When the first of us fell, the stars were silent.  By the second, they were already singing the songs of our demise.

Simple creatures of short memory, no one care if we razed them all to the ground.  Yet some of us pitied the mortal welps.  We gifted them knowledge, council, aid.  And they took this and fueled their ships, their sky wars, and cities.  I'd venture that we were happy, even impressed, by the courage shown by so many against so much, but let's be honest.  Every necromancer, druidic general, or pirate lord that threatened the known mortal realm...is only a blink in the eyes of an ancient dragon.  
  The world's canvas and the grand clock of the Many strikes in eons and ethos, and we remember all.  Jenora gave us choice, and Grumakon the flames of purpose, but these insects of our ages have forgotten the gods of their grand design.  We gave them life, and now, with our guidance and aptitude, they hunt us for sport.

I remember when we left.  Retreating to our Kin in Arkhosiana; the clustered fortress of the Dragonborn.  My siblings had taken refuge in the Feywild, but with the Seal broken, their home was siphoning into the Material World.  And so the Scion caste protected us.  For many years, we sequestered ourselves, hoping others would complete the pilgrimage and find us.  Dissatisfied, my sister ventured out with other Skyborn, returning with more and more.  Each time she left, I'd watch the horizon; for the flaming whip of three tails.  And each time she returned, she'd have a few more scars.

But this last time was different.  This time she returned with only three wyrmlings.  This time she returned crying.

"Volicia, what did you see?"
  And her golden eyes stared back.  "I found Kashana.  He gathers them.  Something is coming.  He doesn't know what, or when, only soon."
My brother, the Timber King, is alive!  "Why didn't you bring him to us?"
  Her eyes grew dark and red.  "He will not leave them!  He...loves them."
"They hunt us and wear our skin as armor!  How would he love such a creature!"
  And her eyes.  Her beautiful eyes spoke so much more than her draconic tongue.  "Not all of them, my brother.  Not all are cruel.  They are...flawed.  ...Just like us."
  She did not speak to me again.  I watched her leave that night, whispering wordless promises to the skies.  
I was stubborn then.  I waited for her to return, but there was only silence.

  So I flew to brink of Io's Edge.  To my brother's tree, and the great seed within.  And then I saw them.
Thousands of them.  Pilgrims of warriors and sages, armies and ships.  They stretched for miles in every direction.  I thought them flocking to such a temple - Ifa, the World Tree - but no, they stood as its protection.  I scan the skies for a threat, and then I see her.  My sister, the Rending Whip, as she floats above the canopy.  I can still see her smile.

An eruption below us.  Thousands of cracks in the earth surrounding the tree; foolish mortals being sucked inside.  Another explosion beneath, fire and light rising from the scars across the continent.  

The Tree catches fire.  Golden and green fire.  And I hear screaming.  Deep within the marrow of the planet.  Like millions of voices suddenly being rended into pieces.  
  And then Volicia screams.  I dart my eyes to find her.  She is above me.  I watch in horror, beating my wings upward to her form, as purple tendrils tear her visage asunder.  I scream her name and claw at the smokey remains of the banishing magic.  And the storm begins to gather around my rage, a bellowing roar escaping my lungs.  I fill my mouth with acid and lightning, breathe deep, and-

"WAIT."

I feel a hand on my shoulder.  A feminine voice, delayed and accelerated all at once, like it was fighting through time itself to speak.  The crackling lightning surrounding me slows, and I watch the horror below me grind to a crawl.  The carnage continues, but in immaculate clockwork detail, seconds passing as minutes.  And then I see her.
  An endless shroud of black feathers; a void that stretched across all my horizons.  And there, at the center of my vision, impossibly massive - the porcelain mask of the mistress of the ravens.  

Lightning still crackling at the edge of my lips, I seethe.  "I am a dragon of three worlds.  I answer to no god."

"I HAVE SEEN THIS OUTCOME." Her voice fights for presence, as if at any moment it will be hurled back through the gate of the grand clock.  "YOU DO NOT SURVIVE THIS, ENDRAGAL."

"Like hell I don't.  I have lived through worse-

"THE WORLD IS BREAKING THIS TIME.  THE COSMOS WILL FOREVER CHANGE.  AND A CREATURE BANISHED WITHOUT A HOME WILL BE TORN FROM EXISTENCE."

Volicia...  "I must save her..."

"SHE IS ALREADY GONE.  AND SOON, SO SHALL YOU.  BE AT PEACE WITH THIS FATE."

And time began to return, the rays of light becoming burning columns up from the chasms beneath me.  

