Halime listens to Shiva’s unfolding strategy with the same solemn stillness that she showed throughout Caio’s recounting. Nevertheless, there's a distinct shift in the woman's countenance. A spark. A thread of excitement carefully masked beneath a priestess’s discipline.

"It is not only feasible," she says at last, when both Shiva and Caio have finished. "but elegant. You do not merely seek to destroy a serpent, but to coil the serpents around one another until they strangle themselves. That is very much in keeping with the Moon’s will. Understand this, judgement may be Khonsu's domain, but in all the tales told of his ways, he has a particular fondness of clever judgement. Trickery that serves justice is still justice."

Halime clasps her hands before her with an enigmatic smile.

"The plan that you propose uses your enemy's own sins against her. It forces the shadows that she commands to turn on her. It offers no easy escape, for even retreat would leave her allies snarling at her heels. This is how one hunts a serpent. Caio, your instincts also serve you well. The 99 Hundred trust nothing. Not each other and certainly not Clarissa. If they sense that she is manoeuvring them toward a noose, then they will bolt or bite. Either outcome serves you.”

The priestess begins to pace in a slow circle around the two newly anointed devotees, each step measured as though she were walking the edge of Khonsu's blade.

"The viziers, too, are vulnerable. Beneath their silks and etiquette lie appetites, some merely unsavoury and others unforgivable. If you uncover even a whiff of treason, then I can guarantee that it will be enough to fracture their alliances with Clarissa. No vizier risks being found tied to an enemy of the Empire. There is much to do, but your path is true. I will assign two of my trusted Hands to you. Agents who can relay information discreetly and fetch you what institutional access cannot provide. They will not act unless commanded. They exist to support, never to lead."

Finally, she stops before the pair.

"You bring a storm to this city, Children of the Moon, and I believe that it will wash far more clean than you intend. Return to me when your pieces are set in motion and, when the time to strike comes, when the axe must fall, know that you will not stand alone."

The shadows around Halime stretch tall and sharp, as though Khonsu Himself stands behind her.

"Go. Prepare. The serpent coils, but, tonight, she does so unaware."

Shiva beams with unabashed pride as both Caio and Halime agree with the soundness of her plan. She nods as two of the arbiter's Hands are assigned to them, and she immediately considers tasks for them in the time between now and the meeting with Thamur Ozan. But even that would need to wait for now. The team needed to discuss the tactics of the minutiae. 

"Thank you, Arbiter Halime. Justice shall indeed be done." 

Turning on her heels, she exits the sacred enclosure and gives a smiling nod to the others as they come into sight. She's careful to speak quietly, knowing that prying eyes lurk in even the most unlikely of places.

"We have the blessing and support of The Arbiter of His Justice. But she'll withhold her open support until we've properly dismantled everything our target has built and left her with no retreat. We're going to tear down the security she's built around herself."

"She's working with the 99 hundred here in the city, so we'll convince them that she's a dead end, likely in the literal sense." She then looks questioningly to Caio. "We'll do that first, yes? If you're comfortable catching up with old friends?" 

She continues once Caio gives an assent. "Then we turn our attention to the corrupt viziers backing her. We find out who sees to their chambers, who handles their laundry. We learn their vile secrets and air them out once they can be substantiated. All the better, if we can prove sedition among any of them, then they'll scramble to save face and turn on our target. Then we get in with the guard, earn their trust so that we have a route to finding evidence on our target herself, proving her betrayal and her dark dealings."

"Once we have it all, we present it to the Emperor. And we make sure that our target doesn't have any means of escape."

She gestures to the two Hands at their side. "These two agents of the temple have been assigned by Halime to help us gather information and find more covert access to the seedy spaces the viziers might slink to." 

Softly clapping her hands together as she finishes her spiel, she looks to the faces of the group. "So, first thing will likely be the 99 hundred while we wait for the arbiter to arrange the meeting with Thamur Ozan, who will get us access to the viziers and inner circles if we properly convince him of our mission."

"Any questions? Oh! And I'd very much like to hear about the nicer brothels of the city when you have a moment, humble guide."

Caio nods along with Shiva’s update and to her question.

”Yes,” he says, though ‘comfortable’ feels like a strong word. “I realize now I’ve never truly spoken to any of you about my history with the 99 Hundred, only Nikolai. Once we are in our quarters… I will tell you what I know.” 

