Grim Communion: Kritheris Gwette

[Madgamer13]

Kritheris took the sights of Neverwinter in as the ship she stood upon drifted into dock, allowing herself to breathe deeply of the sea's salt and brine. It had been no less than ten years since her last visit, yet the city had not changed much from how she remembered it. In a flurry of activity, the ship's crew sprung into action with the tossing of mooring ropes aboard towards the dockworkers ready to receive them. "Ere' we are." A gruff sailor uttered to Kritheris as he approached. "We'll be loadin' cargo here an' then settin' off to Athkatla for some tradin'. We'll be back after that, aye? Pick yae' up and take with ta' Arelith again." Setting his hands upon the ship's forwardmost rigging, he offers a friendly grin to Kritheris.

The woman offered a deep dip of her head in reply: "My thanks. Uh-... how long would the sail take? To Athkatla, I mean." The Sailor purses his lips somewhat to the question, his gaze lifting as if to count the days. Eventually, he answers: "Probably lookin' a few weeks. Depends, y'know?" He placed a hand over his heart briefly. With a nod, Kritheris utters: "Of course-... Take your time. It'll probably be a while before I am ready to depart from here." With that, she slung a sack over her shoulder and offered another more shallow dip of her head to the sailor. "Aye, lass." He grins, lifting a hand into a lazy salute. "See ye' then." Pleasantries exchanged, Kritheris stepped down the freshly lowered gangplank to make her way through the docks. Her destination wasn't too far away, but she hoped that her colleagues in the church had received her letters.

Inclemate weather had saw her ship into port, delaying their inevitable arrival until the seas had calmed and the sailors had offered their prayers to Valkur. In the rapidly approaching dusk, the Neverdeath Graveyard seemed to be even more menacing than usual, although Kritheris had come to expect some restlessness in places so close to death itself. Much like how she remembered, a pair of Doomguides of Kelemvor were guarding the entrance, one of which was heavily armed and armoured. "Halt." The armoured Doomguide demanded of Kritheris as she arrived, his hand lifting to urge her pause. "The Graveyard is now closed in curfew for the coming eve'. Do you have business here?" Kritheris knew better than to test a Doomguide, and thus she politely dips her head to answer: "Doomscribe Kritheris Gwette. Here to visit the hall within."

The Militant Doomguide stares at Kritheris for a brief moment, skull mask obscuring his reaction. Reaching into his armoured robes, he pulls up a notebook into his gauntleted hand, flipping it open to check the details within. "Kritheris-... Krith-... ah!" He nods, using a piece of charcoal to place a marking next to a name in his book. "Your fellow Doomscribes are awaiting you. Please-..." He steps to the side, sweeping a hand towards the ajar gate into the Graveyard. With a radiant smile and another polite dip of her head, the Doomscribe steps on inside, passing this final checkpoint to follow a path winding within a series of graves to her destination. Built into a wall, a hidden crypt set behind a heavy stone door marks the way into Neverwinter's deathly underbelly. While nothing like the Beggar's District for underhandedness, this crypt dedicated to servicing the needs of Kelemvor and Jergal's faithful in Neverwinter was once her home. Here, one learns that there are only two things in life; Death and Taxes.

Her steps echoed loudly through the dimly lit halls, the occasional robed Doomguide and Doomscribe offering nods of welcome to Kritheris as she stepped by them. Entering a large hall, Kritheris found herself in the crypt's solemn recreation area. Tall bookshelves with many an educational read lined the walls, with long tables and creaking chairs which Doomscribe and Doomguide alike took a moment to relieve themselves of their burdens with quiet reading or calm conversation with each other. A pair of robed individuals raise their hands to greet Kritheris as she appeared, the styling of their robes indicating themselves to be of some seniority. "Welcome, Miss Gwette." A robed man uttered with a broadening smile. "It has been a while." He offers a shallow dip of his head to her, which is followed by a bow of the other figure's head. Kritheris replies: "It is good to be here, Harold-..." With a pause, her gaze scans the room. "...Mmh-... How is the First Scribe? I'd expect him to be here in the eve', if memory serves."

The robed man offered a gentle exhale. "Ah-... Apologies, but-..." His hand raised to scratch at the nape of his neck awkwardly. "...The first scribe passed away roughly six years ago." Lowering his hand, he continued: "I took over from him. As I was groomed to do." Kritheris bawked sadly at the news, a similar exhale escaping her as she bows her head in brief reverence for the dead. Eventually, her gaze lifted to the figure that had yet to introduce itself. A strange shawl seemed to be draped over the figure's shoulders, and a familar mask is set over their face. The markings were all too familiar to Kritheris; those of a Sanctioned Scrivener. The Easterner squints, then comments: "You're far from the deep archives." A sharp chuckle rattles out from ancient bones in reply, an unnatural tone echoing out through clear use of magicks that would permit even a skeleton to speak: "Can't fool you, Kritheris." The robed figure's arms stretch out to its sides in welcome, the hint of bony fingers curling out from under the fabric. "Oh have we missed your voice, my dear~ "

Kritheris grins somewhat, then adds: "And my hands. I hope those tending to you have been as attentive as I was." The Sanctioned Scrivener tuts in response, a skeletal hand waving dismissively before it says: "I could complain all day. Come, visit me once you are settled." At that, the intelligent undead offered a polite bow of its head to the pair and stepped away. "As said, we should get you settled." The new First Scribe beckons Kritheris with a wave of his hand. "I received your letters. We've already made preparations-... in fact, the Sanctioned ones have chosen to assist you on this." He become silent for a moment as the pair stepped through endless corridor after corridor of cold, dead stone. "A most unusual thing." With a click of his tongue, he adds as the pair arrive at a secluded and fully furnished bedroom: "Here we are-... let one of us know if you need anything specific." Turning a bright smile to the first scribe, Kritheris bowed her head deeply in thanks, then set to arranging her travel bag of gear in the room, First Scribe Harold departing soon after.

[Madgamer13]

Kritheris' voice rings out softly into the stone halls as she worked, her attention focused upon an armband as she etches arcane runes into the soft metal of glimmering gold. The tip of the simple steel rod she held scraped away in some grace, displaying her experience as flickers of magic rise from every careful swipe. Next to her sits a skeleton, its form adorned in similarly glimmering jewelry paired with necromatic etchings made into the bones themselves. Placing the rod she held onto the table before her, her newly freed hand curls underneath to pull out a box of loose gems, most of which are of a dull black. Scooping up one of the blackened gems, she inspects it, the skeleton's skull turning upwards to track the woman's prize with unseen eyes. Nodding in satisfaction, Kritheris carefully slots the Black Onyx into her freshly Dweomered work.