"OR.  TAKE MY HAND."

I stared at her outstretched hand, and in that moment I saw my brother.  The kind Timber King.  The Seedkeeper.  He was patient, and was always willing to play the long game.  
  "Very well, Exiled One.  But how will we survive?"

"WE SURVIVE AS A MEMORY.  AN IDEA.  AND WE WAIT TO BE BIRTHED AGAIN."
  And her feathers enshrouded my vision, carrying me to the Astral Stars.  
And it is here I remain.  On dark nights, you might see the dozens of gemstone stars that burn bright through the storm.  Her little Night Embers.

"GUILTY!  The whole lot of 'em!" Hargus Haygen Habbernath, the triple H himself, slams the tankard down, ushering in another wave of jeers and applause.  He settles back into his seat, rolling a cigar along his lips and adjusting his stained coat, still slick with rain.
  "Really, Trip?  How many this time?" Teagan Scheherazade, of the Sultan Press, raises an eyebrow at the large man before synching up his thin crimson tie.  He leans back, pressing into the booth's cushion, careful to avoid any excess spittle.
"Relax, tea kettle.  This one's on me.  All I need is a piece."
  "Too far, too slim, Trip.  Everyone sees you as the lord of conspiracy, but none of it holds water.  How deep are you willing to go here?" Teagen sips from his personal bamboo cup, keen to keep as much of himself from making contact with the table.
"Alright, alright.  Fine.  You want a trickle?  Here it is." Hargus leans forward, pulling a wad of parchment from his coat's deep pockets.  He spreads them out, opening a quill with his teeth, and begins tracing lines along a sea of names.  
  Teagan massages his brow.  "I didn't ask for a sypher, Trip..."
"No, no, tea kettle.  It'll make sense...it's confusin' on purpose.  See here?" he points to a name, "This, uh, 'doctor' Cefarion?  Yeah?  From the hospital two disses up?  Yeah...ain't no doctor.  I seen her; runs down to the docks - speaks to a man in a dark cloak - trades packages.  ...I'm betting it's drugs."  He licks his lips, and leans in closer.  "I'm bettin' it's Strain."
  "Kahna, Trip.  No way the caretakers need that crap.  Bury it."
"Fine, but what about that Surtur game?"
  "Oh Hargus, not this again..."
"I mean it, kettle.  The pirate broadcast, the call to arms, and then that wacko storm and the quarantine police!?"
  A well-manicured hand rises.  "Would you keep your voice down?" Teagan leans in a little closer.  "The Guild's shut down; we don't have champions if we need them.  Now is NOT the time to have the Horsemen blowing smoke up my ass." 
A mischievous grin spills across Hargus's face, broken teeth poking through. "'Cept I know who that new Horse is.  I've got his name.  Maybe even an address."
  "And what of it, Trip?  What good comes from-
"They've been lyin' to us, Tea!  All of 'em!" Teagan immediately sits back, his eyes deftly scanning the perimeter and meeting a few gazes.  He glares until they return to studying their own drinks.  But Hargus is far from done.  He sways forward, pulling himself over the table, crawling like a rabid beast toward the suit.  "That weren't no storm, and it weren't no wildfire that burnt up Utriena.  It was a coup...  In-fighting between the cloaks and daggers." He begins frothing now, backwash and bits of mutton splattering from his words as he growls shy above a whisper.  "Ain't ya' never heard of Mr. Curse?"
  "...You stink of the pigs and you're as mad as the Druids that spawned you.  I'll have none of your alchemy; you can burn on your own."  Teagan shoves himself out of the booth, scooping up his fine duster and donning his hat in one movement.  A few clip steps and he is gone.
"Hey!  Tea!" But he's already out.  "Hmph.  Pussy."  Hargus spits on the ground where his friend once stood, and turns on the table.  It echoes its creaking insults and stained laughter...so he drives his fists into it with a roar.  
  "You!  You break Gigi's stuff, Gigi breaks YOU!" The heavy footfalls of the minotaur close the distance immediately...

​  CRACK.
Welp.  There goes a rib.  Nothing a bit a' whisky and a nap won't fix.  Mama said I always heal quick, anyway...  
  Hargus rises, bones creaking and chest sore from the beating and the alcohol.  Fresh rain patters over his trench coat while he fishes his hat from the overflowing gutter.  With a pop and a snap, he stands up, waddling his way down the narrow streets and cobblestones of Spyrelight.
  An errant raven cries overhead, and for a brief moment, Hargus Haygen Habbernath, the triple H himself, contemplates how best to spend the gold that will undoubtedly be promised for the truth on the tip of his tongue.  At least, this is what he would have thought, had a thunderclap not resounded so forcefully, as if it ratcheted through his own skull and shattered his senses.  His knees buckle, and his body crumples like broken twigs.