Turning to the Hands he asks, “Do either of you have a bead on where the 99 Hundred like to congregate? When I knew them they were fond of rowdy, hole in the wall taverns. Truth be told, the Septem Mortale will fit right in.” He adds with a smirk to the others.

The two cloaked figures of Khonsu Hands step forwards in response to Caio’s question. The pair both stand with a predatory stillness, as though listening to things that others cannot hear. Nevertheless, they could not be more different. One is lean and desert-tanned, with eyes as sharp as dagger points and hair bound in tight braids threaded with silver wire. The other is broad-shouldered, ghost-pale and surprisingly graceful for his size, with a scar splitting one eyebrow.

"We do," the lean one answers Caio in a low, sand-roughened voice, bowing their head just enough to show respect. "The 99 Hundred keep no formal headquarters, but in Beschcadik they favour three locations, depending on the nature of their dealings."

"For business," the other continues smoothly, "Rhubar’s. A tavern carved into the old foundation tunnels. Crowded, loud and impossible to eavesdrop in without magic, so they assume that nobody listens."

"For pleasure," the lean one adds, "The Silk Coffin. A brothel that prides itself on discretion. The owner is friendly to the arcane crowd. Indulgence happens there, but also recruitment."

"For violence," the broad one continues with a faint curl of distaste, "an abandoned bathhouse near the Brine Market. They use it for settling disputes, testing apprentices, or storing bodies that they don’t intend to keep hidden. They are creatures of habit. You will find them at one of these three within any given night."

"If you wish to turn them against Clarissa Morgenstern," the lean Hand carefully intones, stepping forwards half a pace with a small, subtle smile, "then you will want to begin at Rhubar’s. It is where they brag and posture. Where resentment flows more freely than the ale. Give them a reason to believe that she endangers them and they will howl for her blood."

Shiva whistles in astonishment. The 99 Hundred sound like their own little family in another world, which seems more likely than not given their recent experiences. 

"Seems like the only thing that kept me from running with them was age. And from the sound of it-" She looks to Caio with equal amounts of concern and understanding. 

"They would've fed all my darker impulses. So how do you want to do this, Caio? We give you space, make it seem like you're alone? Or do we approach as the Septem, put all our cards on the table from the get-go?"

Her mind then wanders over the other details shared, and she speaks quickly and quietly to the Hands as to not derail the discussion. 

"And do you both have information on the other upscale brothels in town?" She shoots an apologetic glance to Iskander. "Not to steal your thunder, Ibra...Ib...humble guide."   

Iskander didn't clock that Shiva was trying to address him until she called him Guide. "You truly have a one-track mind Chosen," he rolled his eyes and replied dryly.

It became apparent he'd picked the tone for comedic effect when he continued in his usual style. "Yes, I am aware of some. I used to visit a few with my friends. Not the Silk Coffin though, it felt like poor value. Though I guess if discretion is what they were offering, the price makes more sense in hindsight," he added thoughtfully. "I guess the other upscale ones are the Purple Lettuce - the name would make more sense if you spoke our language," he explained after seeing the expressions, "the Honeypot, oh! and Ahmed used to love the Grand Carnelian." Something caught in his voice and he continued without the energy of before. "Forget the Honeypot actually, it's not that upscale. Not on the level of the GC anyway."

He stopped there and cast his eyes down, lost in memories of friends who were no more.

Shiva smiles, relieved that Iskander feels comfortable enough with her to joke around and happy to see him so enthusiastic. But her smile fades as his happiness does, realizing that the memory now served to remind him of what he'd lost. Slowly, she brings up a hand to rest on his shoulder. 

"I'm sorry for those you've lost, friend. When I was really little, I'd cry whenever I thought about my parents." 

She sighs, bringing up painful memories herself as she continues.

"My aunt always said that the most important part of people live on in the love you hold for them, seeding the world with the happiness they've brought you. I thought that was horse shit for a long time, but I'm understanding it more and more..."

Pulling her hand back with another sigh that pushes off the echoes of the past, she smiles again. "After Rhubar's, I can make us some coin if you can take me to a fighting ring around here. Then we can hit the Grand Carnelian! In Ahmed's memory, yeah?" 

