Kestrel exhales slowly through his nose and then tilts his head, glancing at the shadows where walls meet ceiling.

“Not a single place,” he explains, leaning in, “which is the problem. Clarissa rotates, always has. She borrows apartments under false names, claims sanctums for a tenday, before abandoning them, uses safehouses that look mundane enough no one bothers to scry twice. If she stays anywhere longer than a week, then it’s because she wants someone to find it. That said…” the man muses, tapping the table top, “there is a hub. A spine that everything else bends around.” His mouth curls faintly. “It's an old customs ledger house near the Salt Quarter. Officially, it was condemned after a dock fire twenty years ago. Unofficially, the paperwork around it keeps getting quietly renewed with taxes paid by proxies that don’t exist and guards that are reassigned before they get curious. The 99 don’t gather there. Ever. That’s important. We pass messages through runners, dead drops, or ritual sends. Anything but face-to-face, which tells me that it’s where she goes, or where something that she can’t afford to move is kept.” Kestrel’s eyes harden. “If you’re looking for her nerve centre, then that’s the place where I’d start, but I’ll warn you, Caio. Everybody who’s tried to look too closely at that building without preparation has either vanished or decided, very suddenly, that they never wanted answers in the first place.”

“Then that is the last place we will look.” Caio responds, nodding with finality. “By the time we come knocking, her supports will have all been sawed off at the foundation. Our trap will be set and she’ll be forced either to face our blades or run home crying to daddy dearest. Either way, we will have won.”

He glances back to the rest of his companions, catching Shiva’s eye and nodding slightly to indicate their business here was concluding.

“I believe that’s all we need for the moment. Please pass along our offer, I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to contact me once you have a response from the others.” Caio stands to leave, his shadow falling over the face of the aging man. “It’s been a pleasure, truly, but my companions and I must see more of this beautiful city tonight. I’m sure we’ll find the time to reminisce soon enough.” He turns away, making back towards the bar, but something stops him. It’s an icy hand locked around his gut, so cold it burns.

“Kestrel, one more thing.” he whispers, back still facing the man and once again placing his frigid words directly in Kestrel’s ears. “I have to ask. Is… is she here? Is Idita here in Beschcadik?”

The clamour of the tavern dulls around Caio and Kestrel, as though the question itself has drawn a thin veil across the world.

“No,” he replies, his voice is low enough that it barely disturbs the air, “not openly. Idita does not walk Beschcadik. If she were here in the flesh, then the city would already be bleeding for it... but she listens. She always listens.” The man exhales through his nose and his fingers curl slightly on the tabletop. â€œThere are agents who speak with her authority, old bloodlines that still answer when she calls, priests who pray too fervently and merchants who keep ledgers that don’t balance unless you count favours owed to her.” His mouth twists. “Whether she’s watching through mirrors, messengers, or something worse… I can’t say. If Idita sets foot in Beschcadik, Caio,” Kestrel assures the elf, his tone now apologetic, or perhaps regretful, “then it won’t be to hide. It will be to claim something.” He glances furtively towards the shadowed corners of the tavern. â€œWhen that happens, you won’t need to ask if she’s here.”

Caio’s head whips back, his rat tail braid snapping over his shoulder. His obsidian eyes are wide with surprise and disbelief.

”Priests? ‘In the flesh’? What are you saying? What’s happened to her?” In a split second he is back at the table, hands practically clawing at the wood as if the furniture has the answers to his questions. Gone is his composure, now there is only a desperate hunger for information, for her. “Tell me.” He demands, his voice growing dangerous.

“Nothing's happened to her, Caio,” Kestrel quips back, rolling his eyes. “Gods, you always were clingy. It's just a turn of phrase. She didn’t vanish, or become a god, or whatever you're thinking. Idita Heart is still a woman. Still flesh and breath and stubborn will.” His mouth twists and he lets out a slow, weary breath. “Surviving Carapace did change her though. She truly believed that the world could be balanced if mortals were brave enough to take hold of it for themselves. No kneeling, or waiting for miracles,” the man reminisces with a faint, rueful smile and his fingers drum once, unconsciously. “That faith of hers outlived everything else.”

“After the city fell, she did what she always did best. She planned and built contingencies. Nothing is sacred to her, not bloodlines, not old vows and not inherited authority. It's all just promises and loose threads left unattended.” The tavern noise seems distant now and Kestrel leans in and lowers his voice. â€œThe priests are stewards and custodians of leverage. Some of them still think that they’re guiding her and she lets them believe that. She's always hated taking hope away from people. She hasn’t abandoned what she taught you either, that mortals deserve agency and destiny shouldn’t be handed down like a sentence, she just decided that loving the world means being willing to damn herself for it.”