Any eye that passes assumes another drunkard, face down in a ditch, and no one notices the tiny river of blood draining from a fresh hole between his eyes...

"Is it done?"
  "Yes, my Sovereign."
She exhales; a beautiful, satisfying sound - like wind over leaves.  "Well done, Sava.  You are a sapphire among bedrock.  Your next assignment is moving...  are you sure you wish to tackle a third this evening?"
  "Do not worry, my Sovereign..." Another casing slides into place, the receiver clicking closed.  I rest the stock while I pull back the hammer and a rush of breath catches, waiting for another release.  "I could do this all night..."

​BANG.

Father Tobias rose through the ranks of the faith quickly, demonstrating generosity, equanimity, and a strong sense of social justice.  He mastered Study of the Six, the Tenets of the Severed, and the treatise on the Weave of the Aasimar.  He stood as the voice of the people; even and just, mighty in his quest to restore balance to the world...
    These were the words we were fed.  But none of that bravado is present in this arena.  We gather, the lonely few, voices of the tempest, to witness a fall from grace.

  Surrounded by the smooth walls and marble columns of the arena, I lay claim to a perch in the back arch, my tall frame always an asset in scanning the crowd.  I watch the Sons of Kormin, the ex-smilies of Grinraker, waddle themselves into their seats, mumbling like old toads.  Sit down, fools, you're late.  The Erinyes Cosette, Marilith's Marigold, even the Forgotten Friar, our resident conspiracy artist, was allowed in.  I don't know whose pockets were lined, but this speaks true of a need for public view.  Everyone wants to know the fate of Tobias Crosswind.  
  The trial is already underway, House Orquida leading the accused:

  “Here stands the accused.  Father Tobias Crosswind of the Severed Wing.  You are hereby charged with Conspiracy and Discord against the Seven Houses.  Your coordinated attack on the evening of the Sun and Moon, Daylink the 3rd, keeps you here.  You will allow the spell to take full effect.  If you do not, this humble servant will rend the head from your shoulders."

  A tiny chuckle moves through the gathered cattle.  I watch a few even lick their lips.  Disgusting pigs - head down to Utriena sometime.  I dare you.
  Instead, this journalist watches Tobias.  Standing in the center of the raised sandstone, a slate of glass and runes, he is visibly shaking.  Sweat pours from his head, his long hair now matted with stink and fear.  I watch his eyes as they scan the House Heads.  The cold voices of Orquida, the judgmental glare of Snapdragon, a floating mote of an arcane eye watching from Amaranth's chair.  As Aster clicks away at a typewriter, the Blades of Elysium stand with swords drawn, surrounding the chamber - ready for anything.  His trembling gaze rests on the throne of Krokus, where a set of eyes watch him intently.  I wonder if he seeks forgiveness, or mercy now.
  
  My hair stands on end as the arcane circle engages.  Flecks of runic parchment, like shreds of light and radiance, peel away from the sandstone pedestal, floating around the priest.  Each casts a burst of light onto his face as it passes.  At first, he just flinches, but as they pass faster and faster, the light becomes an overwhelming shutter.  Most of us look away - but my eyes are skilled.  I lean in.
  Tobias begins to scream.  Silently.  He reels back from the spell, arching his form in its place, as if he had forgotten somehow that his feet had been sunk into the stone when he entered.  I watch his knees try to move, and he nearly falls backwards.  Veins protrude from his forehead, blood rushing to his face.
  He is resisting the spell.
With a resounding pop, the runic pages fall, slipping back into the glass as if they never moved.  Father Tobias, now driven to his knees, sits panting on the platform.
  A moment passes, and all eyes flick to the sound of sliding steel.  The featureless Speaker of Orquida draws its black rapier.  But before he can move, another form rises from Krokus, and I feel a grin creep along my weary face.
  Landing in the arena with a thrum of energy, sending sand and dust whipping into the crowd - this is why I perch - is a strong and simple form.  Riding leathers and a beaten jacket hanging open to reveal the black scales of an armored tank top, stands Lyla Ironwood.  With nothing but a look, the Speaker nods in respect, and sheathes its blade.  A hush moves through the crowd, eager to witness whatever way the Head of Line seeks to "rend" this enemy of the state.  They crane their necks and strain their ears - fools and folly - while I adjust my piece.  It pays to be in the business of secrets...

