center> <<set $might to 0>><<set $mobility to 0>><<set $mind to 0>> <<set $cowboy to 0>><<set $bastard to 0>> <<set $knight to 0>> <<set $left_pit to false>> <<set $currentMusic to "jellyfish">>

<h1>Darkness surrounds you.</h1> The abyss begins to shift, like the undulating shape of shadows behind a silken dancing veil, rays of light glimmering and protruding through. Countless questions linger in your periphery, yet your memory cruelly eludes you for the time being. More color and life gradually flows into your conscience, filling you with a low, burning vitality, a vigor. Yes, it's slowly coming to you like a vision that drives you closer to the madness of reality; the hellscape of Cradle, soaked readily in the violet glow of Dosmera. <strong><center>Answer me. What is your name? <<textbox "$name" "Blair">> </center></strong> ''Now, listen to my ruminations.'' Stats in //Orphan// can unlock opportunities that you wouldn't have access to otherwise. They help determine your strengths and weaknesses, and your particular style of play. In combat, they can mean the difference between life or death. //Orphan// is a game of choice and great risk, where every decision is akin to rolling the dice and playing for high-stakes. Wise investment into your stats can help you hedge your bets. When you achieve feats of note or reinforce your //Thumos// through great acts, you'll earn a ''soulshard'' that you can use to increase one of your stats and grow your influence. As your abilities increase, so will your mastery of the world around you. But be aware... there are always greater threats and one wrong move can be unforgiving, your final act. ''Might:'' Strength, power, virility. A reflection of your ability to exercise physical force upon friend or foe, as well as your ability to withstand external damage that may be inflicted unto you. Some weapons require a certain level of Might to wield effectively. Without a weapon, you may need to rely upon your raw strength or brawn to survive another day. ''Mobility:'' Speed, finesse, dexterity. A reflection of your overall athleticism, or how nimble you are. Mobility helps determine how quick you are, your capacity for stealth and subterfuge, as well as your skill with certain weapons, from daggers and swords to ranged armaments such as slings, shurikens, javelins or bows. ''Mind:'' Mental acuity, force of will, intuition. A reflection of your mind's ability to understand and manipulate your environment. In such a dangerous, unforgiving ecosystem, intelligence and common sense can benefit you just as much as sheer physicality. Threats come in all shapes and sizes, from malicious mindworms to parasitic psionicists that tickle the back of your mind and steal your sanity. It'll do you well to guard your senses. <strong><center>What qualities do you thus possess?</center></strong> You have ''TWO'' soulshards to invest. They can be put into the same stat, or into two different stats of your choosing. Your first soulshard will increase your <<cycle "$firstSoulshard" autoselect>> <<option "Might">> <<option "Mobility">> <<option "Mind">> <</cycle>> and your second soulshard will increase your <<cycle "$secondSoulshard" autoselect>> <<option "Mind">> <<option "Mobility">> <<option "Might">> <</cycle>>. //Note: Click on the stats above to change your selection.// <<button 'Confirm choice' 'intro_p0'>> /* we remove the uppercase , then add 1 to the corresponding variable */ <<set _key = $firstSoulshard.toLowerCase(); State.variables[$firstSoulshard.toLowerCase()]++>> <<set _key = $secondSoulshard.toLowerCase(); State.variables[$secondSoulshard.toLowerCase()]++>> <</button>>

''"Don't follow me,"'' You add as you begin to turn on heel, stepping through the forgotten courtyard, feeling as though their are unseen eyes laid upon you. Folks in the narrows are quite good at remaining unseen, so you can never really be sure. Before you pass under the stone archway that led you into this place, you remember to take a moment to reattach your coinpouch to one of your beltloops, feeling a brief surge of confidence from your victory. However, the feeling doesn't last forever. As you descend back into the darkness of the alleys, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day. You count yourself lucky, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[You depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

''“Don’t do anything stupid.”'' You mutter it low as you shift your weight, dragging her up beneath you, her cheek pressed to the damp stone while that thick green backside lifts high in the air. Unhurried, you wedge your thumbs under the ragged hem of her skirt and begin to peel it down her thighs, freeing her wide, shameless hips of that filthy scrap of cloth. She doesn’t stop you. Doesn’t speak. But her stance changes, barely — her legs part further. A twitch. A signal. She growls: a low, aroused sound from the confines of her throat. ''“Got your coin, didn’t you?”'' comes the murmur, finally, over her shoulder, ''“So what’s this then? Extra payment?”'' You don’t answer. You don’t have to. The shape of her commands your full attention — thick and shameless, her rear rising into the air like an altar. Her thighs are strong, corded with survival muscle, splayed to show the dripping prize between them. No underthings. Just her bared holes glistening beneath the dull violet haze of Dosmera’s glow. Your eyes drink her in, wild and wanting. The mist-streaked courtyard is silent save for your breath and hers — labored, hungry, filled with the ghosts of the chase. You pause only to glance at the darkness beyond the stone: wondering, for one flicker of a second, if anyone’s watching. But the thought dies quick, because nothing out there can offer you what’s here, now. She shudders once under your hands, whether from fear or heat you can’t yet say — but your fingers read the tremble in her flesh like scripture. Her back is arched, spine bowed, presenting herself not like prey but like challenge. That thick ass of hers is a battlefield, a throne, and it’s yours now, trembling in your grip. You peel her skirt down further, fingers grazing that green flesh — warm, scarred, firm under your palm. She jerks in response, snarling, ''“You gonna take it, or you just like lookin’, pretty-boy?”'' The pressure in your gut crests. It’s more than lust — it’s the memory of her teeth bared in defiance, the fire in her eyes when she lunged at you like a rabid mutt. You can’t remember ever being this hard — not in the brothel shadows, not in your loneliest nights. You unfasten your belt with a breath and push your trousers low. And when your cock springs free: angry, veined, full of wrath — it slaps against her, drawing a startled sound from both your throats. Her ass fits against you better than it has any right to — firm, warm, unyielding. You grip her hips tight, tighter still, until the soft meat gives under your hands and she gasps like she’s being claimed, not taken. ''“Fuck...”'' she breathes. Not a curse — a plea. You don’t need more than that. You’ll give her what she asked for. Rough, real, and ruinous. [[Spank that thick ass.|intro_right_instinct_doggyspank]] [[Stop wasting time and fuck her!|intro_right_instinct_doggyfuck]]

Your lust compels you. The heft of her, the thick swell of her ass rising shameless into the violet gloom. It's a provocation you can't ignore. That green flesh calls to you, waiting for the weight of your hand. You savor it for a moment longer — fingers trailing the curves, the scars, the living heat of her. Then you strike. The slap cracks the courtyard air, flesh to flesh, loud and primal. She jolts forward, a snarl bursting from her throat — part gasp, part laugh. ''“Fucker,”'' she hisses, low and wrecked. Not broken — challenging. You drag your hand back across her stinging skin, feeling the tremor in her muscles, the twitch of her breath. Then you grab a handful of her ass, spreading her cheeks roughly apart, admiring the raw pulse of her. She rocks against your palm, grinding back like a fighter baiting another blow. ''“That all you got, pretty-boy?”'' She spits over her shoulder, teeth flashing in a feral grin. You growl low and answer the only way that matters — another hard slap that leaves your handprint burning red across her cheek. She jerks, hissing through gritted teeth, her back arching deeper, daring you. You knead her bruised flesh, working the heat into her, marking her as yours if only for this one dirty moment. Your cock strains against her, rigid and throbbing, nestled between the tight valley of her cheeks. When you squeeze again, harder, digging your fingers into her soft bruises, she shudders — but not to escape. Her breath rattles out of her in a broken purr, somewhere between pleasure and pride. ''“Come on then,”'' she growls, voice thick and wrecked, ''“Thought you had me pinned. Show me you’re not just good at catchin’ runts.”'' The pressure builds behind your eyes. Behind your cock and in your balls. The thick tension that’s been growing since the chase, since the first flash of her in the dark, bursts inside you like a dam giving way. You're going to get your fill of this goblin, even if it means leaving her behind battered. You drive your hips forward — not to enter her yet, not yet — but to grind yourself against that battered, perfect ass, smearing your lust across her battered skin. She bucks under you, snarling and pushing back, biting at the air as if daring you to lose control. You slap her again. Harder. Enough that the sound echoes across the broken courtyard stones. ''“Better,”'' she rasps, laughing through the pain, ''“Ain’t nobody likes a half-assed bastard.”'' Your hands roam freely now — claiming, taking, squeezing bruises into green flesh. Every touch is a declaration: she fought, she lost, and she loves every filthy second of it. You lean low over her back, your voice a rough whisper in her ear, ''“You’ll get what you earned, little runt. Every last inch.”'' Her answering growl is all the permission you need. [[Make use of her dirty mouth.|intro_right_instinct_oralafterspank]] [[Drive into her from behind.|intro_right_instinct_doggyplayful]]

You don’t waste time. You don't offer tenderness. You don’t give her the chance to run that filthy mouth again. There's no time for foreplay, not really, not when at any moment you could find a dagger in your back or at your throat. You're not going to let this opportunity go to waste. You're going to //fuck// her. She shivers beneath you, in anticipation perhaps, as you slowly draw back your hips only to press forward once more, the swollen crown of your cock greeting her lower lips with a kiss of the tip. You seize her hips, haul her up higher, and ram yourself inside her in one savage thrust. She screams: not in protest, but in raw, guttural shock — the sound ripping itself free as her body strains to take your full size. She plants her palms hard against the slick stones, her nails scraping furrows as you drive her forward, a brutal rhythm pounding into her from the start. No teasing. No easing. Just pure, relentless rutting. The slap of flesh echoes through the broken courtyard, each thrust a punishment and a reward tangled into one. She bucks under you: not to escape, but to meet you, hips slamming back into yours with a snarling rhythm. The heat between her legs clutches you tight, slick and greedy, her body betraying her pride with every wet slap, every tremor that runs through her thick thighs. You lean forward, big hand ensnaring her braided scalp, yanking her head back so you can hear her panting curses spit through clenched teeth, ''"Hells,"'' she growls, voice ragged, ''"You're worse than a troll rut."'' You slam into her harder. She chokes on a laugh and shudders, the pulse of her body milking you against your will. ''"Tch— Not bad for a fucking human,"'' she snarls, hips snapping back into yours like a whipcrack. ''"Not bad— fuck— at all."'' You bare your teeth in a grimace, the strain building in your gut, your balls heavy and aching with the pressure she's wringing out of you. Her flesh ripples around you with every rough, grinding thrust, the slick heat of her a maddening, living trap. This isn't love, nor mercy. It's survival, the purest kind. Two beasts locked in ruinous need, fighting to draw the last shred of pleasure from a broken world. You shift your stance, planting your feet wide, driving her down with every brutal stroke until her gasps turn hoarse and her head drops, cheek scraping the stone, green fingers curling tight in the cracks. And still — even wrecked, even trembling — she spits her defiance. ''"Go on,"'' she croaks, ''"Break me, big man. See who comes out smiling."'' You snarl, feeling the edge building, the sharp pull of release racing up your spine. It’s close and she’s close too. The way her body clamps and shivers tells you. You slam forward once more, burying yourself deep, savoring the way she claws at the stones and groans — half-daring, half-breaking. [[Shut her up, and stuff her mouth.|intro_right_instinct_doggyoral]] [[Finish inside her.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_in_bastard]] [[Pull out and paint her back.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_out_bastard]]

by <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank">Exalted Text</a>

Before you can blink, your life takes an /unfortunate/ turn. You never would have imagined that you'd be caught in a net, your limbs bent, twisted, body folded over, effectively trapped and caked in a filthy layer of dirt and grime that was thrown up by the trap's activation. You hang taut in the air, one of your legs protruding through the net and dangling towards the dark alley ground below. ''"Fuck,"'' You spit before clenching your teeth and trying to manipulate the coarse netting around you. But you can barely move; it's tight and you don't have anything on you to cut at it. You can still barely see, though the pain in your eyes has lessened. Your lack of clear sight is suddenly //less// of a problem given your current circumstance. ''"This makes up for missin' the little one, don't it? And this idiot da first time?"'' The voices are low, but growing louder and clear for you to hear. They seem to be climbing down from somewhere above, perhaps a nearby rooftop, and you can't even swivel your gaze to observe them. You have to do something, quick. But nothing that you do works. Your fingers pry feebly at the netting and your teeth barely put an indent in the rough, thick-woven fibers. You're trapped and there's no telling what they'll do with you, or who this trap belongs to. You'll have an idea soon. [[A trio of leather-clad humans peer up at you.|intro_right_instinct_captured1]]

There, the street opens up into an intersection where goods are peddled and exchanged between citizens, the usage of coins more common than mere barter. Standing amongst the milling of the crowd, a pair of men with bronze breastplates, dark gray tunics and blade-laden sheaths at their belts stand watch over the gathering of commons. You even recognize one of them. As you trudge closer, he spots you, a young man perhaps only a few years older than you with short-cropped black hair and pale hazel eyes. ''"$name? Is that you? What in the fuckin' Highlord is that?"'' He indicates the wriggling goblin atop your shoulder as you finally close in. ''"Good to see you, Xander. This... is a thief."'' Without further ado, you roll your shoulder and lean forward, letting the goblin flop down onto the dirty cobblestone, throwing up dust and grit as the two soldiers watch on. Xander peers over her, only somewhat curious, canting a brow up at you soon after, ''"No shit? You caught her?"'' The bound goblin moans, muffled, squirming atop the road as you talk over her, ''"Aye. She's a bold one. Stole the pouch right off my belt and made me chase her through the narrows."'' Xander snorts a laugh, booting the goblin in the side as he turns another look down at her. ''"Ran her down, huh? I'm not surprised. Shit, you should consider joinin' the Legion, $name. I think ya'd fit right in!"'' [[I've thought about it.|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend1_maybe]] [[No thanks.|intro_right_knockoutarrest_haulend1_nothanks]]

''"I've thought about it... Old Fredrick needs the extra pair of hands, though."'' Xander throws up a shoulder at your response and looses a wad of spit down onto the stones next to their new prisoner, ''"Don't let that old man run your life, mate. You're ya own man, and the Legion is made for //men//."'' His partner mutters in agreement, ''"Fuckin' aye."'' ''"I'll think about it. Anyway, I've gotta make a purchase and get back home."'' ''"Aye, $name. We'll take care of this sad gobbie cunt for ya. Make her reconsider her life choices, we will."'' Xander laughs and cants over a lopsided wink at you before the both of them start to gather up the little bound goblin at their feet. She looks your way, golden eyes narrowed, before you turn off through the crowd... Part of you wonders what's going to happen to her, and whether you'll ever cross paths once more. [[Time to go home.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

''"No thanks. I don't think that's the path for me... Besides, Old Fredrick needs the extra pair of hands."'' Xander throws up a shoulder at your response and looses a wad of spit down onto the stones next to their new prisoner, ''"Don't let that old man run your life, mate. You're ya own man, and the Legion is made for //men//."'' His partner mutters in agreement, ''"Fuckin' aye."'' ''"Right... Anyway, I've gotta make a purchase and get back home."'' ''"Aye, $name. We'll take care of this sad gobbie cunt for ya. Make her reconsider her life choices, we will."'' Xander laughs and cants over a lopsided wink at you before the both of them start to gather up the little bound goblin at their feet. She looks your way, golden eyes narrowed, before you turn off through the crowd... Part of you wonders what's going to happen to her, and whether you'll ever cross paths once more. [[Time to go home.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

<h3>Yet it all feels so very real.</h3>You've never seen her so ''clearly'' before. <h3>''Dosmera.''</h3>Looming in the dark abyss of space above, a purple gas giant seems close enough to touch, casting a luminous violet haze over much of the world. She dominates the sky, how could you not notice her? But now, every single detail stands out to you admist the vaporous fog. //She's so incredibly beautiful.// Almost dangerously so. <<audio "bad-era" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "bad-era">> You know some worship her; they call her the source of all existence. Some others yet regard her as a living God. Others still, many a cult deep within the ruins of the Lost Quarter, regard her as a portal into another world. A world full of beings far greater than any gathered here. You can't help but wonder what that would look like. [[A soft breath nearby steals your attention from Dosmera.|intro_nightdream1]]

<center><img src="images/daemoness.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> That's when you see ''her''. You can scarcely believe your eyes. There stands a woman observing you; feasting upon your lean, youthful form with her ebon eyes. She's like no one you've ever seen before, not even a dark elf could compare. Tall, lithe and lissome with a graceful curvature that would put most women to shame, she's scantily clad but unashamed. She stands ''resolute''. You should be the one embarrassed. She is something from beyond this world. A being, you feel, from the greater beyond that ravers and lunatics prophesize lay within the holy haze of Dosmera. It's certainly possible, you think, now that you've seen her. Now that you've beheld her with your own two eyes. Silky strands of decadent midnight-black hair cascade down her supple back, smooth violet flesh contours every curve of her sculpted figure, and her bust; it swells, filling out her chest, incredibly full and perky with only the tiniest golden tassels concealing her perfectly pert nipples. She oozes sexuality and emanates eroticism. [[ Even her voice is sensual, caressing your waiting ears.|intro_nightdream2]]

''"Down onto your knees for me, love. //Give// yourself to me. Completely."'' Her black eyes meet yours, lingering, lustful and incredibly intense. Your lips twitch open to respond but you find yourself without words. Despite your lack of a response, she begins to draw closer, just a step, then another, slowly moving towards you. You can feel her power... it radiates outward from her very being. The question isn't whether you trust her. It's whether you can //resist// her. [[ Give yourself to her. (18+)|intro_nightdream2_comply]] [[ Resist her.|intro_nightdream2_resist]]

You drop down onto your knees. It's not like you had a choice... your body and mind feel so incredibly heavy. Every figment of your being desires the etheral woman before you. She is a //goddess//, a daughter born of Dosmera. And when she sees your compliance, her full lips, plump and purple, part to show the gleam of fangs. ''"Good,"'' She coos softly, pleased, ''"I love a man who listens. You deserve a taste."'' The way she moves perfectly emphasizes her opulent femininity, her sexuality. The sway of her succulent hips and smooth, gracile thighs. You're captivated by every step that she takes until she's standing right before you, looking down upon you, dominating you with her pure presence. A slender digit slips beneath the tender string of her black-silk panties and pulls them aside, just enough to reveal her lips. She spreads them for you like a blossoming flower, showing you the beautiful, deep violet and velvety insides that glisten and glimmer for your greedy gaze. ''"I'm waiting."'' She purrs down at you, her dark eyes half-lidded. [[ You lean forward to taste her.|intro_nightdream2_comply1]]

''"No."'' You remain standing, despite your body and mind feeling so incredibly heavy. Even your firm refusal came as only a whisper. Yet, the etheral woman before you seems surprised - if only for a moment. When she hears your response, her full lips, plump and purple, part to show the gleam of fangs. Every figment of your being desires this woman. But something within you sees past her decadent display. She is no //goddess//, no daughter born of Dosmera, you think. She's a ''daemon.'' Yet your resolve must be made stronger if you're going to resist such an entity. You can foresee that much. ''"Sweet boy,"'' She coos softly, amused, ''"Tsk tsk... There's no need for that."'' The way she moves perfectly emphasizes her opulent femininity, her //sexuality//. The sway of her succulent hips and smooth, gracile thighs. You're captivated by every step that she takes until she's standing right before you, looking down upon you, dominating you with her pure presence. ''"I only want to //please// you... The faster you learn to play nicely with me, the better."'' Her dark eyes are so incredibly deep, booring into yours; they must be sizing up your soul and inner dimensions. You clutch your eyes shut and a groan, barely audible, escapes her, ''"I'll be seeing you again soon, $name."'' [[You awake with a start.|chp2_morningafter]]

So very slowly, you press your face closer to her crotch and open your mouth, eager for a taste. Before your tongue even meets her flesh, your nostrils flare, sucking in the scent of her pheremones. It's like a natural perfume, the sweetest thing you've ever smelled. Just the scent of her sex is enough for your cock to swell. But the taste is so much sweeter. Your tongue tingles as it draws delicately along her lower lips. Honey is the easiest way to describe it, but as intoxicating and rich as wine. You've never felt as attracted to a woman as you do now. Not a woman; a goddess, of that much you're sure. You feel her long fingers comb through your hair, giving your scalp a little massage, just absently toying with you as she lets you lap at her pussy. You help yourself, tracing the shape of her labia with your tongue, emboldened by her gentle touch. Soon your movement has turned hungry, desperate, //lustful//. You lap at her, drawing your tongue fatly over her exposed insides, nice and firm. But it doesn't last nearly as long as you would've liked. ''"I'll be seeing you soon, $name."'' [[You awake with a start.|chp2_morningafter]]

<<audio "whip" play>> You aren't the only one having a bad day. It seems the closer that you get to the arena, the more common these wretched displays of enslavement become. Lines of them, slaves with studded or spiked collars of bone or pig-iron, shuffle along; dreadful, destitute, clothed in filthy rags, ribs and bone protruding against some of their sweating flesh. Slavers and soldiers alike keep an eye on them, dark eyes observing from beneath the rim of bronze helms or emblazoned caps. They too serve a master, for better or for worse. They're easy to spot amongst such crowds. Debauched nobles of colored silk, sigil proudly displayed on their cloaks or amongst their feathered, bejeweled raiments. Some more exorbitant than others, but all of them are far beyond your position. The noble estates themselves are located high up in the city; winding towers that escape the heat and packed misery of the lower quarters such as Undertown. How cool and sweet the air must be, high above the suffering of Cradle's bruised masses. Gant whispers to you again, through the warped bars of his cage, ''"We're in the thick of it, my friend. The auctions aren't far from here. If we're lucky, we go right from the cart onto the sellin' stands. Get picked up by some upper-class bureaucrat or noblewoman. Being a house servant doesn't seem like the worst fate, eh?"'' [["Meh."|chp2_wagon3_cowboy]] [["I'd rather die in the sands."|chp2_wagon3_bastard]] [["How are we going to get out of this?"|chp2_wagon3_knight]]

''"Meh."'' <<set $cowboy +=1>> At this point, you've resigned yourself to the situation. Whatever happens, happens. You can roll with the punches and figure out a way forward. For now, it's just about survival. It's not like you actually have //options// in your current situation. You've no leverage to stand on. Unfavorable, but you're gonna try and make it work. However, for Gant daydreaming seems preferable to his current reality. ''"Think about it, man... Imagine y'get bought by a busty fuckin' noblewoman. And you become like... her personal dildo."'' A loose, sheepish grin appears on his face as he rubs a hand through his shaggy mane of hair. ''"That wouldn't be too bad, eh? Eheh..."'' [[Yet, your cart doesn't seem to be stopping.|chp2_wagon4]]

''"I'd rather die in the sands."'' <<set $bastard +=1>> There's no way you're going to live out the rest of your days as a lowly, pitiful, but oh-so dutiful servant. Your blood is too thick, it burns too hot; you have a soul that yearns for conquest. You remained loyal to Fredrick as his apprentice out of obligation and a lack of options, but now, perhaps it's time that you take your destiny into your own hands. ''"Die in the sands, eh?"'' Gant mutters beneath a thoughtful breath, considering your response somewhat seriously, ''"Not a bad life... could be short... but if you've got the stones an' the skills, I've heard that some of them live like kings. The champions. All you can eat, access to pleasure slaves an' audiences with nobility. Could make a name for yerself."'' ''"Still,"'' He sighs, a loose, sheepish grin appearing on his face as he runs a hand through his shaggy mane of hair, ''"I'd be just fine gettin' bought by a busty fuckin' noblewoman. Imagine that, mate. And you become like... her personal dildo. That wouldn't be too bad, eheh..."'' [[Yet, your cart doesn't seem to be stopping.|chp2_wagon4]]

''"How are we going to get out of this?"'' <<set $knight +=1>> You can't help but feel that this is all a big mistake. You were born free... Yes, an orphan, but //free// with old Fredrick taking you under his care and mentorship. It should be impossible for a group of thugs to attack you and sell you off like //cattle//. No, this can't be your future. You're meant for more. Your companion seems far more comfortable with the prospect of wearing a collar. ''"Think about it, man... Imagine y'get bought by a busty fuckin' noblewoman. And you become like... her personal dildo."'' A loose, sheepish grin appears on his face as he rubs a hand through his shaggy mane of hair. ''"That wouldn't be too bad, eh? Eheh..."'' [[Yet, your cart doesn't seem to be stopping.|chp2_wagon4]]

The crowd only grows thicker as you descend deeper into the shadow of the colosseum. It doesn't seem likely that you're intended for one of the surrounding auctions. No, you're heading directly into the belly of the beast. Your friend stirs from his reverie and tries to lean closer, his face pressed tight against the bars, ''"I think our day is about t'get even worse, my friend... I forgot it's fuckin' Crathal. They're holding Death-Games all month."'' ''"Death-Games?"'' You breath back in question, though your eyes still soak in the foreboding sight before you. Hundreds of denizens that you can see, if not thousands, are pressing along shoulder-to-shoulder, fighting for entrance to the arena stands. The soldiers and slavers try to maintain some semblance of order; and whenever a noble seeks entrance, suddenly a path is cleared, even if the guards have to crack a few skulls or trample a commoner or two in the process. ''"All day, every fuckin' day for the whole month,"'' Gant curses. ''"As much slaughter in the sands as they can afford to put on. It means our chances of bein' bought and tossed in right now... Well. You get the picture, mate."'' He slumps back and rests his head against the bars once more, dejected. ''"Just our luck."'' [[The cart navigates around the perimeter of the colosseum, steering through the crowd.|chp2_wagon5]]

... only to start the slow descent down a wide, stone-paved rampway that appears to lead beneath the colosseum itself. ''"What I'd tell ya?"'' Gant mutters, displeased. His hopes have been dashed. ''"Shittiest fuckin' month there is... except when you're watching the games, heh."'' The wagon rolls along, clattering and clinking, while you press against the bars of your cage. The crowds have dissipated; the only folks venturing beneath the arena seem to be slaves and slavers, with the occasional servant or sigil-laden soldier trotting along, relaying messages or perhaps preparing their noble's 'property' for the games ahead. From the front of the wagon, though you can only see the top of his shaven skull wobbling to and fro, you hear the driver's gutteral voice call: ''"Welcome to the catacombs!"'' And indeed, as your cart tumbles through a round passageway large enough to accommodate the widest of wagons, it seems as though you've entered the very depths of Cradle itself. An underground labyrinth of shattered stone and tightly packed cobblework stretches out before you, though the walls themselves are reinforced by a macabre patchwork of bleached bone and sweat-stained skulls, perspiration clinging to every surface in sight. Many a tunnel branches off, slinking down further into the farthest recesses of the pit; although for better or for worse, you seem to be keeping to the largest and most straightforward pathway, heading to the heart of it all. Torches flicker, whips crack, feet shuffle through the darkness, and shrill voices reverberate against the ancient skeletons lining the catacombs: ''"Move! Unload 'em, you know the drill."'' Amidst the shifting of shadows, you see movement up ahead. The emptying of carts and exchange of slaves awaits you. Soon, it'll be your turn. ''"Stick close,"'' comes Gant's whispered warning, ''"We'll watch each other's backs."'' [[ Finally, the cart rattles to a stop and the back swings open.|chp2_catacombs]]

''"Empty 'em,"'' A rawboned man barks as he steps alongside the cart and up towards the front, approaching the driver with the barbed, black thong of a whip dragging along the broken cobble at his feet. ''"How many?"'' The driver gives a crooked grin and bobs a low nod for him, ''"Overseer. Gots six of them for ya. Good stock."'' Meanwhile, a couple servants climb up into the cart while guards watch from below, surrounding the area with protruding speartips and blade-laden swordbelts. They unlatch one cage at a time, the more despondant of the slaves-to-be forcibly dragged out and thrown from their confines. ''"Come on,"'' One of the guards mutters, ''"Nothing funny or you'll get a spear in your gut and a boot on your neck. Lets fucking go."'' Your shaggy-haired companion gives you a weary gaze before he's ushered out of his cage, and you're next. You do as you're told, keeping your head down and steps measured as you're led away from the wagon. ''"Get movin'!"'' The order is bellowed at one of the more lifeless dregs amongst you, but you all get pushed and pressed along, a slap along your ear and a kick at the back of your knees as the cadre of guards usher your group towards a break in the stone-and-bone-clad walls. Only when you're all forced inside and a thick wooden door gets swung shut, you realize that it's a holding cell. ''"Could be worse,"'' Gant remarks, the first one to break the silence, ''"Least there's no rats!"'' Looking around, you see that there's only one other exit. On the far side of the room, the walls taper inward and a metal grate stands lowered, preventing egress into the narrow passage beyond. You think at the very end, you can see the dim glimmer of violet light. And you certainly hear //something//... a low roar, ebbing and waning, deep and foreboding. It must be the cheer of the crowd, you realize. And they're calling out for //blood//. [[ But for now - you wait...|chp2_catacombs1]]

You don't know how much time has passed, slumped together in the muggy darkness of the cell. But like with all things in life, this reverie does not last forever. The blast of a horn reverberates throughout the entirety of the catacombs, giving immediate cause for the guards and servants to muster. You can hear them outside, a procession of soldiers gathering on the other side of the door. You press to your feet, expectant, with Gant right at your side. ''"Here goes nothing,"'' He murmurs warily. Someone thuds on the door twice before you hear the turning of a key and lock. Then it swings open, steam seeping through, as dark figures with sweat-sheened blades press their way into the room. ''"On your feet! Stand up ya fuckin' misers! Walkin' dead, get the fuck up!"'' The grate is being wrenched open at the farside of the room by some unseen mechanism. This whole system runs like clockwork, you think, the exchange and wrangling of slaves as they're sent to their doom. You're getting a firsthand view of it all. Hell, there's never been a better seat. They corral you towards the newly opened passageway, kicking, slapping and stabbing at those slow to react or who fail to listen to their bellowed commands. It's barbaric, crass, undignified; you grit your teeth and keep from the wrath of the guards, until you're forced to duck under the opened grate and start the trek through the hollowed out tunnel, marching forward to the dim glow of daylight at the opposite end. You have no choice. [[When you emerge from the passage, the defeaning roar of the crowd greets you.|chp2_arena1]]

Shouting and screaming, the unending roar of the crowd surrounds you, strangles you, defeaning you in strong contrast to the dark, desolate sky up above. Obscured by steam and mist, where the hot air heated by the core of the pit meets the coolness of open space, rays of violet protrude to illuminate the stands. High above where the etheral fog finally opens up for a view, you're given a glorious glimpse at the purple gas giant looming and watching over every single denizen of Cradle. Her name is Dosmera. In this moment, you realize that you've never seen her so clearly before. You know some worship her; they call her the source of all existence. Others yet regard her as a living God, whilst many a cult deep within the ruins of the Lost Quarter prophesize her to be a portal into another dimension. A world full of beings far greater than any gathered here. While your exact feelings elude you, knowing that you may die here today beneath her captivating sight, the sense of awe that you feel is undeniable. ''"We're in for it, boys!"'' Gant cries out, eyes wide and teeth bared for the crowd. Most of your fellow slaves are bumbling about, soaking in the sheer scale of the arena. Tall, thick, ghastly-grey walls slope upwards and separate the sands from the crowded stands above. Even the arena floor is massive in scale; they could fit hundreds of slaves in here for pitched battles if they wanted to. You can't help but wonder what's in store for you... [[You notice more slaves funneling out of another entrance...|chp2_arena2]]

<<audio "the-wanderer" fadeout>> There's a lot of you now, a couple dozen at least. Mostly nobodies, decrepit fodder for the games, milling about in the sands far below a dark, yawning abyss. There is someone who catches your attention, however. Amidst the bleary chants of the rippling crowd, your eyes meet. A female half-orc, dark green flesh glossy and slick, much like a still-wet oil painting, locks gazes with you. She seems to be appraising you, so you return the favor; thick, sturdy, with a squared jaw and protruding tusks. Unsurprisingly for one of her race, she looks to be warrior-stock. But before the chance meeting can develop, you're both distracted by the sudden, shrill screech of metal on metal. At one end of the arena, the turn of gigantic cranks fills the air, beginning the slow and rather morbid process of drawing a truly humongous, heavy metal and spiked gate upwards. You can see something shuffling behind it, shrouded in shadow. Yes, in the darkness beyond, slowly emerging from an arched tunnel tall and wide enough to accomodate giants, you see a silhouette. [[What in the world...|chp2_arena3]]

<<audio "prepare-to-die" loop play>><center><img src="images/ogrebanner.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<set $currentMusic to "prepare-to-die">> At least thrice your height and ten times as terrible, a horrible creature slowly ambles out from the darkness and out into the scorched sands, slobber and spittle escaping from the sides of their fat, pale, wormy lips. An ''ogre''. It's huge and //pissed off//, mouth peeling open to display gross, gnashing teeth. <center>''"What.. the.. FUCK!"''</center> You can't help but stare. Never before have you laid eyes upon on such a beast; grossly gigantic, each of it's foul movements are long and labored, ambling forth with a seemingly directionless, gaping gait. But as soon as the gate stills, completely open, the ogre seizes the opportunity to pick up speed and clambers out into the open. The crowd's reaction is mixed. Some recoil in disgust or fear, whilst others pick up the cadence, hooting and hollering, thrilled by the sight of such a cruel abomination and the spectacle that's surely soon to follow. Fighting the sense of dread that had built up within you, putting you in a state of inaction, you swivel a quick look over the sands to survey your situation. Gant's stood in disbelief, cursing fate and fortune, whilst the female half-orc happens to meet your gaze once more. Though sullen, there's a measure of determination behind her amber eyes. You drop a firm nod her way, and she returns the gesture; you find the sense of mutual understanding, despite the direness of your situation, somewhat reassuring. [[All is not lost yet.|chp2_arena4]]

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice a //positive// development. Throughout the arena, weapons are being flung down, scattered across the sands. You almost stop to thank the Gods... These sorry bastards don't expect you to put up an unarmed resistance. You finally start to ''move'', trotting over and picking your way around the edge of the arena. Yet, your choices aren't all too illustrous. Haphazardly laying across the arena floor, there's what looks like a farming tool. As far as you can remember, Fredrick called it a ''billhook''. With a wooden shaft and a bone blade, it wouldn't be a bad choice if you wanted distance between yourself and your foe. Serving as a more familiar sight yet, you see a gladius, old and battered, but servicable all the same. You're unsure of what exactly it's capable of doing to this ogre in combat, but you'd certainly feel more comfortable with a trusted blade in your hand. <<if $mobility gte 1>> Luckily, the last armament that you catch sight of is a sling, with a handful of smooth stones scattered closeby. You've used a sling more times than you can count. Flinging stones and lumps of coal with your pals was one of your favorite adolescent pasttimes. <<else>> The only other armament you see within reach is a sling, a handful of stones scattered nearby. You haven't really used one before, not a proper slingshot; you question whether you'd be able to effectively wield one as a weapon against this beast.<</if>> [[Take the billhook (polearm).|chp2_arena_polearm]] [[I trust the gladius (sword).|chp2_arena_sword]] [[Maybe a sling will work best (ranged).|chp2_arena_ranged]]

<<set $chp2_polearm to true>> <<if $might gte 2>> You take up the largest of the weapons, handling it with ease. Feeling the weight of the bill and bonehook at one end, you're confident that you made the right choice. You might be able to leverage your strength with this thing and do some real damage. <<else>> You take up the largest of the weapons in both hands; it's heavier than you expected and a bit unwieldly as more than a farm tool. But if you play your cards right, you might just be able to make this thing work in your advantage. It's not like you're fighting another man after all... you'll need the weight and length of a polearm to make a difference. <</if>> Many of your fellow slaves have caught on by now, scampering through the sands to take up their own arms. However, just as many have given up hope, fleeing to the far corners of the arena, or worse yet, standing struck by disbelief. Maybe for some, it's all one bad nightmare that they're hoping to wake up from. You hear a bellow from the farside of the arena, ''"MOVE!"'' That's when you see him, a scrawny and decrepit figure, stood unmoving before the lumbering approach of the ogre. There's no fight in him, you think. What a poor, wretched soul; he must have already accepted his fate. By not fighting, he has chosen to ''die''. [[ Poor bastard.|chp2_arena_cowboy]] [[ The most unglorious of deaths...|chp2_arena_bastard]] [[ I need to help him!|chp2_arena_knight]]

<<set $chp2_sword to true>> <<if $might gte 1 or $mobility gte 1>> Now this, you can work with. The hilt fits nicely into the palm of your hand, and the weight of the blade's comforting. You cleave it through the air and then give a thrust, testing it, getting a feel for the weapon that will help determine whether you leave this arena alive, or remain beneath it, in the catacombs, forever.<<else>> The gladius feels somewhat unfamiliar in your hands. Truthfully, you don't have much experience with a blade of this size and stature; you've only carried a dagger before for self-defense. However, it looked like the most viable weapon of the bunch and you don't exactly have time to regret your choice. Not yet.<</if>> Many of your fellow slaves have caught on by now, scampering through the sands to take up their own arms. However, just as many have given up hope, fleeing to the far corners of the arena, or worse yet, standing struck by disbelief. Maybe for some, it's all one bad nightmare that they're hoping to wake up from. You hear a bellow from the farside of the arena, ''"MOVE!"'' That's when you see him, a scrawny and decrepit figure, stood unmoving before the lumbering approach of the ogre. There's no fight in him, you think. What a poor, wretched soul; he must have already accepted his fate. By not fighting, he has chosen to ''die''. [[ Poor bastard.|chp2_arena_cowboy]] [[ The most unglorious of deaths...|chp2_arena_bastard]] [[ I need to help him!|chp2_arena_knight]]

<<set $chp2_ranged to true>> <<if $mobility gte 1>> As soon as you saw it, you knew this sling was your only way out of this. You're still formulating a plan in your head about how exactly you're going to target the beast. Best to stay undetected, out of sight, and to carefully pick each shot. Don't you think? You deposit your ammunition deep into the recesses of your tunic for safekeeping. <<else>> The only thing going through your mind is survival. With a sling, at least you'll be able to justify keeping your distance from this beast. You have no clue whether you'll actually be effective with it. What's that one children's tale? Dayvid and the Goblin-King? Yeah, you're pretty sure that these things can... //kill people//.<</if>> Many of your fellow slaves have caught on by now, scampering through the sands to take up their own arms. However, just as many have given up hope, fleeing to the far corners of the arena, or worse yet, standing struck by disbelief. Maybe for some, it's all one bad nightmare that they're hoping to wake up from. You hear a bellow from the farside of the arena, ''"MOVE!"'' That's when you see him, a scrawny and decrepit figure, stood unmoving before the lumbering approach of the ogre. There's no fight in him, you think. What a poor, wretched soul; he must have already accepted his fate. By not fighting, he has chosen to ''die''. [[Poor bastard.|chp2_arena_cowboy]] [[The most unglorious of deaths...|chp2_arena_bastard]] [[I need to help him!|chp2_arena_knight]]

<<set $cowboy +=1>> Poor bastard. That's all you can think. There's too many lost souls in this world to help; tortured and tormented, they're all damned to a dark destiny of decadence and decay. When you're barely managing yourself, how could you possibly help others? They'll only drag you down to your own death and demise. There he stands, unmoving. You wonder whether he's even cognizant of what's happening around him. Of what exactly is about to befall him. If there's any glimmer of life within him, you're sure he has to be //afraid//. Sand gets shook and thrown up with each great stride as the ogre lumbers closer. You're captivated by the horrible sight. [[Grimly, you have no choice but to watch on.|chp2_arena_maneaten]]

<<set $bastard +=1>> The most unglorious of deaths. That's how an undignified man dies, not even putting up a fight. Some people never do. They're simply born into a struggle that they never asked for and for which they never intended to compete. You? You've always had that inner fire; the urge to take this life for everything that you can. To squeeze it, strangle it, to make every day and ''everyone'' your bitch. Whether he was shat into the world that way, or whether the defeat was beat into him by each and every obstacle, that poor bastard was already dead. There he stands, unmoving. You wonder whether he's even cognizant of what's happening around him. Of what exactly is about to befall him. If there's any glimmer of life within him, you're sure he has to be //afraid//. Sand gets shook and thrown up with each great stride as the ogre lumbers closer. [[Lips curling back in revulsion, you watch on.|chp2_arena_maneaten]]

<<set $knight +=1>> No one deserves such a fate. Not even those that have lost the light in their eyes or the hope in their souls. Your brain tells you that it can't be helped, but your heart pounds strongly within the depths of your chest. You feel drawn towards your fellow man, to protect those that are lesser, those that are unwilling or incapable of defending themselves from cruelty. ''"Move! Hey, get out of the way!"'' Against your better judgement, you start bellowing across the sands to that poor sap. You find your feet moving on their own as you quickly try to close the distance. You feel the eyes of the crowd and your fellow slaves upon you. Even Gant's panicked voice reaches your ears, ''"He's fucked! Stay back 'ere!"'' But in the end, perhaps the outcome couldn't have been changed. You can't save everyone. [[There's no way for you to reach him in time...|chp2_arena_maneaten]]

The foul beast stoops low and plucks the man from the ground, the act accompanied by the defeaning roar of the crowd. The stands shake beneath the clamor of thousands, many of them crying, begging, pleading for ''blood''. And it's blood that they get. Broken bones crunch beneath the gnashing of teeth, torn flesh and crimson insides spilling from betwixt the ogre's slobbering maw. The crowd cries out, jubilant, joyful, jeering; some of the slaves amongst you begin to panic and suddenly, you feel the weight of the world upon your shoulders, a sickening surge of adrenaline dumping into your very body and triggering your fight-or-flight instinct like a lightning strike. The ogre's roar echoes out the colosseum and with a fleshy ''/THUD/'', you see the man's mauled head land in the sand not far from you, eyes gone, gouged out by gnarled, mashing teeth. The longer you stare at the disembodied head, you sooner you realize that the arena battlefield is littered by more... bodies. The dead of previous bouts, some of them relatively fresh, others rotting for days it seems. Corpses and dismembered limbs surround you, a bloodied graveyard for losers beneath the etheral glow of a dark, violet sky. Before you can blink, you realize that the beast has finished his meal and has resumed it's rampage, plodding after those closest to him, and inevitably, towards you. This is where you fight. You ''/must/'' fight. Otherwise you're just another bloody fleshbag torn apart for sport and spectacle. [[Rally your fellow slaves.|chp2_arena_rally]] /* [[Stay back, flank the beast, and look for an opening.|chp2_arena_flank]] */

Your eyes dart over the sands, briskly surveying the situation. If you're going to win this fight, you'll need to collectively work together. And ''quick'', before your numbers start to dwindle and this ogre picks you off one-by-one. You'd say there's a dozen or so slaves in here with enough gusto to put up a decent fight. The rest will be useful distractions or cower at the far edges, useless. You'll have to work with what you can get. Throwing a look over your shoulder and spotting your friend wide-eyed, still in disbelief, you call back to him, ''"Gant. Get everyone you can together and go to the left. I'll do the same to the right and try to stop this thing in it's tracks!"'' To his credit, your companion seems to quickly snap back to reality. He bobs a loose nod at your words and sweeps a wiry hand up through his bedraggled hair, seeming stressed but managing for the time being, trying to pull together: ''"Okay, got it. But what's the plan?"'' Gant hefts up the dingy bone club that he managed to procure from the sands, ''"I mean, how much damage y'even think we can do to this thing?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>> ''"I have a plan, you'll have to trust me. Keep your eyes and ears open as best you can; I'll signal to you. Anyone that has a weapon with weight or length to it, have them at the front of your group, and spread out. Have folks with ranged weapons in the back, focusing on the thing's head and neck."'' Gant delivers a terse nod and you give him a nod back, the exchange somewhat reassuring. He heaves a deep breath, ''"Let's do this. Good luck, m'friend. Either we win or we die, right?"'' You look back at him, feeling somewhat excited and /light/ despite the direness of your situation, ''"That's right."'' [[You part ways, both trying to gather the others behind you.|chp2_arena_rally1]] <<else>> You pause for a moment, trying to wrack your brain for a plan. But all you know in the moment is that surely you'll stand a better chance standing together, side-by-side. No man can take on this ogre alone. ''"This is the only chance we've got, Gant."'' You look him in the eyes, your own breath hot and shaky. ''"We move together, be quick and... figure something out as we go."'' Gant curses under his breath and peels a look away towards the lumbering beast who's preying on stragglers, the the slowest and closest slaves soon to be devoured. ''"You're right. We have to do something t'gether... Fuck it, les' do something."'' You give him a nod back, reassured that you won't have to act alone. ''"Come on, get everyone you can. We're going to give these bastards a fight worth witnessing."'' [[ You part ways, both trying to gather the others behind you.|chp2_arena_rally1]] <</if>>

It seems that at least a few of the other slaves noticed you and Gant conferring with one another. They might have had a similar idea, to come together and put up a resistance. A handful of them, dirty and draped in assorted burlap-tunics and stained-rags, draw towards you with makeshift weapons in hands. ''"Come on,"'' You urge, locking eyes with each of them, finding the half-orc with glossy flesh and dark eyes amongst them, ''"We're putting up a fight. Get everyone you can behind us and let's put this fuckin' ogre to rest."'' They all seem to be in agreeance and turn to shout, wave and draw the others in. The half-orc however lingers close, appraising you openly with amber eyes. She speaks a single word, simple and strong, ''"Khalika."'' You eye her, uncomprehending; perhaps the adrenaline is having an effect on your senses. ''"Hm?" "My name is Khalika,"'' She clarifies, murky lips twitching into the faintest of smiles with tusks protruding overtop, almost sardonic, ''"In case we die today, at least we will have exchanged names."'' You can't help but crack a smile, ''"Fair enough... I'm $name."'' ''"Well, $name,"'' She says, lips tilted in a smirk still despite the beast bellowing in the background and the screams of spectators high above, ''"I think we have some work to do."'' Unhesitating, you bound back into action, ''"You're right about that. Come on!"'' With the help of your compatriots, you've collected a dozen men behind you and across the sands, you see Gant trotting along with a band of weapon-toting slaves alongside him. More than half of the slaves in the arena have failed to answer your call, having found their own empty regions of the arena to hide and cower, or they're actively fleeing from the ogre. It isn't long now until the action spills over and battle ensues. <<if $mind gte 3>> [[Let's draw it in and lay a trap.|chp2_arena_rally1_trap]]<</if>> [[Poles in the front, slings in the back. Let's form up!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup]] /* [[Personally lead the advance.|chp2_arena_rally1_advance]] */

''"Poles in the front, slings in the back. Let's form up! The only way we're taking this thing down is together!"'' There seems to be some confusion at first, your fellow slaves shuffling through the sands, exchanging weary glances and fearful looks off at the lumbering giant. But you direct them as best as you can, taking one's shoulder here, leading another into position beside them, or behind them, and so on. You've seen the formations of small groups of Legionnaires as they march through the streets, or whilst trying to break up bubbling unrest. You're unsure that any of you gathered here today are trained soldiers, but you're certainly going to put up a nasty fight all the same. ''"Front line, spread out a bit. Keep your weapons pointed up and out. Right, just like that."'' You exchange another brush of gazes with Khalika, who's stepping along silently at the flank of your motley band, a jagged bone dirk clutched in either hand. When your gazes meet, you swear that she winks and lowers a graceful dip of her chin. You have people counting on you. These lives are in your hands... not to mention your own life. ''"Those in front with long weapons, listen up! Your job is to try and keep this thing at bay. Keep it distracted and stay out of range, only poking and prodding. Those with swords, knives, anything shorter... your job is look for openings and punish this beast whenever it makes a mistake. Ranged weapons - you already know the deal. Pelt this thing as quickly and accurately as you can. Go for the eyes, face, nose, mouth. We're going to overwhelm it with force. Does everyone understand?"'' There's silence at first, dozens of pairs of eyes peering back at you as you look over the congregation. ''"Let's do this!"'' One of them cries, and soon others join, voicing their approval. ''"We're behind you!" "Les' give 'em hell!" "Dosmera watch over us."'' All you can do is gather your courage and deliver a firm nod. [[Assess the arena.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1]]

You have a powerful mind, don't you? Here's a vision. This option will be available in a future version of Orphan. [[Your soul reignites.|credits]]

Gant's group is slightly smaller than yours, with less poles and more short-ranged weapons. You should keep his group mobile and on the flanks, while your group tries to corral the beast with a mixture of weapons and... well, running. A little game of catch the mouse; it's just that you and your compatriots happen to be the mice. But there's little time to strategize any longer. Sand gets thrown up with each heavy plod of the ogre's feet as they pick up speed, and all it takes is a simple mistake for their prey to end up as a small snack. You hear the crack of bone and a choked scream as yet another decrepit soul ends up dead. Suddenly the determination of your band has taken a grim turn; yet the arena roars, soaking in the life-or-death spectacle. ''"Let's move in. Ranged weapons, wait for my signal."'' From a fair distance away, you see Gant waiting and watching. Purposefully, you gesture to yourself and then the ogre. ''"We'll distract it."'' Then you point at his group and slowly spread your two forefingers out in opposite directions. ''"You split up... flank it."'' He seems to understand well enough, because soon his band is broken into two even smaller groups and they start to catiously close in on the beast. [[Order your group to stay tight and guarded.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded]] [[Order your group to stay loose and ready to run.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose]]

''"Stick together!"'' You call out to your makeshift unit as you begin to close in. And sure enough, the ogre's slobbering maw swivels your way, their beady eyes sitting vacant, unintelligble, filled only with a feral rage. Soon, it's plodding over with long, lumbering steps that shake that sands below. ''"Poles, up! Stay tight, keep this beast back. Don't break!"'' <<if $chp2_polearm == true and $might gte 1>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the billhook and join your motley band in the front line, taking up position. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched, wide, gnashing mouth. ''"Brace! Stand with me!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air alongside your billhook, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your weapons wavering. ''"Forward, thrust!"'' Together, you and your men clamber closer atop the sands and drive your tips forward. The beast bludgeons your line with a massive arm, shattering half of your pole bearers, sending them flying or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as your billhook finds purchase in their abdomen. The weapon almost seems stuck at first, embedded deeply within the beast's hide, but soon you pull, yank and tear a gaping gash into the ogre's stomach. A few others found their mark, poking holes in it's exterior; minor wounds, but enough for it's attack to stall. You stagger back, billhook stained with the beast's blood, whilst it swipes and stomps at the polearms still angled up and prodding at it. [[Hold! The rest of you, flank it!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_poleflank]] [[Withdraw! Poles, fall back!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_polewithdraw]] <<elseif $chp2_sword == true and $mobility gte 1>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the gladius and silently slip through your motley band, staying behind the front line and taking up position along the flank. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's wide, stretched, gnashing mouth. ''"Brace! Hold strong!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your frontline's weapons wavering. ''"Forward, thrust!"'' Your men clamber closer atop the sands and drive their tips forward. Yet, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning your front line with a massive arm and shattering more than half of your pole bearers, sending them flying or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you surge forward and duck beneath the beast's impressive weight. Your blade finds purchase beneath the ogre's knees, hacking sideways to spill blood, then slashing again to draw another thin cut through the monster's hide. It roars, kicks, stomping down at you; narrowly avoiding the beast's rage, you dive through the sand and manage, somehow, to survive. [[Keep holding! The rest of you, flank it!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_swordflank]] [[Withdraw! Poles, fall back!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_swordwithdraw]] <<elseif $chp2_sword == true>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the gladius and carefully trudge through your motley band, staying behind the front line and taking up position along the flank. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. ''"Brace! Hold strong!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your frontline's weapons wavering. ''"Forward, thrust!"'' Your men drive clamber closer atop the sands and drive their tips forward. Yet, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning your front line with a massive arm and shattering more than half of your pole bearers, sending them flying or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you try to slip forward, intending to slash at the beast's soft underbelly. You aren't nearly quick enough, sand kicked up in your face admist the chaos and before you know it, the world is a blur, vision dark and spinning. One of the beast's limbs must have clipped the side of your head; the wound throbs and there's a searing pain along and above your right ear. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. You already see a couple bodies splayed out in the sand beside you, battered and broken, blood still wet and bright, glistening atop their stained flesh. Only a strong hand at your shoulder breaks you from your daze. Khalika kneels beside you and gives you a shout, her eyes emblazoned, ''"Get up. You're not dead yet."'' [[Call for the flank! Gant's group can save this.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenswordflank]] [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenswordwithdraw]] <<elseif $chp2_ranged == true and $mobility gte 1>> Adrenaline pumping, you take your sling hand and carefully filter through the projectiles that you've gathered, mostly bits of marbled rock and stone. You take a position in the rear of your motley band, staying well behind the frontline for a better view. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. Loading your first round in the sling and slowly lifting it beside you, starting to build up momentum with a swing, getting the hang for it; you call forward to the frontline, ''"Brace! Hold strong!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. ''"Backline, fire! Poles - forward, thrust!"'' You let your sling's round fly with a ''snap'', a rather skillful shot, the stone smashing into the beast's thick skull. Several other rounds fly, pelting the ogre as your frontline drives forward atop the sands. Despite being overwhelmed, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning your frontline with a massive arm, shattering some of them, sent flying off or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you quickly load another round in your sling and build up momentum, swinging it across your body in a tight figure-8 emotion before swaying forward with your weight, sending another chunk of rock once more at the monster's maw. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. The combination of polearms in the front and well-aimed ranged shots from the back seems to be quite effective, stopping the ogre's advance for the time being, but you might not have long. [[Flank it! Gant, attack!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_rangedflank]] [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_rangedwithdraw]] <<elseif $chp2_ranged == true>> Adrenaline pumping, you take your sling hand and carefully filter through the projectiles that you've gathered, mostly bits of marbled rock and stone. You take a position in the rear of your motley band, staying well behind the frontline for a better view. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. Loading your first round in the sling and slowly lifting it beside you, starting to build up momentum with a swing, getting the hang for it; you call forward to the frontline, ''"Brace! Hold strong!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. ''"Backline, fire! Poles - forward, thrust!"'' You let your sling's round fly with a ''snap'', nailing the beast's shoulder though it appears rather ineffectual. Several other rounds fly, pelting the ogre as your frontline drives forward atop the sands. Despite being overwhelmed, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning your frontline with a massive arm, shattering some of them, sent flying off or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you quickly load another round and send it sailing once more at the monster's maw. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. The combination of polearms in the front and a barrage of ranged shots from the back seems to be working, but not for long. It's not nearly as effective as you'd like. [[Flank it! Gant, attack!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenrangedflank]] [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenrangedwithdraw]] <<else>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the billhook and join your motley band in the front line, taking up position. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. ''"Brace! Stand with me!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air alongside your billhook, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your weapons wavering. ''"Forward, thrust!"'' Together, you and your men clamber closer atop the sands and drive your tips forward. The beast bludgeons your line with a massive arm, shattering half of your pole bearers, sending them flying or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as your billhook finds purchase in their abdomen. Yet, the beast possesses such an immense amount of power. Your weapon almost seems stuck at first, like it's about to be yanked right out of your hands. You stagger back, managing to take your billhook with you, whilst the beast swipes and stomps at the polearms still angled up and prodding at it. A few others found their mark, poking holes in it's exterior; minor wounds, not much to speak of. [[Hold! The rest of you, flank it!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenpoleflank]] [[Withdraw! Poles, fall back!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_brokenpolewithdraw]] <</if>>

''"Spread out!"'' You call out to your makeshift unit as you begin to close in. And sure enough, the ogre's slobbering maw swivels your way and their beady eyes sit vacant, unintelligble, filled only with a feral rage. Soon, it's plodding your way. ''"Poles, up! Stay loose, mobile, an' keep out of the beasts away! Distract it and stay alive! Wait until you see a good opening!"'' <<if $chp2_polearm == true>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the billhook and join your motley band in the front line, taking up position and making sure that there's several feet between each of you. Eyes locking onto the ogre as it closes in, you see every drop of blood and speck of spittle as it flies from the creature's wide-stretched maw. ''"Get ready to move! Poles high!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air alongside your billhook, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your weapons wavering. ''"Move! Move and thrust!"'' Before the beast can smash your position, your line parts down the middle and splays out to either side, trying to corral the creature. When it turns one way, your spears drive in from the other side, poking and prodding. The arena roars at the display, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as your billhook finds purchase. <<if $might gte 1>> The weapon almost seems stuck at first, embedded deeply within the beast's hide, but soon you pull, yank and tear a gaping gash into the ogre's stomach. A few others found their mark, poking holes in it's exterior; minor wounds, but enough for it's attack to stall. You stagger back, billhook stained with the beast's blood, whilst it swipes and stomps at the polearms still angled up and prodding at it. <<else>> Yet, the beast possesses such an immense amount of power. Your weapon almost seems stuck at first, like it's about to be yanked right out of your hands. You stagger back, managing to take your billhook with you, whilst the beast swipes and stomps at the polearms still angled up and prodding at it. A few others found their mark, poking holes in it's exterior and spilling blood down the beast's blasted hide.<</if>> <<if $mind gte 2>> It seems clear to you now. The ogre is wounded. You can sense it, see it even, your sight keen and clear. Where another may hesitate and question the vulnerability of this beast, you know that it's made of flesh, blood, and that you've already hurt it. It's time to double down.<</if>> [[Flank it! Gant, attack!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_poleflank]] [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_poleregroup]] <<elseif $chp2_sword == true>> Adrenaline pumping, you adjust your grip on the gladius and silently slip through your motley band, staying behind the front line and taking up position along the flank of your loose, rather mobile formation. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. ''"Get ready to move! Poles high!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. Sand showers you as it clambers close, almost within reach, your compatriot's weapons wavering. ''"Move! Move and thrust!"'' Your men drive forward atop the sands, spread out, thrusting their polearms forward. Yet, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning a man or two with a massive arm, likely shattering bones or breaking skulls based on the sheer size and force of the impact. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you surge forward alongside a few others from the flank, trying to duck beneath or alongside the beast's impressive weight, intent on doing damage. <<if $mobility gte 1>> Your blade finds purchase beneath the ogre's knees, hacking sideways to spill blood, then slashing again to draw another thin cut through the monster's hide. It roars, kicks, stomping down at you. Narrowly avoiding every exaggerated response from the fierce, feral beast, you dive back through the sand and put some distance between yourself and it's swings, managing somehow to survive your foray. <<else>> If only you could get at his soft underbelly, you might be able to change the course of this fight. But it seems that you aren't nearly quick enough, nor reckless enough to take the dive. Sand gets kicked up in your face admist the chaos and before you know it, the world is a blur, vision dark and spinning. One of the beast's limbs must have clipped the side of your head. The wound throbs, a searing pain making itself known above your right ear. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. You already see a body or two splayed out in the sand beside you, battered and broken, blood still wet and bright, glistening atop their stained flesh. Only a strong hand at your shoulder breaks you from your daze. Khalika kneels beside you and gives a shout, her eyes emblazoned with a certain fire, ''"Get up! You're not dead yet. The beast is wounded!"''<</if>> <<if $mind gte 2>> It seems clear to you now. The ogre is wounded. You can sense it, see it even, your sight keen and clear. Where another may hesitate and question the vulnerability of this beast, you know that it's made of flesh, blood, and that you've already hurt it. It's time to double down.<</if>> [[Flank it! Gant, attack!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_swordflank]] [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_swordregroup]] <<else>> Adrenaline pumping, you take your sling hand and carefully filter through the projectiles that you've gathered, mostly bits of marbled rock and stone. You take a position in the rear of your motley band, staying well behind the frontline for a better view. Your eyes lock onto the ogre as it closes in, blood and spittle flying from it's stretched maw. Loading your first round in the sling and slowly lifting it beside you, starting to build up momentum with a swing, getting the hang for it; you call forward to the frontline, ''"Get ready to move! Poles high!"'' An assortment of weapons pierce the air, ranging from splintered spears to crooked, bent-edged halberds, all angled up at the ogre's approach. ''"Backline, fire! Poles - forward, thrust!"'' <<if $mobility gte 1>> You let your sling's round fly with a ''snap'', a rather skillful shot, the stone smashing into the beast's thick skull. Several other rounds fly, pelting the ogre as your frontline drives forward atop the sands. Yet, the beast barrels closer, bludgeoning a man or two with a massive arm, likely shattering bones or breaking skulls based on the sheer size and force of the impact. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you quickly load another round in your sling and build up momentum, swinging it across your body in a tight figure-8 emotion before swaying forward with your weight, sending another chunk of rock once more at the monster's maw. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. The combination of polearms in the front and well-aimed ranged shots from the back seems to be quite effective, stopping the ogre's advance for the time being. You have to make a decision. <<else>> You let your sling's round fly with a ''snap'', nailing the beast's shoulder though it appears rather ineffectual. Several other rounds fly, pelting the ogre as your frontline drives forward atop the sands. Despite being overwhelmed, the beast barrels forward, bludgeoning your frontline with a massive arm, shattering some of them, sent flying off or knocked cold. The arena roars, filling your ears; yet all you can hear is your heart in your chest, thumping, as you quickly load another round and send it sailing the best you can at the monster's maw. Around you, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. The combination of polearms in the front and a barrage of ranged shots from the back seems to be working, stopping the ogre's advance for the time being. You have to make a decision.<</if>> <<if $mind gte 2>> It seems clear to you now. The ogre is wounded. You can sense it, see it even, your sight keen and clear. Where another may hesitate and question the vulnerability of this beast, you know that it's made of flesh, blood, and that you've already hurt it. It's time to double down.<</if>> [[Flank it! Gant, attack!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_slingflank]] [[Withdraw! Fall back and regroup!|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_slingregroup]] <</if>>

''"HOLD!"'' You command, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead as you eye the wounded beast from beyond the length of your blood-stained billhook. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation had the grit and determination to stop the beast in it's tracks. The ogre is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' With both hands grasped tightly, covered in grit and stained by blood, you use your billhook to wave back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay tight, strong! Poles up!"'' You shout over the scream of thousands of spectators, trying to keep what remains of your compatriots tight, close and compact. You press forward gradually, breath tight with anticipation as you follow the beast's movements. It takes two lumbering steps and much like you instruct, ''"Thrust!"'' your line of spear-toting slaves, //including you//, drive forward once more to halt it's advance. Poking, prodding, stalling any forward momentum, you even take the opportunity to heave a deep breath and plunge your billhook against the side of an exposed knee. With a sharp pull and a //strained// yank, you tear more rotten hide from the beast's pale, wormy body, spilling it's blood. Suddenly it's beady eyes swivel, glassy and ''enraged'', directed entirely unto you, where you stand amongst the thick of your formation. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating you from the force, the ogre leaps, stooping low to try and snatch you up from the sands. You stumble, swaying on your feet, but your men stand alongside you and stab at the creature's big, outstretched paw, shattering and lopping off fat, clawed fingers. [[The beast groans, and you chop downward with your billhook.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanking]]

Your plan has gone well despite the ogre's ferocity. Through sheer grit, determination and your unwavering leadership thus far, the frontline has held. However, the last thing that you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Turning a look over your guarded formation, you quickly survey your compatriots before making the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your tight formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. You stand firm, shoulder-to-shoulder with your fellow polebearers, jabbing your billhook up at the approaching abomination. A quick, forward plunge of the curved head catches the creature's fat, wormy hide, tearing a strip of flesh free and spilling more blood over the stained sands. ''"Now, fall back!"'' You harken to the slaves by your side, retreating with them, avoiding the beast's wrath. Crashing through the sands and towards the rest of your unit, you come across a young, able-bodied slinger who stayed to cover the retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

Your plan has gone well despite the ogre's ferocity. Through sheer grit, determination and your unwavering leadership thus far, the frontline has held and you've managed to do some damage. However, the last thing that you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Turning a look over your guarded formation, you quickly survey your compatriots before making the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your tight formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. Most of the polebearers stand firm, shoulder-to-shoulder, jabbing up at the approaching abomination. You sally forth to join them, approaching at an angle. It doesn't seem to notice you as of yet, distracted by the glistening spearheads near it's face and the occassional thud of a stone against it's fat, wormy hide. You take the opportunity to close in, diving forward with a firm, forward plunge of your gladius that tears a thin, yet bloody slash into the flank of a leg. These wounds have to count for something, you think, however small but numerous. You don't linger to face it's wrath, turning on heel and crashing through the sands with the rest of your men, earning yourself some distance and soon coming across an able-bodied slinger who has yet to retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

''"HOLD!"'' You cry, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead and blood trickling past from your fresh wound as Khalika helps you to your feet. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation is barely managing to fend off the beast, but if you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Grasping your gladius tightly in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arm up high and cut through the air, waving back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your formation with sand as it takes long, lumbering steps forward. You're helpless as your frontline is ravaged, a sweep of gigantic limbs splintering upraised spears and clobbering skulls, effectively breaking what remains of your formation. You thought that together, you may've had a chance. Maybe you still do... Gant should be moving in. You step into action and shoot a desperate look aside at Khalika, ''"We have to fuckin' try."'' She inclines a firm nod, silent, plush lips pursed in determination. What other choice is there? Breaking into a sprint, you crash through the sand and closer to the beast, right in the distracted peripherary of it's vision. The smell is overwhelming; piss, bile and the rot of ruined flesh, blood streaming from various holes in the creature's wormy hide. But you don't have time to enjoy the atmosphere, strafing sideways and nearly stumbling as it takes another lumber step and nearly crushes you. Here goes nothing. You hack at the back of it's knee, trying to twist your high strike ''hard'' at just the right angle to target it's soft, rarely exposed flesh. The reaction is immediate and before you can retreat, you catch the glassy gleam of beady eyes, enraged, directed entirely unto you. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating you from the force, the ogre kicks and stomps, rattling the earth around you, nearly obscuring your vision with a shower of sand. Leaping forward, you tumble through the debris of the arena as you try to create distance, landing amongst the bodies of men who followed your lead and died because of it. You can feel the heat of the ogre's breath on your back. You toss, scrambling forward, but suddenly you feel an immense pressure. The ogre's foot plummets downward and crushes your legs, shattering bones and flattening out flesh. You struggle to breath, the impact slowly separating your soul from your body. Blood and spittle coats your lips as you lay amongst your dead companions, dying. Luckily for you, the next stomp encompasses what remains of your body, leaving what remains of your earthly self a mangled mess. [[Maybe the next life will be kinder.|chp2_deathscreen]]

''"HOLD!"'' You command, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead as you use your position at the back of the formation to survey the field of battle. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation had the grit and determination to stop the beast in it's tracks. The ogre is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Holding your sling loosely in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arms high up into air, waving back and forth as you try to signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay tight, strong! Poles up!"'' You shout over the defeaning scream of thousands of spectators, trying to keep what remains of your compatriots tight, close and compact. Your breath tight with anticipation, you load another stone into your sling and start to build up mometum with your swing. Following the beast's movements with your gaze, it takes two lumbering steps and much like you instructed, ''"Thrust!"'' your line of spear-toting slaves drives forward once more to halt it's advance. The perfect opportunity for an aimed shot. You focus as much as you can as the transfer of energy throughout your form, trying to work smooth precision into your swing as you shift forward and with a snap, release the shot. Sure enough, the round smacks into the ogre's throat with an audible fleshy thud. You wish the result was more satisfying, but every wound only seems to send the beast into a deeper rage. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating those nearby, the beast voices it's displeasure. Suddenly it's beady eyes swivel, glassy and ''enraged'', directed entirely unto you. It leaps forward, rattling the earth and showered the area with sand as it takes long, lumbering steps. Alas, your men shift forward, standing together, stabbing at the creature's big, outsretched paw, shattering and lopping off a few fat, clawed fingers. [[The battle is swinging in your favor.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanking]]

Your plan has gone well despite the ogre's ferocity. Through sheer grit, determination and your unwavering leadership thus far, the frontline has held and you've managed to do some damage. However, the last thing that you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Turning a look over your guarded formation, you quickly survey your compatriots before making the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your tight formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. Most of the polebearers stand firm, shoulder-to-shoulder, jabbing up at the approaching abomination. You decide to help cover the retreat, sallying forth and loading your sling with another stone as you pick your shot. It doesn't have to be terribly accurate, just effective enough to harass it, distract it, so that your companions can get away. Your next shot thuds into it's clavicle, nice and solid, but another shot follows more impressive, knocking solidly into the creature's thick, jutted chin. You notice the culprit, an able-bodied slinger not far from you who lingered to cover the retreat as well. ''"Nice shot!"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators. He's a young lad, teeth crooked, dingy hair chopped into the style of a rattail, but he's clearly capable for the task you have in mind. ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

''"HOLD!"'' You command, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead as you use your position at the back of the formation to survey the field of battle. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation is barely managing to fend off the beast, but if you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Holding your sling loosely in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arms high up into air, waving back and forth as you try to signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' But the beast has other plans. Rattling the earth and showering your formation with sand and debris, it draws closer with each long, lumbering step forward. You're helpless as your frontline is ravaged, a sweep of gigantic arms splintering upraised spears and clobbering skulls, loose teeth and limbs sailing past your own head. Your unit is broken, a few forsaken souls fleeing past you, away from the advancing ogre, while other brave stragglers try to fend it off still. You thought that together, you may've had a chance. Maybe you still do... Gant should be moving in. You step forward, preparing for an aimed shot. Focusing as much as you can on the transfer of energy throughout your form, you shift forward and release a snap shot, knocking a round into the ogre's throat with an audible fleshy thud as it focuses on mutilating some of your downed companions. You wish the result was more satisfying, but it only seems to send the beast into a deeper rage. With an ear-shattering bellow, the beast voices it's displeasure. And now there's no formation separating you. It thuds your way and you turn to scramble, crashing through the sands, only to stumble on the blood-stained corpse of one of your former compatriots. It's the messenger from earlier, his mouth strewn agape, neck bent at an awkward angle. He was either thrown or caught a projectile with his head, and now, a vast shadow looming over you, you realize that this is to be your resting place. You think back to Fredrick, the few friends and humble home that you leave behind. You even think of the brave souls that fought alongside you, valiantly, as the ogre's foot plummets downward towards you. The impact separates your soul from your body, shattering bones and flattening out flesh until all that remains of your earthly self is a mangled mess. [[Maybe the next life will be kinder.|chp2_deathscreen]]

Your heart pounds deeply within your chest as you suffer the realization that your plan is not working. The frontline is faltering. You and your companions are untrained, under-equipped, expected to hold off an ogre's advance with bent spears and dented polearms. The last thing you want to do is overcommit and lose your entire force. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damned arena alive. Turning a look over what remains of your formation, another sweep of the beast's limbs tossing a couple of your men into the air, you make the call: ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your tight formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. A few of the polebearers stand firm, shoulder-to-shoulder, jabbing up at the approaching abomination. You decide to help cover the retreat, sallying forth and loading your sling with another stone as you pick your shot. It doesn't have to be terribly accurate, just effective enough to harass it, distract it, so that your companions can get away. Your next shot thuds into it's clavicle, nice and solid, but another shot follows more impressive, knocking solidly into the creature's thick, jutted chin. You notice the culprit, an able-bodied slinger not far from you who lingered to cover the retreat as well. ''"Nice shot!"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators. He's a young lad, teeth crooked, dingy hair chopped into the style of a rattail, but he's clearly capable for the task you have in mind. ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You're alive."'' ''"Aye, for now. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. You wonder if your compatriots still have faith in your ability to command. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

''"HOLD!"'' You command, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead as you eye the beast from beyond the length of your billhook. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation is barely managing to fend off the beast, but if you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' With both hands grasped tightly, covered in grit and stained by blood, you use your billhook to wave back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your formation with sand as it takes long, lumbering steps forward. You raise your pole high and shout, ''"Stay tight! Poles u--"'' Something impacts your face, sand fills your eyes and before you know it, the world is a blur, vision dark and spinning. One of the beast's limbs must have clipped the side of your head, you think, barely cognizant of what's occuring around you. The wound throbs and there's a searing pain right above your ear. All about, in seemingly every direction, shouts and screams are drowned out by the ogre's bellows. You already see a couple bodies splayed out in the sand beside you, battered and broken, blood still wet and bright, glistening atop their stained flesh. You thought that together, you may've had a chance. Your formation is broken... Doubts pervade your thoughts as a vast, looming shadow seems to encompass the ground about you. Rolling onto your back, you see the source. You think back to Fredrick, the few friends and humble home that you leave behind. You even think of the brave souls that fought alongside you, valiantly, as the ogre's foot plummets downward towards you. The impact separates your soul from your body, shattering bones and flattening out flesh until all that remains of your earthly self is a mangled mess. [[Maybe the next life will be kinder.|chp2_deathscreen]]

Your heart pounds deeply within your chest as you suffer the realization that your plan is not working. The frontline is faltering. You and your companions are untrained, under-equipped, expected to hold off an ogre's advance with bent spears and dented polearms. The last thing you want to do is overcommit and lose your entire force. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damned arena alive. Turning a look over what remains of your formation, another sweep of the beast's limbs tossing a couple of your men into the air, you make the call: ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' The creature's steps rattle the earth, showering your tight formation with sand as it continues to advance atop long, lumbering steps. ''"Spread out! Spears up!"'' You jab your billhook up at the approaching abomination, managing to tear a small strip of flesh free with the curved head. But you don't linger long to face any retaliation. ''"Now, fall back!"'' You harken to the slaves by your side, retreating with them, avoiding the beast's wrath. Crashing through the sands and towards the rest of your unit, you come across a young, able-bodied slinger who stayed to cover the retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You're alive."' ''"Aye, for now. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. You wonder if your compatriots still have faith in your ability to command. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

''"HOLD!"'' You command, spit flying, and sweat spilling down your forehead as you manage to find your way back to the formation's flank. Outside the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms, you see Gant and his group on the other side of the beast. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. Your tight formation had the grit and determination to stop the beast in it's tracks. The ogre is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Grasping your gladius tightly in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arm up high and cut through the air, waving back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay tight, strong! Poles up!"'' You shout over the defeaning scream of thousands of spectators, trying to keep what remains of your compatriots tight, close and compact. You press forward gradually, breath tight with anticipation as you follow the beast's movements. It takes two lumbering steps and much like you instructed, ''"Thrust!"'' your line of spear-toting slaves drives forward once more to halt it's advance. This is your opportunity. Breaking into a sprint, you crash through the sand and closer to the beast, right in the distracted peripherary of it's vision. The smell is overwhelming; piss, bile and the rot of ruined flesh, blood streaming from various holes in the creature's wormy hide. But you don't have time to enjoy the atmosphere, strafing sideways and nearly stumbling as it takes another lumber step and nearly crushes you. //Here goes nothing//. You hack at the back of it's knee, trying to twist your high strike ''hard'' at just the right angle to target it's soft, rarely exposed flesh. The reaction is immediate and before you can retreat, you catch the glassy gleam of beady eyes, enraged, directed entirely unto you. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating you from the force, the ogre kicks and stomps, rattling the earth around you, nearly obscuring your vision with a shower of sand. Leaping forward, you tumble through the debris of the arena as you try to create distance, but you can feel the heat of the ogre's breath on your back. It stoops low to try and snatch you up from the sands, but your men shift forward and stand alongside you, stabbing at the creature's big, outstretched paw, a couple of the spears and crude glaives managing to lop off fat, clawed fingers. This gives you plenty of time to slip back into formation once more. [[You survey the situation, wiping away spittle.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanking]]

That beautiful bastard. This might be the first moment that you've truly stopped to admire Gant. Beyond the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms as they ward off the beast's advance, you see him and his group. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. From what you can tell, the beast is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' With both hands grasped tightly, covered in grit and stained by blood, you use your billhook to wave back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay alive and hold it's attention!"'' You shout over the screams of thousands of spectators, trying to rally what remains of your compatriots. You press forward gradually, breath tight with anticipation as you enter the beast's range. It takes two lumbering steps, chasing after another spear-toting slave who turns and flees. And much like you instructed, two other polearms appear in his place, poking and prodding, stalling the ogre's advance to the best of their ability. You join in, taking the opportunity to drive your billhook against the side of an exposed knee. With a sharp pull and a //strained// yank, you tear more rotten hide from the beast's pale, wormy body, spilling it's blood. Suddenly it's beady eyes swivel, glassy and ''enraged'', directed entirely unto you. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating you from the force, the ogre leaps, stooping low to try and snatch you up from the sands. You stumble, swaying on your feet as you try to strafe sideways and away from the beast. You're unsettled by the sheer violent intent in the brute's gaze, and your stomach drops further when it plods closer yet, focused on you. [[You thrust at an outstretched hand, trying to rip digit's from the ogre's big paw.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanking]]

Your plan has gone well, but the last thing you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Turning a look over your shoulder, you quickly survey your compatriots once more before making the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your loose formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. You sally forth with a handful of other polebearers, approaching at an angle and jabbing your billhook in a quick, forward plunge that contacts the creature's fat, wormy hide, tearing flesh and spilling more blood. These wounds have to count for something, however small but numerous. You don't linger to face it's wrath, turning on heel and crashing through the sands, soon coming across an able-bodied slinger who has yet to retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or spearmen. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

That beautiful bastard. This might be the first moment that you've truly stopped to admire Gant. Beyond the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms as they ward off the beast's advance, you see him and his group. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. From what you can tell, the beast is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Grasping your gladius tightly in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arm up high and cut through the air, waving back and forth as you signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay alive and hold it's attention!"'' You shout over the screams of thousands of spectators, trying to rally what remains of your compatriots. You press forward gradually, breath tight with anticipation as you enter the beast's range. It takes two lumbering steps, chasing after another spear-toting slave who turns and flees. And much like you instructed, two other polearms appear in his place, poking and prodding, stalling the ogre's advance to the best of their ability. This is your opportunity. Breaking into a sprint, you crash through the sand and closer to the beast, right in the distracted peripherary of it's vision. The smell is overwhelming; piss, bile and the rot of ruined flesh, blood streaming from various holes in the creature's wormy hide. But you don't have time to enjoy the atmosphere, strafing sideways and nearly stumbling as it takes another lumber step and nearly crushes you. Here goes nothing. You hack at the back of it's knee, trying to twist your high strike ''hard'' at just the right angle to target it's soft, rarely exposed flesh. The reaction is immediate and before you can retreat, you catch the glassy gleam of beady eyes, enraged, directed entirely unto you. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating you from the force, the ogre kicks and stomps, rattling the earth around you, nearly obscuring your vision with a shower of sand. Leaping forward, you tumble through the debris of the arena as you try to create distance, but you can feel the heat of the ogre's breath on your back. It stoops low to try and snatch you up from the sands, and you toss and scramble forward, narrowly avoiding it's grasp at your legs. Your companions shout and slinged stones pelt the ogre's flank, trying to draw it's attention, yet you're unsettled by the sheer violent intent in the brute's unwavering gaze. [[You roll to your feet, turning to desperately slash at the ogre's outstretched hand.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanking]]

Your plan has gone well, but the last thing you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Turning a look over your shoulder, you quickly survey your compatriots once more before making the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your loose formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. A few of your polebearers sally forth to stop the advance and you surge up to the frontline to join them, approaching at an angle. ``"Stay loose, just keep it distracted!"`` It doesn't seem to notice you as of yet, distracted by the glistening spearheads near it's face and the occassional thud of a stone against it's fat, wormy hide. You take the opportunity to close in, diving forward with a firm, forward plunge of your gladius that tears a thin, yet bloody slash into the flank of a leg. These wounds have to count for something, you think, however small but numerous. You don't linger to face it's wrath, turning on heel and crashing through the sands, earning yourself some distance and soon coming across an able-bodied slinger who has yet to retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or spearmen. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

That beautiful bastard. This might be the first moment that you've truly stopped to admire Gant. Beyond the thrashing of sand, thud of flesh and glistening points of polearms as they ward off the beast's advance, you see him and his group. They've moved in and with a short signal, they'll be within striking distance. You won't get a better opportunity than this. From what you can tell, the beast is wounded, dripping blood, it's hide torn and tattered from a dozen or so deep wounds. If you apply more force effectively, there's the possibility, however slim, that you can overwhelm it and bring this dark display to a close before anymore of you have to die. ''"Gant!"'' Holding your sling loosely in a blood-stained hand, you lift your arms high up into air, waving back and forth as you try to signal to your companion. You can only hope that he understands your message beneath the mind-numbing noise of the arena, ''"Flank! ATTACK!"'' Beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair, you catch the gleam of his dark green eyes. There's excitement in his look, fear too, a tumultuous tumbling of raw emotion that teeters a moment on the precipice of his lean visage. He bites it back, swallows any doubt, and gives you a tight-lipped grin. Fine, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Stay alive and hold it's attention!"'' You shout over the screams of thousands of spectators, trying to rally what remains of your compatriots. Your breath tight with anticipation, you load another stone into your sling and start to build up mometum with your swing. As you watch, the beast takes two lumbering steps, chasing after another spear-toting slave who turns and flees. And much like you instructed, two other polearms appear in his place, poking and prodding, stalling the ogre's advance to the best of their ability. The perfect opportunity for an aimed shot. You focus as much as you can as the transfer of energy throughout your form, trying to work smooth precision into your swing as you shift forward and with a snap, release the shot. Sure enough, the round smacks into the ogre's throat with an audible fleshy thud. You wish the result was more satisfying, but every wound only seems to send the beast into a deeper rage. With an ear-shattering bellow, spit and saliva coating those nearby, the beast voices it's displeasure. Suddenly it's beady eyes swivel, glassy and ''enraged'', directed entirely unto you. It leaps forward, rattling the earth and showered the area with sand as it takes long, lumbering steps. It's building up momentum, moving faster than it has previously, almost terribly so, quickly closing the distance. You stumble, swaying on your feet as you strafe sideways, trying to move quickly and maintain your range. But not even your companion's shouts, slinged stones or pointed thrusts seem to distract the beast. You're unsettled by the sheer violent intent in the brute's gaze, your stomach dropping further as it closes closer yet, focused. It wants you. Your fingers grasp shakily about a stone, loading it, building up speed with a series of tight swings. You aren't going down without a fight. [[You whip a quick shot at the ogre's outstretched hand, trying to break fingers.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanking]]