"Almost ready-..." Kritheris mentions to the skeleton as she turns from the table with her new armband in hand, the brief break in her humming seemingly making the Skeleton she is working on jolt to attention. Within a magickal intonation, it replies: "Ah? Already?" An awkward silence presses onto the pair as Kritheris removes an existing armband from the skeleton's left arm, setting it aside on the table before replacing it with the new one. "Time is such a fickle thing." The Skeleton muses, earning a tut in response from Kritheris. Clicking the new armband into place, the Necromancer asked: "It is your attention span that is fickle. Try your arm now-... any better?" The Skeleton raised its left arm, the boney hand shaking for a moment until a baleful light started to shine from the new Onyx gem, quelling the Skeleton's shakes.

"Much better." The Skeleton uttered in a somewhat pleased tone. "It is quite incredible how quickly you can do this." Kritheris sat herself back down onto the workbench chair, shaking her head as she does so. She says: "Ah. No. You just-... don't notice. I think." A soft grin comes to rest on her face for the Skeleton, which lets forth a sudden huff at the woman. "It is your voice!" The Skeleton utters in some frustration, its arms raising to cross over its non-existent chest. "So distracting-... making me remember things." The Undead's voice lowers a little as it continued speaking: "...Feel things." Kritheris' grin widens a little, and she interrupts with: "Good. You were quite insistent to sit with me, though." The woman watched carefully as the Skeleton draws its scrivener robe over itself once more. A short silence passed over the pair before the Sanctioned Scrivener felt the need to speak once more: "Y-Yes. I wanted to-... share something."

Kritheris leans forward a bit towards the undead, motioning a hand for it to continue. "You see, I've been having-..." The undead draws its shawl over its robe. "...Dreams." The reveal makes Kritheris lift her eyebrows in surprise. "I-... I know. Liches like me don't dream. Such is the bother." The Skeleton admits with a short lift of its shoulders. Kritheris tilts her head, then asks: "What have you been dreaming about?" The undead seems to hesitate before answering: "Of white flame. A city in mist. I sort of-.... drift off, every few hours. The same sights each time." Kritheris stared to the Lich for a moment in thought, a hand raising to scratch the side of her face idly. Eventually, she asks ponderously: "When does your assigned time end?"

The Skeletal Scrivener lifted its shoulders into a small shrug. "It was meant to be over forty years ago." The Skeleton's arms flapped a bit in some frustration. "But the First Scriveners kept-... extending it. Nearly one hundred years now." A wobbly echo of a sigh erupts from the undead, carried poorly by the magic permitting it to speak. "We've had a manpower problem here for so long. Even entire generations pass without a Scrivener job being filled." Kritheris grins somewhat, then interrupts: "Then I come along and start singing like a crazy person." The Lich's line of thought broken, it suddenly laughed to Kritheris' joke, quickly lifting a hand to wave dismissively. It then says: "We are better for it, my dear. I can only hope that the new First Scrivener will-... let me go. Soon." At that, the Undead nods confidently. "Well. Are you ready, Dear Kritheris? To step into the bowels of death?" Kritheris nods firmly in reply. "Alright." The Lich stands. "Come." The Lich steps to the door of the workshop, leading the way deeper into the crypts.

Soon entering the deep archives, the pair passed the final checkpoint of the living within the crypt, the Doomguides stationed offering a salute as the Lich passed. Entering a grand hall, various robed servants of the Final Scribe ceaselessly tend to their work. Their faces devoid of emotion and life, the mindless undead within trudged around, reviewing records from other scriveners and arranging them away in meticulously organised shelves. None offered any greetings to the pair as they navigated the colossal bookcases, each one packed with Neverwinter's long histories. The air had grown heavy and cold, as if warmth itself vacated this area, prompting Kritheris to chatter her teeth and draw her robes more tightly around herself. Finally arriving at the deepest part of the crypts, the Easterner's gaze caught the sight of something she had never seen before; the vaults of the crypts, guarded by the most stout of mummified soldiers. The passing thought of what secrets might be held within to be under such heavy guard impressed itself upon her, but was quickly dispelled as the pair reached a final stone door.

"This is it-... the final crypt. The place in all Neverwinter that is closest to death." The Lich turned to Kritheris. "Are you certain you wish to perform this communion? There is-... a chance that merely trying will end you. And just as much the chance that you'll shamble back out of there as one of us, should the Final Scribe believe your work unfinished." Kritheris gulped in dread at the Sanctioned Scrivener's words, but rallied her courage to nod in confidence, indicating her readiness. "...Alright." The Lich utters, reaching into its robes to pull out a potion of blackened brew. It offered it to Kritheris. "Drink this before entering. It will ward against an easy death for a time." The woman accepted the offered potion without hesitation, then grimaces as she tries to down it all in one gulp. She had no reason to mistrust the Lich.

Gasping at how foul it tasted, Kritheris sets aside the empty potion bottle as the Lich nods in approval. "You are ready." It stated ominously, reaching out after to side open the stone door and step through. Several servants of Jergal were already present inside, all undead, tending to unlit censors within. The deepest room seemed to be a burial tomb, but the gravestones were faded entirely with time. As Kritheris scanned each one, she could feel the invasive and deathly cold of the chamber seep into her very bones, taking with it any semblance of life and warmth. Reaching the centerpiece of the line of graves, Kritheris gawked at a large sarcophagus. It seemed to be missing its lid and a respectable crack of erosion traced down its center, which brought a sense of displeasure to the Easterner. Stepping forward, she turned her gaze within, only to find the sarcophagus empty.

"It is believed that this grave may have held ancient sovereigns of old, before Neverwinter was even formed. Or even-..." The Lich paused, gazing into the empty sarcophagus with Kritheris. "...the Final Scribe himself." Kritheris turned her gaze up to the Lich after it was done speaking, the Skeletal form offering a brief shrug. "Whatever is the truth, it holds a deep connection with the beyond." A skeletal hand rises, motioning to a series of mats set out before a central incense box placed in the middle of the chamber. "Join us." Stepping to the mats, the Lich finds itself a place to sit, the other undead in the room closing the heavy stone door before doing the same. Kritheris steels herself for what is to come, and soon joins them.

Leading the ritual, the Lich lifts an old book from her belt, setting it out before them while keeping it closed for the moment. The others follow the Lich's direction, Kritheris doing the same with her personal Book of Souls. "Our Lord Jergal requires no elaborate plea, or flattering introduction." The Skeletal Lich begins, its boney hand snapping its fingers together towards each unlit censor to light them through a brief magical conflagration. "He accounts for all things, and knows us all. If this is the allotted time for his attentions, then it shall be so. If this is the end of all of us, then it is the inevitability we all eagerly await." The other undead raise their voices once the Lich was done speaking: "One Step Further." The Lich resumes: "Inevitability in all things." The undead echo the Lich's words, then they finish: "One Year Closer." Kritheris bows her head with the others as this last phrase is uttered.