  Every step of the Ironwood is filled with grim intent, but every step is slow.  I watch the priest shrink away with each one, becoming smaller and smaller in his fine robes and silken vestiges.  Turning the crank of my piece, I watch her with great interest.  The gifts of my mothers before me slide along the weave and I am there, seemingly standing before them, the only one privy to this conversation.  
  Lyla's voice is smooth, low, and full of authority.  I feel it resonate in the base of my spine.  I can see Tobias feels it, too, as she steps onto the platform herself.  I can hear the whispers around me, but I push them out.  I don't want to miss this.  Her face inches from his, her words are deliberate and meaningful.
  “You are spineless.  Sworn to do no harm by your station, yet unable to think around the blade at your throat.  What you hide matters not from me…but you have crossed a difficult line.  …Ute.”
  The priest stands shaking with her words, and I dare say a streak of genuine fear runs through him as we all watch the spell engage once more, flowing over both of them.  The radiant pages cascade over Lyla and the priest, unable to look away from her.  His face twitches in resistance, but softens quickly, calm falling over his entire form.  I should note, though, that Lyla never changes.  She confirms what we of the Sisterhood already know; Lyla Ironwood does not hide.
  The Zone of Truth now engaged, Lyla continues with another solemn nod to the Speaker.  
"You stand accused of working against the Seven Houses - among other charges.  How do you plead, Precursor?"
  Tobias swallows, eyes like dinner plates.  "...Not guilty."
Lyla's gaze never wavers.  "Explain."
  "I, I was not present at the gathering.  I was held up in my ship, preparing to arrive, when the attacks transpired."
"...Your presence was witnessed by several tens of guests shortly before the first summoning.  You were indeed present."
  "That's impossible!  I would remember such a thing.  You invited me; I was still upon the..." Tobias falters, eyes glazing over, and Lyla stepping back.  She tilts her head at him.  "The uh...  Where is Father Ventus?"
  And it is now that this lonely journalist feels the small tug at her sleeve; a signal bought with coin and promises.  I resist, just a moment longer, the magic fading as I turn back to the scene...and meet the gaze of Lyla Ironwood.
  I return to my perch, wiping the sweat from my brow and pressing a coin into the halfling's hand.  If she saw me, she made no move of it.  Full of surprises, that one.
  This one admits to missing a few words to catch my breath.  Such is the price of secrets.  The Speaker confirmed suspicions, and I listen to the chatter.  The great Father Tobias has no functional memory of the gala, its events, nor the strange string of attacks upon the towers.  He continues to ask, like a puppy without a master, where Father Ventus is.  He demands that he be brought before the Houses to confirm his story.
  Lyla remains in the center, pacing around the priest like a predator stalking prey.  "This was an organized strike upon each House, ineffective though it was.  Strategically, I dare say it mirrored skirmishing parties and scouting techniques; like they were searching for something.  ...What would Ventus be seeking?"
  "I have no knowledge of this creature's intentions!  Ventus is still upon his pilgrimage in Oroboros.  I travelled here alone!"
  Lyla's circle stops as she stares long and hard at Tobias's form, sizing him up and tearing him down.  From this distance, its difficult to see, but a slight change in the rounding of her shoulders sends a chill up my spine.  When she speaks again, her voice is laced in fire and venom.  "Few things anger me so in this world of masks and mirrors than blatant, and overt, incompetence."  And with a deep breath, she stands tall again, striding and leaping back to her seat.
  Tobias begins to plead with those assembled.  "Please.  I know not what transpired!  I am only but a humble servant of the Severed Wing - you asked me to be here and I came, please, I-
  Elian Rook, Head of House Snapdragon, cuts in with a knowing glare.  "This council believes your testimony, Precursor, but your leadership and your organization are deemed untrustworthy.  You are hereby exiled from the city of Stormwrack, never to return.”
  The Speaker draws his blade once more, the sound sending a grim chill through all of us.  “Amaranth watches, Aster remembers, and Orquida keeps your head.  Your body will be free to roam after that.”