Your plan has gone well, but the last thing you want to do is overextend and overcommit. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damed arena alive. Quickly surveying your compatriots once more, you decide to make the call, ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on!"'' But the beast has other plans, rattling the earth and showering your loose formation with sand as it advances heavily atop long, lumbering steps. You decide to help cover the retreat, sallying forth and loading your sling with another stone as you pick your shot. It doesn't have to be terribly accurate, just effective enough to harass it, distract it, so that your companions can get away. Your next shot thuds into it's clavicle, nice and solid, but another shot follows more impressive, knocking solidly into the creature's thick, jutted chin. You notice the culprit, an able-bodied slinger not far from you who lingered to cover the retreat as well. ''"Nice shot!"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators. He's a young lad, teeth crooked, dingy hair chopped into the style of a rattail, but he's clearly capable for the task you have in mind. ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or spearmen. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"You've done well, $name."'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

A thrust of bone dirks stops the brute in it's tracks. Stabbing and slashing, Khalika surges beneath the beast, drawing blood and flaying tattered flesh with precise, piercing attacks. She's nimble, strong too, making the ogre's thick hide look thin as paper. It tries to fight back, but before it can even lift a foot, Gant's flank smashes into the fray, rounds thunking heavily into meaty flesh, poles thrusting hard, a couple of brave souls with blades driving in close to score opportunistic blows. The half-orc throws herself beneath a raised leg, avoiding a thudding stomp and drawing closer to you. ''"Thanks,"'' is all you can manage, almost instinctually, more of a breathy vocalization than an intentional statement on your part. Khalika looks you over, breathing heavily as well, the adrenaline of combat still coursing through her veins. She doesn't speak a word, not yet, the graceful inclination of her chin all the response that you need. You know enough about her people to understand this; they respect warriors and those strong enough to lead. That's what you're doing here today. Taking your fate into your own hands. Living or dying according to your own capabilities. You understand that, along with your companions, and even the crowd in their own strange, voyeuristic way. Some cheer for you, others cry for blood and shattered bones, but they all understand that you're writing your own destiny in these arena sands. ''"We can finish this,"'' Khalika urges, voice low but firm, intense amber gaze searching within the depths of yours. Her fingers brush against your forearm as she awaits your response, those tusked lips plush and pursed intently. [[Let's end this.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked]]

''"Then we shall."'' You tear your gaze from Khalika, thankful for the brief reverie, now doubly determined to put an end to the oafish ogre that has already killed too many of your companions here today. Surveying the situation, you see Gant, doing his best to keep the beast corralled by a semi-circle of mobile polearms, swordsmen close at hand and slingers held back, picking their shots. The beast is clearly wounded, but still as dangerous as ever. Half-a-dozen bodies or so litter the sands nearby, bent and broken, most either caught under a foot or crushed by a massive, swinging arm. Too slow or caught unaware, they won't be leaving this battle. But there's still the opportunity to avenge them. High above, surrounding the display in its totality, the crowd jeer and jostle from within the thick, crowded, and stacked depths of the arena stands. They are enjoying their show. A countless mass of dirty faces, unwashed ranks, that could have just as easily been in any one of your places. But closest to the arena floor, an entire level exists, dedicated to the nobility. You can tell from the array of colors, the glimmer of silks and soft, dyed linen, the glossy glare of metal. Is this your life now? Putting on a performance for those who only regard you from above, as you dance with death? <<if $mobility gte 1>> [[I'll give them a fucking show.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_execution]]<</if>><<if $might gte 1>> [[If it's blood they want, then blood they'll get.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_beheading]]<</if>> [[Put an end to this. Kill the beast together.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_killbeast]]

''"Do you trust me?"'' You turn back to Khalika, locking gazes. She eyes you steadily in return, her response brusque but with an edge of unconcealed curiosity, ''"Why else would I be following your lead? Ask what you need of me, $name."'' <<if $chp2_sword == true>> ''"One of your daggers,"'' You reply, dipping your chin down to indicate her dirks. She hands it over without hesitation, still searching your visage with her keen amber eyes. ''"Come with me. We need to get close... I'll get a running start and you'll help hoist me up--"'' She interjects boldly, ''"You're going to climb it?"'' ''"That's right. It's wounded, weakened, slower now. I intend to execute it and let everyone in this damned arena see what we're capable of."'' Her lips slowly pull at the corners, a smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins. If you die, die well. If you survive, you'll be a hero to all of us here."'' <<else>> ''"I need both of your daggers."'' You reply, dipping your chin down to indicate her dirks. She hands them over without hesitation, still searching your visage with her keen amber eyes as you ditch your other weapon and start to speak, ''"Come with me. We need to get close... I'll get a running start and you'll help hoist me up--"'' She interjects boldly, ''"You're going to climb it?"'' ''"That's right. It's wounded, weakened, slower now. I intend to execute it and let everyone in this damned arena see what we're capable of."'' Her lips slowly pull at the corners, a smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins. If you die, die well. If you survive, you'll be a hero to all of us here."'' <</if>> ''"I don't plan on dying. Not yet at least."'' You exchange another shared look with Khalika before the both of you step into action. Your legs carry you swiftly atop the sands, blades grasped tightly in hand, crossing the distance and ebbing closer yet to the fray of battle. There stands Gant, trying his best to maintain the battle-at-hand. ''"Gant."'' You call out, and his attention snaps onto you before his face breaks out into a bewildered grin, ''"Oh, thank feck, mate! You doing alright? I was hopin' you'd have a plan."'' The beast bellows, not far, clearly agitated; yet, the exhaustion and wear of its wounds must be keeping it from putting up more of a fight. You might be able to wittle it down over the next half-hour with more stones, stabs and the occassional slash. But if you took that path, no one would remember your name. It's time to take destiny into your own hands. ''"I need you to keep it distracted. Turn it around and keep it faced that way, if you can. This fight is about to be over."'' Gant bobs a couple of quick, dogged nods, ''"Over? Aye, you say the word." "Let's do it." "Good luck, my friend."'' Your companion turns and runs off, circling the loose grouping of your compatriots through circumstance, who've kept the ogre occupied for so long. Young, old. Skinny, soft. Today, you joined together. Now it's time to repay the favor. Sure enough, the beast's attention starts to swivel the opposite way and linger there, Gant concentrating the bulk of your forces to try and draw the creature in. ''"Now,"'' You say, trading a look with the half-orc by your side, ''"Before I lose my nerve."'' Together, you tear past a sand-strewn corpse and close-in on the lumbering brute, with Khalika nimbly dropping to a knee and lacing together her hands for your approaching footfall. [[ You take a running start, arms pumping, blades in hand.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_execution1]]

''"I say we make it bloody. We give the crowd what they want."'' You turn back to Khalika, locking gazes. She eyes you steadily in return, her lips slowly pulling at the corners in a faint smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins,"'' comes her response, low and impressed, her amber orbs keen upon your visage. Despite a lowly life as an orphan turned cobbler's apprentice, the way she looks at you, talks to you, makes you feel like //you are a warrior//. If only just for this moment. ''"Come on,"'' You finally utter in response, exchanging another shared look before you step into action, ''"Follow my lead."'' Your legs carry you swiftly atop the sands, weapon grasped tightly in hand, crossing the distance and ebbing closer yet to the fray of battle. There stands Gant, trying his best to maintain the battle-at-hand. ''"Gant."'' You call out, and his attention snaps onto you before his face breaks out into a bewildered grin, ''"Oh, thank feck, mate! You doing alright? I was hopin' you'd have a plan."'' The beast bellows, not far, clearly agitated; yet, the exhaustion and wear of its wounds must be keeping it from putting up more of a fight. You might be able to wittle it down over the next half-hour with more stones, stabs and the occassional slash. But if you took that path, no one would remember your name. It's time to take destiny into your own hands. ''"I need you to keep it distracted. Turn it around and keep it faced that way, if you can. This fight is about to be over."'' Gant bobs a couple of quick, dogged nods, ''"Over? Aye, you say the word." "Let's do it." "Good luck, my friend."'' Your companion turns and runs off, circling the loose grouping of your compatriots through circumstance, who've kept the ogre occupied for so long. Young, old. Skinny, soft. Today, you joined together. Now it's time to repay the favor. Sure enough, the beast's attention starts to swivel the opposite way and linger there, Gant concentrating the bulk of your forces to try and draw the creature in. ''"We take out the legs,"'' You say, trading a look with the half-orc by your side, ''"You go left, I'll go right. We don't stop until it's dead."'' She nods decisively, lips pursed alongside her protruding teeth, ''"I'm beside you."'' [[Together, you tear past a sand-strewn corpse and close-in on the lumbering brute.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_beheading1]]

''"Let's finish this."'' You turn back to Khalika and find her gaze upon you. Eyes locked, shoulders back and stance steady, the half-orc gives a brusque response, ''"I'm with you."'' You muster the rest of your courage and finally turn, stepping into action with her at your heel, ''"Come on, follow my lead."'' Your legs carry you swiftly atop the sands, weapon grasped tightly in hand, crossing the distance and ebbing closer yet to the fray of battle. There stands Gant, trying his best to maintain the skirmish-at-hand.''"Gant."'' You call out, and his attention snaps onto you before his face breaks into a bewildered grin, ''"Oh, thank feck, mate! You doing alright? I was hopin' you'd have a plan."'' The beast bellows, not far, clearly agitated; yet, the exhaustion and wear of its wounds mst be keeping it from putting up more of a fight. It's time to bring this show to a close. No more death for the day, only victory. ''"We stick to the plan. It's weak, all we need to do is focus our efforts and preserve our numbers. Have the swords keep it busy, the poles go for it's softspots, and let the slingers aim for the fucker's head. It shouldn't take long now."'' Gant bobs a couple of quick, dogged nods, ''"Aye, you say the word." "Let's do it." "Good luck, my friend."'' Your companion turns and runs off, circling the loose grouping of your compatriots - through circumstance - who've kept the ogre occupied for so long. Young, old. Skinny, soft. Today, you joined together and now it's time for all of it to pay off. ''"Be careful,"'' You tell Khalika, and she gives an easy winked response. <<if $chp2_sword == true>> Gladius in hand, you join the ebb and flow of the unrelenting skirmish, drawing closer yet to fulfill your purpose. Right now, you have the opportunity to lead by example and draw blood before the beast's attention lands on you. That's exactly what you do, waiting for the right opportunity before springing forward atop the sands and taking a wide, downward slash at the ogre's nearest knee. You immediately and forcefully cut in the opposite direction, rending the brute's flesh once more and staining their fat, wormy pale leg with another spill of ichor. The leg finally rears upwards in response, stamping down at you, slow enough for you to create distance and avoid the shower of sand that soon follows. It's besieged on all sides, all of you working in unison as the beast slowly gets whittled away at. Each hard, meaty thunk of a stone audibly impacting the ogre draws out feral sounds, that of agitation and anger, though the rage is slowly giving away to pain. It's growing weaker. <<elseif $chp2_polearm == true>> Billhook in hand, you join the ebb and flow of the unrelenting skirmish, drawing closer yet to fulfill your purpose. Right now, you have the opportunity to lead by example and carefully pick your angle of attack before the beast's attention lands on you. That's exactly what you do, waiting for the right opportunity before springing forward atop the sands and lunging with your polearm, upwards, right at the armpit of an outstretched arm. You throw all of your weight into the vicious plunge, the curved head of the bill impaling flesh and hooking sinew, tearing it free on the withdraw, accompanied by a gush of dark ichor from the ogre's soft, flabby pit. It turns, arm rearing, maw roaring, but you dig in with another hard thrust before yanking the weight of your pole back and swaying aside, starting to move and avoid the response. It's besieged on all sides, all of you working in unison as the beast slowly gets whittled away at. Each hard, meaty thunk of a stone audibly impacting the ogre draws out feral sounds, that of agitation and anger, though the rage is slowly giving away to pain. It's growing weaker. <<else>> Sling in hand, you join the ebb and flow of the unrelenting skirmish, remaining on the outside of your loose, circular formation. From back here, you can better observe the situation, shout orders and carefully pick your aimed shots, free of the beast's attention for the most part. That's exactly what you do, waiting for the right opportunity and building up momentum with your loaded sling at your side, before suddenly taking a leading step and launching a round at the ogre's skull, trying to focus on equal parts force and technique. The crack of stone against bone resounds, leaving one of the ogre's eyesockets visibly dented, malformed, the beady eye heavy and nearly sagging loose. Yet it still stands, bellowing in response, a feral sound, that of agitation and anger. Unfortunately for it, the rage is slowly giving away to pain. It's growing weaker, beseiged on all sides, all of you working in unison to deliver wounds that whittle away at the beast's constitution. <</if>> [[End it.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_killbeast1]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "Ascender">> You come in hard, trying to keep all of your momentum as your last long stride places your foot into the palm of Khalika's hands, the perfect platform for you to propel yourself upwards. Your muscles tense, leaping up as the half-orc beneath you helps leverage your weight into the movement. In that moment of anticipation, adrenaline surging through you, all you can see is the ogre's pale, thick scarred hide directly before your eyes. That's when you dig in. //Thunk, thunk//, both of your blades embedded deeply in the creature's wide, wormy back, leaving you to cling onto your weapon's hilts as the beast recoils. It turns and jerks aside, the movement swinging you along behind, it's massive arms and bloody, clawed paws trying to reach back and remove you. Luckily, it can't reach you here at the mid-back; so with your teeth grit, you yank a blade free only to plunge it back into the beast, higher, starting your ascent as a thick trail of blood spills past your hands. ''"GET THAT FUCKER!"'' You hear Gant's loud, raspy screams, even amongst the sudden shrill pitch of the crowd as they watch the display before them unfold. That's right, you think, //witness me//. They all came for a show after all, did they not? You continue your climb with murderous intent, keeping your body close and tight, each plunge of your dagger drawing more blood and earning increasingly erratic responses from the big beast beneath you. You narrowly duck to avoid a swipe of the beast's paw, only now realizing that it might be able to reach you as you've nearly crested the creature's back. You dig your toes into the ogre's spongy flesh and pull a dirk free, hoisting yourself up and burying the blade once more with a brutal, downward plunge into the top of a shoulder. It tries to fight back, but your compatriots are keeping it distracted, whittling away at its legs and thick body with a relentless attack. It's dying and you're going to put this forsaken animal out of its misery. <<if $chp2_sword == true>> Anticipating another swing of the beast's claws, you pull your gladius free from torn flesh, the blade dark and gristly with a thick coat of blood oozing down the hilt to coat your grasping digits. You see the arc of it's massive forearms and throw your weight into a swing. A deep, grating groan escapes the ogre as your gladius separates several of it's fat, meaty clawed fingers from it's hand. <</if>> Cheers erupt as you drag yourself up further atop your faltering prey, propped up between its shoulders and atop its traps, before crossing your blades in an X shape at the front of it's throat. You don't hesitate, knowing it would've torn your flesh from the bone and swallowed you whole given the opportunity. No, not today. The sharp, gnarled bone of your blades tears open it's tender throat as you drag them across, spilling even more blood onto the sands and across the ogre's fat, corpulent front. It staggers, wobbling, slow to die - much like how it lived. But before it teeters over and starts to plummet towards the arena floor, you brace your feet against it's back and finally, with a murmured curse, kick off. You realize that it's not a small drop as you're hurtling down back towards the earth, but you keep your knees bent and let your blades go. Hitting hard, you try to roll, the sand lessening the impact. Khalika's there to grab your hand, pulling you away blindly until you //feel// and hear the colossal thud of the ogre's body flattening out. [[And you... you're alive.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_executed]]

<<audio "prepare-to-die" fadeout>>It's over. You gaze upon the spectators, thousands of them; cheering, chanting, crying for more. High above, the mists and warm vapors of Cradle mingle with the open sky, an etheral gaze that gives you another glimpse at Dosmera. Untouchable, unforgettable, that's how you feel at this very moment, bathing in the resounding applause of the stadium. You feel alive, that much is certain. Your companions can't help but celebrate, too. Exhausted, the lot of them, covered in blood and bruises. But they jump, jostle about and congratulate each other all the same. Gant finds you amidst the crowd, teeth bared and lips pulled taut in a wolfish grin. He claps a hand atop your back and pulls you into a hug, ''"That was fuckin' swell. Real swell work. I didn't think we were makin' it outta here, pal, let alone felling an ogre!"'' He lapses into silence, lips tilted still as he peers past you. ''"I think someone else has words for ya, mate." "Is that right?"'' You turn and find your gaze settling onto Khalika. The half-orc's supple arms are folded comfortably, despite the grit and grime that covers her, amber eyes creased in mild amusement: ''"Don't stop on my behalf."'' You gesture between them, ''"Gant, Khalika. Khalika, Gant."'' Gant keeps grinning, ''"Y'know how to handle yourself, Khalika. First time I cin' say I'm glad to know a greenskin."'' She snorts in response, and you can't help but wonder whether she'd gut him if the circumstances were less... favorable. ''"You did well yourself, Gant."'' But her gaze soon returns to you, lingering. It feels as though there's more she would say, if there was time. [[But a thunderous voice calls out over the sands.|chp2_arena_finale]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "Bloodied">> Right behind the knees lay flesh tender and ripe for your blade. Still thicker than the skin on any particular part of your body, for the ogre it's a softspot and you plan on taking advantage of it. While there's still the risk of being stomped, crushed or killed, the beast has definitely slowed and you should be able to do enough damage, quickly enough, to avoid the consequences. <<if $chp2_sword == true>> You draw in a shaky breath, adrenaline coursing within and throughout your body, amping you up. You feel more alive now than perhaps ever before, even with the chance for death lingering closely. That's not going to stop you today. You sally forth, light on your feet, nary kicking up a grain of sand as you carefully pick the angle of your initial slash. With a shout to Khalika, ''"Now!"'' you deliver a vicious strike. The bone blade of your gladius rips flesh and tears rubbery sinewy free, a gush of blood from the ogre's knee immediately rewarding your effort. But it'll take more than that to fell such a beast. You hack, cut and slash down harder into the quickly expanding wound, flesh peeling back and hanging loose before the creature can even react. It lifts the leg in response, but your companion is doing much the same, cutting and thrusting hard with her dirks to carve out a nasty wound on the opposite leg. Still pelted by rocks and prodded by your compatriot's arms, the ogre tries to turn, swivel, stooping low to swipe at you. You sway backwards, narrowly avoiding it's big, clawed paw. But there's another swing coming directly for you. Almost by instinct, you take a two-handed grip on your sword and hack at the incoming attack, separating several of it's fat, meaty fingers from it's hand. A deep, grating groan escapes the wounded beast, likely dying, with torn remnants clinging to the blade of your gladius; dark and gristly, covered with thick blood that oozes down the hilt to coat your grasping digits. The beast starts to teeter on its torn knees, the fall slow but final, all that heavy weight plummeting forward towards the stained sands below. With a colossal thud, much to the arena's audible delight, the ogre's body flattens out before you, shaking the very ground beneath your feet. Your broad chest heaving, sand and blood painting your face, you lift your gladius overhead and bring it down, hacking at the back of the ogre's neck to prove a point. More blood and bile sprays, each heavy overhead swing separating the beast's head further from it's body. Until, planting your foot firmly against it's skull, you kick it free and send a cranium the size of a large man's chest rolling, maw wide, for the crowd to see. <<elseif $chp2_polearm == true>> You draw in a shaky breath, adrenaline coursing within and throughout your body, amping you up. You feel more alive now than perhaps ever before, even with the chance for death lingering closely. That's not going to stop you today. You sally forth, light on your feet despite the weight of the billhook in your hands. And when you come near, you take a moment to carefully pick the angle of your initial thrust. With a shout to Khalika, ''"Now!"'' you throw all over your weight into a vicious plunge of your polearm. The curved head of the bill impales flesh and hooks rubbery sinewy, tearing it free on the withdraw, accompanied by a gush of blood from the ogre's fat knee that immediately rewards your efforts. But it'll take more than that to fell such a beast. You thrust once more, twice, gashing down hard and sundering apart the quickly expanding wound, with pale flesh peeled back and hanging loose before the creature can even react. It lifts the leg in response, but the companion is doing much the same, cutting and thrusting hard with her dirks to carve out a nasty wound on the opposite leg. Still pelted by rocks and prodded by your compatriot's arms, the ogre tries to turn, swivel, stooping low to swipe at you. You sway backwards, narrowly avoiding it's big, clawed paw. But there's another swing coming directly for you. Almost by instinct, you swing your billhook and hack at the incoming attack, luckily separating several of it's fat, meaty fingers through sheer force. A deep, grating groan escapes the wounded beast, likely dying, with torn remnants clinging to the head of your billhook; dark and gristly, covered with thick blood that oozes down the shaft. The arena roars, an endless, deafening pitch, as much like a massive tree being felled, the ogre begins to teeter over and collapse upon itself. Unable to stand, the sands shake as the beast falls to its knees. You don't hesitate, knowing it would've torn your flesh from the bone and swallowed you whole given the opportunity. No, not today. You gather your strength and lunge forward before the ogre can grasp or grab you, swinging your billhook in a high, upward cleave that rips the creature's throat open and puts a dent in it's protruding jaw. Even more blood spills onto the sands and across the ogre's fat, corpulent front, much to the arena's delight. And finally, the beast collapses forward with a jarring thud that shakes the ground beneath you. <</if>> [[It's over. And you're alive.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_executed]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "Huntsman">> For every ounce of strength and size, the ogre doesn't seem to have a chance when corralled by a more numerous, well-organized and armed force. There's a reason that humans control Cradle, and not the greenskins or giantfolk. You've heard that some of the tribes of the pit hunt like this, in large, mobile groups, tracking herds of large prey through the sand dunes leading away from the city's vast walls. This is your tribe, and you're the head huntsman. Your compatriots hoot and holler, shouted orders given by you, Gant and others as you put increasing pressure on the cornered feral. More stones impact it, leaving welts, breaking flesh and jostling bones. The polearms search for softspots; the neck, underarms, knees, it's belly, those accumulating wounds leaking blood readily. The creature's wide, winding swipes begin to falter. It's as good as dead and the crowd is crying out, high above, for death. Your companions smell the beast's weakness. You don't even have to signal the advance. They all apply pressure, moving in, stepping calmly forward through the sands yourself as you survey the action. Khalika joins you, silent, her bone dirks dripping with ichor. The ogre, much like how it lived, dies slowly. Each little wound multipled, widened, rips and tears turning into gaping gouges and tattered, flayed hunks of wormy hide. A deep, gutteral groan clears the creature's maw as it begins to sway. ''"Make room!"'' You shout, signalling for those unaware to put space between themselves and the dying beast. It teeters, the fall slow but final, all that heavy weight plummeting forward and pitching towards the stained arena floor below. With a colossal thud, much to the crowd's audible delight, the ogre's body flattens out before you, shaking the very earth beneath your feet. [[The battle is won.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_flanked_executed]]

Your heart pounds deeply within your chest as you suffer the realization that your plan is not working. The frontline is faltering. You and your companions are untrained, under-equipped, expected to hold off an ogre's advance with bent spears and dented polearms. The last thing you want to do is overcommit and lose your entire force. You only get one shot at winning this battle and getting out of this damned arena alive. Turning a look over what remains of your formation, another sweep of the beast's limbs tossing a couple of your men into the air, you make the call: ''"FALL BACK! Withdraw and regroup, come on! Stay together!"'' Spit and saliva flies from your mouth, sweat spilling down your forehead, along with the thin trickle of blood from your fresh wound as Khalika helps you to your feet. The creature's steps rattle the earth, showering your tight formation with sand as it continues to advance atop long, lumbering steps. A few of your polebearers stand firm, shoulder-to-shoulder, jabbing up at the approaching abomination. Exchanging a short glance with Khalika, you know what you have to do, sallying forth to join them and approaching at an angle. It doesn't seem to notice you as of yet, distracted by the glistening spearheads near it's face and the occassional thud of a stone against it's fat, wormy hide. You take the opportunity to close in, diving forward with a quick, forward plunge of your gladius that manages to tear a thin, yet bloody slash into the flank of a leg. These wounds have to count for something, you think, however small but numerous. You don't linger to face it's wrath, turning on heel and crashing through the sands with the rest of your men, Khalika among them, earning yourself some distance and soon coming across an able-bodied slinger who has yet to retreat. ''"You,"'' You intone loudly, trying to speak above the defeaning pitch of the arena's spectators, ''"Run over to the other group. Tell them to keep some distance and harry the ogre with sticks and stones. We'll regroup and resume the attack with a better plan. Hurry, GO."'' The young lad drops a firm nod of assent and quickly races off to carry your orders to Gant's formation, leaving you to continue the retreat. Most of your companions have already put a fair amount of distance between themselves and the ogre, while a few linger back, effectively engaging in a running skirmish; most of them slingers or the odd spearman. Upon reaching the bulk of your group, Khalika steps forward to meet you, her dark, glossy flesh slick with sweat and those amber orbs keen on your visage, assessing you. ''"We can still win this"'' ''"I'm doing my best. But we need a plan to bring this to an end, without throwing away our lives. Ideally something that we can coordinate with the other group."'' Lifting your gaze, it seems that your message made it across, as most of Gant's group continues to linger at a safe distance, while some of his slingers and spearmen mimic your own formation's contribution, harrying the ogre and buying you more time to confer. ''"So. Any ideas?"'' <<if $mind gte 1>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. You wonder if your compatriots still have faith in your ability to command. Thankfully, a touch of divine inspiration surfaces within your mind. ''"We surround it,"'' You murmur, ''"From both sides."'' You raise your gaze once more, looking over your compatriots, ``"The Legion has a name for it... A pincer attack, I think. A group approaches from either flank, hits it hard, and envelops it completely."`` <<else>>Silence pervades, your gaze meeting more than a dozen dirty faces that blink back at you. But your mind is blank, still overwhelmed by the adrenaline of battle and the cries of the crowd. Thankfully, Khalika speaks up, ''"A pincer attack."'' You look at her, head canting aside, ''"Our two groups attack from opposite sides and surround it."'' ''"I like it,"'' You breathe out, ensured by the development, ''"Simple but effective."''<</if>> ''"I think it's important that we stay mobile, no matter what, until we commit to a final push. We're smarter, faster and more numerous than this ogre, and that's how we'll win. Does everyone understand?"'' You're met by nods, hard gazes and voiced approval, "Then let's slay an ogre."'' [[You send the same messenger back to Gant's group to convey your strategy.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer]]

A thrust of bone dirks wounds the brute further. Stabbing and slashing, Khalika surges beneath the beast, drawing blood and flaying tattered flesh with precise, piercing attacks. She's nimble, strong too, making the ogre's thick hide look thin as paper. It tries to fight back, but before it can even lift a foot, Gant's flank smashes into the fray, rounds thunking heavily into meaty flesh, poles thrusting hard, a couple of brave souls with blades driving in close to score opportunistic blows. The half-orc throws herself beneath a raised leg, avoiding a thudding stomp and ducking beneath the line of your polearms to slip back into the safety of the formation. ''"Nice,"'' is all you can manage, almost instinctually, more of a breathy vocalization than an intentional statement on your part. You feel Khalika looking you over from the back and side, breathing heavily as well, the adrenaline of combat coursing through both of your veins. She doesn't speak a word, not yet, the graceful inclination of her chin all the response that you need. You know enough about her people to understand this; they respect warriors and those strong enough to lead. That's what you're doing here today. Taking your fate into your own hands. Living or dying according to your own capabilities. You understand that, along with your companions, and even the crowd in their own strange, voyeuristic way. Some cheer for you, others cry for blood and shattered bones, but they all understand that you're writing your own destiny in these arena sands. ''"We can finish this,"'' Khalika urges, voice low but firm, her fingers brushing gently against the rear of your shoulder as she awaits your response, those tusked lips plush and pursed intently. [[Let's end it.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked]]

''"Then we shall."'' You briefly look aside, locking gazes with Khalika, who searches the depths of your eyes with her keen amber orbs. You feel doubly determined, now, to put an end to this oafish ogre who has already killed too many of your companions this day. Surveying the situation, you see Gant doing his best to keep the beast corralled as he applies pressure from the opposite side. The beast is surrounded and clearly wounded, overwhelmed, but it's still as dangerous as ever. A number of bodies litter the sands nearby, bent and broken, either caught under a foot when going on the offense or crushed by a massive, swinging arm that splintered their weapon and bones. Too slow or caught unaware, they won't be leaving this battle. But there's still the opportunity to avenge them. High above, surrounding the display in its totality, the crowd jeer and jostle from within the thick, crowded, and stacked depths of the arena stands. They certainly seem to be enjoying the show. A countless mass of dirty faces, unwashed ranks, that could have just as easily been in any one of your places. But closest to the arena floor, an entire level exists, that you observe, dedicated to the nobility. You can tell from the array of colors, the glimmer of silks and soft, dyed linen, the glossy glare of metal. Is this your life now? Putting on a performance for those who only regard you from above, as you dance with death? <<if $mobility gte 1>> [[I'll give them a ''fucking'' show.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_execution]] <<elseif (($might gte 1) and ($chp2_polearm is true)) or ($chp2_sword is true)>> [[If it's blood they want, then blood they'll get.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_beheading]]<</if>> [[Put an end to this. Kill the beast together.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_killbeast]]

''"Do you trust me?"'' You turn back to Khalika, locking gazes. She eyes you steadily in return, her response brusque but with an edge of unconcealed curiosity, ''"Why else would I be following your lead? Ask what you need of me, $name."'' <<if $chp2_sword is true>> ''"One of your daggers,"'' You reply, dipping your chin down to indicate her dirks. She hands it over without hesitation, still searching your visage for your intentions. ''"Come with me. We need to get close... I'll get a running start and you'll help hoist me up--"'' She interjects boldly, ''"You're going to climb it?"'' ''"That's right. It's wounded, weakened, slower now. I intend to execute it and let everyone in this damned arena see what we're capable of."'' Her lips slowly pull at the corners, a smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins. If you die, die well. If you survive, you'll be a hero to all of us here."'' <<else>> ''"I need both of your daggers."'' You reply, dipping your chin down to indicate her dirks. She hands them over without hesitation, still searching your visage with her keen amber eyes as you ditch your other weapon and start to speak, ''"Come with me. We need to get close... I'll get a running start and you'll help hoist me up--"'' She interjects boldly, ''"You're going to climb it?"'' ''"That's right. It's wounded, weakened, slower now. I intend to execute it and let everyone in this damned arena see what we're capable of."'' Her lips slowly pull at the corners, a smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins. If you die, die well. If you survive, you'll be a hero to all of us here."'' <</if>> ''"I don't plan on dying. Not yet at least."'' You exchange another shared look with Khalika before the both of you step into action. ''"Listen up!"'' You bellow from within the formation, ''"We need to turn the beast around."'' Picking out an able-bodied slinger, a young lad with crooked teeth, you point across at Gant's grouping. ''"Run over there, tell them to get the ogre's attention. We're going in for the kill. Hurry!"'' The lad bobs a quick nod, his legs carrying him swiftly atop the sands, crossing the distance between formations as the battle ebbs and flows. Luckily, the ogre doesn't seem to have the will or means to break through the line of polearms from either side, as it slowly gets whittled away at by attacks. You might be able to chip away at the exhausted beast over the next half-hour with more stones, stabs and the occasional slash. But if you took that path, no one would remember your name. It's time to take destiny into your own hands. Sure enough, the beast's attention starts to swivel the opposite way and linger there, Gant concentrating the bulk of your forces to try and draw the creature in, while you order your formation to stay back and in-reserve for the time being. ''"Now,"'' You say, trading a look with the half-orc by your side, ''"Before I lose my nerve."'' Together, you tear past a sand-strewn corpse and close-in on the lumbering brute, with Khalika nimbly dropping to a knee and lacing together her hands for your approaching footfall. [[You take a running start, arms pumping, blades in hand.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_execution1]]

''"I say we make it bloody. We give the crowd what they want."'' You turn back to Khalika, locking gazes. She eyes you steadily in return, her lips slowly pulling at the corners in a faint smirk. ''"I knew you had warrior's blood flowing through your veins,"'' comes her response, low and impressed, her amber orbs intent upon your visage. Despite a lowly life as an orphan turned cobbler's apprentice, the way she looks at you, talks to you, makes you feel like //you are a warrior//. If only just for this moment. You exchange another shared look with Khalika before the both of you step into action. ''"Listen up!"'' You bellow from within the formation, ''"We need to turn the beast around."'' Picking out an able-bodied slinger, a young lad with crooked teeth and a rattail cut, you point across at Gant's grouping. ''"Run over there, tell them to get the ogre's attention. We're going in for the kill. Hurry!"'' The lad bobs a quick nod, his legs carrying him swiftly atop the sands, crossing the distance between formations as the battle ebbs and flows. Luckily, the ogre doesn't seem to have the will or means to break through the line of polearms from either side, as it slowly gets whittled away at by attacks. You might be able to chip away at the exhausted beast over the next half-hour with more stones, stabs and the occasional slash. But if you took that path, no one would remember your name. It's time to take destiny into your own hands. Sure enough, the beast's attention starts to swivel the opposite way and linger there, Gant concentrating the bulk of your forces to try and draw the creature in, while you order your formation to stay back and in-reserve for the time being. ''"We take out the legs,"'' You say, trading a look with the half-orc by your side, ''"You go left, I'll go right. We don't stop until it's dead."'' She nods decisively, lips pursed alongside her protruding teeth, ''"I'm beside you."'' [[Together, you tear past a sand-strewn corpse and close-in on the lumbering brute.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_beheading1]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "Centurion">> ''"Let's finish this."'' You turn back to Khalika and find her gaze upon you. Eyes locked, shoulders back and stance steady, the half-orc gives a brusque response, ''"I'm with you."'' You muster the rest of your courage and finally turn, bellowing over the formation, ''"Listen up! We're going in for the kill."'' You look over your companions, expression resolute, before picking out an able-bodied slinger that you spot towards the back, a young lad with crooked teeth and a rattail cut. Pointing across as Gant's grouping, you convey your orders, ''"Run over there, tell them that we're going to apply pressure. Keep it trapped, squeeze it tight, and gut it. Alright? Hurry now."'' The lad bobs a quick nod, his legs carrying him swiftly atop the sands, crossing the distance between formations as the battle ebbs and flows. Luckily, the ogre doesn't seem to have the will or means to break through the line of polearms from either side, as it slowly gets whittled away at by attacks. You might be able to chip away at the exhausted beast over the next half-hour with more stones, stabs and the occasional slash. But if you took that path, no one would remember your name. It's time to take destiny into your own hands. Sure enough, you spot Gant giving you a wide, affirming wave in return before he starts to concentrate the bulk of his force, the tight formation slowly starting to press forth. ''"Now! Stand with me and grasp victory!"'' Drawing in a breath, you trade a look with the half-orc by your side, ''"Be careful."'' She gives you an easy winked response before slipping through the ranks, back towards the flank where she can do her best work. <<if $chp2_polearm is true>> Billhook in hand, standing amongst the thick of your men, you draw closer yet to fulfilling your purpose. ''"Ready! Pikes, UP! Forward!"'' Right now, you have the opportunity to lead by example and that's exactly what you intend to do. You slowly, steadily, step forward atop the sands, already within the beast's range beneath the line of glistening, crooked, crude polearms. Carefully picking your angle of attack, you spring forward and lunge with your polearm, upwards, right at the armpit of an outstretched arm. You throw all of your weight into the vicious plunge, the curved head of the bill impaling flesh and hooking sinew, tearing it free on the withdraw, accompanied by a gush of dark ichor from the ogre's soft, flabby pit. It turns, arm rearing, maw roaring, but you dig in with another hard thrust before yanking the weight of your pole back, ''"THRUST! Tighten up! Together now!"'' It's besieged on all sides, all of you working in unison as the beast slowly accumulates more gaping, leaking wounds. Each hard, meaty thunk of a stone audibly impacting the ogre draws out feral sounds, that of agitation and anger, though the rage is slowly giving away to pain. It's growing weaker. <<elseif $chp2_sword == true>> Gladius in hand, standing at the edge of the grouping, you draw closer yet to fulfilling your purpose. ''"Ready! Pikes, UP! Forward!"'' You bring your sword down, signalling the advance and slowly, steadily, stepping forward atop the sands. The lot of you are already within the beast's range, between the line of glistening, crooked, crude polearms. Right now, you have the opportunity to lead by example and that's exactly what you intend to do. Waiting for the right opportunity as the ranks close in, you suddenly spring forth and take a wide, downward slash at the ogre's nearest knee. You immediately and forcefully cut in the opposite direction, rending the brute's flesh once more and staining their fat, wormy pale leg with another spill of ichor. That limb finally rears upwards in response, stamping down at you, but slow enough for you to create distance and avoid the shower of sand that soon follows. It's besieged on all sides, all of you working in unison as the beast slowly accumulates more gaping, leaking wounds. Each hard, meaty thunk of a stone audibly impacting the ogre draws out feral sounds, that of agitation and anger, though the rage is slowly giving away to pain. It's growing weaker. ''"THRUST! Tighten up! Together now!"'' <<else>> Sling in hand, you take up position in the rear of the formation once more, intent on fulfilling your purpose. ''"Ready!"'' You call to the front, ''"Pikes, UP! Forward!"'' From back here, you can better observe the situation, shout orders and carefully pick your aimed shots, free of the beast's attention for the most part. That's exactly what you do, waiting for the right opportunity and building up momentum with your loaded sling at your side, before suddenly taking a leading step and launching a round at the ogre's skull, trying to focus on equal parts force and technique. The crack of stone against bone resounds, leaving one of the ogre's eyesockets visibly dented, malformed, the beady eye heavy and nearly sagging loose. Yet it still stands, bellowing in response, a feral sound, that of agitation and anger. Unfortunately for it, the rage is slowly giving away to pain. ''"THRUST! Tighten up! Together now!"'' It's growing weaker, beseiged on all sides, all of you working in unison to deliver wounds that whittle away at the beast's constitution. <</if>> [[End it.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_killbeast1]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "Ascender">> You come in hard, trying to keep all of your momentum as your last long stride places your foot into the palm of Khalika's hands, the perfect platform for you to propel yourself upwards. Your muscles tense, leaping up as the half-orc beneath you helps leverage your weight into the movement. In that moment of anticipation, adrenaline surging through you, all you can see is the ogre's pale, thick scarred hide directly before your eyes. That's when you dig in. //Thunk, thunk//, both of your blades embedded deeply in the creature's wide, wormy back, leaving you to cling onto your weapon's hilts as the beast recoils. It turns and jerks aside, the movement swinging you along behind, it's massive arms and bloody, clawed paws trying to reach back and remove you. Luckily, it can't reach you here at the mid-back; so with your teeth grit, you yank a blade free only to plunge it back into the beast, higher, starting your ascent as a thick trail of blood spills past your hands. ''"GET THAT FUCKER!"'' You hear Gant's loud, raspy screams, even amongst the sudden shrill pitch of the crowd as they watch the display before them unfold. That's right, you think, //witness me//. They all came for a show after all, did they not? You continue your climb with murderous intent, keeping your body close and tight, each plunge of your blades drawing more blood and earning increasingly erratic responses from the big beast beneath you. You narrowly duck to avoid a swipe of the beast's paw, only now realizing that it might be able to reach you as you've nearly crested the creature's back. You dig your toes into the ogre's spongy flesh and pull a dirk free, hoisting yourself up and burying the blade once more with a brutal, downward plunge into the top of a shoulder. It tries to fight back, but your compatriots are keeping it distracted, whittling away at its legs and thick body with a relentless attack. It's dying and you're going to put this forsaken animal out of its misery. <<if $chp2_sword is true>> Anticipating another swing of the beast's claws, you pull your gladius free from torn flesh, the blade dark and gristly with a thick coat of blood oozing down the hilt to coat your grasping digits. You see the arc of it's massive forearm and throw your weight into a swing. A deep, grating groan escapes the ogre as your gladius separates several more fat fingers from the creature's hand. <</if>> Cheers erupt as you drag yourself up further atop your faltering prey, propped up between its shoulders and atop its traps, before crossing your blades in an X shape at the front of it's throat. You don't hesitate, knowing it would've torn your flesh from the bone and swallowed you whole given the opportunity. No, not today. The sharp, gnarled bone of your blades tears open it's tender throat as you drag them across, spilling even more blood onto the sands and across the ogre's fat, corpulent front. It staggers, wobbling, slow to die - much like how it lived. But before it teeters over and starts to plummet towards the arena floor, you brace your feet against it's back and finally, with a murmured curse, kick off. You realize that it's not a small drop as you're hurtling down back towards the earth, but you keep your knees bent and let your blades go. Hitting hard, you try to roll, the sand lessening the impact. Khalika's there to grab your hand, pulling you away blindly until you //feel// and hear the colossal thud of the ogre's body flattening out. [[And you... you're alive.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_executed]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "Bloodied">> Right behind the knees lay flesh tender and ripe for your blade. Still thicker than the skin on any particular part of your body, for the ogre it's a softspot and you plan on taking advantage of it. While there's still the risk of being stomped, crushed or killed, the beast has definitely slowed and you should be able to do enough damage, quickly enough, to avoid the consequences. <<if $chp2_sword is true>> You draw in a shaky breath, adrenaline coursing within and throughout your body, amping you up. You feel more alive now than perhaps ever before, even with the chance for death lingering closely. That's not going to stop you today. You sally forth, light on your feet, nary kicking up a grain of sand as you carefully pick the angle of your initial slash. With a shout to Khalika, ''"Now!"'' you deliver a vicious strike. The bone blade of your gladius rips flesh and tears rubbery sinewy free, a gush of blood from the ogre's knee immediately rewarding your effort. But it'll take more than that to fell such a beast. You hack, cut and slash down harder into the quickly expanding wound, flesh peeling back and hanging loose before the creature can even react. It lifts the leg in response, but your companion is doing much the same, cutting and thrusting hard with her dirks to carve out a nasty wound on the opposite leg. Still pelted by rocks and prodded by your compatriot's arms, the ogre tries to turn, swivel, stooping low to swipe at you. You sway backwards, narrowly avoiding it's big, clawed paw. But there's another swing coming directly for you. Almost by instinct, you take a two-handed grip on your sword and hack at the incoming attack, separating several of it's fat, meaty fingers from it's hand. A deep, grating groan escapes the wounded beast, likely dying, with torn remnants clinging to the blade of your gladius; dark and gristly, covered with thick blood that oozes down the hilt to coat your grasping digits. The beast starts to teeter on its torn knees, the fall slow but final, all that heavy weight plummeting forward towards the stained sands below. With a colossal thud, much to the arena's audible delight, the ogre's body flattens out before you, shaking the very ground beneath your feet. Your broad chest heaving, sand and blood painting your face, you lift your gladius overhead and bring it down, hacking at the back of the ogre's neck to prove a point. More blood and bile sprays, each heavy overhead swing separating the beast's head further from it's body. Until, planting your foot firmly against it's skull, you kick it free and send a cranium the size of a large man's chest rolling, maw wide, for the crowd to see. <<elseif $chp2_polearm == true>> You draw in a shaky breath, adrenaline coursing within and throughout your body, amping you up. You feel more alive now than perhaps ever before, even with the chance for death lingering closely. That's not going to stop you today. You sally forth, light on your feet despite the weight of the billhook in your hands. And when you come near, you take a moment to carefully pick the angle of your initial thrust. With a shout to Khalika, ''"Now!"'' you throw all over your weight into a vicious plunge of your polearm. The curved head of the bill impales flesh and hooks rubbery sinewy, tearing it free on the withdraw, accompanied by a gush of blood from the ogre's fat knee that immediately rewards your efforts. But it'll take more than that to fell such a beast. You thrust once more, twice, gashing down hard and sundering apart the quickly expanding wound, with pale flesh peeled back and hanging loose before the creature can even react. It lifts the leg in response, but your companion is doing much the same, cutting and thrusting hard with her dirks to carve out a nasty wound on the opposite leg. Still pelted by rocks and prodded by your compatriot's arms, the ogre tries to turn, swivel, stooping low to swipe at you. You sway backwards, narrowly avoiding it's big, clawed paw. But there's another swing coming directly for you. Almost by instinct, you swing your billhook and hack at the incoming attack, luckily separating several of it's fat, meaty fingers through sheer force. A deep, grating groan escapes the wounded beast, likely dying, with torn remnants clinging to the head of your billhook; dark and gristly, covered with thick blood that oozes down the shaft. The arena roars, an endless, deafening pitch, as much like a massive tree being felled, the ogre begins to teeter over and collapse upon itself. Unable to stand, the sands shake as the beast falls to its knees. You don't hesitate, knowing it would've torn your flesh from the bone and swallowed you whole given the opportunity. No, not today. You gather your strength and lunge forward before the ogre can grasp or grab you, swinging your billhook in a high, upward cleave that rips the creature's throat open and puts a dent in it's protruding jaw. Even more blood spills onto the sands and across the ogre's fat, corpulent front, much to the arena's delight. And finally, the beast collapses forward with a jarring thud that shakes the ground beneath you. <</if>> [[It's over. And you're alive.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_executed]]

For every ounce of strength and size, the ogre doesn't seem to have a chance when trapped between two much more numerous, well-organized and armed formations. There's a reason that humans control Cradle and not the greenskins or giantfolk. The Sorcerer-King has three Legions that are well-capable of dominating any battlefield. They have the best arms, armour, training and tactics in the known world. And while you didn't have any of that at your disposal here today, one could say that the same principles aided your efforts nonetheless. This is your Legion, and you're the Centurion. Your compatriots hoot and holler, shouted orders given by you, and your friend Gant across the way, as both groups put increasing pressure on the trapped feral. More stones impact it, leaving welts, breaking flesh and jostling bones. The polearms search for softspots; the neck, underarms, knees, it's belly, those accumulating wounds leaking blood readily. The creature's wide, winding swipes begin to falter. It's as good as dead and the crowd is crying out, high above, for death. Your companions smell the beast's weakness and you don't even have to signal the advance. They all apply pressure, moving in, stepping calmly forward through the sands yourself as you survey the action. Khalika joins you, silent, her bone dirks dripping with ichor. The ogre, much like how it lived, dies slowly. Each little wound multipled, widened, rips and tears turning into gaping gouges and tattered, flayed hunks of wormy hide. A deep, gutteral groan clears the creature's maw as it begins to sway. ''"Make room!"'' You shout, signalling for those unaware to put space between themselves and the dying beast. It teeters, the fall slow but final, all that heavy weight plummeting forward and pitching towards the stained arena floor below. With a colossal thud, much to the crowd's audible delight, the ogre's body flattens out before you, shaking the very earth beneath your feet. [[The battle is won.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_guarded_flanked_executed]]

<<audio "prepare-to-die" fadeout>><center><img src="images/skeleton1.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You met your match in the sands of Cradle's grandest colosseum. Thousands watched you live, fight and die, heaving your final breath beneath the dim violet glow of Dosmera. Your bones, broken and mangled, linger in the sands... forgotten. One day, they're swept up along with the remains of some of your companions and hauled into the catacombs; your final resting place. The question is, if you could live another life and make new decisions, what would you change? [[Your soul reignites.|credits]]

<div id="bg-overlay"></div>  <div id="sidebar"> <div class="sidebar-header">  <div></div>  <h1 class="story-title" data-passage="gameTitle"></h1>  <div class="sidebar-toggle"> <span id="sidebar-toggle-icon" class="lnr lnr-menu-circle"></span> </div> </div>   <div class="sidebar-history-nav"> <span id="backwards-button" class="lnr lnr-arrow-left"></span> <span id="forwards-button" class="lnr lnr-arrow-right"></span> </div> <div id="sidebar-body">  <div class="story-logo" data-passage="storyLogo"></div>  <h2 class="story-author" data-passage="storyAuthor"></h2> <nav class="sidebar-nav"> <ul class="story-tools"> <li> <span id="restart-button" class="lnr lnr-redo"></span> <span class="tooltiptext">Restart</span> </li> <li> <span id="saves-button" class="lnr lnr-download"></span> <span class="tooltiptext">Saves</span> </li> <li> <span id="settings-button" class="lnr lnr-cog"></span> <span class="tooltiptext">Settings</span> </li> </ul> <ul class="story-menu" data-passage="storyMenu"> </ul> </nav>  <div class="sidebar-orb-shrine"> <div class="orb-container"> <div class="orb-pulse-ring"></div> <div class="orb-scale-wrapper"> <img class="orb-rune-bg" src="images/runecircle.png" alt="Magical Sigil Ring" /> </div> <div class="orb-layout"> <img id="orb1" class="orb-image" src="images/orb1.png" data-tooltip="Mirror of Self" onclick="OpenShrine('mirror_of_self');" /> <img id="orb2" class="orb-image" src="images/orb2.png" data-tooltip="Soul Ledger" onclick="OpenShrine('soul_ledger');" /> <img id="orb3" class="orb-image" src="images/orb3.png" data-tooltip="Chronicles" onclick="OpenShrine('soul_chronicle');" /> </div> </div> <p class="orb-label">choose your path</p> </div> <div id="custom-tooltip" class="gothic-tooltip"></div> <nav id="social-media"> <p>Join or die</p> <ul data-passage="socialMedia"> </ul> </nav> </div>  </div>  <div id="story" role="main"> <div id="passages"> <div id="passage-start" data-passage="start" class="passage"> </div> </div> </div>

<<nobr>>  <</nobr>>

<center><img src="images/character_info.png" style="max-width: 100%;"><h2>Character Sheet</h2> Your Might is <<print $might>>. Your Mobility is <<print $mobility>>. Your Mind is <<print $mind>>. <<if $intro_tome is true>> You are in possession of an ancient tome.<</if>> </center> <center><<return "Return to the game.">></center>

!Stat page 2 Your stats go here..  <center><<link "Return to game" $return>><</link>></center>

<<set $currentMusic to null>> <<cacheaudio "jellyfish" "music/jellyfish.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "elgothic" "music/elgothic.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "shallows" "music/shallows.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "drips-of-blood" "music/drips-of-blood.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "prepare-to-die" "music/prepare-to-die.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "the-wanderer" "music/the-wanderer.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "lonely-darkness" "music/lonely-darkness.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "antagonist" "music/antagonist.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "road-to-nowhere" "music/road-to-nowhere.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "bad-era" "music/bad-era.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "no-love" "music/no-love.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "mysterious-music-box" "music/mysterious-music-box.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "sunny-stars" "music/sunny-stars.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "traces-to-nowhere" "music/traces-to-nowhere.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "calm-harp" "music/calm-harp.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "please-calm-my-mind" "music/please-calm-my-mind.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "street-fight" "music/street-fight.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "gasp" "music/gasp.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "guard-grunt" "music/guard-grunt.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "runningbreath" "music/runningbreath.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "footsteps-running" "music/footsteps-running.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "door-knock" "music/door-knock.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "dishes-fall" "music/dishes-fall.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "door-open-close" "music/door-open-close.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "wind-blowing" "music/wind-blowing.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "fart" "music/fart.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "whip" "music/whip.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "swoosh" "music/swoosh.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "achievement_unlocked" "music/achievement_unlocked.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "ritual-hover" "music/ritual-hover.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "glass-clink" "music/glass-clink.mp3">> <<cacheaudio "heartbeat" "music/heartbeat.mp3">> <<masteraudio muteonhide>>

<center><h3>Disclaimer For The Uninitiated...</h3></center> <<audio "jellyfish" volume 0.4 play loop>> Depicted textually, seldom visually, within this tome are debauched acts that have been clearly labeled (18+) and other graphic content that may disturb, disgust or elicit pure disdain. Partake at your own discretion and remember to have fun. //Orphan// is an adult CYOA novel with often //violent// and //sexual// storylines. Sources of inspiration include the //sword & sorcery// of Conan the Barbarian to the gothic fantasy of the Elder Scrolls. This is a tale that prioritizes player choice, provocative writing and the rule of cool. For the best viewing experience, I personally recommend reading this novel with the Fell font, set to 24 px and the ''Nightmare'' theme which you can change in the game's settings. Good luck. <center> <<button [["Start."|Welcome]]>><</button>> </center>

<li><a href="https://discord.gg/hE8yAyYBqs" target="_blank">Y</a></li> /* <li><a href="https://instagram.com/yourinstagram" target="_blank">Q</a></li> <li><a href="https://no.pinterest.com/yourpinterest/" target="_blank">A</a></li> <li><a href="https://open.spotify.com/user/yourspotifyid" target="_blank">W</a></li> */

<center> <<audio "elgothic" loop play>> <img src="images/TBCbanner.png" style="max-width: 100%;"> <h1>Thank you for playing //Orphan//! </h1> <h3>Chapter 2.8 now spans over 167,000 words.</h3> If the journey moved you, join the community: <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank">Patreon</a> <a href="https://discord.gg/FkPWPJ6FMR" target="_blank" rel="noopener noreferrer" class="link-external" tabindex="0">Discord</a> Or leave an honest review on f95zone or itch.io—it helps more than you know. There are two major paths (Ascender & Gladiator), with countless subtle variations depending on your stats. Every choice shapes a different soul. Every journey tells a new legend. <h1>Special thanks to...</h1> ''MY WONDERFUL PATRONS.'' __Sorcerers__ Zed Masterofcheese __Legionnaires__ Hongfire nunya RocketNoah 殷石周 Lukas __Gladiators__ KJR (stonebystone) Matthew Kidd Riley Lind Bryce Sommers Variable gruson Gromper Goldman ZEROTH_00 Posef The Black Innocent Bystander Nick Roman JetBlackxD TreeSquared Neon_Slick <h3>Music</h3> moodmode - Drips of Blood Juniorsoundays - Bad Era Aim to Head - Jellyfish (title song) anrocomposer - EL (gothic version) MomotMusic - Lonely Darkness Gvidon - Antagonist Rockot - Sunny Stars Lesfm - Please Calm My Mind lucafrancini - Calm Fantasy Harp UNIVERSFIELD - Mysterious Music Box Sasha Palamaryuk - No Love </center>

Orphan

From afar, you exchange signals with Gant. ''"Go slow,"'' You mouth and gesture, then indicating the ogre who's still preoccupied with a few mobile slingers who have managed to keep it busy, ''"We surround it. Trap it. Destroy it."'' Despite the distance, beneath that mane of shaggy-brown hair and the gleam of dark green eyes, you see your friend's tight-lipped grin. Got it, he seems to say, let's fucking do this. ''"Just like we discussed,"'' You call over the heads of your companions as you start to move through the sands, ''"Stay loose and mobile, but move as one. That's the only way this plan works."'' You sense Khalika's presence by your side, but she doesn't speak a word, not yet. You know enough about her people to understand this; they respect warriors and those strong enough to lead. That's what you're attempting to do here today. Taking your fate into your own hands, leading, living or dying according to your own capabilities. You understand that, along with your companions, and even the crowd in their own strange, voyeuristic way. Some cheer for you, others cry for blood and shattered bones, but they all understand that you're writing your own destiny in these arena sands. ''"We can finish this,"'' Khalika urges, voice low but firm, intense amber gaze searching the depths of yours even as you walk. ''"Don't throw your life away. You're more useful alive."'' Her plush, tusked lips press into a small smirk before she turns away. ''"Thanks. The same applies to you, by the way."'' You tear your gaze from Khalika, thankful for the brief reverie, now doubly determined to put an end to the oafish ogre that has already killed too many of your companions here today. Surveying the situation, you see Gant's formation moving on the opposite flank, and slowly you seem to be drawing the beast exactly where you want him through the use of a few runners. Half-a-dozen bodies or so litter the sands nearby, bent and broken, most either caught under a foot or crushed by a massive, swinging arm. Too slow or caught unaware, they won't be leaving this battle. But there's still the opportunity to avenge them. High above, surrounding the display in its totality, the crowd jeer and jostle from within the thick, crowded, and stacked depths of the arena stands. They are enjoying their show. A countless mass of dirty faces, unwashed ranks, that could have just as easily been in any one of your places. But closest to the arena floor, an entire level exists, that you observe, dedicated to the nobility. You can tell from the array of colors, the glimmer of silks and soft, dyed linen, the glossy glare of metal. Is this your life now? Putting on a performance for those who only regard you from above, as you dance with death? [[Let's give them something to remember. Launch the attack.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer1]]

<<set $arena_nickname to "The Centurion">>''"Let's finish this."'' You give the signal to Gant and he returns it, giving you a wide, affirming wave before he starts to split the bulk of his force. From all angles, loose groupings of your companions begin a roughly uniform advance. You'll have the beast completely surrounded soon enough. ''"Listen up!"'' You bellow over the sands, ''"We're going in for the kill. Apply pressure, keep it trapped and squeeze this fucker tight!"'' Speeding up, you trot across the sands and close-in on the brainless brute, doing your best to direct the movements of your men. Every angle should have a spearman or polebearer, every slinger should have a clear shot, and freedom of movement for those with smaller blades should mean more opportunities of attack. You'll overwhelm the creature through sheer volume of blade, bone and stone. ''"ATTACK!"'' ''"Pikes, UP! Forward! Slingers, aim high!"'' The lot of you are already within the beast's range, between the line of glistening, crooked, crude polearms. And before the creature likely has any idea what has occurred, overwhelmed by a plethora of small, meaty, moving targets, it's besigned on all sides. Working in unison, the siege begins in earnest. Stone rounds thunk firmly against the ogre's pelt, spearheads gouge out leaky holes and finally the rare, brave swordsman or dagger-wielding fiend ducks low to stab at feet, legs, knees. It stamps down at the attackers, swats with sweeps of it's bulky arms, tries to stoop low and scoop up an opportunist, but the pressure of the attack makes it hard for the ogre to commit to any one action. It can barely defend itself or ward off attacks, let alone engage in a productive offense. When it staggers one way, your formation ebbs and flows, fluid, yet still keeping the beast encapsulated in an unwavering assault. It's growing weaker. For every ounce of strength and size, the ogre doesn't seem to have a chance when completely surrounded by a more numerous, well-organized and armed force. There's a reason that humans control Cradle and not the greenskins or giantfolk. The Sorcerer-King has three Legions that are well-capable of dominating any battlefield. They have the best arms, armour, training and tactics in the known world. And while you didn't have any of that at your disposal here today, one could say that the same principles aided your efforts nonetheless. This is your Legion, and you're the Centurion. Your compatriots hoot and holler, shouted orders given by you, and your friend Gant across the way, as both groups put increasing pressure on the trapped feral. More stones impact it, leaving welts, breaking flesh and jostling bones. The polearms search for softspots; the neck, underarms, knees, it's belly, those accumulating wounds leaking blood readily. The creature's wide, winding swipes begin to falter. It's as good as dead and the crowd is crying out, high above, for death. Your companions smell the beast's weakness and you don't even have to signal the advance. They all apply pressure, moving in, stepping calmly forward through the sands yourself as you survey the action. Khalika joins you, silent, her bone dirks dripping with ichor. The ogre, much like how it lived, dies slowly. Each little wound multipled, widened, rips and tears turning into gaping gouges and tattered, flayed hunks of wormy hide. A deep, gutteral groan clears the creature's maw as it begins to sway. ``"Make room!"`` You shout, signalling for those unaware to put space between themselves and the dying beast. It teeters, the fall slow but final, all that heavy weight plummeting forward and pitching towards the stained arena floor below. With a colossal thud, much to the crowd's audible delight, the ogre's body flattens out before you, shaking the very earth beneath your feet. [[The battle is won.|chp2_arena_rally1_formup1_loose_pincer2]]

<<audio "drips-of-blood" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "drips-of-blood">> <<set $khalikacell to false>> ''"A rare sight, indeed. It's not often that we see a victory over such a terrible beast in our arena sands. It bolsters the spirits, does it not, to see what great achievements even the smallest, simplest souls are capable of?"'' The voice rings clear for your ears, deep and bold, despite the speaker remaining unseen, out of sight, somehow broadcasting over the entire colosseum. No one would be able to convey their words over such a vast expanse mundanely after all. It must be magic, you reason, through the Sorcerer-King's unyielding power or one of his innumerable artifacts. ''"I wonder what fate holds in store for these brave few. Will they see the sands again and manage to replicate such great feats? Or will they live out the rest of their lives in the lap of luxury? Remember, fine noble persons and worthy citizens of Cradle: The auctions are ongoing and our stock is sure to sell quick. Our fights will resume within the hour, for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy."'' It doesn't take long to sink in that this is one fight among dozens, maybe hundreds, that will occur throughout the week. You wonder how many thousands will be sacrified in the name of these bloodsports, entertainment for the masses. For now, you just find yourself thankful to have survived... ''"Look."'' Khalika sounds out beneath her breath, amber gaze leveled towards one side of the arena. There, an expansive gate is being cranked open and an armoured cadre of Legionnaires march out onto the sands. ''"There's our escort,"'' Gant mutters, lips skewing aside. He looks over at you, and you return the glance, pensive. ''"If they split us up,"'' He continues, managing a bit of a grin, ''"It was a pleasure, mate. Give 'em hell."'' They corral the lot of you, instructing each slave to drop their crude, makeshift weaponry into a slowly amassing pile. Your glory is short-lived it seems, though at least you aren't being ushered onto the back of another caged wagon. Not yet at least. Instead, they line you up and begin a slow descent back into the catacombs beneath the arena, where the dank, dreary darkness embraces you once more. [[At least the heat soothes your aching bones.|chp2_arena_finale1]]

Feebly flickering flames guide your descent, wall-mounted torches lining the ancient tunnel walls constructed of old stone and bleached bone. Soldiers escort the procession of slaves on either side, whom seem marginally better to deal with than the slavers and arena guards that greeted you when you arrived within the catacombs initially. The Legion must be here on special orders, you reason, perhaps due to Crathal. As you continue down the large passageway, some of the slaves are split off into smaller groups and lead down differing tunnels until finally, the soldier escorting you stops and directs you into a cell. ''"No talking."'' He commands simply, before pressing the thick wooden door shut. Before long, it's locked behind you, the shuffle of a jailer heard, keys jingling as he moseys along down the corridor. Then, mostly silence. You can hear the distant echo of footsteps outside your cell, along with the low coughs, groans and muffled crying of whom must be the enslaved, withering away in their own locked confines. But for the most part, this is the most peace you've gotten since you woke up this morning. You draw in a deep breath, looking over your dingy little cell. The cracked floor is covered by matted straw and debris, strewn with sand, whilst the walls are filthy and weeping beads of moisture and grime. It's better than a burial in the sands, but you do wonder how long you'll be here. [[Until someone speaks from the cell next to yours.|chp2_arena_finale2]]

<center><img src="images/khalikacell.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"What do you think?"'' You blink over, surprised to see a familiar face. Khalika's amber eyes are fixed unto you, expression deadpan, though she can't help but smirk as she watches your reaction. ''"Of the cell?"'' You murmur in question, somewhat amused and slowly closing the distance, ''"I was hoping for silk sheets and a bubble bath. So I'm slightly disappointed. But at least I have a cute neighbor."'' ''"Cute?"'' She murmurs back, tone undecided, unclear, but the hole in the cell wall is large enough for you to see the slight reddening of her cheeks clearly, ''"That's a first. I'm not sure if I should kiss you or strangle you, $name. You're a curious man."'' You can't help but release an amused breath, the hot air pressing past your lips as you lower down, face-to-face with the half-orc, though your bodies are still separated by stone for the most part. ''"Why not both?"'' [[Claim her lips. (18+)|chp2_khalikacell]] [[Get serious and construct a plan.|chp2_arena_finale3]]

<center><img src="images/khalikacell.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<set $khalikacell to true>> She peers back at you, silent. The air is thick, warm and balmy, which only makes the sexual tension that lingers between you two even more obvious. It was there ever since you first locked eyes. Now that you've cheated death and survived the arena sands, you don't plan on letting this opportunity slip by. You don't even know if you'll still be alive by tomorrow, or sold away into servitude, never to meet again. Your face closes in and her amber orbs, so big and keen, grow even more sultry, half-lidded as she eyes your approach. Her plump lips part, almost instinctually, as though already aware of your intentions and unconsciously submitting. When your mouths meet, you feel the shape of her lips, fleshy and thick against yours. You want to deepen the oral embrace, to taste the furthest confines of her wet, warm mouth, but given the size of the hole, you can't even tilt your head. Her eyes finally press closed, your lips lingering against one another, sharing small, pleased breaths and a few more playful pecks. Your nose bumps against hers, and briefly one of her protruding tusks pokes against the corner of your mouth, before one of her eyes peeks open. ''"You deserve a reward,"'' She murmurs, watching you, gauging your reaction. ''"Is that so?"'' You whisper back, content to have company in what would otherwise be a dark, lonely, forgotten place. ''"Mhm... pull down your pants." "What?"'' You release a warm breath, somewhat amused and taken aback. For a moment, she appears indignant, ''"Don't make me ask twice, $name."'' You didn't plan on it. Somewhat hastily, you straighten and undo your belt, practically tearing it off and kicking it off to lay amongst the hay as you strip down to your nethers. Your cock hangs heavily between your thighs, half-erect, and clearly visible for your half-orc friend through the cell's hole. ''"Fuck."'' You can barely hear her voice, but you think she's excited. You certainly are too. Something about your brush with death today in the arena invigorated you and now lust burns within you, deep and low, slowly rising up within. ''"Come closer..."'' You stick your dick through the hole and your efforts are immediately reciprocated. Her full, meaty lips stretch wide around the swollen head of your cock, placing a heavy kiss against the tip. A shudder runs through your body, muscles taut, the adrenaline of battle replaced by the animalistic urge to fuck. Khalika grabs the base of your thick shaft and jerks it as best she can, given the circumstances, whilst her mouth brushes back and forth over your cockhead, a lingering kiss as she draws in the scent of your musk. ''"I see now where your strength comes from,"'' She murmurs, each word tickling your loins, ''"You're hung like a warrior. Big and proud."'' ''"Do you like it?"'' You question her, only wishing that you could watch her all the while. Her response isn't voiced, only delivered through action, as she drags the persistent wet heat of her tongue along your length and laps at the head, licking up any pre that beads up at the tip as she services you. You press your body taut against the grimy cobblestone, doing everything in your power to try and give her every single inch to lick, suck and stroke. She wants more, you can tell, her mouth stretching wide as she starts to shove her face down onto you, slowly coating your shaft with her spit and saliva. Her hand goes from the base of your cock to the two heavy, hanging orbs below, her slender fingers sensually squeezing your sack as though trying to coax more seed up through your length and to the surface. You see them, her fingers, a glimmer of dark, glossy green as you feel yourself edging closer to release. She must sense it too, her mouth suctioned firm about your piece, sucking hard and bobbing her throat down deeper to take in as much of your male essence as possible. You want to reward her with your cum, a whole mouthful, for helping you relieve your stress in the most enticing way possible. You didn't know that you were attracted to greenskins until you met Khalika. Now, you're sure of it. ''"Give it."'' She murmurs huskily, drawing in deep breaths as she draws her head back, letting your throbbing cock slip free, though the tip is still teased up against her plush lips. Your balls start to tighten, drawing up, tensing against her touch as you quickly topple towards the finale. When she shoves your entire length back into the wet, warm confines of her mouth, nearly gagging once you knock against the back of her throat, you reach your limit. ''"Take it."'' You breath back, your loins engulfed by lust. Pumping, pulsing, she takes the first thick, balmy spurt against the back of her gullet and the rest against the flat of her tongue, staying nice and still to ensure that not a single drop of seed is wasted. You breathe deeply, hot and harsh, barely able to keep quiet, let alone stay still as your pelvis stirs against the immovable stonework. Her lips draw back, slipping over the swell of your cockhead before teasing a fat kiss against the tip, just like how the whole thing began. ''"Now I can sleep with a full stomach,"'' She whispers through the hole, surely teasing you, but all you can do is grin, contented. [[Sometime later, you have a serious discussion.|chp2_arena_finale3]]

<<audio "drips-of-blood" fadeout>> You slump against the wall, speaking with your companion in low tones through the hole. ''"What do you think'll happen now?"'' You ask, lips pursed, feeling somewhat pensive. ''"I don't know,"'' She retorts, calm and quiet, ''"They mentioned an auction." "You think they'll sell us?" "I said I don't know. But no man or woman walks free from this arena, not after a single fight. Not when we were meant to be fodder."'' You're growing tired, but your mind keeps wandering. You're looking for answers where perhaps none exist, tormenting yourself, thinking back to all of the events that took place today. The day your life turned upside down once again, just like long ago, when you were a lost orphan boy with only vague memories of his past. You wonder about the people that you've met, too. Gant. You haven't come across many men like him; nonchalant, somewhat goofy, but dependable. And your newfound friend on the other side of this wall, Khalika. A part of you hopes that you won't be separated. That you'll at least be granted some sort of companionship as you face the trials of tomorrow... and the day after... perhaps the rest of your life, now. ''"We need to be ready for anything, $name. You'll be no use tomorrow if you've had no rest. Sleep."'' Khalika speaks to you through the hole. You sit up and shift over, turning, only to find her there, peering back at you. ''"You're right... Get your rest, too. And whatever happens tomorrow, we'll face it the best we can. Like champions."'' Her lips quirk as she considers you, head canted aside, before she dips a gentle nod. ''"Like champions. Rest well, $name." "Sweet dreams, Khalika."'' You slowly sprawl out atop the straw, trying to find the most comfortable position, staring up at the dark recesses of the ceiling. Murky darkness, all of it, with shadowy webs and crumbling stone. It's not all that different from home, you reason, gradually falling asleep. [[You drift off to sleep, enshrouded within the darkness of your cell.|chp2_arena_finale4]]

<<audio "door-knock" play>> You awake with a start. Someone is pounding loudly on your door. ''"Wake up."'' You hear a gruffy voice, accompanied by the jingling of keys as your door is unlocked. ''"You have visitors."'' [[The heavy wooden door to your cell swings open.|chp3_slave_escort]]

''"$name?"'' <<audio "bad-era" fadeout>> <<audio "door-knock" play>> You hear a muffled voice from the other side of your door, though you can barely make it out above the beating of your heart. You're sweaty, skin glistening with perspiration in the aftermath of your... dream. It must've been a dream, right? They've felt so vivid lately, each night a portal, a glimpse into another world. Sometimes it's hard to discern between what's real and what's wholly imagined, and you wonder whether there's anything that exists inbetween. Another knock rattles your bedroom door, ''"$name, are you awake?"'' It's Fredrick's voice, that much is now obvious. You clear your throat and start to sit up, somewhat dazed, head still halfway lost in quiet contemplation concerning your nighttime escapade. ''"I'm awake, Fredrick." "There's someone out here that I'd like you to meet. Join us when you're ready."'' It's quite uncommon for Fredrick to have visitors, outside of the occasional customer. He's a solitary man and even his business transactions are kept brief, direct, to-the-point. It must be someone important. And hopefully, you think, no one with no knowledge of what transpired yesterday. That would only further complicate things. You swing your legs over and slowly press to your feet, still gathering your senses. A quick rub of your eyes and a run of fingers through your bedraggled hair should suffice, quickly smoothing down any stray strands; it doesn't take much for a young man to look presentable. A loose linen shirt gets pulled over head, and you shuffle atop your feet as you tug on the usual pair of burlap trousers, before stepping out the door. [[No use delaying the inevitable.|chp2_morningafter1]]

<<audio "traces-to-nowhere" loop play>> <center><img src="images/rayner1.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> There's a man in the workshop, quietly conversing with Fredrick. Yet their conversation seems to come to a close upon your approach. He's tall and thick, larger than most men, big arms corded with muscle and that's just what's left unconcealed by his burnished, black-leather armour. Some kind of soldier, you think. Does this have to do with the goblin? His attention settles upon you, assessing through the lens of murky olive-green eyes. ''"So you're the boy that I've heard so much about."'' He intones, voice deep and clear, slowly tilting a clay mug to the crest of his lips for a sip of what must be tea. You're unsure of how to respond, casting a glance at Fredrick in question. The old man releases a breath, stationary where he's settled onto a stool beside the stranger. ''"$name, I want you to meet Rayner. Caius Rayner. He's an old friend of mine. Very, very old."'' Fredrick's cracked lips press together, somewhat amused, and the large man next to him looses a laugh, ''"Old is right. We were both boys back then, me moreso than you, Fredi."'' Rayner fixes Fredrick with his gaze now, tone still amiable, though his words speak to a certain severity, ''"Back when you still had a chip-on-your-shoulder. Nobody would've ever thought you'd settle for a quiet life. Or a peaceful one."'' Fredrick seems unaffected by the man's words, ''"My only regret, my friend, is not having stepped away sooner."'' Rayner accepts this with a lowering of his chin, though his gaze lingers on his old companion, considerate. ''"We do what we have to. Every man digs his own grave, Fredi. I just hope there's a bottle of whiskey in mine."'' ''"You'll have your drink, Rayner. You're a better man than most. That's why I trust you with $name's future."'' They both set their sights onto you. Up to this point, you have too many questions and too few answers. You don't know where to start. ''"Sit down, $name."'' Fredrick indicates a stool, ''"And join us."'' Beneath their gaze, you carefully step over to claim a seat. Rayner seems rather relaxed, though observant, taking another swig of tea as he waits for Fredrick to continue, ''"There's a lot that I haven't told you. Most of it, I didn't think was necessary. They were memories that I didn't want to hold onto myself, let alone pass down to you. But as I've seen you develop into the man that you are now, $name, I realized that I was foolish."'' He slowly nods as though mentally affirming his own thoughts and actions, ''"In my heart, I knew you'd never be content with this life. With the life that I chose for myself. Simple, small, an honest trade in cobbling. No, you're a restless sort. You remind me of myself at your age."'' ''"That's why Rayner is here. He owes me a favor and I owe you... a chance at something more. That's all I ever wanted to give you, $name. I hope you understand that."'' ''"A chance?"'' The old man's chin slowly inclines at your words, slow-spoken in his articulation, ''"A good chance, $name... Rayner is an Instructor. He teaches at the Highrock Academy of Ascent."'' You blink, having trouble processing the slew of information. Rayner pierces the silence, murky eyes resting on you still. ''"It's a school typically reserved for the Gentry and Nobility. They do make exceptions. And that's exactly what Fredrick requested of me."'' His meaty finger taps at the outside of his mug as you exchange a look with Fredrick, who remains silent for the time being. The old man betrays little emotion, as though perpetually morose, sullen, indifferent to the world. But this opportunity being presented to you, right here, right now, has the opportunity to change your life. ''"They prepare young men and women for careers as officers in the Legion... or as Ascenders."'' [[You could become an Ascender?|chp2_morningafter2]]

<<set $morningafter_how to false>> <<set $morningafter_where to false>> <<set $morningafter_what to false>> <<set $morningafter_ascenders to false>> Every child in the Cradle knows what an Ascender is. They're the subject of great admiration. The protagonists in the type of tales that are told to the young and hopeful, or the stories murmured low by a father who wishes to instill courage in his son. In a world consumed by such cruellty, an Ascender is a beacon of hope, of bravery, of heroism. A distant brightness: empowering, but elusive, as you have yet to even witness one with your own two eyes. Yet the idea excites you still. ''"That's impossible,"'' You murmur, giving a low shake of your head though you feel both of the men's attention upon you. ''"It is possible. I wouldn't be here unless I was sure of it."'' Rayner's words are firm in their assurance, in their simplicity. He makes it easy to believe. You //want// to believe. ''"How? I can't even read, Fredrick. How am I supposed to attend an academy... with gentry and noble heirs? I'm a nobody."'' ''"You're someone, $name, who is capable of far more than you can even imagine."'' Fredrick's response is slow and measured, his gaze fixed upon you, tone serious but not overbearing. The old man slowly sits back atop his stool, bulky arms folding as Rayner speaks up: ''"I can get you a tutor and I'll help you however I can, $name. I owe Fredrick that much. But I can't hold your hand. It'll be difficult. An entirely new environment. It's an opportunity to learn from some of the best and brightest that the city has offer."'' You draw in a breath, looking between the two older men. Fredrick, like a father to you, grim and gruff, bent and broken by old age and too many hard years. Caius Rayner, apparently an old friend indebted to him. A bit younger, chiseled, intelligent. You're only willing to trust him because of Fredrick. The old man has never led you astray. Rayner glances over at Fredrick, then back at you, ''"Any questions?"'' [[How do you know each other?|chp2_morningafter2_how]] [[Where's the Academy? When would I attend?|chp2_morningafter2_where]] [[What do you teach, Rayner?|chp2_morningafter2_what]] [[Is it true what they say about Ascenders?|chp2_morningafter2_ascenders]]

<<set $morningafter_how to true>> ''"How do you know each other?"'' Rayner's gaze trails over to Fredrick. The younger of the men seems to be mildly amused by the question, whilst the old man treats the inquiry as irksome. You can always tell when he's peeved, always reluctant to part with information that he deems unnecessary. Especially when it concerns himself. ''"When he and I met,"'' Fredrick rasps, rolling out an aching wrist as he reflects, ''"I had a few years of mercenary work under my belt, and he was new to the trade. A hotshot prospect who started to quickly climb the ranks. Cocky, foolish, troublesome. I couldn't stand him."'' Rayner's eyes crinkle, mirthful, cheeks stretched by a faint dimpling. ''"Mmff, good times. The best of times, Fredi. You see $name, it took me a few close scrapes with death and your old man saving my hide before I... calmed down. Comparatively. Old habits die hard, as they say."'' You had always imagined that Fredrick had an eventful past. He had too many scars, too much grit and stoic determination, to have had always been a simple craftsmen. That's what you had liked to believe at the very least, and it all seems to be coming to fruition in the most magnificent way. ''"Then how did you become friends?"'' You wonder aloud, canting a look between them. Rayner huffs an amused breath and jerks a thumb towards the old man, ''"Just look at him. So kind, warm and jolly; how could you not come to love him?"'' You and Fredrick snort at almost the exact same moment in time, exchanging glances, before he mutters towards Rayner, ''"Fuck off."'' Both of their lips are ever-slightly tilted, however, content. ''"The truth is, $name, sometimes it just happens that those you knock heads with, who challenge you, who piss you off... Well, sometimes that draws the best out of a man. And with time, you come to understand each other."'' ''"He's not wrong,"'' Rayner states with some finality, ''"Anymore questions? Related to the Academy, eh?"'' <<if $morningafter_where is false>> [[Where's the Academy? When would I attend?|chp2_morningafter2_where]]<</if>> <<if $morningafter_what is false>> [[What do you teach, Rayner?|chp2_morningafter2_what]]<</if>><<if $morningafter_ascenders is false>> [[Is it true what they say about Ascenders?|chp2_morningafter2_ascenders]]<</if>> [[That's everything for now.|chp2_morningafter3]]

<<set $morningafter_where to true>> ''"Where's the Academy? When would I attend?"'' ''"Highrock's in the First Quarter."'' Rayner responds simply, though you can feel already the unconscious widening of your eyes. The First Quarter. The highest tiered level of Cradle, outside of the Sorcerer-King's inner sanctum. There, it's said that every street lay within the high mists of the open sky, far above the steam and squalor of the pit and the lower reaches of districts such as Undertown. ''"That's far from home,"'' You murmur and Fredrick's chin lowers in quiet affirmation. ''"It'll do you good, $name. You've always wanted to see more of the world. This is your chance."'' Rayner inclines a faint nod, continuing, ''"Classes for next semester begin tomorrow. We'll depart for Highrock today and get you situated with your room and board. Most other students have already arrived over the past few days."'' This information isn't getting any easier to absorb. You aren't sure whether to be excited or hesitant, cautious, reluctant even. For all the troubles of Undertown, it's what you're used to. You know people here. You have a job... a family in Fredrick. A safe place to lay your head. You feel like you'd be giving it all up for just a //chance// at something better. It's a risk that you can't shy away from, not now. Not if you want to leave a mark on this world, however wretched. ''"The other students. From the Gentry and Nobility. They're my age?"'' Rayner dips another light nod after drawing a slow sip from his mug, ''"Around your age, yes. Just entering into adulthood, some older. Some of the Nobility, such as the second or third sons of a House, treat a career in the Legion like a backup plan. They try their hand at something for a couple years and if it doesn't work, or if their parents tire of them, they spend two years at the Academy."'' ''"They placate their family, earn a rank and some semblance of status, good pay and so on."'' You speak up, ''"I thought you said they train to be Ascenders, too."'' Rayner's lips quirk, his tone relaxed, ''"Ah, I did say that. Good. You should understand that they're highly selective. Competitive. Only a few, a handful, at the top of each class even have a chance of being selected. And out of them, only one, maybe two, are actually chosen to begin the process."'' ''"It's not easy, so don't get your hopes up. But this, if you want it bad enough, will give you the best chance you'll get."'' Rayner looks at you over the mug of tea, whilst Fredrick rubs his tired, old hands together, quiet and thoughtful. ''"Go on. More questions?"'' <<if $morningafter_how is false>> [[How do you know each other?|chp2_morningafter2_how]]<</if>> <<if $morningafter_what is false>> [[What do you teach, Rayner?|chp2_morningafter2_what]]<</if>><<if $morningafter_ascenders is false>> [[Is it true what they say about Ascenders?|chp2_morningafter2_ascenders]]<</if>> [[That's everything for now.|chp2_morningafter3]]

<<set $morningafter_what to true>> ''"What do you teach, Rayner?"'' ''"I am the //esteemed//,"'' His eyes can't help but crease, the sarcasm thick in his tone. He's a man that doesn't take himself terribly serious, despite his evident capabilities, ''"Instructor of Survival, Martial Means... and a couple other classes, reserved for second year students."'' <<if $mind gte 2>> //MIND:// There was a slight breath of hesitation. You detected it in the pitch of his tone, in the shift of his gaze. It doesn't seem to come from a place of malice, nor of purposeful deception really. But there is something that Rayner opted not to tell you, perhaps something that he's intent on revealing later, in due time.<br><</if>> ''"Rayner is a well-respected Instructor,"'' Fredrick intones deeply, looking at you now, ''"You would do well to listen to him, $name. Better than you listened to me."'' A light jab, a tease, but he seems to be quite serious all at the same time. That's Fredrick for you, always a hardass. The Instructor's lips remain quirked, amiable all the while, ''"You'll see me around the Academy plenty, $name. Mostly whenever you're in my classes, if that wasn't already obvious. I like to stay busy."'' That does alleviate some of your anxieties; it'll be nice to have someone like Rayner to count on. He might be the only person there at the Academy that you'll be able to trust, at least in the beginning. Or maybe for the entirety... it sounds like you'll be a complete outsider, after all. You've been through worse, right? <<if $morningafter_how is false>> [[How do you know each other?|chp2_morningafter2_how]]<</if>> <<if $morningafter_where is false>> [[Where's the Academy? When would I attend?|chp2_morningafter2_where]]<</if>><<if $morningafter_ascenders is false>> [[Is it true what they say about Ascenders?|chp2_morningafter2_ascenders]]<</if>> [[That's everything for now.|chp2_morningafter3]]

