"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!

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.
​

  "Right on time, boyo."  I watch the gnoll creep forward from the shadows.  The thing's an imposing sight in the moonlight, standing a good foot or two over me as he emerges, then slinking and cowering, bending with respect to my eye level.  I give him a small nod and watch a gracious smile spread across his dog face.  "How is the night, Ravi?"
  The creature gives a small yip, like a hyena, followed by some clicking and chittering in the back of his throat.  I watch fresh saliva hang from his lips.  Good.  He can smell it.  I know better, so I pull out the sack of butchered meats.  The gnoll nearly recoils in dread fascination at the bag, blood beginning to soak through the bottom.  I watch his feet scamper in place with impatience; but he knows what I want.  "Easy, Ravi.  Easy..."  I hold up a hand.
  Ravi stares at my palm, then the bag, then flashes his head toward my hand.  A watcher might think he was going to eat my poor right hand, but instead he presses his forehead into my palm.  Not a headbutt, not a tap, he stays there...and I focus my breathing.  He does the same.  Slowly, together, we control ourselves.  My adrenaline twitch and his hunger; we breathe.  The clicking in the back of his throat slows, then stops, a calm settling over him.  His eyes open again, clear and focused.  I ask again, "How is the night?"
  His voice is thin, raspy from years of abuse and battle.  "It cold, Friend.  Wolf moves in South bend, by the grin.  Master...harder to track.  No smell this time."
  "How about the kid?"
  "The child is quick.  Cunning.  No prints, no feet perhaps." Ravi smiles at his own joke, then coughs and continues, shrugging his thin shoulders.  "Not much more to tell..."
  "I need a point, Ravi.  Or this meat goes in the river..."
  Ravi's head snaps to me.  "Friend would not do this.  Ra'vigal has done his best.  He can only track on runs.  Ra'vigal would never-
  I hold up my hand once more.  "Sorry, buddy." Ravi quiets, still eyeing the bag.  "This one's on a tight clock.  I need anything you have.  Anything you can give me."
  Ravi rises, taking a deep breath.  I've known him a few years now, and I've watched an intelligence and an empathy grow inside of him.  He looks down at me, calm and resolute.  "Tribe is growing, and starving.  Friend's meat helps, but more needed sooner.  We grow, we change...but hunger.  It makes us...stupid."  He taps his head with a claw.  "...Vicious."
  I plop the bag at his feet.  He looks down at it, then at me, before bending once more and snatching it up.  He lingers this time, and I hold up my hand.  He presses his forehead into it and I give him a little scratch.  I feel him press just a little harder, then move away.  "Child made a door.  At Rail.  Be fast.  Be safe.  Bye, Friend."
  "Bye, Ravi."  I watch the gnoll slink back into the shadows, thinking as I pull back on my gloves, checking the frayed threads one more time.  I've gotta' get this damn thing fixed...  

  There's something people forget about magic and travel.  It isn't by feet.  It's by inches.  This is what I tell myself anytime a smilie sprints off five hundred feet in the direction of a door slinger, cursing himself that he didn't mark the cull.  This is what I tell myself when I leap over railings, when I see the flash of a green cloak, soaked through by mud and slick with the smell of days without a decent bath.  This is what I remember when I shove past the 8-feet of muscle ahead of me and utter, "Out of the way, tusk-head." and this is why I keep telling Rayph he needs to work on his cardio.
  I play every inch as I sprint toward the gleaming armor of The Grinning Brand.  I feel heavy impacts behind me, enraged breath on my neck, hot and ignited.  With flecks of spittle beginning to paint my back, and shouts of warning from the grins, I tuck into a slide...  And whack my shoulder good on the way through.  Which is nothing to the pin toppling behind me as the half-orc bruiser slams into the pack of them.  I slide out of view between the rails, flashing a toothy smile at the attendant; I just made her day, I'm sure.  Careful, Izzy.  No one wants Olivia jealous.  
  I slip in feet first beneath the rail, hand over hand to slow my fall.  I hang for as long as I can, slowly inching my feet toward the damp fissure below the rail.  Feeling the rumble coming...I drop when I can hold no more, checkers of light and darkness flooding the tunnel walls above and below me.  
  They say this is where the first trades of Strain were made, according to good ole' Daniel's scriptures.  So I think it's fitting to pull my twill and light it up.  You know, for the spirit of the thing.  I think of Rayph and I pause, the roll halfway to my mouth.  That's the thing about Strain; if you're not careful, it becomes everything to you.  You think about how it felt when you had it, how it feels now that you don't, and when you can get it again.  Hughes wasn't careful...  Someday I'll find him choking smoke in a gutter with his veins torched from the inside out; but it'll be his choice all the same.
  There's scraping ahead of me and I watch a shadow slink away.  Pocketing the Strain, I measure my footsteps carefully, taking the time to listen.  There is a whisper and crackle around the corner, and a satisfying pop, flecks of purple and black smoke swirling at the edges of the stone.  Another door.
  I sprint around the corner, pulling the twill again as I move.  Remnants of smoke just beginning to dissipate from the spell, I pull a pouch from the set.  Fine sapphire leather, specific and cold to the touch.  With a gloved hand, I pull the strands open and dig out a handful of bright, cold-iron dust, tossing it to the smoke ahead of me.  Each grain of dust impacts the smoke like a hammer hitting stone; sparks fly at first, then the billows burn white hot, connecting like electrical tethers in a fraying web.  
  Sucking in air like my life depends on it, I reach out...and grasp the web. 

