Arrivals from the South

Date: 12/14/2012 at 3:56
From: Anonymous
To : Everyone
Subj: Arrivals from the South

Weeks before to the far, far south...

Cardamom scented the sweltering air with spice as three men sat around a small brass table, their cups of spiced coffee clinking together as they offered themselves a jovial toast.

"To our dear friends to the North!" rumbled the voice of Sanjar, his silken tunic catching the dying light of sunset as he lifted his cup high.

With a hearty laugh, a stouter man adds, "May they enjoy their time of ignorance." His long hair falls back from his rounded face, his strangely blue eyes slipping closed as he downs his drink.

The third nobleman stands tall and enigmatic, his straight back and broad shoulders giving him the look of a warrior as he holds his miniscule cup of steaming coffee aloft. "To allies," he adds, nodding his tattooed head before sipping his drink.


Recent to her new task of being more than a mere washer-woman, Edna was still a bit tense as she skirted past the nobles and constables, her broom clutched in her arthritic hands. Sensing the need, her Sisters in Knowledge had finally come to her from the shadows, giving her the gift of purpose. As she settled in to clear away the trash and shoo the occasional urchin away from the Merchant's Gate, an unusual quiet seemed to envelop the area.

Quiet wasn't really something Edna enjoyed. Quiet meant something was decidedly 'not normal'. Even the mangy gulls had silenced and were perched upon the upper gate with a stillness that was unlike them.

Settling back into the shadows, Edna wisely kept the gentle sweep of her broom scraping against the cobblestones as a dark man arrived to peer about the gate, his very skin seeming to ooze an aura of royalty from every pore. The barely decent beauty chained to his side by her wrists and slender ankles, however, had the slightly terrified look of a newly acquired slave.

Edna watched all as Duke Ged arrived, close on the heels of Krondorian Ambassador Gianna and various Barons. Her wrinkled cheeks dimpled with a smirk as she noted the arrogant 'Keshian Prince' seemed to particularly rile Baron Raelyr, his fists clenched so tightly that Edna idly wondered if he'd be able to even lift his saber from its scabbard in the event he was let loose upon the visiting dignitary.

Just as she'd been trained, Edna watched in silence as the band of citizens and visitors began their march to the Prince and Princess' audience. Staring at their backs, Edna deftly slipped into the shadows and began to murmur to her Sisters across the lands.


"Were you not visited by a messenger? He was to have arrived weeks before with gifts and word of the Mighty Empress' wish for you to welcome her magicians and allow us to mutually share our knowledge with each other," Mehrdad asked, struggling to keep his voice from rising and revealing his discomfort.

Lethis of the Spellweavers stood like a sentinel oak, flanked by Phoenix Captain Ran and Naftali. Others were shaded by the forest's eaves, giving this talk the feel of an interrogation.

With a breath, the Keshian shed his momentary look of discomfort, smoothly translating his words to the eledhel before him. "It must have been the Quegans," he explained, brows furrowing with what appeared to be worry.

"You see, that is why we have come, aside from our desire to share with you the greatness of Keshian magic and lore. Word has come to us that Queg is planning to invade, raiding along your shorelines for slaves," he explains, blue eyes opened wide upon the dark roundness of his face.

"We have sent scouts to assist you, gathering information and such, but the Great Empress wished to send her finest magicians specifically, as a gift of friendship. So we might all benefit from each other's knowledge and strength..."


Rather far from the lamp-lit glow of Krondor or the wary stares of eledhel, a man stood before icy gates that reached so far into the night's sky that he half-wondered how the moons could rise over them.

Twisting to smirk back at his men, his eyes narrow in the darkness, flicking towards the shadows as the cool air is pierced with a meaningful click of his tongue. Moving as one, the men slip behind rock and tree, their final whereabouts unknown as their leader turns back to the moat-protected gates.

Walking with the sauntering gait of a man sure of his plans, he steps forwards towards his destination.

Penned by my hand on the 13th of Dzanin, in the year 39.