“If you’re hoping that she’s the same woman who dragged you onto a dance floor in Nyelcë…” the man tells Caio gently, “…then, no. Time and grief don’t leave people untouched. If you’re hoping that she still remembers why she fought and loved, then, yes. That part of her has never gone anywhere. The tragedy isn’t that Idita Heart became dangerous, it’s that the world gave her so many reasons to be.”

Caio relaxes, though his pride is clearly wounded for being so clearly caught up in Idita’s web after all this time. 

“This is why my words cut straight to the bone, Kestrel. Poetry allows people to jump headlong into conclusions.” He says, sighing out the rest of his tension and now truly feeling the need for a drink. Despite that, Kestrel’s words do bring comfort to the lovelorn elf. It sounds like Idita wasn’t part of the assault on Nyelcë, at least not part of organizing it, and whether then or now she has not yet turned into the type of person Caio would find himself bearing arms against. Those have always been two big questions, with answers that terrified the stoic inquisitor. Hope pangs in his chest.

“Alright. That’s enough questions from me tonight.” He stands again to leave. “Kestrel… thank you.” He turns and walks away, back to Iskander and the Septem Mortale.

”Well friends, should we continue our Beschcadik Bar-hop?” he says, his tone a strained facsimile of mirth. He does not wait for an answer, instead stalking right out of the bar. Ghoul remains in the rafters, watching anyone who dares to have a reaction to Caio’s exit.

Shiva had nodded in return to Caio's initial signal that they were through here, only to watch him become far more absorbed in the conversation and retake his seat. She knows the man well enough to recognize the subtle tension in his shoulders, the concern in his gaze. She could only speculate on the shift in subject that would cause this reaction, but she's pretty confident in that speculation. 

She has her suspicions confirmed when he saunters over with a frivolity that sounds more like a funerary bell than actual happiness. As Caio strides out into the street, she quickly stands, turning to the others. "Seems like he's in a mood. Given what he shared with us earlier, he's probably entitled to it." 

Following her friend out of the tavern, she quickly meets the eyes of the man Caio had been speaking with, giving him a solemn nod before continuing on. Once outside, she stands at Caio's side and speaks softly. "We can talk about it if you like. Or we can go find a fight or someone's bed for you to fall into." She indicates back to Iskander. "I did promise our humble guide a night at the Grand Carnelian after winning some coin in whatever fighting pits they have around here." 

She then looks to the others. "I won't blow our cover. I'll only be the best by a tiiiiny bit." She brings her thumb and pointer finger together in front of her to indicate the smallest of margins, then laughs aloud. 

"That's from a kind of play called a movie, made in Other Shiva's world using something called animation. It's about a family who...you know, never mind. This has too many moving parts for me to explain well."

"I really don't know you well enough for that," Iskander replies with furrowed brows, "and it's too risky - I can't be recognised here. I'm only prepared to take you somewhere close and give you directions.

Iskander's competitive nature is stoked by Shiva's declaration that she is the best. He needs to duel her, but his fighting style would raise questions. He taps his thumb against the pommel of his sheathed scimitar thoughtfully. "We are going to spar after we leave this city," he informs Shiva, "Get your practice in the arena while you can." He shoots her a wink before he turns to guide them away from here, trusting them to keep an eye on who might be following them.

“I’m fine.” Caio responds, waving a hand to dismiss Shiva’s concerns though not ungratefully. “I just need a drink. Another one, I mean.” 

To Shiva’s mention of otherworldly theater he can only shake his head and roll his eyes as he turns to follow Iskander.

Shiva's bright laughter briefly fields the street, and she playfully shoves Iskander. "Oh **** off! You know what I me-" Her words are cut off by the flat thud of Iskander hitting the ground several feet away. Immediately, she rushes towards the man, helping him back up onto his feet. "Sorry! Shit, I'm so sorry! I'm still getting use to how strong I am." Once the man is back up on his feet, staring daggers at her, she shrugs and speaks in a low voice. 

"My blood is Abyssal. It's killing me. It also makes me horrifically strong, fast, and lethal. I'm trying to do something about it, but it's a Hail Mary. I-oh wait, that's not a phrase here-it's a long shot. Anyway, this much strength is new to me. So, without ego, I suggest you spar with Caio or Ari. For your own safety." 

Taking a step back and speaking at her normal volume, she does her best to be nonchalant. "So, where to next, humble guide?" 

Iskander had a scant moment to wonder what Shiva meant by that before he went sprawling. With the push coming from behind, he had no chance to dodge. He yelped as the knee of his newly mended leg slammed painfully against the path.

Iskander got rose and dusted himself over with two measured sweeps of his hand, wordlessly glaring at Shiva all the while. It was clear that this was a step above his outburst before - he was like a simmering pot now, not quite boiling over but with the slightest bit of extra fuel he would. His jaw clenched and he made a fist at his side before splaying his fingers and loosening just slightly. When he finally spoke, it was with a forced calm.

"I can lead you to an inn on the same road as the GC. You would just have to keep going straight ahead. You wouldn't be able to miss it."