<<set $morningafter_ascenders to true>> ''"Is it true what they say about Ascenders?"'' ''"It depends on who you ask,"'' Rayner responds after a moment's contemplation, a slight smirk lingering on his lips. ''"They're men, just like you or me. Men with a purpose, and a specific set of skills. More training, focus and intention than most could ever hope to obtain or possess. And they've seen things, too, that most will never, ever witness for themselves. Not that they would want to. It's a heavy responsibility that few can bear well."'' ''"Like the Overlands?"'' You question above your breath, nary a whisper, eyes on the Instructor. He lowers a faint dip of his grizzled chin, ''"Like the Overlands. The surface, high above Cradle, over the crater's edge. Where only the meanest forms of life exist, hunt, thrive. Conditions in which the average man wouldn't survive a day. Blizzards, magickal storms, pockets of earth where even the air has disappeared, sucked up, ripped away, empty. Desolate."'' ''"And that's just what the elements will throw at you."'' You can't help but pry further, always intrigued by the prospects of the outside world, however dark or deadly, ''"What else? What else is out there?"'' ''"No one knows for certain. Even those that claim to have seen things with their own two eyes. It's hard to take them at their word. They're madmen mostly, those crazed enough to brave the Overlands out of their own volition.. desperation. Artifact hunters, guides, exiles, bandits, and hermits. The Ascenders speak little of what they see, as much of it is kept private at the Sorcerer-King's request. Some say that above the Cradle, the closer you draw to Dosmera, the more... risk that's involved."'' ''"Risk?"'' ''"Aye, the risk of having your sanity stripped away. Your mind bent, broken. Everyone has their own opinion. Some think it's due to the atmosphere and the brutal conditions; it'll wear away at any man's mind. But others think it's due to magick... mindworms... or even the daemons that supposedly call Dosmera home."'' Fredrick's cracked lips press together, evidently not too pleased by this line of conversation. He has never been one for speculation, gossip, or rumormongering. Yet, you've heard too many tales of the dark cults and witches that pay homage to Dosmera, whom claim it, she, to be a source of great power, a portal even. You can't help but be inquisitive, to want to dig further into the matter. Especially after the dream that you had last night. But for now, you'll keep your dreams to yourself. Or are they visions? You don't want to ascribe meaning to your nightmares when there's so much that remains unclear and out-of-reach, at least for now. ''"Anymore questions?"'' You find Rayner's murky green gaze resting on you, waiting patiently. <<if $morningafter_how is false>> [[How do you know each other?|chp2_morningafter2_how]]<</if>> <<if $morningafter_where is false>> [[Where's the Academy? When would I attend?|chp2_morningafter2_where]]<</if>> <<if $morningafter_what is false>> [[What do you teach, Rayner?|chp2_morningafter2_what]]<</if>> [[That's everything for now.|chp2_morningafter3]]

You force yourself onward, turning left and banking down the alleyway, searching for any sign of the thief as a sudden surge of motivation runs through you. Stumbling and steering your way through the crumbling labyrinth of broken brick and shattered stone, you don't see any sign of the thief. Body sore, even your eyeballs pulse in their sockets, straining against the shadows as you continue your search in what may be a lost cause. But you can't give up, not yet, showing up empty-handed is the last thing that you want to do today. Another winding turn contorts the alleyway before you, and when you pivot around the corner, you see the narrow path continue, long and winding out into the deep distance. Many men have ventured down these dark alleys, never to return, not to mention the tens of thousands of miserable souls that are born into them, and there they stay, forsaken to a life of dank delves and dark deeds. A life of abject poverty, confined between shattered, stained walls and crumbling structures, fighting for every single morsel of food and drop of clean water. It's a depressingly desperate existence. But as your feet bound out onto the dusty cobblestones before you, carrying you over flattened heaps of rotten refuse and seeping, mud-packed potholes that look deep enough to swallow a man whole, you notice something. The pathway breaks just up ahead, on your left, opening up into what appears to be another alley. As you draw closer, it dawns upon you that returning home without your pouch certainly isn't the worst fate that could befall you this very day. [[You hear low growls, snarls and the ripping of flesh.|newintro_left1]]

''"That's everything for now,"'' You murmur, still overwhelmed by the path set out before you. ''"It's a lot, I know. I'm sure Fredi would've wanted to give you more time to absorb all of this and come to a firm decision on your own. But this is the best that we could do. Everything happens for a reason, eh?"'' Rayner finally stoops forward atop the stool and sets his mug, emptied, onto the workbench. You slowly heave a deep breath, glancing towards Fredrick. He's studying you closely, brown eyes deep and beady in his worn, wrinkled face. You see the quiet determination in his gaze. For whatever reason, he wants this for you. He wants you to go, grow, and flourish out in the greater world. And that's just what you'll do. You have to. A part of you wonders whether there are any real choices in life, or if it's all part of a pre-determined destiny. A path laid out for you at birth, set in stone, the stars even, where no man is capable of manipulating it. Thinking back through your own life, it's all so unclear. You've had bad things happen to you, good things too, but most of those events felt like they were out of your control. What choice does a man have? To accept his fate, or fight against it? This is a question that you'll continue to wrestle with. Everyone comes up with their own answer, one way another. The spiteful condemn their circumstances, their destiny, fate. Some accept the state of things, reluctantly, and do the best with the means that they've been given, or that they feel they've earned. Others still will always strive for more, taking it, stealing it away from others if need-be. Perhaps they feel that it belongs to them, that it //always// belonged to them. And you... well, only time will tell. ''"$name?"'' You lift your gaze to the sound of Rayner's voice. ''"Are you ready?"'' [[I'm ready.|chp2_morningafter3_cowboy]] [[Fuck yeah. I've been waiting for something like this.|chp2_morningafter3_bastard]] [[I'll make you proud, Fredrick.|chp2_morningafter3_knight]]

<<set $cowboy +=1>> ''"I'm ready."'' You slowly confirm your willingness to Rayner, still somewhat overwhelmed by today's turn of events. You take another glance at Fredrick, a breath pressing past the old man's cracked lips as he lowers his own faint nod of approval. It seems like he might have something to say, on the precipice of speech, perhaps words of affirmation for you. The young man, once an orphan, that he took into his home and helped mentor for all of these years. But even if he wants to, he says nothing, fixing you with his beady gaze. To say that you have mixed feelings would be an understatement. Part of you is invigorated, ready for the challenge; ready to impress Fredrick and his old friend Rayner. Another part of you feels like you're being cast out and thrown to the wolves. It doesn't do you any good to linger on such thoughts, these nagging impressions that cloud your mind, that dampen your spirit. Like with everything else in your life, you have to suck it up and keep on moving. Your only hope for closure, for anything of substance in the future, is to keep moving forward. So that's what you intend to do. ''"Good,"'' Rayner replies, flicking a look between you and the old man, ''"We should get a move on, then. It'll be the Dark Hour before long and I don't like to challenge superstition."'' He presses to his feet and you follow suit, but Fredrick stays seated down atop his stool, broad frame slightly hunched. ''"Hmph. This is always the worst part of sitting... standing up. You'll understand one day, if you live to be old and gray."'' With a creak of bones and a muttered curse, he manages to stoop up and onto his feet, using the nearby workbench to steady himself. Rayner smirks, a faint crease of his lips as he observes his friend, ''"So much for dying young, in a blaze of glory, eh? That was always for the lucky few. Those beautiful, glorious, dumb bastards. Do you remember Merrick?"'' Fredrick makes a gruff sound of amusement as he shuffles over to clasp Rayner's hand tightly, ''"Of course. Merrick was a good man. One of the best."'' ''"That he was. I wonder what he'd think if he saw us now."'' ''"He'd probably call us old cunts."'' They both laugh, gripping each other's hand, before eventually their attention turns back onto you. ''"Try not to let him do anything too stupid. He's a good kid."'' Fredrick's eyes rest on you, searching your features, before his hand retracts from Rayner's and the old man takes a few steps closer. ''"$name, take care of yourself."'' ''"I will, Fredrick. I'll see you again soon. Whenever I get a chance to visit."'' ''"Don't worry about me. You're your own man, now."'' [[The streets outside are crowded, your path dimly-lit.|chp2_morningafter4]]

<<set $bastard +=1>> ''"Fuck yeah. I've been waiting for something like this."'' It's true, today's turn of events have been a pleasant surprise. Whilst you're still trying to wrap your head around what it is exactly that you're getting yourself into, you decide to welcome it. Embrace it. There's no use resisting. You //crush// resistance, just like every trial and tribulation that you've faced throughout your life thus far. Rayner snorts at your response and cants a look sidelong at Fredrick, ''"You weren't lying. The kid has spirit." "That he does. Try not to let him do anything too stupid. He's a good kid, when he's not acting like a complete dick. He's not too different from you, Ray."'' That draws out a chuckle from the Instructor, who tilts a look back to regard you, mildly amused. ''"Good. There's plenty to look forward to, $name. Maybe you'll be a hit with the gals at the Academy. The handsome ruffian from Undertown, eh? Exotic."'' Your eyes visibly widen, much to their amusement. ''"Alright now, we should get a move on. It'll be the Dark Hour before long and I don't like challenging superstition."'' He presses to his feet and you follow suit, but Fredrick stays seated down atop his stool, broad frame slightly hunched. ''"Hmph. This is always the worst part of sitting... standing up. You'll understand one day, if you live to be old and gray."'' With a creak of bones and a muttered curse, he manages to stoop up and onto his feet, using the nearby workbench to steady himself. Rayner smirks, a faint crease of his lips as he observes his friend, ''"So much for dying young, in a blaze of glory, eh? That was always for the lucky few. Those beautiful, glorious, dumb bastards. Do you remember Merrick?"'' Fredrick makes a gruff sound of amusement as he shuffles over to clasp Rayner's hand tightly, ''"Of course. Merrick was a good man. One of the best."'' ''"That he was. I wonder what he'd think if he saw us now."'' ''"He'd probably call us old cunts."'' They both laugh, gripping each other's hand, before eventually their attention turns back to you. ''"Take care of yourself, $name. I know you'll give 'em hell."'' Fredrick's eyes rest on you, searching your features, before his hand retracts from Rayner's and the old man takes a few steps closer, ''"I will, Fredrick. Don't go dying on me while I'm gone."'' ''"Shit, I think I have a few years left in me. Worry about yourself. You're your own man, now."'' [[The streets outside are crowded, your path dimly-lit.|chp2_morningafter4]]

<<set $knight +=1>> ''"I'll make you proud, Fredrick."'' Your words are quickly spoken, blurted out, directly from the heart. You're still somewhat overwhelmed by today's turn of events. You've never been one to shy away from a worthy challenge, but the prospect of leaving Fredrick behind, abandoning him, hurts you. You turn to Fredrick, a breath pressing past the old man's cracked lips as he peers back, saying nothing at first, his beady brown gaze fixed onto you. It seems like he might have something to say, but it takes a few moments of teetering on the preicipe of speech for him to respond: ''"You don't have to do anything for me, $name. This is for you. This is your life and you don't owe me anything."'' Yet, to say that you have mixed feelings would be an understatement. This man took you in when you were an orphan, with nothing, no one, even your memories were fragmented, lost and broken. He took you in and gave you a chance... and this is his final act, potentially changing your life once more. ''"I know... just.. thank you, Fredrick."'' It takes the old man a few moments, once again, to respond. He's never been good at expressing himself, but you don't mind. You wouldn't have it any other way. ''"You're welcome. Now then..."'' He clears his throat, and Rayner flicks a look between you and the old man before intoning simply, ''"Good. Now, we should get a move on. It'll be the Dark Hour before long and I don't like to challenge superstition. Not if I can avoid it."'' He presses to his feet and you follow suit, but Fredrick stays seated down atop his stool, broad frame slightly hunched. ''"Hmph. This is always the worst part of sitting... standing up. You'll understand one day, if you live to be old and gray."'' With a creak of bones and a muttered curse, he manages to stoop up and onto his feet, using the nearby workbench to steady himself. Rayner smirks, a faint crease of his lips as he observes his friend, ''"So much for dying young, in a blaze of glory, eh? That was always for the lucky few. Those beautiful, glorious, dumb bastards. Do you remember Merrick?"'' Fredrick makes a gruff sound of amusement as he shuffles over to clasp Rayner's hand tightly, ''"Of course. Merrick was a good man. One of the best."'' ''"That he was. I wonder what he'd think if he saw us now."'' ''"He'd probably call us old cunts."'' They both laugh, gripping each other's hand, before eventually their attention turns back to you. ''"Try not to let him do anything too stupid. He's a good kid."'' Fredrick's eyes rest on you, searching your features, before his hand retracts from Rayner's and the old man takes a few steps closer. ''"$name, take care of yourself."'' ''"I will, Fredrick. I'll see you again soon. I'll visit as soon as I'm able."'' ''"Don't worry about me. You're your own man, now."'' He clasps a big hand atop your shoulder and you smile back at //your father//, the man that gave you a fighting chance in this world, one last time. [[The streets outside are crowded, your path dimly-lit.|chp2_morningafter4]]

It's darker than usual, not that it's ever bright in the deep reaches and depths of Undertown. The atmosphere that pervades now is that which precedes the Dark Hour. Once a day, Dosmera eclipses the sun and casts the city of Cradle into an ethemeral nightscape. Dosmera is bright, that much is true, but no one but fools and vagrants stray out into the streets during this strange, daily occurence. You follow in step not far behind Rayner, keeping close amongst the throes of the crowd atop the ruinous, crack-strewn streets. The black of each passing alley winks back at you, stark reminders of the previous day's dalliance that could've cost you your life, or perhaps an even worse fate. Now, against all odds, you're on a trip that may very well be the beginning of a new chapter in your life. A chapter of //ascent//. ''"Keep up,"'' Rayner calls over a shoulder, clearing a path as he goes. Not many in Undertown are as tall, as large, as foreboding as your instructor. No, by-and-large, the dregs of society dwell here, those down on their luck ever since they were birth into this cruel, competitive, cursed citadel of sin and debauchery. You wonder just how different Highrock will be. Or if at the very least, the view is better from above. ''"I hope you don't mind if we make a stop."'' He slows to allow you to step alongside, both of you marching your way through Undertown, passing barren beggars, cloaked crones and dirty dealers packing up their wares as you go. Rayner casts a look high up into the sky, above the slope of cracked walls and fragmented tenaments to assess the state of the sky, obscured by balmy fog and a low, violet mist, ''"I have some business to handle, and it's about that time. The eclipse."'' Hurried, the crowd ebbs and flows as most of them hurry home or into various establishments; enclosed markets, bazaars, bakers and surly bars, packed to the brim with all sorts of sorry characters down on their luck. ''"Works for me. Where is it?"'' ''"Not in Undertown. Have you ever left the Third Quarter, $name?" "Never."'' Rayner tilts a look down at you, eyes alight briefly with a glimmer of amusement. It occurrs in the way that an older man might get a kick out of a youth having his first sip of ale, or lighting up his first cigar. ''"You're about to. We're heading to the main throughfare... the Imperial Highway that runs between each district."'' ''"A Highway?"'' ''"Right. It a big road... elevated. Packed with buildings, shops, everything. Much nicer than here, and more secure."'' You dip a low nod and stick close, though the streets start to empty out and the crowd thins the closer that it draws to the Dark Hour. The pace of your walk increases, and before long, you realize that you don't recognize this part of the quarter, or the district that you're currently in. Already, you're a long way from home. When so many dingy, grungy denizens are packed into each city block, and when you've had no need in the past to travel far beyond your abode, it doesn't take long for things to feel foreign, different, distant. ''"There's two main gates that lead out of the Third Quarter. This is one of them."'' Like most of the roads in Cradle, in Undertown even, the cobblestone is set at a slight incline. You and Rayner find yourselves climbing in elevation as in the distance, set prominently into the face of a dark, expansive wall, the gate itself becomes visible. It's certainly wide enough to fit a half-dozen wagons through in parallel, and tall enough to accomodate giants. Ten men stacked atop each other could potentially tickle the top, just barely. ''"Why do the Quarters have walls and gates between them, Rayner?"'' ''"In case of an invasion... or a rebellion. The Legion can seal off parts of the city, just like how the Lost Quarter was sealed off generations ago."'' You want to ask more, but you're drawing closer to the gate. Like a checkpoint, it's manned by a squadron of Legionnaires. You can see their black helmets gleaming atop the wall, and the glistening of their sheathed blades as they patrol the street before you. ''"If they ask anything, let me do the talking."'' ''"Got it."'' [[Slowly, the line diminishes as more people are filtered through the gateway.|chp2_morningafter5]]

<<audio "traces-to-nowhere" fadeout>> The process is painless, perhaps due to the man standing by your side. Rayner exchanges easy nods with the soldiers who cross your path, Legionnaires who seem to recognize him, or at least acknowledge him. ''"Ascender,"'' one of them calls out, with a firm inclination of his chin. ''"They know I'm an Instructor."'' He explains after, lips quirking just a touch, ''"There's perks to being involved with Highrock. You'll find out soon enough."'' You don't ask any questions, contented by the mere prospect of being //somebody//, and not a complete nobody. If you have to tough out two years of an Academy filled with literate upstarts and spoiled nobility, so be it. You have a chance at becoming an officer in the Legion or possibly, if you fight for it hard enough, an Ascender. For the time being, there's nothing more that you could ask for, hope for, but for things as they stand to... //work//. ''"Welcome to the Imperial Highway. Your chances of getting a dagger in the back just diminished significantly, $name."'' Rayner releases an amused breath and turns his gaze over the large, spiralling roadway that winds both upwards and downwards, leading between the tall, dark, cascading walls of Cradle. ''"But don't get too comfortable. Keep your wits about you, kid, and we'll be just fine. We're going up, quickly. It's about to get dark."'' And thus, you fall into a steady pace beside Rayner, walking quickly, your strides sure and steady. Chin held aloft, you observe the new world that's slowly opening up before you. Even the road, you notice, is far more pristine than any in Undertown. Sculpted smooth, wide, paved evenly and kept free of debris, cracks or crevices. You don't see any pitch-black, yawning gaps in the walls either for the dark and dirty to carve out their alley lairs. You might be able to get used to this. ''"You said we're stopping somewhere, Rayner?"'' ''"That's right."'' You can't help but inquire further as you progress further along your journey, the road long and winding, the crowd scant, though the foot traffic does impress you. There are laborers, craftsmen, soldiers and guards that press through on their business, just like Undertown, but plenty of slaves too; they step along just as quickly, some with collared necks, others wearing insignia, ribbons or other garments that indicate them as such. Others seem to be //actual// nobility, an entirely rare if not unheard of sight in Undertown. They're gentry at the very least, with regalia and fine attire, from dyed linens to sheer silks that adorn their supple figures and clean, unblemished complexions. Men with well-combed beards, mustaches and goatees, and women with elaborate buns, crescent braids and long, flowing locks that brush low against the flared collars of dresses, robes and sleek cloaks. You're already impressed and this is just the Highway. You can't help but wonder what lays in store at Highrock, nestled within the depths of the First Quarter. A place that you never thought you'd set foot, not in this life. Rayner elaborates on his response with time, ''"It's a... //nice// tavern, right outside the Quarter. You'll see. Up here, you should be able to get a glance at the Citadel. But we don't have time to stop and soak in the sights."'' Sure enough, the further you ascend, the more that the highway appears to open up. Various buildings, shops and pavilions begin to line the path, out of the roadway and nestled comfortably against the rising walls. They look nice, most of them. Open and secure, some filled with patrons as the streets clear, the eclipse looming soon now. And past the crest of Cradle's walls, you see the outline against the sky, just yonder. The impressive shape of a dark-stone citadel that crowns the city's peaks. A fortress, you think, a foundation that looks just as much like a temple as it would a castle. The Sorcerer-King's domain, where he and the highest of nobility, their most trusted advisors and the most competent Legates of His Legion reside and call home. From there, they oversee the city. ''"Come on,"'' Rayner breathes out suddenly, starting to pull ahead of you as he eases into a trot, ''"It's that time. The place is just up ahead."'' Far, far above, the sky's light seems to diminish, only the etheral glow of Dosmera and the Highway's feeble lights leading the way onward as you climb further, jogging along behind your soon-to-be Instructor. ''"Right up here."'' He claims, grizzled chin inclining to indicate the road ahead, even as he moves along quickly. Before you know it, he turns towards a large building nestled against a high wall, framed by strong, blocky stones and smooth, burnished wood pillars that give it a rather rustic, homely feel. Yet the sheer size of the place and the quality of the interior, as you soon find out, make the apparent wealth and health of this area quite clear. [[The sun disappears behind you both as you slip through the doorway, the world cast into darkness.|chp2_tavern]]

<<audio "calm-harp" loop play>> The building feels even larger on the inside. High, vaulted ceilings make for an open atmosphere, spacious and well-maintained, with big, round wooden tables strewn across the mainroom to accommodate dozens of conversing patrons. A pair of firepits, lumber lit atop square beds of coal, fill the building with a certain warmth and hearty, wood-smoke aroma. This very well might be the nicest building that you've ever been inside, and it's... a tavern. ''"I told you it's nice,"'' Rayner murmurs aside, lips canted in a subtle smirk as he gauges your reaction, ''"We'll wait out the eclipse here. Make yourself comfortable at the bar or something, eh? I'll find you when I'm done."'' You incline an easy nod and open your mouth to respond, but by then he's already slipped away, leaving you by your lonesome. Surveying the room further, you see a bar, the polished duskwood and upholstered stools gleaming, dancing shadows cast by the flickering flames of the nearest fire. And thus, trying to casually blend in, you slowly start to work your way over whilst observing those gathered throughout the room. Almost everyone you can see, the patrons especially, seem to be human. You've been told before that within Cradle, the most populous race has always been humans. They dominate every caste of society, from the lowliest of slaves to the highest of nobles. Many of the other races exist as underclasses, or in segregated societies that survive, just barely, with the Sorcerer-King's permission and approval. Interestingly enough, among some of whom who you assume to be workers, you spot high, pointed ears. They have elves working here, that much is clear, and you can guess at why even with your limited knowledge. High Elves, as far as you understand, exist as a slave class, completely subjugated. Owning an individual of this race is considered a well-respected acquisition. They are a naturally elegant people, graceful, renowned for their beauty. Many of them are pampered and kept for pleasure, while others are tasked with entertaining those of status, or of coin. This tavern must use them as an attraction of sorts, beyond their utility, reputation even, as competent and obedient servants. These are the thoughts that linger in your mind as you finally arrive at the bar and carefully ease out a stool, swinging a leg over and easing your weight down to rest atop. You stay down at one end of the bar, the emptier end, keeping to yourself. You're out of your element, unwilling to risk attracting unwanted attention. You're surrounded by so many unfamiliar sights, sounds, smells. Plenty to observe and absorb, plenty to keep you busy whilst you wait for Rayner to take care of his business. But like most ideas, it doesn't survive first contact, not for long. ''"Hey, stranger."'' [[Unsettled, you turn towards the source of the voice.|chp2_tavern1]]

''"You don't look like you belong here."'' She's around your age, a young woman, an elf even. Honied brown eyes meet your gaze, studying you closely, curiously, partially concealed beneath her bangs. Those loose silvery-white strands splay down across her forehead, nearly obscuring brows, thin and arched. They convey her emotions quite readily, nestled above a dainty, button nose and healthy red lips. Her ears are long and sharp, an elaborate braid of hair tucked behind. The woman's cheeks are high-boned, regal and rosy against her smooth, fair flesh, flush from the room's heat. She's of slightly above average height, slender and willowy as with most of her kind. You can only assume she's a servant, an employee here, yet she's dressed in finer clothes than yours, soft white linen hugging her curves, embroidered with russet-brown leather and satin stitching. At first, you're unsure of how to respond. But her gaze doesn't waver, and neither does yours. ''"Well... I don't."'' Her lips press together somewhat smugly, though you can't deny how cute it is, that little smirk. ''"I knew it. I never forget a face! I'm Leoris."'' You pause, and the lack of an immediate response causes the girl's thin browns to draw together; she's a bit of a brat, you can already tell: ''"... and you are? What's your name, then?"'' ''"$name."'' ''"Mm, $name, I see. Welcome to the Uneven Queen."'' She peers at you brightly, having already helped herself to the empty stool beside. But just as quickly as she brightens, her expression flattens at your unsure response, ''"The... Uneven Queen?" "... It's the name of the tavern. The Uneven Queen Tavern! Queen's Tavern for short. You really are new around here, aren't you?"'' Her sweet brown eyes dart down along your collar, looking over your neckline, and you soon realize that she's looking for a collar or any sign of insignia. She thinks you're a slave. ''"Oh, right,"'' You murmur, unsure of whether to be confused or amused by the sudden shift in her demeanor and the weight of her undivided attention. ''"I'm here with a friend. He had business and we're waiting out the eclipse."'' ''"Oh, what kind of business? Lemme guess! Yooouuu'rrre a..."'' Her face contorts subtly as she peers at you, her lips pressing into a thin smile, ''"A mercenary! Tell me I'm right."'' [[I'm a student.|chp2_tavern1_knight]] [[I'm a nobody.|chp2_tavern1_cowboy]] [[Yep, I'm a mercenary.|chp2_tavern1_bastard]]

<<set $leoris_tavern_knight to true>> <<set $knight+=1>> ''"I'm a student."'' Leoris' eyes open a bit wider, showing her curiosity clearly, ''"Neat. What do you study?"'' ''"I'm not.. entirely sure just yet. My classes start tomorrow."'' Her dainty face draws closer to yours, just barely, her question pointed, ''"Where?" "It's called Highrock... Highrock Academy of Ascent."'' Her honied brown eyes blink up at you from where she's perched atop her stool, turned almost entirely to face you. ''"You're going to Highrock? N-..."'' Her lips, like a red bow being unwrapped, pull apart as she can't help but giggle, ''"No offense. You don't look like the typical Highrock student. I've known a few."'' ''"Is that so? What're they usually like?"'' ''"Uhm..."'' She hums a breath before giving you a knowing smile, ''"Entitled pricks, mostly. You're an interesting exception."'' You don't stop yourself from grinning, starting to enjoy this distraction from what otherwise would have been a lonely hour at the bar, lingering: ''"I'll take that's a good thing." "Mhm, you could say that. Pupil $name - you better be ready, that's what they'll call you from now on."'' ''"I have a feeling that'll be the least of my worries, soon."'' You rest an elbow atop the bar and prop up your chin with a clenched fist, lounging as you regard your new high-elf acquaintance sidelong. ''"Oh,"'' She breathes, as though running your situation through her mind, ''"You're probably right."'' <<if $might gte 1 and $mind gte 1>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And you seem smart, too. An uncommon combination. You'll do great as a student... You're going to put some of those Highrocks pricks in their place."'' <<elseif $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And athletic. You look fit. Most of those Highrock pricks won't be able to compete with you... physically."'' <<elseif $mobility gte 1 and $mind gte 1>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders, $name."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"You're athletic, too, I can tell. Fit. You'll handle yourself just fine at Highrock, I already know it."'' <<elseif $might gte 2>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... really big, and tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your meaty bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"I have a feeling you'll teach those Highrock pricks some humility. Just look at you..."'' She trails off, before tittering a little, breathy laugh. <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"You're very athletic, too, I can tell. Fit like a fighter. I have a feeling that you can outcompete most of those Highrock pricks."'' <<elseif $mind gte 2>> Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"But you seem very intelligent, $name. I can just tell... the way you talk, the look in your eyes. You'll be a great student, I already know it."''<</if>> ''"I appreciate that, Leoris."'' You murmur your thanks, comfortable. It's not often that you meet someone who makes you feel like you can let your guard down and just... relax. Someone so open, so bright, and seemingly unjudgemental; beautiful too, that part is hard to ignore. For better or for worse, sometimes your brain isn't the part of your body that's running the show. ''"So,"'' You venture, ''"What do you do here?"'' ''"I'm an entertainer,"'' She replies readily, her lips pressing into a pert, pretty smile, ''"As you can imagine, I'm obligated to work here. But it's not bad. I like my boss, my coworkers... I get to dance, swing, provide... pleasure. I really enjoy it."'' Leoris says, warm brown eyes turning downcast over your face, ''"You know, making others happy."'' ''"What's your favorite par--"'' You start to reply with a casual bob of your head, before hearing a sudden crash. [[The loud shattering of ceramic cuts through the din of the tavern.|chp2_tavern1_dishdrop]]

<<set $leoris_tavern_cowboy to true>> <<set $cowboy +=1>> ''"I'm a nobody."'' ''"A nobody?"'' Leoris echoes with a sideways cant of her head, bangs falling further as she considers you, ''"What do you mean?"'' You hitch up your shoulders and slowly lean forward, resting an elbow atop the bar. Propping your chin up atop a clenched fist, you regard your new high-elf acquiantance sidelong, ''"I'm no one special. Just a guy from Undertown. An adopted cobbler's apprentice. Nothing more, nothing less." "Mhm,"'' She breathes softly, watching you still, showing her curiosity and even a hint of suspicion quite clearly, ''"And what is an apprentice cobbler doing on the Imperial Highway, in the Uneven Queen, with a friend who's doing 'business'..."'' What a tiresome girl, you think, before relenting, ''"Apparently my... classes start, tomorrow. A place called Highrock Academy. It's a long story, but I only found out today that I'd be.. //attending.//"'' Her honied brown eyes blink up at you from where she's perched atop her stool, turned almost entirely to face you. ''"You're going to Highrock? N-..."'' Her lips, like a red bow being unwrapped, pull apart as she can't help but giggle, ''"No offense. You don't look like the typical Highrock student. I've known a few." "No offense taken." "Mmph... you're definitely different. In a good way."'' ''"Right,"'' You intone, cocking a brow as you look her over. ''"I'll take that as a compliment."'' <<if $might gte 1 and $mind gte 1>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, "You look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And you seem smart, too. An uncommon combination. You'll do great as a student... You're going to put some of those Highrocks pricks in their place."'' <<elseif $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"You look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And athletic. You look fit. Most of those Highrock pricks won't be able to compete with you... physically."'' <<elseif $mobility gte 1 and $mind gte 1>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"You seem like you have a good head on your shoulders, $name."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"You're athletic, too, I can tell. Fit. You'll handle yourself just fine at Highrock, I already know it."'' <<elseif $might gte 2>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"You look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name. You're big... really big, and tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your meaty bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"I have a feeling you'll teach those Highrock pricks some humility. Just look at you..."'' She trails off, before tittering a little, breathy laugh. <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"You look capable. I'm sure you'll do fine, $name."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"You're very athletic, too, I can tell. Fit like a fighter. I have a feeling that you can outcompete most of those Highrock pricks."'' <<elseif $mind gte 2>> ''"It is."'' Brightly, she just as quickly offers you words of encouragement, ''"You seem very intelligent, $name. I can just tell... the way you talk, the look in your eyes. You'll be a great student, I already know it."''<</if>> ''"I appreciate that, Leoris."'' You murmur your thanks, a part of your mind somewhat wearily considering whether she has an ulterior motive in speaking to you like this. It's not often that you speak to someone so open, so bright, especially with an appearance like hers. But for better or for worse, your brain isn't the part of your body that always runs the show. ''"So what do you do here?"'' ''"I'm an entertainer,"'' She replies readily, her lips pressing into a pert, pretty smile, ''"As you can imagine, I'm obligated to work here. But it's not bad. I like my boss, my coworkers... I get to dance, swing, provide.. pleasure. I really enjoy it."'' Leoris says, warm brown eyes turning downcast over your face, ''"You know, making others happy."'' ''"I can only imagin--"'' You start to reply with a casual bob of your head, before hearing a sudden crash. [[The loud shattering of ceramic cuts through the din of the tavern.|chp2_tavern1_dishdrop]]

<<set $leoris_tavern_bastard to true>> <<set $bastard +=1>> ''"Yep, I'm a mercenary."'' Her eyes open a bit wider, whilst her lips press together in a sudden, white-toothed smile, ''"I knew it! Everything about you screams mercenary; a merc between jobs. Tall and able, a little bedragged, dirty and dingy - no offense - with a handsome face. Quiet, mysterious, alone, with manners too."'' ''"Is that what you think?"'' You respond absently, barely concealing the low wave of amusement that's building up inside of you. Some annoyance too; she talks and talks and talks, but there's something wholesome about her energy and the way that she rattles on. It certainly helps that she's young and lithesome, beautiful, especially the scent of perfume that lingers on her smooth skin, sweet and floral. You can't help but have your fun with her. ''"Of course, I knew it as soon as I laid eyes on you. I spend a lot of time watching people... talking to people.."'' Her words wither away as she regards you fully, and you readily return her gaze without flinching away. ''"What was it that really gave me away, Leoris?"'' Your lips quirk as her warm brown eyes flicking down, tracing the shape of your mouth as she considers her response. A rare occurrence given the course of your interaction thus far. But soon, she responds with a measured confidence. <<if $might gte 1 and $mind gte 1>> ''"You look capable. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And you seem smart, too. An uncommon combination. You seem like the type to keep your wits about you when under pressure, $name."'' <<elseif $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> ''"You look capable. You're big... tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"And athletic. You look fit, nimble. Is there any better combination for a mercenary, $name?"'' <<elseif $mobility gte 1 and $mind gte 1>> ''"You look capable."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"You're athletic... fit. It's easy to tell. And you seem smart too, $name. The type who keeps their wits about them when under pressure. Those are good qualities for a mercenary, no?"'' <<elseif $might gte 2>> ''"You look capable. You're big... really big, and tough."'' Abruptly, she reaches out and slides a slender digit down the slope of your meaty bicep, right beneath the tattered edge of your sleeve, ''"You're the type of man that commands respect. A good quality for a mercenary, no? Just look at yourself, $name..."'' She trails off, before tittering a little, breathy laugh. <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> ''"You look capable. Very athletic, it's easy to tell."'' Her eyes briefly depart from your face, skimming down over your frame, ''"Fit like a natural-born fighter. I have a feeling that not many can stand toe-to-toe with you, $name. That screams mercenary to me more than anything else."'' <<elseif $mind gte 2>> ''"You look capable and seem... very intelligent, $name. There's a keeness to your gaze, and the way you talk... You seem quick-witted and adaptable. Good traits for a mercenary, no?"''<</if>> ''"Maybe you're right, Leoris. You've got me all figured out."'' You murmur through a faint smile, the corners of your lips subtly curved as you regard the elven female before you. She's a nice girl, a bit naive, but open and bright. If you weren't such a smartass, she's the type of woman that you wouldn't mind opening up to, or relaxing around. But instead, perhaps you'll spend the hour seeing just how far you can take this. ''"So what do you do here?"'' You question aloud, to which she replies readily, her lips pressing into a pretty, pert smile, ''"I'm an entertainer! As you might've guessed, I'm obligated to work here. But it's not bad. I like my boss, my coworkers... I get to dance, sing, provide.. pleasure. I really enjoy it."'' Leoris' warm brown eyes turn downcast over your face, watching you closely, ''"You know, making others happy."'' ''"You seem like a fun gir--"'' You start to reply with a tick of his chin, before hearing a sudden crash. [[The loud shattering of ceramic cuts through the din of the tavern.|chp2_tavern1_dishdrop]]

<<audio "dishes-fall" play>> <<audio "calm-harp" fadeout>> Across the main room, admist the hustle and bustle of the tavern's filled sprawl, a burly orcish servant shatters a serving dish stacked with dirty plates and clay cups across the hardwood floor. A mustached man sallies forth from behind the bar to berate the slave, and for the most part, the surrounding patrons seem to get a kick out of the whole spectacle. The greenskin server, with the signature protruding underbite of his race, complies to the verbal abuse with a bow of his head, hurriedly shuffling down onto his knees to try and gather up the broken remnants. ''"A broom, fool! Do you know what a broom is? Don't use your big, dumb hands like a savage!"'' Leoris' brows draw together as you both clearly hear the lambasting, the atmosphere of the tavern shifting quite visibly, loud and clamorous over what had been a relaxing conversation. But just as quickly, she quips up at you with a shining smile, ''"It's loud in here, $name. Let's go somewhere better."'' ''"Such as...?"'' You breath back the question, calm and collected, though you're intrigued by the suggestion. She sweeps that fluid curtain of silvery-white hair from her face as ahe looks intently back at you, ''"Wanna see my apartment?"'' [["Sure."|chp2_leoris_apartment]]

<<audio "door-open-close" play>> <<audio "sunny-stars" loop play>> High above the Uneven Queen, at the end of a well-lit hall, a key is turned and a door opens. Gracefully, Leoris welcomes you within into her loft, a warm room that feels very lived-in, full of character. ''"This is all yours?"'' You murmur, casting a look down at the high-elf, whose honied brown eyes back up into yours, ''"Mhm. Make yourself at home, $name."'' ''"That'll be easy. This is a lot nicer than my room."'' ''"Not everyone can live in the lap of luxury like me,"'' She chirps back, striding deeper into her apartment with a little pep to her step, a natural bounce, undeniably feminine. ''"I told you that the job comes with benefits, didn't I?"'' She stops at a vanity, or dressing table, pressed against the wall midway through the room. Still speaking, she slides open a drawer and procures a little, fine-bristled brush, carefully combing out her silvery-white locks. ''"Just don't make a mess. You're not a messy man, are you?"'' ''"I can be."'' You respond with a twitch of your lips, absently looking through the rest of her quarters. Her bed, wide and spacious, lay nested opposite the vanity. A small stone hearth stands constructed into the farthest wall, near a scarlet loveseat covered in cushions and big, plush velvety pillows. A table with various odds and ends, baubbles collecting atop, stands out to you along with several shelves... bookshelves, with books. Odd. ''"Whose are these?"'' You can't help but pose the question aloud, ticking a look back towards the prissy elf as she flits through her hair with the brush,'' "Hmm?" "There's a lot of books in here." "Mhm, I love a good story."'' Dumbfounded, you stare at the rosy-faced elf, ''"You can read?"'' <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy is true or $leoris_tavern_knight is true>> ''"You can't?"'' From the corner of her eye, attention still partially placed unto the mirror before her, Leoris gives you an incredulous look. You give her flat look back, before she breathes out, the huff displacing her bangs as they skim over her forehead, ''"Oh my. I mean... You'll be doing a lot of reading at Highrock, won't you?"'' ''"I guess you're right. I'll have to learn, they have tutors and instructors for that. When did you learn how to read, though? I thought sla--..."'' You stop yourself from using that word, unsure of how she'll react. You haven't exactly directly broached the topic yet. But she gives a shake of her head, readily replying, ''"It's fine. It's not illegal... just frowned upon. You know, the enslaved and indentured becoming literate. As you might've guessed, the owners here are different than most. Relaxed. They give us a lot of privileges. Besides, I'm not your typical girl."'' Her head turns as she regards you, applying a creamy balm to her thick lips with the press of a slender digit, which slowly slips past the precipice, sinking into the heat of her mouth. Sensually suctioning down atop, she starts to withdraw her finger, sucking it like a lollipop until that digit retracts with an audible 'pop' ''"I know what I want, and I always get it."'' ''"And what is it that you want, Leoris?"'' Your question causes her head to tilt slightly, looking at you through warm, downcast eyes and thick lashes, ''"Mmff, right now?"'' Her lips curve at the corners, before she turns on heel. <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>> ''"You can't?"'' From the corner of her eye, attention still partially placed unto the mirror before her, Leoris gives you an incredulous look before blinking. ''"Oh right,"'' She breathes out, the huff displacing her bangs as they skim over her forehead, you staring back all the while, unphased. ''"I suppose you don't have much use for it, do you?"'' ''"Never. But you're a curious girl, Leoris. How did you learn to read?"'' She releases a little laugh, before readily replying with a shake of her head, ''"I'm not a typical girl, $name."'' Her head turns as she regards you, applying a creamy balm to her thick lips with the press of a slender digit, which slowly slips past the precipice, sinking into the heat of her mouth. Sensually suctioning down atop, she starts to withdraw her finger, sucking it like a lollipop until that digit retracts with an audible 'pop'. ''"I know what I want, and I always get it."'' ''"Is that right?"'' You murmur back, slowly drawing further into the room, closer to the elf before you. ''"Mhm,"'' She makes a low sound of affirmation, still looking at you through warm, downcast eyes and thick lashes, ''"If you could write, $name... I bet you would have great stories to tell." "I have one in mind right now."'' ''"Really?" "It's true. A tale about a clever and unbelievably cute elf girl, and her heated encounter with a rogue mercenary; a man in a mean trade, with a guarded heart."'' Her eyes crease pleasantly as she regards you still, rosy cheeks dimpled, head canted just a touch to one side as you draw close, ''"That's quite the tale. Tell me, does she manage to win him over? Melt his cold, cruel heart?"'' You can't help but grin, showing a gleam of teeth as you draw closer, nearer, nary a step away, peering down into the feminine face below, ''"That part has yet to be written. Isn't that how stories work? They have to occur before they can jotted down."'' Her lips curve at the corners, before she sticks out a pink peek of tongue at you, ''"Unless the story is entirely imagined!"'' She laughs and turns on heel before you can respond, drawing across the room. <</if>> She heads across the room to the hearth, procuring a piece of flint as she sets about striking and lighting a fire, calling over a shoulder meanwhile, ''"Do you mind if I get more comfortable, $name? You're not in a rush to leave, are you?"'' [[Not at all. (18+)|chp2_leoris_apartment1]] [[Actually, I shouldn't linger long.|chp2_leoris_earlydeparture]]

<center><img src="images/leoris1.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"Not at all."'' A growing flame lights the tinder and slowly trickles upwards, engulfing the few pieces of timber nestled into the depths of the hearth. And carefully, the high elf transfers that flame to a slender wax candle atop the room's table. ''"This must be where you read in the evenings, hm? Cozy."'' She nods her affirmation, lips quirked in a faint smile, ''"Exactly. Please, make yourself comfortable."'' There's a cushioned chair next the table, perpendicular to the loveseat. Casually, you step over and start to ease your way down, helping yourself. With the candle lit, situated between the table and loveseat, her slender fingers start to nimbly undo the lacing to her flowing, white bodice, as though preparing to strip down. To your surprise, that's exactly what she does, the top peeling away past the brush of silvery hair to reveal a long, slender torso of fair flesh, glistening from the day's heat. Her bra, an exquisite burgundy lace that flaunts tastefully the smooth curve of her chest. Her bottoms follow soon after, hips shimmying side-to-side until her thighs are bared for you, only a supple crimson thong separating your gaze from her nethers. You try not to stare, but it's clear that she's putting on a bit of a show. Whether she's just a tease, or a full-blown seductress, you've yet to determine. But you're certainly looking forward to finding out. ''"That's great,"'' You murmur, somewhat amused, ''"Reading, that is. I'm sure it's great."'' ''"It is!"'' She affirms, slowly sliding back and settling atop the loveseat with the crossing of her long, lavish legs. Though, this comes after she pulls something from a hidden drawer within the round table before you; a pipe and a pouch. ''"This is where I read... and smoke. Have you ever had hashish, $name?"'' [[Sure, it's a habit of mine.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_sure]] [[No, but anything's worth trying once.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_trying]] [[Never. It's a nasty habit.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_never]]

<<set $chp2_hash is false>> <<set $leoris_nosex is true>> ''"Actually, I shouldn't linger long. I don't want to set false expectations."'' ''"Oh,"'' Leoris murmurs, her dainty thin-arched brows drawing up in what seems to be surprise, followed by the subtle purse of her red lips. What might be disappointment disappears in an instant, much to her credit. Graceful as always, she recovers and moves the conversation along quickly, ''"I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable, $name. It's fine if we just chat for a little then, right?"'' <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy is true or $leoris_tavern_knight is true>> ''"Of course,"'' You affirm, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, as to avoid completely ruining the encounter. She doesn't seem to mind, though the interaction felt like it was going in a completely different direction before, ''"I wouldn't have came up here with you if I wasn't interested in getting to know you."'' ''"Right!"'' She chirps, rosy-cheeks dimpling before she looses a little, breathy laugh, ''"You seem like you have a good heart, $name. I think I was right - you will be a good student!"'' The conversation continues on, remaining rather relaxed. You get to learn a little more about each other, from random trivia about the Uneven Queen to Leoris' favorite color (red). You're not sure how much time passes, not that you're paying attention. You just know that you're grateful for the good company and distraction. It's not often that you get to spend time one-on-one with someone who's capable of carrying on an interesting conversation. ''"You better come and visit me again, $name! So you can tell me all about your classes at Highrock and what kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Though I have a feeling you'll do just fine in that regard."'' She smiles brightly and shoots you over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course, I'll do my best. I don't intend on getting into any trouble, not if I can help it."'' ''"I hope you keep your word! I don't get to see much of Cradle... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"I'll be here if you ever need someone to talk to, $name."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and regal. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be hear to listen, someone for you to lean on. And I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_trulyonlyaconvo]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>> ''"Of course,"'' You affirm, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, as to avoid completely ruining the encounter. She doesn't seem to mind, though the interaction felt like it was going in a completely different direction before, ''"I wouldn't have came up here with you if I wasn't interested in getting to know you."'' ''"Right!"'' She chirps, rosy-cheeks dimpling before she looses a little, breathy laugh, ''"You seem like you have a good heart, $name. You might be the most interesting mercenary that I've met."'' The conversation continues on, remaining rather relaxed. You get to learn a little more about each other, from random trivia about the Uneven Queen to Leoris' favorite color (red). You're not sure how much time passes, not that you're paying attention. You just know that you're grateful for the good company and distraction. It's not often that you get to spend time one-on-one with someone who's capable of carrying on an interesting conversation. ''"You better come and visit me again, $name! So you can tell me all about your jobs, your travels... the kind of people that you meet and the sights you see... any trouble that you may get into! Though I doubt that'll be an issue, you seem very squared away. I believe in you."'' She smiles brightly and shoots you over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course, I'll do my best. I don't intend on getting into any trouble."'' ''"I hope you keep your word! I don't get to see much of Cradle... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. ''"I'll be here if you ever need someone to talk to, $name."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and regal. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about the trials of your line of work... and I'll be here to listen. Someone for you to lean on and vent to. I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_trulyonlyaconvo]]<</if>>

<center><img src="images/leoris1.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"Sure, it's a habit of mine."'' <<set $chp2_hash is true>> You have a feeling that Fredrick always knew about your little habit, too. It's hard to cover the scent, especially in your little cell of a room back home. But that was always the most convenient place to have a smoke if you wanted to be alone. Peace and privacy is a luxury in Undertown. Otherwise you had to put up with your "friends", none of whom you were particularly close with. It has been difficult for you to meet people worthy of your trust, let alone friendship. The youth of Undertown are always after something, chasing wealth and pleasure in the streets, or devoting themselves to their work. Whatever it takes to survive. But what about living well, or fanning the flames of a greater purpose? Xander comes to mind, one of the few lads that you didn't mind being around. A few years older than you, less flippant than the others, but you haven't seen or heard much from him ever since he decided to join the Legion. Every once in a while, you'll catch him patrolling the main throughfares in Undertown. There are certainly worse jobs. ''"Nice..."'' Leoris responds breathily, breaking you from your reverie as she begins to pack the pipe. ''"But I should warn you, this stuff is strong. It's from a good source. Lap of luxury, remember?" "Luxurious Leoris."'' Your retort draws a soft giggle from the elf as she peers back at you through downcast lashes, ''"I like that."'' ''"Here, I'll let you have the honors. Use the candle."'' You accept the offered pipe and carefully lean forward atop your chair, boots planted firmly onto the floor beneath you. It takes a single attempt to light, and you waste no time, your lips puckered tight as you take a full, hearty drag from the pipe, immediately inhaling the heady fumes and exhaling tendrils of smoke through your flared nostrils. It hits you hard, that warmth spreading throughout your face and bringing tears to your eyes. ''"Shit,"'' You finally intone, which produces a little, amused laugh from Leoris' lips. Slowly, you stretch out an arm to offer the pipe back, and she happily accepts it. <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy is true or $leoris_tavern_knight is true>> ''"I love it. My newest friend from Highrock getting //high// the day before class. Maybe you won't be the star-pupil that I thought you'd be after all."'' Already, you feel the numbness setting in. You don't fight it, slumping back into your chair which feels even more comfortable than before. ''"Hmmph,"'' You murmur, ''"Even a King needs to relax and enjoy good company, every once in a while." "Ooooh, I see."'' She coos, nodding her approval with an air of amusement as she sets about packing the pipe once more. ''"I'm sorry for ever doubting you, my liege."'' <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>> ''"I love it. Seeing such a cold, hard man able to finally relax."'' Already, you feel the numbness setting in. You don't fight it, slumping back into your chair which feels even more comfortable than before. ''"Hmmph,"'' You murmur, ''"Even a warrior needs to relax and enjoy good company, every once in a while." "Ooooh, I see."'' She coos, absently smiling as she repacks the pipe, ''"Well then, my mighty warrior. Please relax, as I'm the best company you could ever ask for."'' <</if>> It's her turn now, pert lips nestled against the pipe's stem as she uses the candle's flame once more. The first toke turns her face even more rosy, heady from the herb's warmth and the fire that crackles directly behind, casting dancing shadows over the apartment. This is nice, you think, incredibly nice, your gaze straying over her half-naked figure, long and lithesome, with flesh that you'd love to pull at, stroke, and squeeze. She catches your gaze, her lips only pulling further at one corner, unabashed. It might be that she enjoys the attention, you reason, and you're certainly happy to give it away. ''"You should.."'' She starts softly, letting the pipe rest in a dainty hand as she crosses her lissome legs once more, ''".. get more comfortable, too."'' [[As Leoris watches, you start to strip.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip]]

<center><img src="images/leoris1.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"No, but anything's worth trying once."'' <<set $chp2_hash is true>> ''"Ooooh, you'll let me get you high for the first time?"'' Leoris' face immediately lights up at the prospect, and you dip an easy nod, ''"Sure, why not?"'' Hell, you'd let her do just about anything to you right now. How quickly men and their morality whither when presented with a hot chick. Or maybe it's not that deep. You had plenty of "friends" that smoked hash in Undertown, none of whom you were particularly close with. It has always been difficult for you to meet people worthy of your trust, let alone friendship. The youth of Undertown are always after something, chasing wealth and pleasure in the streets, or devoting themselves to their work. Whatever it takes to survive. But what about living well, or fanning the flames of a greater purpose? That's all to say, you might've smoked sooner if you had different friends. Having your first toke in a comfortable apartment loft, with an irresistable high-elf who you'd love to grow closer to, seems like an opportunity too good to pass up. ''"Great,"'' Leoris chirps, breaking you from your reverie as she begins to pack the pipe. ''"But I should warn you, this stuff is strong. It's from a good source. Lap of luxury, remember?"'' ''"Luxurious Leoris."'' Your retort draws a soft giggle from the elf as she peers back at you through downcast lashes, ''"I like that."'' ''"Here, I'll let you have the honors. Do you know how to do it?" "It can't be that hard. Lemme light it." "Yes, use the candle. Careful now."'' You accept the offered pipe and carefully lean forward atop your chair, boots planted firmly onto the floor beneath you. You take a few attempts to light it, your lips puckered awkwardly around the pipe as you take a half-hearted drag. You inhale some of the heady fumes to your surprise, unable to suppress a sudden cough and sputtered breath. <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy is true or $leoris_tavern_knight is true>> Leoris can't help but laugh softly, ''"Easy there. I guess you haven't taken Herbology at Highrock yet, have you?"'' It hits you hard, that warmth spreading throughout your face and bringing tears to your eyes. ''"Shit.. herbology you said?"'' Another little, amused laugh follows, ''"Sorry, bad joke. Here."'' She reaches for the pipe, happily accepting it back once you stretch out your arm with it in hand. ''"I love it. My newest friend from Highrock getting //high// the day before class. Maybe you won't be the star-pupil that I thought you'd be after all."'' Already, you feel the numbness setting in. You don't fight it, slumping back into your chair which feels even more comfortable than before. ''"Hmmph,"'' You murmur, ''"Even a King needs to relax, enjoy good company, and experiment every once in a while."'' ''"Ooooh, I see."'' She coos, nodding her approval with an air of amusement as she sets about packing the pipe once more. ''"I'm sorry for ever doubting you, my liege."'' <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>> Leoris can't help but laugh softly, ''"And the heartless mercenary finally meets his match. A herb!"'' It hits you hard, that warmth spreading throughout your face and bringing tears to your eyes. ''"Shit.. I was not expecting that."'' Another little, amused laugh follows, ''"Don't worry, it happens to everyone their first time. It's the smoke."'' She reaches for the pipe, happily accepting it back once you stretch out your arm with it in hand. ''"You probably have to stay sober for your work, most of the time. I understand." "Exactly,"'' You respond, slowly loosening up. ''"I love it. Seeing such a cold, hard man able to finally relax."'' Already, you feel the numbness setting in. You don't fight it, slumping back into your chair which feels even more comfortable than before. ''"Hmmph,"'' You murmur, ''"Even a warrior needs to relax, enjoy good company, and experiment every once in a while." "Ooooh, I see."'' She coos, absently smiling as she repacks the pipe, ''"Well then, my mighty warrior. Please relax, as I'm the best company you could ever ask for."''<</if>> It's her turn now, pert lips nestled against the pipe's stem as she uses the candle's flame once more. The first toke turns her face even more rosy, heady from the herb's warmth and the fire that crackles directly behind, casting dancing shadows over the apartment. This is nice, you think, incredibly nice, your gaze straying over her half-naked figure, long and lithesome, with flesh that you'd love to pull at, stroke, and squeeze. She catches your gaze, her lips only pulling further at one corner, unabashed. It might be that she enjoys the attention, you reason, and you're certainly happy to give it away. ''"You should.."'' She starts softly, letting the pipe rest in a dainty hand as she crosses her lissome legs once more, ''".. get more comfortable, too."'' [[As Leoris watches, you start to strip.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip]]

<<set $chp2_hash is false>> <<set $leoris_nosex is true>> ''"Never. It's a nasty habit."'' ''"Oh,"'' Leoris murmurs, her dainty thin-arched brows drawing up in what seems to be surprise, followed by the subtle purse of her red lips. She seems disappointed - did you just kill the mood? You can be brutally honest, and it's rare that you stray from your values. Hashish is for losers and bums. That's what Fredrick told you long ago and everything that you've seen up to now seems to confirm that. You won't let your morality whither for the sake of some tail. You had plenty of "friends" that smoked hash in Undertown, none of whom you were particularly close with. It has always been difficult for you to meet people worthy of your trust, let alone friendship. The youth of Undertown are always after something, chasing wealth and pleasure in the streets, or devoting themselves to their work. Whatever it takes to survive. But what about living well, or fanning the flames of a greater purpose? ''"Well then!"'' Graceful as always, Leoris to her credit seems to recover rather quickly, stowing away that pipe and pouch just as quickly as they were retrieved. ''"I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable, $name. It's not for everyone. It just helps me relax every once and a while, if that makes sense."'' <<if $leoris_tavern_cowboy is true or $leoris_tavern_knight is true>> ''"It does make sense,"'' You affirm, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, as to avoid completely ruining the encounter. She doesn't seem to mind, though the interaction felt like it was going in a completely different direction before, ''"It's just not for me. Especially right now, considering tomorrow..."'' ''"Right!"'' She chirps, rosy-cheeks dimpling before she looses a little, breathy laugh, ''"I'm sorry, that was bad of me, wasn't it? I shouldn't be trying to get you high the day before your classes!"'' You huff your agreement, while the high elf only seems to grow more amused by the prospect. ''"See, $name? I was right! You will be a good student!"'' The conversation continues on, remaining rather relaxed. You get to learn a little more about each other, from random trivia about the Uneven Queen to Leoris' favorite color (red). You're not sure how much time passes, not that you're paying attention. You just know that you're grateful for the good company and distraction. It's not often that you get to spend time one-on-one with someone who's capable of carrying on an interesting conversation. ''"You better come and visit me again, $name! So you can tell me all about your classes at Highrock and what kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Though I have a feeling you'll do just fine in that regard."'' She smiles brightly and shoots you over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course, I'll do my best. I don't intend on getting into any trouble, not if I can help it."'' ''"I hope you keep your word! I don't get to see much of Cradle... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"I'll be here if you ever need someone to talk to, $name."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and regal. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be hear to listen, someone for you to lean on. And I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_onlyaconvo]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>> ''"It does make sense,"'' You affirm, trying to keep the conversation light and casual, as to avoid completely ruining the encounter. She doesn't seem to mind, though the interaction felt like it was going in a completely different direction before, ''"It's just not for me. I try to stay sober for my work."'' ''"Oh, right,"'' She chirps, rosy-cheeks dimpling before she looses a little, breathy laugh, ''"I never really thought I'd meet a sober mercenary! A lot of them... well, to put it nicely, a lot of them like to drink and smoke. For some of them, being sober is rare."'' You huff your agreement, ''"Trust me, I know. That's not the type of person that I am."'' ''"I can tell,"'' She replies thoughtfully, ''"You're very... different. It's impressive."'' The conversation continues on, remaining rather relaxed. You get to learn a little more about each other, from random trivia about the Uneven Queen to Leoris' favorite color (red). You're not sure how much time passes, not that you're paying attention. You just know that you're grateful for the good company and distraction. It's not often that you get to spend time one-on-one with someone who's capable of carrying on an interesting conversation. ''"You better come and visit me again, $name! So you can tell me all about your jobs, your travels... the kind of people that you meet and the sights you see... any trouble that you may get into! Though I doubt that'll be an issue, you seem very squared away. I believe in you."'' She smiles brightly and shoots you over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course, I'll do my best. I don't intend on getting into any trouble."'' ''"I hope you keep your word! I don't get to see much of Cradle... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. ''"I'll be here if you ever need someone to talk to, $name."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and regal. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about the trials of your line of work... and I'll be here to listen. Someone for you to lean on and vent to. I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, barely audible. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_onlyaconvo]]<</if>>

<<if $might gte 2>> ''"Happily,"'' comes your response, low and leisurely. Every movement feels more exaggerated, effortful, as you're engulfed by the warm embrace of the herb's effects. Meaty forearms tingling, you slip your fingers down beneath the hem of your shirt and start to peel it off, revealing your wide, muscular torso for the elf to gaze upon. She soaks in the sight, honied brown eyes and thick lashes downcast over your naked flesh, from the bulging slopes of your biceps to the thick expanse of your chest. You're bigger than most, stronger too, and it only becomes more evident the less clothing you have clinging to your sturdy form. You aren't exactly shy about it either, slowly lifting your ass from the chair beneath you, just enough to start and work your trousers down to the ground. Solid thighs splay out atop your seat, tapering towards the hard cap of your knees, down into the trained curve of striated calves and strong, arched feet once your boots are finally kicked off beneath the table. ''"Fuck,"'' Leoris murmurs, pert lips curved around the pipe's stem, ''"What were they feeding you back home?"'' ''"I have a big appetite,"'' You jest, but it's true; for food and fucking. Already, the hard bulge of your cock is barely concealed within your drawers, half-erect between the parting of your thighs. ''"I hope you don't mind."'' She's noticed, because her eyes are lingering there on your crotch; her face is redder than before, but it could be the second toke from the pipe. Leoris doesn't seem the type to be embarrassed, although it could be eagerness. ''"Do you mind if I touch?"'' Her question is quiet, breathty and low, though her eyes do tick up from the brawn of your body and the bulge of your cock, to lock eyes with you: ''"Your body. Do you mind if I touch your body, $name? I quite like it..."'' Your lips curve as you study her gaze, before assenting with a dip of your chin, ''"Not at all. Help yourself."'' Like a feline rising from their perch, frisky and fawning, Leoris presses up from the loveseat and prowls closer to you atop barefeet, weight placed on her slender toes like a dancer, before she presses onto you. Her small hands go to your chest, splayed out against your firm pecs whilst her knees settle onto either side of you, straddling your lap. There, she breathes down onto you, ''"Lay back. Relax, you big hunk."'' ''"I'll try,"'' You murmur reluctantly, slowly settling your head against the chair's back, your body slumped down atop it, although you're still overly aware of her weight and warmth atop your crotch, against your body, those soft hands smoothing over the breadth of your chest and wide shoulders. ''"It's hard to relax when you make me excited."'' ''"Oh, do I?"'' She chirps back, tone playful as her dainty hands and smooth palms roll over the crest of your shoulders and down the length of your arms, softly squeezing and stroking your sturdy musculature. ''"How do I make you excited?"'' ''"I think you're well aware, Leoris." "Mhm..."'' She teases back, her rosy cheeks dimpled as her chin tucks low, face carefully closing in before she pecks a small kiss against the flank of your neck, ''"But I wanna hear you say it. Is that too much for a girl to ask?"'' <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> ''"Happily,"'' comes your response, low and leisurely. Every movement feels more exaggerated, effortful, as you're engulfed by the warm embrace of the herb's effects. Taut forearms tingling, you slip your fingers down beneath the hem of your shirt and start to peel it off, revealing your lean, ripped torso for the elf to gaze upon. She soaks in the sight, honied brown eyes and thick lashes downcast over your naked flesh, from the definition in your lengthy limbs to the chiselled ridges of your midsection. You're fitter than most, athletic too, and it only becomes more evident the less clothing you have clinging to your limber form. You aren't exactly shy about it either, slowly lifting your ass from the chair beneath you, just enough to start and work your trousers down to the ground. Trim thighs splay out atop your seat, tapering down towards the hard cap of your knees, down into the trained curve of able calves and high-arched feet once your boots are finally kicked off beneath the table. ''"Fuck,"'' Leoris murmurs, pert lips curved around the pipe's stem, ''"Why are you so ripped?"'' ''"I take my training seriously,"'' You reply, telling her the truth. And your fucking too, you think to say, your cock already half-erect, barely concealed beneath your drawers and the parting of your thighs. ''"What do you think?"'' She's noticed, because her eyes are lingering there on your crotch; her face is redder than before, but it could be the second toke from the pipe. Leoris doesn't seem the type to be embarrassed, although it could be eagerness. ''"Wha-.. Oh, it's great. Wonderful. Do you mind if I touch?"'' Her question is quiet, breathy and low, though her eyes do bob up from the your washboard abs and the bulge of your cock, to lock eyes with you: ''"Your body. Do you mind if I touch your body, $name? I quite like it..."'' Your lips curve as you study her gaze, before assenting with a dip of your chin, ''"Not at all. Help yourself."'' Like a feline rising from their perch, frisky and fawning, Leoris presses up from the loveseat and prowls closer to you atop barefeet, weight placed on her slender toes like a dancer, before she presses onto you. Her small hands go to your chest, splayed out against your firm pecs whilst her knees settle onto either side of you, straddling your lap. There, she breathes down onto you, ''"Lay back. Relax, you fine man."'' ''"I'll try,"'' You murmur reluctantly, slowly settling your head against the chair's back, your body slumped down atop it, although you're still overly aware of her weight and warmth atop your crotch, against your body, those soft hands smoothing over the breadth of your chest and round shoulders. ''"It's hard to relax when you make me excited."'' ''"Oh, do I?"'' She chirps back, tone playful as her dainty hands and smooth palms roll over the crest of your shoulders and down the length of your arms, softly squeezing and stroking your lean musculature. ''"How do I make you excited?"'' ''"I think you're well aware, Leoris." "Mhm..."'' She teases back, her rosy cheeks dimpled as her chin tucks low, face carefully closing in before she pecks a small kiss against the flank of your neck, ''"But I wanna hear you say it. Is that too much for a girl to ask?"'' <<else>> ''"Happily,"'' comes your response, low and leisurely. Every movement feels more exaggerated, effortful, as you're engulfed by the warm embrace of the herb's effects. Forearms tingling, you slip your fingers down beneath the hem of your shirt and start to peel it off, revealing your lean torso for the elf to gaze upon. She assesses you with honied brown eyes, thick lashes downcast over your increasingly naked flesh, from the stretch of your long limbs to the contour of your chest. You aren't exceptionally fit, nor muscular, but you're a young man in your prime, tall too, with not an inkling of shame concerning your own body. That's all to say, you aren't shy, slowly lifting your ass from the chair beneath you to start and work your trousers down to the ground. Trim thighs splay out atop your seat, tapering down towards the hard cap of your knees, down into the curve of calves and arched feet once your boots are finally kicked off beneath the table. ''"Not bad,"'' Leoris murmurs, pert lips curved around the pipe's stem, ''"You're certainly a piece of meat."'' ''"You haven't even seen the best part,"'' You reply without thinking, your cock already half-erect, barely concealed beneath your drawers and the parting of your thighs. She's noticed, because her eyes are lingering there on your crotch; her face is redder than before, but it could be the second toke from the pipe. Though her reaction is belated, Leoris' lips twitch at your claim, her eyes bobbing up from the run of your limber body and the bulge of your cock to lock eyes: ''"Oh hush..."'' Her following question, coming quite suddenly, is breathy and low, ''"Do you mind if I touch?"'' A pause is given, ''"Your body. Do you mind if I touch your body, $name?"'' Your lips curve as you study her gaze, before assenting with a dip of your chin, ''"Not at all. Help yourself."'' Like a feline rising from their perch, frisky and fawning, Leoris presses up from the loveseat and prowls closer to you atop barefeet, weight placed on her slender toes like a dancer, before she presses onto you. Her small hands go to your chest, splayed out against your pecs whilst her knees settle onto either side of you, straddling your lap. There, she breathes down onto you, ''"Lay back. Relax, handsome."'' ''"I'll try,"'' You murmur reluctantly, slowly settling your head against the chair's back, your body slumped down atop it, although you're still overly aware of her weight and warmth atop your crotch, against your body, those soft hands smoothing over the breadth of your chest and round shoulders. ''"It's hard to relax when you make me excited."'' ''"Oh, do I?"'' She chirps back, tone playful as her dainty hands and smooth palms roll over the crest of your shoulders and down the length of your arms, softly squeezing and stroking your supple body. ''"How do I make you excited?"'' ''"I think you're well aware, Leoris." "Mhm..."'' She teases back, her rosy cheeks dimpled as her chin tucks low, face carefully closing in before she pecks a small kiss against the flank of your neck, ''"But I wanna hear you say it. Is that too much for a girl to ask?"''<</if>> ''"You're very needy,"'' You retort, though you can't help but smirk, eyes partially closed with your head canted back. The combination of the herb's effects and the closeness of Leoris pressed against your lap is a heady combination. She's aware of it too, slowly shifting atop you, rubbing the weight of her rear atop your drawers. It's like being one step away from actually fucking, two thin pieces of fabric between the heat of your bodies. It's heavenly and torturous all at the same time. ''"Please..."'' She murmurs, to which you breathe back, ''"Fine."'' ''"It has to be... Your incredible body. Every single inch of it... looks so lavish and fine. I'm still processing that the most beautiful girl in the entire tavern approached me and brought me back to her room." "And here we are,"'' She giggles low, rising up against you, her chest smushing warmly against yours. ''"But you must be used to the attention. You make me want to be a very naughty girl for you, $name."'' ''"How naughty?"'' You ask, your heavy hands finally fighting at the numbness and fatigue, turning from where they've layed plastered against the chair to clamp onto the curve of Leoris' hips. She jolts just a touch atop you, before pressing down firmer atop your lap, grinding into the hard bulge of your crotch. ''"You make my head fuzzy,"'' She intones back, breath nearly catching in her throat as she casts her gaze over your bare chest, ''"And my body hot. Very, very hot." "Let me help,"'' You reply, slipping a finger between the crook of her thigh and the string of her thong, ready to slip it down from her nethers. ''"No,"'' She says firmly, propping her hand up against your shoulder as she abruptly eases her weight up from your body, ''"But I have another idea, something to help you relax..."'' You suck on your lips, wetting them as you blearily look up at the high elf before you, long and lissome, standing half-naked against you. ''"Do you want my hands,"'' Leoris murmurs, red lips curved as her brown eyes linger on yours, ''"Or my feet?"'' [[Hands.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_hands]] [[Feet.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_feet]]

''"Your hands."'' ''"Is that right?"'' She replies, lips curved still as she she lingers, looking down over your nearly naked body. The sight itself it extremely erotic, though it immediately heights as she slowly, sensually lowers down onto her nimble knees immediately before you. Her warm brown eyes are locked with yours, silvery bangs swept low atop her gaze, dainty, rosy-cheeked face just above your crotch. ''"You want these pretty little hands wrapped around your big cock, don't you $name?"'' ''"That's exactly what I want, Leoris."'' You can't deny it. Her hands are beautiful, slender and pale, fingers slim, svelte. Her race has an undeniable elegance that permeates and pervades the senses. ''"Have you ever had a high elf jerk you off, $name?"'' She can't stop teasing you, smiling up at you brightly now as she presses forward, smoothing her hands up your thighs until they settle alongside your drawers. Delicately, she prods your bulge with a single digit. ''"Hm? Have you always wanted a cute little elf to stroke that big, manly cock of yours?"'' She runs two long fingers over your concealed length, tracing the shape of your erection as she watches on. You can't help but breathe back, ''"You're too much..."'' ''"Isn't this what you wanted?"'' comes the retort, though she must know exactly what she's doing. Thoroughly teasing and tracing your growing bulge, she starts to apply pressure, actually stroking you with a few fingers through the terribly thin fabric of your boxers. ''"Just like this, hm? Or did you want me to get closer?"'' Your loins are on fire, yearning for closer contact, more pressure and heat, wondrous warmth. You can only imagine how heavenly it'd feel right now for every single finger and both of those soft palms to be wrapped around your entire, engorged length. She senses your lust, at least that's what you imagine, because soon she's slipping a finger into either side of your boxers and starting to somewhat playfully try and scoot them down your legs. Fighting against the herb's effects, you hoist yourself up just enough to pry at your boxers and hasten the effort, tugging them down your thighs. And almost immediately, your mostly-erect dick flops out, hanging heavily between your thighs. You drop back down into your seat and instantly, you feel the heady warmth of Leoris' hands wrapped around, accommodating eagerly the thickness of your shaft. It might be the hash, but this girl does something for your libido; you're incredibly horny and hard for her. ''"Mmph. I love how big and excited you are for me, $name."'' Atop her knees, both hands sensually stroke, soothe and smooth over every inch of your erection. She really is wonderful; the type of woman that wants to pleasure you fully, immensely, totally. Her every movement speaks to that, not rushing the act, but enjoying it, those warm brown eyes alternating between meeting your gaze and turning down low to admire the size of your manhood. ''"You don't mind,"'' She murmurs, voice low and somewhat breathy, ''"If I spit on it, do you?"'' A shudder runs through your body, tingling as you endure every sensation, her words only coaxing you deeper into your pleasure. ''"Please..."'' She smiles sweetly and brings her face closer to the swollen crown of your cock, carefully spitting her saliva down onto you. It trickles slowly from her mouth and she stays there, letting it flow from the hot confines of her mouth and gradually coat your thick, throbbing meatrod. Her soft, feminine hands slip upward along your shaft and smoothe over the head of your cock, repeatedly pulling and tugging atop the sensitive edge of your glans as she works to wet your piece. Only when she's satisfied with the added lubricant does she start to jerk you harder, faster, milking you incessantly between palm and fingers. ''"Am I doing good?"'' She murmurs in question, head canted as she looks up at you fixedly. ''"Am I being a good girl for you, $name?"'' You feel that immense pressure building, a burning heat that gradually spreads through your loins. Your musculature is growing tighter, taut, a sure sign of what's soon to come. ''"You're going to make me cum like that, Leoris."'' The curve of her cute lips is clear to see, excited by the prospect, and urging you along with sweet, soft, increasingly urgent little moans, ''"Good, that's so good. You love these hands, don't you? Cum for me!"'' Still stroking your dick smoothly from base to tip, she frees a hand to reach below, giving your sack a playful squeeze. She explores it, bouncing your large, fleshy orbs between her fingers. Pulling, teasing, as though going directly to the source, to the very organs that generate your masculine essence, to beg for your seed. She treats them tenderly, worships them between fingertip and palm, all while massaging your thick shaft with her other hand, wet from spit and spurts of balmy pre-cum that have been leaking from your tip. ''"Are you going to make a girl beg? Don't you want to make me happy and let out all of that cum?"'' Her voice is lovely and low, coaxing you closer to your impending release. You feel it, right on the precipice. It's overwhelming, the sheer pressure and heat. You couldn't stop it from overflowing right now, not even if you wanted to. [[Cum.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_hands_cum]] <<if ($might gte 2) or ($mobility gte 2)>>[[Cum on her face.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_hands_cumonface]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>>[[Cum on her face.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_hands_cumonface]]<</if>>

''"Your feet."'' ''"I thought you might say that,"'' She teases, very gradually easing back and resting her weight onto the table just behind, so that she can elevate her feet and bare them before you. Just by looking at them, you can tell they're soft, slender, arched gracefully with tenderly curled toes and carefully trimmed nails. Her foot flesh is perfectly pale, glimmering beneath the flickering flames cast by the fireplace. ''"Do you like them, $name?"'' ''"Mhm,"'' Your response is uttered low, husky and relaxed, ''"I love them, Leoris. Every inch of you is perfect."'' Her head sways to the side, watching you from behind the swish of her silvery bangs, cheeks flushed red, brown eyes partially concealed, ''"Thank. You."'' Her legs languidly stretch out, smoothing her soles past the crook of your knees and up your naked thighs, certainly not in any rush. Her toes tickle your crotch, spreading to stroke the shape of your bulge between the splay of her digits. She's very gentle at first, almost frustratingly so, quite the tease. She leaves you yearning for more as one foot climbs higher, pressing atop the run of your abdomen. It's a curious feeling and you can't help but wonder how much enjoyment you'd get out of it sober. But right now, you're loving it, senses heightened, tingling, tantalizing. Leoris is focused, lips parted and breath heady beneath her curtain of pale locks. Eyes trained on you, they once again descend down your frame to the excitement pitched beneath your flimsy drawers. ''"I'm sorry,"'' She murmurs, voice sweet and soft, ''"You deserve your reward for being so patient with me."'' She slips a toe within the top of your boxers, giving a little, ineffectual tug as though trying to pull them down, before teetering a breathless laugh, ''"You'll have to help me out... I'm good with my feet, but not that good."'' Fighting against the herb's effects, you hoist yourself up just enough to pry at your boxers, starting to tug them down, the elf's toes plucking and pulling at your drawers in an attempt to hasten the process. And before you know it, your mostly-erect dick flops out, hanging heavily between your thighs. You drop back down into your seat immediately after and instantly, you feel the soft warmth of Leoris' soles wrapped around your shaft. ''"You /are/ good with your feet."'' Your lips quirk, unable to stop yourself from commenting, but she seems to enjoy the praise. Up and down, her knees bent nimbly and her toes carefully curled about your girth, Leoris works her dainty feet down either flank of your fleshy, engorged member. Her toes entwine, crossing over each other as she picks up the pace and applies more force, thoroughly stroking your cockflesh beneath the press of her soles. Her small hands are firmly planted against the table on either side, supporting herself as she half-reclines atop it. From this vantage point, you can see perfectly the little thin line of crimson thong that separates the elf's lower lips from the outside world. Everything about her is supple, from the smooth splay of her own thighs to her smooth stomach, only the faintest hint of abdominals visible. She's somewhat athletic, but with just the right amount of softness to give her a very feminine exterior, slender and soft, incredibly alluring. The sight of her leaning back, working up a sweat as she massages your cock between her sweet feet, makes you grow even harder. You feel the lust growing hotter, completely encompassing your loins, almost made unbearably by the constant contact of her enclosed toes and rolling soles. She notices, though you're unsure of whether it's because of your pleasured expression or the heat of your piece swelling closer to an inevitable release. [[Lay back and submit.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_feet_submit]] <<if $might gte 1 or $mobility gte 2>>[[Grab her feet and fuck 'em.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_feet_fuckem]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>>[[Grab her feet and fuck 'em.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_feet_fuckem]]<</if>>

''"You must want to cum all over these pretty feet, $name. Isn't that right?"'' ''"Yes please,"'' Your response is uttered low, breathily, feeling much too relaxed to put up any form of resistance. ''"Cute."'' She responds, giving a contended sigh as her feet stayed wrapped about your shaft, stroking up and down in long sweeps of her feet, alternating readily between using her soles and heels, or the balls of her feet and those naughty little toes. She's good at this, too good. ''"I told you I'd take good care of you."'' Occasionally, her digits splay out wide and tease against the swollen glans of your cockhead. It feels good, that soft, curved flesh between her toes, and the way they squeeze together to press and pull at the taut, veiny skin that encapsulates your shaft. She's exploring every inch of your loins, from the tip of your piece to the large orbs that are your balls. Leoris plays with your sack, slipping the curve of her toes directly below and bouncing them beneath your heat, hot and heavy, the source of your lust; the organs that generate your very masculine essence. She treats them tenderly, worships them even with her toes and massages your thick shaft with her soft, slippery soles. Her feet are perfect, perfectly pale, unblemished, protected from the elements and the sheer violence of the outside world. Like a rare flower, she's yours to enjoy for the time being. That pressure is building fast deep within you, burning your loins, already terribly hot trapped between the press of her beautiful feet. ''"Are you going to be good and come for me, $name? Don't you want to make me happy?"'' Leoris must sense it, whether it's your pleasured expression or the growing heat in your crotch that gives it away you're unsure. She murmurs softly, lovely and low, coaxing you closer to your impending release. ''"Don't you want to cover them? Stain these pretty elf soles with your dirty load, $name? Pretty please?"'' Her head is canted to the side from where she lay atop the table, half-reclined, pearly breasts jostling within the snug confines of her bra. Those silvery bangs have fallen across her forehead, warm brown eyes partially obscured, though the curve of her cute lips is clear to see. ''"I can feel how much cum you have for me in those big balls. I want that hot man seed.. all over my feet and toes... so bad, $name."'' There's an immense pressure, a burning heat that gradually spreads through your loins as you feel your musculature growing tight, taut, nearer and nearer until you're about to topple over the edge into climax. ''"Ahh,"'' You can't help but moan, a dire sound from deep within your throat, ''"Fuck."'' And she loves it, toes and soles working in unison, squeezing your swollen dick between the soft press of her flesh until you reach your breaking point. ''"That's it, good. Cum for me!"'' Her soft, urgent cries, mouth held agape and warm brown eyes focused up on you, are more than enough encouragement. With a gasp, finally your first spurt of seed is freed. You thrust up hard against her feet, pumping your hot, balmy seed in thick spurts that quickly land and roll along the slender curve of her feet and dainty toes. You paint her digits, one long strand of semen after another. Overwhelmed by the pleasure, you slump deeper into your seat until at last the final bead of cum slips past the tip of your cock and smears against the lingering squeeze of her feet. Leoris lets out a little laugh, contented, gaze glued to the mess that you made all over her the tops of her toes and feet. ''"Dirty boy,"'' She finally coos, your cock drooping heavily, half-erect, once her touch begins to recede. ''"That was fun."'' ''"Very fun..."'' You murmur, feeling like you could pass out, with your cock out, at any second. ''"I'm glad I met you, Leoris."'' [[Sometime later, you've both cleaned up.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_after]]

<<set $leoris_apartment_highstrip_dominate to true>> You start to shift up from your seat, even with her toes and soles still wrapped firmly about your length. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris says, speaking up, ''"Hold your horses, big boy."'' But you deny her a response, taking control of the situation. Your silence and focused intent lulls her into compliance as you stand up straight, taking either of her legs and wrapping your big hands firmly about the curve of her ankles. This forces her to lay back further, splayed out atop the table now with her long legs bent to accomodate her desire. Somewhere along the way, the pipe and a book were knocked down, and the candle set aside to avoid burning the whole apartment down. There, gripping her ankles hard and holding them as steady as you can, you finally begin to thrust your meat back-and-forth between the slope of her soles. You apply more pressure as needed, treating her feet like fleshy vices, a makeshift hole for your lustful machinations. Your glutes tense and your hips plow forward with each thrust, fucking her feet hard, her dainty toes curled up tight against the base of your groin, tickling what existing pubes you have, at the end of every press. ''"So lewd,"'' She murmurs, head propped up and elbows turned atop the table to allow herself a view, honied brown eyes held low beneath your own gaze. Her breasts jostle and jiggle within the confines of her bra, modest but full, her fair flesh unblemished, protected from the elements and the violent world outside. She's perfect and all you want to do is defile her, to stain her lovely exterior with your seed. ''"And rough. A big, brutish feet fucker, you are $name."'' ''"It's your fault,"'' You retort back between heady breaths, your chest expanding with effort as you feel the pressure building deep within yourself, ''"You shouldn't invite strange men up to your apartment alone, Leoris. They might take..."'' You suck in a breath, hips still pumping hard to-and-fro, ''".. advantage of you... or worse, your feet."'' She can't help but laugh, peering up at you, her soft stomach tensed, ''"Such a terrible fate, hrm?"'' Your thrusts grow faster, harder, and her feet slide up, toes and the fleshy balls of her feet pressed tight, curled close against your hot shaft, catching the crest of your swollen glans. The stimulation is quickly sending you nearer to the edge, towards a toppling, chaotic climax that you know exists, closer and closer until you can't possibly stop it. Your movements grow frantic, tight and jerky, and her soft, slender feet cling to your cock, coaxing your release. ''"Cum for me, $name. Give me that big load!"'' Her soft, urgent cries, mouth held agape and warm brown eyes focused up on you, are more than enough encouragement. There's an immense pressure, a burning heat that surges through your loins until your musculature grows taut, straining, and finally your first spurt of seed is free. You thrust hard, pumping your hot, balmy seed in thick spurts, the first batch splatting atop her perfectly pale stomach. You paint her fair flesh, one long strand of semen after another, your hips working back and forth as you continue fucking the squeeze of her small, tender feet. You can't help but buck and groan, like a rutting bull incapable of speech, only driven by this sort of feral, animalistic lust that permeates from every beast. Leoris lets out a little laugh, small and pleased, her lovely body contorted atop the table, wet with perspiration and the product of your arousal, pooled on her belly and the top of her tender thighs. ''"I made..."'' You breathe heavily, still basking in the intensity of your release, ''"A mess."'' One foot fondly presses beneath the heat and heavy hang of your cock, half-erect still between your legs, whilst the other stretches out to tease her toes against your balls. They're tight against your body still, taut from your release, though as they start to descend back into normality, she gently bounces each large orb atop her toes. ''"That was fun."'' She quips up at you, head canted once more, with her lips subtly curved. You nod quite readily, absently stroking and squeezing her calves as her feet stroke your manhood, an unexpected but welcome form of aftercare. ''"Very fun... I'm glad I met you, Leoris."'' [[Sometime later, you've both cleaned up.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_after]]