  The earth stretches and whines around me, my own vision focusing to a singular point about ninety degrees down.  Then I feel the lurch.  I am flung toward the rock ahead of me, instinctually closing my eyes, adrenaline pumping for the pain, but I pass through it.  A shield of swirling smoke and residual magic keeps me from being pulverized; rocketing through space and time in an instant.  If I weren't the rider, this would have been cool, but it isn't the fall that kills you...and my momentum is only borrowed.
  With a secondary popping sound, I slam into a table, smashing my nose on the top and flipping it forward as I attempt to roll...only to rocket my own legs into a bookcase.  I feel the thing start to pitch forward and I press my legs into its frame to keep the heavy oak from crushing me...but I can do nothing to stop the books, candlesticks, plates, silverware, and a small, plush owl bear from toppling over me while I stifle a swear.
  I lie still for a moment, listening.  The bookcase, now liberated from its load now resting on my face, is let down easy atop the pile.  Breathe, John.  I focus my breath, and pick apart the noise.  The tiny scraping near my head is first, followed by the chittering squeaks.  Mice.  Archived, I spread the sense out.  Creaking boards and foundation.  Old house.  Lower end.  Maybe District 5 or 6.  No one is screaming at me, and I can hear the wind as it lances through an empty home.  Abandoned.  Slums.  District downgraded to 6 or 7.  And if it's 7, kid's about to be in a world of hurt at the hands of the fringers.  One more thing; footsteps, quick, frantic, not far.  I slide myself out from under the case as quickly and quietly as I can, now thankful for the bruises, as the pile of old books and childhood keep the bookcase from yielding any more noise.  
  I step out into an alley, the rain giving up for the time being.  Lucky, really, because any idiot can follow feet splashing in puddles.  I take two steps and pause...  Crap.  I can see my breath.
  Something whistles up ahead.  High and crisp.  I barely have time to set my feet before they are knocked out from under me.  I start to rise before being pressed back down by the heavy paws of a massive wolf.  Its eyes bore into mine, and I take note of its gold and bronze irises.  Often their wolves have some scarring, signs of war, but this one's coat is fresh.  Bright white and beautiful.  "Well, aren't you a pretty puppy." It barks in my face, spittle raining down, and its beautifully sharp, white teeth bared.  
  Another sharp whistle and I can breathe again.  The cold voice hits my ears from down the alley as if it were whispering to me.  "Stay down, dog."
  I lie there, shooting up one mock salute.  "Yep.  Staying down.  Just havin' a smoke."  On my back, I pull the twill from inside my coat, spinning the Strain into fingers.  "Don't let me down, now, Danny boy."  Wetting the edge at my lips, I snap my left thumb and middle finger together.  The fibrous pads of the fingers spark and the flame is set.  Now, Strains are not things you smoke.  Smoking is a casual thing; take a drag, speak some strix, take another.  It takes time.  Strains were not built for casuals.  
  I take one drag, and inhale the raw arcana of our past.  The Strain is consumed completely, its casing turning to ash on my chest.  Elemental fire courses through me; pain numbs, replaced by Rage.  The seller called this mix "Burn," and though it feels similar to my Asher stash, this is certainly not for healing.  No infernals built this.  This was made by druids.
  "Don't do it, dog."
  "IT'S BEEN DONE."  Whoa.  I'm actually spitting lava.  So let's test this sucker.  I focus my breathing, and focus on my right hand.  Fissures of lava and flame begin to crack through it, threatening to explode at any moment.  So I let it, and turn it toward the Shiver.  Whips of fire and lava are flung from my fingertips toward them.  I flourish like my favorite kung fu villain, sending waves of lancing burn toward them.  I don't have to be accurate; I just need to burn time.
  "Cease, child." The Shiver emerges, pushing the rising smoke and steam from his form and slamming me into brick behind me.  These things are strong, its cold fingers digging into the flesh of my torso.  But it pulls back suddenly, burns appearing on its hands.  I smile.  It growls, then punches me.  Really hard.  
  I feel my body arch in tremendous pain and force as I am rocketed upward onto one of the divider walls.  Whatever injuries I suffer in the next minute I won't feel, so let's earn this.  With another burst of flame from my hands, I shoot to my feet, but the Shiver is already there, pushing through the fire and grabbing my throat with an ice-covered hand.
  I feel the cold creep across me, extinguishing the flames and numbing my connection to the arcana.  "Hands off, Shiver."  I wedge my arms around his own and snap it sideways, breaking the grip and landing a little off kilter.
  "You cannot wield your own Strain, dog."  As it sets the bone back in place, the cold fibers resetting the injury.