The night swallows the last echoes of Rhubar’s behind the Septem Mortale and Beschcadik’s streets widen as they move away from the tavern quarter. The press of bodies thins into long, lantern-lit avenues of stone and shadow, where the air smells of rain caught in dust and old incense, mixed with hot oil and cooling metal from workshops shuttering for the night. A fiddle crying its heart out and laughter rising and falling like a tide drift from somewhere distant, but it no longer belongs to them, merely following at their backs as a reminder of warmth left behind.

Iskander walks rigidly ahead, setting a brisk pace that leaves little room for further conversation. He does his job well, albeit coldly, leading the Septem Mortale along a broad road that is better kept than most, its paving stones worn smooth by generations of both wealth and violence. This is the artery that feeds the Grand Carnelian. A street where mercenaries, courtesans, gamblers and men with too many secrets all eventually pass.

The city’s lanternlight is swallowed up by Caio's armour, turning his shadow long and thin. It stretches ahead of him like something trying to escape. Ghoul remains unseen above, a silent presence flitting from cornice to cornice, watching windows, rooftops and reflections in dark glass for any sign that their exit has drawn more attention than it should.

At last, Iskander slows. Ahead stands an inn of dark timber and pale stone, its sign creaking softly on iron chains. Warm light spills steadily and invitingly from its windows, marking this clearly as a place for travellers who wish to sleep, not disappear. The road continues beyond, straight as a promise, leading towards the glow of the brighter, louder and more dangerous Grand Carnelian, which stains the sky orange even from here.

Iskander ended his silence "Right this is me" he said with a note of relief at being rid of Shiva. He couldn't resist shooting a comment at the Tiefling - a 'joke' - but the sharpness of his tone showed that it wasn't just friendly banter.

"Off you ****." He pointed in the direction of the Grand Carnelian, and disappeared into the warm light of the inn without sparing the group another look; they would find him when they were done, but for now he was going to enjoy this reprieve. 

Alaris groans. "The number of very jolly little corners you people have dragged me into..." They'd go with Iskander, but the group needs to see what Caio's learned, what it means, and to plan for what's next.

After such blunt dismissal, Shiva throws her hands up in frustration when Alaris expresses a similar fatigue. 

"What, you too, Ari?! I tell the man I'm dying, that my blood is poisoning me and I can't always control my strength, and he blows it off like it didn't mean anything and I'm just an ******* for shits and giggles." She sighs heavily, hands on her hips as she looks to Caio. "Do you want to engage and plan with the guy from here on out? He clearly isn't interested in hearing from me." 

She begins to walk down the road towards the Grand Carnelian, unsure of exactly her intent but eager to move away from the stinging rejection of a potential teammate and friend.  

The lanterns burn low and steady, their light pooling like embers upon the cobblestones as the road stretches on. Somewhere behind the Septem Mortale, a door closes and, up ahead, the Grand Carnelian burns bright against the night. Beschcadik never sleeps, but it does change masks.

Alaris, Caio and Shiva linger in the space between. For some part of these three, their arrival in this world was not gentle. Their first breath in Arden was stolen, their minds torn from a familiar sky and pressed into bodies shaped by fate, history and gods who do not ask for consent. They awoke as passengers in lives already in motion and bearing names, scars, loyalties and enemies that they had not earned, but must nevertheless answer for.

What began as disorientation became survival and what became survival has since been hardened into purpose. They learned quickly alongside their Ardennian halves, walking roads haunted by old wars and older magic. They stood before powers that should have crushed them and endured, never unscathed, but unbroken. Each of them has paid their price in blood, certainty and the pieces of themselves that they were left with no choice but to quietly set aside, because there was no time to grieve. They made allies, who may yet betray them, enemies, who will not forget their names, and choices, whose echoes are still unfolding.

Alaris bore the weight of leadership and doubt in equal measure, standing firm even as exhaustion crept into their bones. Caio’s heart learned that love can be a blade, still sharp after centuries, still capable of drawing blood with a single memory. Shiva burned brighter and more dangerously with every truth that she uncovered about herself, her power both a gift and a slow, relentless poison. Ling and Nikolai walk their own paths through shadow and revelation, each step binding them tighter to Arden’s fate.

Now, they stand at the threshold of Beschcadik. This city is a crucible where faith is currency and secrets are sharper than steel. The threads that the Septem Mortale have already touched all converge here, be they priesthoods, empires, ancient seals, or just names spoken only in whispers. Whatever they become next will be forged in streets like these, under lights like those ahead, watched by eyes both mortal and divine. The night breathes around the companions. Behind them lies the road that made them who they are and ahead the city that will decide what that means.

The saga of the Septem Mortale is far from over. If anything, it has only just begun.

End of Part 1 and the DnDBeyond Gameplay Thread

To be continued on  the Stormchaser Roleplaying forum.