Two horsemen ride up to a tavern...

Zachary H. said: "I'm already preparing to make a copy to send to the Verdant Citadel," she says. "This one, we'll use here." Thrandimir nods respectfully. "I would love to observe, if I may? Such magic is still beyond the limits of what I can draw upon, but I'm always keen to expand my repertoire." The wizard pauses for a moment, watching Marianne carefully before speaking again. "Forgive the question, but your powers are innate, yes? Grown through exercise and drawn out by experience?"

She responds by pulling up her right sleeve to the elbow. On the underside of her arm, Thrandimir can see faint patches of golden, scale-like structures on her skin. "Yes, my powers are innate. Commonly on Toril, and less commonly here, ancient dragons will insert themselves into mortal bloodlines. This sometimes result in mutations, like mine, or innate powers, also like mine. But unlike many sorcerers, I have studied the arcane and learned about my power, much like yourself." She begins pulling fine ink and parchment from a desk drawer. "This will take me quite some time. A week, maybe less. You are certainly welcome to observe for parts of that if you wish. But I do grow tired of men standing over my shoulder, regardless of their intentions. That, unfortunately, is a constant in any world."

"Of course. Thank you for your hospitality," Thrandimir assures Marianne, taking a step back and inclining his torso in what is almost a bow. The wizard inspects the golden scales with keen eyes, but maintains his distance. Once Marianne begins her work, Thrandimir observes for some time, taking occasional breaks to browse the sorceress's library, in order to make his presence more tolerable. The collection is filled with a multitude of fascinating books - far more than could ever be read in a single sitting. After spending some time reading a very interesting book about arcane theory, Thrandimir discovers that the magical weave is controlled by a goddess named Mystra and realises that the volume cannot be applicable to Estros's universe. He also finds a chronicle detailing the adventures of a King Arthur and his knights, a tome detailing all manner of monsters written by a man named Mordenkainen and a rather gaudy book entitled The Daring Trials and Tribulations of Sir Taryon Darrington. Nevertheless, Thrandimir takes care not to overstay his welcome and leaves before Marianne feels the need to ask him to do so.

Zachary H. said: She stops and places a hand on Katrin's arm, a look of concern marring her face.  "Kat, I'm so sorry,"  she says. The look on her face asks Katrin to continue, when she's ready. "I didn't know him all that well. But he seemed a good man." Katrin grasps Rose's hand on her arm, looking out over the field. "But the bastard who did it got away. And I think we'll see him again, before too long." She takes a shaky breath, her voice growing as distant as her eyes. "I killed his brother."

Rose nods, solemn. "You'll get him," she says. It's not an encouraging or placating phrase. It's just a statement of fact.

Katrin squeezes her hand. "I know." She closes her eyes as a cool breeze sweeps over them. "Rose," she starts, a frown returning to her face. "Do you think I'm violent?"

She furrows her brow at Katrin's statement. "No. Not at all. Why would you ask that?"

"Nothing, just..." she sighs. "Just something that I was thinking about. The tall one, Cal, asked me about the necessity of violence." She smiles sadly. "His heart really is too good for this world."

"Kat, I've seen you beat up thugs and then heal people minutes later," she says. "Nobody is one thing. The world's not black and white. But you're not a violent person. Not in that sense. And the fact that you're asking about this-" She places her hands on Katrin's cheeks, holding her face. "-means that you're better than most." She releases Katrin's face and steps away. Her lips slip into a lopsided grin and she affects more of her father's accent. "But I'm just a little ol' farm girl. What do I know?"

Katrin snorts at Rose's perfect imitation, her frown turning into a genuine smile. She throws an arm around her girlfriend's waist, turning them back to the house. "I need a bath. And I have to pay my respects." She leans her head on Rose's shoulder. "I won't ask you to come with me, only if you really want to. I understand needing space." Her eyes close slightly and she squeezes her tightly. "Mm, I love you Rosie." 

"I love you too. And I'll come," she says, turning to kiss Katrin's brow,  "on the condition that you bathe first.