  "It's a means to an end." I seethe.
  "It is a means to your doom."  
  The eldritch blast hits me square in the chest and I'm tumbling through the air; falling, without style.  I hit the wet stone, a meridian between the last two districts, with a sharp snap and my whole left side goes numb.  There's a ringing in my ears, either from the Strain or the impact, either way vision's a bit fuzzy.  I hear the whistle and something white runs past me; probably blocking my exit.  I try to focus on the tall wall where I came from...where I see it leap down to meet me.  Water splashes on either side of us.  Why is it so damn loud?  The Shiver sighs, while I fight to focus through the rising pain and falling arcana.
  "You stretch too far, mutt.  And now you have added insult to your attempt at injury.  You have taken your steps an inch too far  ...But do not mourn; my lance will silence you." Frost-lined boots click toward me as it recites its code of execution.  The night just keeps getting better.  "...Take solace in the fact that no creature shall mourn you.  The cold shall stay their memory."  The cold fire of its lance ignites like a flamethrower, casting flickering blue light across our landscape.  Piled boxes, ramshackle tents, hanging lamps devoid of oil...and painted marks upon each, red as blood, and all lined with bone, stripped clean of any remaining flesh.  "As it is now, and as it shall always be, you were not prepared to meet The Three."  It raises the blade, and I watch something else rise behind it. 
  Two strong claws grip the Shiver around its torso and fling it down the strip.  The blade dissipates with a sharp crack as the Shiver rolls and recovers, seething breath escaping between its sharpened teeth.  It then straightens, summoning the blade once more, and walking slowly back toward us.  "...No one shall mourn another dead dog in the street." 
  I stare at the back of the creature; matted, spotted fur and wiry, toned muscle.  "Ravi?" I try to rise, but I'm bruised in places I didn't know I had.  
  "It fine, Friend." Ravi's raspy voice, laced in something sinister, sends a feeling through me I was not expecting.  The gnoll looks back at me with a smile, then rises to his full height.  Eight feet tall and half-flexed, he addresses the Shiver.  "All often forget, but tonight I remind them.  Ra'vigal always brings the meat..."  
  Then we heard them.  First a few yips, like the mewling cries of a lost puppy, high in pitch and odd to the ear.  The Shiver stops, and lets out a quick whistle, a grin stretching across its lips...  But no wolf comes.  Instead he is met by a sharp bark from the shadows, and a low, cacophonous rumbling growl as dozens of red and yellow eyes rise from behind the piles of refuse and the discarded.  Dozens, upon dozens.  Every month the Lockgnaw clan pushes further along the meridian.  They grow, and anyone that knows gnolls...  They are always hungry.  It drives them toward great things.  Terrible, great things.
  "Be fast.  Be safe.  Bye Friend." Ravi smiles, gives me a nod, and howls his war cry as it is echoed by his brothers.  They're not scared tonight.  Meat's back on the menu.  The howl rises as one sound, a sonic spear to the dark heavens, and then all at once stops.  An eerie tension rises as no gnoll moves, only the the cold breath of a Shiver without any options rising and falling in the night.  Then I hear Ravi click once.  Just once, and they're on it.  Converging like a rabid wave of teeth, claws, and voracious hunger.  I see a few flashes of an eldritch lance and hear the cries of pain and growls of vengeance, but I can't watch long.  I have to move.
  "Bye Ravi."  I scurry backwards toward the wall, unable to look away for a few moments, but another surge of pain in my side brings me back to the present.  I check my ribs; yep, there's two...scratch that, three.  Kahna, this better be worth it.  I find Ravi's hand holds and start up.  Halfway there I feel a pop in my hip.  Three quarters and my shoulder gives out.  The Burn is still active and I'm numb enough not to care.  I spit up blood at the top, and stare at a pair of filthy leather boots and an outstretched hand.
  "Thanks."  
  I stare at the hand.  At its scars along the back of the hand - burns, perhaps - and the curious missing pinky.  Then I see it; at the wrist and spiraling up the arm.  I take note of it as I take the hand, and, with a lot of effort, are helped to my feet.
  "C'mon.  Let's get outta' here."
  I limp after the little form.  Down the alley.  I watch him carefully, quietly; which is fine.  I hurt too much to talk right now.
  "Heh.  You really did a number on him, huh?  ...I doubt we'll see him again, even if he DOES make it outta' there."  He moves a few crates, setting them up like a small barricade, motioning me over.  "Here.  Let me have a look at you..."  He produces a small medical kit, and I let him lift my shirt to check my ribs, leaning in closer.  He whistles.  "Damn.  That bruising sucks...ya' know what, I think I can-

