[Celestial Arms Quest 2-1] Talk with the Messier Sage

[Fletcher]

Fletcher became conscious with a start, still submerged underneath the waters of Ultima Thule. Everything was still and as he remembered it, but his level was back to normal, his MP was nearly non-existent, and the Pebble of Philosophy was no longer shining. He had no idea what had happened, what the beast was that he was fighting, but he needed answers. The dwarf made to move but found himself crippled with pain, grunting with little option but to lay there with his thoughts until his MP recovered to the point where he could either cast a healing spell or to just warp back to Londinium with the Call to Home skill. With nothing but his memories to keep him company, he thought back to the battle and tried to remember what he could of the memories that did not belong to him. The first thing that struck out to him was the behaviour and the accessibility to the followers that had assisted him in the battle. Who were they? Why did they appear? And why were they referring to him as ‘Lord Syllabus’?

He’d need to do some digging when he got the chance into who this guy was. If he was a summoner, and there was every likelihood that he would be, why did his followers assist? Why were they not only assisting, but mistaking him for their master? Unless this guy was a doppelganger there should be no reason for the confusion from visual appearances alone. Unless all followers were actually blind and went off of some arbitrary mana index like a barcode and it just so happened that Fletcher’s matched and it was all easily explained that way.

Oh how easy it would be to explain.

Time ticked by and Fletcher was able to bring himself up to his hands and knees, MP being depleted as soon as there was enough there to cast Heal. He didn’t wish to face Carbuncle or Sylph just yet in fears of them being radically different from when he last saw them. The stoic fox that went by the same name was not his Carbuncle; his Carbuncle was small, naïve and talkative. The Sylph he met was motherly, prim and proper; his was a bratty teen who needed a father figure to lay down ground rules. The only vivid memory he could recall was making a pact with Salamander; all the others seemed to just come to him but not have any hint as to where they could be found. Salamander was out there somewhere on the frontier, but it was going to take ages to track down that exact location with how vast it all stretched. He’d ask around when he finally got back, but after he got some answers to his questions from the sage.

Call to Home was cast when Fletcher was able to stand, although he was still tattered and bruised from the fight against Brachyura, not to mention drenched in water with clothes in serious need of a quick repair or patch job. He stumbled around town, trying to get his bearings and pushing past those that would impede his progress forward; looking for the Messier Sage.

Word Count: 532
Sark

[Sark]

Sark sat quietly in the shade of an oak tree. He was enjoying the quiet solitude that can be found in a park in the middle of a bustling city, where daily concerns seem less relevant. In front of him was a thick outdoor blanket covered with neatly folded clothes, belts and bangles. A large, barely legible sign had been pasted in front of the store. He had not received many customers today so had taken to simply enjoying the day instead of stressing about profit margins. In short, he enjoyed his life too much to let work control it.

With the sun sparkling through a nearby pond the tailor was reminded of a recent raid he had attended, and fished a blue, sparkling pebble from his pocket. It was the philosopher’s pebble; a quest item required to enter a dungeon. Dozens of adventurers had been chosen as vessels of the philosophers and had been told to destroy a monstrous genius. Few had questioned this ironical situation, merely thankful to respond to a perceived danger. With their shiny rock Sark and the others had laid siege to an island. During their final battle with a demonic crab-person spirits of the past had temporarily empowered the party, lending them the strength to fight.

It had been an odd battle. If Sark focused he could still remember that feeling; of total confidence in his power, in the cool touch of spirits through his chest and in the blistering combinations his body had known. After the genius had been defeated the spirits had relinquished their power but Sark had still felt strong. This time it had not been the artificial strength of the spirits, but strong due to his accomplishments.

It was only when had returned home and discovered that the genius was a respawning boss and he had ultimately accomplished nothing that his sense of accomplished, and the smile that had gone along with it, faded. For the days since he had tried to distance himself from the sages. He had felt a fool, and was petulantly avoiding further foolery. Other adventurers still returned steely eyed or world weary after fighting the monster, which had slowly turned his anti-sage sentiment into a pro-adventurer sentiment.