You can't help but moan, a dire sound from deep within your throat, ''"Fuck."'' And she loves it, both hands returning to your swollen dick, squeezing firmly throughout each long, sweeping stroke, massaging your cockflesh thoroughly. ''"I'm cumming, Leoris.."'' Her mouth held agape, warm brown eyes focused up on you, the sight of this beautiful high elf on her knees is more than enough encouragement. She gasps when finally, your first spurt of seed is freed. Unconsciously, your hips thrust up, and she keeps her hands clamped down securely about your pumping, pulsing piece all the while, determined to milk you dry. Your hot, balmy seed continually jets out in thick spurts that quickly land, rolling down the tops of hers pretty pale hands. You paint her digits, one long strand of semen after another, all of your pent-up lust liberated. And finally, overwhelmed by the pleasure of your release, you slump deeper into your seat until at last the final bead of cum slips free. Leoris lets out a little laugh, contended, gaze glued to the absolute mess that you made all over yourself and her soft dainty hands and slender digits. ''"Wow... such a dirty boy."'' She finally releases your cock, which droops heavily, half-erect, once her touch recedes. ''"That was fun." "Very fun,"'' You murmur back, feeling like you could pass out, with your cock out, at any second now. ''"I'm glad I met you, Leoris."'' [[Sometime later, you've both cleaned up.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_after]]

<<set $leoris_apartment_highstrip_dominate to true>> You start to shift up from your seat, even with her long fingers and soft palms still wrapped firmly about your length. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris says, speaking up, ''"Hold your horses, big boy."'' But you deny her a response, taking control of the situation. Your silence and focused intent lulls her into compliance as you stand up straight, reaching over to snag a big handful of pale, silvery hair. You're amazed by how soft it is, silky and fine, yet you can't stop yourself from handling her a bit roughly. She's the one that wanted to be naughty after all. There, you grip her by the hair and hold her head as steadily as you can, your powerful hips and glutes working on their own, tensing and squeezing down as you thrust your thick, engorged cock within the unfaltering grip of her wet, sticky gripping hands. ''"You're bad."'' She murmurs softly, lovely and low, her arousal clear for you to hear. ''"Keep stroking,"'' You command, speaking from deep within your throat, barely holding down a moan. ''"Ah, fuck..."'' To her credit, she does exactly as you say, working harder even, wanting to give you a good, hard release. Her honied brown eyes tilt up, watching you closely, her pert breasts jostled within the confines her bra. Her fair flesh is unblemished, protected from the harsh elements and the violent world outside. She's perfect and all you want to do is defile her, to stain her lovely, rosy face with your seed. ''"What a big brute you are, $name."'' ''"That's right,"'' You tease back down, your response coming readily. ''"This big brute is about to paint your pretty little face."'' You adjust your fingers within her hair, whilst both of her hands remain locked about your swollen dick, squeezing firmly for each long, sweeping stroke. ''"Fuck... I'm cumming, Leoris."'' Her mouth held agape, warm brown eyes staring up at you, the sight of this beautiful high elf on her knees, nestled between your legs, is more than enough to push you over the edge. She gasps when finally, your first spurt of seed is freed. She keeps her hands clamped down securely about your pumping, pulsing piece all the while, determined to milk you completely, to drain you dry. Your hot, balmy seed continually jets out in thick spurts that land against her pretty pale face, pooling and rolling across every fine contour and curve of her elegant elven visage. One long strand of semen after another, all of your pent-up lust liberated onto her feminine features. You can't help but buck and groan the entire time, like a rutting bull incapable of speech, only driven by this sort of animalistic lust that permeates from every beast. Leoris lets out a little laugh, small and pleased, her warm brown eyes blinking open. ''"Oh my... what the fuck, $name. There's so much."'' ''"I made.."'' You breathe heavily, still basking in the intensity of your release, ''"A big mess."'' She groans in response, though her lips are still curved in a lingering smirk, and one of those dainty hands continues to squeeze and stroke your half-erect cock, as though making absolutely sure that every last drop is out. Her digits tease against your balls, tight against your body still, taut from your release. As they gradually descend back into normality, she gently bounces and squeezes each large orb within her grasp. ''"That was fun."'' She quips up at you, whilst you nod quite readily and absently stroke your fingers through her silky smooth hair. You both provide each other with an unexpected form of aftercare, touch lingering, as neither of you seem to be in a hurry. ''"Very fun... I'm glad I met you, Leoris."'' [[Sometime later, you've both cleaned up.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_after]]

<<audio "sunny-stars" fadeout>> <<audio "mysterious-music-box" loop play>> Sometime later, you've both cleaned up. The effects of your shared smoke session linger, lulling you into a content, relaxed state. Combined with good company in the form of Leoris and the satisfaction of a much-needed release, you're feeling quite good. Leoris lays in her lingerie, recently freshened up, regarding you with a subtle curve of her lips. Those warm brown eyes glimmer playfully as she openly observes you, unabashed in her attentiveness. ''"So,"'' She starts with a low huff, sweeping a few slender digits through her silvery hair and pale-fringed bangs, ''"You'd say that we're friends now, right?"'' Her question seems innocent enough, gaze still fixed upon you, now that you've settled back into your chair. Shirtless still, but with your drawers and trousers secured about your waist once more. For a moment, you consider your response. [[Of course we're friends.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_friends]] <<if ($leoris_tavern_bastard is true) or ($leoris_apartment_highstrip_dominate is true)>>[[Friends with benefits.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_benefits]]<</if>> [[More than friends...|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_morethan]]

<<set $leoris_apartment_friends to true>> ''"Of course we're friends."'' Your response comes easily enough. For the most part, you're jovial and genuinely glad to have happened across Leoris. You're unsure of where your friendship will go from here, or how often you'll be able to make trips to the Uneven Queen to see her, but it's not a chance meeting that you regret by any means. ''"Good,"'' She murmurs, seemingly satisfied by your response. ''"I like you, $name. You're funny, cute, simple. No need to overcomplicate anything."'' Absently, you sling an arm over the side of your chair as you regard the elf, mesmerized as always by her smooth, youthful beauty. It's effortless. ''"I could say the same about you, Leoris."'' <<if ($leoris_tavern_cowboy) is true or ($leoris_tavern_knight is true)>> ''"You're going to come and visit me, aren't you? So you can tell me all about your classes at Highrock and what kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into."'' She smiles brightly and shoots you over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course, I'll do my best. But I don't intend on getting into any trouble. Not if I can help it."'' ''"Hmm, you say that, $name. But I feel like you're too adventerous for your own good. We couldn't be here together right now if you didn't take a risk, right? However small."'' You release a breath, considering her words as you think back to your meeting downstairs, ''"I didn't see it as a risk... I never saw any reason not to trust you. I thought you were interesting... someone that I'd like to get to know. You're an intriguing person, you know."'' ''"I thought the same about you, silly."'' ''"Funny how that works, isn't it?"'' ''"It is. Anyway, I hope you do keep your word. I don't get to see much of Cradle... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"Then I think our friendship will work out, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be hear to listen, someone for you to lean on. And I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_friends1]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>> ''"You're going to come and visit me, aren't you? So you can tell me all about your jobs, your travels... the kind of people that you meet and the sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Even if it's scary, or grim. I want to hear about it, $name. Is that too much to ask?"'' She smiles brightly, and the way she looks at you almost makes you feel a touch guilty about your lie. You could have just as easily told her about your upcoming classes at Highrock and have captured her attention all the same. But you still hardly know her, and she hardly knows anything about you. You don't open up to strangers, not when there's too much at risk. At least, that's how you justify your actions to yourself. ''"Not at all,"'' You relent verbally, your own lips curved as you offer over a little smirk, ''"I don't know if it's really all that interesting, but I do plan on visiting as often as I can. I'd be happy to see you again, Leoris, I do know that much."'' ''"Good. You better keep your word, $name. I don't get to see much of Cradle, you know... I spend most of my time inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. ''"Then I think our friendship will work out, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about the trials of your line of work... and I'll be here to listen. Someone for you to lean on and vent to. I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, barely audible. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_friends1]]<</if>>

<<set $leoris_apartment_benefits to true>> ''"Friends with benefits."'' You respond readily, teasing her. It's true that you're glad to have met Leoris, and you aren't completely opposed to the idea of friendship, but you're primarily after the sex. You want more of that delicious little body of hers. After all, she wanted you as much as you wanted her. That certainly seems fair, no? She can't help but blush, her already rosy cheeks turning redder, ''"Oh, hush."'' You laugh and roll back a shoulder as you observe her, watching the way her silvery bangs sway across her fair forehead and sometimes fall in front of those warm, honied brown eyes. ''"Is that not what you meant?"'' ''"N-.. Well, yes. I do want the benefits. You're a horny boy, $name."'' ''"A horny man,"'' You correct her, to which she agrees: ''"A very horny man. But I did mean 'friends', too. Not just sex partners... You know what friends are, don't you? Two people who have each others backs? Who will listen to each other, and care for each other?" "Of course."'' ''"Good,"'' She murmurs, seemingly satisfied by your response. ''"I like you, $name. You're cute, funny... Sexy. What's better than that?"'' You regard her contentedly, mesmerized as always by her smooth, youthful beauty. It's effortless. ''"I could say the same about you, Leoris. Especially the sexy part. May this be our first meeting among many."'' <<if ($leoris_tavern_cowboy is true) or ($leoris_tavern_knight is true)>> ''"Exactly! You better come and visit me whenever you can, $name. You can come tell me all about your classes at Highrock. What kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Whether any of the girls turn you on as much as me."'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"I'll do my best. I quite enjoy the trouble that you and I create."'' ''"Mm, as do I. But I feel like you're too adventerous for your own good. I'm sure that I'm not the only gal that you've had your way with recently."'' You release a breath, opting to neither deny or affirm her suggestion, ''"That could be the case. However, ever since we've met, you've been the only one on my mind."'' ''"Good,"'' She replies simply, evidently contented with your response, ''"I hope you do keep your word. I don't get to see much of Cradle, $name. I spend most of my time... inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading, ''"Not that I'm complaining. I shouldn't. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"Then I think our friendship will work out, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be hear to listen, someone for you to lean on... someone for you to fuck nice and hard, to relieve all of your stress and worries."'' Your lips quirk as you listen, and she continues, ''"And I'll be happy to know more about you and your life... it sounds exciting to me."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_benefits1]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>> ''"Exactly! You better come and visit me whenever you can, $name. So you can tell me all about your jobs, your travels... the kind of people that you meet and the sights you see. Any trouble that you may get into and any attractive girls that turn you on as much as I do."'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"I'll do my best. I quite enjoy the trouble that you and I create."'' ''"Such a way with words,"'' She smiles back brightly, and the way she looks at you almost makes you feel a touch guilty about your ongoing lie. You could have just as easily told her about your upcoming classes at Highrock and have captured her attention all the same. But you still hardly know her, and she hardly knows anything about you. You don't open up to strangers, not when there's too much at risk. At least, that's how you justify your actions to yourself. This was just supposed to be a fling. ''"Anyway, you better keep your word, $name! I don't get to see much of Cradle, you know... I spend most of my time inside the four walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading. ''"Not that I'm complaining. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. ''"Then I think our friendship will work out, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about the trials of your line of work... and I'll be here to listen. Someone for you to lean on... someone for you to fuck nice and hard, to relieve all of your stress and worries."'' Your lips quirk as you listen, and she continues, ''"I'll be happy to know more about you and your life... it seems exciting."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, barely audible. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_benefits1]]<</if>>

''"More than friends..."'' <<if ($might gte 2) or ($mobility gte 2) or ($leoris_apartment_highstrip_dominate is true)>> <<set $leoris_apartment_morethan_good to true>> Silent, Leoris just stares at you a few moments whilst her rosy-cheeks blossom into the deepest blush you've seen thus far. Then quickly she quips back, flustered, ''"Stop teasing me! You're going to make me blush, $name."'' You can't help but laugh, letting it slip past your lips as you eye the high elf, ''"I think it's a bit too late for that."'' ''"Ugh,"'' comes her groan, partially shielding her fine-featured face with the back of a slender hand. ''"You think you're so funny, don't you?"'' ''"Who said I was being funny?"'' You reply easily, relaxed as you slump back comfortably. Her honied brown eyes waver before returning to yours, assessive, ''"What do you mean by more than friends?"'' ''"I just meant that we both seemed to enjoy our time together and that there might be a connection that I'm picking up on..."'' She slowly nods, drawing her bottom lip beneath a bite of straight white teeth, ''"Mhm."'' ''"And.."'' You continue, carefully contemplating your words for a moment, ''"I'd be happy to see where things lead from here. The possibility of being more than friends is very exciting to me. I like you, Leoris."'' ''"I like you too, $name."'' Her reply comes after a few more moments of silently observing you, and gradually her giddiness and subtle satisfaction becomes more apparent, ''"Such a way with words... You don't say these things to every cute girl that you meet, do you?"'' You release a breath, lips curved as you give a low shake of your head, ''"You've been the only one on my mind, Leoris, ever since I laid eyes on you."'' <<if ($leoris_tavern_cowboy is true) or ($leoris_tavern_knight is true)>> ''"Good,"'' She replies brightly, evidently contented with your response, ''"You better come and visit me whenever you can, $name. You can tell me all about your classes at Highrock. What kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Whether you meet any cute girls."'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"I'll visit you as often as I can. That's a promise."'' ''"You better keep your word. I don't get to see much of Cradle, $name. I spend most of my time... inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading, ''"Not that I'm complaining. I shouldn't. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"I'm... excited to get to know you better, $name."'' ''"I am too, Leoris. I want to know everything about you."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed, feminine cheeks still rosy and warm. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"I'll be waiting for you to tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be here to listen, someone for you to lean on... to lavish you and help you relieve all of your stress and worries."'' Your lips quirk as you listen, and she continues, ''"And I'll be happy to know more about you and your life... it sounds exciting to me."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"I'm looking forward to it, Leoris,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_morethan1]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>> ''"Good,"'' She replies brightly, evidently contented with your response, ''"You better come and visit me whenever you can, $name. You can tell me all about your jobs, your travels. What kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Whether you meet any cute girls."'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"I'll visit you as often as I can. That's a promise."'' ''"You better keep your word. I don't get to see much of Cradle, $name. I spend most of my time... inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading, ''"Not that I'm complaining. I shouldn't. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. With the way that she looks at you, and the way that this day has gone, it almost makes you feel a touchy guilty. You could have just as easily told her about your upcoming classes at Highrock and have captured her attention all the same. But you still hardly know her, and she hardly knows anything about you. Whether you plan on trying to open up, or whether you plan on stringing her along and having your fun, is something that you'll have to decide before long. ''"I'm... excited to get to know you better, $name."'' ''"I am too, Leoris... I want to know everything about you."'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed, feminine cheeks still rosy and warm. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"I'll be waiting for you to tell me about your travels. I'll be here to listen, someone for you to lean on... to lavish you and help you relieve all of your stress and worries."'' Your lips quirk as you listen, and she continues, ''"And I'll be happy to know more about you and your life... it sounds exciting to me."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"I'm looking forward to it, Leoris,"'' comes your murmur, barely a whisper beneath your breath. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_morethan1]]<</if>> <<else>> <<set $leoris_apartment_morethan_bad to true>> ''"Oh, $name."'' Leoris assesses you for a few moments silently, before blowing out a little, wispy breath, ''"You shouldn't say that. Do you always catch feelings so fast? You barely know me."'' That's not the response that you really would've hoped for. But at this point, all you can be is honest. ''"I just meant that we both seemed to enjoy our time together and that there could be a connection that I'm picking up on..."'' She continues to eye you from beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"And.."'' You continue, carefully contemplating your words for a moment, ''"I'd be happy to see where things lead from here. I like you, Leoris."'' ''"I like you too, $name."'' Her reply comes after a few more moments of silently observing you, her tone almost regal, reserved, though still kind, ''"You're funny and you do have a way with words. I just don't want to get your hopes up. Romance is very difficult in my position... in my line of work."'' You slowly nod, ''"I can understand that."'' <<if ($leoris_tavern_cowboy is true) or ($leoris_tavern_knight is true)>> ''"Good,"'' She replies brightly, evidently contented with your response, ''"As long as you understand. You can come and visit me whenever you get the chance, $name. I know you'll be busy, but I'm excited to hear about your classes at Highrock. What kind of people you meet... sights you see... any trouble that you may get into. Whether you meet any cute girls!"'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course I'll visit you, Leoris."'' ''"You better! I don't get to see much of Cradle, you know. I spend most of my time... inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading, ''"Not that I'm complaining. I shouldn't. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. No matter what my home was like. Maybe it's a stretch, but I can almost relate. I've felt trapped before... and even where I'm going now, it feels like I don't have much of a choice."'' ''"At Highrock?"'' She inquires softly, her curiosity evident. ''"At Highrock,"'' You confirm with a bit of a nod. ''"I should be grateful for the opportunity, but it wasn't my own choice to attend. Not really. It was an opportunity that I simply couldn't refuse. And all things considered... I'm going to try and make the best of it."'' ''"I think we'll be good friends, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your trials at Highrock. I'll be here to listen, someone for you to lean on. And I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_friends1]] <<elseif $leoris_tavern_bastard is true>> ''"Good,"'' She replies brightly, evidently contented with your response, ''"As long as you understand. You can come and visit me whenever you get the chance, $name. I'm excited to hear about your jobs, your travels.. the kind of people that you meet and the sights you see.. any trouble that you may get into. Oh, and whether you meet any other cute girls!"'' She smiles slyly and shoots over a little, teasing wink, which draws a small laugh out of you, ''"Of course I'll visit you, Leoris."'' ''"You better! I don't get to see much of Cradle, you know. I spend most of my time... inside the walls of this tavern."'' Her lips are curved upwards, but you can tell that the quality of her smile is different, lackluster, that usual bright quality fading, ''"Not that I'm complaining. I shouldn't. It's a nice place, my home. Safe, roomy, and plenty of interesting people stop by. It'd just be nice to... go wherever, whenever. You know?"'' ''"That makes sense,"'' You murmur thoughtfully, watching her eyes turn unto you beneath the sweep of her bangs, ''"I can only imagine that I'd feel similarly, if I didn't have the choice. I've felt trapped before..."'' It might be that a part of you feels trapped right now, knowing that you're starting classes at Highrock tomorrow. It wasn't really much of a choice, was it? You would've been stupid to pass up on the opportunity, but you had no way to prepare for it. But you can't tell Leoris that, not after your lies. She smiles brightly, and the way she looks at you almost makes you feel a touch guilty. You could have just as easily told her about your upcoming classes at Highrock and have captured her attention all the same. Still, you hardly know her, and she hardly knows anything about you. You don't open up to strangers, not when there's too much at risk. At least, that's how you justify your actions to yourself. Whether you plan on trying to open up remains to be seen. ''"I think we'll be good friends, $name. We can support each other."'' ''"What do you mean?"'' Graceful and as nimble as always, Leoris silently slips onto her feet and draws closer to you. When she's immediately before you, the high elf reaches down to your nearest hand, beckoning for you to stand. You relent, slipping your hand within hers and pressing up to your full height. She looks up at you, her features soft and flushed. Her honied brown eyes smile up at yours, as she whispers conspiratorially, ''"You can tell me about your travels. I'll be here to listen, someone for you to lean on. And I'll be happy to know about you and your life... it sounds more exciting than mine."'' Before you can respond, she presses closer and wraps her lithesome arms about your body, burying her rosy-cheeked face into your chest. Almost instinctually, you gently wrap your own arms about her slender, feminine figure and return her hug. ''"Deal,"'' comes your murmur, low but resolute. [[You embrace each other for a few moments longer.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_friends1]]<</if>><</if>>

Gradually, her touch retracts, leaving you to straighten and turn a look over the apartment. ''"I wonder if the Dark Hour is over,"'' She muses, drawing across the room, the firelight gleaming atop her red-hued lingerie and fair flesh. You didn't notice it before, but there against one wall, not far from the door, are long, satin curtains. She gathers them in the crook of a long, lithe arm and sweeps them aside in one fell swoop, the sweep of deep crimson satin much the same tone as that of her thong. She has a great ass, round and pert, just the right amount of plush flesh; not big or fat but far from flat. Her rear distracts you from the window, which reveals a quiet plaza before the Highway, a dim trail of light trickling through the misty violet glow of the sky. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris murmurs as she peers through the glass panes, spotting a few figures starting to emerge from some of the buildings that line the Highway, ''"Looks like it's about that time."'' And finally, it hits you. How long have you been up here? The realization jolts you into action. ''"Fuck, I've gotta go, Leoris. Rayner must be waiting for me."'' She cuts a curious look back at you, ''"Rayner? Who's that?"'' ''"My friend, we came here together. I'll uhm..."'' You draw in a breath as you tilt a look over your high elf companion, wishing that you could stay here a while longer with her. Your mind is still a bit foggy, and your body heavy, from the lingering effects of the hash. ''"I'll see you soon, okay?"'' ''"Okay, $name! I'll let you out. You can find your way back down, right? I need to clean up."'' She steps gracefully across the apartment and you follow after her, pulling your shirt on as you go and making sure that your belongings are accounted for. Who knows how thorough you are really, nor do you care in the moment. You just know that you need to get back downstairs. Pissing off Rayner, or having him leave you behind, is the last thing that you need to happen. ''"Take care of yourself, alright? Until next time!"'' She swings the door open for you, to which you step out into the hall and turn a look back, catching a glimmer of warm brown eyes and silvery bangs. ''"Bye,"'' She whispers and you intone it back softly, ''"Bye, Leoris."'' Carefully, she shuts the door until her honied orbs flick into darkness and it closes behind you with a click. As you hurry down the long, dark-paneled hallway, your path lit by small, flickering candles, you can't help but briefly reflect on the past couple of hours. What a trip. [[You descend back into the tavern.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent]]

Her touch lingers for longer than you expected and thoughts of temptation work their way into your mind. Unable to stop yourself, your arms loosen themselves from about her feminine figure and slip further down until you can clamp both of your hands down onto either side of her ass. She squeaks, ''"$name!"'' A warm breath slips past your breath, ''"Sorry, I didn't think you'd mind."'' Her face draws back, rosy-cheeked, glaring up at you with a playful cant to her lips. ''"I just didn't expect it. You can't keep your hands off of me, can you?"'' Your fingers splay out against her rear, slowly squeezing down, digits buried into the plush cushion of her rump. ''"I can't... I'll try and warn you next time, but you'll be getting used to it regardless, hm?"'' She sighs breathily, though she looks content, honied brown eyes wandering over your naked chest before she starts to push off against it. You relent, slowly straightening as your touch retracts and you turn a look over the apartment. ''"I wonder if the Dark Hour is over,"'' She muses, drawing across the room, the firelight gleaming atop her red-hued lingerie and fair flesh. You didn't notice it before, but there against one wall, not far from the door, are long, satin curtains. She gathers them in the crook of a long, lithe arm and sweeps them aside in one fell swoop, the sweep of deep crimson satin much the same tone as that of her thong. She has a great ass, round and pert, just the right amount of plush flesh; not big or fat but far from flat. It certainly felt incredible beneath your hands. Her rear distracts you from the window, which reveals a quiet plaza before the Highway, a dim trail of light trickling through the misty violet glow of the sky. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris murmurs as she peers through the glass panes, spotting a few figures starting to emerge from some of the buildings that line the Highway, ''"Looks like it's about that time."'' And finally, it hits you. How long have you been up here? The realization jolts you into action. ''"Fuck, I've gotta go, Leoris. Rayner must be waiting for me."'' She cuts a curious look back at you, ''"Rayner? Who's that?"'' ''"My friend, we came here together. I'll uhm..."'' You draw in a breath as you tilt a look over your high elf companion, wishing that you could stay here a while longer with her. Your mind is still a bit foggy, and your body heavy, from the lingering effects of the hash. ''"I'll see you soon, okay?"'' ''"Okay, $name! I'll let you out. You can find your way back down, right? I need to clean up."'' She steps gracefully across the apartment and you follow after her, pulling your shirt on as you go and making sure that your belongings are accounted for. Who knows how thorough you are really, nor do you care in the moment. You just know that you need to get back downstairs. Pissing off Rayner, or having him leave you behind, is the last thing that you need to happen. ''"Please be safe, okay? Until next time..."'' She swings the door open for you, to which you step out into the hall and turn a look back, catching a glimmer of warm brown eyes and silvery bangs. ''"Bye,"'' She whispers and you intone it back softly, ''"Be a good girl for me. Bye, Leoris."'' Carefully, she shuts the door until her honied orbs flick into darkness and it closes behind you with a click. As you hurry down the long, dark-paneled hallway, your path lit by small, flickering candles, you can't help but briefly reflect on the past couple of hours. What a trip. [[You descend back into the tavern.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent]]

Her touch lingers for longer than you expected, which is quite relaxing for you. Temptation works it's way into your thoughts, too. She's so perfect, slender and warm within your arms. You could hold her like this forever. How quickly you've come to care about her, this high elf pressed against your chest. A warm breath slips past your breath, ''"I don't have to leave, right?"'' Her face draws back, rosy-cheeked, peering up at you with a playful cant to her lips. ''"Mmph, are you going to drop all of your responsibilities and live here with me? I'm not sure my boss would like that, but maybe I can hide you in the closet? It's pretty big!"'' ''"Maybe for a few nights,"'' You murmur back, amused, ''"But we'll need a better plan than that."'' She sighs breathily, though she looks content, honied brown eyes wandering over your naked chest before she starts to push off against it. You relent, slowly straightening as your touch retracts and you turn a look over the apartment. ''"I wonder if the Dark Hour is over,"'' She muses, drawing across the room, the firelight gleaming atop her red-hued lingerie and fair flesh. You didn't notice it before, but there against one wall, not far from the door, are long, satin curtains. She gathers them in the crook of a long, lithe arm and sweeps them aside in one fell swoop, the sweep of deep crimson satin much the same tone as that of her thong. She has a great ass, round and pert, just the right amount of plush flesh; not big or fat but far from flat. It's just as perfect as every other inch of her. Her rear distracts you from the window, which reveals a quiet plaza before the Highway, a dim trail of light trickling through the misty violet glow of the sky. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris murmurs as she peers through the glass panes, spotting a few figures starting to emerge from some of the buildings that line the Highway, ''"Looks like it's about that time."'' And finally, it hits you. How long have you been up here? The realization jolts you into action. ''"Fuck, I've gotta go, Leoris. Rayner must be waiting for me."'' She cuts a curious look back at you, ''"Rayner? Who's that?"'' ''"My friend, we came here together. I'll uhm..."'' You draw in a breath as you tilt a look over your high elf companion, wishing that you could stay here a while longer with her. Your mind is still a bit foggy, and your body heavy, from the lingering effects of the hash. ''"I'll see you soon, okay?"'' ''"Okay, $name! I'll let you out. You can find your way back down, right? I need to clean up."'' She steps gracefully across the apartment and you follow after her, pulling your shirt on as you go and making sure that your belongings are accounted for. Who knows how thorough you are really, nor do you care in the moment. You just know that you need to get back downstairs. Pissing off Rayner, or having him leave you behind, is the last thing that you need to happen. ''"Please be safe, okay? Until next time..."'' She swings the door open for you, to which you step out into the hall and turn a look back, catching a glimmer of warm brown eyes and silvery bangs. ''"Bye,"'' She whispers and you intone it back softly, ''"I'll be thinking of you. Bye, Leoris."'' Carefully, she shuts the door until her honied orbs flick into darkness and it closes behind you with a click. As you hurry down the long, dark-paneled hallway, your path lit by small, flickering candles, you can't help but briefly reflect on the past couple of hours. What a trip. [[You descend back into the tavern.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent]]

<<audio "sunny-stars" fadeout>> <<audio "mysterious-music-box" fadeout>> <<audio "please-calm-my-mind" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "please-calm-my-mind">> As you descend down the stairs, you make your way down another hall and past the backrooms. By the look of things, there seems to be quite the selection here. The roll of dice resounds from a gambling den, tendrils of smoke trickle from what must be a private lounge, and past half-closed curtains you spot the glimmer of gems, jewels and the glistening of naked flesh. You can't help but wonder, however briefly, where Leoris finds her place in all of this. Soon, you emerge back into the main room. Despite the size of the establishment, it feels more crowded than what you remember, pressing your way back towards the bar where Rayner had left you. If he was looking for you, certainly he'd be around here, right? But to your growing dismay, you don't see him anywhere. Strange faces surround you, some regal and refined, others bent and broken. Pale, dark, dusky, glossy and green, every size, shape and shade except for the grizzled chin, short-hair and murky-green eyes of your soon-to-be Instructor. Trying not to attract unwelcome attention to yourself whilst looking for Rayner, you step through the crowd and work your way deeper into the main room, searching the depths of the tavern. That's where you spot something afar that twists your stomach into a knot. Seated at a table just yonder, in a corner of the room beneath the dim glow of a torch, you see a deep-etched, goateed face. One that is oddly familiar, unsettling even, as though you're caught in another waking dream. It's hooded, dark, you can barely focus on the lower-half that's visible, until suddenly their eyes light up, almost glowing; yellow, like pools of venom, trained upon you. Mearesdes. ''"$name!"'' You swivel to face the sound of the voice, and to your surprise it's Rayner working his way through the crowd towards you. Distractedly, you turn back, only to find that the sorcerer is nowhere in sight. You blink, utterly dumbfounded, confused, as the exact spot where you had spotted him is empty. An abandoned table is all that remains, situated at the back of the tavern. A quick survey of the surrounding tables and crowd doesn't reveal anything suspicious. ''"I've been looking for you, kid."'' Rayner's right at your shoulder now, voice level and measured. He turns a quick look over you, lips tilted in a curious look, ''"You alright, $name? Where've you been anyway?"'' You suck in a breath, your gaze lingering on that now-empty table before you turn towards your companion, ''"Sorry, yeah. I thought I saw someone. I met an elf that works here, they showed me around."'' ''"You have a good time?"'' He asks, to which you give the easiest response that you can, ''"You could say that."'' At the moment, your mind is spinning, lost on the fact that you may or may not have just seen the magician from yesterday. Part of you still isn't sure whether he was... real, or a figment of your imagination, similar to the dreams that have been haunting your sleep. But their recurrent nature has you concerned, to say the least. Add to that the fact that you aren't entirely sure how much you can trust Rayner and you aren't exactly in the mood to talk about your meeting with Leoris. He's going to be your Instructor after all, and while you'll need allies at Highrock, you aren't sure that opening up to Rayner would be the best decision for the time being. He doesn't seem to mind all that much, and you follow up his question with one of your own, ''"How about your business?" "About the same. Good and handled. Now let's go, eh? The day won't last forever and the eclipse ended a few minutes ago."'' You bob a quick nod of your head and step after Rayner, though you can't help but turn one last gaze over that empty table where you thought you spotted Mearesdes, ''"... I'm right behind you."'' [[The both of you leave the Uneven Queen behind and start your ascent up the Imperial Highway.|chp2_highwaytohighrock]]

Gradually, her touch retracts, leaving you to straighten and turn a look over the apartment. ''"I wonder if the Dark Hour is over,"'' She muses, drawing across the room, the firelight gleaming atop her red-hued lingerie and fair flesh. You didn't notice it before, but there against one wall, not far from the door, are long, satin curtains. She gathers them in the crook of a long, lithe arm and sweeps them aside in one fell swoop, the sweep of deep crimson satin much the same tone as that of her thong. She has a great ass, round and pert, just the right amount of plush flesh; not big or fat but far from flat. Her rear distracts you from the window, which reveals a quiet plaza before the Highway, a dim trail of light trickling through the misty violet glow of the sky. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris murmurs as she peers through the glass panes, spotting a few figures starting to emerge from some of the buildings that line the Highway, ''"Looks like it's about that time."'' And finally, it hits you. How long have you been up here? The realization jolts you into action. ''"Fuck, I've gotta go, Leoris. Rayner must be waiting for me."'' She cuts a curious look back at you, ''"Rayner? Who's that?"'' ''"My friend, we came here together. I'll uhm..."'' You draw in a breath as you tilt a look over your high elf companion, glad for the time that you spent with one another, although you feel that it could've gone differently had the circumstances been different. She's still half-naked and in her lingerie after all... But you have to go. ''"I'll see you again, Leoris."'' ''"Okay, $name! I'll let you out. You can find your way back down, right? I need to clean up."'' She steps gracefully across the apartment and you follow after her, making sure that your belongings are accounted for. Who knows how thorough you are really, nor do you care in the moment. You just know that you need to get back downstairs. Pissing off Rayner, or having him leave you behind, is the last thing that you need to happen. ''"Take care of yourself, alright? Until we meet again!"'' She swings the door open for you, to which you step out into the hall and turn a look back, catching a glimmer of warm brown eyes and silvery bangs. ''"Bye,"'' She whispers and you intone it back softly, ''"Bye, Leoris."'' Carefully, she shuts the door until her honied orbs flick into darkness and it closes behind you with a click. As you hurry down the long, dark-paneled hallway, your path lit by small, flickering candles, you can't help but briefly reflect on the past couple of hours. [[You descend back into the tavern.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent]]

Gradually, her touch retracts, leaving you to straighten and turn a look over the apartment. ''"I wonder if the Dark Hour is over,"'' She muses, drawing across the room, the firelight gleaming atop her fine attire and fair flesh. You didn't notice it before, but there against one wall, not far from the door, are long, satin curtains. She gathers them in the crook of a long, lithe arm and sweeps them aside in one fell swoop, the sweep of deep crimson satin much the same tone as that of her favorite color. Outside the window, a quiet plaza is revealed before the Highway, a dim trail of light trickling through the misty violet glow of the sky. ''"Mmph,"'' Leoris murmurs as she peers through the glass panes, spotting a few figures starting to emerge from some of the buildings that line the Highway, ''"Looks like it's about that time."'' And finally, it hits you. How long have you been up here? The realization jolts you into action. ''"Fuck, I've gotta go, Leoris. Rayner must be waiting for me."'' She cuts a curious look back at you, ''"Rayner? Who's that?"'' ''"My friend, we came here together. I'll uhm..."'' You draw in a breath as you tilt a look over your high elf companion, glad for the time that you spent with one another, even if it's not entirely what you expected. For now, you have to go. ''"I'll see you again, Leoris."'' ''"Okay, $name! I'll let you out. You can find your way back down, right? I need to clean up."'' She steps gracefully across the apartment and you follow after her, making sure that your belongings are accounted for. Who knows how thorough you are really, nor do you care in the moment. You just know that you need to get back downstairs. Pissing off Rayner, or having him leave you behind, is the last thing that you need to happen. ''"Take care of yourself, alright? Until we meet again!"'' She swings the door open for you, to which you step out into the hall and turn a look back, catching a glimmer of warm brown eyes and silvery bangs. ''"Bye,"'' She whispers and you intone it back softly, ''"Bye, Leoris."'' Carefully, she shuts the door until her honied orbs flick into darkness and it closes behind you with a click. As you hurry down the long, dark-paneled hallway, your path lit by small, flickering candles, you can't help but briefly reflect on the past couple of hours. [[You descend back into the tavern.|chp2_leoris_apartment1_highstrip_descent]]

With the passing of the Dark Hour and the continuation of the day, the streets are busier than they were before. It appears that they higher you climb and the closer that you draw towards the sky, ascending ever nearer to the First Quarter, the more that passersby become increasingly 'unfamiliar' and foreign to you. Sure, there's still plenty of slaves, serfs and soldiers going about their day, running errands likely related to the whims of their noble owners and overlords, but there's certainly less general craftsmen, laborers and vagrants than you would find along the main throughfares of Undertown. Fine clothing, from soft linen to silk, satin and breathable cotton is not an altogether uncommon sight. People tend to be well-dressed, comparatively, and the higher you go from the bottom of the pit, the more layers of dress that these people can afford to wear. Metal glimmers too, adorning the ears, necks, wrists and belts of many a noble or privileged person of the gentry. It's an almost non-existent sight where you're from, metal, outside of the occasional Sergeant of the Legion who has earned his weight and carries a token of his service in the form of a copper or bronze gladius. It tends to be the officers that are armed with iron or steel, the deadliest of blades anywhere in Cradle. It's this monopoly on the best weapons in Cradle that makes them such a force to be reckoned with. These are the thoughts that run through your head as you walk with Rayner, who keeps a steady pace, not wanting to delay your arrival to Highrock any longer into the day. ''"What's it like there on an average day?"'' You can't help but inquire further about what's yet in store for you at the Academy. Rayner spares you a quick look before turning forward once more, clearing a path for the both of you. It isn't exactly crowded, but there's the sporadic wagon, cart or squadron of guards that clank and clatter down the Highway past you, making for a dynamic environment beneath the bright violet glow of Dosmera. ''"I suppose you'll find out tomorrow, eh?"'' ''"The first day of class hardly seems like an average day."'' ''"Fuck,"'' Rayner retorts, uttering the curse plainly, ''"You're good. Alright, let's see... There's a schedule that every student follows. It's strict enough... you go from class to class, with some intermissions. Breakfast, lunch, dinner."'' Three meals a day, you certainly like the sound of that. The food has to be good too, if they're serving it to the sons, daughters and heirs of upper class families. ''"Your classes range from lectures to live demonstrations, hands-on instruction, team sports, physical training and so on. It's not easy, but it sounds more difficult than it actually is, trust me."'' Rayner exchanges a brief glance with you as he steps along, tone casual, ''"Some of these kids aren't exactly geniuses. They play to their strengths and do the bare minimum where it concerns their weaknesses. Make sense?"'' ''"I suppose so. What about your classes, Rayner? Are they lectures or...?"'' ''"A little bit of everything. I can't spoil the material, now can I?"'' ''"Anyway,"'' He continues, ''"On class days, you have some time to yourself in the evening but they keep you confined to the Academy. It's only at the week's end do they let you go elsewhere in Cradle."'' It sounds claustrophobic, but who are you to complain? You've spent too many days and nights crammed inside Fredrick's workshop to care at this point. ''"I'm sure you'll find a couple classmates that you get along with, $name. You'll do just fine. The dorms aren't all that bad." "Dorms?" "That's right, every student, even the rich ones. It's how they promote... bonding between the lot of you. Ya know, cohesion, the group spirit."'' ''"Huh. I've heard that's how most of the Legion lives, too. They put them in a big room." "Right, it's similar to that,"'' Rayner replies, briefly watching the street over a broad shoulder as he goes, ''"They split you into different rooms, by gender and all of that."'' For the first time, though it has surely slipped through your mind already, you consider the fact that there will be female students at Highrock. [[As another wagon rattles by, you daydream about the possibilities.|chp2_highwaytohighrock1]]

''"There's a lot of girls there, at Highrock?"'' Rayner's lips twitch into a smirk at the turn that your questioning takes, and he swivels another cursory glance over at you, ''"Easy, kid. The last thing I need you to do is get overly excited, eh?"'' He barks out a short laugh at his own warning as you both trudge along, pace remaining steady as the ascent continues higher and higher, reaching into the marble heights that lead to Cradle's finest quarter. <<if $mobility gte 1>> You maintain the pace quite readily, although you can recognize that if you were less fit, you'd be working up a sweat right about now. Your Instructor is capable, you think; he's very athletic for a man of his age. He definitely doesn't seem like much of an academic, although you haven't met many, if any at all, in the first place. You just have a vague image of what one might be like, their face buried away in a dusty old tome for most of the day. Rayner is definitely not that. No, he seems rather well-rounded. <<else>>You struggle to keep up, working up a sweat as you keep to your Instructor's flank. You can't help but curse your lack of a dedicated fitness routine, because you're paying for it now. Rayner is fit, you think, athletic for a man of his age. He definitely doesn't seem like much of an academic, but you haven't met many, if any at all, in the first place. You just have a vague imagine of what one might be like, their face buried away in a dusty old tome for the most of the day. Rayner is definitely not that. He's outpacing you already. <</if>> ''"There's plenty of 'em,"'' He finally replies with some seriousness, ''"But not all of them are trying to become Officers in His Legion or Ascenders. You'll see soon enough. There are more Academies than Highrock in the First Quarter... far more. More than I could hope to name."'' ''"What do they study?"'' ''"Everything, $name. Anything you can think of. From botany to architecture, sky-scholarship to wizardry, stewardship and slave management. If it requires a semblance of skill or study, there's someone pursuing it academically. You'd be surprised how cutthroat these people can be, too. I've said it once and I'll say it again... don't let your guard down, and don't underestimate anyone that you meet at Highrock. Student or teacher."'' You slip back into silence, contemplating Rayner's advice as the sky continues to open up above you. At this height, some mist and fog lingers atop the street, wispy and warm, an entirely different atmosphere compared to the sweat, steam and sewage of somewhere like Undertown. So far, the change of pace is a welcome one, something that you were never entirely sure that you would experience despite your wishing and yearning for a better life. ''"The gate to the First Quarter isn't far now,"'' Rayner murmurs aside, his stride slowing just a touch to ensure your comprehension, ''"Same rules apply. Keep quiet... No one needs to know anything about you. Not until you're wearing your Highrock uniform. Then you'll be playing a different game."'' Inclining an easy nod, you keep at Rayner's side. You're already able to see the walls of the First Quarter from afar, as stretch up into the yawning abyss above, towering above even the tall, dark, cascading walls that line the Imperial Highway. They're of a lighter color than the walls you're used to, pale and bleached like a fine sandstone or faded alabaster, speaking to a sort of foreboding elegance. Beautiful, yet defiant. And as you come past another winding curve of the Highway, just yonder the road opens up and a gate becomes visible. It's even more secure than those of the Third Quarter, manned not only by Legionnaires but by House Guards, those who bear the tabards and sigils of the nobility. It speaks not to their own blood, but of their service. Hobgoblins, greenskins, and mostly humans, armed with the best weapons and armour that money can buy. Banners line the walls, too, the emblems of some of the most predominant of the nobility who all pledge their allegiance to the Sorcerer-King. They don't live bad lives, these guards. From what you understand, they're some of the most well-paid positions in the city for those who are only able to sell their brawn and blade. Many of them are lifesworn, dedicating their own lives and those of their families to those that they serve. In exchange, they're well-fed, receive medical care and other benefits such as private housing and more. Many of the more ambitious youths that you met in Undertown never wanted to join the Legion, but sought out employment through the nobility instead. As to be expected, these positions are highly competitive and landing such a job takes talent, persistence and luck. The selection processes are grueling and many young prospects have to serve a tour in the Legion or in a mercenary company to even be considered for the first step. You could've seen yourself going down that path, eventually, if an opportunity like Highrock hadn't been sprung upon you. It helps put things into perspective for you. Before you know it, Rayner is leading you through the gateway. [[The gatemaster seems to recognize him, lowering a polite nod which Rayner returns.|chp2_arrival_highrock]]

In the higher reaches of the Cradle, nearing the top of an ancient city-state that sprawls just as tall as it does wide, sits the foundations of Highrock Academy of Ascent, nearly built into the very face of the crater itself. Like throughout most of the metropolis, the grounds are fortified and enclosed by a large, oblong wall that wraps around what you find to be called the Inner Courtyard. It's an open space that serves a number of purposes, from that of a calm evening plaza to that of a mustering ground with hundreds of students and instructors. You stroll along at Rayner's side atop one of the many brick-paved walkways that cuts a path through the courtyard, matching his stride. However now that you've arrived, this pace is much more relaxed, giving you the welcome opportunity to survey your surroundings and soak in the sights. The mist is thick tonight, obscuring the highest reaches of the Academy as it stretches up into the open air before you, but that doesn't stop you from wrapping your head around what exactly it is, this place that you've been hearing about endlessly. It's much taller than you expected, a powerful, squared compound of pale marble and slate. There is no one uniform shape, multiple conjoined buildings making up the academy which appears as much as a castle as it would a temple or school. Against the backdrop of fog and the dim violet glow of Dosmera, you barely make out the climb of tall, teetering towers that brush against the very lip of the pit. A big, domed curved roof glistens and dozens of glass-paned windows and oblong columns blink down at you, all part of the elaborate construction of this structure. It does show signs of aging, whether it be faded stonework or a faint crack in the ceramic tiling, but far less so than the urban sprawl of Undertown. No, this megastructure is as much a work of art as a place of residence, work or study. This is Highrock, a prestigious academy for the often competitive, treacherous and decadent nobility of Cradle; supposedly, this is your new home for the next two years. The place where the second sons of noble clans and the determined gentry come to earn their place in the Legions, or to strike out for a place among the Ascenders. ''"So,"'' Rayner muses, gaze following yours through the wispy clouds and dark, translucent sky, ''"Based on appearances... is it anything like what you chalked it up to be?"'' You take a moment to consider his question, hands stowed away into the pockets of your trousers. ''"Grander. But appearances can be deceiving, right?"'' Rayner's response comes as you continue down the walkway, passing what must be a group of students along the path, ''"That's for you to decide. You must be hungry, $name. Come on."'' You've seen several other entrances from afar, leading into different parts and buildings of the Academy you're sure, but Rayner leads you to a wide doorway, almost what you'd consider a gate, that requires the ascent of a foreboding dark-grey staircase, every part of it carefully laid and hard-etched, from the steps themselves to the newel and column-like balustrades, capped atop at even intervals by boxy, black-metal lamps, lit by flickering blue flames. [[Servants stand at the top, driving the thick, wood-framed doors open.|chp2_arrival_highrock1]]

''"Welcome to the Dusk Hall, $name."'' A vast, yawning space swallows you whole, echoing upwards far, far above your head with impressive high vaulted ceilings, supported by the massive, dark-faced stone pillars that lay spread throughout the hall. Along the upper reaches of the thick, tall, robust walls are grand stained-glass windows, colored by reds, purples and blues, depicting scenes that elude your comprehension for the time being, but they must carry significance. <<if $mind gte 1>> No, your sight lingers and you quickly realize that you recognize one. The blue star of the Ascenders decorates a man's cape as he climbs, a leg bent upwards, an arm reaching higher, as he scales what must be the cliff's edge... or possibly even a mountain peak, deep within the open expanse of the Overland. <</if>> There's enough tables to seat hundreds. Large, heavy, wooden, and circular with a variety of benches, stools and chairs pulled up to them, kept orderly enough by the sizable staff who you often spot picking their way through the vast hall's recesses. ''"Let's go,"'' Rayner says with a jut of his jaw to one side, ''"The banquet table is over here."'' Standing with a wooden trencher in both hands, you work your way from one end of the table to another, some spoonful or ladle of food being slapped, dumped and doused atop your plate every step of the way. Half of what you're being fed, you think, you've never even seen before. But Gods does it smell good. The fact that you haven't had a single morsel of food all day must help. This deep, encompassing hunger develops rather suddenly, from the scent and sight of your meal alone. You didn't realize how ravenous you were until now. Stepping along with Rayner, you find an abandoned table to seat yourselves and promptly dig in. There's some familiarity here, from the crunch of smoked tilder sausages to the spongy meaty bite of crater crabfish. Even the food that you don't recognize, strange cuts of meat and what seem to be steamed vegetables, taste like subtle delicacies. ''"What is this?"'' You hoist up a slab of meat atop your spoon for Rayner to inspect, who gracefully humors your curiosity, ''"Cliffhawk. Dark meat, looks like part of a thigh."'' You scarf all of your food down readily, thankful for the moment of respite and a full belly. With all of the trials that you'll face at Highrock, it seems that hunger won't be among them. Not for tonight. ''"After this,"'' Rayner murmurs, more measured in his eating though he doesn't dawdle and waste time either, ''"I'll take you to your dorm, kid. Get you settled in for the night. Figure after this and a full night's rest, you'll be ready to give 'em hell tomorrow."'' You lower a faint nod of affirmation, accepting this plan for the time being. [[When you're both done, Rayner leads you through a different pair of doors.|chp2_arrival_highrock2]]

''"This is $name."'' The scribe stares at you briefly, leaving you somewhere between a shrug and smile, before tilting their attention back to your companion, ''".. and I'm Instructor Caius Rayner. He's in the book, you should find a note for his check-in with my signature and the Dean's attached."'' ''"Right, one moment please Instructor..."'' The sound of turning pages and shuffled papers fill the air as you stand alongside Rayner, looking the place over; this is the entrance to the male dormitories, you can only assume. It was a short walk from the Dusk Hall, slightly deeper into the academy itself and down a wide, walled corridor. ''"Thirteenth floor... Room 1312."'' ''"... Did you say the Thirteenth floor?"'' The older scribe bends over, squinting down at the font, ''"... Yes, that's correct. Room 1312."'' Wearily, you cut a glance towards Rayner who quickly recognizes your plight. ''"Lemme see that,"'' Rayner groans, stooping an arm over the desk and grabbing a tome from before the dorm's blinking attendant. Holding it before you, he points at an inscription: MCCCXII. First referring to the M, ''"This means one thousand."'' And next, pointing at the C, ''"This means one hundred. Three of 'em, that's three hundred. But that doesn't really matter, you already know it's on the thirteenth floor."'' Indicating now the XII, ''"Twelve. You can remember this shape, can't you? The X and two lines. You'll see it etched into your door."'' [[I can remember that.|chp2_arrival_highrock2_remember]] [[Is this my first lesson?|chp2_arrival_highrock2_smartass]]

''"I can remember that."'' ''"Good, because this is where we part ways for today."'' Rayner closes the book and drops it somewhat heavily back onto the desk before the scribe, dusting his hands off against one another and fixing you with his murky gaze, ''"We'll be seeing each other before long. Until then, just keep your head down and get yourself acclimated, eh?"'' ''"Got it. I'll do my best." "Aye, I know you will."'' ''"Thanks, Rayner. For everything."'' He drops a faint nod and draws back a step, turning on heel to mosey his way on out into the corridor from whence you two came. A sucking breath from the scribe doesn't leave you with much time to reflect, ''"I suppose now would be an excellent time for you to hear the dorm's rules. There's certain ways we do things here at Highrock, $name. Some first-year students have an especially hard time adapting..."'' What follows is a rather lackadaisical explanation of the apparent 'rules and regulations' of living in the dorms at Highrock. It seems rather strict, from a late-night curfew to the forbidden status of any food or beverages beyond water in your room... including a zero tolerance policy on alcohol. You listen and let the scribe rattle on. He's just doing his job, right? Besides, some of it could be useful to you. But eventually, thankfully, your torment seems to come to a close as he sucks in another wheezing breath and relents, ''"That should cover everything... for now."'' [[You continue onward, alone.|chp2_arrival_highrock3]]

''"Is this my first lesson?"'' Rayner's mouth opens as though to answer you, then shuts, attention lingering upon you. ''"Smartass. You better remember it, eh? Because this is where we part ways for the day."'' Rayner closes the book and drops it somewhat heavily back onto the desk before the scribe, dusting his hands off against one another and fixing you with his murky gaze, ''"We'll be seeing each other before long. Don't go picking any fights, kid."'' ''"No promises."'' ''"It had to be said, even if my expectations are... tempered."'' Vaguely amused, Rayner drops a faint nod and draws back a step, turning on heel to mosey his way on out towards the corrido from whence you two came. A sucking breath from the scribe doesn't leave you with much time to reflect, ''"I suppose now would be an excellent time for you to hear the dorm's rules. There's certa--"'' ''"Thanks,"'' You interrupt flatly, jerking a thumb towards the dormitory, ''"But I've really gotta take a piss."'' As you turn to stroll off, the scribe tries to call you back, ''"Wait, hold on. You have to hea--... I'll be waiting!"'' He slips into silence as it becomes apparent that you won't stop, and you likely won't return, determined to find your room and pass out for the evening. The last thing you care about is a lackadaisical explanation of any 'rules and regulations'. You aren't the typical student, and you don't intend to act like one. [[You continue onward, alone.|chp2_arrival_highrock3]]

<center><img src="images/staircase1.jpg" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Turning deeper into the dormitories, pressing past the periphery of the entrance hall you find yourself confronted by a staircase. Sprawling and spiralling upwards, it dominates what otherwise appears to be a large common room, a few tables and chairs scattered throughout. This must be where your climb begins. The thirteenth floor... typically, the higher up something is, the better that it's perceived. However, you're convinced that's not the case in this instance. Not when you'll have to make the climb and descent daily. With a breath, you get decide to get started. Your legs ache, from your feet to your knees and thighs, as your climb continues, the expansive stone stairway stretching on for what feels an eternity. As you ascend between the levels, you get a glance down different halls, slowly getting a feel for your surroundings. It's still completely foreign, all of this, but you're intent on wrapping your mind around it all as quickly as you can. That's what needs to happen, if you're going to survive. Better yet, thrive. It occurs to you at some point along your climb, muscles burning, that you forgot to ask what a thirteen looks like. Each floor is labelled with numerals, bold inscriptions chiseled into the very stone from which the building was constructed. When you pass a floor marked with an 'X', you reason that it must be the tenth floor, and a few arduous minutes later you're rounding the staircase and confronted by an 'XIII'. You're able to deduce the meaning, or at least you hope so, because you're certainly not intent on climbing further, or descending anytime soon. The halls seem rather barren, especially at this height, a plain stone corridor with the occasional wall-mounted portrait, hanging wreath, or taxidermy, a surprising amount of the beasts unrecognizable to you. It's readily apparent that the world not just beyond Cradle, but within Cradle, is still a mystery to you. Sometimes you're unsure of whether to feel smaller for your lack of knowledge, or larger now that you're forging your own path forward. One step at a time, you think, finally spotting the 'XII' emblazoned on the front of a wooden door. This room is where you start one journey, but end another - today's trek has completely worn you out. You grab the door's handle and pull, only to realize that you won't be alone. No, there stands a young man. [[A dim violet light is cast across his face.|chp2_arrival_highrock4]]

<center><img src="images/lyco1.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to 0>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to 0>>A young man stands before you, a dim violet light cast across his face. He looks about your age and size, taller than most, with a certain athletic breadth to his upper-body that speaks of a youthful vigor and perhaps an inherent strength. You can discern, undeniably, that he would be considered handsome by the vast majority, from the hard curve of his jaw to the sweep of his golden-blond hair and pale-grey eyes. Silence lingers between the both of you, stood still in the doorway as he observes you. Eventually, you draw a few steps further into the room, ''"Is this... 1312?"'' ''"That it is."'' He replies, straight-spoken with a certain clearness to his voice. ''"Then,"'' You venture, ''"I'll assume that we're going to be roommates. My name's $name."'' You incline a dip of your chin and he does the same, although unexpectedly he steps forward to offer a hand out towards you, ''"Lyco. Lyco Lepontus."'' You step forward and reach out, gripping each other's hands in a mutual exchange. As he squeezes your hand within his, a firm gesture of introduction, the thought flies through your mind that this is likely the first time you've touched nobility. He's neither friendly nor rude, his demeanor measured, practiced. ''"Well met,"'' He says softly, touch retracting, during which you catch his gaze briefly flicking down and over your exterior. His clothing is of a much higher quality than yours, despite the simplicity of both of your outfits. His shirt made of fine linen, collared, his trousers soft and sleek; likely worn under a robe, tunic or overcoat when he traveled to the academy today. You're dressed like a lowborn compared to him, with your dirty burlap garb. Already, you recognize that you're going to be set apart, if not because of your outfit, then perhaps due to the slight differences in speech, or due to your lack of knowledge concerning Highrock as a whole. This is just the beginning of it all. Much like you imagined, much like you were warned, you're at a disadvantage. Your new acquaintance steps back over to one of the bunks, his bed, a large dark-leather backpack thrown atop the mattress, full of what must be belongings from home, spare clothing and so on. You have no such possessions, only the clothes on your back, but it doesn't do you any good to linger with such thoughts. The room as a whole isn't all that large, a small window set against the far window, whilst there's a pair of bunkbeds on either side of the room, one bed stacked atop the other. A sturdy wooden dresser sits at the end of each of them for you to stow away your uniforms and undergarments, wax candles left atop, a possible light source for when darkness falls. ''"Our roommates,"'' Lyco speaks, gesturing loosely to the other pair of bunks with a roll of his shoulder, ''"Went down to grab food not that long ago. I left the top bunk for you. I think someone must have placed your uniforms in the dresser before our arrival."'' You perk up, walking over and stooping low to verify this newfound information. Sure enough, you find an assortment of tunics, academy robes, bottoms and even socks. You would have to try them on, but they look like they're around the right size. Rayner must've taken care of you. ''"I have a feeling about you, $name."'' Your attention cuts back to Lyco, who's observing you calmly, the slightest purse to his lips, ''"You're not the typical first-year, are you? You don't belong here."'' There's no malice in his voice, but it feels pointed, purposeful. How do you respond? [[You're right.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_cowboy]] [[Too bad. I'm here to stay.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard]] [[It's not up to you.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_knight]]

<<audio "please-calm-my-mind" fadeout>> <<set $cowboy +=1>> ''"You're right."'' He IS right. You don't belong here, do you? Lyco already recognizes that and it seems likely that most of your fellow students will, too. There's no use denying it. Your bunkmate watches you silently, not exactly pressing the subject any further. If he has any additional judgements to deliver, they weren't deemed important enough to vocalize, not for now. ''"Just stay out of my way,"'' He eventually replies, having turned back sometime ago to pilfer through his own belongings, ''"And we won't have any problems."'' That certainly could've gone worse, you decide. You weren't expecting a warm welcome or a grand experience full of friendship and lifelong bonds. No, your main goal, much as it has always been, is based around survival. You can't grow or gain in this life, if you're dead. That much is obvious. Lyco must be a practical sort, too. He doesn't want to make friends with someone who may jeopardize his status, and he doesn't want to make enemies with the guy who he'll be sharing a bunk with. At the end of the day, it's hard for you to blame him for any perceived coldness. It's not like the nobility of Cradle gain or maintain their power and positions through charity and being big, bleeding hearts for the low and broken. ''"That works for me."'' You murmur. Lyco seems to pause momentarily, but says nothing more. If he sees you as weak because of your agreeance, great. That's one less threat that you have to worry about trying to cut you down out of fear or insecurity. You don't need the drama or pointless vying for status. The time passes peacefully henceforth, sorting through your new uniforms and making sure that everything is workable, the right size and fit, and ensuring that you'll be prepared for the following day. The first real day, you think, of your classes at Highrock. There are questions that spring to mind, questions that you might've liked to ask, but you don't intend on striking up any further conversation with your bunkmate, not tonight. Instead, your strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]

<<audio "please-calm-my-mind" fadeout>> <<set $bastard +=1>> ''"Too bad. I'm here to stay."'' He IS right. You don't belong here, do you? Lyco already recognizes that and it seems likely that most of your fellow students will, too. But you're here now... and you're not going anywhere, not without putting up a damn good fight. You'll never deny your origins. Better yet, you'll shove the fact down their faces. Your bunkmate watches you silently, not exactly pressing the subject any further. If he has any additional judgements to deliver, they weren't deemed important enough to vocalize, not for now. ''"That's fine,"'' He eventually replies, having turned back sometime ago to pilfer through his own belongings. ''"Stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours."'' ''"Works for me,"'' You retort, ''"I didn't come here to make friends."'' That much is true; you weren't expecting a warm welcome or a grand experience full of friendship and lifelong bonds. No, you're here to claim as much as you can. Education, skills, opportunities, as much food as you can eat, and maybe meet some cute lasses along the way. ''"Why did you come here then, $name?"'' Truthfully, you didn't expect him to continue the conversation. But there he stands, pale-grey gaze resting directly upon you. Something about his outward demeanor, the way he carries himself, Lyco Lepontus is an interesting young man. The way, you feel, that he stares directly into your soul. He has presence. [[Opportunity.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity]] [[None of your business.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_none]] [[I'm going to become an Ascender.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_ascender]]

<<audio "please-calm-my-mind" fadeout>> <<set $knight +=1>> ''"It's not up to you."'' He IS right. You don't belong here, do you? Lyco already recognizes that and it seems likely that most of your fellow stude nts will, too. But it's not up to him, or any of them. Fredrick and Rayner gave you this opportunity, and you're going to make the most of it. You're going to earn your place at Highrock. Your bunkmate watches you silently, not exactly pressing the subject any further. If he has any additional judgements to deliver, they weren't deemed important enough to vocalize, not for now. ''"No,"'' He eventually replies, having turned back sometime ago to pilfer through his own belongings. ''"It's not. Stay out of my way and I'll stay out of yours."'' ''"Fair enough,"'' You reply, ''"I didn't come here to make friends, nor enemies."'' That much is true; you weren't expecting a warm welcome or a grand experience full of friendship and lifelong bonds. If you can accomplish any of that along the way, great. But for the most part, you're here to seize the opportunity bestowed upon you. Whether an officer in His Legion or an Ascender, you're going to become more than a cobbler's apprentice. Of this much, you are sure. ''"Allow me to ask, then: why did you come here, $name?"'' There he stands, pale-grey gaze resting directly upon you, unflinching. Something about his outward demeanor, the way he carries himself, Lyco Lepontus strikes you as an interesting young man. The way, you feel, that he stares directly into your soul. It's not aggression, but sheer presence. [[I owe it to someone close to me.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_knight_owed]] [[It's none of your business.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_none]] [[I'm going to become an Ascender.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_knight_ascender]]

She’s here again. <h3>Dosmera.</h3>Her glow surrounds you, encapsulating your being with her cool, ethereal breath and whispery tendrils of mist and fog. Her beauty glows, shines, nearly blinding you from the darkness of space beyond and the twinkling of innumerable stars. <<audio "street-fight" fadeout>> <<audio "bad-era" volume 0.4 loop play>> You had a hunch that this might happen, even if you had denied the possibility at first, pushing the thought back into the far recesses of your mind. But you can’t deny the sight before you, not when it’s so vivid, so real. Tangible, tempting you to reach out and touch. <<set $currentMusic to "bad-era">> Not even your dreams are safe anymore. No, ever since your chance meeting with the sorcerer Mearesdes… your life hasn’t been quite the same. Does this have something to do with him? What about your departure for Highrock Academy? Could these events be… interlinked somehow? Like droplets in some great, cosmic web of fate that has been woven for you. Do men like Mearesdes possibly have the power to influence such events? Can they steer the destiny of others like puppeteers working a marionette? Or is this truly all by chance? [[I alone control my own destiny.|chp3_dream_control]] [[Others influence me, but I have the final say.|chp3_dream_influence]] [[Perhaps there are far greater forces at work here…|chp3_dream_forces]]

''"Opportunity."'' You decide to give a vague response. Lyco seems like a smart lad; he understands, at least implicity, the many benefits and opportunities that a place like Highrock bestows upon their successful students. They certainly played a part, you imagine, in his decision to attend. Although, he doesn't seem all impressed by your answer. ''"Hell of an opportunity for someone like you, is it not?"'' Lyco's retort gives you cause for pause, tilting your gaze back to consider your bunkmate. He's glaring at you, his demeanor noticeably shifted, more emotional than before, forceful even. Something that you said must've struck a chord. You can't read his mind, but it seems like Lyco Lepontus might be fully convinced now that you truly have no place at Highrock. He has an intruder, a lowborn interloper, as a bunkmate. [[Look. I don't have a problem with you.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem]] [[A lovely opportunity. Does that upset you?|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_upset]]

''"It's none of your business."'' He doesn't intimidate you, and you don't owe 'Lyco Lepontus' anything. It doesn't even matter if you're going to be bunkmates, roommates, classmates. Fuck it all, and fuck him. He doesn't need to know anything about you, especially where it concerns your background and your motivations for attending Highrock. ''"So that's how it's going to be. This is a hell of an opportunity for someone like you, is it not?"'' He's glaring at you, his demeanor noticeably shifted, more emotional than before, forceful even. Something that you said must've struck a chord. You can't read his mind, but it seems like Lyco Lepontus might be fully convinced now that you truly have no place at Highrock. He has an intruder, a lowborn interloper, as a bunkmate. [[Look. I don't have a problem with you.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem]] [[A lovely opportunity. Does that upset you?|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_upset]]

''"I'm going to become an Ascender."'' You speak bluntly, forthright and confident. You give him a rather cocky response, sharing your ambition, sans the details concerning how exactly you came across this opportunity. He doesn't need to know about Fredrick or your connection to Rayner, not right now. ''"Bullshit,"'' comes the low reply from Lyco Lepontus, which gives you cause for pause. Tilting your gaze back, you consider your bunkmate, who's glaring at you. His demeanor is noticeably shifted, more emotional than before, forceful even. ''"If that was true, we'd share the same goal. As competitors, even. But that's bullshit, coming from you... You're just an alley thug, $name. I can tell that much."'' You must've struck a chord with Lyco. You can't read his mind, but it seems like the highborn might be fully convinced now that you truly have no place at Highrock. He has an intruder, a lowborn interloper, you, as a bunkmate. [[I'm going to sleep.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem_sleep]] [[Let's settle this like men.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem_fight]]

''"Look. I don't have a problem with you, Lyco."'' ''"I have a problem with you, $name. You carry yourself like a thug."'' He's turned towards you, poised, a fist neatly clenched at his side. You face him fully, unsure of whether he's going to drop the issue or if he's intent on provoking a fight. Do you brush it off, or confront the issue at hand? [[I'm going to sleep.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem_sleep]] [[Let's settle this like men.|chp2_arrival_highrock4_bastard_opportunity_noproblem_fight]]

<<audio "street-fight" loop play>> ''"A lovely opportunity, truly. Does that upset you, Lyco?"'' <<if $mobility gte 2>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You barely have time to react as he presses forward, quickly skipping back a step and leaning away with your head, just enough for his hard knuckles to brush past the tip of your nose. You expect another strike to follow and prepare to counter it, but it never comes. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to avoid the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Alley trash. Let's see your tricks."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] [[Deescalate the situation.|chp2_fight_deescalate]] <<elseif $might gte 2>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You don't even know what hit you at first, you just feel the dump of adrenaline and a slight numbness that spreads throughout your tensed jaw. It was a sudden, hard shot, but luckily for you, it's going to take some serious damage to lay you out onto your back. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to remain standing after the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Big, dumb and broke. Let's see what you've got, alley trash."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] [[Deescalate the situation.|chp2_fight_deescalate]] <<elseif $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You barely have time to react as he presses forward, skipping back a step and leaning away with your head, though you aren't as quick as you would've liked. His hard knuckles connect with your nose. The sudden realization that you just got hit feels you with a dump of adrenaline as that slight, painful numbness spreads throughout your face. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to react so quickly or to remain standing after the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Alley trash. Let's see what you're made of."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] [[Deescalate the situation.|chp2_fight_deescalate]] <<else>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You don't even know what hit you at first, you just end up on the ground, a numbness reverberating throughout your tensed jaw. It was a sudden, hard shot, and you're not even sure whether you went unconscious. Your senses are distorted, but still you're aware of Lyco standing over you, peering down at you with his pale-grey eyes, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. ''"Stay down there where you belong, alley trash, if you've learned your lesson."'' [[Stand up.|chp2_hurtfight_standup]] [[Stay down.|chp2_hurtfight_staydown]]<</if>>

<<audio "street-fight" loop play>> ''"I'm going to sleep. This isn't worth my t--"'' <<if $mobility gte 2>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You barely have time to react as he presses forward, quickly skipping back a step and leaning away with your head, just enough for his hard knuckles to brush past the tip of your nose. You expect another strike to follow and prepare to counter it, but it never comes. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to avoid the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Alley trash. Let's see your tricks."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<elseif $might gte 2>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You don't even know what hit you at first, you just feel the dump of adrenaline and a slight numbness that spreads throughout your tensed jaw. It was a sudden, hard shot, but luckily for you, it's going to take some serious damage to lay you out onto your back. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to remain standing after the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Big, dumb and broke. Let's see what you've got, alley trash."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<elseif $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You barely have time to react as he presses forward, skipping back a step and leaning away with your head, though you aren't as quick as you would've liked. His hard knuckles connect with your nose. The sudden realization that you just got hit feels you with a dump of adrenaline as that slight, painful numbness spreads throughout your face. Lyco must be surprised; he didn't expect you to react so quickly or to remain standing after the initial strike, and now he's watching you from behind his upraised fists, keen and calculating, picking his next shot carefully. ''"Come on,"'' He murmurs, ''"Alley trash. Let's see what you're made of."'' His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]] <<else>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> He's fast, far faster than you would've assumed at first glance. You don't even know what hit you at first, you just end up on the ground, a numbness reverberating throughout your tensed jaw. It was a sudden, hard shot, and you're not even sure whether you went unconscious. Your senses are distorted, but still you're aware of Lyco standing over you, peering down at you with his pale-grey eyes, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. ''"Stay down there where you belong, alley trash, if you've learned your lesson."'' [[Stand up.|chp2_hurtfight_standup]] [[Stay down.|chp2_hurtfight_staydown]]<</if>>

<<audio "street-fight" loop play>> ''"Fine. Let's settle this like men."'' You roll out a shoulder and widen your stance, making it clear to your bunkmate that you're prepared for a fight. ''"Great,"'' Lyco retorts beneath a hot breath, drawing closer towards you. Raising your hands, focus intently placed upon your newfound opponent, you weigh your options carefully. You could make the first move or wait to counter him. His pale-grey eyes gleam as he watches you, emotion still swelling behind his calm exterior. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]]

<<if $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Placing your weight atop your backfoot, you quickly lift your lead leg, drive up your knee and snap a kick forward at Lyco's midsection, all in one smooth motion. He must not expect the speed or ferocity of your teep, because it catches him right in the gut and nearly crumples him through sheer force and precision. You knocked the wind out of him, and for the briefest moment you can see the flicker of indecision in his intelligent pale eyes. But it seems that this noble heir doesn't intend on going down without a fight either. He's quicker than most, bigger too, and as he suddenly surges forward to attack, it serves as an immediate reminder not to underestimate your opponent. Especially not when they're desperate and determined. [[Counter!|chp2_fight_teep_counter]] [[Defend yourself.|chp2_fight_teep_defense]] <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> Placing your weight atop your backfoot, you quickly lift your lead leg, drive up your knee and snap a kick forward at Lyco's midsection, all in one smooth motion. He must not expect the speed of your teep, because it catches him right in the gut, but unfortunately it doesn't quite pack the punch that you would've wanted. But already, you're developing a feel for your range. Soon, you'll be picking him apart. For the briefest moment, you can see a flicker of thought through his intelligent pale eyes. He's a fighter that uses his brain, quicker than most, bigger too. As he suddenly surges forward to attack, it serves as an immediate reminder not to underestimate your opponent. Especially not when they seem as equally determined and competent as you. [[Counter!|chp2_fight_teep_counter]] [[Defend yourself.|chp2_fight_teep_defense]] <<else>> Trying to place your weight atop your backfoot, you lift your lead leg, hoist up your knee and drive forward with a kick at Lyco's midsection. You're not quite quick enough, the move heavy and telegraphed, your booted toes merely brushing against his belt as he slips back and avoids your attack. For the briefest moment, you can see a flicker of thought through his intelligent pale eyes. He's a fighter that uses his brain, quicker than most, bigger too. As he suddenly surges forward to attack, it serves as an immediate reminder not to underestimate your opponent. Especially not when they seem as equally determined and competent as you. [[Counter!|chp2_fight_teep_counter]] [[Defend yourself.|chp2_fight_teep_defense]]<</if>>

<<if $mobility gte 2>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> You decide to sit back, staying mobile and luring Lyco closer, allowing him to make the first move. You don't have much room to navigate, not really, but you're quick and nimble enough to stay on your feet and avoid crashing into the bunks as your opponent begins to apply pressure. As soon as he opens himself up, trying to chase you back into a corner, you spring forward and seize the advantage, punishing him for his error. You manage to crack him across the temple, lacking the strength to end the fight, but he's clearly shaken by the quickness and precision of your blow. <<elseif ($mind gte 1) and ($mobility gte 1)>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> You decide to sit back, staying mobile and trying to lure Lyco closer while analyzing his movement patterns. By allowing him to make the first move, maybe, just maybe, you could seize the upperhand. You don't have much room to navigate, not really, and this only becomes more evident as he begins to apply pressure. As soon as he opens himself up, trying to pressure you back into a corner, you spring forward and seize the advantage, punishing him for his error. You manage to crack him across the temple, lacking the strength to end the fight, but he's clearly shaken by the quickness and precision of your blow. <<else>> You decide to sit back, trying to lure Lyco closer, allowing him to make the first move. By allowing him to make the first move, maybe, just maybe, you could seize the upperhand. You don't have much room to navigate, not really, and this only becomes more evident as he begins to apply pressure. The issue is that you don't see many openings; and when you do, you aren't nearly quick enough to seize them. He pressures you further back into the room, gradually cornering you like a wild animal, preparing for an assault. <</if>> For the briefest moment, you can see a flicker of thought through his intelligent pale eyes. He's a fighter that uses his brain, quicker than most, bigger too. As he suddenly surges forward to attack, it serves as an immediate reminder not to underestimate your opponent. Especially not when they seem as equally determined and competent as you. [[Counter!|chp2_fight_teep_counter]] [[Defend yourself.|chp2_fight_teep_defense]]

He got the jump on you, and you're not sure whether you can stand toe-to-toe with him and win. But you've got to try, even if you get your ass handed too. There's no dignity in laying down in defeat. Slowly, you start to press back to your feet. Lyco peers down at you from above, but he draws back a step, then another, giving you the room to stand and straighten yourself out. ''"Great,"'' He murmurs beneath a hot breath, whilst you raise your hands and focus intently placed upon your newfound opponent. Weighing your options carefully, you consider whether to make the first move. [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]]

<<set $chp2_blackeye to true>> Silently, you decide to not press your luck. He got the jump on you, and you're not sure whether you could stand toe-to-toe with him even if you wanted to. You consider it strategic thinking, but in the moment there's a part of you that can't help but contemplate whether it's cowardice. Lyco peers down at you from above, drawing back a step when it becomes apparent that you aren't going to put up a fight. "Watch your mouth, $name. Consider this a warning." He releases a hot breath, hard gaze shifting away from you despite whatever emotional state he may be in. You can call Lyco Lepontus many things, especially after tonight, but not a sadist. You've been spared a beating, but already you can feel a slight swelling along your face. Soon your bunkmate is turned away completely, busying himself with sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead as though nothing ever happened. You decide to do much the same with whatever dignity you have remaining, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]

''"We don't have to do this, Lyco."'' ''"Put your hands up, $name. Let's settle this like men."'' You mutter a curse, roll out a shoulder and widen your stance, since your bunkmate has made it clear that the only resolution is a physical one. Lyco releases a hot breath, drawing closer to you. Raising your hands, focus intently placed upon your newfound opponent, you weigh your options carefully. Do you make the first move? [[Test his guard with a front teep kick.|chp2_fight_teep]] [[Wait and prepare to counter.|chp2_fight_firstcounter]]

<<if $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Bouncing back a step before planting your feet, you draw your strength from a firm, grounded position and only take a split second to select your opening before driving forward, throwing a straight right. You clash together with a pummeling of fists and flesh, your right impacting his cheek hard and jarring him back, whilst his knuckles merely glance off your forehead, your strike off-balancing him. You're working off instinct now. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> Bouncing back a step before planting your feet, you set yourself into a firm, grounded position and only take a split second to select your opening before driving forward, throwing a straight right. You clash together with a pummeling of fists and flesh, his cheek unbelievably solid beneath the impact of your right, whilst his knuckles knock against your forehead and jarr your head backwards, nearly sending you stumbling. Lyco's stronger than you, but you don't have time to sit and reflect, narrowly avoiding another hard jab thrown your way. You back up, quick on your feet, merely working off instinct now. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<elseif $might gte 2>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> Drawing back a step before planting your feet, you set yourself into a firm, grounded position and only take a moment to select your opening before driving forward, throwing a straight right. You clash together with a pummeling of fists and flesh; your right is far too slow, his head swaying aside whilst his knuckles knock against your forehead, rattling you, though you stand firm beneath the punishment. Lyco's faster than you, but you don't have time to sit and reflect, keeping your guard high and tight as he batters you with another hard cross and a series of probing jabs, trying to soften you up and find a way through your defenses. You back up, steady on your feet, merely working off instinct now. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<else>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> Drawing back a step before planting your feet, you set yourself into a firm, grounded position and only take a moment to select your opening before driving forward, throwing a straight right. You clash together with a pummeling of fists and flesh; your right is lacking, his head swaying aside whilst his knuckles knock against your forehead, jarring your head backwards and nearly sending you stumbling. Lyco's proving himself game, but you don't have time to sit and reflect, narrowly avoiding another hard jab thrown your way. You back up, keeping your guard high and tight as he batters you with another hard cross and a series of probing jabs, trying to soften you up. Unsteady on your feet, you're merely working off instinct now. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]]<</if>>

<<if $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> You decide to go on the defensive, drawing back a step and trying to step aside as he barrels forward. Your room's size didn't seem like much of an issue until you had to go toe-to-toe within it, bumping into your bunk before you find yourself forced into a clash, a pummeling of fists and flesh following. You keep your guard high and tight, trying to slip back and aside, but he stays right on top of you, relentless. A heavy hook nearly staggers you, following by another hard cross and a series of probing jabs, trying to soften you up and break down your faltering guard. You throw a jab in return, simply to try and give yourself room to breath, working off instinct as you hastily determine your next move. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> You decide to go on the defensive, drawing back a step and ducking aside as he barrels forward. You're just now realizing that your room's size may pose a potential issue now that you're going toe-to-toe within it, but luckily you seem to have the speed advantage, staying loose and nimble as you slip his heavy-handed strikes. He stays right on top of you, relentless, but you have a little room to breath and hastily determine your next move. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<elseif $might gte 2>> You decide to go on the defensive, drawing back a step and trying to step aside as he barrels forward. Your room's size didn't seem like much of an issue until you had to go toe-to-toe within it, bumping into your bunk before you find yourself forced into a clash, a pummeling of fists and flesh following. You keep your guard high and tight, trying to slip back and aside, but he stays right on top of you, relentless. Luckily, Lyco has yet to realize exactly how tough and durable you are; forever a glutton for punishment. You've had worst beatings. He throws a heavy hook, followed by a hard cross, connecting with both, but you tank the damage and roll with the following probing jabs that he tries to soften you up with. Working off instinct, you pick your next move. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]] <<else>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> You decide to go on the defensive, drawing back a step and trying to step aside as he barrels forward. Your room's size didn't seem like much of an issue until you had to go toe-to-toe within it, bumping into your bunk before you find yourself forced into a clash, a pummeling of fists and flesh following. You keep your guard high and tight, trying to slip back and aside, but he stays right on top of you, relentless. A heavy hook nearly staggers you, following by another hard cross and a series of probing jabs, trying to soften you up and break down your faltering guard. You throw a jab in return, simply to try and give yourself room to breath, working off instinct as you hastily determine your next move. [[Uppercut.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_uppercut]] [[Mid-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_midkick]] [[High-kick.|chp2_fight_teep_counter_highkick]]<</if>>

<<if $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a strong left uppercut that slams into the underside of Lyco's chin and snaps his head back. As he stumbles in retreat, you move forward, trying to take advantage of the situation and apply more pressure. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for what could be the finishing blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a precise left uppercut that thuds into the underside of Lyco's chin, though the impact isn't nearly as solid as you would've liked. He draws back a step, and you move forward immediately, trying to take advantage of the situation and apply more pressure. He's tough, you have to give him credit, firing back with a hard cross that you barely avoid. As you hunt for what for the finish, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<elseif $might gte 2>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a heavy left uppercut that misses the underside of Lyco's chin by mere inches. He draws back a step, and despite your lack of contact, you move forward immediately to keep applying pressure, trying to take advantage of the situation. He's quick, you have to give him credit, firing back at you with a hard cross right across the cheek that you eat without even a flinch. As you try to land a solid blow, he covers up well or ducks out of the way, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<elseif $mind gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a precise left uppercut that slams into the underside of Lyco's chin and snaps his head back. You aren't always the quickest, but accuracy is just as key. As he stumbles in retreat, you know that you should move forward and try to take advantage of the situation. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for the finishing blow, applying more pressure, he covers up well and doesn't give you any easy opportunities. Slowly, he creates more distance, the two of you exchanging a pair of blows, though it's nothing especially solid that lands. Warily regarding each other, you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<else>> Sucking in a tight breath, you channel your momentum upwards, throwing a wild left uppercut that misses the underside of Lycho's chin by mere inches. He draws back a step, and despite your lack of contact, you move forward immediately to keep applying pressure. He's quick and tough, you have to give him credit, firing back at you with a hard cross nearly catches you across the cheek. As you try to land a solid blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your room. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]]<</if>>