  The blade enters his throat and slices deep and clean.  I feel warm blood flow over down the knife, and across my hand.  As his eyes meet mine, I twist it and drive upward until I hear a tiny crunch, cradling his head and waiting for the life to leave his eyes.  His form crumples to the ground, a pile of flesh and bone.  With a sigh, I pull back his sleeve and make sure.  I check the detail of the tattoo; armored gauntlet, horned owl.  Then I pull the order out, opening its fine duskweave cover.  With the tip of the blade, I dab the halfling's blood onto the space next to my signature and let the magic do its work.
  A small shuffling behind me sheathes the knife, and I shift my body to obscure the other as best I can.  The form is a small, frail creature; childlike.  I pull one of my gloves off and hold up my bare hand.

  "Hey.  Kid.  It's okay." I can see her eyes dart behind me, examining the crumpled form.  I snap my fingers a few times.  "Don't look there, it's ugly.  Keep your eyes on me."  I walk slowly toward her, taking in her frail form; cloak, bandages, large hood, cradling something in her hands, and pulling it closer to her form.  "Hey, it's alright.  It's over now.  What do you need?  Are you cold?  Do you need help?  Let me just-
  Her eyes, bright and yellow, dart to me, the knives of her pupils stopping me in my tracks.  The word burns from her tongue and seethes the air with hatred.  "...Raptor."  She glowers, stepping backward into the night...and disappears.
  I think to call after her; to explain.  But instead I stand there, a crack of thunder sounding above me.  As the rain hammers  harder and harder, I stare into the dusk of the alley.  A long moment passes, drops of water soaking into my hair.  A triumphant howl splits the night and rocks me slowly back to the moment.  Fifty hours, fifty plat.  

And that.  Is that. 