It was the reason for the sign in front of his store. It read

“free !!!! cloth & leather armour mending service. Crabs are lame !!!!”

His mobile stall had also been moved from the main food thoroughfare to the Sage’s Park (as it was now being called). The path that meandered from the main entrance to the Sark went directly past Sark, giving him the chance to help as many people as possible.

There was a scuffing noise in the distance, around the bend of some poplar trees. Sark schooled his face to stillness to hide the excitement he felt. I was nice helping people. There was no other word for it. The relief and pleasure their faces showed when they knew their clothes could be returned to normal, that they could look & feel presentable again, was reward enough. Around the corner someone dragged themselves. Their entire posture shouted 'exhausted,' and though the tailor could not make out detail from here, it seemed that the fellow had not even waited to dry off before turning. As they neared, Sark realised it was his buddy Fletcher; a fellow dwarf with a charming fox companion and a steady head on his shoulders. The boy restrained himself from running over to help, instead excitedly sitting still, waiting for Fletcher to notice the store and the sign. The closer Fletcher got, the more Sark could see what a sorry state he was in. The mans' eyes were glazed, his clothing was practically gone, and an uncomfortable coat of travel dust had stuck to his wet body. Yet his jaw was firmly set, and his body radiated determination. He reached Sark's store and continued on without a pause, his eyes still unclear.

Sark pouted in mock annoyance. In truth he was worried for Fletcher, but didn't know how to help. With a flash of insight the boy thumped his fist into an open palm. He would get Fletcher to the sage, and while they did a debrief and the quest reward was doled out (for this is what Sark assumed the next stage would be), Sark could mend his friend's clothes on the sly.

He quickly packed his store, rolled up the carpet and jogged over to the summoner. Without missing a beat he ducked down, rolled an arm over Fletcher and helped to prop him up.

"There we go bud. That Brakky really did a number on you. What was it, only 3 of you to fight him? The tank must not have been that great for a healer like you to cop this much damage." He quipped. Once Fletcher had replied, Sark continued. "But here mate, let me help you to the sage. It's just around this corner and we'll be there in no time."

'And then I can fix this excuse for clothing' He amended to himself.

Samurai: _________ 14 Tailor:  ___________ 15 Acrobat: _________ 01

Word Count: 849 + 10% Oct Art + 20% CA =1103

Pokes: Fletcher

OOC: Sark will join in properly ofc.

Skill Descriptions:
Chain 1: "Lightspeed" Denkosetta, "Steel-Cutting Blade" Zantetsuken
Chain 2: "Flashwave" Shunsen
Chain 3: "Blade Clone" Tsuguri Bunshin, "Divinity Slash" Seinaru Shinken
Not Chain: Spear Break

[Fletcher]

In all honesty, Fletcher wasn’t having much luck at all to say the least. He’d stumbled into a few people accidentally and in doing so knocked over a few things he hadn’t meant to. While he wanted to break something out of frustration, where his mind was at was just not suitable for it. There were odd murmurings as he made his way through town, some people concerned, a couple of the younger adventurers taking delight in the sight of an older man wandering around in a bedraggled mess like a vagrant. From an outside perspective, Fletcher probably looked like he was under the influence of something, be it drugs or alcohol, he just wasn’t very approachable from a visual standpoint. Fletcher flexed his fingers before returning them to the balled up fists he held stiffly at his side, his tired hunch being the main driving force for keeping himself moving forward; stopping could possibly mean that he’d just end up falling face first on the cobblestone.