The deafening silence of the chamber seeps in over the next moment as the Lich flicks its fingers one last time, lighting the central incense box and allowing its mist to fill the chamber. Breathing deeply of the mists and allowing the ambient cold to overtake her, Kritheris closes her eyes, placing herself into the hands of whatever whims fate had for her in this moment.

[Madgamer13]

Pacing her breathing, Kritheris kept a dire focus in her meditation. The invasive cold became her new normal, and warmth became a thing of the past. In a strange turn, she started to become more comfortable, and she wondered if the ritual was really working. Worry washed over her as naught seemed to change for her, eventually prompting her to open her eyes. In a sharp gasp, Kritheris is met with an unnerving sight. The tomb within which she sat is now gone, replaced by a wide brazier resting low to the ground. Rushing to her feet, she scans her surrounds to witness a peculiar sight. Surrounding the brazier is a copse of blossom trees in bloom, their petals drifting to the aged stone beneath. Beyond them rests a murk of mists, little more than the occasional silhouette of man and ruin set against a starless sky. Squinting into the mists, she could make out some vague shapes, some resembling places she once knew that seemed to be in ruin in this strange place.

Kneeling down to pick up her Book of Souls, she holds it closely against her bosom, protecting it with her arms as she frantically looks for a way out. Yet, no path through the mist seemed to be available; the only available light seemed to erupt from the low laying brazier, which flickered a white flame from the ashen skulls contained within it. Kritheris is soon paused by the sound of an approach, that of a robed man that emerges from the mists into this strange oasis of blossom trees. His gaze comes to rest with Kritheris almost immediately, then departs from her to scan the surrounds. Approaching the brazier that stands as the center of this fever dream, the figure speaks through its mask as he stares into the white flame: "How curious." The man muses. "A gift, perhaps?" His voice echoed out into the mists, each word seemingly repelling the murk despite how calm they were. Kritheris knew immediately whom this man was in an sudden and uncanny realisation.

Stepping to the brazier to join him, Kritheris watched as the robed man reaches up to grasp the mask he wore, slowly lifting it from his face to reveal a desiccated visage more akin to the dead than the living. He dips his head in welcome to Kritheris, who returns the respects offered with a brief bow. "A greetings to thee." The man utters in a slow, ponderous drawl. "Thy have went to great lengths to come here. Pray tell-..." He turns to Kritheris. "...Why have thou brought me here?" Kritheris found herself in a state of shock as thoughts raced in her mind. She wanted to ask so many things, and she opened her mouth to try. A long list verbally spewed from her; Is her voice gifted by him, is she stepping too far into his domain, what was she. The man slowly lifts his thin hand to halt Kritheris, then says: "In your case, the only question worth answering is-..." His raised hand curls the fingers into the palm, leaving only one behind as if to make a point. "...What thee are." The man lowered his hand, then continued: "But. Thee doth not come here to ask a question. Thou wished to make a request. One close to thine heart."

Kritheris freezes in shock. He was right, but she wasn't sure if she was ready. Gripping her book of souls more tightly, she gets down onto her knees, places the book onto the ground in front of herself, then bows herself low in the deepest supplication she knew. Almost to the point of grovelling, Kritheris pressed her nose against the stone floor in a bow she has only ever offered to the Throne of Shou Lung before, and her unstable voice cracks out her request: "P-Please, restore onto me my name!" She tenses up, holding her posture in motionless form for the man she presenting absolute deference to. A deathly silence pressed down upon the oasis in the mists, the desiccated man staring down at Kritheris for a moment before he answers: "I can not." His answer made Kritheris slowly raise from her bow, her gaze locking with his in her confusion. She silently beheld the man's stern gaze as wisps of negative energy danced within the shadows of his hood. "Doth not misunderstand." He adds. "It matters naught if thee calls thyself Kritheris Gwette of Neverwinter, or Ayumi Tsuchiya of Shou Lung. None have the power take what thy will always hold. Not me, not the Celestial Bureaucracy."

A sense of relief passed over Kritheris and her gaze lowered to the man's feet. What a fool she was, she had come to realise. If she merely placed all of her confidence into the Grumpy Old Man's wisdom, she would have never felt the need to disturb such a figure beyond her reach for such personal reasons. The man speaks once more. "I would ask of thee." His hand sweeps to her book of souls. "What is the meaning of a name?" Kritheris pondered the question for a long moment, eventually answering: "Everything." She straightened herself somewhat, as if to elaborate on her answer. Yet, she couldn't find the words. It quickly settled onto her that her answer was enough. A low hum rumbled from the man. "Interesting." He almost mumbles, then holds out a hand in request of Kritheris. "Your book, please." The woman reached out to her book after, lifting it from the floor and gazing upon it in some hesitation before giving it to the man in her reverence. He slowly opens the book, his gaze flicking through the blotted names that filled page after page.

Eventually, he stops at a particular name. "Aah." A pair of thin fingers moved to set against a particular ash blotted name. "Aaralyn. This name meant a lot to thee, did it not?" The man's question returned a tenseness to the woman's shoulders, her gaze flicking to her knees. Curling her fingers under her palms, she holds her fists tightly as she offered a simple nod in reply. "Doth thee miss her?" He asked, the question striking directly into Kritheris' heart. In an unstable voice, she says: "She was-... one of the few. We used to sing together-... she taught me songs. C-called me-..." She straightens her arms out a little, pressing her fists into her lap in the process. "...Beautiful." The robed man hums quietly to himself as he stared to the blotted name. He says: "Not surprising." A short pause passes before he adds: "You grieve for her." Kritheris quickly shakes her head in defiance of the man's words, and she speaks in contention: "I-... was at her funeral. Spoke my farewells. S-Sang for h-her-..." Her unstable voice started to break as her tears started to build. "...W-Wrote h-her name-..." She turned her head away to hide her building tears from the figure.

The man squints at Kritheris, her rising emotion seemingly washing over him like a rock against an unceasing tide. "Thou have been unable to mourn." He stated damningly, his truth causing tears of anguish to spread over Kritheris' face. Slowly closing over the book of souls he held, he adds: "Unable to mourn for any of these names. E'en the first thee placed upon the paper." The revelation caused Kritheris to break down in tears. His words couldn't be any more of a reflection of a truth she had long denied to herself. Something she had known, but chose to hide behind a fake smile and a sense of dismal duty. How pethetic she must have looked now to the man that held her most prized of possessions. "Tsuchiya." He asked of Kritheris, drawing her tearful attention up to him. "Thy worth is fore'er unproven through the desperate rememberance of others." He offered his wisdom. "Let the threads of life weave a tapestry upon thy soul, so that e'en the gods will be unable to turn their gaze afar from thee." Kritheris simply nodded, her hand lifting to quickly wipe some of her tears away as she puts effort into stifling her sniffles.