<<if $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Stepping forward heavily atop your lead leg, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a thick arm to propel yourself into a rather powerful mid-kick. You catch Lyco completely unaware, and even as he tries to catch your leg, it thuds into the flank of his torso, hammering his ribs. As he stumbles in retreat, the air knocked out of his lungs, you move forward and try to take advantage of the situation. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for what could be the finishing blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities while he carefully creates distance once more. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> Stepping forward nimbly atop your lead leg, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a lean arm to propel yourself into a quickly executed mid-kick. You catch Lyco unaware, but you don't pack nearly as much of a punch as you would've liked, allowing your opponent to snag your leg as it thuds into the flank of his torso. He turns, dumping you hard onto the stone floor and knocking the air from your lungs. As quickly as you can, you roll back and clamber up onto your feet, your opponenet nearly on top of you. You exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<elseif $might gte 2>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Stepping forward heavily atop your lead leg, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a thick arm to propel yourself into a rather powerful mid-kick. You catch Lyco completely unaware, and even as he tries to catch your leg, it thuds into the flank of his torso, hammering his ribs. As he stumbles in retreat, the air knocked out of his lungs, you move forward and try to take advantage of the situation. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for what could be the finishing blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities while he carefully creates distance once more. You each exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<else>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> Stepping forward carefully atop your lead leg, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back an arm to propel yourself into a competent mid-kick. Unfortunately you don't catch Lyco unaware, and you don't pack nearly as much of a punch as you would've liked, allowing your opponent to snag your leg as it thuds into the flank of his torso. He turns, dumping you hard onto the stone floor and knocking the air from your lungs. As quickly as you can, you roll back and clamber up onto your feet, your opponent nearly on top of you. You exchange a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, warily regarding each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]]<</if>>

<<if $might gte 1 and $mobility gte 1>> Taking a step forward, trying to measure the distance between yourself and your opponent, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a thick arm to propel yourself into a high-rock. It's a nice attempt, close too, but your shin clips Lyco's shoulder and throws him off-balance, as opposed to the head kick that you would've preferred. As he stumbles in retreat, you move forward and try to take advantage of the situation, applying more pressure. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for what could be the finishing blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. Exchanging a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, you warily regard each other, circling within the close confines of your room. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> <<set $chp2_lyco_dmg to $chp2_lyco_dmg +1>> Without even taking a step forward, carefully measuring the distance between yourself and your opponent, you suddenly pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a lean arm to propel yourself into a lightning fast high-kick. You catch Lyco completely unaware, throttling him alongside the head with the brunt of your shin. As he stumbles in retreat, clearly dazed and hurt, you move forward and try to take advantage of the situation, applying more pressure. He's tough, you have to give him credit. As you hunt for what could be the finishing blow, he covers up well, not giving you any easy opportunities as he carefully creates distance once again. Exchanging a pair of blows, nothing especially solid, you warily regard each other, circling within the close confines of your room. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<elseif $might gte 2>> <<set $chp2_fight_dmg to $chp2_fight_dmg +1>> Stepping forward heavily atop your lead leg, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back a thick arm to propel yourself into a high-kick. You aren't nearly as flexible as you would like, slow too, giving Lyco time to duck under your leg and punish you for your mistake. You catch a fist right across the jaw, jarring your vision. Stumbling back, you raise your guard, high and tight, exchanging another pair of blows, but nothing especially solid. Warily, you regard each other as you circle within the close confines of your dormroom. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]] <<else>> Taking a step forward, trying to measure the distance between yourself and your opponent, you pivot, twisting your hips and throwing back an arm to propel yourself into a high-rock. It's a decent attempt, but your shin merely clips Lyco's arm and throws him off-balance, as opposed to the head kick that you would've preferred. He draws back a step, and you move forward to try and take advantage of the situation, applying pressure. He won't go down easy though, firing back at you, another exchange of blows following. Nothing especially solid lands as you both warily regard each other, circling within the close confines of your room. [[Go for the finish.|chp2_fight_goforfinish]] [[Back up, pace yourself.|chp2_fight_paceyourself]]<</if>>

<<if $chp2_lyco_dmg gt $chp2_fight_dmg>> <<set $chp2_victory to true>> You can smell the blood, like an alleyhound hunting wounded prey. Despite his defiant defense, you feel like you have what it takes to put Lyco away and finally teach him that you're someone to be reckoned with. You slowly back him up into a corner, tracking his every movement, from the shift of his feet to the tick of his gaze. You drop your left elbow, a feint that he unconsciously reacts to, creating the perfect opening for a straight right that propels your clenched fist solidly into the dimpling of Lyco's chin. He crumples, dropping to a knee and trying to rise briefly before slumping over sideways. You take a step forward and instinctually prepare for another strike, before you realize that he's completely unfocused on you. He's done, finished. The fight is over. He made the first move, and you ended it. By the time that he's aware of his surroundings again, slowly sitting up, you're already walking away. ''"Consider this a lesson, Lyco,"'' You find yourself saying, ''"Don't fuck with me."'' You hear his response, a simple wounded murmur, ''"Noted."'' Turned away completely, you busy yourself with sorting through your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. It seems that your bunkmate does much the same, with his remaining dignity, time passing peacefully henceforth. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]] <<elseif $chp2_lyco_dmg is $chp2_fight_dmg>> <<set $chp2_evenmatch to true>> You move forward, hunting for another opportunity, any opening at all that you might be able to seize. But his defense is defiant, determined, trading every blow that you throw back. Each exchange turns out to be rather even, neither of you seizing the advantage, and eventually you find yourself out of breath, wondering how long this exchange has gone on. He's not in an altogether different state, heaving for air as your contest slows. Both of you turn when there's noise from the hallway, through the closed door. It passes after several moments, the booted footsteps perhaps of your fellow first-years. But it serves as enough to bring the both of you back to reality, and slowly pulls you from the adrenaline-fueled contest that has emerged here. You eye Lyco, and he eyes you back. You're the first to suggest it, ''"Truce?"'' He nods simply, ''"Truce."'' Surely enough, rather slowly and tenderly, you both stand up and straighten from your combative postures, gathering your senses. ''"That first shot,"'' You find yourself saying as you move back towards your bunk, ''"Was cheap..."'' ''"If there's a next time, it'll be fair."'' Lyco assures you, catching his breath still. Soon your bunkmate is turned away completely, busying himself sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead as though nothing ever happened. You decide to do much the same, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff thme beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]] <<else>> <<set $chp2_blackeye to true>>You move forward, desperate, hunting for another opportunity, any opening at all that you might be able to seize. But his defense is defiant, determined, and soon he's overwhelming you. With each exchange, every blow that you give gets returned twice over, harder, more precise. He has the upperhand. And soon you're retreating, stumbling back, trying to drive him back with long, sweeping swings, your energy already drained. Your vision swims, your face feels heavy, your body burns hot. And the next thing you know, you're laying splayed out atop the hard stone floor, while Lyco Lepontus peers down at you from above. A fist is raised, but it slowly lowers back down to his side before he speaks tensely, ''"Watch your mouth, $name. Consider this a warning."'' He releases a hot breath, hard gaze shifting away from you despite whatever emotional state he may be in. You can call Lyco many things, especially after tonight, but not a sadist. You've had worse beatings, despite already feeling the swelling along your face and through your hands. Soon your bunkmate is turned away completely, busying himself with sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead as though nothing ever happened. You decide to do much the same with whatever dignity you have remaining, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff thme beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]<</if>>

<<if $chp2_lyco_dmg gte $chp2_fight_dmg>> <<set $chp2_evenmatch to true>>You take a step back, trying to pace yourself through the fight. You aren't sure if you have the advantage and you don't want to get overconfident. His defense is defiant, determined, and another opening doesn't easily present itself. You find yourself trading blows with Lyco, each exchange turning out to be rather even, neither of you seizing the advantage. But you do find yourself running out of breath gradually, wondering how long this exchange has gone on. Luckily he's not in an altogether different state, heaving for air as your contest slows. Both of you turn when there's noise from the hallway, through the closed door. It passes after several moments, the booted footsteps perhaps of your fellow first-years. But it serves as enough to bring the both of you back to reality, and slowly pulls you from the adrenaline-fueled contest that has emerged here. You eye Lyco, and he eyes you back. You're the first to suggest it, ''"Truce?"'' He nods simply, ''"Truce."'' Surely enough, rather slowly and tenderly, you both stand up and straighten from your combative postures, gathering your senses. ''"That first shot,"'' You find yourself saying as you move back towards your bunk, ''"Was cheap..."'' ''"If there's a next time, it'll be fair."'' Lyco assures you, catching his breath still. Soon your bunkmate is turned away completely, busying himself sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead as though nothing ever happened. You decide to do much the same, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff thme beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]] <<else>> <<set $chp2_blackeye to true>> You back up, feeling a bit desperate, trying to lure Lyco closer whilst hunting for another opportunity, any opening at all that you might be able to seize. However he's aggressive, determined, and soon he's applying pressure that you find increasingly difficult to defend against. With each exchange, every blow that you give gets returned twice over, harder, more precise. He has the upperhand. And soon you're retreating, stumbling back, trying to drive him off with long, sweeping swings, your energy already drained. Your vision swims, your face feels heavy, your body burns hot. And the next thing you know, you're laying splayed out atop the hard stone floor, while Lyco Lepontus peers down at you from above. A fist is raised, but it slowly lowers back down to his side before he speaks tensely, ''"Watch your mouth, $name. Consider this a warning."'' He releases a hot breath, hard gaze shifting away from you despite whatever emotional state he may be in. You can call Lyco many things, especially after tonight, but not a sadist. You've had worse beatings, despite already feeling the swelling along your face and through your hands. Soon your bunkmate is turned away completely, busying himself with sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead as though nothing ever happened. You decide to do much the same with whatever dignity you have remaining, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size, fit and so on. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight, not with this company. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff thme beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry including your most recent encounter slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]<</if>>

<<set $chp2_understanding to true>>''"I owe it to someone close to me. When presented with the opportunity... I had to come here and give it my best effort."'' You give him a rather honest response, sans the details concerning how exactly you came across this opportunity. He doesn't need to know about Fredrick or your connection to Rayner, not right now. And despite whatever vaguity might exist within your given reply, Lyco Lepontus, to his credit, seems to sense your truthfulness. ''"I apologize,"'' He says after a few moments of quiet contemplation, ''"If I came across as intrusive, or ignorant. I didn't expect to share a room with someone... from the Third Quarter, I can only presume."'' For a moment, you're unsure of whether to confirm nor deny his accusation. But being honest and open with Lyco seems to have gotten you this far. He doesn't come across as accusatory, but rather inquisitive and perhaps a touch guarded. ''"That's right."'' You confirm, to which he inclines a faint nod, ''"And I didn't expect to be attending Highrock... with a bunch of nobles and gentry. I only found out this morning."'' Lyco's lips purse flush and his darker-blond brows press upwards, evidently surprised by this revelation. Maybe now, he can start to make sense, if even just a little, of the situation that you find yourself in. ''"Highrock is an adventure,"'' He intones, tone measured, ''"Even for those that come prepared. Get your rest, $name. If you have any questions in the morning... well, perhaps we'll discover them as we go."'' Now that, you didn't expect. But your bunkmate soon turns away and busies himself with sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead. You decide to do much the same, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size and fit. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions, much like Lyco suggested, that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]

<<set $chp2_understanding to true>>''"I'm going to become an Ascender."'' Your declaration is a simple one, forthright and determined. You give him a rather honest response, sharing your ambition, sans the details concerning how exactly you came across this opportunity. He doesn't need to know about Fredrick or your connection to Rayner, not right now. ''"I see,"'' comes the low reply from Lyco Lepontus, who to his credit, seems to sense your earnesty. After a few moments of quiet contemplation, he admits: ''"We share the same goal, then."'' You can picture it clearly, the longer that your attention lingers upon him; Lyco, competitive and chivalric, the noble ascender. You have the same goal, a shared ambition to ascend beyond the Cradle and join the ranks of the privileged few. And despite whatever uncertainty lingers between you two, he continues, ''"I apologize if I came across as... intrusive, or ignorant. I didn't expect to share a room with someone.. from the Third Quarter, I can only presume."'' For a moment, you're unsure of whether to confirm nor deny his accusation. But being honest and open with Lyco seems to have gotten you this far. He doesn't come across as accusatory, but rather inquisitive and perhaps a touch guarded. ''"That's right."'' You confirm, to which he inclines a faint nod, ''"And I didn't expect to be attending Highrock... with a bunch of nobles and gentry. I only found out this morning."'' Lyco's lips purse flush and his darker-blond brows press upwards, evidently surprised by this revelation. Maybe now, he can start to make sense, if even just a little, of the situation that you find yourself in. ''"Highrock is an adventure,"'' He intones, tone measured, ''"Even for those that come prepared. Get your rest, $name. If you have any questions in the morning... well, perhaps we'll discover them as we go."'' Now that, you didn't expect. But your bunkmate soon turns away and busies himself with sorting through the rest of his belongings, preparing for the week ahead. You decide to do much the same, time passing peacefully henceforth as you examine your new uniforms, making sure that everything is workable, the right size and fit. The first real day of classes at Highrock are tomorrow, you think. There are questions, much like Lyco suggested, that spring to mind. Questions that you might like to ask, but not tonight. Instead, you strip off your boots and stuff them beside the dresser before silently clambering up into your bed, the top bunk, and climbing under the sheets. Your other roommates still aren't back, but you're tired and never intended on staying up and waiting for them to arrive. No, you'll need your full rest for tomorrow. You close your eyes and gradually relax, calming your thoughts, letting every little worry slip from your mind as sleep encroaches. [[Yet things are never quite that simple for you.|chp3_dream]]

<center><img src="images/alleyhounds.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Not far from you, two alleyhounds with dark, gleaming eyes rip and tear at a bloodied carcass that looks... vaguely humanoid in appearance. You immediately feel sick to your stomach, and with the adrenaline surging through your system, it's a very odd, unpleasant feeling; one that slowly turns to fear as one of the hounds lifts their head. Blood dripping from a ragged maw, it looks directly down the alleyway at you. A low pallid light barely illuminates the dog's feral face, slipping through the cracks and small gaps in the rooftops far above. And the stench, it overwhelms: thick with death, decay and the distant cries of the desperate from elsewhere within the labyrinth. The hound growls audibly, taking a step closer, before releasing a deep bark which unconsciously causes you to draw back a step. That's the only sign that it needs, fear, leaping towards you with a snarl, jagged teeth glistening against the darkness. You turn, nearly slipping, before tearing off at a sprint through the shadows. Instinct lead you after the thief, deeper into the alleys, but at this point you just need to lose these hounds. Sure enough, right behind you, the snarls and growls of the alleyhounds grow louder. These are no ordinary dogs. With blood-red eyes and slavering jaws, they're brutal hunters, claws scraping against the cobblestones as they begin their relentless pursuit, hungry for your tender flesh and marrow-filled bones. You dart around a corner, hand brushing against the rough, grimy wall for balance, your breath running ragged and your heart pounding wildly in your chest. You can't outrun a pair of hounds, not for long. There's no time to think, only act. [[Fight.|newintro_left_fight]] [[Keep running.|newintro_left_run]]

You square your shoulders and slowly clench your fists, drawing in deep breaths that you try to steady, calm, control. They're right around the corner now, almost upon you. But running is no way for you to continue; it would only prolong the inevitable. <<if $might gte 2>> bare hands The first alleyhound rounds the corner, red eyes gleaming, lunging at you with viciously snapping jaws. Possessed of only flesh, blood and bone, using your own two hands, you fight back. Swinging with all of your might, your hard-clenched fist connects with the hound's skull, knocking it aside with a yelp. Alas, the other hound is already upon you as well, charging fast. All you can do is sidestep it, the beast snarling and twisting around to snap at your legs. Pain flares as the beast's teeth graze your calf, but you ignore it, lashing out hard with every ounce of your strength and determination, punishing the beast's head, neck and snout with every brutal, walloped punch. And with a firm kick, you finally create distance. But they're both still game, the two hounds circling you, their growls vibrating through the narrow alley despite every kick, punch and throw thus far. You have to be tough, quick, precise. One wrong move, and you're going to be torn apart. You slowly back up, both of the hounds lunging at you simultaneously, desperately throwing yourself aside, only to feel the rush of air as their jaws snap shut mere inches from your face and fair flesh. By the time you shove up to your feet, one of the hounds is already launching into another leap. But this time, you're ready. You manage to grab the beast mid-air, a big hand clamped down tight around it's throat, the other hoisted low beneath it's bulky body and mangy, torn pelt. There, grip firm, you take a running throw and //slam// the creature directly into the ruined alley wall, causing a cascade of dirt and grime to shake free from the sheer impact. In the confusion, you turn deeper down the alley, trying to lose them. It's only then that the ground disappears from beneath your feet. [[You plummet into darkness.|newintro_left_pit]] <<elseif $might gte 1 and $mind gte 1>> Heart racing, your eyes dart over the alley, spotting a chunk of broken cobblestone. It's not much, not much at all, but it'll have to do for now. Just as you pick it up, the first alleyhound rounds the corner, red eyes gleaming, lunging at you with viciously snapping jaws. Gripping the mound of stone preciously in your own two hands, you fight back, swinging it down hard with all of your might, stone connecting with the hound's skull, knocking it down face-first into the alley floor with a yelp. Alas, the other hound is already upon you as well, charging fast. All you can do is sidestep it, the beast snarling and twisting around to snap at your legs. Pain flares as the beast's teeth graze your calf, but you ignore it, lashing out hard with every ounce of your strength and determination, punishing the beast's head, neck and snout with every brutal, walloped punch. And with a firm kick, you finally create distance. But they're both still game, the two hounds circling you, their growls vibrating through the narrow alley despite every kick, punch and throw thus far. You have to be tough, quick, precise. One wrong move, and you're going to be torn apart. You slowly back up, both of the hounds lunging at you simultaneously, desperately throwing yourself aside, only to feel the rush of air as their jaws snap shut mere inches from your face and fair flesh. By the time you shove up to your feet, one of the hounds is already launching into another leap. But this time, you're ready. You duck, the creature smashing into the ruined alley wall directly behind you, causing a cascade of dirt and grime to shake free from the sheer violent impact. In the resulting confusion, you turn deeper down the alley, trying to lose them. It's only then that the ground disppears from beneath your feet. [[You plummet into darkness.|newintro_left_pit]] <<else>> The first alleyhound rounds the corner, red eyes gleaming, lunging at you with viciously snapping jaws. Possessed of only flesh, blood and bone, using your own two hands, you fight back. Swinging with all of your might, your hard-clenched fist connects with the hound's skull, but it's bigger than you expected. The impact of it's charge knocks you over, and as soon as you find your feet, both of the hounds are upon you. Circling, their growls vibrating through the narrow alley, you know that one wrong move and you'll be torn apart. As the hounds lunge simultaneously, you throw yourself aside, feeling the rush of air as their jaws snap shut alongside your face. You catch the flicker of a dark face, only then realizing one of them is already upon you, practically right on top of you, jaws flaring wide before it clamps down around your left arm. You scream in pain, the bite tight, firm, unrelenting. You're going to die like prey, hunted down by alley mutts, you begin to frantically realize. But your right hand, desperately clutching along the cobblestone suddenly feels something sharp, cool, slippery. You reach for it, a jagged piece of broken glass, which you grab only to drive it deep into the hound's eye. The creature releases you, thrashing in agony, pained cries echoing deep through the alleys. And while you can, you push to your feet and run, dripping blood with the second hound still right behind you. It's only then that the ground disappears from beneath your feet. [[You plummet into darkness.|newintro_left_pit]]<</if>>

No, you quickly realize that you have no chance to fight them. You have to run. There is no other choice. Blood-pumping and adrenaline-high, you pick up the pace, intent on your escape. It's the only way that you survive. <<if $mobility gte 1 and $mind gte 1>> But even in your frenzied state, you spot something up ahead, lurking beneath the trash-strewn foilage of the street. A trap. Sucking in a tight breath and picking up speed, you kick off from the hard-packed street beneath you and pitch yourself into open air, hoping for the best. And it turns out to be the right decision. You narrowly avoid tumbling downwards into a pit. A trap, you think, set into the very street itself. You don't have time to reflect. The hounds are smart and know these alleys, it seems, better than you. They tear along the street on either side of the pit and continue their pursuit, still hot on your trail. [[You spot some crates up ahead.|newintro_run1]] <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> In your frenzied state, all you can do is pick up speed and run harder, faster, taking longer strides with every fiber of your being. It's your reflexes that save you, when the ground suddenly gives way beneath you. You kick off against the hard-packed street with your backfoot, pitching yourself into open air and narrowly avoiding tumbling downwards into a pit. A trap, you think, set into the very street itself. You don't have time to reflect. The hounds are smart and know these alleys, it seems, better than you. They tear along the street on either side of the pit and continue their pursuit, still hot on your trail. [[You spot some crates up ahead.|newintro_run1]] <<else>> In your frenzied state, all you can do is pick up speed and run harder, faster, taking longer strides with every fiber of your being. But not even your speed can save you when the ground gives away beneath you. You clutch at the crumbling debris and broken street around you, even as you fall, plummeting down into the deep darkness below. Before you've truly realized what's happening, your head smacks against the ground, shaking your very soul. [[ Darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]]<</if>>

<<set $left_pit to true>> You clutch at the crumbling debris and broken street around you, even as you fall, plummeting down into the deep darkness below. Before you've truly realized what's happening, your head smacks against the ground, shaking your very soul. [[ Darkness overtakes you.|intro_right_knockedout]]

<<audio "road-to-nowhere" fadeout>> Fredrick got his nails, but the old man wasn't stupid. He knew something had happened. You told him most of what had occurred after you left home this morning; the coinpouch snatched from your belt and namely the pursuit that followed. However, you //might// have left some of the less glamorous details out of your story. You weren't sure if you should mention the meeting with the sorcerer, not yet. The old man, who was typically more stoic and dismissive than most, looked far more thoughtful than usual. Troubled even. But he seemed satisfied with your explanation and even bid you to rest and take the evening off, thanking you for the bundle of nails in the end. You were too exhausted to question him. The dank warmth and familiarity of your room, however barren, embraces you. You fall atop your cot, kicking your boots off and stripping away your threadbare clothing until all you can think about is sleep. Curling up amongst the sheets, the excitement of the day slowly fades away... [[That night, you have a dream.|intro_nightdream]]

You spot a stack of rotting wooden crates ahead, making a split-second decision in the heat of the moment, the hounds right behind you, practically breathing down your back. With a burst of adrenaline, you leap up onto the crates, boots splintering the decayed woods. Scrambling up desperately, you manage to use the debris like a makeshift ladder to reach a low, tiled rooftop. And below, the alleyhounds snap and snarl up at you, their claws tearing at the crates as they try to climb up after you. You pull yourself up higher, panting heavily, the growling of the hounds below still serving as a grim reminder that this chase might not be over yet. Scanning the darkened expanse of rooftops, you waste no time, seeking a way out. The buildings are tightly packed, their roofs uneven and treacherous, but it's your only chance. You run, leaping from one rooftop to the next, your feet occasionally slipping on the damp tiles. And so you find yourself climbing atop crumbling structures and navigating between caved-in roofs, sometimes getting a glimpse between each building into the alleyways below. Sometimes the fall doesn't seem like it would be too bad, while othertimes, you reason that you'd be lucky to survive; such is the fluctuation in height that you experience throughout your pursuit. You never imagined yourself in a situation like this. But much to your surprise, against all odds, you spot off in the distance the flutter of a familiar dark cloak. They must see you, because in only a moment, they're gone, tearing off across the rooftops in the opposite direction. Without as much as a thought, you give pursuit, determined to not let them escape this time. You've already came this far. [[The thief always appears one step ahead of you.|intro_right_calm4]]

<<audio "the-wanderer" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "the-wanderer">> As the heavy wooden door to your room swings open, you will yourself to sit up. A pair of guards make their entrance into your cell, stout and armoured in hard, boiled-leather with thick, sheathed blades dangling from their emblazoned swordbelts. ''"Get up,"'' The nearest commands with a tick of his chin, brown eyes briefly assessing you and the sparse confines of your room. This must be standard practice for them, you think, a grim job for hard men. You press up to your feet silently and jut out your hands at the guard's indication, still blinking away sleep, standing there as they restrain you with a pair of thin, black-iron manacles. They aren't heavy, but they certainly restrict you from any substantial movement of your hands and arms. ''"You should know the deal by now,"'' He mutters to you absently, ''"Nothing funny. Speak only when spoken to, and everything goes smooth for you. Got it?"'' You incline a firm nod, though it's not like you have any other option. Evidently satisfied by your response, the first guard turns to the second, passing something between themselves, before you spot the canvas sack. ''"Sorry mate, stay still. Just part of the procedure."'' The sack gets pulled down over your head, masking the world in a dank, dingy darkness; there's a bit of a smell to the material, musty and old, as it rubs uncomfortably against your face. And just like so, they start guiding you out of the cell. ''"Straight... keep going. Stop."'' You hear the door swing shut behind you, and one guard takes you by the arm as you begin to walk once more. You try to focus on the positives for the time being. You can breathe, you're alive, and you're going somewhere that isn't a locked cell. Hopefully. You know that you're being led through the long corridors of the catacombs, the ground solid beneath your booted feet. Down here, things are relatively quiet, the silence only interrupted by the footfalls of your procession, the clanking of your manacles, and the occassional distant shout or low cry. You pass plenty of other cells along the way, dozens if not hundreds you reason, and many of them must be occupied given the whimpering, shuffling and creaks that you sometimes hear. You wonder how many of them, your fellow captives, fought with you in the arena yesterday. It's a bit of a numb, sullen feeling that sits in the pit of your stomach, the realization that although you came together yesterday as comrades through circumstance, to save your own lives and defeat a horrible foe... it was only a brief moment in time, a bloody taste of the misfortune that may await each and every one of you still yet. [[As you walk, you realize you're egressing up a slight incline. You're moving... higher.|chp3_slave_escort1]]

There's relief in the realization. At the very least, you aren't being led deeper into this hellish imprisoned labyrinth of stone and skulls. You hear something too, far in the distance somewhere to your front, the sound of movement. You must be getting closer to a main passageway, wherever it is that they're taking you. You would ask them, the guards escorting you, if you didn't think you'd be punished for it. There's very little leeway here, with a sack over your head and a pair of manacles keeping your hands clinched tight, confined. It's a miserable feeling, being kept helpless like you are now, blinded and bound with a pair of boots to either side of you that would be more than happy to kick you, stomp you, beat you mercilessly until you complied. It's the most surreal and severe loss of freedom that you've ever experienced... as a man. Thinking back to your childhood, the story isn't much brighter. Your hands were never cruelly bound as they are now, but as a young child, you're just as defenseless against the world. A cold world that you don't yet understand, where you still hope for the best in the people and things around you. Who needs manacles or shackles to bind your wrists, ankles, when it's adults that bind the minds of the youth? What about when those that are supposed to protect you, mentor you, guide you, are those who ridicule, demean you and punish you for your curiosity? Worse yet is when your peers turn against you. When instead of discovering the world together, they make it a competition. It must be instinct, for little cliques and coalitions to form, for a consesus of children to be reached. You just happened to be an outsider, too little too late, a bit too strange with eyes a tad too blue. That's unusual in Undertown, blue, a cold color associated with the nobility. It didn't take much for them to find a reason to torture you. Physically, mentally; how do you dampen a boy's spirit? Or did it strengthen you? ''"Turning left,"'' one of the guards sounds out gruffly, pulling you from your deep, wandering reverie. It's a strange situation that you find yourself, being pulled along through the catacombs of Cradle as you wander through the well of distant memories past. You aren't a child anymore, but a man. You can fight now, even with your hands shackled. You can kick, headbutt, possibly run; not too quickly, with your hands and arms positioned as they are now. But the real question is, would that be smart? It's louder here, noticably so, having turned into what must be a wider hallway. You can hear the fall of footsteps moving down the hall, in the same direction and opposite, along with the rare murmur or low din of conversation from what must be guards, servants, workers, whoever else must dwell down here related to the arena or the management of prisoners and slaves. This wouldn't be a good place to attempt an escape, not if you were serious about your own survival. It would be nice, you think, to keep on living. [[Escape will have to wait.|chp3_slave_escort2]]

Unfortunately, the guards escorting you have yet to given any indication of where you're going. Realistically, the worst possibility would be, what... that they're throwing you into another game? Another bout in the arena that you may fight and die in against insurmountable odds? You don't really know how likely that is, getting tossed in the day after your first and only victory. Gant //did// mention that it's Crathal, an entire month of unending Death-Games. What's a worse fate, death in the arena or rotting away in a cell? Do only clever cowards wish to live forever, or is it brave fools that yearn for an exciting, bloody, bold death? However, as your thoughts continue to meander with each and every step that you take, you do recognize that both Khalika and Gant mentioned the possibility of being auctioned off. There's a chance, however slim, that you could be sold off for some purpose other than that of fodder. You think of the hundreds, if not thousands of labor slaves that you've seen throughout your life. They do the most mindless and grueling of tasks; hauling dirt, stone, brick. Laying new roads, and tearing out the old cobble. Lots of construction, taking part in every endless and painstaking project to maintain Cradle's many streets, buildings, walls. It's not easy work, often dangerous, with scaffolding to scale with heavy material and tools in hand, for little to no pay, no compensation, and any injury could potentially mean the end of your life. Equally as harsh would be a life in one of the many mines built into the crater's edge, large sections of the Third Quarter huffing the very face of the cliff itself. Fredrick took you to see it once, when you were a little bit younger, letting you gaze upon the dark grey earth and the many pathways and tunnels etched into it. Such is the terrible ingenuity of humans, he told you, manipulating their every surrounding and delving deep, whatever it takes, to take from the Cradle any and every material that may be of use. It's metal that they sometimes find, in small, fragmented quantities, buried deep within the planet's mantle and the far reaches of the pit. On the otherhand, you have large crews of agricultural workers that leave the walls on a regular basis, overseeing large, sectioned-off fields that have been tilled, cultivated and carefully maintained for generations. They are vast, encompassing nearly every piece of flat earth outside of the walls to the north and northeast, until you reach the stony barrens and cliff walls that make any further tillage or sowage impossible. The soil is soft and moist there, Fredrick told you once, one of the few areas outside that will grow anything, but there are just as many terrible beasts outside the walls as there are deep within. Life doesn't get easier, he said, no matter where you go. The chances of you being bought for any other purpose seems incredibly slim, whether it be for "domestic" purposes such as maintaining a noble's household, or that of a pleasure slave, valued for their bodies and the company that they provide. Would that even be a preferable outcome? [[Let me determine my own fate in the arena.|chp3_slave_escort2_knight]] [[I'd rather spend my life working and being of use.|chp3_slave_escort2_cowboy]] [[Yep, pleasure slave sounds best. Gant was onto something.|chp3_slave_escort2_bastard]]

<<set $knight +=1>> You realized early on in your life that nothing comes free, and nothing worthwhile comes easily. Everything is part of a greater struggle, a grand competition in which every living soul, every human being, is unconsciously engaged whether they realize it or not. You strive to not merely wander through life, but to be active, to compete. To roll the dice, exercise your will upon the world and seize the prizes offered to only those who are worthy, aware, or simply lucky enough to obtain them. It's not fair, you know that, and it's a relief not having to pretend otherwise. How are you supposed to help others or change the world without any power of your own? In the arena, you're unlikely to change anything at all, outside that of your own fate. But isn't that how it's always been? Everyone tries to avoid danger, to make money through work, labor, business and other underhanded means. They think wealth will change their life, that education and status will pave the way to something greater. But any man ought to realize that with a will, there is a way, and that violence has always offered opportunity to the victor. Let me determine my own fate in the arena, you reason, and I'll show the world my worth or die trying. You gave them a small taste of what you're capable of yesterday and you're prepared to do it all over again. Your heart beats solidly in your chest and fear that lingered within you as dissipated. It's a new day, and it's yours for the taking. [[But where are they taking you?|chp3_slave_escort3]]

<<set $cowboy +=1>> The idea of a life spent at work doesn't sound terrible to you. You'd rather avoid death for long as you can, having not quite come to terms with your own mortality. Or maybe you have, in your own little way, but you'd rather see more of the world and take it all in before shedding your mortal coil. Death comes for us all, does it not? People may speak your name after a grand death in the arena, but even that seems unlikely. So many people die, and as the days go by, memories fade, folks go on living their lives. Your bones would be stacked down into the catacombs with so many countless others, soaked in sweat and seeped in steam. It's not that complex or difficult to grasp, you reason, the desire to live your life in security, peace, comfort. Even something grueling as service on a labor crew could have a sort of... simple satisfaction to it. Something about finishing a long, hard day's work, you've experienced that many a week while apprenticing for Fredrick. Hell, being a cobbler was never going to be a glamorous life but you had accepted that might have been your path forward. It wasn't a terrible life. Working in the fields wouldn't be either. Besides, you've always wanted to see outside the walls of Cradle. All you've ever known is life in the city; a dark, dreary and often cramped existence. It may not be easier elsewhere, like Fredrick told you, but it could certainly be... different. And different can be good. Different can be preferable even. //Preferable to death.// [[But you don't have a choice. Where are they taking you?|chp3_slave_escort3]]

<<set $bastard +=1>> You don't have any problem with the concept of being used for your body. No, none at all. Gant was definitely onto something. Come ride the cock carousel, ladies. Any noble heiress or merchant women from this side of the crater can get a piece of your peen. You're not opposed to hard labor if that labor involves hammering your hips down into something soft, squeezing, satisfying. Hell, even death doesn't seem so terrible when combined with the act of rutting; fucking beautiful babes until your helpless heart gives out. What's the purpose of life but to enjoy the most immediate pleasures? Good food, free-flowing drinks and copious amounts of sex, that's what you yearn for, especially with this sack over your head. You can't help but wonder how many men truly exist as pleasure slaves in Cradle. You know they exist, and you know that when it comes to looks and that piece of meat between your legs, you could compete with the very best. Maybe your chances aren't so slim after all, the more that you think about it. Rub the right shoulders and make the right moves, $name, and maybe you have a shot at an enjoyable life in what seems to you to otherwise be a rather miserable hellscape. Play to your strengths and perhaps, possibly enough, you can avoid an untimely death or a life of grueling labor. All you need is the right chance, and Highlord knows, you're certainly looking for it. [[But where the hell are they taking you?|chp3_slave_escort3]]

It's difficult to tell. As far as you know, you're still moving along a main passageway through the catacombs, possibly even egressing upwards and out of the dreary, dark depths below. It's just a hunch, a feeling, but you don't remember the trip from the arena to your cell taking quite this long. That could be a sign that your destination is someplace other than the sands. Although, all things considered, they could just as easily be leading you to an different entrance. Anyone's guess would be as good as yours at this point. ''"Watch it,"'' comes a low warning from the guard who's leading you along, his gloved hand pressed against your shoulder, ''"We're approaching stairs, going up. One step at a time."'' You're thankful for the instruction; even though you could be being lead to your death, you recognize that he's just doing his job. The world is full of people taking unconscious action and justifying each of them as necessary for their own survival. The stairs are flat, wide and blocky beneath your feet, quite easy to scale, which you do, one step after the other as instructed. One guard walks ahead of you, the other directly behind, a clambering of boots, armoured men, heavy breaths and the jingling of your manacles as you ascend. The staircase turns once, twice, one of them guiding you along, and higher still you climb. Is this part of the colosseum? You have to be above the arena floor, now. For you, these answers will have to wait. ''"Turning,"'' comes the guard's voice, his hand laying upon your shoulder once more as he guides you from the staircase out into another passageway. You keep walking, led along, sensing the presence of others up ahead. The low murmur of voices gives it away, along with the shuffling and sniffling of bodies nearby. You hear a firm voice, ''"Good, put him against the wall. We're waiting for one more. They're about ready."'' ''"Aye,"'' comes the reply of the guard at your shoulder, who takes you a few paces further before halting, ''"Stop. Right here, stand against the wall and wait. Remember."'' The man's voice is low and instructive, ''"Don't speak unless spoken to and you'll be fine."'' And then he's gone, both of your escorts moving back down the hall from whence you came. Taking a breath, you slowly lean your right shoulder against the wall and try to take in your surroundings, mostly what to can hear... or smell. There's someone standing immediately in front of you, up against the wall too, possibly another slave. They have a stench, a bit sweaty, musty, rank. There's still guards in the hall, you can determine that much as well. You can hear a couple of them, slowly pacing along and occasionally exchanging a few murmured words between each other. They're watching over you, keeping you here, waiting for... something. You don't feel as though you're in danger, at least not immediately. Everything has been far too... casual for that, today. It's definitely a different atmosphere compared to your arrival in the catacombs yesterday, where you were unloaded from your caged wagon and violently forced into the arena sands. [[Truthfully, you didn't expect to hear this...|chp3_slave_escort4]]

<<audio "the-wanderer" fadeout>> <<audio "fart" play>> It's a sudden sound, deep and wet, that comes from the ass of whomever stands directly in front of you. A fellow slave, you can't be for sure, but they've just released one of the most inhumane farts that you've ever had the displeasure of witnessing, hearing, smelling. It was loud and the foul stench reaches you almost immediately. ''"They're gonna love this batch,"'' You can hear one of the guards chuckling, ''"Nasty motherfuckers."'' But it's no laughing matter for you. This damned canvas sack over your head makes it all the worse; the scent seems to linger, trapped up within, flush against your face. You're never thought of yourself as someone with a weak or sensitive stomach, especially as someone from Undertown, but you can't help but gag in this instance. Luckily, it's nothing more than a dry heave, your eyes watering as you try to settle your senses and clear your head. ''"Shit, sorry mate. Couldn't hold that fucker in any longer."'' You recognize the voice, despite it being low and murmured against the wall right in front of you. ''"Gant? Is that you?"'' The response is immediate, voice bright despite the low volume that you both maintain, whispering conspiratorially, ''"$name? Ah, it's good t'hear your fuckin' voice."'' ''"Any clue where we are? What's going on?" "No clue, mate. I've only been standin' here a few minutes myself. Took me right from the cell, they did. I'm fuckin' starving too..."'' He lapses into silence, the booted footfalls evidence of a guard moving down the hall, not far from you. Gant waits for them to pass before murmuring low, ''"Mate, hopefully this is where they oil up the pleasure slaves. That's what I'm hedgin' my bets on. Used up all my damn bravery yesterday, you know? That shit needs time to regenerate... wine and women, too."'' More footfalls come from further down the passageway, a group, the subtle sound of manacles clinking among them. And much like you could imagine, another slave is led into place directly behind you. Luckily, you can hear the conversation between the guards quite clearly, ''"This is the last one. Shall I let them know, sir?"'' ''"Go ahead,"'' comes the deep response, to which the sound of more steps fill the hallway. You don't know how many slaves are standing here against the wall, but you can tell there are a few guards, maybe five or six, standing watch over you now. The creak of a heavy door opening comes from further down the hall, closing behind them, and then silence. You wait, Gant silent too, as whispering now would be too risky. Something's about to happen. Someone is waiting for you. And you have a feeling that you're about to find out who. [[The door down the hall opens once more.|chp3_slave_privateaudience]]

''"She's ready."'' <<audio "door-open-close" play>> ''"Alright, let's bring 'em in."'' A guard clears his throat, apparently speaking to the lot of you lined up against the wall, ''"Walk together now, nice and orderly."'' Blindly, you lift your shackled hands and loosely grasp at Gant's tunic, just enough to keep ahold of where he is, and you feel someone doing much the same at your back. Exactly like that, the entire line begins to shuffle forward, blind still, hands bound, guided by the guards at intervals as they usher you out of the hallway and into the room. Gant passes through the doorway before you, and you feel the press of a guard's hand at your shoulder as they encourage you to do much the same. It's rather silent, except for the sound of your feet, the metallic jostling of manacles and what seems to be... water, trickling. ''"In a line, please, beneath the light. Yes dear, just like that. And start removing their restraints, would you? There's no need for that in here. We're all among good company, no?"'' Her voice is rich and decadent, boldly noble, feminine too. This woman's tone, she speaks as someone who commands respect but yields it carefully, calmly. Someone takes you by the shoulders, turns you away from Gant, taking you a side to the step and carefully setting you into position. They manipulate you like a mannequin, a piece of merchandise, or perhaps something to be seen, observed, admired even. It's an odd feeling, but it's overshadowed by the relief that you feel having those manacles unlocked and freed from about your wrists. You're alive, and in the company of a woman. You're aware of that much. <<if $mind gte 1>> There's smells too, a pleathora of them. You smell something spicy, heady, incense and candle max thick in the air, and what may be an underlying aroma of food. Freshly cooked food, you're sure of it. It's a large room and there's more people in here, surely, though you can't be sure. Not until you see them with your own two eyes.<br><</if>> Whoever stands beside you, the last person in line, to your right; as soon as you hear the 'click' of their manacles being opened and slid free, the unseen woman speaks once more, ''"Very good. Well, I suppose we may begin. Is everyone ready?"'' There's a polite, quiet murmur of agreement, but not from the slaves. ''"Excellent. You may remove their coverings."'' [[It takes a few moments, but soon the sack is tugged up from over your face.|chp3_slave_privateaudience1]]

<<audio "bad-era" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "bad-era">> <center><img src="images/noblewomen1.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> You blink against the sudden onslaught of dim, flickering light. And as your eyes adjust, a large, lavish chamber of deep, velvety reds, lush greens and deep gold is revealed to you. The opulence is overwhelming, from the cascading curtains to the warm glow of ornate candelabras, illuminating three women on the crimson couch before you. Once you spot them, it's impossible to pry your gaze away. Each of them are among the most beautiful women that you've ever seen, from the depth of their sultry gazes, to their beautiful curved lips and supple bodies. They scream of wealth, luxury, good health, careful breeding. These are certainly noblewomen, there's no room for doubt. The first woman, with smooth, ebony flesh and a dark mane of tight black curls, leaned back against the couch with her long legs carefully crossed. Her pale blue eyes are sharp, calculating, conveying little emotion. No, she seems the most reserved of the trio, the least inclined to be here, but you feel drawn to her all the same. Her purpose here eludes you, somewhat withdrawn, distant, but observing you all the same, her slight smirk a show for those watching. On the other side, farthest to your right, dark, smoldering eyes watch you from behind long, thick and deep auburn locks. Draped in sheer fabrics that cling to her every curve, she exudes a sense of danger. She's confident, a woman who has seen much and feared little, or at least that's the front that she puts on. Her lips are parted slightly, as though savoring the very sight of you. And when your eyes meet, you swear that she winks. But the woman in the middle, she is the one who speaks. Flowing, bright red hair cascades down her supple back like a river of flame. Her posture is poised, elegant, in command, flawless except for the slight asymmetry between her sultry, brillant red eyes. She studies each of you gathered as though you were a prize to be weighed and measured. Her lips curl into a slight, almost imperceptible smile, evidently pleased by the showing. Around the edges of the room, you notice others, a collection of mostly noblewomen, some men among them, who watch the spectacle with interest, whispering among themselves as they assess the slaves on display. The red-haired noblewoman leans forward and slowly speaks, her voice smooth and commanding. ''"You."'' Your heart pounds in your chest as you realize that her eyes are resting directly upon yours. ''"Step forward, handsome,"'' she instructs, drawing some low, tittering laughter and eager whispers from the crowd. You don't have any choice. Even if your instincts scream for you to run, to fight, you know that you have to play their game for the time being. Chin raised high, gaze leveled down to lock with hers, you draw forward a step and let the crowd soak in the sight of you. <<if $might gte 2>> You stand tall, your broad shoulders and strong, rippling musculature on full display under the flickering candlelight. You're more imposing than most, bursting with vitality, virility, an inner fire that fuels your easily evident sheer physicality. It's not often that you get to strut your stuff, not like this. The reception is pleasing to say the least. The noblewomen before you exchange glances, their eyes drawn immediately to your physique. Even the blue-eyed woman with dark, kinky curls can't feign disinterest. ''"Impressive,"'' she purrs, her voice thick with approval, ''"A beast of a man. But brute force alone can be as much a curse as a blessing. Can he wield it efficiently? Does his brain match his brawn?"'' In the middle, the redhead's brilliant orbs sparkle with a mixture of mirth and admiration. Her gaze wavers between the sweep of your chiseled physique and your visage, masculine and steadily trained upon her still. ''"Strength like his could command armies.. or unite those desperate and damned. We've seen that much, have we not?"'' She muses aloud, releasing a breathy sigh as she flicks a look aside at her auburn-haired companion, ''"What of your thoughts, Alesia?"'' ''"The only power that I wonder if he can wield effectively, Livia, my love,"'' Her friend intones carefully, sultry smile and dark smoldering eyes intent upon you, lowering slowly as she speaks, ''"Is the weapon that hangs holstered between his thighs. Is a look too much to ask?"'' Livia, the redhead in the middle, lets out a lavish laugh, a few spectators from within the surrounding crowd joining her. Some murmurs of agreement rise up too, prompting you to question whether or not they're serious. But she makes the decision plain as day soon enough. ''"Let him have his dignity and choose, my dear Alesia. What do you say, gladiator? Do you care to give us a show, or are there some secrets that are better left unseen?"'' [[If they want dick, it's dick they get. (18+)|chp3_slave_privateaudience1_physdick]] [[Sure, give them a peek. (18+)|chp3_slave_privateaudience1_peek]] [[I'd prefer not.|chp3_slave_privateaudience1_nope]] <<elseif $mobility gte 2>> You stand tall, your body athletic and well-conditioned, a lean, capable musculature on full display beneath the flickering candlelight. While you're not necessarily physically imposing, it's clear that you're competent and competitive, bursting with a certain youthful vitality that not many possess. The noblewomen before you exchange glances, their eyes drawn to your body, your years of rigorous training and defined musculature quite evident under closer observation. Even the blue-eyed woman with dark, kinky curls can't feign disinterest. ''"A panther,"'' She purrs, her voice thick with approval, ''"Fast, deadly, and unpredictable."'' In the middle, the redhead's brilliant orbs sparkle with a mixture of mirth and admiration. Her gaze wavers between the sweep of your athletic physique and your visage, masculine and steadily trained upon her still. ''"Speed and agility are formidable weapons in their own right,"'' She muses aloud, ''"But a gladiator who relies on speed alone may find himself outmatched by a stronger opponent."'' Releasing a breathy sigh, she flicks a look aside at her auburn-haired companion, ''"What of your thoughts, Alesia?"'' ''"The only power that I wonder if he can wield effectively, Livia, my love,"'' Her friend intones carefully, sultry smile and dark smoldering eyes intent upon you, lowering slowly as she speaks, ''"Is the weapon that hangs holstered between his thighs. Is a look too much to ask?"'' Livia, the redhead in the middle, lets out a lavish laugh, a few spectators from within the surrounding crowd joining her. Some murmurs of agreement rise up too, prompting you to question whether or not they're serious. But she makes the decision plain as day soon enough. ''"Let him have his dignity and choose, my dear Alesia. What do you say, gladiator? Do you care to give us a show, or are there some secrets that are better left unseen?"'' [[If they want dick, it's dick they get. (18+)|chp3_slave_privateaudience1_physdick]] [[Sure, give them a peek. (18+)|chp3_slave_privateaudience1_peek]] [[I'd prefer not.|chp3_slave_privateaudience1_nope]] <<else>> You stand tall, although your body and build are nothing special, your physical normality on full display beneath the flickering candlelight. Your unremarkable form stands in stark contrast to some of the other gladiators who stand behind and alongside you, certainly outshining you with their strong builds and evident conditioning. The noblewomen before you exchange glances, their eyes briefly drawing over your body, examining you. They don't seem overly interested, nonplussed for the most part, but there is some... curiosity at the very least. The blue-eyed woman with dark, kinky curls is the first to break the silence. ''"Interesting,"'' she says slowly, her voice thoughtful, ''"Neither a brute, nor a swift predator. Yet we saw well his victory in the arena. A cunning mind, perhaps?"'' In the middle, the redhead's brilliant orbs soak in the sight of you, studying your calm demeanor and the way that you hold yourself, quietly confident despite your otherwise unassuming appearance. ''"It's not always the strongest who survive,"'' She says, her insight on the matter clear, ''"But those who know how to think and manipulate the battlefield to their advantage."'' Releasing a breathy sigh, she flicks a look aside at her auburn-haired companion, ''"What of your thoughts, Alesia?"'' ''"The only power that I wonder if he can wield effectively, Livia, my love,"'' Her friend intones carefully, sultry smile and dark smoldering eyes intent upon you, lowering slowly as she speaks, ''"Is the weapon that hangs holstered between his thighs. Is a look too much to ask?"'' Livia, the redhead in the middle, lets out a lavish laugh, a few spectators from within the surrounding crowd joining her. Some murmurs of agreement rise up too, prompting you to question whether or not they're serious. But she makes the decision plain as day soon enough. ''"Let him have his dignity and choose, my dear Alesia. What do you say, gladiator? Do you care to give us a show, or are there some secrets that are better left unseen?"'' [[Sure, give them a peek. (18+)|chp3_slave_privateaudience1_peek]] [[I'd prefer not.|chp3_slave_privateaudience1_nope]]<</if>>

<<set $chp3_privateaudience_dik to 2>> Unlike the time and effort that you've put into developing your body through exercise, always spending any extra money on cuts of meat from the Undertown markets to fuel your physique, you've thankfully never had to give any real thought to the piece of meat between your legs. You're not shy about it and now doesn't seem like the time to start. Slowly, you slip your hands down beneath the hem of your trousers and begin to pry them down from about your waist, the heavy length of your cock flopping out and dangling down for them to see soon enough. There are gasps from the crowd, murmurs growing excitedly in volume as they converse, whilst the three noblewomen before you have different reactions to say the least. They're quite the trio, contrasting one another in various ways. The ebony, dark-curled woman had tried to retain her dignity at first, even rolling her eyes at the initial suggestion and shielding her eyes thereafter when it became apparent that this was going to turn into a show. However, you can barely make out her baby blues peering down between your legs from between the splay of two digits held across her face. She's certainly looking at you, and you only wish you could see her expression. The redhead seems overly pleased with how events have transpired, her gaze lingering longingly on your length like a cougar who has gone far too long without prey. She just might pounce, if only you weren't standing buck naked in front of a crowd of whom must be her friends, associates, peers. She isn't shy, but she is less forward than the auburn-haired firestarter beside her who started this whole scene. Alesia, as she was called just a few moments ago, grins contentedly from where she lounges comfortably atop the couch, looking long and hard at the thick expanse of your cock as it hangs free for all to see. ''"Now you, my love, are a fine specimen,"'' comes her voice, sultry with just the slightest raspiness. ''"He certainly is,"'' Livia agrees, only to turn a curious look over to her other companion, who sits with her blue eyes half-covered still. ''"Oh, Sibylla. You don't have to feign modesty, dear. We've all seen slaves naked, no? All too often, daily, if not by the hour. With the heat and their lack of dress, it's a part of life, nothing to condemn."'' Beneath her lingering gaze, very much intentionally, you start to flex your nethers, causing your heavy cock to twitch, bob and jostle upwards beneath their attention, which draws another reaction from the crowd. ''"That, dear Livia, is... not typical slave stock. And not a sight that I care to... indulge in."'' Sibylla chose her words carefully, and while it's barely perceivable given her tone, those dark cheeks of hers grow redder, ruddy despite her effort to maintain an inkling of decorum and modesty. ''"Typical he is not,"'' Livia affirms, her gaze lingering on the crown between your thighs. ''"Alas, that should be enough of a look for our guest's many newfound fans."'' With a flick of her visage, she roves a cursory and vaguely amused look over the surrounding crowd, meeting the eyes of many a noble before she continues, content. ''"You may cover yourself,"'' She suggests, tilting a subtle nod back at you. And with some effort, you tuck your genitals away and tug your trousers back up, though you can't help but feel naked still beneath so many knowing eyes. [[Livia's voice cuts through the room, directed upon you.|chp3_slave_privateaudience2]]

<<set $chp3_privateaudience_dik to 1>> <<if $might gte 2 or $mobility gte 2>> Unlike the time and effort that you've put into developing your body through exercise, always spending any extra money on cuts of meat from the Undertown markets to fuel your physique, you've thankfully never had to give any real thought to the piece of meat between your legs. Offering them a quick look couldn't hurt. Slowly, you slip your hands down beneath the hem of your trousers and begin to pry them down from about your hips, the heavy length of your cock flopping out and dangling down for them to see soon enough. There are gasps from the crowd, murmurs growing excitedly in volume as they converse, whilst the three noblewomen before you have different reactions to say the least. They're quite the trio, contrasting and complimenting one another. The ebony, dark-curled woman had tried to retain her dignity at first, even rolling her eyes at the initial suggestion and shielding her eyes thereafter when it became apparent that this was going to turn into a show. However, you can barely make out her baby blues peering down between your legs from between the splay of two digits held across her face. She's certainly looking at you, and you only wish you could see her expression. The redhead seems overly pleased with how events have transpired, her gaze lingering longingly on your length like a cougar who has gone far too long without prey. She just might pounce, if only you weren't standing buck naked in front of a crowd of whom must be her friends, associates, peers. She isn't shy, but she is less forward than the auburn-haired firestarter beside her who started this whole scene. Alesia, as she was called just a few moments ago, grins contentedly from where she lounges comfortably atop the couch, looking long and hard at the thick expanse of your cock as it hangs free for all to see. ''"Now you, my love, are a fine specimen,"'' comes her voice, sultry with just the slightest raspiness. ''"He certainly is,"'' Livia agrees, only to turn a curious look over to her other companion, who sits with her blue eyes half-covered still. ''"Oh, Sibylla. You don't have to feign modesty, dear. We've all seen slaves naked, no? All too often, daily, if not by the hour. With the heat and their lack of dress, it's a part of life, nothing to condemn."'' Beneath their lingering gazes, you decide that you've exposed yourself for their curiosity long enough, and with some effort, you tuck your genitals away and tug your trousers back up. ''"That, dear Livia, is... not typical slave stock. And not a sight that I care to... indulge in."'' Sibylla chose her words carefully, and while it's barely perceivable given her tone, those dark cheeks of hers grow redder, ruddy despite her effort to maintain an inkling of decorum and modesty. ''"Typical he is not,"'' Livia affirms, her gaze wandering to what lay concealed now between your thighs. ''"We appreciate your willingness, dear."'' She's speaking to you, though with a flick of her visage, she roves a cursory and vaguely amused look over the surrounding crowds, meeting the eyes of many a noble, ''"I'm sure you've earned yourself many newfound fans among our audience here, today."'' <<else>> Much like the rest of your body, you've never given much thought to the piece of meat between your legs. A man of the mind, who avoids bodily development or physical pursuits, often takes what is materal, tangible, real, for granted. Thankfully, this part of you has never required the extra effort. Offering them a quick look couldn't hurt. Slowly, you slip your hands down beneath the hem of your trousers and begin to pry them down from about your hips, the heavy length of your cock flopping out and dangling down for them to see soon enough. There are gasps from the crowd, murmurs growing excitedly in volume as they converse, whilst the three noblewomen before you have different reactions to say the least. They're quite the trio, contrasting one another in various ways. The ebony, dark-curled woman had tried to retain her dignity at first, even rolling her eyes at the initial suggestion and shielding her eyes thereafter when it became apparent that this was going to turn into a show. However, you can barely make out her baby blues peering down between your legs from between the splay of two digits held across her face. She's certainly looking at you, and you only wish you could see her expression. The redhead seems overly pleased with how events have transpired, her gaze lingering longingly on your length like a cougar who has gone far too long without prey. She just might pounce, if only you weren't standing buck naked in front of a crowd of whom must be her friends, associates, peers. She isn't shy, but she is less forward than the auburn-haired firestarter beside her who started this whole scene. Alesia, as she was called just a few moments ago, grins contentedly from where she lounges comfortably atop the couch, looking long and hard at the thick expanse of your cock as it hangs free for all to see. ''"Now you, my love, are a fine specimen,"'' comes her voice, sultry with just the slightest raspiness. ''"Unexpectedly so. I knew there was //something// remarkable about you."'' Livia conceals a short laugh, only to turn a curious look over to her other companion, who sits with her blue eyes half-covered still. ''"Oh, Sibylla. You don't have to feign modesty, dear. We've all seen slaves naked, no? All too often, daily, if not by the hour. With the heat and their lack of dress, it's a part of life, nothing to condemn."'' Beneath their lingering gazes, you decide that you've exposed yourself for their curiosity long enough, and with some effort, you tuck your genitals away and tug your trousers back up. ''"That, dear Livia, is... not typical slave stock. And not a sight that I care to... indulge in."'' Sibylla chose her words carefully, and while it's barely perceivable given her tone, those dark cheeks of hers grow redder, ruddy despite her effort to maintain an inkling of decorum and modesty. ''"Typical he is not,"'' Livia affirms, her gaze wandering to what lay concealed now between your thighs. ''"We appreciate your willingness, dear."'' She's speaking to you, though with a flick of her visage, she roves a cursory and vaguely amused look over the surrounding crowds, meeting the eyes of many a noble, ''"I'm sure you've earned yourself many newfound fans among our audience here, today."'' <</if>> [[Livia's voice cuts through the room, directed upon you.|chp3_slave_privateaudience2]]

<<set $chp3_privateaudience_dik to 0>> ''"I'd prefer not to, my lady."'' Your response is short and simple, tone measured as you stand before your assembled audience. The differing reactions of the three noblewomen seated before you are telling. They're quite the trio, contrasting each other in a number of subtle ways. The ebony, dark-curled woman seems to be looking at you more closely than before, her baby blue eyes fixed on your visage. The increased attention from her is readily apparent, from the keeness of her appraisal to the way she shifts forward atop the couch, watching you carefully. The redhead seems rather unbothered, perhaps even mildly amused, given the faintest curve of her crimson red lips. It's her friend, the woman called Alesia just a few moments ago, that comes across as peeved by your apparent refusal. She gives a dramatic roll of her eyes and sits back further in her seat, gaze lingering lowly upon you. ''"Very well,"'' comes Livia's reply, her voice as evenly paced as ever, ''"We will respect your wishes. You //are// our guest after all. And there are questions, concerns, that still beg a response."'' [[Livia's voice cuts through the room, directed upon you.|chp3_slave_privateaudience2]]

''"Do you know what they call you, gladiator, after the feat that you accomplished in the arena yesterday?"'' ''"I do not."'' ''"The <<print $arena_nickname>>. It has a nice ring to it, does it not? Alas, I can't help but wonder more about the man behind the title. The arena has a way of transforming men and women into something new. But you have only stepped into the sands once, isn't that right? What is your real name?"'' ''"My name is $name."'' ''"$name... it seems fitting. Do you know why you're here, $name? Not just you, but each and everyone of your companions, your fellow gladiators, those that stand behind you."'' You could guess as to the reason, but truthfully, you don't know. You give a brief shake of your head. ''"I will tell you,"'' Livia says softly, a few of her wavy, bright red locks cascading aside and spooling atop a pale shoulder as she watches you, head canting aside for a moment. ''"Each of you caught our eye in some way. You did something in the sands that garnered attention. You showed that you may have potential."'' ''"In just a couple of short hours from now, you will be sold."'' The revelation hits you like a bag of bricks. Gant and Khalika were right, if you're being told the truth. It sounds like you'll be put onto auction today. Soon you're going to discover what price people are willing to put on your life. You can't help but wonder what else that entails... is there a chance that you'll be spared from the games? ''"I am Duchess Livia Ferrena Varro... my //husband// is a very //important// man."'' She emphasizes those words with a subtle smirk, casting a brief glance aside, which earns a few knowing smiles, soft laughter and amusement from the crowd. You must be missing something. ''"And I wanted a "sneak peek". An insider's look at the most promising prospects. For me, my friends and my closest associates. Thus, I would like to welcome you to our private banquet. Please, everyone, enjoy the food, wine and pleasant conversation with those who I hold dear."'' [[The surrounding crowd breaks into a polite applause.|chp3_slave_privateaudience3]]

<<set $privateaudience_visits to 0>> <<set $privateaudience_gant to false>> <<set $privateaudience_khalika to false>> <<set $privateaudience_stavrick to false>> <<set $privateaudience_sibylla to false>> <<set $privateaudience_livia to false>> <<set $privateaudience_alesia to false>> You feel somewhat numb to it all, these odd events that're occurring around you. Even if you hadn't been sleeping in a prison cell just an hour ago, or led through the catacombs with a sack over your head and manacles around your wrists, this would still be strange to you. You're out of your element in more ways than one. There can't be more than a hundred people gathered in this chamber. It's not a massive space, but the more that you look at the crowd, past the surrounding spectators, you see tables and small, secluded alcoves hidden away, for people to eat at, gather and converse. Couches, lounges, and plush, velvety chairs, far nicer than anything you've ever sat on in Undertown. You've certainly never seen so much nobility gathered in one place, either. ''"Mind your manners,"'' Livia intones as the applause wither away, the crowd gradually dispersing as the festivities begin in earnest. Soon, even your fellow slaves have broken ranks, at least a few of them heading directly for the long, red-draped buffet table that's completely covered in richly laden dishes and glistening food platters. While you wouldn't mind a bite to eat, you can only wonder what sort of opportunities lay in wait for you. Will one present itself in the form of a cooperative noble, or will you have to bargain, utter promises and make backroom deals to further your own position? The Duchess said that in just a few hours, you'll be sold. Perhaps you still have a chance to manipulate your own fate, your own destiny, before your life falls into someone else's hands. Slowly, you look over the room once more... [[Gant immediately went over to the buffet table. You should find him.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_gant]] [[You spot a familiar half-orc standing by herself, lingering at the room's edge.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika]] [[A bulky, bald gladiator means mugs you from over the brim of a shot glass.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_meanmug]] [[The ebony noblewoman, Sibylla, looks to be beseiged by unpleasant company.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla]] [[Surrounded by courtiers, the banquet's redheaded host might provide the answers that you seek.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia]] [[Search for the outspoken noblewoman that they call Alesia.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_alesia]]

<<set $privateaudience_gant to true>> <<set $privateaudience_visits += 1>> As you near the buffet table, you can't help but sweep your gaze other the lavish selection; glazed haunches, roasted breasts and fluffy loaves of the finest golden-crusted bread you've ever seen; these are just a few of the foodstuffs available to you. Large, crescent-shaped pitchers filled to the brim with rich gravy and savory sauces, none of which you've ever tasted, sit much like pools of temptation, glistening up at you. At either end of the table, golden bowls heavily laden with fruit of every shape, color and size lie, each piece ripe and dripping thickly with moisture, freshly picked, meticulously washed. You recognize some of them, all of them a rare delicacy in the Third Quarter, but the majority are a mystery to you. Sweet, succulent mysteries that you would love to taste and savor, if only the current circumstances were a little different. Oogling the selection still, you overhear an exchange from nearby. A pair of women are looking down the table, past you, at what must be a concerning sight. They look disturbed to say the least, both of them rather plain but of high status no doubt, speaking softly between one another, ''"That can't be... //normal//. Shall we alert the guards?" "Not unless he goes rabid, dear. The Duchess told us to be very accodomodating, don't you recall?"'' ''"Why yes, I do. I just didn't expect any .. //savages// .. in our company this morning."'' [[What are they talking about?|chp3_slave_privateaudience_gant1]]

<<set $privateaudience_khalika to true>> <<set $privateaudience_visits += 1>> <center><img src="images/khalika_banquet.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Against the edge of the room, where the crowd is somewhat sparse and the murmur of conversation lay low, a familiar half-orc stands with her back to the wall, supple green-toned arms folded abreast. Her stance is wary, guarded, her plush tusked lips pressed into a thin, stoic line as she carefully observes those just beyond. However, as you slowly make your approach, your gazes happen to meet. Her big, bright amber-hued eyes peer back at you, just as bold and inquisitive as when you first saw her during yesterday's fateful meeting in the sands. You've never met a woman who emanated so clearly the virility of a warrior. So it feels quite reassuring when those lush lips finally twitch into the faintest of curves, a subtle smile as you draw near. ''"Hey,"'' You murmur once you close the distance, trying to keep your conversation as private as possible, ''"How are you holding up?"'' ''"I don't trust this, $name,"'' Her words are strong despite the low pitch of her voice, both of you doing your best not to draw attention to yourselves, ''"I don't trust //them//."'' You track her gaze to some of the assorted noblewomen that promulgate themselves throughout the dimly-lit audience chamber in which you've been trapped. It certainly does feel like you're 'trapped' in here with them. There's a heavy presence of armed guards and you only know of the one doorway for now; the one leading to the hallway from whence you came. You won't be leaving out that way, not without that sack back over your head and manacles clasped tight around your wrists. ''"Have you searched for another exit?"'' Khalika inclines her head ever so slightly, words murmured low, ''"The opposite side of the room, deeper, towards the windows. It's guarded."'' She speaks matter-of-factly, and it seems for the moment that both of you may be out of ideas, resigned for the time being to braving the noble masses with whom you find yourselves sharing the room. ''"We have to make the best of it,"'' You decide, ''"Like we have been. If what that noblewoman, Livia, said is true... we'd just be wasting away in our cells right now, waiting to be hauled off to the auction anyway. With this, maybe there's some way for us to take control and help steer our own fates."'' <<if ($khalikacell and ($chp3_privateaudience_dik == 2 || $chp3_privateaudience_dik == 1))>> A sudden pressure causes your gaze to jolt down towards your loins, surprised to find the half-orc's glossy green fingers squeezing tight along the bulge of your clothed cock. Khalika grabbed your dick, and now she's stroking it subtly within the confines of your drab trousers. To say that you're confused would be an understatement. ''"I know what we //could// be doing right now, if we had stayed locked in our cells."'' Her bold gaze flits up to your own eyes, and then down to the growing shape of your bulge between the loose press, pull and slip of her nimble digits. ''"You're crazy,"'' You murmur back, trying not to draw attention to yourselves from elsewhere within the room. What Khalika is doing is risky, though you're unsure of what the ramifications would be if you two were found out. ''"Crazy? Me?"'' The orc's plush red lips curve further as she stares up at you, squeezing your cock harder now, almost painfully so, the fabric of your thin trousers bunched up within her fist as she tries to get all of her digits around your length. ''"You seemed eager to show it off to everyone, no?"'' You're unsure of how to feel, a tinge of arousal mingling with apprehension. Is she angry with you? Jealous even? Or is she just toying with you... either way, she's feisty, and the growing pressure of her hand around your loins with so many noble eyes nearby leaves you feeling vulnerable. ''"Did you want to impress them? Earn yourself a noble lover, $name? Is that what it was?"'' [[Were you impressed?|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_impressed]] [[Absolutely.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_absolutely]] [[They don't compare to you.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_compare]] <<elseif ($khalikacell and ($chp3_privateaudience_dik == 0))>> A sudden pressure causes your gaze to jolt down towards your loins, surprised to find the half-orc's glossy green fingers squeezing tight along the bulge of your clothed cock. Khalika grabbed your dick, and now she's stroking it subtly within the confines of your drab trousers. To say that you're confused would be an understatement. ''"I know what we //could// be doing right now, if we had stayed locked in our cells."'' Her bold gaze flits up to your own eyes, and then down to the growing shape of your bulge between the tight press, pull and slip of her nimble digits. ''"You're crazy,"'' You murmur back, trying not to draw attention to yourselves from elsewhere within the room. What Khalika is doing is risky, though you're unsure of what the ramifications would be if you two were found out. ''"Am I?"'' The orc's plush red lips curve further as she stares up at you, squeezing your cock harder now, almost painfully so, the fabric of your thin trousers bunched up within her fist as she tries to get all of her digits around your length. ''"Should I stop?"'' ''"I don't know,"'' You murmur back, unable to hide a faint smile that's forming on your own face despite the mix of emotions within; a tinge of arousal mingling with apprehension and low amusement, ''"Sometimes you make me do stupid things. Like back in our cells last night..."'' She pauses, though her hand is still situated squarely atop your crotch, whilst the other places itself against your chest, a far gentler touch as a slight red blush begins to stain her cheeks, ''"That wasn't stupid, $name. It's not stupid when a man follows his heart. Or his instincts."'' [[I want more.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_wantmore]] [[Then I'm glad it happened...|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_glad]] [[We need to focus on what happens now.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_focus]] <<elseif ($khalikacell is false) and (($chp3_privateaudience_dik == 2 || $chp3_privateaudience_dik == 1))>> ''"If you don't get distracted,"'' comes the half-orc's reply, her eyes as big and bold as ever, trained upon your visage. Absently, you rub up along your chin and cheek, only meeting her gaze for a moment as your gaze cuts back over the surrounding crowd. ''"You must like the attention. Which one is your favorite, hmm? You know the three that I'm talking about. You couldn't take your eyes off of them."'' She must be stuck on when you had your trousers down around your knees and your third leg dangling free for all to see. [[Did you like what you saw?|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_didyou]] [[Sibylla, the dark one.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_honest1]] [[Livia, the redhead.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_honest2]] [[Alesia, the feisty one.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_honest3]] [[Meh, I'm just scratching the right palms.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_scratching]] <<else>> ''"You're right,"'' She inclines a firm nod of agreement. ''"We need to focus on what happens now."'' In only a few hours, you'll both be in shackles again, put on auction and sold to the highest bidder. There's no telling whether you'll ever see Khalika again, or whether you'll even be alive a week from now. You need to focus on improving your situation, for the sake of yourself, if not the future of your friends. Plush lips pursed as she peers up into your eyes, Khalika speaks: ''"Hmm. You should go... You're the man of the hour, after all. You should talk to anyone who seems interested and see what kind of opportunities you can find. Just like yesterday... take advantage of every opening."'' ''"Right. I'll see what I can make happen."'' ''"Just be careful and good luck. You don't know who you can trust her, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought, $name, if you let them."'' ''"You're not wrong about that... Thanks, Khalika."'' [[You exchange looks before turning away to explore the rest of the room.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]<</if>>

<<set $privateaudience_stavrick to true>> <<set $privateaudience_visits += 1>> As you wander through the room, stepping carefully between groups of nobles, merchants, soldiers, and gladiators alike, all gathered beneath the same roof, you keep your eyes open for anything or anyone of interest. The air is thick with laughter and the occasional burst of laughter or the clatter of dishes and glass, a colorful tapestry of activity below the dim flicker of candlelight that captures it all. It's not rare that you feel eyes upon you; most of the time, they appear curious, nobles that don't even attempt to feign their interest in you. At this point, you're property after all and many, if not all of them, have no qualms in treating you as such. It's the norm for them, and it's rather disturbing how quickly you're getting used to being handled and regarded in such a way. <<if $might gte 2>> As you weave yourself through the throng in a rather crowded part of the room, right in the thick of it, you even feel fingers graze your muscular body, hands placed upon the thick sweep of your bicep and the defined arch of your triceps, squeezing your arms, feminine fingers pressed tight.<</if>> <<if $mobility gte 2>>As you weave yourself nimbly through the throng in a rather crowded part of the room, right in the thick of it, you even feel fingers graze your lean body, hands placed upon the taut stretch of your vascular forearms, or ran across the clothed front of your core in an attempt to feel your corded abdominals, feminine fingers pressed tight.<</if>>What you're less comfortable with are the cold, observant stares of those sizing you up; your fellow gladiators, many of whom come from other battles within the arena. Those who didn't fight alongside you only know you as the 'star' who's garnering so much noble interest, and perhaps they're rightful to be watchful of you. All things considered, you aren't entirely sure where to focus your efforts. While the nobles have the wealth, power and ability to //purchase you// in only a few hours, certainly there's the chance that you end up back in the arena as a gladiator once more. It wouldn't hurt to forge bonds or form alliances with other fighters. It could end up saving your life. That's if they prove to be amenable, and not hellbent on stuffing you out like a dying torch. As you move deeper into the chamber, your gaze drifts, and it's then that you spot him; a bulky, bald man who appears to be mean mugging you from above the brim of a shot glass. He stands against the wall, partially shrouded in shadow, like a living monument to vicious violence. His head gleams faintly in the low light, covered in an array of jagged, pale scarring that marrs much of his rough, bronzed flesh. And his broad shoulders, thick arms tensed, bear the kind of readiness that never fully leaves a man of action. In his grip, wedged between meaty fingers; a shot glass filled with some dark, viscous liquid. He takes his time, tipping the glass ever so slightly, the liquid shimmering briefly before he tilts it in your direction. A silent salute that feels more like a challenge than a greeting. [[Approach with a low, friendly nod.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_meanmug_friendly]] [[Make sure that he knows you're game for a fight.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_meanmug_game]] [[Leave him be.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_meanmug_leave]]

<<set $privateaudience_sibylla to true>> <<set $privateaudience_visits += 1>> Moving beneath the dim glow of chandeliers and flickering candlelight, you navigate the crowd whilst keeping mostly to yourself, eyes scanning the room, searching for an anchor in the swirling sea of new nobility and assessive aristocratic attention. That's when you spot her, a striking figure of calm amid the storm; you recall that they had called her Sibylla before. Her ebony skin catches the light just so, a dark glimmer of flesh and bright blue eyes that contrast ever so sharply against the dark richess of her curls. But it's not her beauty alone that holds your gaze. Stood in an alcove, her posture perfectly poised, the longer that your gaze lingers, the easier that it is to see the tension that persists throughout her shoulders. A fleeting unease in the way her lips press, pursed into a thin line as she regards the man beside her. A well-dressed nobleman leans in, wiry blond hair slicked tight against his scalp. You can barely make out his voice, so you subtly work your way through the crowd closer, trying to listen to the excited, honeyed murmurs that titter out past his pale lips, the scent of wine surely heavy upon each breath: ''"You know, Countess, a woman of your stature shouldn't be left to endure these dull affairs alone. What you need is someone who appreciates the finer things in life... You would absolutely love my ornament collection."'' He chuckled, as if they shared some private joke, hand hovering just a little too close to hers. ''"The way I see it, you've spent far too much time in mourning. Life should be celebrated! Just like a holiday."'' The light in Sibylla's eyes has long dimmed to a cold disinterest, completely detatched from the man's insistent prattle. You might not find a better opportunity than this to curry favor with a Countess, let alone one that seems to be well-connected with the Duchess hosting this entire event. There may be a part of you, too, that's merely curious to learn more of Sibylla. One wrong move could mean the end of your daliance, however. Nobles don't make good enemies for a slave, no matter how much attention and potential fans you garnered through your fight yesterday. [[Engage with subtle grace.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla_subtle]] [[Assert yourself boldly.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla_bold]] [[Silently get her attention.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla_silent]]

<<set $privateaudience_livia to true>> <<set $privateaudience_visits += 1>> You spot her reclining comfortably on that same plush velvet lounge where you originally laid eyes upon her; Duchess Livia Varro, her deep red hair cascading like fierce flaming waves over her pert, perfectly rounded and feminine shoulder blades, vibrant locks contrasting alluringly against her pale flesh. Her eyes, a shade of crimson that could unsettle even the most stalwart heart, scans the rooms with a languid grace, as though everything she surveys belongs to her. You imagine, even with your limited knowledge, that isn't outside the realm of possibility. Surrounding her is a small circle of courtiers and young noblewomen, their soft laughter and light conversation like music that barely reaches beyond their intimate circle. They flutter about her like moths to flame, each one eager to gain her attention, to sip from the cup of her favor. So fragrant and flavorful indeed, she listens as always, with a delicate smile barely reaching her lips yet serving as more than enough to keep them hanging on her every word. Draped in a rather revealing, short gown of emerald green, Livia is incredibly sensual, sexual, dripping with a potent venom, a lethal elegance that emanates outward from her every smooth, slender, aristocratic feature. When you decide to make your approach, it's not a decision that comes lightly. But you can't forgo the opportunity to speak with the woman that holds so much control and sway over others; not when she has already shown her interest in you. This could be the difference between life and death, a miserable fate or that of bright fortune. The Duchess spots your approach, her eyes narrowing in interest, red lips already curved pleasantly, and the reaction of her companions is far from disappointing. ''"Here he comes,"'' one of the noblewomen whispered, her voice barely containing her excitement. Another young woman giggles softly, her eyes widening as she followed Livia's line of the sight, ''"No one can resist your presence, Duchess, not even the $arena_nickname."'' A ripple of excitement passes through the group, their hushes voices quickly rising in tempo. It seems that their attention shifted as one, all eyes now fixed on you as you stride forward and place yourself before them, your presence commanding in the way that only a man of blood and iron could. Your reputation precedes you as not just a fighter, but as something... more. Something dangerous, intriguing, new and full of potential. It remains up to you whether you're deserving of this attention, or whether your only win is a fluke. Livia's smile deepened slightly, her gaze unwavering as she tilts her head ever so slightly, openly considering you. ''"Gladiator,"'' comes her thick, matronly voice, as rich as red wine, welcoming your presence before her. Around her, the chatter dims, though they still whisper, smile and laugh, giggling behind jeweled fans and polished glasses from whence they sip softly, some of them staring at you rather intensely, as though you were some forbidden fruit they have been denied but longed to taste. The Duchess said nothing more, awaiting your words. ''"Duchess Varro. I wish to thank you for this banquet.. this opportunity. Your hospitality and warmth towards me and my companions will not soon be forgotten. I desire to speak with you as well, if you're willing."'' <<if ($chp3_privateaudience_dik == 1) or ($chp3_privateaudience_dik == 2)>> ''"Absolutely. I've been waiting for the stud of the show to make his appearance before me once more."'' Livia's smile deepens further, crimson eyes gleaming like a lounging predator toying with it's food. Absently, she swirls a glass of wine in one hand, watching you over its rim, her gaze lingering with a focused intensity. She shifts slightly, one leg crossing over the other with the practiced grace of someone used to having all eyes on her, ''"It's not often a slave comes before me with the full package, $name. You've certainly made an impression on everyone here, for better or for worse."'' Her words hang in the air, addressing the circle of courtiers and lesser nobles around her without removing her gaze from you, ''"What do you think, my dears?"'' Her tone is playful but with the undeniable edge of authority that she always effortlessly commands, ''"Am I wrong about this one?"'' A chorus of giggles rose from the group, though soon one speaks up, a younger noblewoman with bold golden curls and a mischievous gleam in her warm hazel eyes, ''"He looks every bit the warrior we've heard about, Duchess. Tall, strong... //dangerous.//"'' Her lips curl into a flirtacious smirk as her gaze roves over you, not even attempting to hide her appraisal. Another, slightly older and with an air of aristocratic aloofness, tilts her head and adds, ''"Yes, but there's more than brute strength here, isn't there? He’s got a sharpness in his eyes... something feral but controlled. For now."'' She twirls a ring around her finger, her eyes squinted as she takes you in, as if deciding whether you were a fine work of art to be admired or a weapon to be wielded. Livia chuckles, her laughter dark and pleased, gradually returning her gaze to you. ''"It seems I’m not the only one curious about you, $name."'' She leaned forward ever so slightly, lowering her voice to a near-whisper, though loud enough for all to hear. ''"I wonder... how deep does that fire burn? And does it extend past the flesh between your legs? Those base urges that drive all men, for better or for worse."'' Lips quirked, she raises her voice again, her tone light and teasing, ''"If any of you wish to take a closer look at our gladiator here, don't be shy. I'm sure he won't mind."'' The entire time, her crimson eyes never leave yours; a test, or perhaps she's simply toying with you. Regardless, it doesn't seem like you have much of a choice. [[Some of them approach tentatively, as though studying a caged animal.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_closer]] <<else>> ''"Of course. You're the star of the show after all. I've been waiting for you to make another appearance."'' Livia's smile deepens further, crimson eyes gleaming like a lounging predator toying with it's food. Absently, she swirls a glass of wine in one hand, watching you over its rim, her gaze lingering with a focused intensity. She shifts slightly, one leg crossing over the other with the practiced grace of someone used to having all eyes on her, ''"There's something different about you, $name. You've certainly made an impression on everyone here, for better or for worse. It's not often that a gladiator denies the Countess Cosmas her request."'' Some whispers and muted murmurs rise up from within the group, while Livia's words hang in the air, her gaze still upon you. The silence doesn't linger long, her words slow, thoughtful and carefully placed, not for your benefit, but surely a sign of how seriously she's considering you. ''"You're... special. You don't give much away, do you? I like that about you, $name. Let us talk, then. Ladies, will you rejoin me once my talk with $name is over?"'' ''"Of course, Duchess,"'' comes one softly given response among many as the cadre of young women begin to disentangle themselves from Livia's side, wandering away from the lounge in small groups, surely off to find something or someone else amongst the banquet to busy themselves with. [[And soon enough, you're left alone with Livia.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion]]<</if>>

<<set $privateaudience_alesia to true>> <<set $privateaudience_visits += 1>> The weight of the morning hangs heavy, an air of whispered power plays and secret alliances being formed amongst the dimly-lit alcoves and crowded main floor of the banquet chamber. Glimpses of crimson gowns, heavy silk curtains, glimmering jewels and gilded masks blend into a hazy blur. You catch the scent of incense mixed with the faint odor of sweat and food as the festivities carry on, nobles outnumbering the servants and slaves, but not by much. As you pass a column draped in dark velvet, your eyes land a familiar sight. The long and lissome form of Countess Alesia Cosmas, standing with a hand of her hip, bold figure scantily clad in a sheer top and flimsy skirt that barely clings to her wide, sensual hips and tawny, golden flesh. She faces a trio of noblewomen, one of them speaking aloud with a voice sharp, dripping with disdain, ''"Isn't it strange that trouble seems to follow your family wherever they go, Cosmas? One can't help but wonder whether the rumors are true..."'' Another chips in, her words hushed but biting all the same, ''"Yes, accidents... disappearances... some say it's all rather convenient for you, isn't it?"'' The group murmurs in agreement, exchanging knowing glances, but Alesia seems utterly unfazed. Her head tilts just slightly, dark eyes alight with a shifting amusement. ''"And what of it?"'' Alesia's voice cuts through their whispers, bold and flippant, able arms folding across her chest as her lips splay into a low, curling grin, ''"Do you think I care what rumors you whisper behind your jeweled fans? Perhaps you'd rather I be more... predictable. Like the rest of you vultures."'' The noblewomen stiffen, clearly not expecting her brazen response. One even opens her mouth to retort, but Alesia's laugh stops her. It's a low, mocking sound that resonates in the space between them. ''"Please,"'' Alesia continues, eyes flashing dangerously, ''"It's always the same, tired gossip. 'The Cosmas family this, the Cosmas family that.' I suppose we should be flattered that our name lives so rent-free in your heads. But if I wanted any of your opinions..."'' Her gaze flickers between each member of the trio, as if daring them to speak, ''"... I'd have asked for them."'' From where you linger, trying to blend into the crowd without looking all-too-obvious, you can see the women exchange nervous glances, their confidence suddenly waning under Alesia's withering stare. You can't help wonder why they even approached her; she's clearly connected to the Duchess in some way. This must be a common squabble for nobles of their stature... Biting conversations and thinly veiled insults shared over goblets brimming with wine. Is this what it means to be civilized? The Countess's words hang in the air, dripping with venom and absolute certainty. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she dismisses them entirely, like flies she can't be bothered to swat any longer. ''"As for what people say about my family?"'' She steps closer to the trio, her smile widening into a more dangerous expression, dark eyes gleaming with violent intent that spirals throughout her sharp, feline-like irises. ''"They're right to be afraid. Maybe you should be too, ladies."'' There’s a beat of silence before the group starts to awkwardly break apart, whispering among themselves as they drift away. Alesia watches them go with a satisfied smirk, before cutting a sudden glance through the room, immediately catching your eye before you can even feign to be looking away. Her lips twitch, a dangerous thrill in the way that she holds your gaze, as though she enjoys the chaos she stirs and is daring you to step into her world for a taste. With a sharp-nailed finger, she beckons you forth. For a moment, you stand in the shadow of her reputation. All you can do is take the plunge, one foot after the other. Your steps carry you towards Alesia, and she waits patiently, eyes roving over you expectantly, eager to engage. ''"You've been watching me, have you? Enjoying the show?"'' [["You're trouble."|chp3_slave_privateaudience_alesia_knight]] [["All I know is that I like what I see."|chp3_slave_privateaudience_alesia_bastard]] [["I didn't see anything."|chp3_slave_privateaudience_alesia_orphan]]

