Departing northward along the road to Albern's Crossing, a winged woman with stark black hair streaked in white rode pillion upon a laden horse, the reins in the hands of a ruddy-haired squire. Among the bundles and travel-worn bags was a long, veiled object that drew passing glances — whispered to be the very staff that she was accused of possessing. The weight of provisions and the steady pace spoke of a journey measured in weeks, to destinations unknown.

What was certain, however, was that neither the squire nor his guardian would be seen upon the streets of the Spire for many days thereafter.

[!]
Rumors spread amongst those of [Dubious Origin], those who frequent the Hooktrap, or who generally keep their ear to criminal affairs.
A ship has been commandeered, the dispossessed crew seeking out new hands to bolster itself with after their defeat.
What is occurring along the Reach's coast?
What violence is sought in vengeance?
There are opportunities here, for those with the will to grasp it.

[!] The past couple of weeks the Spire's favorite pointy-hooded grass cutter has been absent from his usual locales. Those more familiar with the boy, such as those acquainted with his [Folk Hero] background or his friends, may find him stomping about town dressed in nothing but a pair of trousers and a shirt tied around his waist.

He looked to be.. exercising? Forcing himself to endure slowly walking long distances with a bulky pair of iron boots on his feet and an oversized sword and shield sheathed over his back- all of which looked to be specifically forged with the intent of being incredibly heavy.

He is occasionally accompanied by a taller man, a half-greatling with ashen skin clad in a bear pelt or a girl much closer to his age, a squire with a freckled face and auburn hair. Sometimes both.

[!]
For weeks, a certain scarred Envoy had barely left Town Hall, working themselves to exhaustion. Overnight, though, half-finished plans have been left behind, and Meridy is nowhere to be found. 

OOC: If you would like to visit a now bedridden Meri in their home, DM me on discord! I'm wrapping up packing for college, so it might take a minute for me to reply, but I will do my best to!

[!]

A few individuals who hung around past midnight would make claim of sighting a silver wolf with black eyes roaming the central town streets, somewhere near the Austell household.

It was always gone by morning, with some small object in its mouth. Or so people say. An elusive creature more prone to flee quickly into the night than fight.

OOC: This is a regular occurrence, but doesn't directly involve any event line or player interaction. If you have any curiosities relating to it, feel free to DM me.

✧ [!] ✧

Over the next few days, someone can be seen coming to and from the Library. A face that's been absent for some time, formerly here and there doing research projects. Mending some of the volumes, in the staff quarters. 

For long hours in both the night and day, she can be found. In corners where she's least likely to be disturbed, pouring over many different volumes and books. As many skimmed as read in full, in record time. Notes penned in a hand scarred by burns and old splits alike. A lantern is lit when it grows dark, an ornate item that casts bright stars and soaring birds through holes punctured in the hood.

A glowing eye, crescent horns, and a dull blade piercing her bun like a hairstick.

She will at it for a while.

₊˚ 🂡 ━━━━⊱♤⊰━━━━ 🂡 ₊˚
[!] In the nights following Van Pelt's death, posters would begin to be scattered about the Spire; the notice board, the tavern, the fighting pit; scattered throughout the streets... pinned by a figure with a lagging shadow. Alongside these flyers, playing cards dotted the landscape, even being used to pin the main sheet on the board. [!]
₊˚ 🂡 ━━━━⊱♤⊰━━━━ 🂡 ₊˚

₊˚ 🂡 ━━━━⊱♤⊰━━━━ 🂡 ₊˚
While crude, the message - a badger, three claws - is perhaps clear enough:
Van Pelt. 
Shoved in the corner is a Spade; marred with a large 'A'. 
₊˚ 🂡 ━━━━⊱♤⊰━━━━ 🂡 ₊˚

On the flip side of these flyers, scribbled in equal haste, reads: 

"WHILE THE COUNCIL BEGGED THEM,
THE TRAITORS FED THEM,
AND WE BLED."

Finally, a boldly scribbled:
"HE SAVED US."

₊˚ 🂡 ━━━━⊱♤⊰━━━━ 🂡 ₊˚

₊˚ 🂡 ━━━━⊱♤⊰━━━━ 🂡 ₊˚
{!} Another flyer finds itself stabbed into the noticeboard in the dead of night. {!}
₊˚ 🂡 ━━━━⊱♤⊰━━━━ 🂡 ₊˚

This time, there are no words. 

This is mourning. 

[ ! ]

With the arrival of news and rumors from across the world, a package was delivered and with it the grim news of its sender.

The Saisui family, simple lumberjacks from the mountains of Uul'san, had been killed. The leading theory based on the carnage is that a horde of War Wanderers had attacked the home during the night. It is unknown if all the undead have been slain.
In other news, it seems one of the Spire's residents has a new wakizashi tucked into their waist. Since getting the sword, his mood seems quite bitter.

[ ! ]

[!] A reply is nailed to the board. It’s clear from the writing and how it’s signed, it’s by the same card slinging trickster… with a clear preference to the card of Ace.

The weakest, or the strongest. It depends on on the hand dealt. [!]

₊˚ 🂡 ━━━━⊱♤⊰━━━━ 🂡 ₊˚

(Note: It can be assumed there are some slang and misspelled words here, I just wanted it to be legible for readers oocly! It’s also not the neatest) 

₊˚ 🂡 ━━━━⊱♤⊰━━━━ 🂡 ₊˚

You speak of honor and mourning, of all those lost, and yet not even a breath passes in wake of this ‘funeral’ and you label them terrorists.

The same funeral where these the mourners—mourners that specifically support Van Pelt—were harassed for not lighting a candle; assaulted with no reasoning behind it; and threatened by those speaking seemingly for the Council’s voice without once providing proof of their authority to do so.

You allow those that went to the villains of our Spire and fed them information to walk free, while you hunt those that finally stopped waiting for the Council to beg and plead and bargain with the ones that consistently threatened to flatten us for months on end; spilled our blood, trained cannons on our shores. You kept your grand plan secret and expected us to trust that the bleeding and the hurt would stop soon.

Soon. Soon. Trust us. Soon.

But soon never came.

The real terrorists promised to grind us into the dirt once more, just before Van Pelt’s sacrifice. They promised to bring forth these Ether-horrors my pa warned me of—to rip limb from limb the ones that remain; if any at all. And when those beings came, the Spire was met with more promises. Soon; soon, it will all be fixed. Trust us.

You all will deny it until we’re all but dust rollin’ over the hills; and perhaps that is what you wish. But even the Sea wanted the true terrorists out of its ranks; even the Sirens carried Van Pelt to his destiny.

And I will not let him die in vain. I will not sit silent while you drag his mangled body through the mud.

Van Pelt was brave enough to take the step to eliminate the threat that continued to hurt, and bleed, and kill.

And even in his death, you label him terrorist. Not those that conspired, not those that sold us out. But the ones who had the courage to end it.

It is not the lives of the innocents lost we celebrate. But neither will we stand by silently as the Council minces details and butchers what’s left of Van Pelt’s legacy.

You’ve played your hand, Council. Shown your cards. Regardless of what the Gang decides to do, you’ve shown the Spire your desperation for what you call peaceful negotiations with the terrorists that continue to claw on every side of our shores, roads and homes, are worth the blood of the people you claim to serve; all while our enemies laugh at our weakness.

I am certain they think twice before they laugh, now. Because we did not rely on empty promises and fruitless begging. 

We relied on action. 

And let us hope the Council puts the Spire first next time, not the enemy; lest we all have no more blood and tears left to give.

- Enzo, the Ace of Spades

🂡 [!] The Ace’s symbol is scratched onto the paper. [!] 🂡