It was weird not having Carbuncle around, and while he was now in town and the upkeep would be free, he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Was it fear? No, there wasn’t anything to fear from a potential surprise in seeing Carbuncle take a new form. Then what was it? What had him spooked so bad that he was having second thoughts about calling upon what was in all appearances, his familiar? He tried to shake the feeling from his head, raising a hand to clutch his temple but halted feeling an arm wrap around him. It took him longer than it should have, his focus clarifying itself for him to make out who was now under his arm. He was still tender, and as Sark added his own weight to the equation to help him up, the older dwarf grunted in discomfort before settling in to use the other dwarf as a walking stick of sorts. Then Sark questioned him about the fight and the event flashed before his eyes, making him seem glazed over again before he responded in a raspy tone, clearing hit throat before trying again. ”I… No… I was the only…” He stumbled, feeling dizzy before looking at Sark before his gaze dropped to the crystal in his hand. ”’I went alone.” He felt silly admitting it; in hindsight he should’ve gone with more people given the whole rule about safety in numbers. He had an escape route planned out, but for whatever reason it didn’t occur to him to use it, just to attack, slay, and be victorious using his superior mastery of the summoning arts. Not that he felt very masterful now though.

Sark tugged Fletcher around the corner to where the sage was waiting and a few of the others in the Messier Order made way when two adventurers came through, one clearly very injured but holding out in the open his Pebble of Philosophy. They had seen many adventurers come and go with the same stones, each one of them being told a similar but never identical explaination as to the nature of the things they had uncovered from Ultima Thule; there was a long story behind it, and it was best left to the sage to micromanage given any false move at this point could land them in a lot of trouble in the grand scheme of things. The Messier Sage was poised as if expecting the pair of them to show up, a small smirk forming at the edge of his mouth. Fletcher, like before, still couldn’t pick the gender, but it didn’t matter when the sage started speaking. “How did the expedition go?” It was clear as day how the expedition to Thule went, and Fletcher audibly snarled, the grip on his Pebble of Philosophy tightening and cutting into his hand.

Then, with no other prompts, Fletcher threw himself at the sage and grabbed him roughly by the robe, hoisting him only an inch from the ground due to their height difference. Fletcher looked enraged and said nothing at first before muttering something. A few of the other members of the order went to intervene but a firm hand was raised by the sage to stop them. ”What is that thing?” The sage was as stoic as ever, saying nothing before motioning to be put down. Fletcher dropped him and he landed more gracefully than the dwarf had given him credit for. Fletcher looked at Sark but said nothing, before turning back to the sage. In a low voice Fletcher spoke, eyes narrowed on the sage. ”What is the Pebble of Philosophy?”

“Genius M1: Brachyura. This is the name we have given this beast, the term ‘Genius’ our classification for other creatures that share the same…” He twirled his hand in the air, searching for the word. “…traits.” He looked at Sark and smiled from underneath the cowl before looking back to Fletcher. “The Pebble and what you fought are closely related. As I’m sure both of you may have noticed, there are a multitude of people leaving this place with the same crystal, a similar story, but all slightly different. The nature of the crystal is thus; it is a mass of memories from a civilisation long gone, so intense and so condensed that their anima flows through whomever wields one. For every strong soul In that civilisation there is a pebble, and for each individual person there is a lifetime of memories to call upon.” The Messier Sage brushed off the robe he wore and clasped his hands delicately behind his back.

After the spiel, the sage turned to Sark. “Now did you have any questions before your friend tries to lift me off the ground again?”

Word Count: 960
Total Word Count: 1492

[Sark]

A pair of figured stumbled into the garden where the Messier Order had set up a temporary camp. An open-aired tent was spread beside some garden beds, while a set of cookfires lay discretely beside some shrubs. Sark had spent some time petulantly glowering at the camp, so was familiar with its layout, including the impromptu High Seat that the Sage took.

The Sage was reclining grandly on this as they approached, but as they neared he swept up in a grand gesture. There was a cast to his eyes that Sark instinctively distrusted, and couldn't help but stick out his tongue at the pomp. This may have been what caused the Sage to speak to Fletcher with such cutting remarks. The provocation proved too much for Fletcher, who with a growl leaped forward and shook the slender sage. The motions spoke of frustration rather than murderous intent, so Sark felt no inclination to intercede. He too had been hurt by the sage's grand promises. The roughing up ended quickly, with the Sage opening about the genius they had fought and the pebble that they had gained. It was said to be the essence of a strong soul condensed into physical form and a true treasure for the genius they had fought off on separate occasions. The story sounded nice, but something didn't sit right with the childish dwarf.

