Tribal Diplomacy
An Arvian Tale
By Isiat Carcer

Bringing the twins had not been part of Isiat's original plan. In fact, the twins had not at all been involved in his plan. The twins would ask questions, cause trouble, and likely not understand the point. That was why he had gone on his own with the Elder's and Kleng's blessing. Nobody else had been told his reasons for leaving.

Regrettably, the very young were seldom good at just doing as they were told.

And that was why his plan had only worked for so long. He'd garbed himself for the road, packing a long cloak and hood, as well as a heavy bag containing provisions, notes, and a handful of things that he might have needed. On top of all that had gone some things of value to trade. The entire pack would have weighed an unchanged down to the point of immobility, but to the midnight black, red, and white pelted Arvian, standing fully two heads higher and several orders stronger than any of the unchanged in their tribe, the weight barely even registered.

Their erstwhile kin of the Suntouched kept their distance from the woods and wildlands where most of the Moonkissed tribes were located, but it had been many generations since their kinds split and embarked upon their separate ways. Depending on where you went among each, the fractures caused by the divide might have been as small as a crack or as wide as a fissure. The fanaticism with which the hatred ran deeper in some groups than in others.

Isiat had told only Kleng the actual destination of his journey, and even then, only so that his old mentor would know where to search in the event he didn't return.

He travelled to the lands of the Flame Undying, and a settlement called Hearthhome. To the Suntouched, to ask the aid of their oh-so-loathed brethren.

“They've nothing to offer us but death and curses. I would not break bread with them. They cannot be trusted. Their ways will lead to all of our ruin." His mentor had scolded him, disapproval and scorn evident in his tone. Kleng's reasons for his severe distrust of the Suntouched were written in a litany of scars on his body, and the memories of many years of vigilance and violence.

And perhaps the older, more experienced Arvian would yet be proven right, but perhaps too, he could be proven wrong. Isiat did not know for sure, but few of his kin bothered conversing with the Suntouched in anything but the language of battle. He doubted many of the Suntouched did either. Their kin looked so similar, and yet, both of their tribes were prone to… Well, tribalism. It was always us versus them. Never before had a common ground been properly struck.

Shucking his backpack on the trail side, he took a moment to remove his own tribe's adornments to his body. Earclips bearing crescent moons and silvery feathers. A necklace with drilled flint arrowheads for patience. Moonstone fetishes and rune symbols that had been made into small charms. Even his collapsed spear of silver he wrapped carefully and tucked away. 

Rummaging through the contents, he pulled a few things loose. He changed his garb, and at a glance, his appearance. The most heretical of the new apparel was a brooch he used to refasten his cloak, cast in gold in the shape of a lance of fire through a starburst. His tribe mates may well have shunned him outright if they knew he even possessed such a thing. Keeping trophies of prior hunts and battles was one thing, but an icon of faith from the enemy? Kleng would have disavowed him.

Still, it had kept strangers from asking questions when he had ranged further than his tribe may have seen as safe or reasonable. Leagues beyond their territory, a lone Moonkissed wandering around would have raised questions from anyone who noticed.

Knowledge however took no sides. The pursuit of it took one on a journey of many paths, and not all of them were as neat and orderly as others. Practising their heresy to the spirits and the moon was outright the fastest way to get oneself banished, but no understanding would be fostered by inaction. That much had become unquestionable to Isiat. Somebody had to take the first step, and if what he suspected was indeed true, well… Disagreements about the First Loresinger and their twin would be the least of their two tribes' problems.

His veil of anonymity in place, he set off once more, still not noticing the pair of amber and hazel figures who followed him at a great distance. He'd helped train them himself after all.

————————————

It was nearly five days' travel hence when the city first came into sight. Sprawls of houses expanded in every direction from the strategically picked mountain near the fork of a river. In its centre, a high-walled building dominated the area, with a towering spire at each corner, and a high, arched roofed building in the middle. This was one of the Suntouched temples. The town had been an inadvertent side effect of its construction. as nomads, hopefuls and travellers had flocked to the landmark structure that watched over the river valley.

Isiat knew as a fact from his previous visits that there were a host of other reasons they had chosen this particular spot to build their temple. Around the Equinox, it faced perfectly aligned with the sun's course across the sky. Supposedly, the spirits gathered in this place frequently, and it had proven a more… Reliable site for their particular variation of the Moonkissed's transformation ritual.

There were other sites, and larger cities, but for the Suntouched, it was sacred ground.

The punishment for any Moon kin daring to desecrate the site would have been his head if he was discovered. Unfortunately, the town also happened to be home to the best source of documented knowledge for many a league when a wandering book collector had decided to call it home. Over the generations, his initial home had grown into a grand assortment of add-ons and extensions until the secondary parts had entirely eclipsed the much more modest living portion to one side, and it had become more of a public service dedicated to the preservation of texts and curios from across the world.

Certain texts, of course, though, under the watchful eyes of the Suntouched, had been outright forbidden and removed whenever found, and their owners punished.

But… If you knew the right people, and the questions to ask those people… And perhaps had a spare bottle of triple distilled Red Moon Juice… Then maybe, maybe, you could find copies of those texts, in a dark, secluded room for an hour, so as not to draw attention.

For now, though, it was enough to make it past the city watch at the gates; A few unchanged, mixes of humans and anthros in hand-me-down gambesons and brigandines, loosely dyed with oranges and stripes of yellow. They leaned on their pikes and halberds lazily, barely even observing the people coming and going. Regrettably, Isiat had the misfortune of standing out, though when they saw him, their reaction wasn't one of surprise. 

It was deference. They stood a little straighter and offered nods and bows as he passed without stopping.

“Sun's blessing." one nodded as he moved aside. Even the ordinary folk on their business kept a healthy distance from the hulking Arvian who simply strode through their midst like he was meant to be there. 

Even if he wasn't, who among them would have the courage to question it?

His only regret was that arriving in the daylight meant word of his presence would have already reached the temple atop the hill. Duties and tribute would be expected of him for his guise to hold up. All of this would take time, and be not in the least bit inconspicuous, but it was expected. If he wanted to play at passing as Suntouched, he would just have to play along as any true Suntouched would know to do. At least, it would hasten his making contact with the one he sought here.

Adjusting the pack on his shoulders, he set off along the cobbled path leading to the great spires on the hill, keeping his hood pulled above his hackles while he went.

————————————-

The metal coins thudded heavily into the bottom of the wooden container, and the Suntouched Arvian priest smiled as he put it back upon the silk-clothed desk by the doorway. His talons curled, beckoning Isiat to rise again with a few hushed words and a wave of his hand across Isiat's eyes. His copper-gilded robes of beige silk made barely a whisper as he moved.

“And may the Sun not be clouded from your sight. Tell me, Loresinger, what brings you to our humble home?" The priest asked with a friendly tone. Isiat rose as they turned to walk through the gardens within the walls of the temple keep. The white marble masonry was gilded with paintings of Suntouched tales, as was common in the practice of their spiritual sites. Even the priest's robes bore elaborate markings of the stars and the flames they revered. The back was boldest of all, the same symbol of a lance-struck starburst dominating the decorative, ceremonial garment.

Funny then though, for all the ornamentation and decoration here in the temple, that the focus of the spirits had been deliberately set up with a ritual circle that dominated the main town's plaza.

There was something to be said for showing their power by performing their rituals for the flocks to see. It kept them entranced, yet wary, and hopeful still, when they pulled preselected 'volunteers' from the crowd. Hope was a far more effective tool than fear when it came to the unchanged, and many of them still hoped that one day they too would be chosen.

Unlike his own tribe… The ritual was a sacred thing, done in the presence of the moons, the spirits, and elders with a single shaman, if even that many. It was between the spirits and the chosen in the end. Having it put on display like a spectacle rubbed his pelt wrong, though he kept his beak shut on such things.

“I had heard another Loresinger had rested here and was hoping to trade stories for my own home…" He pulled from his pouches a single amber hackle feather, as well as a well-used-looking deck of cards. The gold-feathered priest leaned over, inspecting both, curiously, before holding his hands out in an unspoken question.

Isiat passed them over, and the priest held the feather up at eye level.

“Yes, the one you seek is here. Bravjen is a seasonal guest and arrived a few weeks past. He has been making himself at home with the library down the hill. A strange sort, but the initiates appreciate his recounting of the tales."

There was perhaps an unspoken dissenting opinion there, but Isiat knew better than to mention it. It had been months since their encounter during a particularly fierce storm. Perhaps his words had more impact than either had realised at the time.

“I see. I will take my leave then. Thank you, Priest."

“Of course. And blessings of the flame eternal go with you. There is a new initiation to our order this afternoon in the plaza. You'll be there, yes?"

“Of course. May the sunlight shine upon you."

Isiat nodded politely as he stepped out of the door, and made himself scarce, not stopping until he was well beyond the Temple Keep's walls.

The priest stood a while longer in the garden, until a tall, hooded Arvian approached him from behind, stopping a few feet short with a bow. The priest didn't bother looking back.

“Keep an eye on that one, and the two other newcomers who haven't paid their tribute."

 ——————————————

“Traitor!" Isiat barely had time to dodge the flying knife as it whistled past his head, and embedded itself heavily into the wall of the alleyway beside.

Credit to them, the Twins had chosen a good place for it, or perhaps he had been more the fool trying to avoid the main paths and crowds as he moved through the town. But their execution was still sloppy.