A little more than an hour later, Na'arik summons the group to the top of the hill. The sun strains to shine through the gathering clouds. At the top of the hill, Na'arik has constructed a rough waist-high table of logs and wood scraps, surrounded by more kindling and wood. Laying atop the table, wrapped in a white cloth, is the body of Kou Shin, former keeper -- slain by the likes of Gesrik.

Callahan follows the others up the hill towards the hill, each step up its slope seeming to stretch longer through time. The air up top feels unsettlingly still like sailing into the eye of a storm, and he forces himself to breathe in just to prove he still can, lest the air have truly gone from this place. Approaching the pyre, he stares into the closed eyes of the fallen keeper, half-expecting them to open once more, ready as ever to espouse some manner of wisdom. But they don't, and he simply closes his own eyes in recognition, nodding softly to the man as he runs a hand down the coarse oaken wood, channeling small mites of magic into the deadened branches as he goes. As his hand passes by, twirling sprouts of leaf leap from the broken branches and bones of what once were trees, and from those sprouts, fuzzy white beads of life bloom into full-grown flowers. The Stars of Hol - Stella Holdina. When the whole of the pyre's edge is adorned in the snow-white blossoms, he plucks one and steps back. Cal holds it close to his own heart, closing his eyes and picturing once more the face smiling at him that day in the fireblade. All so recent and yea all so long ago. He opens his eyes, laying the star over Kou's chest, then steps back to join his companions.

Katrin stands apart from the group, Rose's arms around her shoulders. A faint smile lights her face as flowers bloom around Kou's body, and she leans her head back against Rose's shoulder. "Haven't seen those for a long time. Not since--" Not since you abandoned your family when they needed you the most. The smile fades slightly, and she squeezes her eyes shut as a tear trickles down her cheek. 

Rose says nothing, simply wraps her arms around Katrin and kisses her on the temple.  In the distance, a peal of thunder rolls across the hills.

Thrandimir stands in the inner ring of those clustered on the hilltop, loitering to one side of the pyre. The wizard leans heavily on his staff with the brim of his hat pulled low over his eyes. However, the thunder rolling across the countryside draws one corner of his mouth up into a wry smirk. Tempus is calling his faithful home , Thrandimir muses, glancing across at the girls standing apart from the rest of those present. Slowly wandering across the grass towards them, the wizard draws close enough to murmur something to his Dwarven companion. "Katrin, it should be you."

Oh gods, this better not be another damned piece of wisdom, Katrin thinks sourly as the wizard approaches. She says nothing for a long moment. "When it's time." The moment was coming. But it wasn't here. Not yet. The clouds were still too distant.

Thrandimir simply nods solemnly and steps away to leave Katrin and Rose in peace.

Kaed stands a little way apart from the others, the storm clouds bring a lack of light that thr tribesmen welcomes, it fits with the feelings within him. As shadows pass across them and rays of sunlight occasionally poke through Kaed holds himself, face set as if in stone.  If he is honest with himself the death of a man he barely knew wouldn't normally have given him much pause, but he had grown fond of and respected the former keeper. He had lost people before in his life, some cut deeper than others, the pragmatic part of his mind told him that months from now he would be able to reflect back and celebrate the monk's life not mourn his death, but not today. The manner of his death was what had wormed into his skin, the unsettling feeling that Kou had taken a death that might well have been his, and that he had been unable to save him or even take revenge. A grim smile plays across his lips, well that, at least, could be resolved.

The clouds continue their journey across the sky, the deep rumble of thunder growing closer with every passing moment. When it feels like the brewing storm is right on top of them, Katrin steps away from Rose, squeezing her hand before walking over to the pyre. She stands at Kou's feet, drawing her newly-forged battleaxe. After another moment, she looks around, and begins reciting a prayer, passed down through her family for thousands of years, of mourning of loss and celebration of life. As it nears it's end, the thunder grows louder, and Katrin's axe starts to glow red-hot. She raises it above her, and on the final word, brings it down into the wood between Kou's feet. A bolt of lightning strikes the pyre, setting it ablaze.  