"Wait a second ... so these pebbles are like 'hero souls' of you locals" The Sage nodded impatiently. "And that the crab guy was very similar to these? Does - does that mean that he was also a strong soul from that other civilisation?"  Sark rushed on, his fears going directly from his stomach to his mouth without passing through the filter of his brain. "Was he a cause of the civil wars and is like a baddie? Or ... or it that these things are eggs of these monsters? Was M1 a person like you or me at some point?"

The Sage seemed upset by the question. They needlessly smoothed the silk of their star-speckled robe before finally speaking up. "It is true what I said before ... Geniuses are what we classify this sort of being as. It is also true that the geniuses know what we call them. They have taken the name onto themselves as title to wear proudly. Our research suggests that they are ageless monsters who were able to grow into a certain corrupted sentience. They share their knowledge and plans with one another. With their growth in knowledge also came a twisted immortality."

The sage sat down in their chair, and a haunted look fleetingly cast their face into shadow. "Even now we don't know the details, for they are fast and fearless. It appears that they have a finite number of resurrections, but they do not weaken or forget as an adventurer does. This means with each foe slain, their power and knowledge only grows. By taking a pebble such as that, the boost they would receive would be ... terrible. The c uniforms hold the tale to their origin, but only a few of these widely distributed pamphlets remain."

At this Sark dug about in his magic bag, and looked at the cuneiform that his group had found. His was only a small tablet the size of his palm and had letters chiseled finely into it. Had Sark not known where they were, he would had guessed that it had been laser engraved. The lettering didn't look Roman, Egyptian or Cyrillic so he hadn't the faintest what it may say.  While his eyes tried to make sense of gibberish in front of him, he noticed a depression in the middle of a line of text. Intrigued, Sark brought it closer to his eyes and saw it had a tiny lip as if to hold something there.

A sudden intuition settled over him, and Sark remembred he was in a game world.

"Of course." He whispered. With the cuneiform in one hand and the recently retrieved pebble in the other Sark announced . "Everyone. Get ready for something."

The pebble fit perfectly. The sound of static started up, and like a speaker rapidly turned up the volume skyrocketed. Sark's vision blurred, and then disappeared.

Samurai: _________ 14 Tailor:  ___________ 15 Acrobat: _________ 01

Word Count: 711 + 10% Oct Art + 20% CA =924

Pokes: Fletcher

OOC: Onto part 2!

Skill Descriptions:
Chain 1: "Lightspeed" Denkosetta, "Steel-Cutting Blade" Zantetsuken
Chain 2: "Flashwave" Shunsen
Chain 3: "Blade Clone" Tsuguri Bunshin, "Divinity Slash" Seinaru Shinken
Not Chain: Spear Break

1. Talk with the Messier Sage [Londinium].
Done! - Post a thread within the Londinium subforum, label the thread with the prefix [Celestial Arms Quest]. To better differentiate this quest from the Chapter 1 counterpart, you may wish to label it something like [Celestial Arms 2-1].
Done!- Post at least 2 times within the thread (if performing this questline as a group, each member must post 2 times) with a total of 500 or more words
Done!- Adequately cover all of the following information within the summary into the events of your thread.
Done! - Summary:
You return to the Messier Sage and show the Pebble of Philosophy that was obtained from the fountain at Ultima Thule. The Sage asks how you managed to obtain the pebble, which you may respond to with as much or as little detail as you would like. Depending on what you may choose to tell the Sage, they may answer some questions you had about the scene you witnessed:
- Brachyura: If the name of the crab monster is mentioned, the Sage will react visibly. The Messier Order has spent some time chasing down a certain group of beings called the "Geniuses". This title comes from the beings' self-declared names, as they were once monsters that gained sentience to the point where they are said to share memories and consciousness. The Sage says that Brachyura was one such being, a monster that has been sighted around the Thames Coastline for a long time. His goal was apparently to retrieve the Pebble of Philosophy inside the well at Ultima Thule, yet he was unable to do so until a rightful successor - you - would come to awaken the pebble's power and release it from its resting place. Further interrogation along this topic is generally something you fail to understand fully, as the Sage names off some other descriptions of Genius monsters sighted recently. If you participated in the Palate of the Ages event, you might recognize one of those names: The Red.
- The Pebble of Philosophy: Should you choose to ask about the pebble and why memories awoken in your mind, you will be told that it is a collection of anima from the ancient civilization. This civilization, once the most prominent of its time, was ultimately destroyed when its city-states continued to fight one another to the brink of collapse.
If you didn't have any questions, you might not have very many questions to ask the Sage or it may not have occurred to you. In any case, you notice that the restored cuneiform has a slot on its surface that seems to fit the shape of the pebble exactly. You decide to fit the stone onto the tablet, and immediately get afflicted with an uncomfortable feeling as though you were about to faint...