  "So it is done.  You are hereby stripped of your title of the Faith.  You will be escorted from the city personally out of respect for our previous relations.  But do not return; under threat of death without trial.  ...Goodbye, Tobias Crosswind."  Elian finishes the sentence, and a shattering of stone echoes through the chamber as the sandstone platform shatters.  A shocked Tobias stands in the shifting sands, unbelieving and struck dumb.  The Blades move forward, hoisting him up and gliding from the space.  Elian addresses us all.  “Ventus is an enemy of the state, Tobias in exile.  In turn, we now elect Father Horace and Father Striade as representatives of the Faith."
  The heavy iron doors behind me swing open, sending a rush of wind into the cold chamber.  Two forms glide into the room, taking the stage with speed and poise.  One smiles out at the crowd; a warm, inviting smile offset only by the glowing white eyes of an Enlightened.  A slightly rotund man in well-worn robes.  Safe.  The other looms behind him, heels clicking with precision and posture.  A sinewy form in pristine vestiges, recently pressed.
   "Father Horace has demonstrated to be fair and sympathetic to the worlds below, while Father Striade is an accomplished master of tactics that seeks to serve the greater good.  Their Zealots come from our own stock of the court, so respect will be maintained and the Old Code honored.  We trust that this shift will be most enlightening moving forward.  Thank you for your time and attention.  Lo There."
  
  "LO THERE."  We respond, as we have been trained to do, before applause erupt from those assembled, washing over the pit in this one's stomach.  Father Horace has always been a pleasant man, and he wears this face well, bowing deeply to each house - catching eyes, touching hands.  Striade stands tall behind his arching form, instead scanning the thrones that encircle him. He makes eye contact with many, nods to a few, but the look is not of respect; he is calculating.    This lonely journalist has had the pleasure of history wash over her before.  Colonel Artemik Striade was a crusader beyond the Rim. A tactician at heart, he studied the Brood for years before unleashing hell upon the enemies of Io herself.  I remember the burning corpses most of all; it was my first story. I met him then, starstruck and shaken.  And he looked at me like this.  A tool; a weapon; a pawn.
    Most regard him in silence, but it is Lyla Ironwood who moves.  It is slight, but telling. She sits forward but a few inches, meeting his gaze, and I watch his feet shift beneath his robes.  Lyla is the seventh seat for a reason. She is the challenge; the thing that stands between those who accept power and those who seek to take it.  Her eyes, the red paint in wild slashes upon her visage, hold all of our breath hostage.  A glare that could topple mountains.
  But it is the shaking leaf of her second at her side that draws my eye.  A flutter in her chest, the beads of sweat that now form at her brow, and the cruel hooks of a smile that draw back the Priest’s lips.
I have seen this look before, and this time I will keep my mouth shut.  
But not my pen.  Never the pen.
I see you, Colonel Striade.  I see you.
Submitted, as always,
For the people,
Ventrin Susurri
The Erastrynn Sisterhood

  It begins with a flash of light upon the slate, illuminating the stoic figures of Stormwrack's citadels.  Ink blots of water smash against the windows of his place.  High rise; good rent.  My legs swing over the edge while I idly check the fresh bruising on my abdomen.  "Damn eldritch kahna..."  A Steamrail flows through the tunnel of the tower, only a few hundred feet below me, and I feel the heat and steam rise, pushing my matted hair out of my face.  A fresh flash of lightning illuminates the Northstar Arena and the seven glowing towers of the Tyrium Court.  If I didn't know better, I'd swear I'd spotted one of the arcane eyes of the stinkin' Amaranthine themselves.  
  So thanks, Rayph.  At least you had a decent view of your own chains.  I raise a glass to the lightning, and finish the bottle with a finger to the heavens...

  It's midnight before we know it.  We're soaked and freezing but we share the drag anyway.  Something simple this time, just to warm our bones.  An empty shooter sits at our hips.  A third occupies the empty space next to me, filled to the brim with firewater whiskey, just the way he liked it.  
  The shot still spitting fire in my throat, I take the silence with solace and trace the line of his name in the brass dog tags I now find hanging around my neck.  They were sent to me while I nursed my ribs back into place.
Benjin sits to my left.  The smallest of us, but toned to a fault.  The guy rarely stops moving, and he's as sharp as a tack.  Boasts he feels no pain; body's a temple and all that, I guess.  With a drawn breath, he starts.
"The first time I met Rayph I was in a gutter.  I remember the rain hammering my back; broken nose, laughing blokes nearby.  Seven lugs without a good heart among 'em.  We laid them out - brothers born in battle..."
   "Hm.  Ride or die."  I draw more poison into my lungs, letting the memory flow.  Ben always liked a good story.  There were four goons, not seven, and I spent most of the time trying to choke out one of 'em.  Rayph was always built like a bruiser; left hook like a truck and an uppercut to lift a man off his feet.  
  Benjin stepped in first.  Placed himself between her and them.  Rough neighborhood; in over her head.  A swift crack knocked him nearly out, but I gotta' give the kid credit; he always rises.  You can't keep Benny down.  I was next; tried the talking thing, transitioned to breaking wrists and headlocks.  The brawl cascading over us - two idiot boys trying to do right for once - Rayph stepped in.  Two broken jaws and a nasty concussion later, we stood soaked to our skivvies, a battle won.  We escorted the lady back; no need for her name - she's not coming back here, lost pup that she is.
  We signed up for the Guild that night.  Our tags even share the same digits.
  The memory fades and I reach out to squeeze Ben's shoulder.  "The job ain't rainbows, buddy.  We all know it.  Anything we take might be our last night."
  "Doesn't make it suck any less." He grumbles, shrugging my hand off.
  "Aye, that."  Cold rain spills down ahead of us over the eaves - a waterfall to obscure the view of the Tyrium Court, ever lit in the night.  "How was the party?"