He avoided Máni's spear thrust as the lighter pelted of the two drove it towards his belly, turning the point with a smack of his outstretched talons.

“What in the blazes are you doing here?" He snarled, hackles raising as she took another stab at him. He pivoted and grabbed the haft of her spear, yanking the younger Arvian towards him. She released her spear and drew another knife a second after it was still a tactically viable option. Not that she knew that, of course. With an almost casual, yet savagely calculated grace, Isiat's elbow connected with Máni's beak, dazing the golden-pelted Arvian. 

In a heartbeat, he hoisted her by the neck of her cloak and pinned her by it to the wall with her own knife, driving the blade like a nail to the hilt in the wood. Her feet peddled uselessly, suspended two inches above the ground while she gagged for breath.

Taking her spear, he turned, and with the point downwards, intercepted Behtar's own 'sneak attack' from his rear. Neither of them had taken gracefully to the art of moving silently. At once, the Loresinger launched into a counterattack.

One two three! 

Their spears racked off each other as the earth-coloured twin made his try. To Isiat's regret, Behtar was still watching his foe's weapon instead of his opponent's movements. Punishing him for the mistake was as easy as thrusting low to the side to draw his eyes away from the haft of the spear. Isiat spun the weapon end-over-end like a staff, connecting with Behtar's head with a dull 'thunk' of the wood striking skull. Behtar staggered, his hands going to his head as he backed off, accepting that he'd been rather handily beaten.

“Oww! Shit! Yield! I Yield! It was her idea! Oww…" Behtar hissed and cursed a few times, holding the forming goose egg where their mentor had beaten him.

“There was a reason I didn't invite either of you! What have you to say for yourself, hmm?" He marched back to Máni with a frustrated scowl, where she was still flailing over her head for the blade. He yanked it free with a tortured squeal of steel on wood, and she fell, gasping.

“We saw you go to their temple! Wear their symbols! You were selling us out!"

Isiat's shoulders dropped as he shook his head with disappointment.

“Have neither of you ever heard of a disguise?! This is not a fledgling outing. And what will-“ Oh, Kleng was going to have his neck if he found out they were here.

With a frustrated growl, he shoved them back deeper into the alley, even though herding them was like trying to herd cats! 

“When we return to the tribe, I expect both of you to go straight to Kleng and ask his forgiveness for… The absolute world of shit you are about to put me through, dammit! Raru!" Isiat barked. At once, his dreampal, Raruraru, a small, glowing blue furdrake, bounded into existence, chittering excitedly while floating merily in circles around the trio.. 

“Really, you're going to have Raru babysit us?" Máni's tone conveyed her offence at the very idea. The Lorekeeper's glare on the other hand conveyed many much stronger and barely restrained emotions, the least of which was a desire to pin them both back to that wall.

“Will you do it yourselves if I let you from my sight?" Their mentor asked, rhetorically. Neither of them could lie well enough for him to be convinced that they could in fact do as they had been told. Their all-but-whined platitudes and complaints only convinced him further of his position.

“Exactly as I thought. Both of you will stay here, and stay unseen, unheard, and unknown until I get back, do I make myself absolutely clear, fledges?"

“Yes, Lorekeeper."

“Yes, Lorekeeper."

He waggled the spear tip at both of them before he tossed it back to Máni and turned.

“Keep that, but if you have to use it before I get back, I'm not coming back. You'll have to find your own way back then."

He hadn't made it more than two blocks when a voice interrupted behind him. His hackles bristled with irritation.

“So where are we going then?" Máni asked in her sweetest, singsong voice like he hadn't been growling at them not five minutes ago. It took all the strength of the moons and spirits for him to not scream his frustrations at them in the moment. Raru appeared briefly upon his shoulder, the little spirit fur-drake chittering angrily at them before he vanished back into whatever realm they lived in, hiding from sight. The little Dreampal's frustrations were evident, and Isiat couldn't even bring himself to blame the poor critter.

“You two aren't go-“ he stopped himself short of ranting. There was no point, and it would only draw -more- attention to them than three Arvians in hoods standing by a corner would already. A deep, drawn-out sigh escaped him.

“Fine. Follow me, stay close. Don't draw any more attention to yourselves. You already stand out enough as is. At least I look like I'm supposed to be here. You two look like lost fledges." His beak opened and shut with a displeased snap at the air, while his long tail lashed back and forth, like a threatening snake searching for an opening to strike.  

He led them on a path through the township, grumbling with every passing step. He'd pulled his hood back up to cover his hackles and head, not that it did much to disguise their Arvian nature. In a way, that much was impossible to hide. Even among the larger unchanged, they all still stood head and shoulders taller. It was like trying to disguise a tree in an empty field. Isiat kept his internal screaming to himself.

“And how long, praytell, did you two expect to be following me for, hmm? Did either of you pack provisions? Equipment? Suitable clothing?" Isiat started picking apart their plan at once. Neither of the twins could provide him with a worthy explanation.

“Well, we'd already tracked you for four days! We thought you might have been heading back to the tower and needed help before you put on those Suntouched robes!" Máni half whined, her beak tilted and eyebrows furrowed in annoyance.

“Yeah! And we packed some dried food, but we'd been hunting off the trail in the meanwhile!" Behtar started proudly, his beak split in a grin from ear to ear. Isiat stopped and turned in the path, looking them both over critically with those icy blue eyes of his.

“So then how do you plan to eat in the city? Do you see any wild game here? Do you have anything to barter for coins that won't reveal your identity? Shall you hunt a stray cat and see how long it sustains you? I swear… You are both brilliant, but what you have in natural skill, you match blow for blow with foolishness."

At that moment, a window from a small tavern ahead exploded in quite dramatic fashion, which is to say, someone exploded through it and into the street, the grey-pelted canine groaning and rolling to pull himself up. He looked back at the tavern in alarm for a heartbeat before trying to dash away. He made it two steps and drunkenly fell back to the ground, opting instead to try and scamper out of the street on all fours.

The doors exploded outwards a second later, kicked from within. They bounced off the outside wall, swinging wildly from the force. There was a commotion inside, but it died down as Isiat backed away and pressed himself against the wall of the nearest building, yanking both of the twins out of sight as well. 

Another powerful Arvian marched from the tavern with the grace of a lion about to squash a bug that had dared to bother it. Isiat attempted to make his nine-foot frame smaller. The twins both peeked their heads out to watch, enraptured with their first real encounter with a Suntouched.

She stalked down the steps and into the street from the small patio, garbed in dark travelling leathers, and a cloak of grey-green around her shoulders that did nothing to conceal the hilt of a bastard longsword. Her clawed feet and the bottom of the cloak were stained with mud from travelling. Her beak was curled in what could only be described as a supernova of rage, and her eyes had narrowed into slits, hunting for her prey. Fierce, tribal braids of hair hung from her head, as white as the hackles cresting her head, raised and shaking with fury. Right now, all of that fury was directed at the dog in the street, who had turned and started stammering an apology of some sort.

Her foot kicked him into the mud. And again. And again. And again!

“And if you think-“ Kick. “that you can come in there-“ Kick. “and spill-“ Kick. “MY DRINK-“ A harder kick this time. Isiat heard something snap painfully. “AND BLAME ME FOR STARTING TROUBLE!"  Whatever life choices the canine had made up to this point had clearly all been the wrong ones. Isiat stayed as silent as the grave the mutt had clearly dug himself was filled.

“Next time-“ She violently shoved one foot against the prone dog's side, and pushed him over, rolling him into his back. Her foot came down on his chest with a stomp that had the male yelping. 

“I'll fucking quarter you myself!" She spat on his face and generously let the whimpering canine slowly drag himself away, bruised and undoubtedly worse for wear. 

“Woah…" Behtar blinked in awe, and like a hawk spotting its prey, Yarsa's head swivelled around instantly, locking on the trio. Then she saw Isiat.

“YOU." Yarsa's fury had found a new target to extract its wrath upon. Were it not for the now mortal peril he found himself in, Isiat might have turned and ended the twins there and then. When he had planned on keeping a low profile, this was not at all what he had in mind.

“Ahh! Yarsa! Just who I was looking for! You see-“

“If the next words out of your beak aren't about the money you owe me-“ There was an unspoken threat of a slow, painful and humiliating death that hung in the air like a static charge.

“I was just on my way to pay you!" Isiat answered smartly and directly.

The longsword on her shoulders was drawn and swung with terrifying speed and accuracy, slamming itself into the soft wood beside Isiat's head. It was startling, but he'd long since learned better than the flinch in the face of adversity. And Yarsa's fury could very quickly make his entire life an adverse situation if he picked his words poorly.

He knew it.

She knew it.

She also didn't care much about what the outcome would be.

“Bullshit. You're here on some Moonclub nerd book smart outing. What kind of lunatic idiot brings his fledges into the city of his enemy?" She yanked the sword back with the tortured squeal of wood that desperately wanted to crack under the pressure. The twins had wisely tried to shift and move as much of themselves behind their 'mentor' as possible but were still busy staring in awe at the Suntouched Arvian.

“I did not tell them to come. These two geniuses decided to do that themselves." He turned his beak and clacked it once at them with a stern glare. The twins shrank even more behind him.

“Well did you tell them not to?" Yarsa kept one hand on the hilt of her sword, which despite its length, truly only reached her waist when she planted the tip in the dirt at her feet. She held the other hand out, palm up.