[Fletcher]

How dare he? How dare he take that tone and act all hoity-toity on his own pleasure of being not only the one in charge, but the one with apparently more information than what he led on. If Fletcher wasn’t trying to rein himself in to set a good example for the younger dwarf, he either would’ve outsourced a knuckle sandwich from a monk or delivered a home style one free of charge to the sage’s chin. However, because the sage was the one with all the information, the pair of them were at the mercy of what information the sage decided to dole out to them. Essentially what they were dealing with was the souls of the dead taking over… some aspect of them during the times where the anima of the battlegrounds in which these artifacts cropped up resonated strongly with the anima of the person doing the seeking causing the geniuses to appear.

It was a load of garbage. A cookie cutter request that countless others would have bought into many times before, all of which having similar experiences and all ultimately leading to the same conclusion. They’d be heralded as heroes if they unravelled the mystery and all those who failed would be left by the wayside, unspoken of and forgotten. Fletcher would not be one that would be forgotten, although for completely different reasons. The genius class monsters all shared a consciousness as far as Fletcher understood it; each victory they took from an adventurer making all of them, collectively, stronger. It was a problem to be sure, especially given that he was only able to take down Brachyura due to the assistance of his followers, and only barely. The sage sat down, spouted some nonsense, and Sark began to look in his bag while Fletcher ran a hand over a freshly sewn seam in his tunic, knowing full well there was a hole there earlier in the day. Sark announced something, but before Fletcher could ask what he was getting ready for, a bright light engulfed his Pebble of Philosphy and all was white.

As the light faded, they were no longer amongst the Messier Order. Sark was next to him, but his eyes went primarily to scanning the people around him. Primarily there were military officials, most of which arguing over something. They were in a conference hall, that much was for certain but there was no way of knowing what exactly the conference was about. He only knew so much as it being a conference hall given the amount of dental conventions he had attended back when he was still practising. Even amongst all the arguing, there were some merely watching the crowd, but had paid no mind to the two dwarves that stuck out like a sore thumb. ”Where are we…?” He asked no one in particular, looking around further. All he remembered was the white light; was it going to be another Genius coming for them? Did the sage cast a spell on them to send them somewhere? But that’s when he saw it, a young fellow off to the side with his back to him, a Carbuncle sitting on his shoulder. It called to him as the only thing in the room that he recognised, but it wasn’t him, was it? He shook his head, dismissing the thought and looking at the large table everyone seemed to be gathered around before he heard it, clear as anything amongst the arguing.

“Lord Syllabus, your presence is needed elsewhere.” Fletcher spun around to see who answered the call but couldn’t make out who was moving towards the sound of the voice. He knew that name and the implications that came with it, but he saw nothing. The one thing he did notice however was the lack of a younger person with a Carbuncle astride their shoulder.