Excerpt from the Path of the Strain, by Robyn Veit

  "Kanastrixa!" The curse was a little louder than I wanted; I can feel the heads turning, the sneer and stink eyes already formed.  "Yeah, yeah, 'Lo There' and all that..."  I utter the rest under my breath, or maybe it's all in my head by now, but whatever the sentiment, at least the half-orc in full-plate isn't wearing the 'you-will-die-screaming' face.
  Satisfied with the mutual feeling of contempt, I set back to work on my hand.  There's a blasted spike through it.
I examine the wound, turning my hand around enough to get both angles.  Yep.  It is INDEED all the bloody way through my hand.  Lucky for me, the nerves in this hand are shot anyway.  Bogeys hate my right hand; every job, every time.  Sometimes it's a spike, often a sword...one time it was a handshake-turned-fireball.  Magic is the worst best friend of my right hand.
  "Here ya' go, Izzy." A young lass appears at my right, sliding a shifter of firewater over to me with a wink.
  "Thanks, Liv." I give her confident grin and a nod, which seems to brighten her face a bit before she walks off.  I count the beats in her step, the grin fading.  This is going to hurt.
  I take a swig of the firewater, swishing it around my sore gums.  It helps to numb the bruises; it's a good taste tonight.  I feel my eyes glaze a bit, focused on nothing in particular.  I make sure to focus my breath instead, exhaling in a thin and even column; the monks might say I was trying "dance the flame without snuffing it" if there were candle in front of me.  I just do it to distract my brain from what I know is coming.  
  As I take one more swig of the hard booze, practically ignition fuel, I fish into my coat and pull a leather twill roll from within.  Holding my hand aloft at the elbow, I unroll the twill quickly and carefully, checking to see if my Ashers and Strains have mixed; nope, no punctures, no cracks.  We're good.  In the far pocket I draw a small, thick rod of glazed oak.  Fresh tooth marks already on it, I set my jaw and clamp my teeth onto it, calming my nerves.
  As if ahead of my own courage, my left hand pours the remaining firewater unceremoniously into my grizzly wound.  The feeling of guttural betrayal catching in my lungs, I rip the spike from my palm, warm blood pouring from it and lacing down my arm.  Still seething, I slam the fresh spike - it's got bloody barbs on it - onto the table, as Liv rushes back with a fresh glass of firewater, worry painting her face stoic.
  I stare at the hole through my hand only a moment longer, pulling a vial of Red Ash from the twill.  I pop the cork and pour it into the hard liquor.  The flecks of red begin to spin as I agitate the liquid, tiny pillars of choking smoke beginning to cyclone around fits of flame at the rim.  With another sharp intake of breath, I neck the Asher.
  The effect is instant.  Infernal fire licks the roof of my mouth and sulfurous smoke leaks from my flaring nostrils.  As the edges of my vision go red with chaos, I breathe.  I breathe and watch...as the flesh, as if I were staring back through time of my own immolation, reforms from the edges of the hole in my hand.  It is as if the devil himself has set my veins aflame, and it feels about as much, but it's over pretty fast.  The hole disintegrates, new flesh and a fresh scar forming at the palm.  With what I hope to be a manly grunt or two, I clench my hand into a fist, cradling the wrist to my chest and wait for the devil's sight to fade.

  "That one looked like it hurt..."  Something heavy sits next to me, and I wipe the manly tears from the edges of my vision as he passes me a cold glass of ale.  The entity who bears my company wears a similar dark leather duster to my own, but with armored plates sewn across the arms and shoulders.  A dark navy bandana holds back long tendrils of matted hair, beads, and feathers; marks of his tribe, he says, though I'm not sure what pack the mighty Rayph Hughes calls home.  It seems to change every couple of months.  
  Never one out of his uniform, Rayph adjusts his black gloves, tan skin fading toward the shadows at the edges of the tavern light.  After his icy eyes scan the room but for a moment, he pulls back his coat; always the intention to flash the Arcslinger fastened to his hip - an expensive endeavor that probably cost him a rib or two, but worth it to wield the wizard's bane.
  I cough up the last of the smoke from my lungs, the infernal ash fading.  "How's pickings?"
  Rayph's gruff baritone slips out, like hard whiskey across heavy sapling, "Slim.  The knights are moving, and Feathertongue just put up another gatehouse." He pauses strategically, measuring the shared privacy of mutual contempt in the room.  A band of brothers, sure, but none that wouldn't turn for the right coin.  Rayph sighs, pulling a bit of parchment from his coat.  He pours Ash into its center, meticulously measuring - practiced, and precise - before rolling it tight and tying it off.  He regards it with thought, like a piece of art, letting it dance between his fingers lazily.
  I watch with a mask of indifference, then get bored.  "Anything to pass on?"  Anything no one else wanted.  
  Rayph snaps to, shoving the cigar into his coat, and pulls a fine duskweave envelope from within.  Fresh trails of black displacement still fresh at its edges, he passes it to me.  
  I snatch the envelope eagerly.  Duskweave means high brass, which is good coin.  The fabric alone will pay my rent.  ...I try to dodge Hughes's eyes as I tear open the seal and study.  The ink is still wet.
  Rayph chuckles.  
  "Shut up, torky.  We can't all have an allowance..."  Description's good, seal is legit.  Looks like I'm cloak hunting tonight - and I'm the only one.
  "You might have a rush on this, boyo."
  "Oh?" I ask as I pull on my gloves, checking the rune thread on the back of the hand.  The left one is fraying; piece of backstore junk...
  "...I hear there's a Shiver that's picked up his scent."
  I try to stop the chill from running up my spine.  Appropriate, I know, but no bloke takes a decent job without some risk assumed.  A Shiver means serious coin is involved, and though I'm one mean Sai in a dark alley, I'm not one to choose my death at the end of one of their blades.  I'll have to move fast if I want to get ahead of his wolf.  "What's the score?"
  "Fifty hours.  Fifty plat."  Hughes whistles.
  "Then what am I talking to you for?"  I pocket the twill, donning my hat and sending a confident nod to Liv.  She winks good luck; I'm gonna' need it.