“Now wait just a minute, that's not how that fucking works and you know it-“

“Uh-huh. Pony up Moonclub. What you owe me, plus interest or I'm going to drag all three of you by the hackles to the temple and turn you in for a capture reward."

Behind him, Máni shifted her weight, as if getting ready to do something regrettable and stupid. Isiat turned and hissed at her, hackles raised fiercely.

“Oooh, feisty. I like that one. But learn from your betters… Not him though. You'll live longer." Yarsa curled her fingers impatiently, and with a grunt, Isiat dug in his backpack, producing a pouch that rattled with loose coins. He set it in the Suntouched's open palm. She weighted it dubiously, her fingers tensing around her sword. A few more coins encouraged her patience this time.

After another tense moment, it disappeared beneath the edge of her cloak, and she brought the sword over her shoulder to slide it back into its sheath.

“So what brings the Moon nerd troup marching into town today?"

“Bravjen, the Loresinger." Isiat's expression was flat as he said it. Yarsa sighed, almost disappointed.

“Really? That guy? He's a shit storyteller you know? He tried his hand at being a bard at the tavern the other night. Started some heretical-sounding bullshit about the First and almost got dragged into the street by a proper Arvian who took exception to his words. Come to think of it, it almost sounded like the kind of crap you and your Moonclub would say."

“So which truth do you follow then, hmm?" Isiat's beak snapped with a curiously accusatory tone.

“Which one is paying me more?" Yarsa's smug grin fit her too well, though it was part of what made her so agreeable to these expeditions. 

She would put up with a lot of crap for the right amount of coin, and Isiat had yet to find a topic that she couldn't be swayed on for a price. Whether she actually held herself to that creed or merely wore the mask of a mercenary didn't particularly matter. She did the job, and as long as you didn't piss her off…

“I need to see the Library undercroft, and these two idiot fledges need a babysitter while I do. There is much there they need not know yet, at least not before they can arrange a decent ambush without help."

Yarsa laughed. She laughed long and loud for a good moment. When Isiat's expression didn't change, she stopped.

“You're serious? You want me to watch your fledges for you?" Her tone was incredulous.

Isiat's coin purse rattled once more as he pulled it out. Her tone changed at once back to a more serious, business-like cant.

“How long do you want them busy?"

——————————————————

“I'm not sure our elder would approve of this…" Behtar voiced his objection quietly, though Yarsa's firm glare was enough to silence his protests once more. She had led them through town towards the square. In the distance, a lone bell tolled, long, deep peels ringing across the town from the temple hill.

“Elder, ha! It's bad enough he chooses to dart off during a ceremony day to go and read his books, but now I have to cover for the two of you as well. If anyone asks, you're visiting from Sunstone-“

“Where's that?" Máni Asked with a particular tone of innocent curiosity. Yarsa didn't buy it for a second.

“North. FAR North. Far enough nobody will care to ask more, yourselves included." Her tone left no room to argue, nor would she accept it. Her chain mail rattled with each hulking step she took, and her presence alone cleared the street ahead of them of the unchanged and their fellow Arvians alike.

“They're not so different from us Máni!" He pointed out as they passed a roadside vendor, peddling many of the same kind of wares their clankin would barter back in their village. For them, it was still surreal. When you grew up hearing so many stories and rumours and myths about the Suntouched, it was hard not to be surprised when reality struck.

“And yet, we are nothing alike, moon club. We don't skulk around in the dark and sing praises to a pair of giant, cold, lifeless rocks in the sky. You don't think there are stories of the Moonkissed being a crazy, backward cult?"

Behtar clacked his beak once, and shut up, silencing himself for whatever he'd been about to say.

“Has anyone ever told you you're not very nice for a Suntouched?" Máni made no effort to be nice either with her words, huffing and folding her arms in front of herself as they walked. 

Yarsa snorted but didn't deny the allegation either. She just rolled her shoulders to shift the great sword slung between her shoulder blades more comfortably.

“I'm going to ask for double pay. I can see why Isiat didn't want you two while he worked either. Maybe you'll learn something of our barbaric and heretical ways! Right now, the entire town is going to be gathered, and you can't be the exception, so keep your beaks shut, and stay by me." 

She didn't elaborate any further, and Behtar and Máni could at least read the situation well enough to know now wasn't the time for stupid questions. Obediently, they raised their hoods over their heads, following Yarsa's lead as she pushed through the crowd that was growing denser with every street they passed.

When they reached the square, it was already bustling with activity. Masses of people had gathered, congregating around a large platform of stone that had been built directly into the cobblestones of the square. 

As they looked around the milling crowd, they saw standing stones, much like those of their own ritual circles, but there was not one among the Moonkissed tribes who would have dared build to such an extent around the sites. They were convergence points for forces of nature and the spirits! To desecrate the rituals in such a profound way…

Máni and Behtar couldn't peel their eyes away. It was only a swift smack from Yarsa's talons that snapped them out of their daze. She curled her fingers and led them through the crowd to a more secluded spot in the back, close to an alleyway that led off into the backstreets away from the temple hill itself.

“Now wait and watch. They like to make a show of things. You can see why our version is much better."

From back here, they could see across the sea of people's heads, eagerly awaiting as the Priest and his group of attendants at the altar itself concluded their preparations. His hands raised for silence, and at once, a hush moved through the crowd until silence reigned in the town square.

The copper and beige-garbed priest smiled warmly upon the crowd, making a show of bowing low and sweeping his head from one end of the square to the other.

“I see many new faces among our flock upon this most auspicious day! Welcome, one and all. Sun's blessings upon you!"

His golden eyes once again crossed the plaza. Máni and Behtar both made an effort to shrink beneath their hoods as his gaze passed their way and earned a swift jab from Yarsa.

“You're already standing out wearing those damn hoods up in the middle of the day. Take them down, and pretend to pay attention at least if you want to blend in." She muttered, casually leaning against the edge of the building they had posted up in front of.

“This day is a special one. A member of our fledges has completed their training and has been selected from many hopefuls to ascend into our ranks as a full-blooded Arvian. Praise upon the First and his teachings, that we can pass this sacred blessing and boon on to them, that one day they may teach fledges of their own the ways of our kind, and of our dream pals and the spirits." The sun priest called out mirthfully, his hands stretched overhead as if to touch the sun that they so revered. A cheer and applause swept the crowd like a summer breeze, seeming to bring with it the dry warmth of the braziers that were lit and burning behind the priest.

The entire thing had both of the Moonkissed twins on edge, grateful that their hoods at least kept their anxiously raised hackles covered from view. They felt like a pair of prey creatures who had inadvertently stumbled into a nest of predators. Behtar kept glancing over his shoulder to the alleyway like he wanted to make a bolt for it. Máni wrung her wrists anxiously.

Yarsa smacked them both again.

“Calm down, both of you. And don't you even think of running, boy, or I'll take your legs out from under you before you make it a single step." Yarsa hissed urgently, snapping her beak. A few unchanged at the back of the crowd near them turned, glancing at the commotion, but a stiff growl from the veteran Suntouched down at them had their eyes back up front instantly.

The priest's next words were drowned out by cheers, though his gestures brought a beige-robed unchanged forward from the crowd. They looked vaguely like some kind of canine, perhaps one of the city guards. Over the enthusiasm of the crowd and the motion and excitement, it was impossible to tell for sure. There was a hint of a wagging tail beneath his Suntouched robes.

Máni and Behtar had seen plenty of ceremonies in their training and even been allowed to be present during a ritual transformation. For the Moonkissed, it was a sacred thing, and it was treated as a serious and solemn matter. There was always a chance something could go wrong. Not every time was the new Arvian killed outright by the magic involved. Kleng had been furious as Isiat for sharing that last tidbit with them, but the Lorekeeper had explained his reasoning with calm and steely-eyed facts.

Better they are prepared than lulled into complacency, Kleng. They ought to know the truth! Deceit and half-truths are the roots of many of our kind's problems!

Of course, nothing any of their elders knew and would or would not have shared could have prepared them for just how far the Suntouched ritual deviated from their own.

“Their dream pals… They're gold?" Máni said with a hint of surprise. Behind her, Yarsa just rolled her eyes.

“Ours typically pick small predator forms as well. Your book nerd really didn't teach you much, did he? Fucking moon club, no wonder he didn't want you here. Watch and learn kids." She said with an air of sarcasm, her own tail lashing about. It wasn't hard to sense the air of annoyance from the Suntouched Arvian.

On the altar, the chosen fledge had laid down, disrobed, and was glancing nervously from side to side. A shimmering pale being, the priest's dreampal most likely, bounded about over the procession.

Taking a golden-crowned staff from one of the other acolytes, the priest raised it up, a focused orb of amber at its peak catching the sunlight overhead, focusing its light into a single point upon the fledge's chest as he began chanting. 

Around the plaza, what could only be described as otherworldly energy surged through the crowd, filling the space with a charged feeling. It made both of the twins' hackles raise instinctively. They felt it in every fibre of their beings, but not at all like they had at the Moontouched rituals. This was different. The Moonkissed ritual had an energy that was calm and collected. It flowed through you with the gentleness of a stream through mountains or a cool night breeze through the swamps.