"Strix.  Straight up." Benjin sighs, taking in another drag of the cigar.  "I don't even know why I was there in the first place..."
  "Rayph elected you as his second for a reason, Ben."
Ben's eyes flash with red and I shut my mouth.  "As a representative of a Guild that murders for profit, boyo.  These are 'enlightened' folk; they got no idea the choices we need to make and why we make them."  Another drag and he expels smoke from his nose in a long column.  "...I met a girl there."
  My mind makes a few jumps before landing on the word and attempting to stay balanced.  "Excuse me?  I need details - Ow!"  Benny cracks me in the arm.  Kahna, it's still bruised...  
"Shut your hole, nothing happened.  It was good to vent, but she seemed a little vacuous and...malformed.  Not my type, anyway."  He chuckles and I listen to the sound.  It's good to hear him laugh; news on Rayph hit him harder than I thought, and the look in his eyes before stepping onto the Steamrail did not inspire confidence for his intentions.
  I decide to press the button.  "You came back early.  You're usually late; what happened?"
​Ben crosses his arms and stares out through the liquid mirror.  I follow his gaze to meet the warbling eyes of his reflection.  He is quiet a long time.  "The pendulum swings, brother."
  It's been a long time since anyone close has spoken of the Faith.  Most are zealots, bent on hunting Spirals and justifying their crusades with 'seeking balance.'  Benjin has always believed in something; a guiding star perhaps...or a ticking clock.  Either way, the phrase sticks in my mind whether I want it or not.
  "I felt it shift last night."  He shakes his head, chewing his lower lip.  "I knew that Bonecross bitch has something to do with Lunatic's Fringe; I felt it in my marrow.  But something wasn't right.  None of the fish were biting when they were supposed to; it was all...off somehow."  I watch the gears continue to turn.  "That girl wasn't right.  The more I talked to her, the more fishing she did.  Not obvious; but it didn't smell right - voice was too high.  Then there was Father Ventus.  Wrong stride; guy doesn't glide, he clomps.  Tobias was...himself.  Unobservant and pleasant.  ...Ironwoods command no matter what, and the Silverborne make you consider all sorts of pleasurable things - they were on point as usual.  But Bonecross seemed scared; Munroe had extra Dead Beats in the stands, and no one dared touch their liquor.  Like a powder keg ready to blow..."
  "...Did it?"
  "In a way.  Someone attempted an assault; real magician stuff - meaningless in the long haul and between Lyla and her pack, short-lived.  ...But it was a ruse.  Shortly after that girl visited me that night - don't give me that look, boyo - something climbed into my room.  A monster.  Bloke threw me out a window."
  "I told you to never take those boots off."
  "...And that's why I'm still standing, taka.  But this was planned; a coordinated strike.  I don't even know who won..."
  "Wait, what?"
  He chuckles again, deep and loud.  "Yeah.  I left.  No job, no talon, no stake.  Not my fight."
  A stupid grin stretches across my face.  "You've grown up, brother."
  "I grew wise.  Loss has a funny way of bringing things into perspective."  
  The rain shifts again; cascades part for a brief moment - a window beyond the Elevated Court to the mountains near Oroboros.  Ben stares at the rising moon, huge and bright behind the clouds.  A forgotten world tethered to our own.  "You've been out too long - Liv's set to worry."
  "Eh, I'll be fine."
  "She's gonna' need you.  Now, more than ever."
  "...I've got this."
  "I mean it, boyo.  You're not back yet, and we ain't trackin' people this time.  Let me take the work - you need to help her heal..."
  I take the last drag and pitch the cigar over the side, looking Benjin square in the face.  "Give me your word, then."  Removing the glove on my right hand, I lift it up to him.  
  Setting his jaw in a decision, he steps forward, pressing his forehead into my palm.  The words are crisp, and slow - practiced by every student of war.  "I, a ward of the Old and New, do bring myself into the service of you.  These rings you seek, I shall covet to keep, and none shall stand in my way."
  "Be fast.  Be safe.  Bye, brother."  The moment ended, I punch him in the shoulder and limp back to the stairs.  It's late.  Yes.  Liv is going to kill me.