Word Count: 645
Total Word Count: 2137
Sark

[Sark]

The static and glare overwhelmed everything for several seconds, before with a soft bop! it dispersed. Sark, disorientated and confused took several stumbling steps, trying to get his brain to comprehend what had just happened. The first thing that returned was smell; cigar smoke, hard spirits, waxed leather and sour ink. In short, it smelt distinctly like the upper class parlour rooms he had snuck into once or twice as a younger child. There were concrete, familiar experiences and helped to bring the rest of the situation into clarity. He and Fletcher were in a large side room, dominated largely by a thick table covered in miscellanea and ringed with bookshelves. A dozens important looking individuals stood in private circles, with much looking over their shoulders. They all seemed to be wearing a uniform that Sark didn't understand, but if he had to guess, it would be "army." The individuals all had the stiff back, raised chin and wide-elbowed stance of people who had spent too much time fighting.

What really got Sark's attention, was that he was currently standing in someone. When he had stumbled through the room, it seemed he had passed right through one of the small circles. Four elderly ladies were conversing in the clipped tones that rivals adopted, none of them wanting to play their hand before the other. The details of their conversation was lost of Sark, who had begun to walk briskly about the room with a bewildered expression. He failed to slap a few people, then proceeded to fail to kick over several lamps. Gently caressing a passing waitor did no good, nor did licking the polished oak table. Regardless of his action, he just phased through animate and inanimate objects alike. It soon became a game, and giggling like a prepubescent Sark dashed about the room. He pretended to steal quills from important officials, he made faces and poked people slowly in the eye. He replicated the actions of flamboyant people in exaggerated ways and generally had a grand all time.

Continuing in his pattern he rushed over to Fletcher and poked his friend in his stomach flab, laughing. Only, Fletcher wasn't immaterial. With a gasp of guilt and surprise Sark leapt back (passing through several people).

"Haha - Oh gosh sorry - hahaha - that wasn't funny - ha - I just uh - tripped!"

He poorly lied, still trying to get his laughter under control. Wrestling with the guilt and mild shame of poking a tubby friend's belly the tailor tried to change the subject.

"Here, let me properly fix those clothes, I was only able to get a few before ... you know, this universe leap or whatever." The topic was returning dangerously to poking, so Sark plowed on. "When the armour is off I can use the [maintain] skill, which is much faster you know?"

His partner agreed, and soon enough Sark was holding a set of clothes that slightly stunk of fox. They still retained Fletcher's body warmth, which felt weirdly intimate to the teenager. Brushing the thought out of his mind Sark focused on the space between his eyes. This brought up the interface, and a after a few seconds of navigating he reached his tailoring list. Several skills had been unlocked as he had levelled it up, but few of them translated well to this new, mixed universe. [Mending] was by and large still useful due to the speed at which repairs could be made. Unlike physical mending, [Mending] simply removed wear instead of repairing it. It let clothes keep that 'new' look, but even [Mending] had its issues. Clothes which had sustained heavy damage would keep a few stylish tears in them no matter how many times the skill was used, as the game developer had felt this added a certain level of style to their game. In this new universe, those 'stylish tears' were more hassle than they were worth. At the slightest bit of strain the small gash would unravel the entire piece of clothing, leaving its wearer unarmoured, and possibly unclothed.

For now Sark stood still while the words [Mending] hovered in his eyes and a bar filled. With each percent filled, the shirt simply wove itself together. After a minute or so the process was done, and Sark pulled out his needle and thread to remove the stylish rips. He kept half an ear out for what the others were saying, as there was a slow gravitation towards the central table. Just prior to Sark finishing a grizzled warrior shouted for quiet and started to make angry gestures at the map on the table. Sark bit off the end of thread, tied a final knot, and sent the clothes back to his summoner friend.

He indicated that something seemed to be happening, and jogged towards the action. By phasing through the crowd it didn't take long for Sark to reach the table, and indeed by phasing through the table he could truly appreciate the speech from a central location.