Whatever the Suntouched priest was doing felt deeply unnatural to them. They flinched as the wave flashed through them like fire through dry grass, bringing with it a gust of wind, hot as if blown from the fires of forge bellows. Both of them could sense their Dreampals' presence nearby, and the way in which they revolted against it, retreating further so as not to be sensed, and to escape the twisting of reality at the front of the crowd.

The large runestones that marked the edges of the place had begun to glow hot, distorting the air around them with a heat haze. Upon their faces, carvings and marks glowed faintly, as if the carved channels were filling slowly with molten liquid, fierce and orange in colour. As his chanting continued, it only grew more intense. All the light of the area seemed to dim, drawn into a single point. Even the day itself seemed as if all had suddenly turned to dusk, the light of the priest's staff casting long shadows across the crowd.

Neither of them could make out the words he spoke, but as he raised the staff up, a lance of flame shot from its tip, arcing down to the point on the fledge's chest that had begun to smoke as fur was burned away under the intense light. Fire and rolling flames, unnatural and twisting enveloped the altar, and within a heartbeat, it had turned to a mighty conflagration, with beams of flame from each of the runestones joining to the altar.

The screaming was perhaps the worst part. Anguished cries of such nature that it chilled both twins to the very core as the fledge was immolated in a tomb of fire. There was no way that anybody could have survived such a thing, and yet, amidst the curling, rolling flames, a shadowy figure was indeed shifting, just beyond sight. Both twins had to cover their faces, shielding their eyes and beaks from the intensity of the heat that poured from the altar.

A second later, it was over as quickly as it began. There was a snap of the air as at once the flames disappeared, and the runes upon the standing stones faded. Smoke lingered, as did the smell of burned fur and ash, and yet, the proof was before their eyes. They couldn't believe it.

“Behold! Suns bless his change. Welcome our newest, who has kissed the face of the sun, and been forever changed for it by its incredible power!" The Priest stepped forward, and beside himself, raised the arm of the newly born-again Arvian. The resemblance was there, but inexplicably, the canine that had laid on the altar moments before was no longer as he was.

Before them stood an Arvian, hazel and amber of pelt and plumage, tall, proud, muscled, his sharp onyx beak glinting in the sunlight. He threw a taloned claw into the air with a triumphant call of birdsong, and his cheer was joined by the masses of the crowd.

The pair of Moonkissed twins were still in shock.

“You see now? The Moon Club way isn't the only way to do things." Yarsa snorted dismissively behind them, standing and reaching to pull them back from the crowd.

“Come now, who shall perform the first rights for our new kindred? A volunteer!" The priest called out from the altar, and at once, the crowd began clamouring, waving and bouncing as he stooped forward, craning his view across the gathered.

His staff pointed horizontally across the masses, and he gave a clear call that at once shot ice down Behtar's spine. The priest's eyes were locked squarely on his own.

“Here! A traveller from our distant Sun blessed brothers and sisters! Come forward Arvian. Let us know you!"

Yarsa cursed loudly under her breath.

—————————————————

Isiat cursed loudly, making no attempt to disguise his frustration.

“If you were hoping for easy, you're never going to find it. What exactly was it you were looking for here?" Bravjen looked up from his own tome, flicking the dried pages idly. 

The amber-pelted, Suntouched Loresinger had met him at the library as they had arranged, though it had taken Isiat longer than he wanted to actually make contact. Already, it was past noon. The bell on the temple had toned some time ago, and now the town was silent.

The undercroft of the library was doubly so. The cellar was not on the original plans, but the founder was something of a bibliophile who couldn't stand to get rid of even a single scrap of writing. When the Suntouched came to talk about some of the contents of his establishment, he'd dug the cellar out himself.

The walls had been crudely lined with roughcast bricks and logs, and spare shelving and tables had been brought in. The only lights allowed were mage lights as cast by their dreampals. Any mention of candles or open flames down here was liable to get them both thrown out on their asses, and while the pair of Arvians might have been far larger than the Pigmy owl who owned the library, neither of them would take that fight on the principle of the thing.

It was a Lorekeeper's entire duty to preserve the knowledge of their kin and traditions, and pass that on to their fledges. And with how dry and warm the air was down here, never mind the shelves of old books, scraps of parchment, scrolls and tablets, a single spark would have probably taken the entire building with it.

“Something… Anything. The black stone watch keeps, dotted around the swamplands." Isiat started, running his finger along a row of bound leather tomes, his sharp eyes skimming across the covers.

“There was an Arvian at one. Suntouched scouting marks as well. One of your kin had been there in past. I don't know why. I don't know what he was doing but it was something not good. His magic… It was…" Isiat paused, trying to think of exactly how best to describe an Arvian who looked like he'd crawled his way out of hell purely to inflict suffering on the world.

“Primal. Raw. There was no light to it, and his dream pal, it was… wrong. Twisted. Shaped like a nasty little stoat-looking thing with fangs."

“Twisted like ours, you mean?" Bravjen casually flung the insult out there, but Isiat took it in stride. He probably deserved that. On the shelf above his talons, Raru pranced along the row of shelves, his entire body casting a bluish glow over the books. On the opposite side, Bravjen's own Dreampal in the form of a river otter did likewise for the Loresinger, albeit, projecting a more golden glow, like sunlight from its figure.

“No. This one was black and brackish, with eyes like coals. It didn't glow like yours or mine… It seemed to suck in the light. When it emerged, it was as if from a cloud of soot laced with malice." Isiat frowned, feeling the description almost a little too artful for the other to grasp truly what the hell it was exactly that had attacked himself and the twins open their last outing.

“Bravjen, have you ever heard of an Arvian reaching the spirit realm?" Isiat quickly changed the subject.

“Of course. We all do if our deeds are judged worthy in the afterlife." Bravjen prattled on, flipping open a book and skimming the pages.

“How about while they still have a pulse?" The question hung in the air for a long moment. Bravjen looked up from his book, his amber eyes firm. His brow furrowed with concern.

“No. Never, in all my time, nor do I like the implications of such a thing… The realms are separate for a reason, and the dreampals are our link between them. We are taught the natural order exists for a reason." The amber Suntouched scratched a single talon along his beak, clacking it quietly in contemplation.

“Well, the little Nightmare pal's bonded did. My fledges and I fought them by the sunken ruins far south of here. His dreampal attacked us first, then fled when I chased it off. Less than a minute later both of them just… Appeared. A crackle of energy and a portal… thing, like when a dreampal emerges, but bigger. He growls out some of the old tongues and then tries to kill us. We got lucky." Isiat muttered. The fight still left a bitter taste in his beak.

That detail seemed to intrigue Bravjen, his tail giving a long twitch as he paused midway down the page.

“There's few who still speak it, much less understand it. Even among Loresingers, it's a dead language. At best, a handful may know a few words or sentences. Even I only have a handful of references for any of it." The Loresinger's voice was cautious as if weighing exactly how much he should reveal if indeed he knew anything at all.

“Well, this one spoke it fluently, like he'd been speaking it all his life. Trying to translate it almost got me killed by being distracted. The fledglings he didn't care for, sent his little bastard to deal with them while he just up and pulled a sword from the air like he never got the memo on magic use."

“Well, when you learn magic as a pacifist, of course. You cannot expect an unknown foe to fight with the same rules as you." Bravjen pointed out with a wave of his talons through the air.

“The rules weren't meant to be just for us though. We studied them for years, determining what would and would not work-“

“From the side of Moonkissed Arvians with their dreampals, yes! But both of our kin have a bad habit of seeing the results of our own studies and thinking we've determined how it works for everyone else. I was the same before we met, remember? And this new Arvian you encountered… It raises more questions than answers."

“Exactly. I don't like it, nor do I suspect he would be much more receptive to your own kind… But I haven't the first clue about what exactly we're dealing with, and that in itself is the least of the problems this presents."

Bravjen nodded thoughtfully, before skimming along the lines of bookies once again, his eyes narrowed, hunting. After a few moments, he dragged a dusty book from the shelf, wiping off the back against his rather play, steel grey robes.

“Here. First of the forebearers. It's as complete a guide to those who came before as you're likely to find. There were also some parchments showing other locations… Ovander, bring your light here!" He called to his dreampal, the otter skipping across the shelves.

Together, Isiat and Bravjen scoured the shelves, plucking out anything that seemed like it might hold mention of the old watch keeps, the old tongues or that piqued their interest as being possibly relevant. The pile on the centre table quickly grew.

A sudden banging on the room hatch above them started them both out of their tunnel vision, spears suddenly in hand. Their dreampals vanished and left them in darkness, though their eyes adjusted to the dim light cast through cracks in the floor within moments.

A second later, it flung upwards. A flustered-looking owl unchanged and a pissed-off Arvian silhouette stood over the open hatch.

Yarsa glared down at the pair of lore nerds in the hole, the light-pelted mercenary scowling.

“Your stupid Moonclub fledge got taken."

—————————————————————

Behtar had panicked. In the moment, it had been easy to feign a straight face, but as the crowd had all but pulled him to the front, with nothing anybody could do to protect him, his heart had begun to race like a swallow's wings.

Oh, of course, the priest had been all too polite, ushering him up onto the Altar.

“Ahhh, our honoured brother. Please, if you would lead us?"

Behtar had not even the first clue what he was doing! He didn't know anything about the Suntouched! Before this morning, it had all just been stories and barbarism and fighting this and fanatics that. He hadn't even imagined them as anything more than his foe!