After another moment of silence for Kritheris to quell her emotions, the attention of the pair moved to the flickering white flame within the brazier. "It would do well of myself to answer that-... question." He says, his gaze fixed upon the flame. "Thou made a decision, Tsuchiya, long ago. When thee first placed a name upon the page, thee declared thyself an advocate. Most dedicate the names they write in scant devotion to some-... religious ideal. But thee-..." His gaze drifted from the fire to the surrounding mists. "...Thy desperation to account for those thy quill strikes extends beyond devotion. Ye' became-..." His gaze finally halts to meet with Kritheris. "...A Herald of the Lost." With a gentle nod, he adds: "Take heart. There are many like thee in the mists. Marching in endless vigil, to repel interlopers, and deliver the deserving onto Judgement." He squints somewhat as he recounts. "Thy type is legion, in a way. Which brings thee close to me and the Judge in a binding of fate." The man then offered a reverent dip of his head to Kritheris, whom is caught in deep thought of these revelations.

"Tis' a pity that this book holds thee so firmly in misery." He admits to Kritheris as his gaze lowered to the book he held. "But, tis' of no matter. The Judge and I eagerly await thy inevitable return to the city." With that, he turned his head up proudly as he regards Kritheris, then casually tossed her book of souls into the brazier's white flame. Kritheris, caught in thought up until this point, watches her book drop into the flames and conflagrate, the woman in shock initially. With a sudden scream, the woman's tears return as she lurches forward towards the brazier's flames, seeking to snap up her burning book before it would be destroyed. When she plunges into the white flame, they too conflagrate her hands in fierce pain that wracks her form, but she focuses herself to try and grasp the book. As her hands make contact with the book, it immediately disintegrates into ash that sticks to her hands, burning them thoroughly even as she slides herself away from the flame, holding the ashen remains of her book.

With tears streaming from her eyes, she screams at the robed figure: "W-Why?!" She holds up her fiercely burned hands, the ashen remains of her book seeping into the wounds. The man refuses to respond, instead lifting his mask to set onto his face before turning to return into the mists from which he came. Kritheris crawled behind him, the ashes searing into her flesh as she screams in agony at the man: "D-Don't leave! W-Why!? T-Tell me wh-... why destroy them?! T-The n-names?!" The pain of her wounds causes her to seize up, even as she continues to scream for the man's attention: "P-please!" She cries out in desperation. "W-Why take them from me?!" The man disappears into the mists, and her body seizes up entirely, her last effort an outstretched hand in the departing man's direction.

[Madgamer13]

Jolted into wakefulness, Kritheris found herself laying in a bed and greeted by the chirps of morning birds. Everything hurt, and trying to lift her arms brought no response. Merely breathing was agonising as she tried to blink her vision into focus, eventually realising that where she was had changed once more. Searching her memory, she huffed out a breath as she found herself barely able to remember anything more than a series of blurs and incoherent streaks of colour. The woman attempted to place yet more effort into getting up, but her body simply didn't respond. A slow sense of helplessness started to sink in.

The door into this new bedroom of hers carefully opened up under the pressure of a woman's backside, a pair stepping inside with their arms filled with goods. Kritheris watched the new faces as they stepped around her bed, soon to place some bed clothing and thick underwear on a chair, followed up by a bowl to set onto the table next to her bed. They seemed to be wearing white robes bearing the symbol of Ilmater, and they talked quietly among themselves as if she wasn't there. Eventually, the man leans over Kritheris, his gaze flicking over her face. "Hoy-... look. Her eyes are open." He comments, drawing the attention of his fellow Ilmateri. "Really?" The woman with him replies, her eyes sparkling with undeniable compassion moving to lock with the incapacitated Kritheris.

"Are you there?" The man asked, then waited a moment. Kritheris seemed to be unable to respond, her attempts to marshal her body to vocalise something utterly failing. Her sense of helplessness deepened further. "Right-... Here. Look at my hand." The man holds up a pair of fingers, Kritheris slowly straining herself to turn her gaze upon them. "Good. Now, follow my hand." As he starts to move his hand, Kritheris tried to keep her eyes locked upon their awkward blur. "Very good." He utters in a pleased tone. "Look at my face again." The helpless woman did so, the pain behind her eyes as she turned them to greet his face almost unbearable. "She's there." He comments to his colleague with a proud grin, prompting a gentle clap from his fellow in response. "I'll leave her in your hands." The man offered a shallow dip of his head, then turned to depart from the room.

"So-... uh-..." The Ilmateri lifted her hands to her long hair to tie up into a ponytail. "...Don't worry about anything. You're in a Hospice we established here in the Beggar's District." The woman then leans over Kritheris, gently placing her hands underneath the ailing patient's shoulders to carefully pull her up some pillows a little. "I'm Mancy-..." The woman smiles broadly to Kritheris, lifting her hand for a little wave. "...Hello, Hello Hello." Reaching over to lift the bowl she set onto the table, she readies a wooden spoon for imminent feeding. "You've been here for-..." She pauses as she carefully scoops up some soup to start feeding her patient. "...Mmh-... about-... three weeks? Nearly a month, or so." The Ilmateri gently holds Kritheris' head as she helps her to slurp upon the soup. "Unconscious the entire time-... in honesty, I thought you were dead when the Doomguides brought you in-... oops!" A small portion of soup trails down Kritheris' lip, which the Ilmateri captures with a deft wield of her wooden spoon.

"They didn't share what happened but-... that doesn't matter." She helps Kritheris to finish her soup, then sets the empty bowl away onto the table. After, she watches Kritheris seemingly start to doze off, head bobbing as she struggles to stay awake. "Ah-... Uhm." She moves to help Kritheris lay down properly once more. "I'll just-... clean you up a bit. Let yourself rest. I'll see you again when-... well. You can wake up again." A radiant smile set onto the Ilmateri's face for Kritheris before consciousness was lost once more. A blur of mixed noises and streaks of colour bombarded her senses for an unknown time as she dipped between consciousness and unconsciousness, until her body could marshal enough vigor to support full wakefulness once more. This time it had seemed dusk had passed, with the room she lay in set only in dim candlelight. Her body seemed capable of a little more movement this time, the woman able to draw her arm against herself in an exhausting effort. Eventually, activity at the table in her room catches her attention.