Samurai: _________ 14 Tailor:  ___________ 15 Acrobat: _________ 01

Word Count:  840 + 10% Oct Art + 20% CA = 1092

Pokes: Fletcher

OOC:

Skill Descriptions:
Chain 1: "Lightspeed" Denkosetta, "Steel-Cutting Blade" Zantetsuken
Chain 2: "Flashwave" Shunsen
Chain 3: "Blade Clone" Tsuguri Bunshin, "Divinity Slash" Seinaru Shinken
Not Chain: Spear Break

[Fletcher]

Unable to see where the other Summoner had gotten to, Fletcher decided to check up on Sark. He was nearby, and from what he could tell was passing through objects like no one’s business. It caused the older dwarf to do a double take and casually place his hand on the table nearby. As he figured, his hand passed through it much like how Sark was passing through things. Were they ghosts, or was it something else? Sark seemed to at least be revelling in testing out the extent to which they phased through objects, while Fletcher was distracted by the calling of Lord Syllabus, a finger prodded him in the belly, causing him to grunt and turn on Sark with a stern frown. The younger dwarf went reeling back through some other people, literally through other people before stumbling back and trying to apologise amongst some very infectious laughter. It was hard to stay mad at him, especially when Fletcher found himself smirking along with the poor excuse the samurai was giving him.

Sark, hurriedly changing the subject talking about the repairs to his clothing which up to this point had been done on the sly. "Oh. Yeah, sure. It’s probably easier if I took this off huh.” Slipping off his tunic and overtunic, Fletcher stood there awkwardly in a semi-threadbare singlet and his pants, most of which weren’t as in dire straits as his upper garments. Sark had his tunic in his hands and was piecing it together, first as if by magic and then afterwards busted out the needle and thread. There was a commotion behind them and while Fletcher got dressed again, and Sark sped off to the table that seemed to be the focal point before. Given Sark’s display, it was clear that whatever had happened to them, they couldn’t influence the events going on, and it was just easier to not bother with being polite about phasing through things and people to get where they needed to go. He stood aside his friend, looking up at what would be considered a military general, spouting in clear and annoyed words, just what they were here for.

“It’s an outrage! A betrayal! First a Fairy Gate, then what?” The general was talking out of anger and hatred, spurring up the emotions of the crowd and conducting the flow of the conversation like any good leader would. Eyes fell on the map and saw that it was just a map of the Unfounded Kingdom, although slightly different somehow.

Fletcher phoned in whenever it came to navigating, and turned to Sark. ”Do you know anything of a place called Lonsdale? Can’t say I’ve been anywhere past Sarum, myself.” The dwarf turned back to the map, frowning. The mood of the group seemed only to be growing into a fever pitch. This wasn’t a conference, but a war meeting, at least it seemed like it.

Word Count: 486
Total Word Count: 2626
Sark

[Sark]

Standing in the centre of the table, Sark had a bird’s eye view of the proceedings. He felt he should be listening to what this central man was saying, but by the tone of his voice and the way everyone was clustering around him anxiously, Sark suspected that the man ruled by bullying. In school he had always been taught to deny bullies their power by ignoring them and this had become a deeply ingrained instinct.

While the leader raved about a fairy gate, Sark tried to see what was actually on the table. Which was inconvenient, because at his height he could barely see over the table. The thick, military table passed directly through his collarbone, giving the strewn papers and maps a decidedly odd perspective to be reading them. There were several important looking dossiers, but their covers were closed and his immaterial body could not open them, so he moved quickly to the loose sheafs. Several seemed to have dispatches on them, ordering garrisons to be moved or reported sightings of traitors and bandits at such-and-such town or this-and-that river. After reading several of these, the boy noticed a trend. Soldiers were often moving from Lune, while bandit locations were sometimes said to be a certain number of hours from Lune. It was a city that Sark had never heard of, but seemed to be of central importance. At times there were strange phrases like “The Black District is proceeding in its negotiations with the Red and Blue,” which may have been a military cipher. Soon enough Sark had read through everything he could. He didn’t want to listen to the man, but nothing else had appeared, so with a petulant turn to his lips and looked over at the General.