“I, uh…" He had stammered and looked desperately around the crowd. He'd lost sight of his Sister and the crazy mercenary Arvian both. A firm set of talons had clasped around his forearm.

The Priest's beak had come in alongside his own, close enough to hear the whispered growl of threat.

“You're no Suntouched… Who are you looking for out there, hmm? Let's not start anything. Perhaps you can help us find your friends, Moon cursed. Play along, and won't be harmed. Yet." Talons had dug into his flesh hard enough to draw blood and strain the bones from the other Arvian's tremendous strength. Numbly, and filled with fear, he'd nodded quickly.

“Repeat after me…"

It had been a blur from there. He'd muttered out the words as the priest had told him, and the crowd had cheered. After that, he remembered manacles, and being all but dragged up the Temple hill.

And now, here he was, the quiet, dank little cell somewhere inside the mountain, cold, dark, foreboding. Distantly, he could hear echoes of conversation, and occasionally caught faint flickers of torchlight and chatter from down the hallway, beyond the angle the metal bars and stone walls permitted him to see. His ears flicked as he strained against the bars, trying to squeeze even just a little more sight from his cell, but whatever metal they were made from had been designed with an Arvian's strength in mind.

With a sigh, he gave up and sat on the floor in the back corner, cold seeping through his pelt. Everything around the temple had seemed so warm, yet down here, it was nothing but cold and beyond any form of sunlight. Perhaps that was the idea, after all. How a Suntouched would handle such confinement for long…

Moonkissed however grew up knowing the darkness was a friend, and despite his young appearance, he was far from helpless… He just had to figure out how the hell he was going to get out of this mess before his mentor, sister, or the scary Arvian lady killed him for it.

———————————————

“The city watch will be on guard for unfamiliar Arvians by now. Since myself and Bravjen weren't at the ritual ceremony, and Máni, since you were seen with your brother…" Isiat started on his plan. 

Together, they'd relocated to the upper rafters of the library attic. A spyglass pointed between two loose shingles in the roof to provide a vantage point from which they could observe the temple mountain.

It was more cramped than the cellar, but also more distant from the city watch, who seemed to come and go with frustrating frequency. Here, they could talk freely.

There had been no sign of Behtar, but the Arvian guards around the walls and gates to the holy site itself seemed to move with purpose, alert and watchful. Sneaking or bluffing their way in while it was still light outside was out of the question.

“They'll be on the lookout for all of you. Which leaves… Me. Great." Yarsa was less than thrilled with the entire situation. Honestly, this had thrown her plans of spending the week doing as little as possible into absolute disarray. Why she was getting herself caught up in this nonsense with the moon club in the first place-

Isiat procured the Suntouched clasp from his cloak and shoved it into Yarsa's paw. The solid gold brooch was heavy and reminded her at once exactly why. She clipped it lazily to the side of her cloak and nodded once. Say whatever she liked about the Moon Club, at least this idiot paid well. Where the coin came from wasn't her concern.

“I need a back door into the temple where they took him. It has one, yes?" 

“Well, that's pretty obvious. You don't build walls and one gate without leaving a bolt hole for when everything goes to shit." Yarsa rolled her eyes. Of course, there was a back way in.

“Do-“ Isiat started, but Yarsa interrupted before he could get another word in.

“No, I don't. It'll be on the East side of the town though."  Her appraisal was blunt and to the point, and left the other three Arvians in the room blinking. She snapped her beak a few times with a smug sort of satisfaction.

“What? The summit slopes down to the west. You don't put an exit where the water pools."

Isiat nodded and conceded the point. There was a simple kind of obviousness in that. And while Yarsa was many things, when you were paying her, a liar wasn't one of them. She was as good as your coin, so to speak.

“We'll find it and infiltrate through there, but once it's dark. It'll be easier to move in the shadows. Get in, grab Behtar, get out. Easy." Isiat regretted the word as soon as it left his beak. No good plan ever survived beyond the first moments of execution.

“And what exactly am I supposed to be doing while all this is going on?"

Isiat smirked deviously. For once, Yarsa frowned, not liking that at all.

“Simple. You'll be walking through the front gate to turn in Máni as a Moonkissed spy."

—————————————————

Bravjen had to crouch low in the narrow tunnel to fit, following the rough, stone walls along by feeling along. Ahead of him, he heard the occasional tap of Isiat's spear haft against the ground as the other Loresinger climbed the gently sloping tunnel.

It was almost too dry and warm in here like somehow no moisture had ever gotten in. But they had been out of time. Of three suspicious-looking openings they had found, only this one had borne signs of any kind of marking, and middle night was approaching. The twin moons were overhead shining their bright blue and red light down upon the quiet city.

Bravjen thought it an ill omen, but Isiat had insisted vehemently that it was the opposite.

“We're going to save Moonkissed you dolt. Why would a bad omen for the Suntouched factor into that?" 

It had been a fair argument, but haste made the choice for them. A foot patrol with their lanterns unhooked had approached them, and without another word, they had ducked inside and began the ascent. It felt like it took far longer than it really did, but moving at half pace while crouched into a claustrophobic and pitch-black tunnel had a way of making the seconds tick by with agonizing slowness.

A taloned paw reached out suddenly, and Bravjen almost ran headlong into the back of Isiat.

“What is it?"

“Either we're there, or have made a costly mistake." Isiat stepped back and clicked his tongue twice. His dreampal emerged from the darkness, glowing blue body casting an eerie glow in the tight space. 

Bravjen blinked a few times, letting his eyes adjust before he saw the problem.

Ahead of them, the tunnel simply ended in a flat wall.

———————————————————

Máni had played her part well at least. Bound in a pair of manacles, Yarsa had marched her up the hill to the temple gates, where a handful of unchanged guardsmen had been interrupted in their card game when the Arvian mercenary cleared her throat loudly.

“Which one of you idiots is in charge? In fact, it doesn't matter. Go fetch the priest. I found one of the Moonclub."

It didn't take long. Barely a minute after she'd spat her demands, three Arvians emerged from the temple. There was the Suntouched priest in his robes, flanked on either side by a pair of hooded Arvian acolytes. Each carried a wickedly curved billhook, their faces hidden behind golden-beaked visages under their hoods.

“The hour grows late, the moons high, and a sellsword appears on my door with a Moon clan spy fledge. Curious. Where did you find this one?" He asked. One of the acolytes came forward and took Mari from Yarsa's side, escorting the fledgling inside the temple. Mari glanced nervously back over her shoulder for a moment before the door shut with an ominous boom.

“Skulking around by the gates looking lost and sorry for herself. The moon club are far too comfortable at night." Yarsa chuffed indifferently, before she held her hand out, talons flexing lazily. 

“So uh, is there a reward for my service, here, or?" She let the question trail off as she raised an eyebrow. The Acolyte behind the priest scoffed quietly but was silenced by a gesture from his master. 

It wasn't technically part of the plan… But, for a few coins more-

“But of course. You've helped capture a dangerous foe Yarsa. Our temple thanks you greatly. I think perhaps there might be a few coins we can offer for such a just and virtuous action." His words dripped with smugness like he detested her profession. She did her best not to roll her eyes as he played his little part for the benefit of those who might have been watching and listening.

With an almost fake resignation, she nodded and followed the priest and his entourage back towards the temple, her tail flicking behind herself with her steps as she considered how best to get rid of each of them if… When this all went to shit.

——————————————————-

Bravjen crouched low as he shifted past the downed pieces of wall. The brickwork had come apart easily enough once they had found which sections of stonework were deliberately loose. The inner wall of the temple had been built on a hinge, a thin facsimile of a wall that opened into, what until a few minutes ago, had been a stone wall.

Now that they were inside, the temple seemed almost like a foreign land. Braziers on the roof illuminated the long hallway, above a roof of orange sandstone that served as the floor of the main temple above. Right now, they'd emerged into an undercroft, rows of side rooms behind closed doors lining the passage between Suntouched motifs and tapestries. 

Moving cautiously along the hallway, Isiat even recognized the scenes from some stories, many that he'd told himself. He kept his spear close. Bravjen pushed in front of him, gesturing for him to put his spear up.

“At least I look like I'm meant to be here. Your fledges would be in the cells, and those would be as far from the sun as possible, so we need to go down." The amber-pelted Arvian gestured with his own spear down the corridor, towards an opening that led to a spiralling stairway down. Muted voices echoed from below.

Isiat glanced at Bravjen, pausing at the threshold of the stairway.

“If it comes to a fight…"

“They'll like me no more than they will you. The difference is they will capture you for being here. They will kill me for helping you." The Loresinger nodded resolutely, his stance clear.

“I do not hate them for what they do not know, Lorekeeper, but nor will I spare them for their ignorance. Battle is not a place for doubt, and I do not doubt if we do not rescue them, your fledges will suffer far worse than a quick death in combat, with none of the respect you showed mine. If the threat you told me of is made manifest though, all of us stand to lose."

It was good enough for Isiat. He nodded, and together, the Suntouched and the Moonkissed scholars descended into the unlit stairwell.

——————————————-

Yarsa's hackles twitched as she waited impatiently in the antechamber at the back of the temple. The priest had disappeared into his personal quarters a few minutes ago, and since then, the most she'd heard was a shuffling of the occasional temple acolyte passing outside the door.

Something was up. She heard no clash of battle like she had almost been expecting, and was disappointed by the knowledge that perhaps the pair of Loresingers was stealthier than they looked.