In the dim light, she could see a man quietly dipping a quill into an inkwell, then lifting that quill to scribble into a large book he had set onto the table. As he turned a little in the light, she saw a familiar face; First Scrivener Harold. Kritheris tries to greet him, only for an incoherent croak to escape her throat. This odd noise seems to draw his attention, pausing his scribing as he turned a little towards the bed. Kritheris tries again: "H-Hello-... H-Harold." Success. He replies with a smile: "Welcome back, Kritheris." Turning back to his book, he resumes his quiet scribing as he speaks: "The carers told me you were waking up more frequently now. It is a good thing I decided to do some evening scribing in here." Kritheris smirks faintly, her body able to respond to her more effectively now. "Mmh." Harold muses quietly. "It has been a few months now. Since your Communion." Completing a name in his book, he sets his quill aside to dip his fingertips into a nearby jar, which he scoops up some bone ash to spread onto the name, blotting it out. "Do you remember anything?"

Kritheris pondered the question, her brow furrowing as she tries to remember. Eventually, she shakes her head and says: "It-... It is-... all a b-blur-..." exhaling in some exhaustion, her gaze focuses on Harold's face. "A pity." He admits. "Something-... happened." Turning from his book once more, he faces Kritheris to explain: "Almost as soon as your Communion started, you began-..." He pauses, a frown setting onto his face. "...singing." His hand lifted in an idle gesture. "Never heard anything like it. It echoed through the entire Crypt, and the peace it brought to us was quickly shattered. Sanctioned Scriveners throughout the crypt-..." He wrings his hands together somewhat. "...conflagrated. In some sort of white flame. Didn't matter where they were-... Deep Archives, the Vaults. Soldier, Servant, Lich. They burned, and died where they stood. Only a small handful of the crypt's undead survived." Kritheris shifted a little, fierce discomfort from this retelling adding to her physical pain. Tears build to set a trail from her eyes, and she croaks out: "S-sorry-... I-... I n-never m-meant to-..." Harold raised his hand with a reassuring 'Sssh'.

As he gently wipes some tears from Kritheris' face, he continued: "We lost-... most of those tending the Deep Archives. The other scriveners aren't happy, of course." Inhaling sharply, Kritheris prepared for the worst. Harold elaborates: "For claiming to be so dedicated in their service, they don't want to enter a place that will so readily steal them of their years." The First Scribe chuckles gently. "There is a lot of talk-... some like to suggest that this was a deliberate attack by you. Demanding-..." His hand rolls dismissively. "...Investigations." A short moment of silence sets in to the room before Kritheris asked: "H-Have you?" Harold offered a gentle nod in response, then says: "Indeed. The living were unaffected. But the Undead-... despite it being many, there was a certain pattern." Kritheris turned her head up a little, her interest peaked by this. "Not sure if you were aware, but-... our crypt has had a long standing manpower problem." His frown deepens. "Had to rely on Undead servants to tend the Archives."

Kritheris squints a bit as Harold keeps speaking: "My predecessors had a tendency to-... extend the service of our undead. Effectively indefinitely in some cases." He pats his palms together thoughtfully. "All of the undead that your singing seemingly consumed onto true death were all names I could verify had their service extended." He quietened himself as he let that information sink in, Kritheris tightening her brow together in thought for a short moment. Eventually, she asked: "W-What does that-.... mean?" Harold turned his head away for a moment, then says: "I firmly believe you were a tool in this case. Perhaps that song was a punishment by our Lord for the hubris of my predecessors." He shakes his head. "But it matters not. Many of our colleagues are choosing to interpret your song as an attack on the crypt. I've already received envoys from the First Scriveners of Waterdeep and Athkatla demanding action." He turned a sympathetic gaze upon Kritheris. "Punitive action."

Kritheris gulps, and she shakes her head. "I-I didn't-... intend. Y-You have to tell them. I d-didn't mean to-..." Harold raised his hand, interrupting Kritheris as she shakes subtly in her bed, trying her best to not cry at the circumstances. He utters in a reassuring tone: "I'll do what I can. I know you mean well-... but-... you should rest. Gather your strength." Kritheris slowly nods to this, although she wondered how she was going to sleep peacefully after coming to know of what was happening. "Good." Harold smiled gently to Kritheris, then set a hand onto hers for a moment. "I'll return." At that, he pats her hand then stands to depart, taking his book with him.

Rest would not come easily to Kritheris over the next weeks, but every new day found greater strengths returned to her by the ceaseless efforts of the Ilmateri healers that tended to her. Inevitably, she rehabilitated through the compassionate efforts of her carers, until she could frequently and reliably sit in the chair that decorated her recovery room.

[Madgamer13]

Released from the Ilmateri hospice servicing the Beggar's Quarter, Kritheris had finally managed to reclaim some measure of normal health, although she was now much thinner than she once was. The Communion almost desiccated her, and the accounts of her carers said in no uncertain terms that her soul had only the most faint of light left within it when she initially arrived. She knew that Jergal was, in many ways, a petty god. But did she deserve to be reduced to such a state? Perhaps it was a hard taught lesson she needed to take to heart. A prior visit from First Scrivener Harold informed her that he had prepared a temporary inn room for when she was able to stand on her own two feet once more, and thus her current venture was to find it in the Docks District of Neverwinter. It didn't take her long to find it, given the amount of drunken sailors snoozing outside of the place. Among their number is a friendly face; Harold.

"Hey again." He grins as he approaches Kritheris. "Come on. I'll show you the place." Leading the way, he guides her up to a lonely room in the corner and slides an iron key into the lock to clack it open. Modest would be the operative word for what lay beyond the door, boasting little more than a single window, table and chair, and a small bed tucked away into an alcove. At the foot of the bed is a sizable footlocker set out of place from the rest of the cheap furniture. "I moved all of your stuff here-... take a look." He sweeps a hand to the footlocker, Kritheris opting to simply toss her held travel bag ontop of it. "I suppose returning to the crypt is too-... problematic." She uttered to Harold. The First Scrivener lifted his hand to awkwardly scratch at the back of his neck. "Yeah-... Uh. I've been meaning to find a moment to tell you." He turned a little more to Kritheris. "About the outcome of the investigation into your Communion." Kritheris placed her thin hands onto her waist as her gaze squints upon Harold. "I delayed as much as I could, but other First Scriveners were calling my leadership into question. I had to make a determination."

He paused briefly, then adds: "I'm sorry, Kritheris. I must remove you from our registry. Revoke your role as Doomscribe, and-..." He looks to the floor. "...Mark your name as Excommunicatus." Kritheris stared for a long moment, then allowed her gaze to drift to the open window. An awkward silence set upon the pair over a moment. Kritheris wanted to cry, yet she could not. Instead, she merely felt a numbness creep upon her, as if deafened to her pain. She knew what being marked in such a way meant; she would never be able to walk in a scrivener's hall again as she lived as she was now considered a blasphemer and danger to the church. "Funny." The words fell thoughtlessly from her lips, drawing Harold's attention to her. "The Immortal Emperor once said something similar of my father." A venomous tone dripped from her tongue as she continued: "Like father, like daughter, I suppose." Harold stared at Kritheris for a moment, then lifted a hand to try and set onto her shoulder. With a jolt of her arm away from him, she turned away more fully after, shutting him out.