Cal solemnly observes as Katrin brings her axe down on the pyre. As the flames quickly engulf it, the fire racing around the outside of the wood before rushing inwards towards Kou, the Stella Holdina  burst in small pufts of ash, releasing little clouds of stardust up into the sky alongside the quickly forming plume of smoke from the fire. Like twinkling motes of starlight, the flickering ash and smoke spiral upwards into the heavens, ferrying Kou beyond. For the rest of the group, left below, the air grows hot from the intensity of the flames, yet remains as still as ever. "I hope to meet you again someday, Kou,"  he whispers to himself,  "in a place beyond the stars."

Wood cracks and flames shoot up into the night sky. Thunder rolls again and a light rain begins to fall, but the fire remains unabated. As the pyre begins to collapse, the party turns back down the hill toward the tavern. The interior is warm. The fire in the hearth evokes memory of the funeral as it crackles welcomingly. Only a few patrons remain, however, as a surprise rainstorm spells more work for the village's farming population. Na'arik brings mugs of ale and freshly baked rolls for the party. Marianne bids the group good night and returns to her chambers, likely planning on continuing the process of copying the ancient spell scroll they found.

As the rest of the gathered trickle towards the tavern in the darkening rain, Katrin walks back over to Rose. Rather then follow, she takes her hand and starts off towards the farmhouse. "Let's go home Rosie."

Ascian sits quietly with the others for a long moment after the funeral, the sound of the rain against the roof punctuating wayward thoughts and every sentence none of them quite seem to know how to voice. He hadn't known what to make of the funeral; only knew that it was heavy, and Tempus seemed to have been there, though if it had been the god of war or the god of the forge he couldn't say. War, he supposed, for Kou. Or both, maybe, if Katrin was to be believed; both in that disconcerting, nebulous state of duality that Thrandimir seemed happy to dwell in. The same state that couldn't possibly be true. Food is arranged in front of them and rain continues to splatter against the rooftop and for a long moment Ascian watches Katrin go, disappearing towards the gathering dark with Rose. The dwarven woman's words hit him at the same time the scent of fresh baked bread does, a smell that might have once been appetizing.  Answers are only half the battle. Not for the first time that evening, he thinks of the monk; of the assuredness with which Kou had believed in his god of war. The Keeper had had certainty, and certainty meant answers, and Ascian hadn't considered asking for them until it was too late and Tempus, in one or both or maybe none of his forms, had called the other man home.   He can't make that same mistake twice. "I'm going to see Marianne,"  he mumbles to no one in particular, standing from the table to ascend the stairs. It isn't the first time he's gone by himself to the sorcerer's room uninvited, but at least this time he knows where to look; mimics Na'arik's form with the tankard on the dresser with distinct lackluster and notes in dim surprise that it actually seems to work as the room around him begins to flood. As before, the liquid rises and dissipates quickly, soon leaving him blinking again in the long, rectangular room he isn't supposed to know exists. Reluctant and acutely aware he's likely unwanted, he drifts forward a few steps toward the desk that is clearly Marianne's.  "I have a question."

Marianne makes long, slow curves with her quill, the intricacies of the ancient parchment mapping perfectly onto the new piece of vellum. "I will do my utmost to answer, Ascian," she says, not taking her eyes off the paper until she finishes the line. She sets the quill in its inkwell and finally looks up at the pale man. "What is it?"

Ascian pushes forward, stopping uncomfortably close at the edge of her desk and blinking down at her script for a moment before saying without preamble,  "I don't eat anymore. Or sleep. Sometimes I'm not even here. Things go grey. Quiet.  I don't know magic, but the others think I might be phasing.  Is that possible."

Marianne stands, moving toward Ascian. "May I?" she asks, reaching her hand out toward his arm. When Ascian nods, she takes his arm and runs her fingers along the length of it, from the inner elbow down to the wrist. Her eyes crackled with purple eldritch energy. She draws back after a moment, looking Ascian up and down quizzically. "Phasing? Maybe. What do you mean when you say that you're not even here?"