Her beak clacked a few times in thought. The wooden seat was uncomfortable. It was taking too long. The light flickered over her from the coal brazier suspended from the ceiling. A quiet breeze drafted in through the steel barred window high up on the wall.

At this rate, it would have been faster to kick down the damn front gate and storm the place. At least it would have been less tedious than this hurry up and wait nonsense! 

She stood with a huff, and clicked her tongue a few times, turning about on the spot.

After a moment, a gold glowing dreampal materialized from beside the brazier on the ceiling, padding down towards her where its honey badger form became more clear. Eyes that were bright with wicked intelligence stared at her. Yarsa stared right back.

“Go find the moon club. This shit is taking too long."

It chittered in agitation, grumbling, the Dreampal's fur bristling much like its assumed form creature would have if somebody had stepped into its den. Smasher was seldom a happy little dreampal like most Arvians had. It was probably why they had bonded as easily as they did. Their personalities matched.

“Don't care, they're paying. Bite them if you have to. Go hunt them down."

Her Dreampal bounded twice before disappearing into the wall. Impatient, and trusting that he'd return as soon as it was done, she walked right over to the door, turning the handle to-

Clunk.

The lever stopped a third of the way into its turn. She cursed loudly, clacking her beak. Her hackles bristled. Clearly, the priest was on to them. She'd played along with the charade for long enough. All of this sneaking about and trying to blend in was useless in the end. She was definitely charging that moon-brained idiot double. At least.

“Right. We tried your way Moonclub, now we're doing this my way." She growled to herself, drawing the longsword off of her back with a menacing grin.

——————————————-

Bravjen led the way, walking calmly down the darkened corridor. Both Loresingerss had stopped for a few moments to let their eyes adjust to the darkness of the undercroft. There were few light sources down here, and the air had grown chill and dry.

“This place is far from the sun's warmth…" The Loresinger commented dryly, the feathers making up his hackles raising with a shiver as they continued downwards, further into the hill. Unlike the escape tunnel they had used to get inside, this passage was lined with heavy stones, heavier than any Arvian could hope to move alone, and clearly made with their kind in mind. 

“Gabbro. Imagine carving your building blocks from the cooled magma of an Iron rich volcano. Compressed further still after cooling. Difficult to tunnel through without specialist tools when it's worked like this, even for an Arvian. There's one reason you would use this." Bravjen nodded, rapping his spear tip against the cooled, dark slabs lining the passage.

“So nobody gets in through it, and nobody gets out through it. Reassuring…" 

Isiat stooped low a few steps back, but like any trained hunter, his footfalls were completely silent, muffled by the thick pads on the soles of his feet. The brief tap from Bravjen's spear against the wall had echoed for some time before fading back into silence. The breeze and scents in the air were ominous. Smoke and ash, Arvians of fighting age. Behtar for sure was there, but there was another… One that Isiat couldn't identify.

It made his pelt stand on end, that ominous tingling along the nape of his neck that preceded an ambush.

They passed a small tunnel cut into the side of the passage, like a notch in the otherwise unbroken passage. A table and four stools sat within, along with a few small racks for arms and equipment. They were all suitably Arvian-sized, and a candle stump upon the table still had faint whisks of smoke coming from its recently extinguished wick. Bravjen scrutinized it for a long moment. His beak clicked with concerning thoughts.

“There's no reason for this post to be abandoned. Keep your wits about you, Lorekeeper."

“Bravjen? Is that you? Behtar, it's Bravjen!" Máni called out, clanking ringing out from just a little further down the passage. Isiat all but dashed the remaining length, as much as an Arvian could in the confined space. He reached the cell, stopping before the broad steel bars.

“I'm not glad to see you both here, but at least you're both alive. if you're here, that means Yarsa at least got in. What about the priest?"

“He went further down. He said he'd be expecting the Moonkissed soon enough." Mari rushed over to the bars. Behtar kept back, her hazel-pelted brother bowing his head apologetically towards Isiat, as the Loresinger started working on the lock. His face was wrought with guilt.

“I'm Sorry Elder. If I had have been more cautious-“

“Then you'd likely not be alive to rescue. You can thank the spirits and Yarsa later for helping save you. Right now, we still have to escape." He growled, before with a rough shove and twist, something inside the door's lock snapped. It took some loud shaking to get the bolt to fall loose, but the second it did, he swung the door open, ushering the twins to hurry.

Isiat's hackles were standing fully on end, raised and twitching, a sense of dread upon him unlike any time previously. His fingers were clenched tight around the silvered haft of his spear.

“Back upstairs. If fortune favours us, Yarsa will be waiting for us still."

———————————————-

Yarsa was bad at waiting. It simply wasn't in her nature. Neither was being locked away in a room, and testing her patience.

This combination of factors had ended poorly for the two unchanged guards who had been posted outside of her doorway, assured that she could not, in fact, leave until the Priest got back.

As it turned out, Yarsa in fact, could, and did so, in dramatic fashion.

The door had simply exploded off its hinges from the inside. Iron-banded, solid oak turned to splinters and shrapnel in a heartbeat. The small mercy had been that both guards were turned to unrecognizable pulp in an instant along with the rest of the doorway. The rest of the guard company would not be so fortunate.

A bell had begun to toll from somewhere in the alcoves of the temple, peeling out a low, steady call to alarm as the furious Arvian sellsword had marched through the jagged hole of what was left of the threshold.

The first guard she encountered had the good sense to try and run. Try. She cleaved the stumbling foot soldier in half and kept walking. She didn't even break stride as she marched down the main hallway of the temple. If they'd tried to lock her up, they weren't friendly, and she wasn't about to pussyfoot about getting a long list of excuses why they did, instead of just teaching why they had made a grave mistake.

The moon club and Suntouched book nerd would be downstairs, so that made finding a way down her first priority. Her hawkish eyes scanned the corridor, beneath the glowing braziers, looking along the sandstone walls.

Someone was well aware of what was going on at least now. She heard shouting from ahead, her beak curling in a grin as a trio of copper armoured unchanged formed up ahead of her, blocking the path, their weapons ready. She sniffed the air once, her eyes menacingly going across each of their faces. None of them moved, though their stances didn't at all inspire confidence in their ability to actually stop her.

She stood, and shrugged quietly, running one taloned claw through her braids and hackles, before she gripped her blade in a two-handed stance. Out of politeness, she gave them a quiet count of three to get the hell out of her way before she spoke.

“Suit yourselves then."

Against the almost 9-foot tall Arvian, the handful of guards seemed like dwarves fighting a titan, and the image wasn't inaccurate either. The first spear that came her way was rent it two as she deflected the strike with a swipe of her sword, rounding to drive the blade like an overhanded axe blow into its wielder's helmet with a mighty smash that folded the elegantly crafted helm inwards like a bowl hammered flat.

She lashed out with her foot as the second guard tried to get around her flank, still busy prying her blade free from where it had embedded itself in the collar of his fellow. The kick landed with a solid crash and knocked the unchanged into the wall with enough force that she heard something snap. He didn't rise from where he had crumpled at the foot of the wall. The chest plate of his armour was dented inward at an angle incompatible with life.

Her blade came free with a squeal of tortured metal, and she shoved the first guard's body from it with a dismissive grunt. Which just left-

“Hya!" 

The clang of a sword impacting her pauldron rang out, and a single, shorn hackle drifted down, white like a snowflake. Her head whipped around with indignant fury, ignoring the unchanged's cry of pain as her clenched fist closed around his wrist, and snapped every bone that was holding his sword like twigs. Her beak opened in a shrill screech of unbridled rage as Yarsa ripped the sword from his broken fingers, and crudely beat him to death with the pommel in a vicious series of punches that bent steel like dough with their violence.

“You should stop now. Not too late to walk away from this." A voice called out. From the arch leading to the stairs, an Arvian emerged. Tall and dark-hooded, he walked with an authority, but that of a thug, more than a leader. His white pelted face and Ivory beak had been blotched with various marks of faith with coppery ink, the same starburst motif that adorned so much of the Suntouched temple covered his right eye.

Yarsa decided she didn't like him at once.

“They should have thought of that before they tried to lock me up." Yarsa snorted dismissively, tossing the broken unachanged's sword aside with a metallic clang as it bounced against the stone.

“Think about it, sellsword. Walk away, and all of this?" He gestured to the scene of carnage in the corridor Yarsa had left in her wake. “This can just be forgotten. Don't make trouble for yourself."

Yarsa just grinned, lifting her sword as she stepped forward. Finally, a decent challenge.

“I am trouble. Didn't you get the warning?" 

“I'd almost hoped you'd say that…" 

Yarsa had to duck as the first bolt of fire almost grazed her, the other Arvian's dreampal having coiled itself into existence a second before the flames had shot from his extended talons.

She swore as it blasted a chunk of masonry from beside her head as she ducked into a side room, using the doorframe as cover. Yarsa snarled while she snapped her fingers impatiently. A second later, Smasher appeared, chittering angrily like he was mad she'd interrupted what she'd already told him to do!

“What do you mean they weren't there? Did you LOOK?! Never mind! Fiery asshole in the hallway. Help me vaporize this shithead." She snapped her dreampals attention to the present as the other Arvian marched towards her hiding spot, whistling with calm menace like he was enjoying this and merely was taking a stroll. She was about to ruin his fucking day…

Curling upon her shoulders with a low growl, her dreampal coiled. She felt his energy joining her, felt the power of the connection, raw, primal, burning like a thousand motes of fire in the sky.