"Mh-... I see." The First Scrivener utters disappointedly, then politely bows his head to Kritheris. In a saddened gesture, he places the iron key to the inn room on the table, then turned to step out. Before he closed the door behind him, he utters: "Good day, Miss Kritheris." Not long after the door shut, Kritheris took a deep breath and set her attention upon the footlocker. Opening it up, she revealed a collection of belongings both recent and far into the past. Everything was here; her spare clothes, her badges and brooches, as well as a set of candles. Reaching inside, she lifts the candles and wipes away some clothes to reveal a jade statuette accompanied by an old Nodachi. Kritheris recognised the Nodachi and Statuette immediately; symbols of her family. Holding back a sniffle, she gathers up the additional items, then meticulously sets them out onto the table in the form of an ancestral shrine typical of her homelands.

With the statuette and blade mount prepared, she lifted the heft of the Nodachi in her hands, the weight of it greater than she was expecting. She had heard tales of this blade when she was younger, as it was raised in the defense of Shou Lung. Taking a moment to examine it, the tales emerge within her mind. Fanciful tales about how a whirlwind of death carried this true Chi Blade into battle against foes most dire, ranging from the barbarian hordes of the North and West, to the treacherous Diamyo among the islands of Wa. How the Dragon of the Dawn itself rose to follow the point of this blade to sow destruction in all that dared stand against the rightful rule of the Immortal Emperor and his Celestial Bureaucracy. When she reflected upon those stories, they seemed to be more like fiction than a reality. But she had a way to check.

Hefting the blade in her arms, she carefully examines it for tell-tale markings of magic and use, but she found none. Vaguely necromantic runes seemed to be etched into the length of the blade, but her training in Thay was able to inform her that they were nothing more than nonsense. Her brow furrowed. The grip of the blade had a silken wrap around it, and merely touching it seemed to break the streaks of red apart against even her thin and delicate hands. The hilt rattled loosely, and most damningly, a draw of her fingertip against the edge of the blade revealed it to be false and dull. Devoid of scrapes and scuffs, it became clear that this was naught but a ceremonial blade. Frustration rose within Kritheris, was this all that her family had to offer? Was everything she was told merely to serve other powers, a legend of lies? The woman shakes her head briskly at the notion. In truth, it didn't matter.

Reverently placing the blade onto its mount, Kritheris raised her hands to clap twice, then bows her head deeply to the makeshift ancestral shrine. After her supplication was complete, she turned to the footlocker once more, unpacking the rest into her inn room. Conspicuously, her Book of Souls is missing. But reaching into her heart told her an uncomfortable answer. She knew it had been destroyed somehow, even if she couldn't remember it. Her hands lifted into her sight, and even though they were clean of injuries, she could still feel the pangs of pain that race over from her fingertips into her palms. As if they had been burned. As she clenches her fists, she holds them against her chest in some futile nurture, until a series of heavy bootsteps come rushing to her door. A gauntleted hand slams against her door, rattling the drop-lock bolt against its holding, and a voice shouts through the wood.

"By the order of the court of Neverwinter, open up!" The gruff man's voice echoes into the room, causing the rowdy sailors out of her window to silence themselves. "Miss Gwette. We know you're in there!" Kritheris freezes in place as another series of loud thumps smash into her inn room door, and she finally relents, stepping to release the bolt from the lock and let the door open. She is greeted by a group of heavily armed Neverwinter guards, accompanied by an aged man in noble finery. The guards step inside, hands resting upon the grip of their sheathed blades. "Back. Against the window." The vanguard of the group orders, Kritheris immediately complying without delay. Pressing herself against the window, she watches as the rest of the group steps in. The aged man sweeps his gaze around the modest inn room, a twitch of distain pressing onto his brow, until he says to his accompanying group: "Confiscate it all."

Without delay, the guards do as ordered, roughly dumping loose books, clothes, and her makeshift shrine into footlocker that initially delivered it. As the guards close over the footlocker after a final check, the aged man's expression assumes great displeasure as he approaches to stand over Kritheris. "...Where is your Book?" He asked her in a dangerously malicious tone. Kritheris quickly shakes her head. "Where. Is. Your. Book?" He demands. Kritheris answers: "I-It is-... gone. D-destroyed." The aged man squints skeptically at Kritheris, then sweeps a hand towards her inn room's bed. "Check under the pillow, and turn the bed." The Guards perform the command without question, tossing the bed's pillow and linens aside, then lifted the bed itself to slam against the wall in an upturned state. The aged man grunts in disapproval after he sees her words were true.

With a lazy wave to his entourage, the aged man turns to give space for the footlocker to be carried out, but is quickly interrupted by Kritheris as she raises her voice: "P-Please, Sirs. T-the little statue. It is a family heirloom, can you-..." Her plea is cut short by the aged man's yell: "...Silence!" The boom of his voice almost shakes the room itself, causing Kritheris to cower in place. "You will not speak until spoken to." He spoke with malice to the woman. "Miss Gwette. By the power of the court of Neverwinter, I am here to inform you that an investigation into recent happenings in the graveyard is currently ongoing, and that you are suspected of being a vile necromancer." He straightens himself out somewhat. "Your possessions shall be confiscated, and you will be summoned to court to answer for any crimes once the investigation is complete. Your right of passage out of the city is now denied, and attempting to flee will be interpreted as an admission of guilt in the eyes of the court. Do you understand?"

Kritheris nods quickly, knowing better than to argue against a man with such an escort on her own. "Good." He states menacingly. "By the will of Tyr, Justice will be wrought." At that, he turned to step away, his guards following him with the confiscated footlocker in tow. As the door creaks shut behind them, Kritheris slowly stepped to it to shut it tightly, allowing the bolt of the lock to drop into place. The room now secure once more, silent tears started to stream down her face. Yet, despite them, the silence continued. She stared hatefully into the door, expression twisted into an indignance that is unlike her. They think of her a vile necromancer? They do not know what a truly vile necromancer is. But she knows, as she had spent enough years in Thay being trained by them. Turning from the door, her thoughts raced.