"Everything goes grey. Things disappear, or appear, or the weather is wrong," he says reluctantly, his limb tense beneath her touch as if expecting a blow. It remains tight even after she releases him and his arm drops heavily back to his side.  "It may not be true. But it feels that way. I'm not breathing either." Quickly, almost defensively, he adds,  "They said I'm not undead." 

"Would you say it's like a dark reflection of this world?" she asks. The question is almost nonchalant, but Ascian can tell there's real concern in her eyes.

Ascian looks at her for a long moment, suddenly feeling far colder than he usually does. "Yes. It's like here, but muted. Wrong." He scours her face for answers, the note of recognition there resonating within him far more loudly than he would like. "What does that mean."  

Marianne's eyes flicker from alarm to compassion in less than a heartbeat -- if Ascian's heart still beat. "Nothing good, I'm afraid. Somehow, you're tied to the Shadowfell. The Plane of Darkness. A place of shades and gloom."

"Oh."   Ascian meets her stare, the words coming to him from somewhere else, as if spoken  to  someone else. He wishes it was. Shades and gloom; he knows it's right the moment she says it, and though it's an answer, though he'd insisted to Katrin answers were what mattered, he finds himself questioning if it's what he wanted after all. He sounds younger than he is when he hedges,  "Is there a way to not be?" 

"Maybe. I don't know," she says. "The last time I felt a link this strong was a species of dual-minded beings in Eberron. Kalashtar, I believe they're called. But you're...well, you're ostensibly human." She frowns, running a finger across her eyebrow. "Do you have any idea how this might have happened?"

"It's been this way as long as I can remember. It's just getting worse." He focuses past her on the scroll on her desk with unseeing, unblinking eyes.   Of course he was human. Even if Katrin had told him he was undead, he would have still first and foremost have been human.  That much, at least, hadn't been questioned. It was about the only thing that hadn't been. Wouldn't be. Couldn't. "Where's Eberron." Abruptly, his attention lifts back to hers, brow twitching in confusion. "And w hat do you mean, dual-minded?"

"Eberron is another prime material plane. Highly advanced magical society, much like the Tollanian Empire once was. As for your dual-mindedness," she pauses, pouring water from an ornate pitcher into two crystal glasses. She takes one and offers it to Ascian, then drinks the other. "I find it very unlikely that you yourself are actually shifting between planes. I'm intimately familiar with planar magic, and I've dealt with problematic plane shifters before. This isn't that. It seems that you're somehow...hmm...telepathic isn't the right word... psychically linked to another being in the Shadowfell." She finishes her water and looks at Ascian. "What is the day and year of your birth? Do you know?"

"The last day of the year. I'm twenty, I think. No. Twenty-one."  Ascian swirls the water in the glass she'd handed him disconcertedly, watching it spiral before setting it untouched on the edge of her desk. His mouth feels dry, but the thought of drinking is impossible.  "I am telepathic. Not to something there, I don't think. But here. I can talk to people without speaking." He shifts his weight from one foot to the other as he looks at her.  "I don't know if that means anything. But it's always been that way too." 

"Making your birth year 1168," she says, a dark frown crossing her face. "You've never hear this other being speak, have you?"

"No. Is that important." He glances up. "When I...see there, I see it like I would here. Not someone else. It's like I'm there."

Marianne's frown lessens. "Ascian, I'm not sure what exactly is ailing you. But I have a feeling that it's been ever since you were born. Perhaps your parents could shed more light on this."

"They took me to a wisewoman. Outside Bresselvik. She said I was cursed," he says dimly, thinking of the horrified look on the woman's face and the way her twisted fingers had snapped from his forehead seconds after touching it. "But curses can be broken. That's the point. Right?"

"Of course," Marianne says. "But they never told you how this curse came to be?"

"She took the money and kicked us out after that," he replies dully. "I scared her. I don't think they know anything more than I do. Or at least they didn't. Maybe they do now, but they're in the Cape." His arms cross listlessly in front of him, then uncross, and fall back to hang at his sides. "Why would the day I was born matter?"