Finest food, better service, attendance promised by each House, and a special announcement from the Eyes of Magic themselves, the House of Amaranth!  There never could be a better time to see what the Court has to offer you for this fine future; don't miss out on the inside scoop!

  The time has come once again to rise above your station,

And CLAIM that which you truly belong to!

  At the close of the age, those that remained...the keepers of the ruins of war...banded their knowledge together to form the Triadic Assembly.  Arcane masters of magic and industry, each with an eye on the past, dedicated their minds to the grand service of Io's survival, lest they return to the mistakes of their precursors.

  Those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it.  Knights of valor and wielders of the arcane, these eldritch students of war prepare for the distant battles of their ancestors, doomed to repeat themselves.  Never again will the mistakes of chivalry bind the people of Io to their fate and folly; the ghosts of the past stand in the way, and the sword of the future points forward forever.

  Eron Thornwall, in his infinite wisdom and arcane mastery, learned the true purpose of the School of Abjuration - to protect that which we covet.  We of Eden covet all our civilizations, and none more than Stormwrack, the tempest's nexus.  Never again will hordes breach our walls, and if they try, let their bodies be riddled with holes - a final warning to all who might seek the ruin of the last bastion of industry.

  The dark city of Oroboros stands as a reminder; a warning of the great power built into the ancient secrets of Erena and world beyond.  Espers, towers, children, and beasts - wonders of the world beware.  Great power comes at a cost, and the Shield of Oroboros remembers every coin, every life, every soul spent in the name of progress.  Only the strongest of wills can make the most necessary choices.

  Aloft in the elevated towers of Stormwrack sits the seven spires of The Tyrium Court.  Known to the lower droves as the gods among insects, they earn their titles through lordship and industry; cloak and dagger.  Each house holds their leashes - Diamond Dogs heel to their bidding - and their eyes watch for the first Spiral to emerge.

  The crimson house of Amaranth controls the arcane eyes over the whole of the city.  Ever-watching and documenting, they forge words and lore into the mantles of their colleagues.  It is through their eyes that the court sees what they wish to see, and are guarded from that which they don't.

  The amber house of Aster are keepers of the dead.  Archivists, documenters, and accountants, these brokers of the past enjoy the numbers of profit and the balance found somewhere between the red and the black.

  No one knows how to harness the flame of industry better than the printers and designers of the jade artisan house.  It is these lore seekers that stand as the bridge to the Torkmund Triadic Assembly, and reap the rewards of their products hitting the shipment line.  No grease upon these palms, however, only quills and ink and imagination.

  The snow house of the Snapdragon walks above us all.  Both the enlightened guard of nobility and nearly a caste themselves, those of the white robe rarely speak in the court; a voice, they say, that is always sounding cannot hear the arrow shouting for its silence.  One of two houses to ever mark themselves, these walkers of the sky float through the court as beautiful as they are deadly.

  None cross the golden house of Orquida, lest they wish their head removed from their shoulders.  The smallest house of the court, only a few tens strong, but strong nonetheless; they follow the old code.  They are some of the only few that still remember the time of the Cloudsinger - before the world burned.  

  Language and culture fascinate the violet house of Krokus.  Always with an ear to the ground and eyes on the street, a master of tongues is keen to the movements of the Strainers and the Ashers, and adore the underbelly of Wynnrik herself.  Were it not for their fine food, and fine clothing, they'd boast they'd fit right in with the rest of them.

  Sent by the Dawnfather himself to protect the sacred and enlightened, the arcane house of Zahar are the soldiers of the court.  They hold our secrets, protect our knowledge, and slay our enemies when no other option presents itself.  They are not brigands.  These holy warriors respect the codes of the old and the new, and seek justice wherever they are called.

The Elderburn - late in the 5th Age of Cloudsinger, a rogue ship named the Briarios suffered a catastrophic engine failure due to a shockwave emanating from a fissure in the Aether at Io's Edge.  Scholars believe that the shockwave was caused by the death of an ancient Elderbrain.  The resulting "burn" all but obliterated the Illithid population within the depths of Io, and scorched the Font of the arcane forever in ways that scholars are still discovering.