During her recovery, she tried to cast her innate magics. Her attempts failed. She tried to sing. Her inward inspiration was gone. Her communion robbed her of many things, and now an upstart noble took what was left. The ridiculous images of her father's sword flash in her mind. In as much as the markings were useless, seeing them again did spark some of her creativity. Whoever etched those markings into the Nodachi had scarcely any clue about necromancy, but they did try to unconventionally pair certain types of runes typically reserved for use by spellswords. Perhaps, with her forbidden knowledge, she could make something of use. Reaching to the cheap knife on her hip, little more than a crude backup for self defense, she examines the dull blade and its uneven edge. Yes, perhaps she could do it. Lifting a metal rod into her hand from a pouch, she took a seat at her table and began her experimental dweomering work.

[Madgamer13]

Several days had passed since her encounter with the unknown noble, the wait almost maddening for Kritheris as she kept in silence within her room. Her time was dedicated to the experimental Dweomering of her knife, which is now coming to a completion. With a final scrape of a metal rod against the blade of the knife, the unusual energy conduit of the weapon is complete. Blowing into the etchings carefully, she removes some waste scrapings of twisted metal, her keen eye examining the smoothness of the indents in inspection of her work. Satisfied, she tightens her grip on the weapon's handle and steels herself for what is to come. Passing her free hand over the blade, she utters a baleful spellword under her breath, activating the runes she placed into the cheap knife. The etchings flicker to life, then become obscured in a forboding blackened miasma that surrounds the blade.

Kritheris could feel the toll upon her body immediately. Sharp pain rushes up her arm, her chest tightens, and her skin pales more deeply as the enchantment on the blade drinks of her to power itself. Exactly as planned. The woman utters another baleful spellword, and the mist fades. Giving herself a moment to recover, she pondered what this blade might do to someone that dared to aggrieve her further. There was only one way to find out. Stowing the dangerous blade away in a sheath that hides the malevolent etchings from the world, Kritheris rose from her chair to turn her gaze out through her window to the street beyond. City guard patrols were more frequent she had come to notice. Even in this moment, a trio of such Graycloaks were casually strolling by her window, apparently enjoying the calm weather.

Squinting somewhat, Kritheris came to notice a strange figure leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the street. He seemed to be staring directly at her as she stood at the window, the intensity of his gaze striking some concern into her heart. It was difficult to make out his facial details at this distance, and the hood over his head made it more difficult than it should have been. Returning the stare, she watched as the man pushes himself from the wall, then turned to follow the trio of guards down the street. Once his back was turned to the window, Kritheris could easily see the pattern of stars set upon the flow of his cloak. Was that what she thought it was? She had heard of the members of the Many-Starred Cloak before, but surely they wouldn't have an interest in her. Her hand sets onto the grip of her newly dweomered knife, and she frowns deeply. On second thought, they would likely know what the significance of the etchings on her knife meant. She hoped they were not aware of the Dweomering she just completed.

The inn she stayed at is as rowdy as it usually was, although a new set of bootsteps advance beyond where she normally expects footfalls to fade. Slowly turning to her door, she drags her fingertips against the grip of her knife, waiting for the inevitable. A knock soon sounds from her door. "Miss Gwette?" A single voice rings out after the knock. "Are you there?" Kritheris grits herself, stepping to the door. She asked: "Yes?" A sigh of relief echoes out from the man on the other side. "Ah. Good. You're still here. I've travelled from Athkatla! May we speak?" A brief hesitation stays Kritheris' hand, but she eventually opens the door. A large man is soon revealed, wearing the familiar colours of Red and Gold, with a pin set proudly upon his collar depicting the noble house he serves. The woman relaxes somewhat at the sight. With a beckoning hand, she invites him into her room. "You've travelled a fair bit to get here. I presume that you're with the trading ship that is to return me to Arelith?" The man steps into the inn room, closing the door behind him as he nods. "Indeed, M'lady." He offers a salute. "I am Sir Bhesin." Kritheris dips her head in welcome to him.

With a frown, Kritheris says: "I may be in some-... trouble." Bhesin huffs gently, then interjects: "We've heard the rumours in Athkatla, M'lady. Tis' why I was sent with the ship. I'm to do what I can to help." His hand raised to tap a breastplate he wore, the odd shimmer of dormant magical energies seen in the fanciful etchings of his plate. Kritheris sighs gently, then says: "I'm not sure what can be done-... I'm forbidden from leaving the city, and all of my things were confiscat-..." Kritheris is interrupted by a loud rumble from her belly, a faint flush of colour setting onto her face at the shame of it. She had been so focused on her experimental dweomering work that she had forgotten to eat properly over the last few days. Sir Bhesin grins broadly. "Did they also confiscate your food?" He asked in jest, prompting a dismissive wave of embarrassment from Kritheris. "Well, that won't do at all." The Amnian says determinedly. "I saw a place out the front where we can eat. Come on. My treat." Kritheris hesitantly nods, then stepped behind him as he moved to the door.

The pair soon emerge from the inn into the street, Kritheris shying away from the sun a little as they approach a streetside vendor. Quick food for quick sailors on the prowl for booty. The stools seemed to be vacant today, much to the boredom of the chef. Plopping himself onto a stool and sidling up to the counter, Sir Bhesin beckons Kritheris to join him, which she does without much complaint. "Oy'. What kin' I get'cha?" The chef asked with a friendly grin to the pair. Sir Bhesin responds: "I'll go with the-... steak. Yeah. A nice, juicy steak." He nods confidently, then reaches into a pocket to retrieve a handful of coin to set onto the counter. The Chef nods quickly, his hand motioning to Kritheris after. "An' what's for the missus?" The woman took a moment to look over the stall's menu, then answered: "...Fish of the day?" The chef scoffs in reaction, his chunky hand slapping down onto the counter. He says: "Oh-ho! Ye'll love the size ah' this thing, lass! Fishin' boat just came in whit a massive whopper of a bloody monster! Right an' scary it were!" Kritheris shrinks from the man's enthusiasm.

The Chef soon sets to work cooking up a storm, the delicious smell almost making Kritheris drool. When the plates arrived, the Chef's rambling about the size of the fish wasn't an understatement. How was she ever going to eat all of that? Regardless, she tried, much to the amusement of Sir Bhesin and the Chef. "Its good to take your mind off things sometimes." Sir Bhesin utters ponderously as he scrapes up some sauce onto the last of his steak, soon sliding it into his mouth. Kritheris huffs gently, almost wrestling with a huge chunk of fish. Her contest of wills is interrupted by a sudden flurry of activity, drawing the attention of her and Sir Bhesin both. Groups of Graycloaks rush by the stall toward the Neverdeath Graveyard, and ringing bells sound along the guard towers. "...What's going on?" Sir Bhesin asked. Noticing where the militia was going, Kritheris rises from her seat, offers her apologies to the chef, then turned into a brisk step to follow the commotion to its source.

