Lamai's Request {Spires}

[Elfling]

She'd been awake most of the night and the next day, working on a map that made no sense to anyone but herself. The note had been written and rewritten, even after she'd gathered her things, following on the footheels of Isobella's departure that morning.

Eventually, various notes were tacked around Myrken Town, the forestry, and the tavern itself.

"Wanted and Needed.." It said. "Adventurers and Healers of all types for the removal of the Spires. Please contact Lamai Carver at the Broken Dagger. If unfound, please leave contact with Pritchard in the form of a note."

It was an announcement, but not simply for the people of Myrken.

He had declared War upon her years earlier. She had now formally answered it.

[Kaz]

The step of heavy, cloven hooves, uneven in their permanent limping rhythm. A deep rumble, blowing of warm breath. The horned head lowered, a scar-marked muzzle, broad and bullish, fangs peeking past the thick sable lips. An affectionate bump to the healer's slight shoulder, and the passing of a long, tufted tail. That was all needed, between these pair. The minotaur's sword was at Lamai's disposal.

[Khalika]

Even before she was walking through the township, catching sight of small clustered groups looking upon the Notes left by the Healer Lamai, she knew of them....For it seemed a certain elfling wished her to know of them. the question in her mind was Why?.. Was it some crass joke?..Or Maybe just maybe the Elfling isn't as hard hearted as she wants everyone to believe.... In any case one of Lamai's requests was tucked away upon her form, though she has made no indication she knows about them or wishes to join whatever forces are building...No....She will keep her invovlement on the outside rim for now...

But surely a meeting with the healer is most definatly in order..

[Charan`Jaydemyr]

Hey, look. Someone's stuck something to this tree.

"Yeah...As if the poor thing hasn't got enough to worry about these days."

Think we should take it?

"Murderer I am. Liar I am. Thief I am not."

Take it, brother. It concerns you anyway.

"Must you pull all your lines from my past?"

I'm a voice in your head, Charan. Original thought is a technical impossibility.

"I didn't realise that."

Check the name. It's her. She can write, too. Maybe Quincy wasn't lying when she said the woman can heal. They always educate those priestly types.

"Quincy is too...Too something to lie, sis."

Stupid? Simple? Edible?

"...But someone else did lie. She was out there, that time. Talking with him. And she then used her 'true' name thrice within earshot of the girl...To whom she had lied."

If you've a point, Half-wit, get to it. Sometime, oh, NOWish would be nice.

"...Remember what the elf Adorain asked, what I answered. Quincy has the right to be part of this struggle - more right than I, definitely: I'm just the hired help no one hired. Some call me 'saviour', some 'interloper' and some get it right in not calling me at all. But here I am for now, and now, Quincy, Phlynn, Adorain, and Gods know how many others have a great trial to face. If they must, why not at least try to make sure it is not an effort tainted with anything more than unnecessary subterfuge within the ranks?"

...Uhm...What? Smaller words, please, and preferably less of them too.

"...Lamai, a healer who can look a young woman in the eye and lie. Me, a sword whose hilt is as jagged as the tip. Adorain, who's keeping secrets of her own. Dabria, who knows the way, who knows her end is coming. Adults, Sis. Corrupted, deceitful tacticians crooked over the maps of social discord. And we're supposed to be those who *help* the younger ones?"

That was more words, and bigger ones too! I'm guessing you think we should retain this little missive, this...Map?...Even though it's really none of our business, because of her again?

"...That's a close enough approximation."

You just don't change.

"No one changes, Sariana. All that happens is a little something inside them dies every minute, every hour, every day."

...How morbid. What now then?

"No idea. Their story hasn't revealed itself to me yet. Pay attention when it does. I'll be too busy telling it to listen."

Don't forget...It's not your story.

"Of course it's not; I'm giving it, and we own nothing we give. What they do with it is their business."

Washing your hands again?

"...It's not my story. If it were, I'd kill everyone and use their blood to write obscenities on the walls of the Broken Dagger. Be thankful, then...Because those who should be are never going to know it."

[Ghislaine]

The aeries. Word of those spreads across a forty-mile radius; she'd heard of the things -- almost certainly cursed, and undeniably unnatural -- before even catching sight of the town. And naturally, the request is pinned to the 'Dagger's own wall. Of the tavern, she'd heard word while crossing Myrken's borders. Ravenous corpses, they'd said. Cataclysm.

Absolution.

So she'd penned a note for Pritchard, whose appearance was disappointingly mundane; perhaps he kept his gifts, his true skin, well-hidden. A woman could hope. The note, the note: sparsely-inked, and in an elegant hand, and likely to wreak the oddest harms on young Carver, should she have the misfortune to crush in into a careless ball. But it promises aid, and hints at question, and makes mention of its author -- in particular, the extensive tattooing that will serve to identify her in future days. The signature reads 'Ghislaine Devenir'; she'd agonised over it, had shelved the more arrogant notions for later days.

