Crossing the Crossroads

[arlathvhen]

WHO: Beleth Ashara, Fern Doirnáin, Solas, Thranduil, Fifi Mariette, Galadriel, and Herian Amsel
WHAT: Time to go mess around in the crossroads and stick our fingers in Orlesian politics.
WHEN: Mid-Drakonis
WHERE: Some random small town in the Free Marches
NOTES: None atm!

A small town has requested help from the Inquisition--A roving band of armed soldiers has been seen near the edges of the town, lurking in the woods. They haven't made any moves against the people there, but after the events of Perendale, the residents are nervous. The soldiers clearly aren't from any of the local lords, and must have some reason for being there.

Beleth has taken a small group to first scout the area, to locate, assess, and then deal with the group of soldiers, if possible or necessary.

Comments

[rowancrowned]

Thranduil, who has very tidy hair, even after a fight, had gone to the eluvian to stare into its depths, remembering the last time he had ventured through the Crossroads. He thought of Morrigan, and her own eluvian, about codes and locks and keys, and then walked back over to Beleth, dropping neatly to a crouch before the prisoner (out of headbutting range) his arm draped over his knee.

“The Inquisition does not have the resources to support imprisonment of low-ranking soldiers,” he says, to the man. “If you tell us nothing, you will be brought to the nearest camp, tried, and sentenced. Not to death,” he demurs. “But perhaps you will lose a few toes. Fingers. Something that will make you unusable by any mercenary band or army. You will be unable to trouble the Inquisition further, and you will have your life. You are the last of your band. If you have something worth telling me, now would be the time. Knife-ear or not, I can help you. We will find what we came for, but if were faster, I would appreciate that.”

Simply, carefully put. He finds that pain is a tricky motivator. No challenge, no chance to make a martyr of oneself, just simply—a choice. One he hopes Beleth will indulge him in. And there is always Galadriel, if need be.

[untiltheyarent]

After her close brush with violence in her lame attempt at defending Fern, Fifi has withdrawn to press against the wall of the chamber, where she stares fixedly into the eluvian as though trying to solve some ineffable puzzle. The shems don't bother her, dead or alive, but this strangeness rattles her. It feels familiar somehow, though she's never seen anything like it in her life.

[wheretheferngrows]

Fifi has company where she's pressed back against the wall; she's singed and bruised from the fighting and white-faced from the violence that she'd seen meted out in front of her, which makes it all too easy for her to stare at what is transpiring between Thranduil, Beleth, and the human on the ground.

She looks away from the scene and shifts closer to Fifi, bumping into her shoulder. "I don't like this," she whispers to her, ashen.