The man had aged well; his stance was firm, his motions crisp and his hair looked to have been trimmed earlier that day. Stark white hair crowned his temples, highlighting his experience. He was aggressively jabbing at the map, which Sark saw was for the Greater Unfounded Kingdom, listing each section by its county and shire. There were numerous notations across it in coloured inks, but at a glance it made no clear sense to Sark; perhaps enemy encounters or positions of fortifications? Sark tuned in just as the man was finishing up, once again complaining about the betrayal at Lonsdale.

At this his companion turned to him, asking where Londsale might be.

”Never been there myself … but last year some of the guys at the Black Dog Inn kept talking about all the pretty ladies dressed up for the Snowdonia & Lonsdale winter games. I never went, but if they knew about it, then it can’t be far from home.”

He stepped up to the map and tried to find Londinium. It took a few seconds, but once he had determined where they were, he traced his hand through the map, trying to get everything to line up. Lonsdale … was quite a distance away, so it was no wonder that neither Sark or Fletcher had heard of the town.

”Umm … it is like the top of England mate. It’s near where I used to live in York. I think it might be where Lancaster was? I dunno, I was never good at geography because my teacher was a bully.”

While Sark had been engrossed in his explanation the General had issued orders, and a gap appeared in the crowd. A middle aged man stepped through it with the confidence of having done this before, but the meekness of being around dangerous people. He had an officious looking cap on, and a set of worn armour. A thick bandoleir hung about him which connected to a massive quiver full of oversized crossbow bolts and bundled packages. At his were more bags, each bulging with letters or missives. The man stepped up the General, who passed him a sealed message with a sense of finality.

”Have this delivered, and Mister Se, this is of national importance, you understand? Can you repeat where you are to go?”

”Yessir, I always deliver. In this case, to Harbourmaster Ridrick of the Purple District of the Greater Lune Seaport.”

The courier turned away, then flinched. His eyes locked onto the map. Sark didn’t notice at first, who was at this point standing through the map of London. Then with mounting horror realised that the courier was not staring at the map, but him. In his eyes.

The General barked an order. ”National importance! This map is none of your business, courier! Start jogging or I’ll have you detained for prying into national secrets!”

The courier reluctantly took his eyes from Sark, who was too flabbergasted to do anything as the courier passed through the crowd and left the room. With the man gone, Sark collected his wits. As he took his first step to follow, the static started again. Desperate to explain what happened, Sark shouted over the noise.

”Fletcher! That courier saw me! We need to get to Lonsdale quickly, please!”

Samurai: _________ 14 Tailor:  ___________ 15 Acrobat: _________ 01

Word Count:  844 + 10% Oct Art + 20% CA = 1097

Pokes: Fletcher

OOC: End of CA2-2

Skill Descriptions:
Chain 1: "Lightspeed" Denkosetta, "Steel-Cutting Blade" Zantetsuken
Chain 2: "Flashwave" Shunsen
Chain 3: "Blade Clone" Tsuguri Bunshin, "Divinity Slash" Seinaru Shinken
Not Chain: Spear Break

2. Listen to the Meeting [???].
Done!- Continue your thread in Step 1.
Done!- Post at least 2 times within the thread (if performing this quest line as a group, each member must post 2 times) with a total of 500 or more words
Done!- Adequately cover all of the following information within the summary into the events of your thread.
- Summary: You open your eyes and find that you're standing in a conference room. There are a few individuals in military-looking garb arguing with each other in the room but they do not seem to notice you at all. You find that your body phases through everything you touch as though you were a ghost. In any case, there is a map spread out on the table. It is very similar to the map of the Unfounded Kingdom, although you notice that this part of the map in particular details an area to the north of the Avon Valley, a place called Lonsdale. You overhear the officers talk about some sort of betrayal and attack on a Fairy Gate. An officer circles an area on the map, which happens to be close to where the Purple Mirror Mansion appeared the previous year. As you start to wonder what is happening, your mind turns blank again and you find that you've returned to the Messier Order again. The Sage eyes you in concern and you may choose to describe what just happened. Nevertheless, you decide that you've found a lead. The Sage asks you to bring the Pebble of Philosophy for safekeeping.