<center><img src="images/ganteating.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Trying to remain discrete, you start to cant your gaze the other way, searching down the table's length for the apparent savage that's causing these noble ladies so much concern. It's only then that you spot Gant half-bent over a wide platter, hands in constant motion as he indiscriminately scarfs down strips and slices of the seasoned, cured meat that lay stacked atop. He's working his way through the assortment in record time, chewing fast and hard, but most of it he swallows whole, his chapped lips and unshaven cheeks already coated by a thin film of grease. If you had any appetite despite the situation that you find yourself in, it quickly dissipates. Breathing out a sigh, you carefully make your way down the table towards your companion. Originally, you wanted to exchange a few words with him anyway. He could probably use a word of warning, too. Besides, some of the nobility here may already associate you two, considering you fought in the same bout and came out on top together. Already, you're engaged in the politicking of what must be a gladiator's existence whenever they aren't risking life and limb... ''"Gant."'' You hiss once you draw near, trying to get his attention. You don't make it overly obvious, standing a few paces away, pretending to look over the table of food before you, even grabbing a plate to make the act that all that much more convincing, perhaps, to the wandering eye. ''"Uh... Oh!"'' Gant's dark green eyes blink back and forth, flicking over his surroundings quickly until he spots you. A wide grin immediately breaks out across his brazen, grease-stained visage, a bit wolfish and untrimmed, but you can forgive him given your shared circumstances. ''"What's up, $name? You enjoyin' the fuckin' festivities?"'' ''"W-"'' You try to respond, but he immediately barks out a laugh instead. <<if ($chp3_privateaudience_dik == 2) or ($chp3_privateaudience_dik == 1)>> ''"Of course you are! I can't believe you whipped out your third leg, ahah!"'' He's way louder than you would like, chortling amusedly and still, somehow, eating. He nearly gags on a half-eaten sausage link, blinking back to awareness once you make a face and lift a finger to your lips. He seems to get the hint after a moment or two. ''"Eheh, sorry mate. Y'don't have anything to be ashamed of is all. You must've remembered what I told you about the pleasure slaves, right? I think the potential is there. We're almost there, me an' you."'' Gant grins at you readily, ''"Imagine if the same woman buys us. Or a pair of busty sisters! Then we'll be fuck-brothers."'' [[I would be honored to be your fuck-brother.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_gant_fuckbrother]] [[You're fucking nuts.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_gant_fuckingnuts]] [[Sure, whatever. Did anyone ever teach you how to chew?|chp3_slave_privateaudience_gant_surewhatever]] <<else>> ''"I can't believe those ladies tried to get a peek at your third leg! Brave of ya to deny them, mate... You think they'd be into the whole pleasure slave idea that I told you about?"'' He's way louder than you'd like, grinning amusedly and still, somehow, eating. He sucks on a greasy thumb before sticking a half-eaten sausage link into his maw, slurping it down, though he blinks back to awareness once you make a face and lift a finger to your lips. ''"Eheh, sorry mate. I just see the potential... smell it even. Smells like,"'' His nostrils flare as he leans over the table, wafting the scent closer with a few sweeps of his splayed hand, ''"... a noble banquet, mate. I mean, just look around."'' He leans closer and tries to direct your gaze over the room, a filthy hand placed atop your shoulder. ''"There's enough ladies here to meet any man's taste. Am I right, or am I right?"'' [[You're not wrong!|chp3_slave_privateaudience_gant_notwrong]] [[We have more immediate concerns.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_gant_concerns]] [[Didn't anyone ever teach you how to chew?|chp3_slave_privateaudience_gant_chewing]]<</if>>

''"I would be honored to be your fuck-brother."'' You lock gazes with Gant and he stares back at you, mouth hanging agape. ''"Y-... you mean that, mate? That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me."'' Chin inclining in quiet affirmation, you murmur a breathy response, ''"Of course I mean it. I wouldn't lie to you."'' And with a bright laugh, your companion slaps a filthy, food-stained hand atop your shoulder, pulling you closer in an awkward half-hug there alongside the buffet table. ''"I fuckin' love you, man. I wouldn't have chosen to be enslaved and doomed to a life of servitude with any other guy."'' Gant clears his throat, sniffles too, hiding his face briefly beneath a sweep of his forearm. ''"You alright?" "Yeah,"'' He responds gruffly, ''"Eh, just somethin' in my eye. Anyway. I'm gonna keep doing recon from over here. Just play it real cool like I'm eating, right? A hungry slave. A dumb, hungry, horny slave. When really, I'm sizin' everyone up. And you can, uh... maybe talk to some of them, eh? They seem to like you."'' ''"You think that's a good plan?"'' ''"It's something. It's not like we're gettin' out of here ourselves..."'' [[You press through the crowd once more.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"You're fucking nuts."'' ''"What,"'' Gant stares back at you, startled, ''"You don't think there's any sisters in here? I don't know man, I was just throwin' out scenarios. Positive mindset and all that. Cousins would work too, it's not like we're in the right place to be picky. I'm not that crazy, mate."'' ''"Look,"'' You murmur, locking gazes with Gant and trying to keep your voice down as you stand together alongside the buffet table, ''"People are noticing you. You look like a wild animal over here, scarfing down everything in sight."'' He slowly nods as he listens, though he's back to grinning for some reason, ''"... A wild animal. Aye, so they think I'm vicious. Virile. A beast of a nature, right? So you think I'm givin' off a good first impression?"'' You're exasperated, searching for the right words, while slowly realizing that this may not be worth the effort. ''"Thanks for the heads up, mate. I'm gonna stick to the plan, 'en. Pretend that I'm over here stuffin' my face like a dumb slave, when really I'm scoutin' out the competition and my future noble lover. Maybe you should have a look around too, eh? And lemme know if you meet any cousins. You and me, man, we're gonna make it! Just you wait."'' [[You press through the crowd once more, shaking your head.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Sure, whatever. Did anyone ever teach you how to chew?"'' ''"That shit's optional, man. Everyone knows that. Ever heard of snakes?" "You aren't a snake, Gant."'' He stares back at you, startled, and perhaps mildly offended. With a quick gesture down at your crotch, he retorts, ''"Maybe I ain't got a snake like yours, mate, but I've got my talents. You ain't even seen the thing I can do with my tongue."'' ''"I..."'' You draw in a shallow breath, exasperated, ''"I don't need to see that. Not right now. And don't point at my crotch." "Alright,"'' He throws up a shoulder in an easy shrug, ''"Maybe later, 'en. For now, I'm gonna keep doing recon from over here. Just play it real cool like I'm eating, right? A hungry slave. A dumb, hungry, horny slave. When really, I'm sizin' everyone up. And you can, uh... maybe talk to some of them, eh? They seem to like you."'' He cuts a brief look down towards your clothed crotch again, ''"I wonder why..."'' [["Relax. I'm gonna take a look around."|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"You're not wrong!"'' Standing side-by-side, both of you slowly look over the room. It certainly isn't lacking in abundance, and you're aren't just thinking of the food. Women, women of every shape and size, of every age and complexion; there must be a hundred different noble houses represented within sight. They came here to mingle, gossip and assess... you. Truthfully, you aren't opposed to getting to know some of them better. It could be valuable, as long as you don't have to lower yourself or degrade yourself for their benefit. A man needs to have standards, right? ''"We're the stars of the show, mate,"'' Gant murmurs close to your ear, ''"All because you didn't let a giant stinkin' ogre pick us off one-by-one. We can't fuck this up. This party could be our ticket out of the arena for good, y'know? A rich, lavish life in the service of nobility. No pressure."'' Drawing back, Gant fixes you readily with a grin, ''"I'm gonna keep doing recon from over here. Just play it real cool like I'm eating, right? A hungry slave. A dumb, hungry, horny slave. When really, I'm sizin' everyone up. And you can, uh... maybe talk to some of them, eh? They seem to like you."'' ''"You think that's a good idea?"'' ''"Eh... You got a better one?"'' [["Fair enough. I'm going to have a look around."|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"We have more immediate concerns."'' ''"Naw, they have dessert. Don't worry, I already found the cake."'' Gant points across the table, and you're amazed that you didn't spot it before. A big, three-layered cake, dark and decorated with a rich chocolate frosting. However, it looks like someone used their bare hand to "remove" a "slice" from the lowest layer. And when you turn back to Gant, you realize that one of his hands is stained, smeared brown from the handful of cake and frosting that he must've grabbed. ''"What the fuck..."'' You can't help but mutter your disbelief, exasperated, but your companion just grins back at you readily, ''"Awesome, ain't it? This place isn't so bad."'' ''"I'm not talking about cake,"'' You hiss back, locking gazes with Gant who appears startled, ''"I'm talking about getting out here."'' He just gives a low shake of his head, ''"I don't think that's happenin', mate. Just look at how many guards they got in here still. And the door to the hall is guarded."'' He's right, but you thought it was worth mentioning the potential of escape. But if even Gant thinks it's a hopeless idea, maybe you're better off making the best of a bad situation. ''"Look $name. I'm gonna keep doing recon from over here. Just play it real cool like I'm eating, right? A hungry slave. A dumb, hungry, horny slave. When really, I'm sizin' everyone up. And you can, uh... maybe talk to some of them, eh? They seem to like you."'' ''"You think that's a good idea?"'' ''"Eh... You got a better one?"'' [["Not really. I'm going to have a look around."|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Didn't anyone ever teach you how to chew?"'' ''"Eh, that isn't really something you get taught, is it? It's just natural, instinctual, y'know? Kinda like rutting."'' Gant's response is low and thoughtful, and while you want to snap back immediately, you stop to pause. You find it hard to argue with his argument, so instead you release a shallow sigh, exasperated. Gant continues, ''"Anyway, I think I'm gonna keep doing recon from over here. It's been workin' out well for me. Just play it real cool like I'm eating, right? A hungry slave. A dumb, hungry, horny slave. When really, I'm sizin' everyone up. And you can, uh... maybe talk to some of them, eh? They seem to like you."'' ''"You think that's a good idea?"'' ''"It's something. It's not like we're gettin' out of here ourselves..."'' [["Fair enough. I'm going to have a look around."|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

You stand at the edge of the room, the murmur of conversation a low thrum beneath the sharp clatter of goblets and the stifled laughter of the nobility, drunk and uncaring, reclining on silken cushions like ancient gods. The air is thick with the scent of roasted meats, wine, and perfumes so heavy they claw at the throat. Smoke curls from unseen braziers, dimming the torchlight, casting the banquet in a trembling shadow that sways with the movements of the guests. Bodies gleam in the heat, some bare, some wrapped in silks and gold, others—the slaves—marked with chains, scars, their eyes downcast. Opportunity awaits. Will freedom be your prize, or destruction? <<if $privateaudience_gant is false>> [[Gant immediately went over to the buffet table. You should find him.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_gant]]<</if>> <<if $privateaudience_khalika is false>>[[You spot a familiar half-orc standing by herself, lingering at the room's edge.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika]]<</if>> <<if $privateaudience_stavrick is false>>[[A bulky, bald gladiator means mugs you from over the brim of a shot glass.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_meanmug]]<</if>> <<if $privateaudience_sibylla is false>>[[The ebony noblewoman, Sibylla, looks to be beseiged by unpleasant company.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla]]<</if>> <<if $privateaudience_livia is false>>[[Surrounded by courtiers, the banquet's redheaded host might provide answers.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia]]<</if>> <<if $privateaudience_alesia is false>>[[Search for the outspoken noblewoman that they called Alesia.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_alesia]]<</if>> <<if $privateaudience_visits is 6>>[[You feel drawn towards a dark alcove that you hadn't noticed before, alone, towards the back of the room.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_novia]]<</if>>

''"Were you impressed?"'' You retort with a slight cant of your head, unable to hide the faint smirk that's forming on your face. But that response doesn't seem to suffice for Khalika. ''"You're avoiding my question,"'' comes her reprimand, suddenly squeezing you harder, hard enough to make you rise up on your toes. ''"Easy,"'' You hiss, grabbing her wrist, though she relieves most of the pressure on her own after only a moment or two. ''"I'm only trying to play my cards right,"'' You explain through bared teeth, your smirk lingering, however strained. ''"If I have to scratch a few legs and sweetly murmur the right words, so be it. These nobles hold our lives in their hands."'' ''"I understand,"'' The half-orc breathes back, stroking you tenderly through your pants as though to make up for the roughness in which she had handled you, even as you grasp at her wrist, ''"And I did like what I saw. I liked it even more last night, when I had it all to myself."'' You can't help but huff a soft laugh, ''"It was a mouthful, hm?"'' ''"Mhm... and I don't always like sharing."'' Her lips are curved still as she looks up into your eyes, studying your gaze. ''"I'll keep that in mind,"'' You say softly, vaguely amused, ''"I'd rather keep on living."'' She snorts, a warm breath escaping past the parting of her plush lips, ''"I'm only teasing... but be careful, please. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought, $name, if you let them."'' ''"You're right, I'll be careful. Thanks, Khalika."'' [[She gently squeezes your hand before you turn away to explore.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Absolutely."'' Two can play at that game, you think, deciding to take a nonchalant approach. ''"I think your friend Gant has rubbed off on you,"'' She murmurs back, big amber eyes creasing playfully as she gazes up at you. ''"Mmph,"'' You groan, lips creased as you peer right back down at her, ''"I think you're rubbing off on me, right now."'' ''"Ha-ha,"'' She retorts, head canted slightly to the side, with her hand still very much planted atop your nethers; she suddenly squeezes harder, hard enough to make you rise up onto your toes. ''"So which one is your favorite, hmm? You know the three that I'm talking about. You couldn't take your eyes off of them."'' ''"Easy,"'' You hiss, grabbing her wrist, though she relieves most of the pressure on her own after only a moment or two. ''"I'm only trying to play my cards right."'' You explain through bared teeth, your smirk lingering, however strained. ''"I understand,"'' The half-orc breathes back, ''"But I'm curious. Which one is your favorite?"'' She strokes you tenderly through your pants as though to make up for the roughness in which she had handled you, even as you grasp at her wrist, those big eyes trained on your visage, as though waiting expectantly for your response. [[Sibylla, the dark one.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_absolutely1]] [[Livia, the redhead.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_absolutely2]] [[Alesia, the feisty one.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_absolutely3]]

''"They don't compare to you, Khalika."'' ''"Are you just saying what you think I want to hear, $name?"'' ''"I don't know... is it working?"'' You retort with a slight cant of your head, unable to hide the faint smirk that's forming on your face. But that response doesn't seem to suffice for Khalika. ''"Try again,"'' comes her reprimand, suddenly squeezing you harder, hard enough to make you rise up on your toes. ''"Easy,"'' You hiss, grabbing her wrist, though she relieves most of the pressure on her own after only a moment or two. ''"I'm only trying to play my cards right,"'' You explain through bared teeth, your smirk lingering, however strained. ''"If I have to scratch a few palms and whisper sweet-nothings, so be it. These nobles hold our lives in their hands."'' ''"I understand,"'' The half-orc breathes back, stroking you tenderly through your pants as though to make up for the roughness in which she had handled you, even as you grasp at her wrist, ''"Just don't forget who holds your //cock// in their hand, right now. I don't like sharing, $name."'' Her lips are curved still as she looks up into your eyes, studying your gaze. ''"I'll keep that in mind,"'' You say softly, vaguely amused, ''"I'd rather keep on living."'' She snorts, a warm breath escaping past the parting of her plush lips, ''"I'm only teasing... but be careful, please. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought, $name, if you let them."'' ''"You're right, I'll be careful. Thanks, Khalika."'' [[She gently squeezes your hand before you turn away to explore.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"I want more."'' Your response comes beneath a hot breath, murmured low but firm for your lover's ears. Her eyes instantly lock with yours, as big and bold as ever, though they begin to lid beneath your gaze, growing even more sultry with her hand glued to the bulge of your crotch. You can't keep your hands off of her, not any longer, onlookers be damned. You grip her hips in either hand, large palms and fair digits caressing her curves, squeezing her supple, dark-green flesh, letting it flow between each grope and wandering squeeze. But the real prize is the swell of her ass, solid and taut; you only wish that you could both do without the rags and tattered clothing that you're both wearing. You'd fuck her right here, beneath the crowd's gaze, for all you care. She must not feel too differently, her muscles tensing beneath your every touch, face moving closer towards yours, mouths hovering just a breath apart, until your lips finally brush against one another for a kiss. This is your second, now, and somehow it feels long overdue. ''"I do too,"'' She breathes out against your lips, ''"But... it seems like that will have to wait."'' You see, out of the corner of her gaze, Khalika's attention has turned aside. Subtly shifting, you find at least one pair of eyes lingering on you from within the ebb and flow of the banquet's noble crowd. It's to be expected, considering the reception that you received earlier. You're an object of interest, and in only a few hours you'll be sold to the highest bidder. ''"Mmph,"'' You groan, ''"We should..."'' She inclines a subtle nod of agreement and loosens herself from you, her hand finally relaxing it's constraints upon your crotch. ''"Focus." "That we should."'' Maybe it's the dim candlelight, but her cheeks are still red and ruddy, discolored from the heat of your encounter. However, she recovers quickly, plush lips pursed as she peers up into your eyes, ''"Hmm. You should go... You're the man of the hour, after all. You should talk to anyone who seems interested and see what kind of opportunities you can find. Just like yesterday... take advantage of every opening."'' ''"You're right... I'll see what I can make happen."'' ''"Be careful, please. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought, $name, if you let them."'' [[She gently squeezes your hand before you turn away to explore.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Then I'm glad it happened..."'' There isn't much consideration behind your response, only your honest feelings murmured low for your lover's ears. Her eyes lock with yours, as big and bold as ever, though they begin to lid beneath your gaze, growing even more sultry with her hand glued to the bulge of your crotch. ''"You have a way with words, do you know that?"'' She must not feel too differently, her muscles tensed and body taut, face slowly moving closer towards yours, mouths hovering just a breath apart, until your lips finally brush against one another for a kiss. This is your second, now, and somehow it feels long overdue. ''"I am too,"'' She breathes out against your lips, ''"But... it seems that we have an audience."'' You see, out of the corner of her gaze, Khalika's attention has turned aside. Subtly shifting, you find at least one pair of eyes lingering on you from within the ebb and flow of the banquet's noble crowd. It's to be expected, considering the reception that you received earlier. You're an object of interest, and in only a few hours you'll be sold to the highest bidder. ''"Mmph,"'' You groan, ''"We should..."'' She inclines a subtle nod of agreement and loosens herself from you, her hand finally relaxing it's constraints upon your crotch. ''"Focus." "That we should."'' Maybe it's the dim candlelight, but her cheeks are still red and ruddy, discolored from the passion behind your encounter. However, she recovers quickly, plush lips pursed as she peers up into your eyes, ''"Hmm. You should go... You're the man of the hour, after all. You should talk to anyone who seems interested and see what kind of opportunities you can find. Just like yesterday... take advantage of every opening."'' ''"You're right... I'll see what I can make happen."'' ''"Be careful, please. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought, $name, if you let them."'' [[She gently squeezes your hand before you turn away to explore.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"We need to focus on what happens now."'' Regardless of how you may or may not feel about the half-orc, you still barely know one another. And in only a few hours, you'll both be in shackles again, put on auction and sold to the highest bidder. There's no telling whether you'll ever see Khalika again, or whether you'll even be alive a week from now. You need to focus on improving your situation, for the sake of yourself, if not the future of your friends. ''"You're right,"'' She inclines a subtle nod of agreement and loosens herself from you, her hand finally relaxing it's constraints upon your crotch. It's hard to tell beneath the dim candlelight, but if she's disappointed, she hides it from you well. Surely she understands the situation just as well as you. Plush lips pursed as she peers up into your eyes, Khalika speaks: ''"Hmm. You should go... You're the man of the hour, after all. You should talk to anyone who seems interested and see what kind of opportunities you can find. Just like yesterday... take advantage of every opening."'' ''"You're right... I'll see what I can make happen."'' ''"Be careful, please. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought, $name, if you let them."'' [[She offers a faint smile before you turn away to explore.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Did you like what you saw?"'' ''"It doesn't matter if I did, does it?"'' ''"Hey, I'm just trying to play my cards right,"'' You explain with a low roll of your shoulder as you turn your attention back squarely to the half-orc before you. ''"If I have to scratch the right palms and whisper sweet-nothings, so be it. These nobles hold our lives in their hands. It only makes sense, aye?"'' ''"I understand,"'' She responds with a faint incline of her chin, supple arms shifting absently beneath the rise of her chest, ''"But I would advise caution moving forward in your dealings with them. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought, $name... if you let them."'' ''"You're not wrong about that... Thanks, Khalika."'' ''"Don't mention it. You should go... You're the man of the hour, after all. Look for anyone who seems interested and see what kind of opportunities they present to you. Just like yesterday... take advantage of every opening."'' ''"I'll see what I can make happen."'' [[She shoots you a wink as you turn away to explore the room.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Sibylla, the one with blue eyes."'' ''"I see,"'' Khalika murmurs back, thoughtful, ''"She does seem interesting. Calm, calculated, separate from the rest. Don't underestimate her, $name." "Why? Are you worried about me?"'' She snorts, tusked lips curved as she looks up into your eyes, studying your gaze. ''"It would shame to see you going from the arena, straight to your death at the hands of a wicked woman. That is all."'' You consider her response with a tilt of your lips before nodding some semblance of understanding, ''"I'll keep that in mind. I'd rather keep on living, you know."'' ''"Hopefully. But seriously, be careful. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them."'' ''"You're not wrong about that... Thanks, Khalika."'' ''"Don't mention it. You should go... You're the man of the hour, after all. Look for anyone who seems interested and see what kind of opportunities they present to you. Just like yesterday... take advantage of every opening."'' ''"I'll see what I can make happen."'' [[She shoots you a wink as you turn away to explore the room.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Livia, the redhead that sat in the middle."'' ''"Oh, interesting."'' Khalika murmurs back, thoughtful, ''"The Duchess Varro. She's a powerful woman, that much is clear. You should stay on her good side, $name." "Why? Are you worried about me?"'' She snorts, tusked lips curved as she looks up into your eyes, studying your gaze. ''"It would shame to see you going from the arena, straight to your death at the hands of a wicked woman. That is all."'' You consider her response with a tilt of your lips before nodding some semblance of understanding, ''"I'll keep that in mind. I'd rather keep on living, you know."'' ''"Hopefully. But seriously, be careful. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them."'' ''"You're not wrong about that... Thanks, Khalika."'' ''"Don't mention it. You should go... You're the man of the hour, after all. Look for anyone who seems interested and see what kind of opportunities they present to you. Just like yesterday... take advantage of every opening."'' ''"I'll see what I can make happen."'' [[She shoots you a wink as you turn away to explore the room.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Alesia, the feisty one that asked to see..."'' ''"She's your favorite? Interesting."'' Khalika murmurs back, thoughtful. ''"She seems... dangerous. The type of noble that keeps her friends close, and enemies closer. Be careful around her, $name." "Why? Are you worried about me?"'' She snorts, tusked lips curved as she looks up into your eyes, studying your gaze. ''"It would shame to see you going from the arena, straight to your death at the hands of a wicked woman. That is all."'' You consider her response with a tilt of your lips before nodding some semblance of understanding, ''"I'll keep that in mind. I'd rather keep on living, you know."'' ''"Hopefully. But seriously, be careful. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them."'' ''"You're not wrong about that... Thanks, Khalika."'' ''"Don't mention it. You should go... You're the man of the hour, after all. Look for anyone who seems interested and see what kind of opportunities they present to you. Just like yesterday... take advantage of every opening."'' ''"I'll see what I can make happen."'' [[She shoots you a wink as you turn away to explore the room.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Meh, I'm just scratching the right palms. Trying to play my cards right,"'' You explain with a low roll of your shoulder as you turn your attention back squarely to the half-orc before you. ''"It doesn't matter much to me. These nobles hold our lives in their hands. It only makes sense, aye?"'' ''"I understand,"'' She responds with a faint incline of her chin, supple arms shifting absently beneath the rise of her chest. ''"But I would advise caution moving forward in your dealings with them. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought, $name.. if you let them."'' ''"You're not wrong about that... Thanks, Khalika."'' ''"Don't mention it. You should go... You're the man of the hour, after all. Look for anyone who seems interested and see what kind of opportunities they present to you. Just like yesterday... take advantage of every opening."'' ''"I'll see what I can make happen."'' [[She shoots you a wink as you turn away to explore the room.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Sibylla, the one with blue eyes."'' ''"I see,"'' Khalika murmurs back, thoughtful, ''"She does seem interesting. Calm, calculated. Don't underestimate her, $name." "Are you worried about me?" "I'm protective of what's mine... and I don't like sharing."'' Her lips are curved still as she looks up into your eyes, studying your gaze. ''"I'll keep that in mind,"'' You say softly, vaguely amused, ''"I'd rather keep on living."'' She snorts, a warm breath escaping past the parting of her plush lips, ''"I'm only teasing... but be careful, please. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them."'' ''"You're right, I'll be careful. Thanks, Khalika."'' [[She gently squeezes your hand before you turn away to explore.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

(chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_absolutely2) ''"Livia, the redhead that sat in the middle."'' ''"Oh, interesting,"'' Khalika murmurs back, thoughtful, ''"The Duchess Varro... She's a powerful woman, that much is clear. You should stay on her good side, $name." "Are you worried about me?" "I'm protective of what's mine... and I don't like sharing."'' Her lips are curved still as she looks up into your eyes, studying your gaze. ''"I'll keep that in mind,"'' You say softly, vaguely amused, ''"I'd rather keep on living."'' She snorts, a warm breath escaping past the parting of her plush lips, ''"I'm only teasing... but be careful, please. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them."'' ''"You're right, I'll be careful. Thanks, Khalika."'' [[She gently squeezes your hand before you turn away to explore.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

(chp3_slave_privateaudience_khalika_absolutely3) ''"Alesia, the feisty one that asked to see..."'' ''"She's your favorite? Interesting."'' Khalika murmurs back, thoughtful, ''"She seems... dangerous. The type of noble that keeps her friends close, and enemies closer. Be careful around her, $name." "Are you worried about me?" "I'm protective of what's mine... and I don't like sharing."'' Her lips are curved still as she looks up into your eyes, studying your gaze. ''"I'll keep that in mind,"'' You say softly, vaguely amused, ''"I'd rather keep on living."'' She snorts, a warm breath escaping past the parting of her plush lips, ''"I'm only teasing... but be careful, please. You don't know who you can trust here, if any of them. They'll use you and discard you without a second thought if you let them."'' ''"You're right, I'll be careful. Thanks, Khalika."'' [[She gently squeezes your hand before you turn away to explore.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

You'd rather not make negative assumptions in a room that's already full of potential threats. He looks tough, seasoned, and could be a good man to know, regardless of whether you find him further down your path as friend or foe. With deliberate steps, the low murmur of the banquet humming around you, your approach is accompanied by a low, friendly nod; a simple gesture meant to ease the unspoken tension between you both. ''"Greetings,"'' You speak, stopping a few paces from the man and meeting his surly, dark-eyed gaze, ''"I'm $name."'' ''"I heard."'' His voice is deep, gritty and choked like a throatful of sand, ''"I've heard of your fight, too. Impressive. Managing to rally an untrained rabble is no easy feat..."'' You're surprised, as you didn't expect to receive praise from the man. However, you're more interested in learning who he is exactly. ''"I appreciate that. At the time, it didn't feel like we had much of a choice. We had to fight, or die... So we fought. What do they call you? You don't look like a stranger to battle."'' ''"Stavrick..."'' Abruptly, though his movements are slow and measured, the bulky man sets the shot glass to his lips and decides to knock the whole thing back. Only once he drags a thick wrist across his mouth, does he continue: ''"I was a Decanus in the Legion. Until one night, I had a few too many drinks and ran one of my loudmouth soldiers through with my gladius."'' He clears his throat, face scrunching into a brief scowl, ''"Only reason I wasn't executed on the spot is 'cause they figured it would be better to hold me a couple weeks till Crathal, and watch me die in the arena."'' ''"Yet here you are."'' Your response is murmured low, despite still processing the man's words. You're talking to a former ranking soldier of the Legions, and a murderer. Ever so slowly does it dawn upon you just how little you know about the people that you're surrounded by, and what stories they must have to tell. ''"Here I am."'' He doesn't sound all too pleased with that revelation either. ''"It was a sandstorm. I don't know how they did it... Had to be magick. The whole arena, the visibility was near zero, every movement a gamble. A free-for-all."'' You can only imagine it, a chaotic fight, every man for himself, where only the strongest and most ruthless could survive. ''"No one talks of my victory, not like yours."'' Stavrick's lips twitch, humor dark and rueful. ''"I don't have your pretty face, $name. I guess stranglin' a few clueless.. poor saps, in a sandstorm, isn't as heroic as leading a resistance against a man-eatin' ogre. Here, we don't choose our fates. It's not too different from the Legion. As a soldier, you don't get to pick your battles. You only get to choose how you face them."'' You open your mouth to respond, but he's already turning away to wander off through the dim room. ''"Was good meetin' you, $name. I need a drink..."'' Briefly, he cants a look back at you, ''"Good luck."'' [[You incline a faint nod as he meanders off, leaving you to your own devices.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

You're no coward, neither timid nor meek, and proving your worth is just another compulsion that guides your casual stride, drawing closer yet to your new, potential foe. He looks tough, seasoned too, but you've found throughout your time that it's the toughest obstacles that lift you closer to the highest peaks of this journey that we call life. With bold steps, the low murmur of the banquet humming around you, your approach is accompanied by an uplifted chin and unwavering gaze, placed squarely upon the surly, dark-eyed visage of the man before you despite whatever unspoken tension lingers between the both of you. It only serves as fuel for the perpetual fire burning deep within. ''"Name's $name,"'' You say, deciding to lay your cards out on the table. ''"I heard."'' His voice is deep, gritty and choked like a throatful of sand, ''"I've heard of your fight, too. Impressive. Managing to rally an untrained rabble is no easy feat..."'' Based on his tone, dry and played straight, he's speaking earnestly. However, you're more interested in learning who is exactly. ''"Are //you// impressed? You don't look like a stranger to battle, yet I have no recollection of you. What name do you go by?"'' ''"Stavrick..."'' Abruptly, though his movements are slow and measured, the bulky man sets the shot glass to his lips and decides to knock the whole thing back. Only once he drags a thick wrist across his mouth, does he continue: ''"I was a Decanus in the Legion. Until one night, I had a few too many drinks and ran one of my loudmouth soldiers through with my gladius."'' He clears his throat, face scrunching into a brief scowl, ''"Only reason I wasn't executed on the spot is 'cause they figured it would be better to hold me a couple weeks till Crathal, and watch me die in the arena."'' ''"Yet here you are."'' Your response is murmured low, despite still processing the man's words. You're talking to a former ranking soldier of the Legions, and a murderer. And while he's not openly going for your throat just yet, it's clear that he's a dangerous man and capable of inflicting unspeakable damage in a short amount of time. ''"Here I am."'' He doesn't sound all too pleased with that revelation either. ''"It was a sandstorm. I don't know how they did it... Had to be magick. The whole arena, the visibility was near zero, every movement a gamble. A free-for-all."'' You can only imagine it, a chaotic fight, every man for himself, where only the strongest and most ruthless could survive. ''"No one talks of my victory, not like yours."'' Stavrick's lips twitch, humor dark and rueful. ''"I don't have your pretty face, $name. I guess stranglin' a few clueless.. poor saps, in a sandstorm, isn't as heroic as leading a resistance against a man-eatin' ogre. Here, we don't choose our fates. It's not too different from the Legion. As a soldier, you don't get to pick your battles. You only get to choose how you face them."'' You open your mouth to respond, but he's already turning away to wander off through the dim room. ''"Was good meetin' you, $name. I need a drink..."'' Briefly, he cants a look back at you, ''"Good luck."'' [[You incline a faint nod as he meanders off, leaving you to your own devices.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

You don't need to risk making a scene, not when your entire future is at stake. Picking a fight with another gladiator might be your last act, and foil any other opportunities that you might have to take control of your fate before the auction in just a couple precious hours. Better to avoid engaging with him altogether, you think, spying his surly, dark-eyed gaze from where you linger. He could be a potential ally as much as a friend, but based on appearances alone, there are better approaches for you to take this afternoon. It's the nobility that might be able to buy your freedom, after all. Instead of engaging, your movements take you deeper into the crowd, blending into the molding mass of bodies and murmur of voices, looking for a way out of the mess that you've landed yourself in. Hopefully if you play your cards just right, everything will work out for you. Granted, you could always be unwittingly signing away your life. [[You press through the crowd, left to your own devices for the time being.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

<<if ($mind gte 1) or ($chp3_privateaudience_dik is 0)>> Measured steps carry you the remaining distance across the room, presence unobstrusive, advance calculated and posture upright, straight, utterly stalwart. Just as you thought might happen, you manage to catch Sibylla's gaze upon your approach, offering a polite incline of your chin before stepping forth with purpose. Without breaking stride, you slip into the conversation and place yourself alongside the noblewoman and her unwelcome guest, voice gentle but level and carrying the weight of polite urgency. ''"Forgive me for intruding,"'' You say, words chosen carefully, although you could never hope to match the high-class cantor of an ascended First Quarter accent, ''"But I believe that the Countess had requested my presence, to which I can only oblige."'' The nobleman, momentarily taken aback, frowns up at you but finds himself at a loss for words beneath your steady, unwavering gaze. Sibylla's lips, so often set in an unyielding line, curve into the faintest of smiles as she settles her attention fully upon you, seizing the opportunity that you've just provided. ''"Excuse me. It seems that our 'conversation' has come to an end,"'' She says, her tone cool and leaking with a certain finality as she completely turns from the nobleman and simply takes you by the arm, leaving her previous interaction behind without another word. Immediately behind you, the man's frustration is palpable, leaving him seething as you move confidently with Sibylla through the crowd, your steps perfectly in sync. When you've created some distance, her voice comes low and somewhat husky beneath the murmur of the crowd, eyes cast down upon your visage, slowly climbing up to lock eyes, considerate and retaining still an expression of vague amusement, evidently pleased by your act and her subsequent escape: ''"Well %name... You have my attention."'' ''"I didn't have it before?"'' <<if $chp3_privateaudience_dik is 1 or $chp3_privateaudience_dik is 2>> ''"A word of advice. Not all of us delight in what is primal, savage, unrestrained. People like Ales-... noblewomen like Countess Alesia Cosmas feel restrained by their duties, obligations, and the expectations laid upon them by their noble peers. They do whatever they can to rebel, to soak in the simple pleasures of the flesh; to gaze upon the blood and visceral, oft instinctual displays of violence of the arena. And others prefer restraint. Refinement. Intellect."'' ''"Understandable, my lady. I apologize if I offended you."'' She's silent for a moment, gazing upon you, whatever amusement that was present earlier having already flattened back out into a cold, observant exterior. It's not altogether unfriendly, but she certainly doesn't put on a bright, welcoming pretense like many of the others aristocrats that you've seen smiling politely and chattering excitedly throughout the banquet. ''"If there was any harm done, you've made up for it with your clever distraction. You can read a room, mm? That is a trait that I can appreciate. Shockingly, many of my 'peers' are without it."'' <<else>> It happens slowly, as though she's reluctant to show her smirk, one side of those full, dark lips curving up further as she stares back at you, ''"You did. As soon as you denied Ales-... Countess Alesia Cosmas her request. You're bold for a slave and apparently a quick learner. You have my gratitude for your clever and very welcome distraction. You can read a room, mm? This is a trait that I can appreciate. Shockingly, many of my 'peers' are without it."'' <</if>> ''"It could be that they recognize your displeasure, Countess... yet they still desire your presence."'' Lips barely quirked, you briefly indicate the nobleman that you both had abandoned with a turn of your head, ''"He can't be your only admirer." "He is not,"'' She responds resolutely, with a hint of rueful dismay and a tinge of cold amusement, ''"Unfortunately, each and everyone of them are unwelcome. I call them vultures. Circling incessantly ever since my husband's untimely death."'' ''"I'm sorry for your loss."'' ''"Don't be sorry,"'' She intones, voice solid but low as her attention sweeps across the surrounding crowd before landing firmly atop you, ''"He has been dead for years now, and his former 'friends' and 'allies' have no problem reminding me. Opportunists and sycophants, the lot of them. Many such cases exist, each of them searching for my hand in marriage, courting me... Not for my looks alone, but for the wealth of my house and the assets that my husband left me."'' She exhales a hot breath through her nostrils, a rare display of agitation from the otherwise icy noblewoman. ''"Apologies. It may not be wise of me to vent to you, $name, but better you than one already embroiled in the realm of noble affairs and courtly gossip. I owe you a full introduction. I am Countess Sibylla Cyrasse."'' ''"It's my pleasure, Countess Cyrasse. I know that words are cheap, but I'm no rumormonger. Anything that you say, stays with me. I don't know much about courtly affairs, but I know when to mind my manners."'' She hums in low affirmation, watching you still, ''"I can tell. I appreciate that about you, $name. Where are you from, originally?"'' ''"Undertown, a district in the Third Quarter."'' Already it feels as though it has been far too long since last you've been home. Only a couple days and you're entirely embedded in a different world, it feels, standing so starkly in contrast to the dark, dank depths of your familiar place at home amongst the broken streets and Fredrick's workshop. ''"Undertown... And what did you do in Undertown?" "I was a cobbler's apprentice, my lady."'' If she's engaged in thought, it's silent, her expression stoic and firm atop your unwavering visage. Her response comes simply, after a few brief moments, ''"I wouldn't have taken you for a cobbler. No, you seem far from it, $name. It happens that I have been in search of a bodyguard, recently. We live in dark and dire times, I'm afraid."'' This might be, you think, exactly the opportunity that you've been looking for. [[Protecting you would be an honor.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla_subtle_honor]] [[Are you in danger?|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla_subtle_danger]] <<else>> Careful steps carry you the remaining distance across the room, trying to be as unobstrusive as possible, although you feel like you stick out like a sore thumb; a simple gladiator amongst the wealthy and landed. It comes unexpectedly when you manage to catch Sibylla's gaze upon your approach, offering a curt nod before stepping forth with purpose. Without breaking stride, you slip into the conversation and place yourself alongside the noblewoman and her unwelcome guest, although all things considered, you may be just as unwelcome. Clearing your throat, you try to interject, trying to sound as polite and cordial as you can, ''"Uh, apologies for the intrus--."'' It seems that the nobleman won't go out without a fight. But this isn't a fist-fight or martial display, but a clash of words, status and social leverage, a conflict in which you're woefully unprepared. He pipes up loudly, interrupting you in turn, ''"Who do you think you are, slave? DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?"'' His previously pale, flat face is growing redder with each passing moment, fuming, and only expelling the anger beneath tight, excited breaths as he pipes up again. ''"You have a lot of nerve, don't you? To interrupt a Lord of my caliber in discussion with the Countess! If I was a petty man, I'd have you punished, do you know that? Lashed! You du--"'' Mercifully, Sibylla finally speaks, the subtle strain of exasperation contorting her otherwise cold, stoic demeanor, ''"Lord Harkis, mind your voice, please. These matters require patience, especially with the uninitiated and unowned, as you well know."'' ''"Y-yes, Countess, I'm well aware. My temper sometimes gets the better of me."'' Face red still, the nobleman peers up at you, short flabby arms folded across his silken top, ''"Begone, gladiator. Let this be a lesson to you. Don't interrupt your betters unless you have good reason to do so."'' Sibylla lets her focus slip over you once more, lingering briefly, although it seems that she doesn't have nearly enough interest in you personally to warrant intervention. No, it seems like you've just failed at what was a potential opportunity to speak with her and possibly get to know her. With the nobleman staring daggers at your back and the Countess standing detached, likely wishing she was elsewhere, you turn through the crowds and wander off, hoping that your next interaction proves to be far more fruitful. Otherwise, whatever options you think you have now may not persist for much longer. The auction awaits. [[You wander off through the room.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]] <</if>>

<<if ($might gte 2) or ($chp3_privateaudience_dik gte 1)>> Watching the scene unfold is enough to make your blood simmer. You don't hesitate. Measured steps carry you the remaining distance across the room, cutting through the crowd like a keen blade through buttery soft silk, the nobleman's words becoming clearer with every step. Sibylla's gaze happens to meet yours upon your approach; the defiance in your eyes must capture her interest, because she doesn't look away, attention glued to you. And without breaking stride, you assert yourself into the conversation boldly, placing yourself beside the noblewoman and her unwelcome guest. Your voice is calm but edged with authority, slicing through the nobleman's drivel. ''"The Countess doesn't seem interested,"'' You state plainly, eyes hard as steel as you stare down at the shorter, scrawnier, obviously weaker aristocrat. ''"I suggest you move along."'' The nobleman, surprised by the sheer audacity of a gladiator speaking to him in such a tone, opens his wormy mouth to retort, but struggles to find the right words. You continue to stare down at him, and reluctantly, he draws back a step, throwing Sibylla one last lingering glance before disappearing into the crowd, ''"I do have somewhere to be.."'' Sibylla remains still for a long moment, her gaze openly assessing you. ''"Bold. You didn't have to do that,"'' she says, her voice even, though there's a trace of amusement hidden in the coolness of her tone. ''"Didn't I?"'' You respond, your eyes meeting hers, a sort of charged tension lingering between you both. ''"No, you didn't..."'' Her voice comes low and somewhat husky beneath the murmur of the crowd, eyes cast down upon your visage, slowly climbing up to lock eyes, considerate and retaining still an expression of vague amusement, evidently pleased by your act in the end. ''"But I'm glad you did. Well, $name... You have my attention."'' <<if ($chp3_privateaudience_dik == 1) or ($chp3_privateaudience_dik == 2)>> ''"So it was premature of me to assume that I had already earned it?"'' ''"Correct. A word of advice. Not all of us delight in what is primal, savage, unrestrained. People like Ales-... noblewomen like Countess Alesia Cosmas feel restrained by their duties, obligations, and the expectations laid upon them by their noble peers. They do whatever they can to rebel, to soak in the simple pleasures of the flesh; to gaze upon the blood and visceral, oft instinctual displays of violence of the arena. And others prefer restraint. Refinement. Intellect."'' ''"Understandable, my lady. I apologize if I offended you."'' She's silent for a moment, gazing upon you, whatever amusement that was present earlier having already flattened back out into a cold, observant exterior. It's not altogether unfriendly, but she certainly doesn't put on a bright, welcoming pretense like many of the others aristocrats that you've seen smiling politely and chattering excitedly throughout the banquet. ''"If there was any harm done, you've made up for it. I've never seen a slave drive off a nobleman before. That has to be the highlight of my day."'' <<else>> ''"I was hoping that I had already captured it."'' It happens slowly, as though she's reluctant to show her smirk, one side of those full, dark lips curving up further as she stares back at you, ''"Capture is a strong word. However, as soon as you denied Ales-... Countless Alesia Cosmas her request, I can say that I was... intrigued. You're defiant for a slave. It could end up getting you in hot water. But for now, you have my gratitude for your intrusion and welcome distraction. As you can tell, some of my highborn peers are incapable of reading a room, or discovering that they themselves are a disturbance."'' <</if>> ''"I'm happy to have intervened then. It seems that your presence is in high demand."'' Lips barely quirked, you briefly indicate the nobleman that you had driven off with a turn of your head, ''"He can't be your only admirer." "He is not,"'' She responds resolutely, with a hint of rueful dismay and a tinge of cold amusement, ''"Unfortunately, each and everyone of them are unwelcome. I call them vultures. Circling incessantly ever since my husband's untimely death."'' ''"I'm sorry to hear that."'' ''"Don't be sorry,"'' She intones, voice solid but low as her attention sweeps across the surrounding crowd before landing firmly atop you, ''"He has been dead for years now, and his former 'friends' and 'allies' have no problem reminding me. Opportunists and sycophants, the lot of them. Many such cases exist, each of them searching for my hand in marriage, courting me... Not for my looks alone, but for the wealth of my house and the assets that my husband left me."'' She exhales a hot breath through her nostrils, a rare display of agitation from the otherwise icy noblewoman. ''"Apologies. It may not be wise of me to vent to you, $name, but better you than one already embroiled in the realm of noble affairs and courtly gossip. I owe you a full introduction. I am Countess Sibylla Cyrasse."'' ''"It's my pleasure, Countess Cyrasse. I refuse to engage in the act of rumormongering. As you can already tell... it doesn't suit my personality."'' She hums in low affirmation, watching you still, ''"I can tell. I appreciate that about you, $name. Where are you from, originally?"'' ''"Undertown, a district in the Third Quarter."'' Already it feels as though it has been far too long since last you've been home. Only a couple days and you're entirely embedded in a different world, it feels, standing so starkly in contrast to the dark, dank depths of your familiar place at home amongst the broken streets and Fredrick's workshop. ''"Undertown... And what did you do in Undertown?" "I was a cobbler's apprentice, my lady."'' If she's engaged in thought, it's silent, her expression stoic and firm atop your unwavering visage. Her response comes simply, after a few brief moments, ''"You don't look like a cobbler. No, you look far from it, $name. It happens that I have been in search of a bodyguard, recently. We live in dark and dire times, I'm afraid."'' This might be, you think, exactly the opportunity that you've been looking for. [[Protecting you would be an honor.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla_bold_honor]] [[I seek glory in the arena.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla_bold_glory]] <<else>> Watching the scene unfold is enough to make you uncomfortable, stirring you to action. You have to interrupt. Measured steps carry you the remaining distance across the room, cutting through the crowd like a blade through buttery soft silk, the nobleman's words becoming clearer with every step. Sibylla's gaze happens to meet yours upon your approach, attention lingering on you, curiosity easily evident. A welcome distraction, perhaps. Without breaking stride, you assert yourself into the conversation, placing yourself beside the noblewoman and her unwelcome guest. Although all things considered, you could be equally unwelcome here. You speak calmly, bluntly, trying to slice through the nobleman's drivel. ''"The Countess doesn't seem interested."'' You state plainly, eyes resting on the shorter, silken-laden aristocrat. ''"I suggest you move along."'' And the nobleman, surprised by the sheer audacity of a gladiator speaking to him in such a tone, opens his wormy mouth to retort. And unfortunately for you, he doesn't seem to be intimidated. ''"Is this a joke? Do you think you're FUNNY!? I'll show you funny; an outspoken slave being lashed because he thought he could interrupt a man of the First Quarter, now that's funny. That's real comedy."'' His previously pale, flat face is growing redder with each passing moment, fuming, and only expelling the anger beneath tight, excited breaths as he pipes up again, speaking over you when you try to interject once more. ''"TO INTERRUPT a Lord... a Lord, of my caliber! In discussion with the Countess of all people. Do you know who I am? DO YOU!? WE--" "Lord Harkis, please. Mind your voice and volume."'' Mercifully, Sibylla finally speaks, the subtle strain of exasperation contorting her otherwise cold, stoic demeanor, ''"These matters require patience, especially with the uninitiated and unowned, as you well know."'' ''"Y-yes, Countess, I'm well aware. This one certainly has a mouth on him. My temper sometimes gets the better of me."'' Face red still, the nobleman peers up at you, short flabby arms folded tight across his chest, ''"Begone now, gladiator. Let this be a lesson to you. Don't interrupt your betters without a damned good reason."'' Sibylla lets her focus slip over you once more, lingering briefly, although it seems that she doesn't have nearly enough interest in you personally to warrant intervention. No, it seems like you've just failed at what was a potential opportunity to speak with her and possibly get to know her. With the nobleman staring daggers at your back and the Countess standing detached, likely wishing she was elsewhere, you turn through the crowds and wander off, hoping that your next interaction proves to be far more fruitful. Otherwise, whatever options you think you have now may not persist for much longer. The auction awaits. [[You wander through the crowd, looking for your next opportunity.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]] <</if>>

<<if ($mind gte 1) and ($mobility gte 1) and ($chp3_privateaudience_dik == 0)>> You decide to keep your presence unobtrusive, maintaining your distance for now, better unseen and unheard until the right opportunity opens itself up to you. Although you could never hope to match the high-class cantor of an ascended First Quarter accent, you find it quite easy to "blend in" amongst them, slipping through the crowds with practiced ease, your days spent in the crowded markets of Undertown paying off in the strangest of ways. From where you stand now, you have the perfect view, watching her every move. She's certainly beautiful, Sibylla; even with her outwardly cold, stoic demeanor, her features are a gift to behold, well-endowed with smooth, unblemished dark flesh and perfectly blue eyes that mesmerize. The shorter, silk-laden nobleman that converses with her is clearly love-stricken, and it's hard to blame him, outside of his lack of awareness or subtlety. She has no interest in interacting with him, that much is easily discernable. So when she finally makes eye contact with you, it's not by sheer chance, but orchestrated by the exact position in which you placed yourself, watching and waiting. She must have felt the intensity of your gaze, your unabashed curiosity, and it might be the case that she had already been interested in engaging with you. You both hold and maintain the meeting of eyes, openly observing each other, a small smirk finally cresting the quirk of your lips. You wouldn't mind an invitation, but luring her towards you would work just as well, as long as you get what you want. An opportunity, you think, would be best obtained through earning her undivided attention. Based upon her current company alone, that shouldn't be too difficult of an acheivement. There seems to be a mutual curiosity developing between the both of you; a chance for something more, conversation at the very least. ''"Lord Harkis,"'' You hear Sibylla speak, cutting off the man completely during his rambling, her tone cool and calm, ''"I'm afraid our conversation must come to an end, as well as your company for the time being. I'm sure we'll have the opportunity to catch up again before long, hm?"'' ''"Oh, y-yes, Countess Cyrasse, certainly. I always do very much enjoy your presence. You know how fond I am o--"'' She interrupts once more, her voice carrying more weight than his, ''"Of course, Lord Harkis. Thank you for your understanding. Until next time."'' She completely turns from the nobleman, leaving him to timidly depart without another word, wandering off through the crowded banquet. Meanwhile, Sibylla's lips, so often set in an unyielding line, curve into the faintest of smiles as she settles her attention fully upon you. With a tick of her finger, she gestures for you to approach and seize the opportunity that she just created for you. Your approach is confident, chin held upright, offering a pleasant expression for the woman who has opened herself up to your advance. Her voice comes low and somewhat husky beneath the murmur of the crowd, eyes cast down upon your visage, slowly climbing up to lock eyes as you have before, considerate and retaining still an expression of vague amusement, evidently pleased by your appearance: ''"Well, $name... You have my attention."'' ''"I didn't have it before?"'' It happens slowly, as though she's reluctant to show her smirk, one side of those full, dark lips curving up further as she stares back at you, ''"You did. As soon as you denied Ales-... Countess Alesia Cosmas her request. You're clever for a slave and apparently a quick learner. A very welcome distraction, considering my previous company. You can read a room, mm? This is a trait that I can appreciate. Shockingly, many of my 'peers' are without it."'' ''"It could be that they recognize your displeasure, Countess... yet they still desire your presence."'' Lips barely quirked, you briefly indicate the nobleman that she had driven off with a turn of your head, ''"He can't be your only admirer." "He is not,"'' She responds resolutely, with a hint of rueful dismay and a tinge of cold amusement, ''"Unfortunately, each and everyone of them are unwelcome. I call them vultures. Circling incessantly ever since my husband's untimely death."'' ''"I'm sorry for your loss."'' ''"Don't be sorry,"'' She intones, voice solid but low as her attention sweeps across the surrounding crowd before landing firmly atop you, ''"He has been dead for years now, and his former 'friends' and 'allies' have no problem reminding me. Opportunists and sycophants, the lot of them. Many such cases exist, each of them searching for my hand in marriage, courting me... Not for my looks alone, but for the wealth of my house and the assets that my husband left me."'' She exhales a hot breath through her nostrils, a rare display of agitation from the otherwise icy noblewoman. ''"Apologies. It may not be wise of me to vent to you, $name, but better you than one already embroiled in the realm of noble affairs and courtly gossip. I owe you a full introduction. I am Countess Sibylla Cyrasse."'' ''"It's my pleasure, Countess Cyrasse. I know that words are cheap, but I'm no rumormonger. Anything that you say, stays with me. I don't know much about courtly affairs, but I know when to mind my manners."'' She hums in low affirmation, watching you still, ''"I can tell. I appreciate that about you, $name. Where are you from, originally?"'' ''"Undertown, a district in the Third Quarter."'' Already it feels as though it has been far too long since last you've been home. Only a couple days and you're entirely embedded in a different world, it feels, standing so starkly in contrast to the dark, dank depths of your familiar place at home amongst the broken streets and Fredrick's workshop. ''"Undertown... And what did you do in Undertown?" "I was a cobbler's apprentice, my lady."'' If she's engaged in thought, it's silent, her expression stoic and firm atop your unwavering visage. Her response comes simply, after a few brief moments, ''"I wouldn't have taken you for a cobbler. No, you seem far from it, $name. It happens that I have been in search of a bodyguard, recently. We live in dark and dire times, I'm afraid."'' This might be, you think, exactly the opportunity that you've been looking for. [[Protecting you would be an honor.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla_subtle_honor]] [[I'm capable of far more.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_sibylla_subtle_danger]] <<else>> You decide to keep your presence unobtrusive, maintaining your distance for now, better unseen and unheard until the right opportunity opens itself up to you. Although you could never hope to match the high-class cantor of an ascended First Quarter accent, you can try your best to "blend in" amongst them, trying not to draw attention to yourself amongst the crowds, not altogether different from navigating the crowded markets of the Undertown. You find somewhere to linger, trying to watch, wait and listen. What glimpses you manage to glean, her beauty is easy to see. Sibylla, even with her outwardly cold, stoic demeanor, her features are a gift to behold, well-endowed with smooth, unblemished dark flesh and perfectly blue eyes that mesmerize. The shorter, silk-laden nobleman that converses with her is clearly love-stricken, and it's hard to blame him, outside of his lack of awareness or subtlety. She has no interest in interacting with him, that much is easily discernable. However, you can't see to get her attention, although you could've swore that her gaze swept over you at least once or twice in the time that you've been standing here, watching. Maybe you chose a bad spot, or maybe she's simply not interested. Regardless, you're going to stick out like a sore thumb if you linger much longer. That's when your eyes meet, Sibylla letting her focus slip over you once more; yet it only lingers briefly. She doesn't have nearly enough interest in you personally to warrant intervention. No, it seems like you've just failed at what was a potential opportunity to speak with her and possibly get to know her. With the Countess still embroiled in conversation with the clueless nobleman, you decide to move on before you make a fool out of yourself. Better to look for the next interaction, and hopefully it proves to be far more fruitful. Otherwise, what options you think you have now may not persist for much longer. The auction awaits. [[You wander off through the crowd, looking for your next opportunity.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]] <</if>>

''"Protecting you would be an honor, Countess."'' She watches you closely, baby blue eyes as calm as still water, betraying little of her own emotion but primed to detect the slightest ripple in your own. She's not dumb, but neither are you, so there she stands, soaking in the sight of you and trying to detect any hint of insincerity in your speech, sight or stance. ''"I see,"'' She murmurs low, voice calm and and deliberate, ''"I respect your eagerness. But don't be so sure of that, $name. It's a dangerous road that some of us Highborn walk. There is little honor involved, not when everything has a price, even a life. Oathbreakers are abundant; loyalty is highly sought after but rarely rewarded."'' ''"I understand,"'' You retort, voice clear and calm, gaze politely trained on the dark beauty before you, who observes you and listens patiently, ''"I can't feign to know you completely, Countess. But from what I've seen, you certainly seem like a noblewoman worth her weight in gold. It's evident to me, from the way that you carry yourself, and the frankness of your speech. You come across as an honest woman."'' Peering back at you, it's not the first time that you've seen her cold exterior crack, curved and curious, a little smirk and turn of her thick, inky black lips. She's silent for several moments, fixated entirely upon you, though speech comes to her soon enough, ''"How is it, $name, that some lowborn seem to carry themselves so highly, nobly, while some highborn are driven entirely by their lowest and most decrepit desires?"'' You smile back at her, drawing in your bottom lip briefly as you consider your response. Low and thoughtful comes your eventual reply, ''"If I had to give you my best answer, my lady, I would say that it has to do with the quality of a man's spirit. Some would call it his character. This is what drives a man and influences his every act. Those lacking in spirit have no choice but to revert to the lowest of desires... his base instincts, however cruel."'' ''"Mm... A thoughtful response, indeed, $name. You do remind me of my husband, in a way... intelligent, cunning, stalwart in his beliefs. It cost him his life in the end; his beliefs, that is, and his devotion."'' She peers right at you, or perhaps she's actually looking past you, through you, it's hard to tell. Those pale blue eyes sometimes hold a distant, detached quality to them. But finally, her lips quirk once more and she inclines her head politely. ''"You've given me something to think about. I've enjoyed our conversation, $name, more than I expected to. We shouldn't drag it out. Enjoy the rest of the banquet. I'll be keeping an eye out for you this afternoon..."'' ''"I enjoyed it as well, Countess Sibylla. Thank you."'' [[You bend at the waist in a half-bow before parting ways through the crowd.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Are you in danger, Countess?"'' She watches you closely, baby blue eyes as calm as still water, betraying little of her own emotion but primed to detect the slightest ripple in your own. She's not dumb, but neither are you, so there she stands, soaking in the sight of you and trying to detect any hint of insincerity in your speech, sight or stance. ''"There is always danger,"'' She murmurs low, voice calm and and deliberate, ''"This world is full of people who covet what they cannot possess, $name. Most of the time, it's something material... tangible. And in other instances, it has to do with status, reputation, perceived slights, real or otherwise. You're a smart young man, $name. If you aren't aware of this, you will be soon. It's a dangerous road that some of us Highborn walk."'' ''"I understand,"'' You retort, voice clear and calm, gaze politely trained on the dark beauty before you, who observes you and listens patiently, ''"My apologies, Countess. I can't feign to know much of the highborn world... only what I've seen and heard thus far in my life. But from what I've seen, you certainly seem like a noblewoman worth her weight in gold. Capable, competent, and frank in your speech. You come across as an honest woman."'' Peering back at you, her cold exterior doesn't crack, her speech neither overly formal nor too comfortably casual, ''"You're smart, $name. Smarter than most in your position. But you should be careful in what questions you ask. Remember that many people in positions similar to mine don't see intelligence as something wholly good or positive. They might be afraid of it... distrustful, cautious, concerned. It's something that could draw unwanted attention to yourself. If you're an exceptional person, that may happen regardless. But a warning, all the same."'' You slowly nod in response, pausing a moment, wondering whether you should start putting more consideration into your conversations. You thought you were making progress with Sibylla, but now she feels just as cold and closed-off as when you first met her. That being said, she's still a far more enjoyable person to converse with than the average noble. For her openness, you're thankful; but you shouldn't press your luck. ''"I understand, Countess. I do appreciate you taking the time to speak with me."'' ''"I've.. appreciated our conversation, $name; more than I expected to. Enjoy the rest of the banquet. Good luck this afternoon."'' [[You bend at the waist in a half-bow before parting ways through the crowd.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Protecting you would be an honor, Countess."'' She watches you closely, baby blue eyes as calm as still water, betraying little of her own emotion but primed to detect the slightest ripple in your own. She's not dumb, but neither are you, so there she stands, soaking in the sight of you and trying to detect any hint of insincerity in your speech, sight or stance. ''"I see,"'' She murmurs low, voice calm and and deliberate, ''"I respect your eagerness. But don't be so sure of that, $name. It's a dangerous road that some of us Highborn walk. There is little honor involved, not when everything has a price, even a life. Oathbreakers are abundant; loyalty is highly sought after but rarely rewarded."'' ''"Yes,"'' You retort, voice even and gaze trained on the dark beauty before you, who observes you and listens patiently, ''"But //you// seem like a noblewoman worth her weight in gold. It's evident to me, from the way that you carry yourself, and the frankness of your speech. You come across as an honest woman, Countess."'' Peering back at you, it's not the first time that you've seen her cold exterior crack, curved and curious, a little smirk and turn of her thick, inky black lips. She's silent for several moments, fixated entirely upon you, though speech comes to her soon enough, ''"How is it, $name, that some lowborn seem to carry themselves so highly, nobly, while some highborn are driven entirely by their lowest and most decrepit desires?"'' You smile back at her, drawing in your bottom lip briefly as you consider your response. A hitch of your broad shoulders comes with your eventual reply, low and thoughtful, ''"I wish I could give you a definite answer, my lady. All I know personally is that I have to follow my heart."'' ''"Mm... Another dangerous quality of yours, $name. My husband was like that... strong, stalwart in his beliefs and devoted to his duties. It cost him his life in the end."'' She peers right at you, or perhaps she's actually looking past you, through you, it's hard to tell, those pale blue eyes sometimes holding a detached quality to them. But finally, her lips quirk once more and she inclines her head politely. ''"I've enjoyed our conversation, $name, more than I expected to. We shouldn't drag it out. Enjoy the rest of the banquet. I'll be keeping an eye out for you this afternoon..."'' ''"I enjoyed it as well, Countess Sibylla..."'' [[You bend at the waist in a half-bow before parting ways through the crowd.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"I seek glory in the arena, Countess... To make a name for myself through iron and blood."'' She watches you closely, baby blue eyes as calm as still water, betraying little of her own emotion but primed to detect the slightest ripple in your own. She's not dumb, but neither are you, so there she stands, soaking in the sight of you and trying to detect any hint of insincerity in your speech, sight or stance. ''"I see,"'' She murmurs low, voice calm and and deliberate, ''"I respect your forthrightness. You have an attitude that not many can match, $name. It's a dangerous path that you walk... Of that, I assume you're well aware."'' Lips curved, your response comes easily, speaking freely despite the difference is status that exists between you both, ''"It wasn't long after I found myself sitting in a cage atop a slaver's wagon, being drawn towards the colosseum, that I decided this was to be my fate. That I would die a glorious death, before ever considering a sullen surrender."'' ''"Then you have become a dangerous man. I think you'll be pleased by the Highlord's decree and your path forward, regardless of whatever comes from today's auction."'' You can't help but tilt your head given Sibylla's response, ''"What do you mean by that, Countess Cyrasse?"'' ''"You'll find out soon enough."'' Her lips quirk once more and she inclines her head politely, ''"Some things aren't mine to divulge, I'm sure you understand, $name. I've enjoyed our conversation; alas, we shouldn't drag it out. Enjoy the rest of the banquet, gladiator. I hope you find the glory that you seek."'' Politely, you retort with a firm dip of your chin, ''"Countess Sibylla. Thank you."'' [[You bend at the waist in a half-bow before parting ways through the crowd.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

They must be the bolder of the bunch, those with the least inhibitions, or at the very least those who are the most drawn towards you. Their movements are deliberate, gazes filled with a mix of curiosity, excitement, lust and fear, each of them from a better family and higher upbringing than you could've ever hoped for yourself. One by one, closing the distance, you feel their hands brush over your arms, your chest, testing the hardness of taut muscle and sturdy limbs. It's light at first, teasing, exploratory, but soon it becomes bolder, the line between appraisal and temptation growing thinner with every passing moments. One of them, a raven-haired beauty with jeweled fingers, runs her hand slowly across your broad shoulder, her lips curling into a pleased smile. ''"Just as stout as they say,"'' She whispers, though it isn't clear whether she's speaking to herself or the others. Those dark eyes dart back briefly to the Duchess, seeking approval, before returning to you, her fingers trailing lower along your arm before drifting to the low run of your waist. Another, bolder still, presses herself closer, her perfume heavy and sweet, intoxicating in its allure, an exotic scent that you've never had the pleasure of coming across. ''"I wonder,"'' She muses aloud, voice low, barely audible over the hum of the busy banquet chamber. Her eyes lock with yours, challenging, a small hand pressed flush against the broad run of your chest, ''"What makes a man like you... fight?"'' The touch, the closeness, the intensity. All part of the game that they play, a cruel little dance of power, attraction and control that the nobility must be so well-accustomed to. They whisper behind your back, those that didn't stray from the Duchess's side to stroke and grope you, watching still; soft giggles mixing with the occasional bated breath or exchanged murmur with a servant offering them another glass of wine. Duchess Livia watches it all unfold, reclining on her lounge like a queen presiding over court. Her crimson eyes flick between the women, low and considerate, amused, before finally settling back onto you. She never feigns to hide her emotions, lips twisted into a knowing smile. ''"Look at yourselves, girls,"'' She says, with a voice like velvet, warm and rich, dripping with intrigue, ''"You think you can tame the beast, hm?"'' She raises her glass to those pert red lips, eyes never leaving yours, her tone as sharp as it is playful. The raven-haired woman, emboldened by Livia's words, slide her fingers along your crotch whilst her mouth presses closer, breath hot against your ear as she slings close against you, ''"Does this... //bother// you?"'' Her voice is barely a whisper, low and sultry, testing, as though daring you to react. Livia's watches you intently, ever so closely, searching for any flicker of that feral, masculine urge that she must be so sure lays just beneath the surface. The weight of their eyes, their touch, the scent of prefume, wine and food thick in the air - it's a trial, not of combat, but of control over your senses. A test of how deeply your base urges hold sway over you. The room seems to shrink, the walls closing in as the young, supple courtiers surround you, encircle you, hungry for your primal, violent vigor. [[Fuck it. I have to have them.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_fuckit]] [[Control yourself, eyes locked with Livia.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_control]]

You find yourself alone with Duchess Livia Varro. The quiet conversation and pleasant revelry of the banquet surrounds you still, but this is as close to a private discussion that you'll likely get for the time being. Her head is canted somewhat to the side, watching you with subtly curved lips, scarlet locks pooled haphazardly atop a beautiful pale shoulder. Her thick, womanly thighs sit folded, red eyes keenly attentive upon you. ''"I'm sure you have questions, $name. Go ahead, ask them. You deserve answers."'' [[Why did you arrange this banquet?|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion_banquet]] [[What do you know of my fate in the auction?|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion_auction]] [[Can you tell me about your husband?|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion_husband]] [[Do you believe a gladiator has any chance at freedom?|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion_freedom]] [[That's all I wanted to ask for now.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion_done]]

Fuck it. You can't take it anymore. This is no room, but a furnace; a sweltering inferno of gold, red, violet, seeping into your very being, the colors pulsing like a rapid heartbeat. Every flicker of torchlight a sigh of heat against your stained flesh, every shadow a hand. Reaching, curling, tugging at the rawness inside of you as every body presses closer, air thick with smoke and perfume. Sweet as decay, heavy as sin. A caress of fire, delicate fingertips slipping over your skin, igniting something primal that stirs deep in your blood. The raven-haired one, she's the most daring, temptation incarnate, supple cleavage pressed against your arm, almost spilling out the top of her silver corset. Her eyes shimmer like polished obsidian, reflecting nothing but your own desire, a deep all-too-human hunger. She moves, fluid, serpentine, a dozen feminine scents filling your nostrils and lungs. You can't help but trace the line of her waist, hands moving on your own, the subtle curve of her youthful hips delicate beneath your grip, the heat of her body merging with yours as though the boundary of skin is something that can be dissolved, overcome, unified. She leans into you, an invitation, a promise, aching low within you, pulling you closer. You would take all of her if you could, eyes locked, though you can feel Livia's gaze upon you still. As your hand slides lower, there's a sudden resistance. The other women are upon you, grabbing your wrists, stilling your movement. And although you could fight back, possibly overpower them all, you know that it'd be the end of you. The game is over. A chorus of soft laughter erupts, not entirely mocking, but the fire in your eyes must be delightful for them to witness, especially when they can control it. Livia's voice cuts through the murmur, smooth and rich, ''"Mmph, so predictable. A lustful man indeed."'' Slowly, she leans forward on her lounge, eyes twinkling with a low amusement, ''"But who could blame you, $name? Regardless, you wanted to talk, no? Other activities will have to wait... for now. Ladies."'' She beckons them back with an incline of her chin, and one-by-one they quickly and quietly filter back to her side, the raven-haired beauty lingering the longest against you, staring up into your eyes with a slight cant of her plush lips. Even when she strides back to rejoin the Duchess, her hips sway side to side, tempting you. All you can do is bite back your lust, trying to clear your senses, focus; your life could depend upon it. ''"My apologies, Duchess."'' ''"Mm, no apology is necessary, dear. I'm sure we //all// appreciate getting to know you better. You're a promising prospect, $name, and we revel in uncovering your... talents. And I do take your requests seriously. Let us converse. Ladies, will you rejoin me once my talk with $name is over?"'' ''"Of course, Duchess,"'' comes one softly given response among many as the cadre of young women begin to disentangle themselves from Livia's side, wandering away from the lounge in small groups, surely off to find something or someone else amongst the banquet to busy themselves with. [[And soon enough, you're left alone with Livia.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion]]

The courtiers circle closer, their fingers grazing your flesh like the whisper of silk on folded steel. This is no room, but a furnace; a sweltering inferno of gold, red, violet, the colors pulsing like a faint heartbeat. Every flicker of torchlight a sigh of heat against your stained flesh, every shadow a hand. Reaching, curling, tugging at every inch of you as each body presses closer, air thick with smoke and perfume. Sweet as decay, heavy as sin. The raven-haired one, she's the most daring, temptation incarnate, supple cleavage pressed against your arm, almost spilling out the top of her silver corset. Her eyes shimmer like polished obsidian, but you don't flinch, breath steady and gaze unshaken. Your mind remains still, stalwart, controlled. From her lounge, Livia watches, ruby lips curled into a little, amused smile, eyes dark and knowing, locked tight with yours all the while. There's no mistaking the challenge laid out before you, the game that she expects you to play. She expects you to unravel, to submit, to become a slave to your desires before her. But you refuse to submit. ''"Interesting,"'' she says, voice low and sultry, cutting through the now-hushed whispers of her courtiers. ''"You are a very interesting man, $name."'' She studies you, the curve of her lips widening slightly as she leans back with a languid grace, ''"Most men would have crumbled by now. But not you, it seems."'' The woman gathered around you glance back at Livia, unsure whether to press further or retreat. ''"Ladies,"'' Livia murmurs, beckoning them back with an incline of her chin. One-by-one, they quietly retreat and filter back to her side, the raven-haired beauty lingering the longest against you, staring up into your eyes with a slight cant of her plush lips. Even when she strides back to rejoin the Duchess, from the corner of her gaze, those hips sway side to side, tempting you. But you clear your senses and focus; your life could depend upon it. ''"Tell me... Is it fear or strength that holds you back?"'' She watches you closely, but you offer no answer. Not with words, but through your gaze alone. Your eyes remain locked with hers, intense, firm and unwavering. The fire in your chest remains, but it is your own now; controlled, contained, under your command alone. Livia's lips twitch into a more genuine smile, ''"Perhaps you are fated to be more than just a gladiator, $name. I wouldn't be surprised. But for now..."'' She raises her glass in a slow salute, acknowledging your resolve and strength of will, ''"Let us see how you fare. I do owe you a conversation. Ladies, will you rejoin me once my talk with $name is over?"'' ''"Of course, Duchess,"'' comes one softly given response among many as the cadre of young women begin to disentangle themselves from Livia's side, wandering away from the lounge in small groups, surely off to find something or someone else amongst the banquet to busy themselves with. [[And soon enough, you're left alone with Livia.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion]]

''"Why did you arrange this banquet, Duchess?"'' ''"They're not an uncommon occurrence, dear. But it's not always that we have such a... special guest."'' Livia's scarlet lips crease as she studies you, gaze never straying far. ''"The month of Crathal is full of festivities such as these, where every auction is treated as an occasion for gathering, drinking, feasting. It keeps spirits high."'' ''"It's a bit of an.. expectation even, for nobles in positions such as mine to host gatherings. Not that I mind the company. Any excuse for us to come together, converse, negotiate, relax. Of course, there's truth that we like to see what exactly will be going up for auction before it's time to talk prices. Every slave, gladiator or not, is an investment after all. Some worth more than others, with the odds of going far."'' ''"What do you think of my odds, Duchess?"'' Her lips remain curved, opting for a simple response as she eyes you, ''"Better than most, $name."'' [[You incline your head, moving on.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion]]

''"What do you know of my fate in the auction, Duchess?"'' ''"Mm, a reasonable question. Are you worried, $name?"'' ''"I'd like to have a better idea of what to expect."'' ''"As you already know, it's not an entirely dignified process. You never know exactly what you're getting with any one handful of slaves, after all. Some are unruly, decrepit, defeated, dangerous before they're even bought. Some can't cope with the perceived loss of freedom, while many live far better lives after the fact."'' She draws in a thoughtful breath, eyes brushing along your form as she considers you, ''"You, $name, will have no issue being bought. It comes down to who purchases you and for how much. I suspect your future owner might even end up being someone currently at this banquet."'' Her lips twitch, curving a bit further at either corner. ''"Are you considering purchasing me, Duchess?"'' Absently, Livia runs a couple of slender, feminine digits through her bright red locks, letting a soft laugh spill forth as she shines a mature smile back at you, ''"Me? Mmph, it's hard to say, $name. I wouldn't mind. It certainly wouldn't hurt me if one of my friends ended up owning you, either. All in due time, dear. You'll be in good hands as long as people see your potential. Don't be shy in showing face and making your presence known."'' [[You incline your head, satisfied with her response.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion]]

''"Can you tell me about your husband? You mentioned him being... 'important'."'' ''"You picked up on that, did you? Very well."'' She unfolds and refolds her legs before you, adjusting in her lounge. ''"My husband is Lucius Varro. A man of noble blood, that much is true. His father was a senator, as well as his father before him. One of the oldest families, senators and patricians who thought themselves untouchable. My love Lucius, a promising young man, wanted a career in the Legions before following in his family's footsteps. And he got what he wanted, in the worst type of way."'' Her lips skew aside, a somewhat uncomfortable, almost disgusted expression. You're starting to get the impression that Livia has a very low impression of her husband. She sighs, a sound more weary than you've ever heard from her. ''"We married young, when he was just starting his career. Too young."'' Her nailed fingers drum lightly against her knee, red lips curled into a bitter smile, ''"But ambition is a dangerous thing, especially when joined with arrogance. He craved glory more than anything, and in his folly, he thought he could command his forces alone against an unknown enemy. He led His Legion into the Lost Quarter.. they never stood a chance. It wasn't just terrible foes that slaughtered them... It was my husband's pride, his incompetence."'' Her lips tighten slightly at the thought, and she does little to mask the irritation from you although you're sure she's well-capable of masking her emotions with a practiced smile. No, she doesn't feel the need to do so before you or before her courtiers and friends, from what you've so far seen. ''“So yes, Lucius Varro—my husband—ruined his career, and in doing so, he ruined everything else. I was a young woman of eighteen years when I realized that I would have to bear the weight of his failures and save our family from a shameful legacy and destitution."'' The silence that follows is thick, heavy with the resentment that she never bothers hiding. But then, she smiles, the bitterness fading as she looks at you with curious gleaming eyes and dark, curved lips. ''“Does that answer your question, gladiator? Or were you expecting a tearful recollection of a noble man’s tragic fate?”'' She laughs lightly, shaking her head. ''“Trust me, there’s nothing noble about men like him. I know better than most, that great men come in many forms, regardless of caste or the circumstances of their birth. What matters is whether they rise up to the challenges presented to them, and whether they give in to defeat.”'' Her gaze remains fixed on you, as you bow your head deeply, ''"This is a tale that I will not soon forget, Duchess. Thank you for sharing it with me."'' She tips her slender chin in response and lifts her fingers in an absent gesture towards you, ''"You're welcome, $name. If you learn something from it, at least some good may come from my husband's failings. I've fought my way to where I am now using the same wisdom."'' [[You incline your head, content to move on.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion]]

''"Do you believe a gladiator has any chance at freedom?"'' Livia's lips curl into a smile, dark and knowing, lifting her wine glass to take a slow, sensual sip with her mouth plush against the brim. ''"Freedom, hmm? I thought you might ask such a question, $name. Men like you are always considering the future. Elusive little dreams... sometimes big enough to shatter the sky."'' ''"Some gladiators have won their freedom, yes, but it is never given. You have to take it, earn it, fight for it. But don’t mistake me,"'' she adds, leaning forward slightly, ''"I admire ambition. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t have it. And I have a fondness for those who try to rise above their station."'' Her smile widens, a teasing glint in her eye. ''"Who knows that the future holds? You may get some help... if you play your cards right."'' The weight of her words settles in the air between you. There’s an offer hidden beneath her teasing tone, but it’s wrapped in chains of expectation. Livia might speak of freedom, but she makes it clear—you’ll always be dancing to someone else's tune. Unless you set yourself apart, you think... unless you become undeniable. ''"Of course, there are some gladiators who are... highly successful. They overcome and adapt. Celebrities and 'nobles' in their own right, perhaps lacking in a landed title but enriched by their reputation and ability all the same. Feasts, parties, wealth, as many women and wanting fans as they could ever want. Special privileges and powerful connections. Every area of life has it's haves and have-nots. I'm sure if you reflect on your own life, you'll understand exactly what I speak of. If not, you'll understand in due time."'' Is life really about power and control? Haves and have-nots? Is hierarchy an absolute necessity stemming from the very origins of the world, life, existence? Even without castes, there would still be disparate power throughout the city, no? Someone will always be able to gain leverage over others. Even you, with your complete lack of wealth or status, have used your might, mobility and mind to carve out a little piece of the pie. An opportunity, however slim. What of the others, who are too slow, weak, dumb; otherwise lacking in the physical or mental faculties? Will they not always be at a disadvantage, at the beck and call of others... those who can garner more power. It's all one big competition, isn't it? That's what Cradle is. A crumbling city in which everyone tries to climb higher, clambering over the bodies of those below them. This is the landscape that you're navigating. [[Finally, you bow your head, ready to move on.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion]]

''"Very well,"'' Livia purrs, ''"I hope that I've helped you with my responses, $name."'' She lounges with the grace of a cat, reclining comfortably atop the couch draped in crimson velvet, her dangerous red eyes studying you still, glittering with amusement and a flicker of curiosity too. ''"I must ask, before you return to the banquet, dear. What do you think of all of this, now that you've experienced the very first steps?"'' [[It's a lot to adjust to.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion_orphan]] [[Fuckin' love it.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion_bastard]] [[It disgusts me, but I'm no fool.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_livia_discussion_knight]]

You let out a slow breath, gaze momentarily drifting across the room. The opulence, the grandeur... it's a stark contrast to the brutal simplicity of the life that you're leaving behind. Even with how barren and grim your circumstances might've been, you had adjusted to daily life at home as an apprentice cobbler, working beneath Fredrick and wandering the slums of Undertown in your freetime. You can't help but wonder whether you truly have what it takes to survive long in this place... in the arena, or in the noble courts that surround it. ''"It's a lot to adjust to,"'' You admit, voice low and steady. Your gaze returns to Livia, who watches you attentively, keenly, ''"This world is like nothing that I've ever known. The politics, the games, the way everyone moves through it with such ease. And my position... as entertainment, something to be traded, fought over."'' You pause, your jaw tightening for a moment. You can't make a fool of yourself in front of the Duchess, but you strive to speak the truth, your truth, ''"I suppose it's not without its opportunities. You either adapt, or you fall."'' There's a hint of resignation in your voice, you realize, but not defeat. You've had a ton of expectations dropped upon you recently... Life and death expectations, even. At this point, you're wary. Cautious. Livia smiles softly, though her eyes gleam with what might be amusement. Perhaps she feels sorry for you, though it's unlikely. She may pity you, much like she pities her husband. But it doesn't take much for pity to turn to disgust, shame, hatred. It happens all too easily. Weakness and timidity are not virtues in your world. ''"This is a new world for you. And it can be a brutal one."'' She tilts her head slightly, watching you a few moments longer before slowly raising her hand, dismissing you with a formal gesture. ''"You may return to the festivities, $name. Try to enjoy yourself, mm? Until we meet again."'' ''"... Thank you, Duchess. Until then."'' [[Tension pervading throughout your posture, you finally turn, and step away.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