"Are you out of coin again??" Alaris grins at Shiva and pretends to try and duck behind Iskander if the tiefling takes a swing at them.

The two Hands exchange a look and the older of the two blinks once, very slowly. His expression is perfectly neutral, but the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes suggests that he's reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment. When he speaks, his voice is the same even, reverent murmur that he used before. However, it now carries the distinct cadence of a man choosing each word with ceremonial caution.

"Chosen Shiva... my remit from the Arbiter pertains to intelligence-gathering, infiltration routes and political observation." He pauses for a beat before continuing. "The establishments that you refer to may intersect with these domains. Indirectly." The man delicately clears his throat. "If such venues become relevant to the investigation, then I will inform you."

Beside him, the younger Hand turns pink to the tips of her ears. She nods far too fast.

"Y-yes, Chosen. I— we— know of several. Through reports. Field logs. Not through... attendance." The first Hand gives her a sidelong look of subtle mercy and she straightens, eager to redirect. "If you require entry to any establishment connected to the viziers, or the cabal, then we can prepare appropriate covers. However," she folds her hands primly and her voice lowers conspiratorially, "I would recommend the Grand Carnelian for discretion, the Purple Lettuce for information and avoiding the Honeypot entirely. It is not... secure."

“Although your 'humble guide' appears already well-informed," she adds after risking a glance at Iskander.

“Our loyalty is to the Arbiter," the elder Hand clarifies, inclining his head. His tone has now fully returned to professional form. "Our information is yours and we will endeavour to keep our reports comprehensive. Within reason."

"It is not only pilgrims who come to our great city, no? It's less usual for the pilgrims to want to know about such places but often merchants want to make trade agreements and business deals so they come here. In both senses of the word," Iskander winked at the Hand. "Our women are better than what they are used to back home. Our men are proper men too, not those hairless boys of the East. It is only natural for them to be enticed." He makes a apologetic gesture to the others, though they might not understand the Sarameian sign for what it is. "I mean no offense gentlemen."

Shiva’s one track mind, even after such a profound spiritual experience, elicits an eye roll from Caio. Iskander’s reaction, however; and the pained nostalgia that plays across his face causes a pang in Caio’s heart. For the moment he is quiet as others talk, but makes a note of it. 

“We can travel to Rhubar’s together,” he begins speaking as the conversation lulls again. “But I will do the talking. I will speak of the Septem Mortale, they will feel more comfortable allying with me if they know I come with more blades to bear against Clarissa, but let me lead. I know them.” He says, a similar pained nostalgia coloring his voice.

Hearing something about ‘proper men’ and  â€˜hairless boys from the East’ Caio cocks an eye at Iskander, disapproval or disagreement on his face, but the elf says nothing.

Nodding to Caio, she sneers at Iskander's comment before coming to focus her attention on the Hands. 

"Thank you for your support and willful spirits, I trust in your intelligence. I had planned on handling those affairs on my own, though. But if you feel it would behoove us to move under an alias in these establishments, then I fully accept your counsel."   

She then takes a step towards the younger Hand, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. 

"And I diligently attend to such matters." She then takes a step back, addressing both Hands of the temple. "I wish to check the Grand Carnelian for a letter I expect to be delivered there. It will be addressed to me, or potentially to My Blue Rose. Could the both of you look out for it? That would alleviate any need for me to visit unless our current aim directs us there."

Lastly, she shoots Iskander a disapproving look. "Then you can take your half of the winnings from the fighting ring and do...whatever that comment was, at the Grand Carnelian." 

The elder Hand receives Shiva's thanks with a shallow, precise bow that's as crisp as folded parchment. Her willingness to accept their counsel seems to ease something in the rigid line of his shoulders. Nevertheless, when the tiefling steps towards his counterpart with that sly, feline smile, the man's brow twitches. The girl herself goes very still and her eyes widen. By the time that Shiva stepped back again, the younger hand has managed to swallow, straighten and offer a taut, professional nod.

"Of course," she replies. Although her voice remains soft, it had lost its earlier jitter. "If a message arrives at the Grand Carnelian, addressed either to Shiva or to 'My Blue Rose', we will identify it and discreetly secure it."

The other Hands' agreement follows a half-breath later, delivered with serene solemnity.