Yarsa drew the heat in, coiling it upon itself with a rolling motion of her free claws like a smith folding heated iron, compressing and squeezing the energy into as tight a point as possible.

“Come on little Sellsword, is that really your best?" The Arvian taunted her from outside, drawing closer. She ducked further inside and focused her eyes on where her Dreampal told her their foe's energy gathered most, like a faint smudge of light shining through the stone wall.

A single blue spark emerged in the centre of her hand as she raised it to aim, narrowing her gaze with a vicious grin.

The roar that filled the temple was like a hurricane given voice, and for weeks afterwards, the talk of the town would be speculating exactly what had caused the plume of light from the hilltop that night.

Yarsa for sure knew the truth. Her foe, on the other hand, didn't live long enough to appreciate how quickly sandstone melts when exposed to the force of the sun.

—————————————————

Bravjen covered his nostrils as they emerged into the main hall of the temple. The stench of burning flesh was strong, but it was nothing before the scene that confronted them.

Opposite sides of the corridor were melted, like a lance of flame had simply cut through the solid rock, leaving it glowing amber, molten droplets still falling from the crusting, scorched wound bored through one side room and into the other. Scorching covered the previously polished floor, and above, the bell had fallen entirely silent. Somewhere between them, a pair of smoking, armoured shoes too large for an unchanged were still standing, like their wearing had simply vanished mid-stride.

Yarsa was busy flicking bits of gore from her sword's blade.

“Spirits above, Yarsa, what the-“

“They pissed me off. Remember that." She stated bluntly and didn't elaborate further. Looking past the pair of Loresingers, she spotted the hazel and amber twins following quietly behind Isiat, as if simply trying to avoid drawing attention to themselves. 

"Oh good! Your twins are both alive. Delightful! Now, let's fuck off before the rest of the city comes looking for you, yes?" The white-hackled sellsword huffed, wiping the edge of her blade clean with a strip of coppery silk from something that had been utterly shredded and burnt at the edges.

As a group with Yarsa leading the way, they left the worse-for-wear temple through the escape tunnel. Isiat dislodged part of the ceiling a short way into it and brought the tunnel down behind them to ensure they were not followed. Stumbling forward, they moved in relative silence, five Arvians in a row, each hunched low as the tunnel shrank as the scent of fresh air grew more apparent and they left the burned temple behind them.

Behtar sheepishly made his way to the front, slotting in just behind Yarsa. The much, more experienced Arvian sellsword moved with a casual grace born of experience, her sword still at hand, its point unerringly leading the way. The younger fledge was still shaken, but largely unharmed. Still, after all that had transpired, he felt awkward, and-

“What, moon club?" Yarsa hadn't even turned her head, just carrying on down the tunnel. It left him doubting his skills at being stealthy.

“I uh… Thanks for coming back for me."

“Don't thank me. Thank your booknerd mentor. He's the one who paid for this show. I warned you about drawing attention, and standing there all amazed and slackjawed from a few little motes of flame… I would have left you all, personally." She shook her head, voice ringing with sarcasm and disappointment. Appropriately scolded, Behtar fell back down the line to walk by his sister.

“That you're okay is all that matters. Kleng will have to kill us both later though."

“No, he won't, because we're not going to talk about this to ANYONE. If they ask, you set out on your own accord to follow me, and we've spent the last few days in the Northwoods mapping the stars." Came the twin's mentor's gruff instruction. Isiat would not be persuaded otherwise on this.

“Oh? And what about the books and scrolls you have?" Behtar cocked an eyebrow, turning to look over his shoulder. Isiat's stern, icy gaze shut him up in a hurry. 

“My business is my own, and a Lorekeeper returning with some new ancient text is like a gatherer returning with a basket of berries." Isiat muttered dryly from the back. 

“Or like you, Behtar, returning covered in new bruises!" Máni offered cheerily, and entirely unhelpfully. Yarsa gave a quiet “Ha!" from the front of the group.

Reaching the end of the escape tunnel, Yarsa stepped out into the telltale signs of the coming dawn, the sky to the east lightening to a soft shade of lavender, the twilight hours between night and day. This close to the edge of the town, they might have been easily able to slip away into the forests surrounding, or follow the river south until they were well clear, had it not been for one thing.

“You've all made yourselves quite the problem, haven't you? Yarsa, Bravjen. I'd have expected better from both of you, but I suppose loyal Suntouched are truly a commodity. The fact you so willingly would help our enemy… Tsk Tsk."

“Your enemy, priest. Not ours." Bravjen started, holding his spear close as they emerged from the tunnel.

The Suntouched priest wasn't alone though. Isiat huffed as he stepped out and saw what awaited them, and felt his pulse start racing as a primal sense of wrongness threatened to overcome his more rational senses. Standing rather than fleeing was either bravery, or stupidity, and he wasn't sure which better fit.

Even Yarsa looked at least mildly concerned, or perhaps it was just indignant frustration that she was being stopped for another thing before she got paid.

“Bravjen, all of your teachings are suspect. Your time as a Loresinger is at an end for our fledges and hopefuls. This Moon-addled story weaver of our erstwhile and misguided kin has gotten beneath your hackles. We cannot allow their misunderstanding of us to seep into our own lessons as you have." The Priest started. Behind him, the towering heap of feathers, hackles and pelt that had given them all such pause snorted, and looked up. Still, as it was, the Arvian had looked like a dark boulder.

Isiat had heard songs of the Suntouched berserkers. He'd even helped Kleng give the last rites to one of their own misshapen and malformed kin from a botched transformation, but whatever this… Thing was… Did not match the accounts he had heard.

Twisted. Massive. Fury and agony gave form. Demented. Wild. Aggressive. Wrong. Shunned by the spirits. Merely unspeaking and unthinking beasts driven by instinct and the lash of their handlers.

These were the terms he had heard associated with them.

The beast behind the priest sat on its haunches and still came level with the priest's hackles. Amber eyes watched them with the cunning intellect of an apex predator biding its time… Or a loyal hound waiting to be let off its leash. Of even greater concern to Isiat was the dreampal perched upon one of its trunk-like shoulders. A crude facsimile of orange mist in the form of a vulture. Ravening eyes watched them like it was hunting for carrion.

The malformed Arvian's twisted beak curled in a smile, and a low, guttural snarl escaped its throat.

“Are these them, father? The betrayers and Moonkin?" The beast spoke, and with those words, inspired more dread and worry than any of those gathered had felt in a long time.

Each of them recoiled in turn, struck by the words that left its mouth in fluent high Arvian birdsong. Isiat pushed the twins back towards the mouth of the tunnel. They didn't hesitate this time and slipped back into the darkness.

“What mockery is this? What have you been doing, priest?" Bravjen accused, and levelled his spear towards the copper-robed Arvian.

“Fixing that which is broken. He is the first of our lost kin, returned to us, and while he may be malformed and misshapen from the Arvian image, he is our kin no less… And with the help of the spirits, I have kept his mind as sharp and loyal as any true Suntouched." The priest ran a taloned paw across the misshapen one's beak affectionately, like an adoring parent.

“That thing, as you say, shouldn't be. The spirits shun them!" Even as Isiat spat the words though, the vulture's eyes snapped to him, flickering, shifting, as if the spirit itself was wrong and struggling to maintain its form. Briefly, Isiat had an image of spectral chains binding the two, and the agonized, tortured cries of the dreampal. The bonding had not been natural, nor gentle…

He could hear Raruraru's growl through their bond and feel his own dreampal's wrath at the sacred rituals that had been twisted and bent into shape to fit the priest's needs.

“Without proper encouragement, perhaps… But I tire of this. You have been permitted to act as you will for too long Yarsa. And you, Lorekeeper. Your words are dangerous, and you cannot be permitted to leave this place to spread them to more of our flock. Kill them, and dig the twins out when it's done." The priest nodded to the twisted one, and with gentleness, reached down, and undid the iron manacles that held his wrists to his ankles. 

They fell to the ground with a heavy clunk. The malformed Arvian grinned, slowly unfurling to its full height, standing several heads above any of the Arvian's gathered. A twisted hand turned inwards into a fist as it locked eyes with Yarsa, who had raised her sword with a grin of her own.

“With pleasure." It rumbled menacingly.

The twisted Arvian had no use for a sword. Talons as hard as iron and as sharp as knives tipped each of its digits, and it wielded them with a speed and strength that was simply put, terrifying. It moved with an unbalanced gait that made trying to predict its motions impossible. There was simply no time.

Fight time kicked in, hearts hammering and time seeming to slow. Conscious thought was a luxury they were not afforded. Survival came down to acting and reacting.

Yarsa's blade sang as she blocked a first strike that damn near knocked the sellsword on her ass. Bravjen and Isiat split in opposite directions, bearing their spears for a pincer attack, trying to put themselves on the beast's flanks. His attention was not divided though. Fierce claws battered Bravjen backwards and provided an opening for Isiat to draw first blood against the back of the Suncursed berserker.

As quick as a flash of lightning, he had turned and gripped Isiat's spear haft in his talons like a vice, and with all the ease of someone plucking a toy from a child, roughly tore it from the Lorekeeper's grasp, and tossed it aside.