Lo there... - the truncated colloquialism in reference to the late Daniel Miller's prayer of forgiveness.  The full text features a lengthy recitation, complete with multiple verses in different languages, that is intended to reference not only the entity at fault, but to admonish his or her own legacy as a show of mutual understanding and equality.  At its inception, Miller's Prayer was often utilized to quell the emotions of those ignited by the tragedy of Oroboros and to stop in-fighting in the lower class.

Boyo - a casual slang between friends of the lower crust; often used by upper class citizens to belittle one whom they perceive as "less than," those in the lower districts of the world happily claim this word, meaning "child" in halfling, as a means of communicating casual equality.  This word can also be wielded as a weapon against those of the court by placing them on equal perceived footing.
*Taka - in stark contrast, this word translates directly to "Master," and holds an additional reverence.  The word itself was derived from the Giant alphabet, found in ancient texts detailing the old masters.  Those of the court often use it to communicate great respect for those whom they deem above them.  To the few that know it in the lower crust, the intent can be the same, though it is often used in a mocking tone.
Dog - a Bounty Hunter.
*Mutt - a slang, derogatory insult in reference to a "dog" that can't learn new tricks, or has difficulty wielding the tools they have.
*Diamond Dog - there are those in the business of catching and killing that are called Sworn.  These are individuals who are sponsored by one of those in either the Tyrium Court or the Torkmund Assembly.  Sworn hunters receive wealthy stipends, apartments, and higher end weaponry and gear in exchange for their utmost loyalty in regard to specific jobs.  A Sworn cannot turn down a job from their sponsor, and have often been wielded as weapons in turf warfare.  Despite the perks, there are still many Hunters that steer clear of this proposition, opting to hold onto their freedom for as long as they can...
*Torky - anyone who benefits from a sponsor's allowance, often a Sworn Bounty Hunter (see Diamond Dog).
​*Raptor, Talon Chaser - Bounty Hunters who are known to take, or are in the process of taking the specific, high-risk job of hunting down one of the factions of the Spirals; this particular faction was known as the Knight Owls, each marked by the distinct tattoo of a great-horned owl perched upon a closed gauntlet.  As these entities were once a powerful brotherhood of soldiers, each job is given the flat rate of 50 platinum pieces for an implied 50 hours of hunting.
Cull - slang for "culprit."  Often used in casual description by Lawkeepers and Hunters alike.
Danny Boy - slang in reference to Daniel Miller, the first Loremaster to abandon his post in favor of "tearing down the high towers and breaking the wall of magic."  Often used in casual conversation or when dealing with Strainers.
Ferni - slang for Tieflings, or others with Infernal features.  Despite its perceived negative connotation, this is often spoken in reverence to such creatures.
Grin - specific shorthand for those officers in The Grinning Brand.
*Smilie - disrespectful slang for those in the The Grinning Brand.
Hatters - direct reference to a mythical entity or boogeyman, often used to scare children back inside at night.  Hatters are said to be the things shadows are made from, and if a shadow flickers in your direction to get inside quick, before the lights around you are snuffed out; the Hatters collect those who do not belong...
Shiver - a member of the Vertigo Caste is often called a Shiver; so named because of its innate ability to wield elemental cold energy wherever it goes.  Many Shivers are accompanied by large winter wolves, which the Shiver utilizes to help track, trap, and outmaneuver their targets.  Each Shiver's eyes are covered by a magical black cloth, but no one seems to know why.  Those of the Courts know well of the Vertigo Caste, but their actions, though often sanctioned, are calculated and mysterious.  No one is completely sure who pulls the strings of the "Vertighast."
Skirter - those who live in the shanty towns and small villages beyond the walls of the three bastions of Wynnrik.
Squid - disrespectful slang for the broken race of Illithid that now roam the surface of Io.
Spiral - it is common knowledge that the Knight Owls, and the dissonant factions of the sorcerer clans, unleashed hell willingly by igniting the Font of Magic at the turn of the Age.  It is their fault that Io spins toward its destruction, and this blame persists through time.  Such entities of chaos, those who threaten the balance of the universe by their own existence, are called Spirals.
*Arky - casters connected to the arcane blood burned when the Font was ignited.  Many died because of this, and those who survived were forever changed.  This term is a negative slang for another, called "Ark-touched," which is no longer used.
​Tusk-head - a half-orc.  Normally "tusk-face," the swap of the "head" in the slang denotes a loss of intelligence as well.

Kahna - reference to a mother or matriarch having sexual congress with another.
Strix - reference to a product of defecation.
*Kahnastrixa - reference to a mother having sexual congress with another and possibly while also defecating, but the combination is unclear.
​