"It shall be done, Chosen," he affirms. "We will ensure that no courier, attendant, or house functionary lays claim to it before we do. You will be notified the moment that it is in our hands."

The two Hands incline their heads simultaneously. As they straighten, the girl's gaze flicks briefly towards the rest of the Septem Mortale, while the man's eyes shift towards the far-off steps of the temple.

The night has thickened by the time that the Septem Mortale leave the temple's guest sanctum, the silver glow of the moonshrine giving way to the deeper, dustier gleam of Beschcadik's lantern-light. The warmth of the city has not lessened with the hour. Instead, it presses against the travellers like a living thing, carrying the mingled scents of spice markets just closing, bread ovens cooling and the faint metallic tang of the city’s ever-present forges. The route to Rhubar's dips through narrower streets than before, streets where the shrine-district's marble purity gives way to clay façades, patched awnings and hanging strings of charms clattering like bone windchimes.

Iskander guides his companions with the confidence of a man who has walked these alleys since childhood, turning corners without warning and cutting through little courtyards where cats scatter like shadows. As they descend toward the lower tiers, the tenor of the city shifts. Laughter grows louder, music roughens and the population turns more eclectic. Pilgrims become dockhands; merchants become gamblers and the night, thick and restless, takes on a pulse of its own.

Rhubar's announces itself before it is ever in sight. There's a sudden swell of rowdy voices, the crack of some game board hitting a table and the unmistakable clang of metal mugs colliding. The air smells of strong liquor steeped with desert herbs, roasting meat, and sweat from too many bodies crammed into too small a space. The tavern itself looks as though it has been stitched into the district rather than built. Two mismatched buildings are fused by a sagging roof and painted over with a crude mural of a grinning bull-man lifting a barrel in triumph. The front shutters are propped open to the street, spilling light and heat into the night.

Alaris smiles and relaxes as the Septem Mortale moves into the lower tiers of Beschcadik. This is where we belong. This is The City - where everything smells of spices and sweat and secrets. Lanterns swing like tired eyes, every alley has a story it isn't telling, and every corner has eyes sizing us up. Down here, no one cares if you're a bogatyr or a burglar - they try to take a bite and spit you into the gutter all the same.

The lights and sounds from Rhubar's make their smile even broader. "Well, if it isn't the Black Sheep of Beschcadik! Let's see what we can get into, my dears."

 â€œBlack Sheep of Beschcadik indeed.” Caio echoes with a soft smile as he gazes at the absolute pinnacle of a dive bar. Though there is a noticeable new lightness in him, there is also an uneasy anticipation for this reunion.

 â€œThe last time I saw any of them, they were razing a city.” In the temple’s comfortably minimalist guest quarters, Caio sits on his low bed surrounded by his companions. “Well, some of them were. Vitun the Breaker, Sheldrazza Ruat, and Old Cursed Fyrik. They raised an army of warped and twisted undead and marched on the city of Nyelcë. I still don’t know why. We managed to capture them, but I left Necorath before our theurges had the chance to pry the motive from their skulls. After the attack, it seemed the rest of the 99 Hundred had vanished.” His voice just barely catches in his throat as he shares this last detail. “Before all of that… well one might say I was a friend of the 99 Hundred. We drank together, delved through dungeons in the ice, much of what I know of the arcane I learned from them. In another life I’m sure I would have joined their ranks officially. Hells, in this life… if she had asked…” He looks up, obsidian eyes meeting the gazes of those around him. “Some of you know that I don’t just seek the 99 Hundred as a whole now. I seek one of them.” He sighs, gravity drawing his eyes back down to the floor. “Her name is Idita Heart, and true to her name, she devoured mine. She was the first of their number who I met, she dragged me onto the dancefloor of the Broken Key and… the rest was history. We were in love,” the jagged edge of a crack once again threatens to break his voice and bring tears to his eyes, “At least, I thought she loved me. She gave no warning before her friends massacred the fine people of Nyelcë, the city where we’d all spent countless nights carousing. After the attack, she was gone with the rest of them. No apology, no goodbye.” He clenches his mouth, pain and frustration bubbling up.  â€œI’d like to tell myself that she had no knowledge of the plan, that she had to flee or else be implicated with the trio that we captured. But surely she could have reached out to me by now, she’s a witch after all. That’s the question that has driven me across Arden. Why hasn’t she tried to find me? Was everything we shared a lie? And for what? It’s not as if she was using me to infiltrate the Raven Queen’s forces, she never showed any interest in any of that. Was I just the fleeting fancy of a fickle trickster?” He sighs again, this one heavy with all the weight he’s carried over years and thousands of miles. Khonsu could only lift a fraction of that. “I don’t know what I’ll do when I see her again.”