"No reason," she says quickly. She studies Ascian carefully. "Do you know what Daerheim is?" The question, again, is nonchalant; offhand.

He blinks at her, perplexed, not even certain what language that might be. "What's that."

"Nothing you need to worry about," she says, a look of relief spreading across her face. "I'm afraid I can't do anything about your condition. Not until I know more. I'll do some research after I finish copying this scroll."

He doesn't know what to make of the look of tangible relief, only register that it doesn't sit well with him, and the sense of cold in his chest sinks a little deeper. Nevertheless he gives a short nod, noting the obvious dismissal, and heads back toward the ring of stones.  "Thanks."

Kaed had stayed longer as the flames burned, standing a vigil after they were nothing more than smoke and embers, his companions had returned to the Fireblade but Kaed could not bring himself to do so. He recalled the dream on the mountainside, the man at the summit, the ache in his soul that wouldn't go away.  He made himself turn away from the pyre, he had said all he had wished to say to Kou's spirit earlier and all that remained was ash. He walked back to the tavern, looking around and finding thr place quiet he made his way to his room and lay on his bed, the comfort of doing so barely registering with him.  Sleep didn't come quickly and Kaed found himself thinking of Ascian, who he had shared his thoughts with in the late watches, while the others slept. Maybe, he wondered, he could talk to him now, he didn't seem to ever sleep anyway. But he stayed where he was, his young friend probably had no wish to be bored by Kaed's worries. The tribesmen lay in the darkness angry with himself for not being able to shake this. The sun wasn't far from rising when he finally found some rest.

It's some time before sleep finds Katrin. By the time she and Rose had returned, Wendall was long in bed, having finished early due to the gathering storm. Rose falls asleep quickly, her gently sleeping form the only comfort as Katrin lies awake, her mind restless. Lightning reflects through the glass panes of the window, and thunder occasionally shakes the timbers of the house.  Another flash, and Katrin sits upright, certain that she saw a face in the clouds for a brief moment. Rose stirs. "Katrin? You okay?" Rose's speech is slurred, and she sleepily hooks her arm around Katrin's, gently pulling her back.  "Hmm? I'm fine. Just...thought I saw something. For a moment." Katrin allows Rose to pull her back down and nestle her head into the crook of her neck. Katrin closes her eyes, taking a few deep breaths to calm her racing heart, Rose's sweet scent bringing her back to earth. She thinks back to a few days prior. What she'd said to Ascian. Answers are only half the battle.  She turns into Rose, wrapping her arm around her once-again sleeping form. Katrin closes her eyes, placing a kiss on Rose's forehead as she drifts into uneasy sleep. 

Thrandimir is uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the evening. He spends most of it in the shelter of the open door to the Fireblade's balcony, feet propped up as he tokes slowly on his pipe and watches the rain. The wizard steals away to his bed before long and is up in good time to get an early start on his reading in Marianne's library. He observes her crafting for as long as the senior mage is comfortable with, before engrossing himself in the fascinating pages of Mordenkainen's Tome of Foes. Fuelled by enthusiasm and burning curiosity, Thrandimir makes excellent progress, but burns out towards the end of the day and is forced to take a break from his reading.

Unlike the last time they had been in Fireblade, Ascian doesn't attempt to make use of his bed; he spends the night hunched in the doorway of the balcony and then, once the rain stops, over the terrace itself, watching the village sleep in his stead. There are a few hours spent motionless hunched against the bars, where the feel of the wind against his skin passes the time, but the sun is barely risen to an acceptable hour before he's retracing his steps to the magical study he'd left just a few hours before. Beneath him, the sound of Na'arik in the main tavern assuages any vague thought that it might yet be too early – his concept of time conscientiousness is slipping by the day, now that his are twice as long – and he doesn't slow before entering their room unbidden and repeating the steps required to take him back to the study. He stares up at the books for a long moment once the water has released him before turning toward Marianne, saying as if the previous night's conversation had never stopped, "What's Daerheim."