You can't help but smirk at the question, lips curling as your domineering gaze sweeps over the crowded, dimly-lit room; dark, defiant, sharp with intention. The dim flicker of candlelight catches the edge of your jaw, your expression deep, bold, dangerous even. ''"I fuckin' love it, Duchess."'' This? This is your chance. A new world full of power, gold and glory, just waiting for someone with the guts to take it. Someone like you. You've spent your whole life so far just scraping by, fighting for scraps and the ragged remnants of a crumbling city, watching the nobles only from below, in the dark shadows of Undertown. Now, you're in their world. Right in the thick of it. You lock eyes with Livia, your gaze blazing bright with an inner fire, an indomitable will that has only been strengthened with each new challenge, trial and tribulation thus far. You aren't here to serve, not anymore than it directly benefits you. You're here to conquer. Your first fight, this banquet, the auction where you'll soon have a price placed upon your life; these are all stepping stones. Let them think they own you for now. The real game's just begun, and you're playing for keeps. Livia watches you closely, the faintest glint of intrigue lighting her eyes. She gauges your response, your posture, the vitality surging forth from your very being. Slowly, she draws her bottom lip beneath a bite of pearly white teeth, staring at you still, as though captivated by your presence. When she speaks, her voice is silkier than before, soft and sultry, ''"Impressive. There's something about you, $name. Something that I find quite... captivating. Careful that your ambition doesn't ruin you, mm?"'' ''"That won't happen,"'' You retort, voice as strong and solid as ever, ''"Ambition ending in failure... was it ever really ambition, Duchess? Or nothing more than pure, unadultered delusion? No... I'll win and conquer or I'll die boldly. That is my fate, and that is all that matters."'' She tilts her head slightly, unable to stop smiling as she watches you a few moments longer. Slowly, a touch reluctantly, she raises her hand; dismissing you with a formal gesture and flick of her feminine digits. ''"You may return to the festivities, $name. Please enjoy yourself... until we meet again. I look forward to it."'' ''"As do I, Duchess Livia Varro."'' [[Standing tall, you bow your head before turning on heel, walking off.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

Your expression hardens, taking a moment to glance over the banquet hall, taking in the faces of the nobles who laugh and sip their wine, the slaves and servants who wordlessly cater to them, the other gladiators indulging in the pleasures of food, drink, flesh; whilst men and women just like them fight, bleed, die elsewhere. You clench your jaw, anger restrained, voice strong and clear, ''"It disgusts me, Duchess. Being paraded around like a prize, like a damn beast at an auction. They can dress it up however they like... It's still a cage, no matter how gilded. I'm no fool... I know what happens to men who don't play the game. So I'll play it, for now."'' Livia's subtle smile doesn't fade, but there's a new light in her eyes. It's hard to pinpoint exactly how she feels... there's definitely interest, mixed with intrigue and perhaps a dash of amusement. She studies you like a cat might eye their prey, pondering before pouncing. Your response, your posture, the authenticity of your speech; she gauges them all, before speaking softly, gazing upon you. ''"Mmm, bold. Very bold and honest. You're an interesting man, $name. There aren't many like you."'' She's right. So many men surrender to their circumstances. How many of them drift through life without higher ideals, without purpose, without a great dream? What guides them from one day to the next beyond their lowest, basest, most animalistic instincts and desires? It's one thing to accept human nature, and it's another thing to reach beyond it, to uplift yourself and others, to seek to elevate existence to another plane. First, they have to break away from what chains them. From what tames them. And that's where the vast majority fail without having ever gotten started. Without having ever reached a state of awareness. But you're well aware of the pitfalls of the world, of the evil that persists, and the obstacles that stand in your way. ''"No, no there aren't Duchess. Unfortunately."'' She tilts her head slightly, unable to stop smiling as she watches you a few moments longer. ''"Unfortunately,"'' she murmurs, slowly raising her hand; dismissing you with a formal gesture and flick of her feminine digits. ''"You may return to the festivities, $name. Do try and enjoy yourself... until we meet again. I look forward to it."'' ''"Thank you for your time and patience, Duchess."'' [[Standing tall, you bow your head before turning on heel, walking off.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"You're trouble."'' ''"Trouble, me? Mmph, was it that obvious?"'' She stares back at you, eyes half-lidded, heavy with amusement and a low, sultry expression that matches her bold, throaty tone, as much of a feline as a woman. And a dangerous one at that, long and limber, constantly on the prowl, ready to bite back. She doesn't shy away from the fact. Everything about her seems to embrace it, revel in it. ''"What's life without a little bit of trouble, love? That wouldn't be any fun if you ask me. The finest things in life are nothing but trouble... beautiful women, handsome men, iron blades and times of violence. Compelling causes, gemmed jewelry, the glimmer of gold. Trouble, every lil' bit of it."'' ''"Aye, Countess. But not everyone invites trouble into their life."'' Not like you, but that goes unspoken. She seems to understand regardless, tittering out a soft laugh, ''"Don't be boring, $name. You're a gladiator after all... You of all people should come to understand. Why shy away from trouble, when everything worthwhile in life is surrounded by it? Built by it? Our beloved city, Cradle... constructed on the ruins of a lost world and millions of dead."'' You stand still as she steps forward, closing the distance with her gaze creeping lower, trailing along the slope of your neck and the outward crest of your masculine shoulders. ''"Mmph... so much trouble, this city has caused. But what would we be without it? Barbarians.. wanderers.. outcasts? Nobodies. Not me. I love //trouble//."'' ''"What of you, $name?"'' Delicately, she pokes a taloned finger against your chest and begins to trail it across the clothed surface in a circular motion, absently toying with you with those dark, smoky eyes downcast low against yours. ''"Do you like trouble?"'' [["Absolutely."|chp3_slave_privateaudience_alesia_knight_yes]] [["No, I don't."|chp3_slave_privateaudience_alesia_knight_no]]

<center><img src="images/alesiaflash.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> ''"All I know is that I like what I see."'' Abruptly, she slips her top aside effortlessly and lets her tits spill out. For breasts so heavy and full, they're unbelievably perky; large, smooth and glistening like ripe melons, the likes of which only the most privileged classes can enjoy beneath the dim glow of Dosmera's light. Her pert nipples are a faint red blush, like cute cherries against the impressive swells of her chest. ''"How about now?"'' She whispers, winking at you beneath a swish of dark, blood-hued hair. If only you could touch them, taste them. You can't deny the lustful urges that shoot through your loins and the heat of your chest as you oogle the succulent, gold, red-tipped curves of the noblewoman before you. She's exciting, separate from the rest in her own enticing and rather... perilous methods. But it would be a lie to say that you're not curious as to where all of this could lead. ''"I'm not just a tease, $name."'' Alesia purrs, effortlessly slipping her top back over the round of her shoulders, concealing her nipples before anyone else within the banquet catches on, ''"But like any woman of value, I have //needs//... that you might be able to assist me with."'' She expels a warm breath, crossing the remaining distance between herself and you, closing in; eyes locked, her lips part and softly murmured words spill forth, meant only for you, ''"If you want to prove yourself, you have one more opportunity. Today. I need you to create a distraction."'' ''"When you go out to auction,"'' She says, speaking deliberately, gaze unwavering upon yours, ''"The former legionnaire Stavrick will be ahead of you. Pick a fight with him. Make a scene out of it. If you make it convincing, your loyalty will be rewarded. I'm a good friend to have... remember that."'' [[Before you can even feign a response, she shoots you a wink and turns on heel, disappearing within the crowd.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"I didn't see anything."'' Your response is vague and uncommitted. Truthfully, you want to keep your hands free of any dirt or blood. Your situation is already complicated enough without getting involved with the wrong people, or the wrong schemes. Unfortunately, someone like her can see straight through you. At least, that's how it feels. ''"Playing coy, are we? You won't be able to stay innocent for long in this game, $name. Being able to keep your mouth shut is only one piece of the puzzle."'' She expels a warm breath, crossing the remaining distance between herself and you, closing in; eyes locked, her lips part and softly murmured words spill forth, meant only for you, ''"If you want to prove yourself, you have one opportunity. Today. I need you to create a distraction."'' ''"When you go out to auction,"'' She says, speaking deliberately, gaze unwavering upon yours, ''"The former legionnaire Stavrick will be ahead of you. Pick a fight with him. Make a scene out of it. If you make it convincing, your loyalty will be rewarded. I'm a better friend than foe, $name. Remember that."'' [[Before you can even feign a response, she turns on heel, disappearing within the crowd.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Absolutely."'' Your response is simple, strong, resolute, your gaze unwavering as her hungry eyes slip over you, searching for any apparent weakness. The truth has been spoken. It's possible that you and her share some semblance of alignment in your views. The details don't matter, not in this very instant. Life is full of trouble, struggle; challenges to be overcome and surmounted through skill or sheer force of will. Every conflict is a gauntlet to throw yourself into, a crucible to survive, a storm to weather and come out on the other side anew. Everyone has their own justifications for pushing through and coming out on the other side, whether they realize them or not. Some just want to survive, while others thrive on the nature of life. If you aren't growing, you're dying. Stagnation is a slow death and comfort the catalyst. You recognize this, and perhaps Alesia does in her own way too. ''"Good,"'' She murmurs simply, a warm breath escaping before her thick crimson lips tick upwards at either corner. ''"Do you know what they call me, $name?"'' After a moment of quiet contemplation, you give a shake of your head, ''"I do not, Countess."'' And with a little, breathy laugh, she replies: ''"The Firestarter."'' ''"I hope you can handle the heat."'' <<if $chp3_privateaudience_dik == 1 || $chp3_privateaudience_dik == 2>> [[Abruptly, she slips her top aside effortlessly and lets her heavy breasts spill out.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_alesia_knight_yes_flash]] <<else>> [[Abruptly, she lifts her long-nailed digit and 'boops' you on the nose.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_alesia_knight_yes_boop]]<</if>>

''"No, I don't."'' You decide to stand your ground, resolute, unswayed by the Firestarter. ''"Mmph. Disappointing. It'll be interesting to see whether your day in the arena was simply a... fluke, $name."'' Her dark, blood-hued locks swish, hair falling across her face as she eyes you, bemused. ''"You make me want to *break* that brave act of yours. That stern face. I know it's capable of more... the most terrible of expressions, they lay within each and everyone of us. Champions one day, slaves the next. Alas..."'' She expels a warm breath, crossing the remaining distance between herself and you, closing in; eyes locked, her lips part and softly murmured words spill forth, meant only for you, ''"If you want to prove yourself, you have one more opportunity. Today. I need you to create a distraction."'' ''"When you go out to auction,"'' She says, speaking deliberately, gaze unwavering upon yours, ''"The former legionnaire Stavrick will be ahead of you. Pick a fight with him. Make a scene out of it. If you make it convincing, your loyalty will be rewarded. I'm a better friend than foe, $name. Remember that."'' [[Before you can even feign a response, she turns on heel, disappearing within the crowd.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

There is something, something beyond the noise and the heat that pulls at your mind. A cold prickling along the skin of your arms, the hair rising at the back of your neck. It is there again, that sense of being watched, of being summoned without word or gesture. Then you see it—the alcove. You hadn’t noticed it before, though it feels as if it had always been there, just beyond your sight, waiting for your gaze to slip on by. A dark place, barely marked by a crimson curtain drawn tight, nearly hidden between the sensual fold of shadow and flame. Nothing special sets it apart from the rest. Yet, you move toward it, the noise of the banquet falling behind you like a fading echo. Each step is slow, deliberate. The crowd does not see you, not any longer. Placing your hand at the edge of the curtain, fingertips curling within, the heavy fabric looks the deep color of dried blood against your flush skin. Just beyond, the air is colder, and you feel the pull stronger now, an undeniable gravity drawing you forward. Slowly, you yank the curtain aside. [[She is there.|chp3_slave_privateaudience_novia1]]

<center><img src="images/alesiaflash.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> For breasts so heavy and full, they're unbelievably perky; large, smooth and glistening like ripe melons, the likes of which only the most privileged classes can enjoy beneath the dim glow of Dosmera's light. Her pert nipples are a faint red blush, like cute cherries against the impressive swells of her chest. ''"It's only fair,"'' She whispers, ''"For the show that you gave earlier. You didn't disappoint, $name."'' If only you could touch them, taste them. You can't deny the lustful urges that shoot through your loins and the heat of your chest as you oogle the succulent, gold, red-tipped curves of the noblewoman before you. She's exciting, separate from the rest in her own enticing and rather... perilous methods. But it would be a lie to say that you're not curious as to where all of this could lead. ''"I'm not just a tease, $name."'' Alesia purrs, effortlessly slipping her top back over the round of her shoulders, concealing her nipples before anyone else within the banquet catches on, ''"But like any woman of value, I have //needs//... that you might be able to assist me with."'' She expels a warm breath, crossing the remaining distance between herself and you, closing in; eyes locked, her lips part and softly murmured words spill forth, meant only for you, ''"If you want to prove yourself, you have one more opportunity. Today. I need you to create a distraction."'' ''"When you go out to auction,"'' She says, speaking deliberately, gaze unwavering upon yours, ''"The former legionnaire Stavrick will be ahead of you. Pick a fight with him. Make a scene out of it. If you make it convincing, your loyalty will be rewarded. I'm a good friend to have... remember that."'' [[Before you can even feign a response, she shoots you a wink and turns on heel, disappearing within the crowd.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

''"Silly boy. You're pecuilar, don't you realize?"'' ''"Very pecuilar... It'll be interesting to see whether your day in the arena was simply a... fluke, $name."'' Her dark, blood-hued locks swish, hair falling across her face as she eyes you, bemused. ''"You make me want to *break* that brave act of yours. That stern face. I know it's capable of more... the most terrible of expressions, they lay within each and everyone of us. Champions one day, slaves the next. Alas..."'' She expels a warm breath, crossing the remaining distance between herself and you, closing in; eyes locked, her lips part and softly murmured words spill forth, meant only for you, ''"If you want to prove yourself, you have one more opportunity. Today. I need you to create a distraction."'' ''"When you go out to auction,"'' She says, speaking deliberately, gaze unwavering upon yours, ''"The former legionnaire Stavrick will be ahead of you. Pick a fight with him. Make a scene out of it. If you make it convincing, your loyalty will be rewarded. I'm a better friend than foe, $name. Remember that."'' [[Before you can even feign a response, she turns on heel, disappearing within the crowd.|chp3_slave_privateaudience4]]

<center><img src="images/theheir.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Sitting alone at a low table, she stirs a glass of wine within her dainty grasp. The alcove is tiny, private, lit only by a single candle that shudders on the table's surface, casting long shadows across her feminine face. You can barely make out her sultry eyes, but you know they are on you. They have been for some time. Dressed in a decadent, intricately-patterned blood-red gown, the fabric clinging to her slender form as if painted on, she is young. Younger than you imagined, perhaps your own age, her black hair falling in shadowy waves down her delicate shoulders and smooth, freckled flesh. ''"You’ve come."'' Her voice is a whisper, soft and cold, yet it cuts through the space between you like the edge of a blade. You do not answer. The pulse in your ears is loud now, drowning out the world beyond the alcove. You can feel the weight of her gaze pressing into you, waiting. [[She tilts her head, just enough for you to glimpse the curve of her lips, the hint of a smile.|support_orphan]]

The only way that you lose control is when you concede control to others. Now is the time to keep your beliefs pure and true. Now is the time to place true and ultimate belief in yourself and your own abilities. Because as soon as you sacrifice the power to affect your own future on the altar of self-doubt… Well, that //is// surrender. That is death. These feelings that rise up within you, this visceral inflamed energy, it’s yours. You can use it to conquer every single day, to embrace life for what it is, or you can wallow in self-pity and give up. It’s your choice. That’s why you take action. Because you realize that anything less would be a waste. Anything less than waging total war against apathy would be a betrayal of the self. You’re here to roll the dice of life. Not to make concessions, or to play someone else’s game. Perhaps that’s what so many people are afraid of: the potentiality of true freedom. [[She laughs at you; a soft, tittering sound.|chp3_dream1]]

Your life has never been yours alone. It has always been shaped by others, for better or for worse. From your abandonment at birth to your adoption and apprenticeship with Frederick… Old Frederick. You miss the old man now; he, perhaps more than anyone else, has helped to shape your destiny. After all, you wouldn’t be attending Highrock right now without his interference. While your life is punctuated by choices and decisions that you’d like to think were yours and yours alone, you can’t deny that you’ve been guided along the way. Guided– or influenced? Swayed. It happens all of the time. You saw lives that you didn’t want to replicate: alcoholics, drug addicts, criminals and slaves. And you saw others that inspired you. It stands to reason that if people can influence you, then perhaps your environment can too. The food that you eat… the words that you hear. There could be something in the air. Magick, spells, curses. Whispers from beyond the void. Now that you’re here, beneath the everflowing glow of Dosmera, you can only wonder whether there’s influence in your life that has been less… obvious. Less forthright in its appearance. Forces unseen that might’ve swayed your development or aided in your decision-making. Is it possible that they’re benevolent– or could they be aligned against you? The wizard, you think. Your meeting with Mearesdes must have inadvertently (or purposefully) have opened up a new chapter in your life. And this dream is only one of the consequences. But the final choice is yours… always yours. It has to be. [[She laughs at you; a soft, tittering sound.|chp3_dream1]]

You can’t quite put your finger on it, but you know that there’s something out there. Something beyond the veil that manipulates the fate of men, including your own. Not everyone in Cradle believes in Gods or Fate. However, there are more forces at play in the world than the simple choice of man. You know that much– you feel it at the very core of your being to be true. Magick is real, you’ve seen it with your own eyes. That wizard, he bears the taint of forces beyond this world: the sorcerer Mearesdes, whether half-man or daemon, draws upon a power that must originate from elsewhere. It can’t come solely from within. It must be connected to… ''Dosmera.'' You look up at her again, staring in amazement at her deep violet glow and vibrant, swirling exterior. She must be hiding something within. Something dark, deep, powerful. The cults may be right, you imagine… She is the key to something greater. You can only wonder what it’ll take to unlock her secrets. [[She laughs at you; a soft, tittering sound.|chp3_dream1]]

<center><img src="images/succubus1.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center><<set $chp3_dream_where to false>><<set $chp3_dream_who to false>> You swivel until your gaze finds her, senses already numb, features heavy with a sort of deep, heavenly satisfaction as soon as you lay eyes upon her. ''“I missed you.”'' <<set $chp3_dream_what to false>> It’s your own voice that you hear, yet you don’t even remember uttering the words. Her lips curl, as plush and perfectly poised as you remember, only a sliver of fangs showing past the stretch of her mouth: ''“I missed you too, $name. My only regret is that our first meeting was so brief, so fleeting…”'' Long, slender fingers of the softest lavender hue shift through her decadent black hair, teasing through it and gently threading a few of the dark, silky strands past her own lips. She sucks on her hair and the bottom of a dainty digit, considering you all the while with a playful cant to her sultry feminine visage. ''“Mmph… I have a confession, $name. I need to tell you why I brought you here. Can I? Pretty please?”'' Her deliciously dark ebon-eyes flicker, long lashes downcast as she studies you. Gradually, with the silent grace that would match the finest of felines, the daemoness draws forth atop her long, lissome legs, voluptuous body swaying with every step. It’s a truly //tantalizing// sight. ''“Yes.”'' It’s your voice again, yet you’re stuck still, breath incredibly shallow in your throat. There she stands immediately before you, practically face-to-face. And your body, you’ve never felt so incredibly relaxed; comfortably numb, though your loins burn with your own lust. Your mind is a haze, but even now, you have an inkling of sense about you… Enough to realize that this woman can manipulate your mind, your body, your soul if you let her. The only question is whether you have enough strength to fight back. ''Or'' whether you even want to. ''“I want you,”'' She whispers, though her voice sounds close enough to tickle your ears. Her scent is heavy, thick, rich and feminine: that of a woman in heat. Her pheromones are truly heady, her form lavish, her fine-featured face amongst the most beautiful that you’ve ever seen. But you can only wonder what it is that she //truly// wants from you. [[Dominate her. (18+)|chp3_dream1_dom]] [[Resist her.|chp3_dream1_resist]] [[Submit completely. (18+)|chp3_dream1_sub]]

<center> <<audio "the-wanderer" fadeout>> <a href="https://www.patreon.com/ExaltedText" target="_blank"> <img src="images/support_orphan.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></a> //Orphan// wouldn’t exist without the faith of my Patrons. In ancient Rome, a *patronus* was a man of wealth and influence who supported his *cliens*—in return, loyalty, action, and glory flowed upward. Patronage wasn’t charity. It was a bond. A pact. We’re entering a new age where that ancient truth matters again. If you believe in ''Orphan''—in player-driven storytelling, dangerous choices, and tales of Men who defy the impossible—then cast your vote. Support me. The world needs more anabolic tales and High Thumos adventures. We still need stories that sharpen the will and stir the blood. Your support fuels this work: not slop, but something worthy of your name and memory. Together, we can soak in the glory of Dosmera. <center>[[Enter the Credits →|credits]]</center>

<<if $intro_tome == true>> ''''Fuck that.'''' You don’t know where it comes from, but you can feel it: a sublime energy flowing through you. Like a gust of wind stirring forbidden pages, a vision flickers before you of an open tome, an oddly familiar one; it’s the unreadable book that you found within Mearesdes’ lair. Somehow, through forces far beyond your own understanding, it’s empowering you. Perhaps laying your eyes upon the ancient script was enough to ascertain its magickal properties. All you know for now is that the daemoness’ effect on you is fading rapidly like a quickly wilting plant. And you want revenge. ''“Does that usually work?”'' You wonder aloud, drawing forward a single step, which serves as enough to give the daemon pause. Her ebon eyes bore into yours, dark and difficult-to-read, but you can make out the low register of understanding that flickers across her face. That slight curve of her plump, burnished lips lowers into a bit of a pout as she observes you, her voice sultry and soft still, but decidedly measured: ''“Mmph… Is your opinion really so low of me, $name? You don’t need to play so hard to get.”'' ''“I don’t like being taken advantage of."'' You retort brusquely, ''"Do you?”'' [[You surge through the dreamscape, until your hand lay clasped about her neck.|chp3_dream1_dom1]] <<elseif $mind gte 2>> ''''Fuck that.'''' This creeping numbness, your dulled senses, the blanket that lay over your mind: you didn’t ask for any of it. No, it was imposed upon you. So you resist–you fight! It’s the only thing that you know how to do. Submission isn’t an option, not when it’s forced upon you. There’s an immense pressure at the forefront of your mind, laying heavily against your lobes, trying to keep you contained, calm, docile like a cute pet. You’re stronger than that, more willful, disobedient. You impose yourself upon others, not the other way around. Slowly, the daemoness’ effects begin to wither away like a quickly wilting plant. And through the silence, you realize that she has been studying you, ebon eyes boring into yours, dark and dangerous. ''“Does that typically work?”'' You wonder aloud, unable to help yourself. That slight curve of her plump, burnished lips lowers into a bit of a pout as she observes you, her voice sultry and soft still, but decidedly measured: ''“Mmph… Is your opinion really so low of me, $name? You don’t need to play so hard to get.”'' But you want revenge. ''“I don’t like being taken advantage of. Do you?”'' [[You surge through the dreamscape, until your hand lay clasped about her neck.|chp3_dream1_dom1]] <<else>> <<set $chp3_dream_dom to false>> ''''Fuck that.'''' Blood pumping, you try to take a step forward. But as quickly as that hot flash of emotion came upon you, it dissipates, leaving you feeling comfortably numb; dulled, dumb, complacent, like a soft blanket being laid over your senses. There's a subtle realization in the back of your mind: if fighting back was even a possibility, your mind isn't strong enough. You lack the mental will, the clearness, the clarity of action. No, there's an immense pressure at the forefront of your mind. And it's winning, laying so heavily against your lobes, keeping you contained. And now you're her good, docile pet. Through the silence, you realize that she has been studying you, ebon eyes boring into yours, dark and dangerous. ''"Mmph… Is your opinion really so low of me, $name? You don’t need to play so hard to get.”'' ''"I sensed your... reluctance. But trust me, $name. I always get what I want."'' [[Your defenses crushed, you sink into a servile state.|chp3_dream1_sub1]]<</if>>

It happens in the blink of an eye, but it feels so right, your rough fingers clasped tight about the sides of her trachea, passively applying pressure to her pleasantly slender, sensual neck. You want to kiss it, lick it, bite it, but that can wait. <<set $chp3_dream_dom to true>> <<audio "swoosh" play>> First, you need to set the record straight. ''“I don’t know who you are… //what// you are… but you don’t control me.”'' Above your iron grip and clenched digits, her face is a subtle mask. Even with her powers forfeited by your domination, you can recognize just how beautiful she is. Those dark eyes crease ever so slightly, thick lashes downturned, betraying her mild surprise and low simmering agitation. She didn't expect this to happen. ''"I don't know what this is..."'' You turn a look over your surroundings slowly. The sky above is a dark, violet smear, neither dusk nor dawn; a gauzy veil torn over the starks that pulse like dying embers. Dosmera glows bright, her moons lingering close, like children chained to their mother. Your fingers twitch about the daemon's throat. ''"A dream. Another realm. Hell. Wherever I am... whatever this is, I'm intent on mastering it. Mastering you."'' She blinks at you, unmoving, throat tensed beneath your taut fingers, her expression slowly straining. You exhale a hot breath, your head and body running warm, pulsing as you exert yourself on the daemoness before you. [[Question her.|chp3_dream_ask]] [[Fuck it, get right to the fun part.|support_orphan]]

<<if $intro_tome == true>> <<set $chp3_dream_resist to true>> ''Fuck that.'' You don’t know where it comes from, but you can feel it: a sublime energy flowing through you. And like a gust of wind, a vision flickers before you of an open tome, an oddly familiar one; it’s the unreadable book that you found within Mearesdes’ lair. Somehow, through forces far beyond your own understanding, it’s empowering you. Perhaps laying your eyes upon the ancient script was enough to ascertain its magickal properties. All you know for now is that the daemoness’ effect on you is fading rapidly like a quickly wilting plant. And you feel capable. //Powerful.// ''“Does that usually work?”'' You wonder aloud, drawing forward a single step, which serves as enough to give the daemon pause. Her ebon eyes bore into yours, dark and difficult-to-read, but you can make out the low register of understanding that flickers across her feminine features. That slight curve of her plump, burnished lips lowers into a bit of a pout as she observes you, her voice sultry and soft still, but decidedly measured: ''“Mmph… Is your opinion really so low of me, $name? You don’t need to play so hard to get.”'' ''“That's //enough//. Silence, daemon."'' You retort brusquely, ''"It's time for you to answer me.”'' [[You impose your will upon her.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $mind gte 1>> <<set $chp3_dream_resist to true>> ''Fuck that.'' This creeping numbness, your dulled senses, the blanket that lay over your mind: you didn’t ask for any of it. No, it was imposed upon you. So you resist–you fight! It’s the only thing that you know how to do. Submission isn’t an option, not when it’s forced upon you. There’s an immense pressure at the forefront of your mind, laying heavily against your lobes, trying to keep you contained, calm, docile like a cute pet. You’re stronger than that, more willful, disobedient. You impose yourself upon others, not the other way around. Slowly, the daemoness’ effects begin to wither away like a quickly wilting plant. And through the silence, you realize that she has been studying you, ebon eyes boring into yours, dark and dangerous. ''“Does that typically work?”'' You wonder aloud, unable to help yourself. That slight curve of her plump, burnished lips lowers into a bit of a pout as she observes you, her voice sultry and soft still, but decidedly measured: ''“Mmph… Is your opinion really so low of me, $name? You don’t need to play so hard to get.”'' ''“That's //enough//. Silence, daemon."'' You retort brusquely, ''"It's time for you to answer me.”'' [[You impose your will upon her.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<else>> <<set $chp3_dream_resist to false>> You //want// to resist. This creeping numbness, your dulled senses, the blanket that lay over your mind: you didn’t ask for any of it. No, it was imposed upon you. Resistance... well, it's becoming a more and more distant thought. Suddenly, you //need// to see her. But you blink, and she's gone. At least, it appears that way at first. The sky above is a dark, violet smear, neither dusk nor dawn; a gauzy veil torn over stars that pulse like dying embers. Dosmera glows bright, her moons lingering close, like children chained to their mother. You stare out in awe, though a shiver shortly draws you back towards her presence. She's an outline at first, drawn from the darkest ink, a sculptor's fingers pressed into flesh too flawless to form. Her presence pulls at the very marrow in your bones. It's a scary feeling, being at the complete mercy of someone, something, that you don't know or fully understand. Yet, in that same breath, it can be so damn exhilarating. ''"You must have... questions, boy. Don't you?"'' [[Your head feels so heavy...|chp3_dream_ask]]<</if>>

<<set $chp3_dream_sub to true>> Your chest tightens, yet you are unafraid. Perhaps her powers have already worked their magic on you. Was it even a conscious choice, this pitiful submission? Or was the decision pre-determined long before you awoke in this distant realm? It doesn't matter now. She's getting what she wants. And you're going to //love// it. But you blink, and she's gone. At least, it appears that way at first. The sky above is a dark, violet smear, neither dusk nor dawn; a gauzy veil torn over stars that pulse like dying embers. Dosmera glows bright, her moons lingering close, like children chained to their mother. You stare out in awe, though a shiver shortly draws you back towards her presence. She's an outline at first, drawn from the darkest ink, a sculptor's fingers pressed into flesh too flawless to form. Her presence pulls at the very marrow in your bones. It's a scary feeling, being at the complete mercy of someone, something, that you don't know or fully understand. Yet, in that same breath, it can be so damn exhilarating. [[She knows you've submitted. She can taste it.|chp3_dream1_sub1]]

''"I knew you would come around, $name. One way or another."'' Her voice slithers into you, though her lips do not part. You do not hear words; you feel them, a susurrus thrat threads it way into the synapses of your mind. //Why resist?// Isn't it easier to fall? You watch her approach, marvellous skin gleaming, the faintest luminesence, as if it has absorbed centuries of moonlight. Each movement is deliberate and agonizingly slow, like the drawing of a blade meant to savor its victim's surrender. //Have you surrendered?// Is that what this is? She is close now, close enough that the warmth of her presence licks at the edges of your being. Close enough that you question whether you'll be able to return. Her hand moves at last, sliding down your parched throat, down your chest, stopping where your heart would be. ''"It was a good choice. Even if ultimately inevitable..."'' Her praise fills you with confidence, your heart thumping faster beneath the slender sway of her delicately-formed hand, lavender flesh feminine and fair. You can feel it, hear it in your ears. Everything is wonderful. This moment, is wonderful. ''"Since you've been so lovely, $name. Do you have any questions you'd like to ask me? I know that you're a very curious boy."'' [[Oh, of course! So many curious questions.|chp3_dream_ask]]

<<if $chp3_dream_dom is true>> You've adapted quickly to the situation: your control over her is almost absolute. Lifting a finger isn't even necessary. Your mind does the work, bending the daemoness to your will. But for now, you decide to lessen your hold over her. Yes, you should use this opportunity to try and get some answers from her before you have your fun. Your tensed fingers slowly relax, loosening about her soft neck--a symbolic gesture if anything. She draws in a tight breath, peering at you steadily from where she stands before you, more or less prostrate. ''"Now that we've found this //understanding//... Be a good girl and answer a few questions for me."'' There's a flicker across her decadent, daemonic visage. Indignation perhaps. She must not be used to a mortal addressing her as such. You revel in the moment, before drawing in a breath and conducting your interrogation. <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub is true>> You swoon where you stand for the daemoness, her very presence filling you with continued warmth, comfort, confidence. It's an incredible feeling; one of secure, focused attachment and contented bliss. Yes, as long as she's here, you're in paradise. Oh right, questions. You //do// want to learn about her. Such a divine being. She //is// worthy of worship. In fact, she's //all// that you can think about. Right now, and perhaps forever... You can only imagine what she has in store for you. <<elseif $chp3_dream_resist is true>> You didn't expect to find yourself here once more, confronted with a force beyond your understanding. But maybe things can be... discerned. You might as well ask some questions while you have the chance. You //need// answers if you're ever going to understand your place and purpose here. <<else>> It's hard to say whether this is real, or a dream gone awry. You're confronted with a force beyond your understanding, one that you can't control. But perhaps things can be... discerned from this. You might as well ask some questions while you have the chance. Maybe it'll help you figure out what to make of all of this. <</if>> <<if $chp3_dream_where is false>>[[Where is this place? Is this... real?|chp3_dream_ask_where]]<</if>><<if $chp3_dream_who is false>> [[Who and what are you?|chp3_dream_ask_who]]<</if>> <<if $chp3_dream_what is false>>[[What exactly do you want with me?|chp3_dream_ask_what]]<</if>> <<if $chp3_dream_dom is true>>[[Now, I'm REALLY going to show you who's in control.|chp3_dream1_dom2]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub is true>>[[My head feels heavy...|chp3_dream1_sub2]] <<else>>[[Let me out of here.|chp3_dream_continue]] <</if>>

<<set $chp3_dream_where to true>> The world is an uncertain smear, and you are stranded at its center. A realm that neither breathes nor sleeps but hums with some low and ancient resonance. It's just you and her, beneath the all-encompassing ephemeral glow of Dosmera; her moons and that violet sky streaked with ash and veins of black. You can't help but wonder what lays beyond it all, out there, across vast stretches of empty space and lonely darkness. <<if $chp3_dream_dom is true>> You tighten your hold on her presence, that fragile tether of influence humming like wire strung too tight. Her form flickers—momentarily—but remains bound beneath your will. ''"Where is this place?"'' Your voice is low, commanding. She purrs in response, licking her lips like a cat savoring the cornered mouse. ''"You're clever to ask. This is a space between. Between your waking world and mine. A corridor between will and surrender."'' You narrow your eyes. ''"Then why bring me here?"'' ''"Because only here,"'' she breathes, ''"can truths bleed without restraint."'' [[You push deeper. She will give you more.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub is true>> Your knees nearly buckle as she glides closer, one soft breath of hers enough to still your thoughts. She barely whispers, and you hang on each word like gospel. ''"Where is this place?"'' you ask, voice trembling—not with fear, but with awe. ''"Where you've always belonged,"'' she whispers into your ear. Her touch is fire, her words water. ''"A home crafted from longing. Made just for you."'' You nod slowly, already accepting it. Your mind doesn't resist the warmth. The comfort. The lie—or is it truth? [[You shiver. She holds all the answers.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_resist is true>> You dig your mental heels in, pushing back against her aura. Your vision sharpens. The fog parts, if only a little. ''"Where are we?"'' She studies you now with more caution. Her glamour wanes. ''"This is an in-between. A frame without a picture. A room without walls. A dream meant to turn you inside out."'' ''"But why here? Why me?"'' Her smile fades. ''"Because only some dreams wake themselves. And you, perhaps, are close."'' [[Riddles? Empty promises? Is there any truth to be found here?|chp3_dream_ask]] <<else>> You try to lift your thoughts, your will—but they sink like stones in syrup. The sky pulses. Her voice presses down. ''"Where is this?"'' Your words come slurred. ''"A sanctuary,"'' she whispers. ''"Yours. Mine. Shared. Made from the thin veil between sleep and surrender."'' ''"Not real?"'' ''"More real than anything you've ever known."'' You believe her. [[Your thoughts drift like mist.|chp3_dream_ask]]<</if>>

<<set $chp3_dream_who to true>> ''"Are you... Dosmera?"'' ''"Dosmera? I'm flattered."'' For a moment, her smile blooms fully, radiant and terrible. Her fangs glisten beneath the twinkle of distant star; it's an awful, though tantalizing sight. It's an experierence that you never could have imagined, not even in your own dreams. <<if $chp3_dream_dom is true>> You stare her down, your control tightening like shackles. ''"Who are you, really?"'' She doesn't flinch, but her eyes flicker. You caught her. ''"I am a daughter of Dosmera,"'' she says flatly, the usual seduction stripped from her tone. ''"And what does that mean?"'' ''"It means I was made to tempt. To test. To choose."'' ''"Then know this: I choose answers. Now."'' In a strange sort of way, this is starting to make sense. You swear that in your distant memory, you recall the cultists down below, deep in the recesses of Cradle... You've //heard// them mention the daughters of Dosmera. [[You press her. No riddles. No games.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub is true>> ''"Who... who are you?"'' you ask, your voice breaking beneath the weight of her presence. She smiles softly, almost maternal. ''"A daughter of the moons. A mirror to your darkest ache. I was born of Dosmera, formed to soothe what others cannot see."'' Your breath catches. You feel seen. More than that—you feel known. ''"Will you trust me, now that you know?"'' And gods help you, you just might. //You do//. [[You want to hear more.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_resist is true>> ''"No more games,"'' you snap. ''"What are you?"'' She pauses. That infallible mask of sultry confidence cracks for half a second. ''"A daughter of Dosmera,"'' she says. ''"Born not by womb, but by wish. Made real through fear and fantasy alike."'' You tilt your head. ''"So you're... what, a manifestation?"'' ''"Yes. But not yours alone."'' In a strange sort of way, this is starting to make sense. You swear that in your distant memory, you recall the cultists down below, deep in the recesses of Cradle... You've //heard// them mention the daughters of Dosmera. [[Maybe we're starting to get somewhere... tangible.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<else>> ''"Who... are you?"'' Your voice is slack, lips barely moving. ''"Someone who knows you. Better than you know yourself,"'' she says, her fingers brushing your cheek. You feel it in your gut. The pull. ''"Call me what you want. But I am here because you need me."'' And you do. You do need her, don't you? [[You sink further. Questions swirl, but they quiet.|chp3_dream_ask]] <</if>>

<<set $chp3_dream_what to true>> ''"I know you, $name."'' ''"Know me how?"'' Her voice low and rich continues, thick lips moving though you swear her voice comes from within, ''"Your longing. That fear, reluctance. All of the desires that you dare not name; that you can scarcely acknowledge even in your own heart."'' She tilts her head, silky dark tendrils sliding throughout her horns. Those words hit you, assaulting your senses, though they're soft, almost tender, warm and concerned. ''"I want to help you, $name. I want to give you everything that you desire."'' <<if ($chp3_dream_dom is true) or ($chp3_dream_resist is true)>> ''"Yet you're so stiff... defensive. Alert."'' Her ever-dark eyes linger on you, thick lashes turned down low as she considers your countenance. ''"How am I supposed to help you if you turn away from me, $name? Answer that for me."'' ''"Quiet,"'' You utter back beneath a low, harsh breath, ''"Save your lies. You're wasting my time here."''<</if>> <<if $chp3_dream_dom is true>> ''"What do you want from me?"'' Your voice is sharp, a knife to her silk. She bares her teeth in a smile, amused. ''"Control. Surrender. Insight. All the things you try to bury. I want to unwrap you like a gift left too long unopened."'' ''"Try it, and I'll tear the ribbon off you,"'' you growl. Her laughter is breathless, but you're not laughing. Not yet. [[She won't be laughing for much longer.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub is true>> ''"What do you want with me?"'' She sighs, cupping your chin with impossible tenderness. ''"To heal you. To understand. I want to show you love, in ways no one else can."'' You're trembling, but it's not from fear. ''"Let me in, and I can give you peace."'' Gods. You almost say yes. [[Your mind swims, willing.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<elseif $chp3_dream_resist is true>> ''"What do you want with me?"'' You ask the question flatly, guarded. ''"To give you clarity. Purpose. Touch what you've hidden from even yourself."'' You narrow your eyes. ''"Or to feed."'' She shrugs, unashamed. ''"Sometimes, the truth nourishes us both."'' You keep your guard up, but the answers ring true. [[You tread carefully... Let's get this over with.|chp3_dream_ask]] <<else>> ''"What... what do you want..."'' She leans in, her lips brushing your ear. ''"To fulfill you. To draw the ache from your bones. To be the thing you reach for in the dark."'' You can’t resist. You don’t want to. Her breath becomes your own. And deep down, something in you wants to be fulfilled. [[You lean in. She smiles.|chp3_dream_ask]] <</if>>

<<audio "bad-era" fadeout>> <<if $chp3_dream_resist is true>> The dream shudders under your defiance. It twists around you—but it doesn't swallow you. //She// doesn't swallow you. You've avoided that fate, at least for now, even if she tried to have things her way. That's what all this is, isn't it? A trap. You feel her wrath like heat behind your eyes. The daemoness stands motionless, framed by some shifting cosmic horizon, her expression no longer seduction but scrutiny. That knowing smile is gone, her seductive veneer cracked long ago. There's a flicker of something else. Something old. Her eyes narrow, her lips flatten. ''“You’ve barely scratched the surface, $name.”'' You step forward, pulse steady. ''“I don’t care. Whatever this is, it doesn't own me.”'' She hisses out a laugh that’s more air than voice. ''“We’ll see.”'' You meet her gaze, your mind a battlefield. Her eyes narrow, silence following, but it isn't empty—it thrums with suppressed fury. Or fear. ''“You shouldn’t be able to do this,”'' she says, more to herself than to you. ''“Not without help.”'' ''“I didn’t ask for help.”'' The world convulses—sky tearing, stars unraveling like threads from a dying tapestry. The horizon bleeds violet. Her form begins to fragment, like shards of obsidian dragged into a slow vortex behind her. You feel the air grow cold and flat, as if the dream resents your presence. She vanishes—not with a scream, not with a sigh. Just... gone. You’re left standing in a space of unshaped light and soundless wind, alone but unbroken. And then the light begins to fade— [[You wake, heart pounding.|chp3_firstmorning]] <<else>> You tried. Gods know you tried. To fight, resist, escape. But her presence is relentless, pressing down on your spirit like a weighted veil. Your thoughts come slow, molasses-thick. Even your breath feels borrowed. Your body doesn’t move, but inside you scream until your own thoughts echo back at you, hollow and warped. Her shape looms, no longer bound by the laws of flesh or shadow. She has changed—grown larger, or simply more true. She kneels beside you. Not gloating. Just... certain. Inevitable. ''“You’re trying to be strong,”'' she says softly, brushing your hair behind your ear. ''“I knew you would try. I like that about you, $name. It’s adorable... endearing. Brave,”'' she murmurs, ''“But bravery without power is just... noise.”'' She brushes a finger along your cheek, and your vision fractures. You fall—not physically, but deeper. Into her. Into something vast and incomprehensible. She doesn’t force your limbs. Doesn’t bind you in chains. She binds you with shame. Her fingers trace symbols you can’t understand into your skin. They burn, then cool. You forget the shape before you even see it. ''“You’ll wake up and tell yourself it was just a dream. That you were still in control. That’s part of the charm.”'' ''“Next time, don’t fight it.”'' A thousand whispers pour through the dream like water rushing through stone—some in your voice, some in hers. Darkness blooms at the corners of your mind. Soft. Final. And then— A gasp. Light. The feeling of waking from too far down. [[You jolt upright in your bed, sweating.|chp3_firstmorning]] <</if>>

''"That's enough. I gave you an opportunity to be honest with me."'' You play your rough fingers against her bottom lip, plush and purple compared to your calloused flesh. It's your thumb that presses hard just within the confines of her mouth, dragging along the soft wetness of her inner lip until you feel the pearly front of her nearest fang. She stares up at you all the while, dark defiance in her low, lingering gaze. ''"I tire of this game... your sly words and false pretenses. You brought me here to //use// me for something, didn't you? Yet you never expected that I would have the power to fight back. It's an odd feeling, isn't it? Being helpless when you're so used to control."'' She tries to speak. You can sense her intentions before her mouth even moves. Like lightning, your digits slip from her mouth with purpose: a sharp, backhanded slap against her high, fine-boned cheek, the impact reverberating throughout your own bones. It's a painfully hard smack, one that might blacken an eye or bruise flesh, but you're confident that she can take the beating. She's a //daemon// after all. Why would she deserve anything less? There may be a moment of surprise, shock even, but it's quickly replaced by a //heat//. Anger. She's pissed. There may be another emotion too, flickering deep beneath the surface, one that you're intent on drawing out given enough time. ''"Only speak when spoken to,"'' You murmur softly as you look over her, slipping your hand across her smooth forehead and into the dark depths of her silky, long, ebon-hued locks, ''"Like a good bitch. Understood?"'' Her speech is slow, choked, almost shaking given the utter hate and resentment that's surging through her ethereal being. She's not good at concealing her emotions, not when her act has been completely inverted and turned on it's head. ''"You don't know what a mistake you're making..."'' [[Punish her.|chp3_dream1_dom2_punish]] [["What, I can't have a bit of fun?"|chp3_dream1_dom2_fun]]

You don’t remember falling to your knees. But you’re there now, head lowered without even thinking. ''"So many questions... So thoughtful, $name. So very thoughtful for me."'' She stands before you, not as a tyrant, not as a conqueror, but as something far more dangerous—someone worthy of devotion. Circling you slowly, her bare feet are silent against the unreal surface of the dream. Her long fingers ghost over your shoulders, your jaw, your chest—tracing you like a sculptor admiring their creation. ''“There’s such promise in you,”'' she purrs, voice thick with heat. ''“So eager to serve. So //ready//. You’ve come so far, $name. It’s beautiful to watch.”'' Her words aren't commands. They’re affirmations. Every syllable massages the folds of your mind, rewarding your silence. Your stillness. Your breath catches as she presses herself against your back. One hand slips beneath your chin and lifts it. ''“Look at me, $name.”'' You do. Of course you do. Her dark eyes burn like twin moons eclipsing the sun—bright, demanding, endless. ''“Tonight, I’ll take what’s mine. And you... will give.”'' You nod, lips parted. You don’t ask what she means. You don't need to. ''“Good.”'' She smiles. ''“Now lie back. Let’s begin properly.”'' [[You obey and let her lead you.|chp3_dream1_sub3]]

Your response is quick and harsh, your big, wide-splayed hand smacking //loud// into her other cheek with a fleshy clap. It's a bit cruel, but you have little compassion. She's a beautiful woman--a daemon you suspect, but a woman all the same. A woman who tried to play you for a fool and failed. Now you'll enjoy the spoils as you will, consequences be damned. Only a stern hand will show her, her proper place. Before she can even react, your digits tense hard and pull at her long hair, forcing her down onto her knees with a sharp, sudden yank. Her pert nose and smart mouth end up pressed tight against your clothed crotch, the heat of her breath a nice change of pace. ''"You //will// obey me."'' You spy her eyes, one clenched shut and the other held half-open, blearily looking up at you from where you hold her head. The anger and resentment are easy to sense, feel, embrace, readily radiating up from her very being. This dreamspace is unique, open, endless, and you feel like you're just starting to discover the possibilities held within. This is an arena where you've managed to grasp control. Perhaps your conquest of //her// is your key to unlocking even more. The potential for complete power lays just beyond your reach... If only you could seize it, hold it, keep it--forever. For now, your mind wanders, wondering just how nice her plump lips might feel stretched wide around your throbbing dick. Thankfully, you won't be wondering for long. Single-handedly, you unbutton your pants and slip them down from about your waist. ''"Time to make yourself useful, as opposed to wasting my time."'' She stares up at you, seething beneath an otherwise flat, subdued expression, one eye still glued to your visage. All things considered, her glare isn't too intimidating when her face is pressed tight to your loins, only your undergarments separating her from your nethers. [["Be a good girl..."|chp3_dream1_dom2_punish1]]

If anything, you're having //fun//. She's a beautiful woman--a daemon you suspect, but a woman all the same. A woman who tried to play you for a fool and failed. Now you enjoy the spoils, consequences be damned. You'll fight and fuck until your luck runs out in this //dark, dank place.// You can't help but laugh in her face, your digits tensing hard and pulling at her long hair, forcing her down to her knees with a sharp, sudden yank. Her pert nose and smart mouth end up pressed tight against your clothed crotch, the heat of her breath a nice change of pace. ''"Lighten up and you might even enjoy yourself..."'' You spy her eyes, one clenched shut and the other held half-open, blearily looking up at you from where you hold her head. The anger and resentment are easy to sense, feel, embrace, readily radiating up from her very core. This dreamspace is unique, open, endless, and you feel like you're just starting to discover the possibilities held within. Perhaps your conquest of //her// is your key to unlocking more. Your swagger peaks. She’s on her knees and you're riding the high. Curious. Cruel. In control. You wonder what her plump lips would feel like stretched wide around your dick. And thankfully, you won't be wondering for long. Single-handedly, you unbutton your pants and slip them down from about your waist. ''"Open up. It's feeding time."'' ''"You bastard,"'' She hisses back beneath a hot breath, one eye still glued to your visage. All things considered, her glare isn't too intimidating when her face is pressed tight to your loins, only your undergarments separating her from your nethers. [["Don't be shy."|chp3_dream1_dom2_fun1]]

If this is some distant realm, detached from your physical body, it certainly doesn't //feel// like it. At least, you're certain that the burgeoning erection down below is as real as it gets. The rising heat, the straining stiffness, the twitch of flesh and pump of rushing blood. It //propels// you. You hook a thumb beneath the hem of your drawers and pry them lower, until your hard dick abruptly springs free, slapping against the daemoness' waiting face with a meaty //thwap//. It's like music to your ears, and the humiliation that must be coursing through her right now is just icing on the cake. For a moment, she acts as though she might draw back--you sense her hesitation, revulsion even. Thankfully, her long, ebony horns serve as the perfect anchor for your greedy grip. You hold onto the nearest one, keeping her feminine face flush against your raging length. ''"Don't be rude. Give it a kiss hello, hm?"'' She's silent, but not exactly fighting you, not now. No, currently her gaze is fixated on your cock in all it's naked, vainglory. If this daemoness already knew everything about you, why is she so taken aback by the sight of your dick? Maybe she didn't expect to have it slapped across her pretty face. Your lower back arches, glutes tensed as you sidle your hips forward and assert your dominance over her. A little cockslap is just the beginning of what you have planned, if you continue to get your way. After all, //who's going to stop you?// With her horn gripped tight, she can't turn away as you guide the fat, hard-ridged crown of your cock closer to her plush lips until they finally meet. It's an unvoluntary kiss, at least at first, both of her dark purple eyes trained up onto you. You gaze back down at her, before coaxing with a hot whisper, ''"Open wide."'' Your laughter is low and breathy, enjoying the process of toying with the daemoness and gradually getting her to relent. Soon, her entire temptuous body will belong to you. But you must start with her mouth. [[You're going to facefuck her.|chp3_dream1_dom2_fun2]]

If this is some distant realm, detached from your physical body, it certainly doesn't //feel// like it. At least, you're certain that the burgeoning erection down below is as real as it gets. The rising heat, the straining stiffness, the twitch of flesh and pump of rushing blood. You hook a thumb beneath the hem of your drawers and pry them lower, until your hard dick abruptly springs free, slapping against the daemon's waiting face with a meaty //thwap//. All you know right now is that you're going to love breaking her will, and the humiliation that must be coursing through her right now only serves to encourage you. In fact, it's ''fuel''. For a moment, she acts as though she might draw back--you sense her hesitation, revulsion even. Thankfully, her long, ebony horns serve as the perfect anchors for your greedy grip. You hold onto the nearest one, forcing her feminine face flush against your raging length. ''"I didn't say to move, did I?"'' It seems like she might be a quick learner. After that slap, she's silent, not exactly fighting you. No, now her gaze is fixated on your cock in all it's naked, vainglory. If this daemoness already knew everything about you, why is she so taken aback by the sight of your dick? Maybe she didn't expect to have it slapped across her pretty face while being manhandled. Your lower back arches, glutes tensed as you sidle your hips forward and assert your dominance over her. A little cockslap is just the beginning of what you have planned, if you continue to get your way. After all, //who's going to stop you?// With her horn gripped tight, she can't turn away as you guide the fat, hard-ridged crown of your cock closer to her plush lips until they finally meet. It's an unvoluntary kiss, at least at first, both of her dark ebon-eyes trained up onto you. Your aroused gaze meet hers, unwavering, your command simple and bold: ''"Open wide."'' Her entire body will belong you soon enough. You're only just getting started. Her mouth is as good of a place to kick things off as any. [[You're going to facefuck her.|chp3_dream1_dom2_punish2]]

You smirk as her plump lips stretch around your girth, relishing the way her forked tongue quivers beneath your cockhead like a trapped butterfly. ''"There we go,"'' you croon, thumb stroking the curve of her horn like you're petting a skittish mare. ''"Was that so hard, princess?"'' Her answering glare loses potency when your crown nudges the fluttering roof of her mouth. You tut mockingly, rolling your hips in teasing circles that smear precum across her palate. ''"Tsk tsk, such a sour face for someone wrapped around a prime piece of mortal flesh."'' An aroused chuckle rises up through your chest as you pull back just enough to let cool air kiss your glistening shaft. The demoness' throat works convulsively when you abruptly thrust halfway, her gag reflex triggering as you pause to admire the obscene bulge in her slender neck. ''"Look at you,"'' you purr, using her horn to tilt her tear-streaked face upward. ''"Taking me like you were bred for it. You really are the best, aren't you?"'' Her muffled snarl becomes a startled moan when you drag your cock along her tongue's forked split, the barbed tips curling instinctively around your veins. You crook a finger beneath her chin, watching spit strands glisten between your weeping tip and her swollen lips. ''"Let's hear it then. Beg properly and I'll let you taste the main course."'' When she remains stubbornly silent, you cluck your tongue and sink balls-deep in one smooth glide. Her choked moans and throaty groans vibrates deliciously through your shaft as you card fingers through silken ebon locks. ''"That's my girl,"'' you coo through gritted teeth, relishing the way her throat muscles flutter in panicked rhythm. ''"Scream all you like - your voice was made for this symphony."'' You set a languid pace, savoring every inch of slick heat with an erotic slowness. Each withdrawal leaves her gasping, each thrust punches breathy whimpers from flared nostrils. ''"Feel that?"'' you murmur when her sharp nails and clutching fingers accidentally score your hips, their frantic scrabbling betraying unintended arousal. ''"Your body knows its purpose. Why fight what comes naturally?"'' [[Groaning, you slip your spit-stained length free before you hit your breaking point.|chp3_dream1_dom2_fun3]]

Her lips part with a shuddering gasp, warm breath ghosting across your weeping crown. You don't wait for invitation. Your hips snap forward, slamming past plush purple resistance until her throat bulges obscenely around your girth. The wet heat swallows you whole - a slick, pulsating vice that makes your balls tighten instantly. ''"Fuuuuck, that's it..."'' You growl through clenched teeth, watching tears spring to those defiant ebon eyes. Her forked tongue lashes wildly, perhaps involuntarily, beneath your shaft, the alien sensation sending electric jolts up your spine. Precum leaks freely now, salty-sweet droplets mixing with the saliva pooling beneath her trapped tongue. You just can't help yourself, your body surging with virility and vitality as you flex your newfound powers. You yank her horn backward, forcing her neck into a cruel arch. The obscene glrk-glrk sounds music to your ears as you start pistonning into that tight wet heat. Her hands scramble and clutch at your thighs, sharp pearlescent nails drawing crimson tracks across your flesh. The pain only fuels you, each stinging scratch met with a deeper, harder thrust that makes her nose crush against your pelvis. ''"Tighter,"'' you grunt, slamming home until her throat muscles flutter like a heartbeat around your shaft. ''"Show me what that cursed tongue can do."'' Her muffled gag vibrates through your cock as she obeys, the barbed tip of her tongue circling your sensitive frenulum with unnatural precision. You curse loudly when it flicks across that sweet spot, hips stuttering as her suction intensifies. The demoness' cheeks hollow obscenely, every desperate swallow sending rippling contractions along your length. ''"There you go,"'' you pant, grinding deep as her throat convulses. Salty tears drip onto your pounding balls when you pull back, glistening strands of spit webbing between your swollen crown and her bruised lips. ''"Maybe you're good for something after all."'' [[You smack her across the cheek, spittle dripping past her swollen lips.|chp3_dream1_dom2_punish3]]

<<audio "calm-harp" volume 0.4 loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "calm-harp">> The dream lingers like a hot breath against dense mist. A shape in the dark, all shadow and suggestion, breathes against your throat, fingers trailing down your chest like threads of silk spun too fine to feel. A voice—//hers//—whispering in the space between sleep and waking, words curling like incense in the air. You can’t remember what she said, only that it burned, somewhere deep, somewhere secret, and the heat of it still clings to you, almost suffocating you. Then—the coolness of your room. You never expected it to be such a welcome respite. You wake to the world as it is. Your dormitory, more of a cell than a bedroom, narrow and stone-bound, air thick with the scent of old parchment, damp linen and musk. The fire in the brazier has long since died, leaving only ghostly embers nestled in their own grave of ash. Above you, just as below, the rafters groan, shifting with the weight of a world that does not care whether you wake or remain forever lost in dreams. Across the room, Lyco is already moving, naked to the waist, his broad back turned as he fastens the leather straps of his tunic with methodical precision. The scars crisscrossing his skin are pale in the half-light, a roadmap of battles won and lost. He does not glance at you, not acknowledging your waking, though you get the sense he already knew you were stirring before your breath even changed. Your muscles ache as you shift beneath the rough-spun blanket, stiff from the previous day's events and the sorry slab of a rickety, wood-framed bed. It's like sleeping on a plank; you had imagined that the Academy might pamper its initiates, considering that most of them came from families of relative wealth or higher status. But things are never quite that simple, not for the youth that wish to embark upon careers into the Legion or attempt the climb to the role of ''Ascender.'' Shifting slowly, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed and carefully lower yourself down, feet meeting the stone floor with a muted thud. If you have any chance of keeping up today, you'd best keep an eye on Lyco and follow in his footsteps. He seems to know what he's doing, and despite any grievances that may be festering between the two of you, you don't have many good options. There’s movement to your left—a groan, a shuffle, and a dull thump from across the room as one of your unmet roommates knocks his head against the bunk. ''"Fuaaaw..."'' comes the moan, low and agitated. Blinking against the dim morning light, you see him; a mountain of a boy, sitting up in his bunk with the slow, ponderous movement of a beast that's yet to shake the sleep from its bones. His arms are thick as tree limbs, his shoulders hunched beneath the weight of muscles that don’t seem entirely comfortable resting on his frame. He blinks at you, bleary-eyed, his expression caught somewhere between curiosity and confusion, the pain from his early morning collison already fading away. ''"Uh... mornin'..."'' Above, a mess of dark curls emerges from beneath the blankets of the top bunk, belonging to a short, wiry boy with an owlish face. He pushes himself up on his elbows, rubbing sleep from his eyes with a knuckle, muttering muted curses beneath his breath. Bleary-eyed, he looks down at you as the bigger lad clambers to his feet. First impressions are important, right? [["Morning. I suppose we're roommates."|chp3_firstmorning_knight]] [[You dip a quiet nod, opting to get dressed.|chp3_firstmorning_cowboy]] [["The fuck you lookin' at?"|chp3_firstmorning_bastard]]

''"Good morning. I suppose we're roommates."'' You dip your chin into a firm, but courteous nod. ''"My name's $name."'' Short, simple, sweet. They're still half-asleep and in the process of climbing to their feet after all. The big one, still rubbing his head, trundles up and onto his feet; the departed bunk giving a low groan as his weight shifts. ''"Ah, well met 'en. I'm Hugo."'' He turns towards the dresser at the foot of the bunk, whilst the owlish boy on the top bunk observes you with a squint of his beady, dark-browed gaze. ''"You suppose we're roommates? Yes, well the fact that you awoke to find us sleeping in the same room should make that quite clear, no? Gerwin. Gerwin Flanderbilt."'' //Interesting//, you think absently, turning to your own dresser to pilfer through the bottom drawer and quickly procure the essentials. A tunic, leggings, and the first year's standard ashen-gray robe. Lyco is already dressed, half-bent over the room's washbasin, a battered thing of hollowed stone in the corner of the room filled with dingy water gone brackish in the night. He splashes water across his face, the brazier popping nearby, spitting one last ember into the cold morning air. And somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolls, low and foreboding. ''"We should leave soon,"'' He states clearly, straightening from the basin with the clearing of his throat. ''"Uhh, the ceremony... intro-duction ceremony, right?"'' Hugo mumbles as he clumsily ties his boots, blinking hard when Gerwin interjects sharply, ''"The Induction Ceremony. Lyco's right, we don't want to be late."'' You quickly finish tying your own boots and suck in a tight breath, falling in nearby Lyco before he pries the heavy-wooden door open and the four of you filter out into the hallway, the footsteps and quiet murmur of the student body not far away. [[Once again, you descend into the depths of Highrock.|chp3_firstmorning1]]

You say nothing, exchanging glances with the pair, giving them a long, unreadable look before you swivel and crouch low to pilfer through your dresser. They're still half-asleep and in the process of climbing to their feet, but they manage to exchange a brief, cursory glance between themselves. The big one, still rubbing his head, lifts a heavy shrug and trundles up and onto his feet; the departed bunk giving a low groan as his weight shifts. ''"Don't say much, do ya? That's alright. I'm Hugo."'' He turns towards his own dresser at the foot of the bunk, whilst the owlish boy on the top bunk observes you with a squint of his beady, dark-browed gaze. "Name's $name," You retort briefly, quietly procuring the essentials to start to get dressed: a tunic, leggings, and the first year's standard ashen-gray robe. ''"Gerwin. Gerwin Flanderbilt."'' The short boy's response finally rings out, brief and somewhat sharp-toned, though he turns to dress like the rest soon after. Lyco is already ready, half-bent over the room's washbasin, a battered thing of hollowed stone in the corner filled with dingy water gone brackish in the night. He splashes water across his face, the brazier popping nearby, spitting one last ember into the cold morning air. And somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolls, low and foreboding. ''"We should leave soon,"'' He states clearly, straightening from the basin with the clearing of his throat. ''"Uhh, the ceremony... intro-duction ceremony, right?"'' Hugo mumbles as he clumsily ties his boots, blinking hard when Gerwin interjects sharply, ''"The Induction Ceremony. Lyco's right, we don't want to be late."'' You quickly finish tying your own boots and suck in a tight breath, falling in nearby Lyco before he pries the heavy-wooden door open and the four of you filter out into the hallway, the footsteps and quiet murmur of the student body not far away. [[Once again, you descend into the depths of Highrock.|chp3_firstmorning1]]

You can't help but scoff, lips tugging into a bit of an unruly grin. They're still half-asleep and in the process of climbing to their feet, but both of them blink at you, managing to exchange a quick, cursory glance between themselves. The big one, still rubbing his head, trundles up and onto his feet; the departed bunk giving a low groan as his weight shifts: ''"Ah... what's so funny?"'' You suck on your teeth and hiss a sharp breath, rolling your shoulders as you absently turn to your own dresser, preparing to pilfer through the bottom drawer and quickly procure the essentials. "Nothing, nothing. Just, uh..." You cluck your tongue and cock a glance back across the room towards the mismatched pair, "Expected something more... impressive, I suppose." They certainly don't look very //noble//, you think. One's a little, bird-framed dweeb and the other looks as big and dumb as an ox. ''"What you think, Lyco? Are these two the ideal candidates for Highrock?"'' Your tone is openly mocking--to which, Lyco doesn't respond, giving no real inclination that he heard you. He's already dressed, half-bent over the room's washbasin, a battered thing of hollowed stone in the corner of the room filled with dingy water gone brackish in the night. ''"Dick,"'' comes the murmured retort from the top bunk, the owlish boy observing you cautiously with a squint of his beady, dark-browed gaze. The big one turns towards their own dresser at the foot of the bunk, mumbling his agreement with his smaller companion, ''"Ah, yeah... He sounds mean."'' ''"Look,"'' You snort, quickly tugging on your garments as you converse; a tunic, leggings, and the first year's standard ashen-gray robe, ''"I'm just messing around. Name's $name. Seems like we'll be stuck with one another, aye?"'' ''"Ah, well met 'en. I'm Hugo."'' The big one concedes without pressing the issue, though the smaller one is slower to surrender his own name, ''"Gerwin. Gerwin Flanderbilt. Yes, it seems that way, doesn't it?"'' Lyco splashes water across his face, the brazier popping nearby, spitting one last ember into the cold morning air. And somewhere beyond the walls, a bell tolls, low and foreboding. ''"We should leave soon,"'' He states clearly, straightening from the basin with the clearing of his throat. ''"Uhh, the ceremony... intro-duction ceremony, right?"'' Hugo mumbles as he clumsily ties his boots, blinking hard when Gerwin interjects sharply, ''"The Induction Ceremony. Lyco's right, we don't want to be late."'' You quickly finish tying your own boots and suck in a tight breath, falling in nearby Lyco before he pries the heavy-wooden door open and the four of you filter out into the hallway, the footsteps and quiet murmur of the student body not far away. [[Once again, you descend into the depths of Highrock.|chp3_firstmorning1]]

The hall is relatively empty, but towards the staircase you can see the movement of students and the occasional flutter of a familiar gray robe. Lyco leads the way and the rest of you stick close. As you walk, it occurs to you that you have no clue how many students attend Highrock. Given the amount of floors, there has to be quite a few, no? At least a couple hundred, you would have to imagine. If the entire student body is expected to be at this Induction Ceremony, you should find out soon enough. Sure enough, as soon as your group hits the staircase, you find yourself submerged into a perpetual wave of students heading to the same destination as you. Down you descend, content that you aren't climbing in the opposite direction. It's a lot to take in; all the unfamiliar faces, most of them silent, though it seems that many of them stick together much you and your roommates have been so far. You wonder just how long that'll last, let alone what exactly you'll be subjected to on your first day of classes. The wave of students presses onward, downward, a gray tide of motion and muffled murmurs. As you and your roommates descend the stone steps, the air thickens—denser. The sound of boots striking ancient marble echoes oddly here, as though the building itself is listening. Ornate murals line the corridor walls, some faded and cracked, others so lifelike you swear the eyes follow you. In one, a knight of impossible height plants a sword into the spine of a serpent coiled around a black sun. In another, a robed figure lifts a crystal orb before a shattered world. You glance to Lyco, who walks in silence, eyes forward. His posture’s rigid. Focused. ''"Your brother ever mention any of this?"'' Hugo asks, voice pitched low. You listen in absently, curious. Lyco hadn't mentioned anything about a brother to you, but it makes sense that some of the students would've had family members who might have attended before. Lyco nods, but doesn't slow. ''"A little. He said the first week was... disorienting."'' Gerwin snorts softly. ''"Cryptic. What happened to him, anyway?"'' The air seems to drop a few degrees. ''"He graduated as an Ascender,"'' Lyco replies evenly, his voice somewhat subdued, not meant to carry beyond your small group as the class continues their descent, ''"One of two. He disappeared in the Overlands last year on his first expedition."'' None of you speak for a while after that. At the bottom, the stairwell opens up into the familiar dormitory entrance. A hunched figure sits at a desk just beyond it, scratching away in a massive ledger with a quill longer than your forearm. His robes are moth-eaten, and he doesn't look up. You're clueless as to whether it's even the same individual from yesterday. Wordlessly, your cohort falls the crowd and passes into the hallway, turning away from Dusk Hall and deeper into Highrock: in a direction that you're entirely unfamiliar with. [[The Hall of Names.|chp3_firstmorning2]]

The dreamscape itself seems to sigh when you finally allow her a full breath, your cock resting heavy on her ravaged lips. Her chest heaves magnificently, pert nipples pebbling beneath diaphanous fabric as she glares up through clumped lashes. You tap your dripping crown against her cheekbone, painting a pearly streak across violet skin. ''"Still looking at me like you want to eat me alive,"'' you laugh, gathering a bead of pre with your thumb before pushing it past her stubborn lips. Her involuntary suckle sends fresh fire licking up your spine. ''"Don't worry... We're just getting to the good part."'' With a wolfish grin, you slide two fingers into her spit-slick hair and tilt her head back at a brutal angle. ''"Now be a good cocksucker... and swallow every drop your master gives you."'' The demoness' throat contracts around you in frantic pulses as you begin sawing in and out with deliberate slowness. Her forked tongue lashes wild patterns across your underside, betraying repressed hunger as pearly strands of drool drip onto her smooth thighs. ''"That's the spirit,"'' you croon, thumbing away a tear tracking down a high-boned cheek. ''"Bet you never dreamed a mortal could fill you so thoroughly."'' Her muffled growl transforms into a high keen when you abruptly withdraw, leaving her purplish lips stretched, swollen and glistening. You tut at the translucent string still connecting your tip to her mouth. ''"Now now, didn't I say every drop?"'' With aroused precision, you paint another stripe of pre across her trembling tongue. ''"Lick it clean. Show me how starved you've been."'' Those dark eyes burn with fury even as her barbed tongue flicks out obediently. You reward the gesture by plunging back in to the hilt, groaning as her uvula massages your crown. When her nostrils flare from oxygen deprivation, you mercifully let her surface - only to drag her face along your shaft, smearing her tears and slick saliva across your veins. ''"Look at you,"'' you laugh hotly, admiring her swollen lips and smoldering gaze; a look that drives you to an abupt finale. Finally, that feeling of sublime power and aroused ecstasy suddenly starts to peak within, like the breaking of a dam or the sheer elation that an Ascender must feel, cresting the very heights of the Overland just to peer out across the unknown. Her whimper dies as you flood her mouth with thick spurts of mortal seed, grip vise-like in her decadent, silken-black hair while she convulses through each salty wave. ''"Swallow,"'' you command through gritted teeth, watching her throat work desperately. ''"That's it... take my seed. Every last drop."'' [[You feel numb and heavy with pleasure...|chp3_dream1_dom2_fun3_ending]]

Her choked whimper sounds suspiciously like your name as you slam back in. The dreamscape shivers around you, violet skies darkening to bruised indigo with each carnal thrust. You feel power coursing through your veins - her power, stolen through this violent intimacy, burning through your blood like liquid desire. When her claws rakes across your ass, you answer by fisting her hair and pounding - brutal, unrelenting strokes that make her horns clatter against your thighs. The wet slap of flesh echoes through the void as you use her face, proper fuckhole finally living up to its infernal potential. Her gag reflex triggers in earnest now, throat milking your cock with violent spasms that threaten to undo you. ''"Swallow it all,"'' you snarl, feeling the fire in your loins reach critical mass. ''"Every. Last. Drop."'' Her answering moan vibrates through your very soul as you erupt, demonic throat working overtime to gulp down thick ropes of cum. The world whites out in a supernova of pleasure, your triumphant roar mingling with her choked whimpers as you paint her insides with searing release. When you finally stagger back, she collapses in a trembling heap of smeared makeup and ruined pride - but not before you catch the unmistakable gleam of slickness between her quivering thighs. [[Even here, your heart hammers against your chest.|chp3_dream1_dom2_punish3_ending]]

<<if $currentMusic>> <<audio "$currentMusic" volume 0.5 play loop>> <</if>>

The dream slows. <<audio "bad-era" fadeout>> You remain standing, breath hot, fingers still coiled in her dark hair. Her lips are darkened and raw, black eyes glassy, throat glistening. She kneels like something remade. Not broken—but reshaped. Bent to your will. She blinks up at you, dazed, not speaking. Not resisting. And you feel it then—not just lust, but something deeper. Victory. Not taken. Not stolen. ''''Claimed.'''' Your surroundings begin to pulse with light—stars collapsing into themselves, the ground beneath you folding in slow waves of velvet mist. Her outline begins to blur. ''“Until next time, $name,”'' she whispers softly, voice less sultry now, almost... reverent. ''“You’re learning. Good.”'' The dream peels away like fog caught in sunrise. You’re floating. Falling. Waking. [[Your eyes open to pale morning light.|chp3_firstmorning]]

The dream slows. <<audio "bad-era" fadeout>> You remain standing, breath hot, your fingers still unconsciously clenching as though coiled in her hair. You look down upon her crumpled form, still dangerously beautiful, but used: her lips darkened and raw, black eyes glassy, throat and face glistening. She blinks up at you, dazed, not speaking. Not resisting. And you feel it then—not just lust, but something deeper. Victory... pride. Not taken. Not stolen. ''''Claimed and... desecrated.'''' Your surroundings begin to pulse with light—stars collapsing into themselves, the ground beneath you folding in slow waves of velvet mist. Her outline begins to blur. ''“Until next time, $name,”'' she whispers softly, voice less sultry now, almost... subdued. ''“You’re learning. Good.”'' The dream peels away like fog caught in sunrise. You’re floating. Falling. Waking. [[Your eyes open to pale morning light.|chp3_firstmorning]]

The sky above swirls with moons and strange constellations. She looms above you, her silhouette luminous, flowing, reverent. Her movement is smooth and subtle, like a river flowing, extending one leg before placing a slender foot gently atop your chest. Your breathing comes shallow, body frozen. ''"I want you to worship me properly, $name... If I'm going to fulfill of your wants... needs... desires... Don't you think that you should show some gratitude?"'' She presses her heel down against you: slowly, deliberately, her pressure always precise. Without thinking, you lift your hands, but she bats them away effortlessly. ''"No. With your mouth."'' Her sole slides up past your chest and the crest of your clavicles to the slope of your neck and hollowed throat, until her tender toes reach your lips. As though instinctually, you kiss them. Once. Twice. Then again, her skin impossibly soft-warm and divine. You kiss from the ball of her foot to reach delicate toe again, your tongue flicking over them, your chapped lips trembling with reverence. She hums, pleased, filling you with the sweetest satisfaction. ''“That’s it, my little supplicant.”'' Her voice is velvet and venom, soaked in amusement. ''“You look good down there... Right where you belong, isn't that right?”'' Your response is a muffled breath, your mouth busy kissing the elegant arch of her foot. Neck straining, you savor the soft swell of her ankle before switching to her other foot. She moans—not from pleasure, but power. ''“Good boy,”'' she purrs. ''“Now lie back. You've earned your reward.”'' She climbs onto you like a priestess preparing to bless the altar. Straddling your hips, heat radiates from her like a sacred fire. Her thighs cage your waist, and those deep, dark eyes burn down into yours. The weight of her presses you down—not just her body, but her presence. You are pinned by purpose. Her palms flatten on your chest. ''“Touch me,”'' she commands, grinding her hips slowly. ''“Like I’m the only thing you’ve ever wanted.”'' //With pleasure.// Your hands move without hesitation—cupping her thighs, sliding up the swell of her hips, worshipping her with your fingertips. She moans low and pleased, dragging your hands higher. ''“No,”'' she breathes into your mouth, ''“not just touch. Serve.”'' She rises to her knees and shifts forward, guiding your head between her thighs with a gentle but firm grip. Like a man starved, you inhale her. Taste her. ''Obey'' her. This is what you've been patiently waiting for. [[You want to please her.|chp3_dream1_sub4]]

She doesn’t wait for you to reposition. She straddles your face. No teasing. No transition. Just her warmth sealing over your lips, her scent enveloping your senses like silk soaked in wine. Surrounded by her long, smooth, gracile thighs, you're completely captivated by the sight and scent before you... //against// you. ''“There,”'' she exhales, grinding her hips in slow, hungry circles. ''“Right where you belong.”'' You moan into her, the vibration only making her gasp. Her thighs tighten around your head like a vice. Every breath becomes hers. Every flick of your tongue is a plea. She rides your face without restraint—no longer allowing worship, but ''taking'' it. ''“Use that mouth. Suck. Lick. Make me proud.”'' Her voice trembles but never breaks. Her hands fist in your hair, pulling you deeper, anchoring herself to your devotion. Slick warmth coats your chin, your nose, your lips. She’s dripping, needy, and you're the offering she consumes. You lose track of time, complying readily, lost in the wet warmth and hot heat of her wonderfully deep violet, velvety depths. There’s only the taste of her. The slick sensation. The sound of her sighs twisting into whimpers. Then, a cry—low, feral, almost triumphant—and she shudders hard against your mouth. She comes. Hard. ''“Good boy,”'' she breathes, breath hitching. ''“You’ve earned a little something.”'' [[Yet you don't want her heat to leave your lips...|chp3_dream1_sub5]]

When she finally lifts herself from your mouth, your lips are wet with her, your face marked with proof of your obedience. Her thighs glisten—slick, trembling, radiant. <<audio "bad-era" fadeout>> She doesn't speak at first. She just watches you. That satisfied smirk. That glint in her eye that says, //you did well, pet.// Her body still hums with pleasure, her breath a little ragged, her glow undeniable. Then, she begins to descend. Slowly. Deliberately. She slips down your body like melted candlewax—glowing, fluid, sensual—her skin dragging against yours just enough to make you shiver. Her lips trace the line of your collarbone. Her fingertips dance over your stomach. Her breath tickles your chest. Her slender hand finds your cock—already straining, already rigid. She doesn’t pump. Doesn’t stroke. She //guides//. Serpentine fingers slide up your shaft in slow, languid strokes, smearing her own arousal over your length. There’s no urgency in her touch—only control. ''“You’ve waited so patiently.”'' A whisper against your throat, like a voice from the void beyond, ''“Let me help you finish… A reward.”'' Her long leg lifts with practiced grace. The sole of her foot presses gently to your thigh, then slides upward—trailing heat as it ascends—until it cups your balls, cradling them with delicate, deliberate pressure. Your body jerks beneath her touch. Your breath catches in your throat. She watches you come undone. Your release hits fast, sharp, electric. A groan tears from your throat and gets lost against her skin. Your hips buck, helpless, twitching as she milks you with that same careful rhythm—one hand stroking, one foot teasing, her mouth murmuring soft praises against your jaw. She holds you after. Not like a lover. Like a queen claiming what’s hers. ''“Sleep now,”'' she whispers, brushing your temple with her lips. ''“We've made so much //progress//. Don't worry... You’ll dream of me again.”'' And you will. You already are. [[When your eyes open, there's a bitter taste of honey on your tongue.|chp3_firstmorning]]

The Hall of Names isn't a hall. It's a reliquary. It stretches long and straight, bordered by towering black-marble columns and a high, vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Dim blue witchlights hover near the arches, casting flickering illumination across the corridor’s central path—but the ceiling remains cloaked in a darkness that doesn’t lift, no matter how you squint. What draws the eye most are the ''portraits''. At measured intervals along both walls, perfectly spaced and precisely aligned, are pairs of oil-framed paintings—upper half-body portraits of young men and few women in Highrock formal wear. Some wear faint smiles. Others carry grim stares or unreadable expressions. A few are missing frames—empty gaps where only dark stone remains. You don’t need to ask who they are. The Ascenders. Those chosen from each class to pursue the highest trial. Two names, two faces a year... usually. Sometimes only one. Sometimes none. You slow for half a step, scanning the nearest row of faces—young, beautiful, tragic in their permanence. History, a moment in time, captured in paint and portrait. Could one of them be Lyco’s brother? But there’s no time to linger. The crowd flows forward, and you with it. A slow, quiet tide of bootfalls and murmurs. You catch a flicker of Lyco’s face—tight-jawed, unreadable. He doesn’t look at the portraits. Not once. Gerwin shifts beside you, uttering lowly, ''“Feels like they’re watching.”'' You nod, but say nothing. As you approach the end of the hall, the portraits thin, and the path narrows. Conversation hushes. Even Gerwin says nothing. There, mounted above the grand stone archway that leads into the courtyard, is a massive oil painting in a heavy, darkwood frame. It is breathtaking—and dreadful. It depicts two figures in ascent, painted in rich, dramatic brushwork. Two young men, both garbed in black formal Highrock attire, rise through a column of violet flame. Their hands are outstretched—not toward each other, but toward something unseen above the frame’s edge. Their expressions are ambiguous—part ecstasy, part agony. One of them is painted with slightly more light. The other, with just a hint more shadow. And beneath the painting, engraved directly into the stone lintel in silver filigree: ''“Two shall rise. One Ascends.”'' You slow for half a breath. A strange chill coils around your ribs. ''“My brother hated that painting,”'' Lyco murmurs at your side, ''“He said it looked different every time you passed it.”'' You glance back at him, but his eyes are fixed straight ahead, distant. The crowd doesn’t pause. You’re pushed forward. And then the light changes—brighter, harsher—as you cross beneath the painting and step into— [[The Inner Courtyard.|chp3_induction]]

<<audio "calm-harp" fadeout>> <<audio "the-wanderer" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "the-wanderer">> The Inner Courtyard of Highrock Academy is a vast, vacant place of gray stone and solemn grandeur, ringed with spires, and open to a bleak, churning mist-gray sky. You stand among the first years, gathered in a rough formation, rows upon rows of fresh students: a sea of untested ash-gray robes. You’re hemmed in on all sides by nervous energy—whispers, shifting feet, the occasional muttered prayer. The smell of wax, damp stone, and cold sweat. Shoulder to shoulder, bound together by expectation. But your eyes are drawn to the other side of the courtyard. The second years are noticably fewer. Half as many, maybe less. Their posture is sharper. More composed. Some wear blue robes without adornment. Even fewer bear the silver stripe of the magically gifted. The proven. The uninitiated wear ashen-gray robes, the cloth rough against your skin. Around you, whispers float like smoke—nervous murmurs, sizing glances, that sharp intake of breath when someone recognizes a name or face. Everyone’s trying not to look afraid. You spot one girl among them who wears her silver stripes with casual menace—arms crossed, eyes unreadable. Another boy looks like a soldier already: square jaw, hawk-like stare, arms behind his back. No one among them smiles. ''“They look like they’re waiting to watch us drown,”'' Gerwin mutters beside you. Lyco doesn’t respond. His jaw is clenched. His eyes are locked on the platform. The hush comes all at once as the instructors file out beneath the raised dais. Their robes are deep crimson, blue, violet, and on some: patterns that make your eyes ache to follow. Then he appears. [[The ceremony begins.|chp3_induction1]]

A ripple passes through the student body, as though a sudden gust of cold had sliced through the courtyard. Emerging before the gathered crowd, he stands like a shadow made flesh. Draped in heavy robes of deep violet threaded with gold, High Magister Aegir Thorne ascends the dais in measured silence. Every step sounds heavier than it should—like the stone itself bears witness. He does not speak immediately. Yet, the crowd is completely silent, still with anticipation. Instead, he scans the courtyard. A slow, thorough sweep of the first-years. His expression is unreadable, but his gaze feels sharp—piercing. His face is carved from time itself—gaunt, parchment-pale, unmoving. When his eyes find yours, they pause. At least you think they do, only for a moment. But it feels like he’s read something in you. Something you didn’t offer. Slowly, he turns to face the gathered crowd. His voice follows a breath later—low, exact, and unhurried. ''“You’ve come from far corners of the Cradle. From noble houses, military orphanages, backwater hovels. Some of you were chosen. Some of you begged to be here.”'' ''“It makes no difference.”'' [[He pauses just a moment, before continuing.|chp3_induction2]]