All things in time.

[Seranos]

By the light of a single candle, he had begun the preparations.

Intricately woven runes, and sigils upon the floor would create the gateway back home. Powdered silver, basalt, hair of a nymph, the venom of a viper and his own blood would decorate walls, floor and ceiling of his humble room at the Dagger. He didn't particularily care if Pritchard would be furious about the mess. It would be worth it.

A message had been left with him, only hours prior, for the young Healer. An answer to her call for aid.
Upon aged parchment, folded neatly about a strange brass and silver talisman, the simple words were written.

Call, and I will come.

In truth, she may not have known who it was. But there were words writ upon the brass, the silver unblemished by age. It was no larger than the palm of a child's hand, but it would do the trick nicely. She would call; And he would come.

As such, he had much work to be done.

As the last of his whispered words caressed the sigils carefully lain out upon the floor and walls, a great tear screamed into being, pulsing and searing as it hung horribly in the air. He drew up his blade, and stepped through.

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The last of the beasts slumped down against the wall with a whimpering gurgle, spilling past horrid lips as its lifeblood bubbled up from around the blade piercing its throat.
He cast a brief glance over his shoulder to the blood splattered hall he had travelled down. They all once had bowed to his passing. Now they were dead. There wasn't even any regret in his cold expression as he finally pushed upon the heavy obsidian doors that led to his private chambers.

A murmured word of magick brought the multitude of candles flickering to light. There, unfaded by the dust of ages, against the far wall rested a suit of armour, and several tomes of the blackest secrets.

He stalked towards them, intent on making himself ready for what was to come.....

[Pipkin]

With so many things left twirling in her mind, she had little care to read signs posted to doors, walls, trees, and generally any other place that was sure to catch human attention. However, the amount of time she spent in Myrkentown was probably the reason she knew what they all said.

Every time she walked by a marked post, tree, door, or wall, her mind soaked in a new piece of the announcement. Eventually, she had read it all without truely knowing that she had.

The Djinn was a questing essence. Always causing Elil to search for meaning in what was already an adventure-filled life. There were so many things she needed to take care of; Elil seemed to attract problems that needed to be solved like a magnet. But they were all her own.

This one concerned the well being of the entire town.

She paused in the middle of the street, and gravel crunched under her sandled foot as she turned to actually begin reading a posted sign for the first time.

It wasn't for a chance to be great. It wasn't for the chance to have everyone know she had done a good deed. If those things mattered to her, she would have attended the Town's party just a few nights ago...

No, it was more like a compulsion; a beckoning to do things, no matter the good or bad.

She was just lucky to have a personal preference.

You lied to her last time, Little Elephant. This is more important than petty, personal things. You said yourself they just were not worth it. Follow your path..not one others lay before you. Sweat began to bead itself upon the asian one's brow as she lowered her head..and simply began walking into the direction of the Broken Dagger.

[madmansaint]

a darker-eyed man than seen before tacks a quick reply, and leaves as silently. the faint smell of musk curls around the paper left thereupon.


Will you find me, or should I find you?

it is signed, quite simply,

- D.W.

[Elfling]

Every note had been carefully tucked away. They had stopped coming, and little surprise. She had stopped caring. With Mephisto's death, Lamai's passion for the uprising had faded like the smoke it was.

Therefore, it came as a surprise when she stopped at the bar to get a glass of water. Pritchard simply handed her a folded sheet of paper, eyeing her in something akin to wary concern. He'd taking a liking to the little healer, and her days - nay, weeks - of silence had been worrysome. At least, she was silent unless Altias was around. At least, she seemed to be filling out finally. Now, he wouldn't have to feel so guilty about watching her skeletal form move; it was no longer skeletal.

But, Lamai Carver wasn't watching the tender size up her healthier appearance. No, her hands were unfolding the newest note, while already, she had started to formulate a response. 'It's been called off,' her mind murmured. It didn't get much farther than that.

D.W.

Him.

He was dead.

She killed him herself.

She put him in the bottom of the lake.

D.W.

She didn't even notice her hands tremble. She didn't notice that she forgot the glass of water she had come for, or that she was turning from the bar with a skin tone that was nearly green. She did notice that her throat had closed up with a choking sensation. Air. She needed air.

Yet, it struck her as she pushed out of the Dagger's double front doors.

If she could be sent back, what was to stop someone *else* from doing the same to him.

Lady!, her mind cried instinctively. There was no answer. The Lady had not been her patron for months. Lamai Carver sagged against the wooden rail of the porch.

Don't find me. Please, don't find me.