 Standing in front of Rhubar’s, a hundred different possible scenarios play through Caio’s head, most of them involving her. Of course in all likelihood, Idita is not behind that door. Still, for a moment the elf is paralyzed. Even Shiva, who’s known him for the longest out of this group, has never seen the stoic, unrelenting fuinequendi so absolutely frozen.

Much like the others, Shiva feels an immediate sense of familiarity and warmth from the ramshackle establishment bursting with life. Standing before the Rhubar, she thinks back on all that Caio divulged before their journey here. The pain and confusion of his past seemed to weigh all the heavier on him because of the longing that had endured into his present. That this woman, Idita, would share such a relationship with him only to suddenly vanish; Shiva imagines she would feel similarly to her friend. 

So as the fuinequendi of Khonsu's Justice stands fixed in place before the tavern, likely contemplating decades worth of feelings, Shiva comes to stand by his side. Placing a hand on his shoulder, she speaks quietly without taking her eyes off of the tavern's entrance.

"You've crossed a thousand miles and countless days to be the man you are now. You've grown in ways that not one of them could imagine. You stand in the light of your own strength, your own justice, such that it has been honored by a god." 

She turns to look into the onyx eyes that so closely mirror her own. "You've moved forward, while they've clearly stood still. And your conscience is clear in matters of the heart-" She pauses, giving the subject the gravity it deserves. "..You have nothing to fear nor carry shame for. Kings and archmages would be lucky to call you lover and she is a fool for not honoring that herself." 

Giving the elf a gentle pat on the back, she takes a step forward. "Ready?"

Perceiving Caio's reticence to enter Rhubar's sparks Alaris' own fears. For as much as they had been welcomed at the Black Sheep and were loved by the Septem Mortale, the fact remained that they were an outsider -- different -- with aspects of identity they weren't sure how to answer themselves! And this culture, more even than Tanem's, seemed to expect individuals to fit in known and comfortable categories. The armor of the Volkfelder and the symbology of a bogatyr protected me in Piotrgrad... what razors and clubs of mockery and disdain might I meet in this lovely establishment?

"Caio, whatever encounters lurk on the other side of this or any door we find before us, you will not be alone facing them. Lead on, my friend."

When the newcomers step across the threshold, the reaction is immediate. A ripple, like wind disturbing tall grass, rolls across the common room. Dice pause mid-roll, a lute string twangs off-key as the musician's fingers hesitate and several drinkers at the long, central table lift their heads in unison, expressions sharpening with recognition or suspicion. Rhubar's crowd is a blend of mercenaries, dockworkers and people whose trades are never openly named. Scarred arms, tattooed chests and weapons disguised as canes or jewellery abound. This is the kind of clientele who knows the smell of trouble as well as they knew their next drink.

Nevertheless, the sight of an elf with shadows in his bones, a tiefling with a predator's poise, an aasimar glowing faintly with celestial calm, a beautiful, robed dwarven woman and their Sarameian guide is not the sort of trouble that they are used to. The ripple moves outwards as more faces turn and a few patrons lean towards one another, murmuring. One old man curses softly under his breath, a pair of card-players straighten in their chairs and somebody behind a haze of pipe smoke in the back stiffens.

"...Caio?" Somebody mutters with the quiet, incredulous tone of a man half convinced that he's seeing a ghost.

     Astrid lets out a long breath as they pause at the entrance of the tavern - not out of any sense of frustration. With the edge of her sleeve she dabs away a bit of sweat from her brow that walk in the evening heat has brought about. As she stands there, staring up at the centaur on the mural, she can't help but the recall the beginning of her journey that began in Piotrgrad where she stepped into a similarly raucous establishment and what new what new journey will come of this.

     The dwarf slides behind Caio and offers a reassuring pat. "The Scribe will protect us," she says, hoping and clutching her holy symbol.