''“This is Highrock.”'' ''“Not a sanctuary. Not a school, in the way you remember it. This is a crucible. You are not students. Not yet. Not until you are shaped, broken, reforged. Not until you provde yourselves worthy.”'' He paces along the edge of the platform—slow, steady—never needing to raise his voice. ''“Some of you believe your heritage will carry you. That a name, a bloodline, a family crest will buy your success. Others believe that hardship has hardened you. That suffering has earned you passage.”'' ''“You are both wrong.”'' The words land heavy—no anger behind them. Just truth, cold and impersonal. ''“Not all of you will finish your first year. Fewer still will be chosen for advancement. And only a fraction will ever touch greatness.”'' ''"Yes, many of you will fail. Pitifully. Some of you will... //die//."'' He stops walking. Stares directly into the sea of gray robes. ''“But the gates are open. The path is laid. What you do with it—what you become—is yours to determine.”'' [[He delivers the final words.|chp3_induction3]]

A gust of wind cuts through the courtyard. The mist churns. Thorne lifts his hand. ''“Highrock does not create legends. It refines them.”'' His voice drops lower, each word a chisel tapping into stone. ''"You will rise. Or you will vanish. The trials before you are not examinations. They are not challenges. They are not fair. They are fire. Hunger. Suffering."'' Silence. Then, with finality: ''“You are not owed greatness. You are not owed anything. You earn your name here. For those of you who remain… Prepare to suffer. Endure. To become something greater.”'' The golden sigils stitched into his robes flare—just once, like the flash of distant lightning. Then he turns. Steps down from the platform. The instructors follow. The silence that follows is unbearable. A bell tolls from somewhere high in the mist. The ceremony is over. Yet, the suffering has just begun. [[If only you knew the toll that it would take on you.|chp3_firstclass]]

Thorne's words linger in your mind. Promises of failure, death, crucible. You can't help but wonder whether the //death// he spoke of was physical, or metaphorical. The death of your past selves... or weakness. Doubt. Or will potentially be the place where you heave your last breath? These thoughts, however meandering, don't get long to stew. The coolness of open air, the morning mist, hasn't even cleared when the entire group of first-years is split up and corralled by upper-year prefects and junior instructors alike. Sticking close to Lyco's shoulder, unwilling to be separated from a familiar face, you're herded into the East Assembly Hall—a rectangular chamber lined with narrow windows and tall banners stitched with Highrock's colors: gray, blue, purple. The place smells of sweat-soaked wood, slate dust and torched ash. Only the gray glimmer of day lights the room, along with the perpetual aid of candle-lit scones along the beaten stone walls. Below them, rows of flat benches wait. Your cohort is broken into slow-moving columns. You find yourself briefly face-to-face with a Prefect. Male, mid-twenties, blue robes. He has a tall, narrow build, thin lips that form a firm line, and a long, aquiline nose that lends him a rather hawkish, yet dignified quality. Wordlessly, he directs you after the others, footsteps echoing as you all shuffle into place and take your seats—in your case, right next to Lyco. <<if $chp2_victory is true>> You get your first good look at him since your encounter the day prior. From the corner of your gaze, you can detect some minor bruising, though it's rather scant and dismissible in the dim lighting of the hall. He carries himself well: gaze level, chin upright, brow straight and focused on the Prefect's movement. Clearly, he has bounced back from his loss rather quickly. And based on your interactions so far, he doesn't seem to be holding a grudge against you, at least not anything discernable. You don't know entirely what to make of Lyco, not yet, but he doesn't seem like the type to plot behind your back. You can only hope that yesterday, you earned his respect, however begrudgingly. <<elseif $chp2_blackeye is true>> He hasn't interacted with you much this morning, but at least he's not riding your ass, or making a fool out of you in front of your other roommates. From the corner of your gaze, trying to be subtle, you get your first good look at him since your encounter the day prior. He carries himself well: gaze level, chin upright, brow straight and focused on the Prefect's movement. You don't know entirely what to make of Lyco, but he doesn't seem to be holding a grudge, or intent on making your life hellish. Hopefully it stays that way. You can still feel the aches and pain from your first scrap... <<elseif $chp2_evenmatch is true>> You get your first good look at him since your encounter the day prior. From the corner of your gaze, you can detect some minor bruising, though it's rather scant and dismissible in the dim lighting of the hall. He carries himself well: gaze level, chin upright, brow straight and focused on the Prefect's movement. You've been trying to do the same, despite the ache in your knuckles and at the bridge of your nose. It's true that you don't know entirely what to make of Lyco, but at the very least he doesn't seem to be holding a grudge. Perhaps there's a chance that you'll still be able to work with him. Or get the upper-hand in your own way, moving forward... Who's to say? <<elseif $chp2_understanding is true>> He carries himself well. Gaze level, chin upright, brow straight and focused on the Prefect's movement. You detect a slight flick of his gaze, noticing you, which prompts a brief exchange of nods. The both of you seemed to have reached a sort of mutual understanding yesterday. Truthfully, you don't know entirely what to make of Lyco, not yet. But he does seem to be a man of purpose and drive, not unlike yourself. Will you progress as allies? Friends? Or perhaps competitive rivals. Who's to say? <<else>> He hasn't interacted with you much this morning, but at least he's not riding your ass, or making a fool out of you in front of your other roommates. From the corner of your gaze, trying to be subtle, you get your first good look at him since your encounter the day prior. He carries himself well: gaze level, chin upright, brow straight and focused on the Prefect's movement. You don't know entirely what to make of Lyco, but there seems to be a chance that you'll give each other enough room to breathe, or possibly even cooperate moving forward... Who's to say? <</if>> That same Prefect steps forward, his voice is measured and flat—too even for comfort. ''“This is your orientation course. It is not a class. It is preparation. You are not here to learn. You are here to be assessed. Those who perform well and adapt to the law of Highrock will increase their chances of success in the trials to come.”'' His eyes are sharp, movements measured. ''"For the next two weeks, we’ll see who’s meant to be here."'' [["Now, let us begin."|chp3_firstclass1]]

The Prefect outlines the structure with rigid simplicity. These tenets will serve as the backbone of all Highrock instruction before the Harrowing commences. Mind. Body. Spirit. Mind will be honed through repetition, focus, deprivation. You will be denied rest and taught to function regardless. You will be taught to value discipline, memory, control over thought and emotion. Body will be broken and rebuilt through endurance drills, sparring, and resistance training. You will build strength, stamina, precision and the will to endure physically. Spirit will be tested through silence. Isolation. Provocation. You will cultivate your resolve and resilience to fear, failure and voices that would have you cast into oblivion. ''“These are not abstract values,”'' he says. ''“They are measurable. They are recorded. If you cannot meet them—you will be removed.”'' As the orientation continues, you glance sideways—trying not to be obvious. Across the aisle, a girl sits alone. She sits upright, slender hands folded, uniform pristine. You don’t know her name yet. But something about her makes your chest tighten. She has upturned, pale-gray eyes, made darker by the thick black lashes framing them. A short, pale figure—hourglass-shaped, classical in beauty, marred only by a dark beauty mark beneath her left eye that somehow makes her seem more severe. Her black hair falls straight and still. She doesn’t look at you. But you look at her a moment longer than you should. In the background, the Prefect's voice drones on. ''“Magick is not taught,”'' he says. ''“It’s provoked. You’ll understand soon enough.”'' She looks straight ahead, unblinking. [[Focus on the lesson.|chp3_firstclass2]] [[Sneak another look at her.|chp3_firstclass2_peek]]

You force your eyes back to the front. The Prefect is still speaking—detailing the Triad curriculum, the exact timing of the drills, the silence protocols, the punishment structures. His voice is calm and dry, clipped at the edges like every word is rationed. You focus on him. On his tone. On the way he doesn’t blink often. That’s how people survive here, isn’t it? You mimic Lyco’s posture again—back straight, hands still, eyes front. He hasn’t looked away from the instructor once. A few other students are sneaking glances around. One boy near the back is quietly fidgeting with his boot lace. Another girl looks like she might be mouthing the Prefect’s words silently, like a prayer. You don’t move. Not even when the girl with the gray eyes shifts in your peripheral vision. You’re here to prove something. You don’t even know to who. But you are. [[The class progresses.|chp3_firstclass3]]

You look again. Not because you mean to. Because you can’t help it. She hasn’t moved—not by much. Her chin rests lightly above the clasp of her uniform, pale fingers resting along the edges of her skirt as though she's keeping herself from floating away. But there’s precision in her stillness, a kind of poise you can’t quite name. You study the line of her jaw, the fullness of her mouth, the quiet tension in her eyes. Her lashes are long. Her brows sculpted. She doesn’t look fragile—she looks deliberately arranged. That’s when her eyes shift. Just a little. They meet yours. There’s no surprise in her gaze. No irritation. Just... cool acknowledgement. Like someone observing an insect on the edge of a table—interesting enough to watch, not interesting enough to swat. You look away first. The Prefect is still speaking, but his words blur slightly in your ears. All you hear is the faint rustle of fabric and the thrum of your own blood. You don't look back again. Not right now. [[Return to the lesson.|chp3_firstclass2]] [[Stay with the feeling a moment longer.|chp3_firstclass2_peek1]] ❤️

You don’t mean to stare. <<set $calienne_stare = true>> But your eyes catch on her again—on the precise slope of her jaw, the way the candlelight curls against her cheekbone, softening nothing. Her hair is black and perfectly still. Not a single strand moves when she breathes. She’s so composed it unnerves you, like something out of a dream you only half-remember—a girl standing in a winter garden, snow falling in spirals, eyes unreadable as moonlight. You wonder what her voice sounds like. What she smells like. What she’s already survived to look that calm. There’s a seam at her collarbone where her robe folds, and your eyes catch there too—because it’s the only thing imperfect. A sliver of asymmetry that makes her real. Then she shifts. Barely. And for a terrible second, you think she’s seen all of that in your face. You blink. Look away. Your throat is dry. Your hands sweat. You don’t look back again. But your mind... keeps painting her anyway. [[The class progresses.|chp3_firstclass3]]

You're led down from the East Assembly Hall through a low corridor slick with condensation. Stone stairs descend in tight, echoing spirals. The place you reach, they call it a training yard, but it’s more like an oubliette—low-walled, sunless, lined in jagged gravel and packed black salt. The morning mist doesn’t burn off here; it lingers, clinging to skin and lung alike. You arrive with the rest of your cohort in a slow, weary shuffle—gray robes darkening with sweat and dew. The Prefect stands by a raised stone plinth, arms folded, unmoving. A group of instructors waits in silence, flanking him like crows. Gerwin mutters, ''“How much you wanna bet we’re not allowed to die on the first day?”'' Hugo gives a low, breathy snort. ''“Eh... I'll take my chances.”'' Lyco doesn’t speak. But the way he stands—feet braced, shoulders squared—makes you match his posture without thinking. The Prefect from earlier breaks the pause with his voice: ''“Today is not for grading. Today is for watching.”'' ''“Form matters. Composure matters. Endurance is your only virtue.”'' You're split into ranks. An instructor unrolls a long strip of parchment. Names are called. Tasks are listed. And the drills begin. <<if ($mobility == 2) or ($might == 1 and $mobility == 1)>> You feel it in your bones, in the rhythm of your breath, in the silence of your own body. You were built for this, and more. <<set $firstTrial = "pass">> The cold doesn’t get to you. The mist slicks your skin but doesn’t sink. Your balance stays perfect on the salt—light, poised. The stair runs blur into a meditative rhythm. Even the spear drills—ten-point arc, thrust, recover—become second nature within minutes. Lyco clocks you during the third lap. He doesn’t say anything. But the two of you move in tandem for the rest of the trial. You don’t falter. You don’t rush. You ''inhabit'' the work. Instructors pass you multiple times. You hear murmurs. You hear the scratch of pen on parchment. At one point, an assistant leans toward your Prefect and nods. You know better than to smile. But for the first time since arriving at Highrock, your pulse beats with something more than dread. ''Control.'' <<elseif ($might == 2) or ($mind == 1 and $mobility == 1)>> It hurts. <<set $firstTrial = "avg">> Your joints ache before the first water-bucket drill ends. Your thighs burn on the stairs. The gravel eats through the soles of your boots until you feel the shape of every stone. But you keep moving. Your form isn’t perfect—but it’s clean. You slip once during a hold, but correct quickly. The instructors glance your way and move on. No notations. Lyco leads your row. You match him best you can—two beats behind, but steady. At one point, his glance flicks back briefly. His gaze is unreadable. But he doesn’t correct you. He doesn’t offer advice. Just nods once. Gerwin, two rows over, is doing worse. His footwork is sloppy but stubborn. Hugo’s doing better—he’s surprisingly light on his feet for his size, even smiling at times. But it’s forced. When the final drill is called—an endurance squat hold in salt—your body screams, but your mind clamps down hard. You hold. You survive. You don’t excel. But you ''last''. And for today, that’s enough. <<elseif ($mind == 2) or ($might == 1 and $mind == 1)>> You’re not even halfway through the stair sprints before your legs betray you. They shake under the pressure. Your breath won’t come clean. You slip on the black salt near the top of the second stair loop and land on one knee. <<set $firstTrial = "fail">> No one helps you up. No one even stops. Gerwin passes you, sweat pouring down his temples, panting hard. ''“Come on,”'' he hisses, ''“They’re watching.”'' You stagger to your feet. Your vision pulses at the edges. The air tastes like copper and cold ash. During the wall holds, your arms give out early. Your knees hit the stone with a hard crack. You hear someone—one of the instructors—scratching something down onto a slip of paper. Lyco doesn't look at you. But you feel the shift in his silence. Like disappointment at something inevitable. During the final stance drill, you drop your spear three times. Your fingers are too numb to feel the grip. No one yells. No one punishes you. But something shifts in the way the instructors move. Like wolves losing interest. By the end, you are allowed to leave without a word. And you walk slower than everyone else. <</if>> [[You find yourselves dismissed for the morning.|chp3_lunch]]

The Dusk Hall swallows you whole the moment you step through its high stone arch. <<audio "the-wanderer" fadeout>> You remember it from yesterday, but it still catches in your throat. The ceiling seems endless. Stained glass windows hang like silent watchers above, casting blood-red and bruised-violet shadows across the floor. Grand murals climb the upper walls—strange scenes, half-glimpsed and unreadable. <<audio "please-calm-my-mind" loop play>> <<set $currentMusic to "please-calm-my-mind">> The food line stretches across a long, sagging banquet table. You grip your wooden trencher and move along with the tide, each step bringing a new scoop or slop of something vaguely edible. By the end of it, your plate is piled high with things you both crave and don’t recognize. Cliffhawk, a new favorite of yours. Stewed craterfish, next to something purple, steaming, which smells like fennel and firewood. A spongy yellowish tuber, fleshy and drenched in gravy. You're hungry, through all of the sweat and fatigue. You follow Lyco, Hugo, and Gerwin to a circular table near the north wall—one of many half-filled by students in various states of exhaustion. Instructors dine in small clusters off to the side. Second-years have gathered mostly together, quietly observing the room from across the hall like predators choosing their marks. Most of the first-years eat in silence at first. Heads down. Limbs trembling from drills. The tension is thick, metallic. Then, slowly, murmurs begin. Forks scrape. Cups clink. Low conversations sprout and spread like moss. And you? <<if $firstTrial == "pass">> You eat fast. Like you’ve earned it. And you have. The drills didn’t break you—they sharpened something. Your hands still tremble from the adrenaline. But the sting in your muscles feels earned. ''“Shit,”'' Gerwin mutters, glancing over, ''“You didn’t even look tired.”'' Hugo gives a sideways grin, ''“Either you’re hiding some noble training, or you’re possessed.”'' You shrug and keep eating. Lyco doesn’t say much. But he watches you closely, almost like he’s updating a mental ledger. <<elseif $firstTrial == "avg">> You’re sore, but satisfied. You didn’t collapse. You didn’t shine. You just... held the line. Gerwin groans with every bite. ''"My legs are going to haunt me in my sleep.”'' ''“Can legs do that?”'' Hugo asks, his big, expressive eyes narrowed in a squint beneath a furrow of thick, reddish brows. Lyco eats with slow, measured bites. When you catch his eye, he just nods once. A quiet acknowledgment. <<elseif $firstTrial == "fail">> You're still chewing the memory of failure. You tell yourself it wasn’t your kind of test. That you’ll do better next time. That everyone slips. But it clings to your ribs heavier than the food. Lyco doesn’t say anything. Hugo offers a small nod. Gerwin elbows you and says, ''“Don’t sweat it. Everyone’s fucked on the first day.”'' He doesn’t sound convinced. But you appreciate the effort. Hugo chips in as he gnaws on a half-finished bone, ''"I wanted to lay down an' suck air after the second lap. Had to convince myself to keep going and grin through the pain."'' <</if>> [[A second-year's voice cuts across the hall.|chp3_lunch1]]

You sit with your roommates—Gerwin picking at dry bread, Hugo already halfway through his stew, Lyco straight-backed and quiet, eyes on nothing, when you hear it. ''“He begged for water. That was his first mistake.”'' The voice is calm. Dismissive. A second-year, blue robes open at the collar, leans lazily against a pillar with two others, talking just loud enough for you to hear. ''“Second mistake? Screaming.”'' ''“Third mistake?”'' ''“Existing.”'' They laugh—low and dry. You see it ripple through your cohort. Some heads drop. Some stiffen. Gerwin scowls, ''“They’re talking about the Harrowing, yeah?”'' ''"Aye, I think so,"'' Hugo loosely nods, pondering, ''"The first rite? Where they test for magick?”'' ''“Not exactly,”'' Lyco says, his tone level, almost absent, ''“They don’t test... It's not like today. There's no drills. They just... wait.”'' You glance at him. He doesn’t return the look. ''"My brother didn't say much. He wasn't allowed too. The Harrowing is a... process. Short for some, longer and more arduous for most."'' It looks like he has more to say, lips pursed in quiet contemplation, but he pauses to consider his words before continuing, "Somewhere under the Academy. Underground, entombed by rock and stone. It stuck with him. Nightmares of being trapped beneath the world. No food, no water, no light. Trapped with nothing but yourself."'' Gerwin grimaces, beady eyes lingering on Lyco, ''“That’s the test?”'' Lyco shakes his head once. ''“That’s the first step.”'' You absorb that in silence, while the laughter continues behind you. Cruel and easy. One of the second-years meets your eyes across the room and smirks. You turn your attention back to your companions, thoughtful. [[Sit and listen.|chp3_lunch1_cowboy]] [["Meh. Not everyone is meant to pass."|chp3_lunch1_bastard]] [["They want us to be afraid."|chp3_lunch1_knight]]

It’s been a week. Seven days at Highrock. Though it doesn’t feel like time has passed so much as worn through you. That's not to say that it goes quick, or slow. It's just an inevitable march into the future... Towards your destiny, however dark, dank or dreary. Each morning begins before the bells. The cold pulls you awake—not with violence, but with the kind of quiet that never leaves. The dorm stones are always damp. The robes never dry fully. Your breath fogs against the inside of your collar as you dress without a word, following Lyco down the spiral stairs like a shadow. Hugo trails behind, still yawning. Gerwin grumbles, but his boots never miss a step. It's routine now: no one talks much anymore. Words cost energy and there’s nothing left to waste. Sometimes it feels that time isn’t marked in days, but in repetitions. The Prefect says this often—''“Progress is the patience of the body, not the eagerness of the mind.”'' Not that there's much to say between you. Your struggle is shared in action, in time, in destination, in suffer; not simply in words. If you tried, you would struggle to express exactly how you feel, exactly how you think. The days bleed together. Pain makes them honest. You rise. You run. You drill until your limbs shake. Until you're soaked in a salt-sweat you don’t bother scrubbing off anymore. You eat food that tastes like nothing, sleep in stretches that don’t feel like rest. And then you do it all again. But beneath the ache and repetition—beneath the bruises, the cuts, the quiet humility that comes with this honed practice—you’ve begun to change. Not dramatically, nor in ways anyone would see. But in how you carry your weight. In how long you hold your gaze. In what you dream about, and what you don’t. Some nights, Lyco speaks before the lights go out. Not often. Not for long. ''“Most people don’t last through the Harrowing,”'' he said once, without looking at you, ''“It’s not the pain. It’s the part where you stop knowing who you are.”'' You haven’t answered him. Because you’re not sure who you are becoming. But you know one thing: you’re still here. And now, as dusk settles through the high glass and the corridors cool, you find yourself alone in your head for the first time all day. The aches settle in your joints like old friends. Your breath comes steady, if shallow. And your thoughts… they’re quieter than they used to be. Tonight, you think of the week behind you—and the one ahead. You’ve survived. But you haven’t idled. You’ve chosen. How to spend your strength. What to focus on. What to sacrifice. That choice has shaped you, and it still will. What have you devoted yourself to this past week? [[Your body—raw strength, endurance, blunt force.|chp3_evening_might]] [[Your movement—balance, quickness, control.|chp3_evening_mobility]] [[Your mind—discipline, restraint, clarity.|chp3_evening_mind]]

You stay quiet. <<set $cowboy +=1>> Not because you have nothing to say. No, this life has taught you that sometimes things are better left unsaid. Most people don't listen, and they judge you when they do. If you're lucky, they'll leave you alone. Unlucky, and they'll leverage every word against you. Your stew’s gone lukewarm. You push a chunk of root vegetable around the bowl with the side of your spoon, watching the broth swirl into lazy spirals. Highrock has a weight to it. Not just in the way it drills you, but the way it presses into your skull. Makes you think slower. Makes you watch more. Gerwin and Hugo are still talking. Lyco says nothing, but he doesn’t need to. That silence around him feels earned. You look at your hands. They’re still trembling from the spear drills. Not a lot. Just enough to remind you that your body's catching up to what your mind already knows: this place is going to chew you. And you’d better learn how to taste blood and like it. Gradually, you push your tray forward, elbows on stone, watching the hall thin out. Your fingers tap the edge of the bowl—slow, rhythmic. <<if $calienne_stare is true>> Something causes you to glance toward the east arch. There she is. Still composed. Still distant. Her gaze flickers toward you for a beat, then past you like she’s already measuring tomorrow. You linger a moment too long. Then you leave without saying a word. <<else>> Then Lyco’s voice slices the moment. ''“You’ll miss the bell.”'' You rise without comment, standing up slow to shake out your shoulders. Your tray’s lighter than you remember. Time's fickle here. You follow the others out, boots echoing softly on the stone floor without looking back. <</if>> [[Time's fickle and every second's a heartbeat.|chp3_evening]]

You swirl the last of the broth in your bowl, letting it settle into a cold, greasy pool. Slowly, you wipe your mouth with your sleeve and assess the others. Cool, calm. You don't feel that you have much in common with them... No, maybe Lyco. Just maybe. <<set $bastard +=1>> ''“They shouldn’t all pass,”'' you say, testing their edge with your words, ''"It wouldn't mean anything if they did. If we did. Would you want to come out of this unscatched? Unchanged?"'' Everything about this place is designed to strip you bare. Strip you of hope. Ego. Voice. Friends. You’ve already seen it in the eyes of the ones who smiled less today than yesterday. Gerwin looks up, confused, ''“What do you mean?”'' You tap your spoon once against the rim. ''“The Harrowing. Whatever it is. If everyone made it through, it’d be worthless. Just another rite of passage for people too scared to matter.”'' Hugo doesn't frown, but he snorts, mostly focused on emptying his bowl, ''“So… what? You want them to fail?”'' You contemplate his question for a moment or two, your shoulders rolled forward, before you lift a heavy shrug. ''"If they don't want to be here... if they won't fight, earn it, deserve it... Yes, they should fail. I want this to mean something. Otherwise, what's the point?"'' The words hang between you. Heavier than they should be. But you’re not ashamed. Lyco doesn't speak. But this time, he’s watching you. Studying you. You stare back. //Let him.// Highrock isn’t about survival. It’s about proving you deserve to survive more than the person next to you. <<if $calienne_stare is true>> You glance toward the end of the hall, spotting her. The girl from earlier. Gray stare, spine straight, regal posture and perfectly pale skin. Eyes like storms over glass. She’s already seen you. And now, she sees you again. There’s no invitation in her gaze. But there’s recognition. Something about her quiet is too clean, too controlled. You hate it, or you want it. You’re not sure yet. For now, you don't smile and you don't flich: you just look. Then you rise. Not to escape her eyes. But to earn them again. <</if>> You head for the exit with your shoulders squared, jaw tight, knuckles white and your pulse steady. Some part of you’s already past the Harrowing. The rest of you just needs to catch up. [[Time flies here, when you chase after every moment.|chp3_evening]]

You set your spoon down and rest your forearms on the edge of the table, carefully assessing each of your roommates. You can relate to each of them, even if it's in different ways: somewhere within, you all feel the same emotions. <<set $knight +=1>> Hopes. Dreams. Aspirations, however whimsical or fleeting. ''“They want fear to do the work for them. They want us rattled.”'' Hugo pauses mid-spoonful, and Gerwin glances over. You feel Lyco's gaze upon you as well. Your voice isn’t loud, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s grounded. Solid. ''“That’s what the second-years are doing. Making us believe the worst thing is coming. They're loud because they remember how it felt. Now they get to pass the fear down.”'' You don’t know if you believe it. But you want to. Saying it feels right, as though it's an affirmation, however aspirational. Hugo nods slowly as he continues to eat, clearing a bowl that he loaded up with twice as much food as the rest of you. Gerwin, the more skeptical one, watches you like he wants to believe you but doesn’t know how. ''“I’ll take starving over being one of them,”'' Gerwin mutters. Hugo chuckles with a mouthful, ''“Speak for yourself.”'' Lyco doesn’t respond, but he gives you a look. Not approval. Not challenge. Just... measure. The table falls quiet, and you feel like it's an earned silence for each of you. So you finish your stew, shoulders sore and legs tight, but still upright. With a breath, you still yourself and allow your gaze to wander. <<if $calienne_stare is true>> There's a familiar figure near the end of the row. She sits with others, but alone. Every motion practiced. Every line of her uniform unwrinkled. Her gray eyes flick toward you. Cool. Calm. Assessing. You hold her gaze—steady, polite, just long enough to acknowledge without demanding. Brief. Controlled. Then you look away, choosing not to hold it. Something registered, and it was enough. You need nothing more from the moment. You'll let it simmer and stick with you. Even as you fall into step behind Lyco. <</if>> ''“Coming?”'' Lyco asks, the three of them having already risen, ''“You’ll miss the bell.”'' You nod once, quietly falling in step behind him. [[Time passes differently here, quickly, even if every hour is a struggle.|chp3_evening]]

<center><img src="images/might_stat.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> There’s a point in pain where it stops being a signal. Stops being a warning. It becomes something else. A rhythm, a pulse, a pure presence that moves in and makes itself at home in your ribs. You’ve lived in that place this week. Every morning, your arms are wrung out with spearwork. Your shoulders scream from resistance holds and stone carries. Your hands are blistered from hauling wet training ropes up three flights of rusted pulleys, over and over until the palms peel. It's a strange sort of satisfaction, that sore throb accompanying your muscles, tendons and bones after a hard day of training. You feel it most vividly in bed, when your adrenaline has run it's course, leaving you left emptied with nothing but that ache and pain to accompany your tired thoughts. It's going to take time to grow, to //truly// grow, but you're adjusting quickly. In fact, you're starting to revel in that pain. Every day, you reinforce that connection with body and mind, your physical will flourishing beneath the strain. Every session, you gain a better hold on how to drive through your own limits until your heartbeat sounds like war drums in your skull, beads of sweat rolling sweet and salty past the ridge of your brow, leaving you to blink through them headily. The instructors don’t encourage you. But they don’t correct you, either. That’s its own kind of reward. And now, as the muscles in your back throb and your bones feel twice their weight, you lie atop your dormitory bunk, watching torchlight flicker along the ceiling and wondering—not whether you can keep going—but how much more you can become. <<if $bastard > $knight and $bastard > $cowboy is true>> You don’t care if it hurts. You care that the boy beside you couldn’t lift the stone as long. You care that the instructor’s eyes paused on you twice today. You care that pain is something most people avoid—and you’ve turned it into a language. This isn't about strength. It's about power. And you're learning to speak it more fluently. Once you master your own body, your own strength, who will be left to stop you? Attunement to the physical world has become your priority recently. <<elseif $knight > $bastard and $knight > $cowboy is true>> You bear the pain like a ritual. Every repetition is a step toward control. Every ache is a confession. You don’t strive for domination—you strive for refinement. To meet the weight with grace. To shape yourself into someone who can protect something. Someday. Even if you don't know what yet. <<elseif $cowboy > $bastard and $cowboy > $knight is true>> You don’t think about the pain anymore. You don’t name it. Don’t analyze it. You show up. You push through. You carry what has to be carried and rest only when it’s time. Your strength isn’t a declaration—it’s a tool. And you’re getting better at using it. The world is wild, unruly, uncertain. But here, you have the opportunity to master your own body, your own strength. And no one can take that away from you. <</if>> //Your ''Might'' grows stronger.// <<set $might += 1>> [[The evening draws on: quiet, peaceful, your muscles tender and sore.|chp3_evening2]]

<center><img src="images/mobility_stat.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> They call it conditioning, but that’s not what it is. It’s discipline, broken down into breath and movement. Down into the friction between your bones and the world. Every morning starts with footing drills—sliding across gravel, shifting weight, pivoting on sand-slick flagstones. It’s about angles, leverage, and balance under strain. You learn how to fall and land without sound. How to twist out of a grapple before it closes. How to turn speed into force, and force into escape. You run the perimeter stairs until your calves seize, before bounding into a climb along the wall’s inner curve, over and over, palms rubbed raw, heels scraping stone. When it rains, you’re not given rest. You’re told it’s a better test. Slippery ground, fewer excuses. Life doesn't cater to your complaints. You’re learning where your body is at every second, and how to cut through a space with as little waste as possible. When your hands tremble too much to tie your boots after, or your breath won’t settle even in the stillness of the dorm, you feel it: the shape of something forming inside you. Not muscle. Not magic. Command. <<if $bastard > $knight and $bastard > $cowboy is true>> You're not just trying to be faster. You're trying to be ungraspable. Let them swing. Let them shout. Let them chase. You’ll be three steps ahead, already moving. Already gone. Speed isn’t about fleeing—it’s about forcing others to fight on your terms. Control the space, and you control the game. If you've learned one thing in this life, it's //always// better when ''you'' are in control. <<elseif $knight > $bastard and $knight > $cowboy is true>> You don’t train for show. You train for when it counts. For when the wall gives out, or the footing turns treacherous, or the odds tilt against someone who deserves a chance. You want to be the one who moves first. The one who doesn't hesitate. Grace is not weakness. It's precision born of purpose. <<elseif $cowboy > $bastard and $cowboy > $knight is true>> You don’t think much while you move. That’s the point. You listen to the weight of your steps, the pull in your joints, the way your breath paces with the strain. You find your rhythm and let the work carry you. Motion is meditation. And you’re getting quieter with every run. <</if>> //Your ''Mobility'' is honed with practice.// <<set $mobility += 1>> [[The evening draws on: quiet, peaceful, your breath calm and controlled.|chp3_evening2]]

<center><img src="images/mind_stat.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> Silence is harder than sweat. That’s what you’ve learned this week. They say the mind is a tool, but Highrock doesn’t treat it like one. They treat it like a wound—something to be cauterized, hardened, tested for leaks. Something to be sealed before it turns on you. Your training is spent in echo chambers, sitting alone on cold marble for hours at a time, eyes open, back straight, hands flat. If you speak, you start over. If your breath falters, you start over. If you fidget, you start over. Sometimes the instructors whisper lies while you meditate. Not insults—just doubt. Spoken soft, close, in your own voice. You’re shown sigils you’re not taught to read, just stare at. They burn into your retinas, and later, they show up in your dreams. You run memory drills while your body is half-dead with fatigue. You’re asked to recite back a list of spells or imperial commands after being locked in darkness for an hour with no light, no sound, and no sense of time. This isn't education. It's filtration. And something in you is beginning to... crystallize. Not knowledge, exactly. Clarity. <<if $bastard > $knight and $bastard > $cowboy is true>> Personally? You don’t meditate to quiet your thoughts. You meditate to sharpen them. To weaponize them. Let the others break themselves on repetition and ritual—you’ll use this discipline to see further, predict faster, move smarter. The mind is the first blade, and yours is getting sharper by the day. Once you can control your thoughts, you can focus on controlling others. <<elseif $knight > $bastard and $knight > $cowboy is true>> You treat the silence with respect. You carry it like armor, not arrogance. It's not about knowing more—it's about being present when others are fractured. To stay calm while others shake. Your strength isn’t noise. It’s knowing when not to speak. <<elseif $cowboy > $bastard and $cowboy > $knight is true>> You didn’t expect to like this part. But something about the stillness sits right. Maybe it’s because no one’s yelling at you. Maybe it’s because you’ve never had space to listen to your own thoughts before. You're not trying to outthink anyone. You're just trying to listen until something inside goes quiet. <</if>> //Your ''Mind'' hums more profoundly.// <<set $mind += 1>> [[The evening draws on: quiet, peaceful, your thoughts sharpened by contemplation.|chp3_evening2]]

The dormitory is quiet when you return. Not empty—just quiet in the way worn-out bodies make silence. The kind that hums with the ache of muscles and half-processed thoughts. Stone walls hold the day’s cold. You pass through the arched threshold with Lyco, Gerwin, and Hugo behind you. No one speaks right away. Hugo drops onto his bunk with a theatrical groan, already chewing something. You catch the glint of a purloined apple core. His stomach grumbles, hungry but eager for sleep as always. Gerwin pulls out a small weather-beaten book and settles near the hearth, flipping it open like a habit. The pages crackle faintly, and his brow furrows in thought. His lips move silently; something about it is comforting. Lyco lights the brazier with a flickering candle—calm and practiced—before lowering onto his bunk and unlatching the small leather-bound notebook he keeps stashed beneath his bedframe. He doesn't write yet, just holding the quill over the page for a long moment. You sit atop your own bunk, slowly exhaling. For the first time all week, you allow yourself to feel truly tired. The sounds are small: firewood crackling, boots being untied, breath slowing in time with the dark. And your mind drifts— <<if $intro_tome == true>> The tome still rests beneath your bunk, wrapped in waxed cloth, hidden like contraband. You haven’t opened it again. Not fully. Not since the night you took it from Mearesdes’ lair, its leather cover still warm and damp from the depth it had slept in. You’ve tried to read it. Once. Your eyes refused to swallow the script. Not because you were afraid—though maybe you should’ve been—but because the lettered shapes are so foreign to you; meaningless spirals that you can only hope to comprehend. One day. One day soon. And yet… it hasn’t left your mind. It doesn’t pulse. It doesn’t speak. But you feel its presence. Like a weight pressing into your thoughts. A silence with intent. You tell yourself it’s just a relic. Just ink and hide and legend. But in quiet moments, you wonder: is it a weapon? A curse? Or something waiting for you to become what it needs? To your knowledge, it hasn’t caused your dreams. But something’s changed since you took it. Something deep inside you. Or maybe it’s just that now, for the first time in your life, you have something worth fearing. And you’re not sure if that’s power… or a warning. <</if>> The dreams. It's been a week since she stole you away for the second time. <<if $intro_tome == true and $chp3_dream_dom == true>> You were inside her. Pressing her down. Her throat against your palm, her gasps turning from command to plea. You don’t remember every second, but you remember the feel of it—her body bowing to yours, her power unraveling beneath your hands. Somewhere in that moment, you felt the tome wake. Not aloud. Not visibly. But in your blood. Like something ancient smiling behind your eyes. As if it had lent you strength—not just to resist, but to dominate. She had power. She had allure. But you had force. You try to tell yourself it was a dream. That none of it was real. But your body remembers. So does your breath, every time it hitches at the edge of sleep. You wonder if she let you take control. Or if something in you wanted it more than you should have. Because it wasn’t just sex. It wasn’t just defiance. It was possession. And you liked it. You can’t stop thinking about that. Not just what you did—but how easy it felt. How good it was to be the one in control. <<elseif $intro_tome is true and $chp3_dream_resist is true>> She tried to press herself onto you—into you. Not with touch, but with presence. That voice, that heat, that unnatural gravity she pulled everything into. It was so effortless, that power emmanating as though linked to her very essence. Her purpose. But you stood firm, and somewhere in the silence between your heartbeat and hers, something answered. Not from outside. From within. The tome never moved. Never lit. But you felt it rise in your mind like a wall of iron. Or maybe you became the wall. And she, for all her dark seduction, shattered against it. You didn’t hurt her. But you refused her. And in that moment, you saw something she didn’t mean to show—fear. You didn’t ask the book for help. You never cracked it open or whispered a spell. But something old stirred inside you that night, and the lines between self and artifact felt thinner than breath. You wonder now what it made her see in you. And if she’ll come back to try again. The memory isn’t sharp. But the feeling remains: the daemoness surprised. Weakened. And you, stronger than you had any right to be. It should frighten you. Maybe it does. But part of you wants to feel it again. <<elseif $chp3_dream_dom is true>> She didn’t see it coming: that strength, that clarity of will. You didn’t call upon any spell. No ancient relics or muttered incantations. Only action, your body and mind perfectly aligned. And when you pressed her down, when your fingers curled around her throat and she gasped your name, it wasn’t power borrowed. It was yours. You moved with purpose. With violence, yes—but not recklessness. There was something cold about it. A clean assertion of dominance. And she melted beneath it. Not in fear. In want. And gods, did you want her too. But what lingers isn’t the sex. It’s the sureness. The realization that something inside you doesn’t just resist control—it craves to reverse it. You didn’t lose yourself in that dream. You found something. And you haven’t decided yet whether it should be unleashed again. You remember her throat beneath your hand. You woke hard and breathless that morning, your hands trembling, not from fear—but from having wanted that moment. And that’s what haunts you. Not that you dominated her. But that part of you enjoyed it, and you want more. <<elseif $chp3_dream_resist is true>> You saw her beauty. You heard her voice. You felt the pressure of her presence—every inch engineered to tempt. But you didn’t move. She tried everything—touch, words, the promise of things you’ve never tasted. But in the end, she was left reaching. And you? You were unmoved. She wasn’t used to being denied. You saw it in her eyes, just for a flicker. Like a god realizing someone’s forgotten how to pray. You don’t know what that says about you. Only that you didn’t need help to win. That, somehow, might be its own kind of dangerous. That strength, that denial? It was yours. You said no. You moved with purpose, with violence, yes—but not recklessness. Only action, your body and mind perfectly aligned. There was something cold about it. A clean assertion of dominance. Something inside you refused to kneel. And you felt her falter. <<elseif $chp3_dream_sub is true>> You could’ve said no. You know that. She didn’t force you, not exactly. You could've fought harder. But her voice, her presence; that dark smile like velvet wrapped around razors, you fell into it. You fell for her. She carries an undeniable heat, that unnatural gravity which pulls everything into it. So effortless, that otherworldly, seductive power emmanating as though linked to her very essence. Her purpose. You remember kissing her feet. Her thighs. The sound she made when your tongue met her skin. And you gave in, every part of you. Mind, body and soul. You try to blame the dream, the pressure, and the loneliness. That strange power. But when you're honest? You remember wanting it. And even now, as the night cools around you, you don’t know whether to feel ashamed… or grateful. Because it felt like the only real thing you've had in a long time, in a world where dreams are a feast for sore eyes. <<else>> You fought. Or at least, you tried to. But she was too strong. Too smooth. Too perfectly shaped to fill every crack you’d forgotten you had. You didn’t kneel, but you didn’t stand either. She swallowed your resistance like it was a song she’d heard before. You don’t know what she is. Not really, not yet. She carries an undeniable heat, that unnatural gravity which pulls everything into it. So effortless, that otherworldly, seductive power emmanating as though linked to her very essence. Her purpose. She wants something from you, that much is clear. And what haunts you most isn’t the memory of her lips or her eyes. It’s the question that came after: What makes you so special… that something like her won’t let go? <</if>> <<if $leoris_apartment_friends is true>> Leoris. You remember her laughter before anything else—soft and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world to enjoy it. Those couple hours in the tavern felt like it belonged to another life, wrapped in velvet and candlelight. It had been warm, quiet, human. The scent of her hair. The curve of her smile when she told you she liked simple men. She touched your hand before you left, told you to come visit. Maybe she meant it, maybe not, but you were willing to believe her. Part of you still wants to tell her what you’ve seen since then. Part of you knows you won’t; not everything. But gods, you'd like to hear her laugh again. <<elseif $leoris_apartment_benefits is true>> Leoris. You think first of her lips, then her laugh. The two were always close together. That tavern tryst plays like a blurred firelight reel in your head—limbs tangled, breath shared, and something... easy. Honest in a selfish kind of way. She knew what she wanted, and so did you. Friends, sure. But mostly, it was about pleasure, comfort. And someone who saw you as more than an orphan or a problem to solve. You told yourself it was just fun, a passing moment. Something to remember when things got hard. But now, under stone and shadow, the memory of her warmth clings to your skin like perfume. <<elseif $leoris_apartment_morethan_good is true>> Leoris. She made it so easy to forget what you were walking into. The way she looked at you—curious, amused, maybe even a little enchanted. She let you into her space, into her body, into something that felt safe. Real. The memory of her arms around you feels closer than the bunk beneath your back. And her words—//Tell me everything when you return.// You remember how she whispered that into your chest, as if you'd already promised you would. You haven't spoken since then, haven't sent a word. You hope to get a chance to visit, soon. But every night since, part of you wonders if she’s lighting candles and thinking about you. You didn’t expect her to matter this much. In your heart, ''she does''. <<elseif $leoris_apartment_morethan_bad is true>> Leoris. You fumbled it, didn’t you? There had been something there—maybe. Enough for you to hope. You remember the way her expression shifted when you said too much, too fast. That awkward parting, her voice turning careful, distant. You told yourself it didn’t matter, but it did. Not because you loved her. You barely knew her. But because—for a moment—you wanted to. You wanted someone to see you, and she almost did.. <<elseif $leoris_nosex is true>> Leoris. There are memories that bloom, even without heat. She never kissed you, never touched you like lovers do, but there was something there all the same. Her gaze, warm and knowing. The way she looked at you when you said your name. The hush between breaths in her small, lived-in room. You left before anything could happen. Maybe that was the right call. Maybe not. Part of you wonders what would’ve happened if you’d stayed longer, said more, took a chance, and reached for her. Some moments are meant to stay imagined. And this one lingers like a sigh just behind your lips. <</if>> <<if $calienne_peer is true>> Gradually, your thoughts drift to... that girl, again. You’ve seen her across the halls, in class, in drills, through silence or the droning of your prefects and lecturers. You don’t even know her name—not yet—but you’ve noticed her more than once. And you think… maybe she’s noticed you too. She moves with precision, subtle, glimmering grace. Nothing about her is soft. Not the way she walks, not the way she stands, not the way she looks at people—like they’re already guilty of something. Pale skin. Black hair. Those cold, gray eyes that never linger too long, but never miss anything either. She’s always surrounded, but apart. Tethered to nothing. You don’t know what it is about her that sticks with you. Maybe it’s the way she holds herself like someone who’s already survived something. Or maybe it’s because, for a moment once, you caught her watching you. You didn’t smile. Neither did she. And yet here she is, still in your thoughts. Still there, like a question you haven’t figured out how to ask.<br><</if>> Time slides. The room dims. The fire dies lower, and the boys begin to slip toward sleep, one by one. Hugo mutters something unintelligible before turning toward the wall. Gerwin marks his page, then leans back and closes his eyes without ceremony. Lyco finishes his entry, closes the notebook, and doesn’t move for a long time. Then: ''“We’ve got Night Watch tonight,”'' he says quietly. You nod, already knowing, already feeling it in your bones. Your bunk creaks beneath you as you lie back. The ceiling above is just shadow and carved stone. You trace the lines with tired eyes. And then, finally— Sleep takes you. But not all of you. [[Begin the Night Watch.|chp3_nightwatch_intro]]

Sleep never runs deep at Highrock. <<set $watchPhase to "early">> Not when your bones ache, or when the shadows in your dreams whisper with voices that sound like your own. Still, it takes a moment for you to realize what woke you. The room is near black—just the faintest glow from dying embers and Lyco’s silhouette standing near the edge of the bunk, just at the periphery of your vision. ''“Time,”'' he says. You blink and shift upright, the walls already breathing cold against your skin. It's a feeling that you still haven't entirely adjusted to, coming from the dank warmth and steaming heat of the Third Quarter. ''“Night Watch,”'' Lyco adds, quieter now. He pulls on his outer robes and bends low to check what must be a dagger hidden beneath the sash. Not paranoia—habit. You’ve seen it before, all the older boys carry something. ''“You all right?”'' You give a faint nod in the darkness, still taking the time to adjust to your surroundings. The others are asleep: Gerwin’s mouth open, scrawny arm draped over the edge of his top bunk. Hugo’s curled around a blanket that’s not his, a big heaping, snoring mound of flesh and fabric. The room smells like sweat, oil, and flickering flame. With a breath, you stand, slipping down onto the cold cobble to dress in the dark. You’ve heard about Night Watch. Everyone has. Some claim it’s a rite—busywork handed down from on high, a way to teach you discipline. Others say it’s just punishment masquerading as tradition, born from the paranoia of older centuries. A few, always in whispers, speak of stranger things: sounds no one could place, doors that shouldn’t open, faces glimpsed through gaps that weren’t there before. You never knew which version to believe. Tonight, you’ll find out. Lyco fastens his cloak, eyes sharp beneath half-lowered blonde lashes, ''“There should be a pair of second-years with us. Prefects, technically."'' He doesn’t sound worried. Technical, contemplative, a touch precise, ''“They haven’t shown."'' As though to make the point, he slips closer to the heavy wooden door gating your room from the outside hall, and slowly tugs it open. The hall outside is quiet, empty, aloof. No waiting escort, no prefects, not a peep. ''"They might be waiting down in the common room,"'' Lyco suggests aloud beneath his breath, gesturing in the direction of the stairwell, ''“I'll check. They might be dragging their feet, playing games. Or they ditched us."'' He swings the door open more fully, but stops and turns toward you midway, his eyes focusing on you through the relative darkness, ''“If you're up to it, maybe take a quick sweep of the upper floors. Start the watch proper.”'' A pause, ''“Just don’t go poking around anything sealed.”'' And then he's gone, his steps soft against the flagstones. You’re alone again. But not for long. The halls above await—dark, cold, half-silent. Somewhere in this stone skeleton, other things stir. Voices. Secrets. Questions. And you’ve got a few hours before dawn. [[Begin your patrol.|chp3_nightwatch_13]]

<center><img src="images/dormhall.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<if $watchPhase is "early">> The corridor outside your dorm is quiet—but not comfortably so. The sconces are lit, but dimmer than usual. Their flames stretch tall and thin, flickering like they’re afraid to burn too bright, reaching for something just out of sight. It makes the shadows ripple, not dance. Slowly, carefully, you close the heavy wooden door to your room behind you, leaving Hugo and Gerwin entombed inside, lost to whatever shallow dreams their bodies can still summon. For now, it's just you and the stone in the dark. Most of the doors are closed. A few cracked just wide enough to show slivers of shadow and breath. You hear the low groan of wood as someone rolls in their bunk. The air smells like oil, candlewax, and sleep. No signs of anything awake that wants to be seen. You’ve walked this hallway every day for weeks now, but never like this. Never with the quiet pressing in on all sides like a weight. Tonight it feels longer, narrower, like the old, cracked stones lean closer than they should. Lyco’s footsteps are long gone. He said he was heading down to the common room, that the second-year prefects might be waiting there. He asked you to check the upper floors first. Just a sweep, if you’re up to it... You are. Probably. <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "middle">> The hall is still. Not silent—there’s still the creak of old beams, the groan of stone flexing in its sleep—but it feels more settled now, more watchful. A scone near the stairwell has gone out completely, leaving a stretch of the hallway cloaked in uneven dark. The remaining flames flicker more lazily now, throwing shadows that cling longer to the walls before slipping back into place. You move quietly, and the corridor returns the favor. <<if $nightwatch_gerwin == true>> Your door still lay slightly cracked open, the thin sliver of light inside still dimly <<else>> But when you glance toward your dorm room, you stop. The door is cracked open. Not wide. Just a hair, enough to see that it isn't how you left it. You’re certain you pulled it fully shut when you left. And yet, there’s a sliver of light inside. Faint. Like the dying glow of a brazier, or maybe just a candle guttering low. You feel the shape of a question forming. Of course, you tell yourself it's probably just Hugo getting up to piss, or Gerwin waking to scribble something in that little book of his. However, you hesitate all the same. [[Investigate your room.|chp3_nightwatch_13_gerwin]] <</if>> <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "late">> The hallway feels colder now. Not frigid—just enough to raise the fine hairs along your arms. The sconces are mostly spent, casting more smoke than flame. What little light they give slips over the stone in dull, oily streaks. Your dorm room door is shut. Secure. Still. No light leaks through the cracks, and no sound stirs from within. Just behind it: your bunk. Your blanket. The ache in your bones that’s grown heavier with each step. You let yourself glance that way. Just once. The shape of comfort is almost cruel in its simplicity. A room where nothing is expected of you. Not for a few hours, at least. But you’ve still got more ground to cover. And something in the silence reminds you: you’re not finished yet. You press forward, boots soft on the worn stones. Every creak, every shift of air feels louder now. Like the building itself is holding its breath. The sconces are burned low to stubs. The hallway is blanketed in half-shadow. You walk it alone, but it doesn’t feel empty. Every creak of the floor feels like a breath behind you. Your own steps echo longer than they should. Someone has left a folded scrap of parchment under your door. It wasn't there before. <</if>> [[Ascend to the upper floors.|chp3_nightwatch_abandoned]] [[Descend to the lower floors.|chp3_nightwatch_bath]]

<<if $watchPhase is "early">>You ascend into stillness. The transition from the occupied floors to the abandoned ones is almost imperceptible—no grand threshold, no barred gate. Just a step. One floor, from the nearly-empty fifteenth to the sixteenth, and everything changes. The walls feel closer here. Not narrower, just heavier, coated in a soft film of age. The sconces haven’t been lit in years, and the dust has settled thick over every surface like fine ash. In the corners, cobwebs hang loose and lazy—too large, too old to have been built by anything small. You move quietly, but your breath stirs the air, and the air stirs the rafters, and from them, something sifts down—flakes of dust, or rot, or bone. There are no names on the doors here. No sounds behind them. Most are shut, warped slightly with age, sealed by time or disuse. A few stand half-open, but what lies behind them is only shadow and collapsed furniture. Somewhere deep in the floor below, you hear a single //drip//. Then another. You strain your ears. It doesn’t repeat; just two, like something old testing if you’re listening. The air carries a faint chill—not cold enough to bite, just enough to remind you: this part of Highrock was forgotten for a reason. <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "middle">> <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "late">> <</if>> [[Venture to the top of the stairwell...|chp3_nightwatch_top]] [[Descend back down towards your dorm.|chp3_nightwatch_13]]

<<if $watchPhase is "early">>Up here, the wind meets you before the darkness does. <<audio "wind-blowing" play>> Thin and biting, it cuts along your cheeks the moment you step into the uppermost corridor. The stairwell narrows the higher you climb, its spiral tightening like a screw into stone. By the time you reach the top, the air is thin, sharp with altitude. You’ve never been this high before. You thought Highrock was high and cool, but it pales and comparison to the experience up here, let alone the depths of the Third Quarter, far below, steeped in heat and unruly, clinging steam. The top of Highrock is open to the sky—partially, at least. Loose planks and shattered wooden slats line the walls like old ribs. Wind whistles through them, catching on the exposed beams. A few boards flap in the breeze, weathered but still clinging, like they’ve forgotten how to fall. The old stone only seems to channel the cool air towards you. Above you looms the bell: inert, looming heavily, dark and ominous. It hangs in a rusted iron framework, dark with age and streaked with what might be water, or time. You don't know what kind of metal it’s made from—there’s a texture to it you’ve never seen before. It doesn’t shine, but it draws the eye. Precious. Inert. Sleeping. You can only wonder how long ago it was forged, and how many slaves must have labored away at the cliff's edge or deep in the mire's mines to obtain every precious nugget of ore. From the open arches, you see the courtyard far below—now no more than a gray, purplish misty smear of stone and flickering firelight. The torches burn like slow-moving fireflies in the mist. One of them moves. You blink, but it's still there, still moving. You tell yourself it’s just a patrolling student. Maybe it's Lyco down there, still alone, without the second-year prefects. No one else is supposed to be in the courtyard this early, unless it's an instructor or servant. <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "middle">> <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "late">> <</if>> [[Start the your descent back down.|chp3_nightwatch_abandoned]]

<<if $watchPhase is "early">>The second floor feels different. Not colder or darker—if anything, it’s the opposite. Warmer. Lived-in. The sconces here are fully lit, their glow steady and gold. Shadows behave. The air smells faintly of soap, wood polish, and something vaguely sweet—dried fruit, maybe. Or old cloves tucked into linen. You pass crates of folded towels, sealed jars, a broken basket spilling old laundry. Someone’s left a mop leaning crookedly against the wall, its bristles damp, a thin trail of water drying in its wake. Behind the doors, you hear the soft signs of life. Not the tension of students, not the empty silence of locked rooms, but shuffling steps, muted conversation, the clink of ceramic. A cough, or yawn. Servants: cooks, maids, attendants, scribes. The ones who keep Highrock upright while the rest of it tears itself apart. As far as you know, most of them are lowborns like you, though some of the scribes might be selected from amongst the more privileged gentry. You don’t knock or try to open anything. You just walk through, quiet and watchful. One door creaks open behind you, just slightly, and you hear the faint jingle of keys. A maid, perhaps, or one of the kitchen boys, but you don’t look back. This floor doesn’t feel like danger, though it doesn't feel like safety either. <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "middle">> <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "late">> <</if>> [[Ascend back upstairs.|chp3_nightwatch_bath]] [[Descend into the common room.|chp3_nightwatch_common]]

<center><img src="images/bathroom.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<if $watchPhase is "early">>Far below the thirteeth floor where you reside, the stone stairwell opens onto the third floor with a slow exhale of warm, mineral-scented air. The bathing chambers are quiet—divided down the center by a short corridor and a heavy velvet curtain. You step lightly onto smooth, worn tiles, the kind that still hold heat from the water’s rise earlier in the evening. On the male side, everything is still. Towels hung, benches empty, the steam long since faded. The pools remain clear and untouched, the surface as smooth as polished glass. The sconces glow soft against the mist-colored stone, casting everything in a pale amber haze. <<if $nightwatch_gossip == true>> On the female side, you still hear the girls, only barely. Murmuring through steam and stone, just beyond the velvet curtain. The same voices, still low, still indulgent. A bubble of warmth and skin and secrets you’re no longer part of. You could stop again. Listen. Watch. But you don’t. You’ve already had your moment, and you have a job to do. <<else>> But from the other side, through the thick curtain that separates the chambers, you hear something... Murmurs. Not loud, nor scandalous, but unmistakable. Female voices, close together—talking low and sharp, poorly concealed. The kind of conversation meant to be private, but not secret. You can’t make out the words, just the cadence—whispers that rise and fall like flickers in the dark. If you drew closer for a peek and listen just past the curtain, you might be able to hear more. Surely no one would see you if you got closer... [[Peek into the curtain. (18+)|chp3_nightwatch_bath_gossip]] <</if>> <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "middle">> <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "late">> <</if>> [[Ascend to Floor 13.|chp3_nightwatch_13]] [[Descend to the servant quarters.|chp3_nightwatch_servant]]

<<if $watchPhase is "early">>The fire burns low in the hearth, casting long shadows that shiver across the stone floor. The flames are quiet—not crackling, not roaring—just a slow, steady flicker, like a candle being bled dry. Its warmth doesn’t quite reach the edges of the room. You step out into the common space, half-expecting it to be empty, but it's not. A few second-years linger at desks tucked beneath arched alcoves, their faces half-lit by amber glowstones and open tomes. One is etching runes into a strip of leather. Another is bent over a thick volume, mumbling a string of syllables that sound more like a prayer than a spell. None of them look up when you enter, nor do they speak. The room feels... fragile. Like something is waiting to shift but hasn’t found the right moment yet. Lyco stands near the hearth, arms folded, watching the flames with a stare that could cut glass. His cloak is fastened tight, his posture too still to be casual. When he notices you, he nods—just once. Still no prefects, you think. You glance toward the stairs; no sound above or below. The other boys haven't stirred. It’s just you, Lyco, and the quiet discipline of older students who’ve learned that too much noise at Highrock gets noticed. Maybe the prefects are testing you. Or maybe they’ve simply decided you’re not worth their time. Either way… it’s your watch now. You should talk to Lyco when you're ready to get started. The night has just begun. [[Talk with Lyco.|chp3_nightwatch_adv_middle]] <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "middle">> [[Advance Night watch|chp3_nightwatch_adv_late]] <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "late">> [[Finish Night watch|chp3_nightwatch_adv_finish]] <</if>> [[Ascend back to the servant quarters.|chp3_nightwatch_servant]] [[Head out into the inner courtyard.|chp3_nightwatch_courtyard]]

<<set _totalPersonality to $cowboy + $bastard + $knight>><<set _cowboyPercent to Math.round(($cowboy / _totalPersonality) * 10000) / 100>><<set _bastardPercent to Math.round(($bastard / _totalPersonality) * 10000) / 100>><<set _knightPercent to Math.round(($knight / _totalPersonality) * 10000) / 100>> <div class="mirror-of-self"> <h2>Mirror of Self</h2> <p class="flavor">"Know thyself, and behold what stirs beneath the skin..."</p> <div id="soul-meter" class="soul-meter"> <div id="fill-cowboy" class="fill cowboy"></div> <div id="fill-bastard" class="fill bastard"></div> <div id="fill-knight" class="fill knight"></div> </div> <div class="soul-meter-legend"> <span class="legend-cowboy">■ Cowboy</span><span class="legend-bastard">■ Bastard</span><span class="legend-knight">■ Knight</span> </div> <div class="traits-unlocked"> <h3>Manifest Traits</h3> <ul> <<if $traitCynical>> <li>Cynical</li> <</if>> <<if $traitRomantic>> <li>Romantic</li> <</if>> <<if $traitMerciful>> <li>Merciful</li> <</if>> <<if !$traitCynical and !$traitRomantic and !$traitMerciful>> <li><em>(None yet awakened.)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="mirror-return"> <<link "Return">><<goto $lastPassageVisited>><</link>> </div> </div>  <<script>> $(function() { var cowboy = State.variables.cowboy || 0; var bastard = State.variables.bastard || 0; var knight = State.variables.knight || 0; var total = cowboy + bastard + knight || 1; var cowboyPercent = (cowboy / total) * 100; var bastardPercent = (bastard / total) * 100; var knightPercent = (knight / total) * 100; $("#fill-cowboy").css("width", cowboyPercent + "%"); $("#fill-bastard").css("width", bastardPercent + "%"); $("#fill-knight").css("width", knightPercent + "%"); }); <</script>>

<div class="soul-ledger"> <h2>Ledger of Mortal Weal</h2> <p class="flavor">"The world tallies your flesh, your iron, your will..."</p> <div class="core-stats"> <h3>Core Attributes</h3> <ul> <li>Might: <<= $might>></li> <li>Mobility: <<= $mobility>></li> <li>Mind: <<= $mind>></li> </ul> </div> <div class="titles-held"> <h3>Titles and Ranks</h3> <ul> <<if $titlesHeld and $titlesHeld.length > 0>> <<for _title range $titlesHeld>> <li><<= _title>></li> <</for>> <<else>> <li><em>(None yet attained.)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="ledger-return"> <<link "Return">><<goto $lastPassageVisited>><</link>> </div> </div>

<div class="soul-chronicle"> <h2>Chronicle of the Abyss</h2> <p class="flavor">"The void remembers what you wield, what you claim, what you dream..."</p> <div class="known-magicks"> <h3>Known Magicks</h3> <ul> <<if $knownMagicks and $knownMagicks.length > 0>> <<for _spell range $knownMagicks>> <li><<= _spell>></li> <</for>> <<else>> <li><em>(None yet awakened.)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="artifacts-held"> <h3>Artifacts Possessed</h3> <ul> <<if $artifactsHeld and $artifactsHeld.length > 0>> <<for _artifact range $artifactsHeld>> <li><<= _artifact>></li> <</for>> <<else>> <li><em>(None yet grasped.)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="dream-visions"> <h3>Dream Visions</h3> <ul> <<if $dreamVisions and $dreamVisions.length > 0>> <<for _vision range $dreamVisions>> <li><<= _vision>></li> <</for>> <<else>> <li><em>(The void keeps its secrets...)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="runes-collected"> <h3>Runes Collected</h3> <ul> <<if $runesCollected and $runesCollected.length > 0>> <<for _rune range $runesCollected>> <li><<= _rune>></li> <</for>> <<else>> <li><em>(None yet bound.)</em></li> <</if>> </ul> </div> <div class="chronicle-return"> <<link "Return">><<goto $lastPassageVisited>><</link>> </div> </div>

You pull back slightly, your hands still hot on her ass. Her body is flushed and shivering under your grip, not from pain — but from the game. From the heat. From you. Her grin hasn't faded. Still sharp, still cocky, still full of blood and spark. ''“What now?”'' She pants, ''“Gonna take another swing, or you finally outta steam?”'' But you yank her up by the arm — not cruel, but rough enough that she stumbles a step, her skirt falling fully to her ankles. You spin her, press her back to the dripping, cracked stone wall. Her breath hitches as your cock presses against her taut stomach, hot and hard. ''“Thought I earned every inch,”'' she says, licking her bottom lip, eyes narrowing. ''“Gettin’ shy on me?”'' You grip her chin firmly and tilt it up. The defiance in her gaze doesn't waver, but there's something else flickering there too. Curiosity, hunger, A strange trust; born not of affection, but of trial and tribulation. You run your thumb across her cheekbone, then lower it to her tender lips. She parts them slowly and lets it in, biting your digit testingly. You laugh — low, hoarse. Then you take her by the back of the head and guide her down to her knees. The cobblestones are wet and hard, but she doesn’t flinch. She kneels like a queen accepting her tribute — sharp-eyed, tongue glinting as she flashes it in mock reverence. ''“You better be worth the bruises,”'' she mutters, and then her mouth closes around you. It’s not delicate. It’s not practiced. It’s raw and hungry and teasing all at once. She sucks with noisy satisfaction, dragging her wet, warm tongue deliberately along your shaft, licking like she means to claim you back. One little hand clutches your thigh; the other drags across your hips for balance as she bobs her head, gleaming eyes never breaking from yours. When she pulls back for breath, she wipes her mouth on the back of her wrist and gives you a feral smirk, ''“You’re not bad for a human,”'' she says casually, ''“Bit clean. Bit cocky. But you hit good, and you taste like sweat and flesh.”'' You grunt, grabbing her by the jaw again and lifting her back to her feet. ''“I’m not done.”'' ''“Good,”'' she breathes, ''“Neither am I.”'' You turn her and press her hands to the wall. Her ass rises again like instinct. Her body glistens with sweat, breath fogging in the dimlight, thighs slick and trembling. She looks back at you once more — and that grin’s still there, even softer now, as if she’s seeing something different in you than just another man. Maybe respect. Maybe challenge. Maybe something she wants to feel again. You grip her wide hips — firm, wanting, but not brutal. And this time, you push forward not with rage, but hunger. She pushes back just as hotly, mirroring your desire. [[Take her from behind.|intro_right_instinct_doggyplayful]]

She plants her hands against the courtyard wall, breath heavy, palms splayed flat against broken stone. Her stance widens without needing a word — thick green thighs braced, that full, bruised ass pushed out toward you like an offering wrapped in insolence. You step behind her and press the swollen head of your cock between her legs, sliding it along the slick heat of her cleft. She jolts, gritting her teeth — a hiss escapes her, half pleasure, half provocation. ''“So that’s what you call foreplay, huh?”'' She mutters, arching her back just enough to grind herself against you, ''“Bit more fun than getting chased through half the Narrows.”'' You answer her by grabbing her hips hard and driving yourself forward — not all the way, not yet, just enough to bury the tip and feel her tighten around you. She curses, her forehead slipping against the sweat-slickened stone, ''"Tch. Pacing yourself now? Don't tell me you're a romantic.”'' You thrust again, deeper this time. Her taunts stumble into groans, rough and raw. She still growls through it, trying to keep some scrap of control, but her rhythm starts to sync with yours, hips moving to meet your every drive. The violet glow of Dosmera spills across her back as you fuck her, each wet slap echoing louder in the ruins than you'd like to admit. Your hands roam: over the thick bruises you left, across the taper of her waist, the rise of her spine. She’s smaller than you, but sturdy. Not some fragile thing. A shortstack goblin with the heart of a brawler — mean, taut, full of spit and fight. And she takes you like she means to wear you out. Every thrust drags a new sound from her — some feral noise between a moan and a growl — and you know she’s not faking a damn thing. She pushes back into every stroke like she’s trying to prove something. Maybe she is. ''“Harder,”'' she gasps. ''“That all you got, thief-catcher?”'' You slam into her harder, gripping her plush flesh tight. And for a moment, it’s not about dominance or who chased who. It’s just the two of you, skin against skin, heat against heat, two creatures who’ve earned this moment of flesh and friction through blood, grit, and will. You lean low over her, breath ragged in her ear, ''“Tell me where you want it.”'' She doesn’t laugh this time. Just lifts her head, exhales slow, ''"Surprise me.”'' [[Finish inside her.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_in]] [[Pull out and finish across her ass.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_out]]

The rhythm shatters. <<set $cowboy +=1>> <<set $intro_goblinfuck to true>> <<set $intro_goblinin_cowboy to true>> You drive into her one final time: hard, deep, burying yourself to the hilt. She jerks beneath you, groaning low, her thighs trembling as your potent human seed floods into her tight, velvety confines. Warm, pulsing waves empty inside her slick heat, your fingers dug into her bruised hips like anchors. She doesn't flinch. No, she takes it all: slender shoulders rising with every ragged breath, braids pressed to the stone, that grin crawling back onto her face even as your grip falters. ''“Hells,”'' she mutters, voice thick and hoarse, ''“Guess you really ain’t shy.”'' You stay locked inside her a moment longer, panting, the sweat of both your bodies cooling in the night air. And then finally, you pull back. A slow trickle runs down her thigh — balmy white against murky green — and she shudders like she’s shaking off the last tremors of a battle won. ''“That was decent,”'' she says, breathless but still smug, ''“For a roundear.”'' She doesn’t look at you as she tugs her skirt halfway up, your grip loosened, letting her go. You don't know what you expected when you caught her, but it wasn't this. Nonetheless, she limps a few steps towards the alley, still adjusting to her newfound footing after your rutting, a sharp-toothed grin shot over her shoulder. ''“Don’t get cocky. I’ve had worse.”'' You watch her disappear into the mist — a little slower now, legs quaking, skirt tugged crooked over her thick hips and bruised thighs. You don’t smile, but something inside you settles. Like hunger sated. Like a hunt that ended the only way it could. She’s gone — and yet, you can still feel her against your skin. You feel like a new man, confident from your //victory//. However, the feeling won't last forever. Stepping through the forgotten courtyard and descending back into the darkness of the alleys, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day and made the //best// of a bad situation. You count yourself lucky, victorious, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[Soon after, you depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

You hold the line, just long enough to wrench yourself free. <<set $cowboy +=1>> <<set $intro_goblinfuck to true>> <<set $intro_goblinout_cowboy to true>> She gasps at the sudden loss, and before she can twist her head, you grunt and release: thick, hot ropes painting her narrow back, her jiggling ass, the curve of her thighs. The mess of it drips and streaks across her murky flesh, caught in the violet half-light. You stagger back a pace, breath ragged, watching her body still shivering beneath the splatter. She looks over her shoulder, breath ragged, only to smirk, ''“Classy.”'' You let your hand fall against her ass once more — not a slap this time, just a heavy, possessive pat. ''“Better than wasting it inside a goblin runt.”'' ''“You wish,”'' she snorts, flicking you a quick glance as she straightens her spine. Her skirt is ruined, but she pulls it up anyway — smearing your mess with her palm, shaking it off like mud. ''“Guess that makes us even,”'' she mutters. ''“You got your coin. I got my fun.”'' You don’t stop her as she slips off into the darkness, bare feet padding through the wet alley. No thanks. No promises. Just a flash of teeth and the sound of her fading laugh. She’s gone — and yet, you can still feel her against your skin. Survivors, both of you. You feel like a new man, confident from your //victory//. However, the feeling won't last forever. Stepping through the forgotten courtyard and descending back into the darkness of the alleys, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day and made the //best// of a bad situation. You count yourself lucky, victorious, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[Soon after, you depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

You feel the edge creeping up your spine — fast, savage. But you’re not ready to end it. Not yet. Not until you wring every last shred of fight from her. You wrench yourself free, slick and heavy, leaving her gasping as she jerks under the sudden absence. Before she can curse you, you grab her by the scruff of her braids and haul her up, ''"The fuck—?"'' she snarls, but it cuts off when you shove your cock against her mouth. She bares her teeth, laughing even as she opens up and lets you in. ''“Tch. Filthy human,”'' she spits against your skin, wet tongue flicking out to lash you in a mock kiss of submission. You thrust into her mouth without ceremony, driving yourself past her lips again and again, her cheeks hollowing, her throat working to take you deeper. She gags — coughs once — but clamps her hands onto your thighs and holds on. Not for mercy, nor for surrender. For spite. You use her mouth roughly, pumping into her petite green face until saliva and lust drip from her narrow chin, until her ragged breaths hum against your swollen cock. When you pull back, she's gasping — not for air, but laughing, low and ruined. ''"Tch... You fuck like you fight. Sloppy but hard."'' You shove her back down against the stone wall, fists pressing her shoulders into the grime, ''"Shut up and take it,"'' you growl, lining yourself up again. ''"Make me,"'' she spits, smiling through swollen lips. You ram yourself back into her, harder than before, rutting like a wild beast reclaiming what was stolen. The slap of your hips against her battered flesh echoes through the dark like war drums, as brutal and inevitable as gravity. [[Finish inside her.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_in_bastard]] [[Pull out and paint her back.|intro_right_instinct_doggyfinish_out_bastard]]

You bare your teeth and slam forward, burying yourself to the hilt. <<set $intro_goblinfuck to true>> <<set $intro_goblinin_bastard to true>> Her body clamps around you like a noose, dragging the climax from you in a vicious, breathless spasm. You groan low in your chest — guttural, broken — as you spill inside her, filling her tight and deep with every brutal pulse, hips grinding against her thick, sweat-slicked ass. She shudders, her legs buckling under the strain, her nails scraping shallow arcs into the stone, but her body won't let go. That tight little hole grips you like it means to steal your soul. You never thought breeding a goblin would be so damn //good//. Still, she doesn't cry out. Doesn't whimper. She just sucks a breath between her teeth, a slow, ragged hiss, like a beast savoring a wound. When you're done, you linger a moment: thick cock buried, hands bruising her hips, sweat dripping onto her spine. Then you wrench yourself free with a wet, audible sound that leaves both of you gasping. She slumps forward, arms trembling, face pressed against the cobblestone, thick ass still raised but shaking slightly with every breath. You take a moment to look at her — truly look. Her ratty skirt’s in tatters. Her taut thighs gleam with sweat and cum. She’s muttering something too quiet to hear. A curse, maybe, or a prayer. You spit to the side and buckle your trousers. ''“I think we’re even now.”'' She props herself up onto her elbows and laughs — hoarse, wrecked, mocking. ''"Didn't even say please,"'' She rasps, flashing you a crooked grin as she wipes herself off with her torn skirt. ''"Might've let you stay if you asked nice."'' You grunt, adjusting your trousers and ensuring that coinpatch is tightly reattached along your belt. Sweat still rolls down your back in thick, lingering rivulets, but you feel lighter now. Emptier. ''Satisfied.'' However, the feeling won't last forever. Stepping through the forgotten courtyard and descending back into the darkness of the alleys, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. With your last glance, you see the alley mist swallowing the thief whole as she limps off into her ruins. No promises, no regrets. Just the messy, vicious aftermath of two wild things crossing in the dark. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day and made the //best// of a bad situation. You count yourself lucky, victorious, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[Soon, you depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

At the last moment, you wrench free just in time, gripping yourself hard. <<set $intro_goblinfuck to true>> <<set $intro_goblinout_bastard to true>> She huffs in confusion, just as the first hot stripe splashes across her green skin — her jiggling ass, her narrow back, the small of her spine. Thick, hot seed paints her in crude, defiant marks, dripping down her curves and pooling in the dents of her battered flesh. You groan through clenched teeth, eyeing your mess. It's a primal, a crude mark that says: you were here. She shivers, shoulders slumping slightly, but the laugh she gives is anything but soft, ''“Could’ve painted a target, at least.”'' You let your hand rest on her ass for a beat, fingers sticky with your own filth. Then you shove her aside, gentle as a boot in mud and stagger back a step, panting like a man who's just survived a war. The goblin tilts her head lazily to look at you — golden eyes narrowed. ''"Heh,"'' she chuckles low in her throat, ''"Not man enough to finish the job, huh?"'' You don't answer. Just drag your thumb across the base of your cock, wiping the last of it onto the muck of a stone wall as you tuck yourself back into your trousers. She shifts onto her knees and palms her ass roughly, scooping your mess off her skin with no more ceremony than a butcher scrubbing blood from his hands. ''"Maybe next time, big man,"'' she snorts. ''"When you grow a pair."'' ''“I think we’re even now.”'' She just smirks. You grunt, adjusting your trousers and ensuring that coinpatch is tightly reattached along your belt. Sweat still rolls down your back in thick, lingering rivulets, but you feel lighter now. Emptier. ''Satisfied.'' However, the feeling won't last forever. Stepping through the forgotten courtyard and descending back into the darkness of the alleys, you remember that you'll have to make it over the various pits, holes, up the steps once more, and through the apparent traps that lay in wait. With your last glance, you see the alley mist swallowing the thief whole as she limps off into her ruins. No promises, no regrets. Just the messy, vicious aftermath of two wild things crossing in the dark. You wonder what the intent of that net was from earlier; whether they were innovative thugs looking for easy prey, or worse, a gang of slavers looking for new chattel. Regardless, it seems that you barely avoided a worse fate this day and made the //best// of a bad situation. You count yourself lucky, victorious, though perhaps it's too soon to say. You still have the journey ahead, back through the narrows... [[You depart into the darkness.|intro_right_homewithcoins_ending]]

<center><img src="images/inner_court.png" style="max-width: 100%;"></center> <<if $watchPhase is "early">>The doors to the Inner Courtyard groan open on old hinges, and a rush of cold air greets you like breath from a forgotten crypt. Mist hugs the flagstones in shallow swells, swirling low and slow across the ground like it’s searching for something. The torchlight doesn’t reach far—just enough to catch the edge of a statue near the far wall. It’s the old one. Cracked and slumped in a recess, robes chiseled in stiff drapery, face eroded by time. But tonight… it weeps. Thin rivulets of black water trail from beneath the sockets where its eyes once were. You watch for a while, thinking it might be a trick of light or rain—but there are no clouds. And no other statues cry. Somewhere nearby, gravel crunches. Slow. Deliberate. You stop breathing for a second, waiting and listening. No shape appears, and no voice calls out. No, the sound doesn't return. The silence after is absolute, a hush that feels too deep for an open sky. High above, the spires of Highrock loom like watchful spears. The building is quiet. Still. It should feel peaceful out here, but it doesn't. There’s nothing out here, and yet you don't feel quite alone. <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "middle">> <</if>> <<if $watchPhase is "late">> <</if>> [[Head back into the common room.|chp3_nightwatch_common]]

You cross the room towards Lyco, who glances your way without turning his head. The fire pops once, low and soft, and the silence settles between you both like another blanket. ''“Still early,”'' he mutters. You nod, though neither of you move. For a moment, the world feels very far away. The stone. The fire. The silence. Whatever waits in the upper floors… whatever stirs beyond the doors and beneath the stones… it will wait a little longer. Your watch isn’t over. But this story? <<set $watchPhase = "middle">> <<audio "please-calm-my-mind" fadeout>> It will continue soon. <center> This concludes the current installment of ''Orphan: Chapter 2.8''. More content will arrive in the next update. Thank you for reading! [[Support Orphan, follow development, or explore the other major branch!|support_orphan]] //Some nights at Highrock are just quiet enough to be dangerous.//</center>

<<set $watchPhase = "late">> [[Resume your patrol.|chp3_nightwatch_common]]

You slip back into the dorm with quiet steps, letting the door creak open just wide enough to slide through. Inside, the room is dim, but one of the candles has been lit again—its flame flickering low on the windowsill, set inside a small clay saucer. It throws long shadows up the wall, illuminating the pale spines of books and the huddled silhouette tucked into the top bunk. Gerwin. He’s leaned back against the stone with a book propped on his knees, knees drawn close, posture rigid in that way people adopt when they’re trying to read but aren’t really reading. His head tilts slightly when he hears you enter. **“Couldn’t sleep,”** he whispers, his voice gravel-soft. You nod and step closer. The floorboards hardly creak. He doesn’t look away from the page, but you can tell he’s not seeing it either. **“What are you reading?”** you ask, keeping your voice low. He snorts quietly. **“Nothing useful.”** A beat. Then, **“Just trying to keep my mind still.”** You lean against the bunk frame. Gerwin sighs. Closes the book without marking the page. **“Everyone keeps pretending like this is just school. Like we’re gonna go to classes, pass exams, learn runes and sword-forms and graduate like proper little officers.”** He shakes his head. **“But people disappear. You’ve heard them. Second-years, gone without word. Or worse. The Harrowing, they call it like it’s a tradition.”** His voice drops. **“But it sounds like a culling.”** You say nothing for a moment. Then: **“Think you’ll make it?”** He shrugs. Tries to play it off. Fails. **“I don’t know. I want to. But... I’m not Lyco. Or you.”** A glance, brief but heavy. **“I think I’m smart enough. Just not sure I’m *enough*.”** There’s no good answer. You don’t try to give one. You just stand there a little longer, in the warmth of a single candle, while the silence between you holds something heavy, but shared. Eventually, you step out again—closing the door gently behind you. The hallway feels a little less empty now. <<set $nightwatch_gerwin = true>> [[Return to the hall.|chp3_nightwatch_13]]

Slowly, carefully, you move closer. Quiet as breath, the soft heat from the bath’s edge curls around your ankles and clings to your skin like silk. Steam drapes the air, not thick enough to obscure, just enough to blur the world at its edges. The curtain hangs loose and heavy where the corridor bends, sagging slightly where it's pinned to the arch. There—just there—a gap no wider than your knuckle. You lean in, keeping your weight on the balls of your feet, eyes level with the slit in the velvet. The women’s side glows with a low, wet warmth, torchlight softened by steam. The pool glows faintly beneath the surface—rich and dark like amber tea, hiding and revealing in equal measure. The steam clings to the girls inside like a veil of silk. Three of them. Second-years, by the way they hold themselves. Not like girls: like predators resting between kills. They speak in the casual cadence of girls who don’t think they’re being heard. One reclines near the edge, pale and elegant, blonde hair wet and slick, all sharp cheekbones and smooth shoulders. Her breasts float just beneath the surface, nipples occasionally brushing the air when she shifts. One leg drapes over the ledge lazily, foot flexing with idle rhythm. Her long fingers trail the water absently, playing in soft concentric rings, spidery atop the shimmering surface. The second has tighter curls, darker skin, a tattoo winding like ivy up her left thigh and vanishing beneath the surface. She laughs easily, teeth white against the amber light. Her pert breasts rise and fall with each ripple, catching droplets like pearls, her limber frame stretching with slow, feline satisfaction. The third—dark lashes, olive skin, guarded eyes—sits more stiffly, arms wrapped loosely around her knees. She doesn’t quite look at the others, less engaged in the conversation. ''“We shouldn’t linger,”'' She murmurs, voice low but not urgent, ''“It’s nearly middle watch.”'' ''“That’s the point,”'' The second girl grins, ''“I like the idea of being somewhere I’m not meant to be.”'' She leans forward then, letting her chest rise fully from the surface for a moment—taut skin and hardened nipples kissed by steam—before slipping back beneath the water. ''“Besides,”'' the blonde murmurs, ''“No one checks the baths this early. The little gray-cloaks are probably too scared to even look.”'' You say nothing. You barely breathe. ''“Did you hear about Virelle?”'' The tattooed one says, splashing a little as she shifts closer, ''“Apparently she was assigned to Group Three for training drills. She didn’t say a word all session.”'' ''“Does she ever?”'' The blonde snorts. ''“No. But it’s //weird//, right? I heard her family used to be higher up than House Meridien. Now they don’t even have a crest.”'' ''“Not just that,”'' The tattooed girl leans in, conspiratorial, ''“My cousin said her father was convicted. Something to do with sabotage, or... I don’t know. Espionage. He was //erased//.”'' ''“Gods.”'' The dark-haired girl shivers. ''“Makes sense why she’s so cold. Or maybe she’s just ashamed.”'' ''“She doesn’t //look// ashamed.”'' The blonde raises an eyebrow. ''“Have you seen the way she carries herself? That girl still thinks she’s nobility.”'' A beat. ''“Or she wants to be seen that way. I bet she’s desperate to marry out.”'' The tattooed one chuckles, ''“Then she’s in the wrong place. No one //marries// out of Highrock.”'' They laugh together, even the quiet one, barely. Their amusement is low and indulgent. You can smell the oils they’ve used—clove, citrus, sandalwood. The kind of scent that clings long after the moment has passed. Eventually the conversation turns trivial—class gossip, instructor impressions, a second-year boy someone kissed behind the cloister wall. And you just watch. The water moves like honeyed smoke. Light clings to skin and shoulder and thigh. None of them notice you. Or if they do, they don’t show it. Eventually, the voices begin to fade, and the moment breaks. You step away from the curtain, pulse quickened. The stone feels cool again beneath your soles, the chill of the hall sharper after the steam. <<set $nightwatch_gossip = true>> [[Return to the corridor.|chp3_nightwatch_bath]]