“Your flimsy silver won't help you here." The beast rumbled in perfect high Arvian. The words chilled the veteran Arvian to the core. They spoke of higher reasoning, of teachability, of logic, cold and calculating that had been forged in pain and madness. When the beast looked at him, Isiat felt fear and fought to keep his ground in the face of a wave of wrongness, like the universe had twisted upon itself, corrupting and reshaping in ways his mind simply couldn't begin to comprehend. 

Even his dreampal's bond was filled with indignant fury, chomping at the bit while desiring to both fight and flee at the same time. Summoning that strength, he reshaped the earth with a few spat words, drawing the soil up and around the berserker's right leg, immobilizing him for just a moment as he turned to Snarl at Yarsa, who had rushed in to attack again.

The fierce, white-haired sellsword swung her mighty sword like it weighed no more than a stick, landing swift, punishing blows against the Berserker that it fended off with bared talons. Each blow rang like a hammer striking iron, and yet he fended her off with no more difficulty than an elder giving instruction to a newly changed fledge.

Isiat took the opportunity, and tore his gaze from the berserker's, drawing a long-bladed knife from his belt before he dived back into the fray. Yarsa had his attention, but as soon as Isiat and Bravjen closed to join her attack, the dreampal upon his shoulder sprang into action, flapping noisily into the air with a piercing shriek.

The berserker crouched low, folding his arms across his chest with his palms facing out while he kicked off on one foot, somersaulting forward. Flames burst from his hands and forced them all back at once lest they be burned. Completing his roll, he turned and rounded the intense gouts of fire in a spiral around himself, consuming his body in a vortex of writhing flame.

The pair of Lorekeepers had to backpedal away from the intense heat, but Yarsa merely snarled, standing her ground in complete defiance. Her dreampal was about her shoulders, the bright golden badger growling and barking at the Berserker who was only just visible through the conflagration. 

He stared out at her, growling in challenge.

“You think you can beat me alone, sellsword?" He trilled mockingly, taking a step towards her, the centre of the vortex of flame moving with him.

Yarsa just raised her blade, letting the tip sit within the swirling fire until her blade began to glow amber from the heat.

“Oh, I fucking KNOW it, you arrogant, twisted fuck-“ 

The berserker raised his claws as if to strike her down, but Yarsa was quicker. Her dreampal bounded along her arm, parting a hole in the flames as it leapt forward. Yarsa's blade followed a second after as she drove the sword into the Arvian Berserker's face as her dreampal vanished out of the way.

It roared in agony, screeching almost deafeningly, and Yarsa, offended by the sound, stabbed him again, before swinging her blade in an overhanded arc like a splitting axe. The wet crack as the flames sputtered out was intensely satisfying, the berserker's dreampal vulture screeching cut short as it was rudely ripped from their realm and back to the spirits. The berserker thumped to the ground heavily, sword still embedded in its forehead.

“I. Was going to say go for the neck, but… Your approach works too."

“Can't help but feel I didn't help much there…" Bravjen muttered, dusting himself off.

“It's 'cause you didn't, book nerd, but you made a good distraction while I figured things out with Smasher…" Yarsa grunted as she planted her foot on the Berserker's shoulder, yanking her sword free from its head. 

A massive hand coiled around her ankle and ripped the sellsword from her feet faster than she could react, holding her in a death grip as she landed flat on her back. She barely had time to curse in agony as the groaning berserker yanked her across the ground, before lunging at her chest with its wickedly curved beak.

She barely got her sword up in time, bracing it like a stick with one set of talons curled around the tip of the blade. The berserker bit down on it and kept coming, death and madness in its bloodshot eyes. She did the only thing she could think of at that moment. She returned the favour, lashing out with her neck and slicing her own beak across his face. It snarled in agony and kept coming, even as blood leaked down into its ruined eye, looming over Yarsa like a bear intent on simply crushing its prey.

Isiat and Bravjen struck in tandem, two glistening spears impaling the beast on either side beneath the armpits, skewering through the gaps in the berserker's ribs. Isiat snarled as he twisted the haft of his blade, working it deeper still. Above Yarsa, the berserker shuddered once, eyes going wide as a wet, wheezing gasp escaped its malformed face, and it went limp, the sudden slackening almost forcing Yarsa's sword back down against herself as all of its weight came down. 

“Gah, fucking stinks! Moonclub, help me out dammit!" Yarsa snarled. Together, they shoved the body off her to the side, allowing her to roll out from beneath the twisted Berserker. She stood up with a pained snarl and slammed her now bent blade down into the berserker's neck, again, and again, warping the previously perfect blade further before she took the beast's head clean off, tossing the wrecked blade aside.

She snatched Isiat's knife from his offhand and shoved it into her belt without comment. Wisely, he didn't try to argue the matter either. Yarsa got a single step away before she cursed in anger and doubled over on her leg, fresh blood weeping out around the edges of the wound where the skin had been crushed and split beneath her pelt.

Isiat whistled for the twins, and Máni and Behtar emerged from the tunnel, their eyes wide and scene of scorched earth and carnage before them. Together with their dreampals, they healed the worst of the damage to Yarsa, though it would take further time to mend entirely. She cursed and bitched the entire time they were working while the ethereal energy knitted the damage back together. It was cleaner than stitches at least.

When they were done, she stood and flexed her ankle, wincing only slightly, but it was sturdy enough to put weight on. She took a few testing steps, before motioning for the rest of them to hurry the hell up and follow. She clacked her beak impatiently.

Isiat hesitated. Quick as he could, he knelt by the decapitated body of the berserker and gave the twisted once Arvian the last rites in their common tongue. It was a hasty thing, and without a lot of the rituals that would usually be done, but needs must. They couldn't tarry any longer. There was no sign of the priest.

They made haste away from the city edges, escaping into the moonlight across the fields and into the woodlands. How long passed like that was unclear, but by the time they stopped, the first lights of dawn were creeping over the horizon. The twins could take no more and finally slumped against the trunk of a nearby oak.

Both were asleep by the time Yarsa, Bravjen and Isiat had a small fire pit going and cleared enough ground for them to comfortably rest on. Bravjen busied himself checking the pack of tomes and scrolls they had taken from the library. Yarsa shot daggers at Isiat across the fire with her eyes.

“I swear, you owe me for this, Moonclub. A lot. I saved your feathery ass. I saved your fledges asses."

“We saved your ass…"

“From a situation YOU got me involved in." She jabbed the Loresinger with a single talon, snarling. “You! How do you expect me to just go with this?! If I go back there, it's my head on a spike! If news travels to the other keeps, It's my head on a spike! You've fucked my entire line of work, all of my contacts are burned! I'd have to be a Moon touched idiot in the head more than all of YOU to even show my face around here." 

Isiat held his tongue, and after a moment, broke eye contact, nodding quietly. None of this had been to plan. In truth, he'd been winging it since the moment the twins had shown themselves. That somehow they'd all emerged alive and mostly intact was no small miracle in itself.

“It's my hope, Yarsa, that if this does reveal what I hope it will not…" He tapped one taloned hand against the top of his book-laden backpack quietly. "...this night will be but a sour footnote in some much greater happening. Something properly worthy of song."

"Well and good for you, Moony boy, but I can't buy a meal with glory and song, you know?" She stated the obvious with a roll of her eyes.

"Well, if I'm wrong and the worst happens, we'll all be too dead to worry about it, so there's that." The Lorekeeper let his beak clack open and shut quietly in thought. It was a sobering point if little else. Even he didn't sound particularly optimistic.

The fire crackling was the only sound in the otherwise silence.

"You might ask for sanctuary? Once we explain the situation and our concerns from the signs we have seen, I doubt even the elders would rightly refuse-"

Yarsa's laugh was like a bark, devolving into a cackle of bewildered amusement. She gazed across the fire incredulously.

"So what? I can hide in a hovel with the fucking Moon club? You're joking. Not on my fucking life. I'd sooner scavenge in the woods." She spat, bunching her fists and turning her head away in disgust. Her hackles quaked with just how pissed she felt.

Bravjen, however, after a few moments of consideration, nodded quietly from his spot on the ground, watching the flames contemplatively.

"I may take you up on that offer if your clan would permit my intrusion for a while."

"Just like that, you'd throw your lot in with these idiots? Ha, suit yourself… I still have people to pay off before they come for my head as well." Yarsa grumbled, brooding on her thoughts.

Reaching up, Isiat plucked one of his hackle feathers, long and red-plumed, offering it across to Yarsa.

"For when you change your mind and need to make some coin."

The way she glared at him told him she wanted to slap it away like the very offer was an insult, but after a moment's hesitation, she growled and snatched the feather, tucking it away out of sight.

"The elders won't like it, but I think I can talk them down… Kleng will undoubtedly be unhappy, though I've not been the best progeny he'd hoped for as a fledge. Even so, Yarsa, if your contacts fall through and the wolves are on your heels…" He left the offer open, regardless of if she would actually take it or not.

After what they'd just survived, he'd undoubtedly owe her more favours than he had fingers to count upon. 

Yarsa snorted dismissively.

"So what fairy tale has you running with your tail between your legs exactly?"

"Well, it's not so much the tales that scare me Yarsa. It's what all the signs have in common."

Frustrated, the sellsword rolled her hand, her hackles bristling over her hunched shoulders.

"Which is?"

"Well, the end, naturally."