With Sir Bhesin in tow, the pair arrive at the entrance of the Neverdeath Graveyard. A collection of guards seemed to be peering inside through the graveyard's fence, but the entrance itself seemed to be unguarded. The Doomguides meant to be on guard were further inside, the warpriests wielding mace and shield against frenzied undead. Without as much as a moment of consideration, Kritheris immediately rushes through the unguarded gate to approach the embattled Doomguides. Sir Bhesin quickly follows, shouting for Kritheris to slow down. When the pair reach the battling Warpriest, they witness his brutal technique slamming the maddened undead down into the ground with a hefty strike. He immediately raises his mace to point at Kritheris. "Is this your doing?!" The Doomguide demands, Kritheris quickly shaking her head. She asks: "W-What's going on? Where is Harold?" The Doomguide grunts harshly, gathering his breath as he turns his attention to the entrance of the crypt. "Guards pushed their way in here with some noble, then this morn's freshly delivered dead just started-... waking up." He growls in dire anger.

Mention of a noble caught Kritheris' attention, and she slowly draws her freshly dweomered knife. Not activating the enchantment just yet, she asked: "They are further inside?" The Doomguide nods quickly in response to Kritheris, then says: "Aye. Harold is in there somewhere as well. I'd go inside but the dead keep threatening to come out here." Kritheris turned her gaze upon the Amnian that is accompanying her, a silent question asked upon her scowl. Sir Bhesin nods quickly in understanding to Kritheris, drawing his enchanted blade to the ready and holding his shield close. Returning her attention to the Doomguide, Kritheris says: "We'll go inside and save who we can. Hold here and protect the city." The determination in her tone brings a brief shock to the Doomguide, and he simply nods in confidence to her. Immediately turning to the gaggle of guards gawking at them from beyond the fence, the Doomguide shouts out to them: "You! Graycloaks! Get in here and help me stop anything coming out of this damn crypt!" The guards jolt into action, streaming into the graveyard to take defensive positions with the Doomguides.

Sir Bhesin raised his shield to take a lead, Kritheris stepping softly behind him with Knife in hand. The pair enter the crypt at her direction, occasionally stepping over fallen scriveners until they enter the crypt's recreation area. The sight before them is horrifying as most of the dead are defenseless scriveners, some of which are being feasted upon by zombies. "Fresh." Kritheris comments as she examines the zombies at a distance. "Commoners-... were they prepared to be animated before arriving here?" She muses, Sir Bhesin offering a quick huff before he replies: "We'll find out." His blade raises. "Igni!" His spellword activates the enchantment on his blade, conflagrating the longsword in the blazing fire of a flame imbuement. The sudden flurry of activity draws the attention of the feasting zombies, and they rise to shamble towards the light. In a display of skill, the spellknight retainer lays the zombies low with singular expert strikes that set the undead ablaze.

Once the grand hall had gone silent, distant scuffling could be heard down an ajoining corridor. A running battle seemed to be making its way towards the grand hall, and the pair prepared themselves for whatever would come. An armoured Doomguide stumbles out into the hall, bloodied and stained with the tell-tale signs of fierce battle. Hefting a deep breath of exhaustion, the masked man holds a hand up a hand and yells to the pair: "You there! T-This-... is a dangerous place. L-lea-..." He is interrupted as a robed scrivener catches up to him, similarly heaving a breath. A familiar voice calls out from him: "T-They just-... won't stop coming!" Harold exclaims. "R-Ready yourselves!" Sir Bhesin rushes to the exhausted Doomguide's side, protecting him as a horde of corpses descends upon the group. Harold stumbles back further as the heavily armoured pair become his shield, slamming themselves into the flailing horde of undeath to halt them in their tracks.

"W-Wh-... Kritheris!" Harold exclaims in some relief as he sees her. "We really could use some of that ridiculous singing of yours right now!" Kritheris shakes her head quickly to Harold, answering: "I-... I can't. It-... it won't come!" Harold tuts, then wipes his lips with the back of his hand. "Well. Nothing else for it, I suppose." He grumbles out, then raises his voice to the pair holding the horde back with their shields: "Hold them there! I'll take care of them!" The Spellknight and Warpriest nod quickly to Harold, doing what they can to avoid being grappled by the horde. Harold took a deep breath, then began into a rapid prayer to Jergal and Kelemvor. He offered his plea for the release of the maddened dead, then extended a hand towards the horde as it flailed against the shields blocking their way. A blast of divine energy thunders out in the middle of the horde, incanting Undeath to Death, and immediately reduces the horde to dust. The group let forth a quick sigh of relief.

Harold wipes his brow and offers a gentle nod, then turned himself to Kritheris. "It's that damn noble." He admits. "Accompanied this morning's delivery cart for the morgue, then barged in here with those Graycloaks of his. There was-..." He heaves a breath. "...An argument. Doomguides ordering him to leave, and he-..." Harold shakes his head. "...Cast-... command, I think? His guards were-... cursed, somehow. Started battling the Doomguides, slaying scriveners. Undead poured out of the morgue." He turned his head up with a grimace on his face. "He went into the deep archives-... the vaults. We have to stop him!" Kritheris grits her teeth. Taking all she had left wasn't enough for that noble, now he was going to take the crypts, if not Neverwinter itself. What a calamity she has wrought with the consequences of her communion, she thought. A strong sense of responsibility sets upon her heart, and a determination rises from within to guide her words: "We will. Rest a moment, and we'll press on to the vaults." Harold nods in agreement, plopping himself down on a nearby bloodstained bench to recover, the Warpriest Doomguide joining him as Sir Bhesin stood watch.

[Madgamer13]

Before long, Harold and the Doomguide were ready, grunting as they got to their feet. With a simple nod, the group moved out for the deep archives. As they passed through each winding corridor, the occasional undead could be found, and more could be heard on an approach. When the group reached the entrance into the Deep Archives, the Doomguide lets forth a sharp hiss through his teeth. “Go.” He stated courageously. “I'll cover this entrance, give you time to put an end to this.” Harold nods in respect to the Doomguide and watches as he parted from the group to turn his heavy mace against the shambling undead that were following.

Harold, Sir Bhesin, and Kritheris step on into the labyrinthian Deep Archive, the area eerily silent. With Sir Bhesin taking the lead, they approach the Vaults, then quiet themselves to stealthily peek inside. Squinting at the figures inside, they see four Graycloaks and the aforementioned noble gathered around a particular containment chamber. The Noble seemed to be lifting a crown of some sort into his hands. “Looks like him-...” Harold utters softly as he peeks around the corner. “...And that is the Crown of the Lich.” The group grimaces. “It is exactly what it sounds like.” A brief silence sets over the trio as they watch the Noble meticulously adjust the crown on his head. Kritheris squints as her mind goes back to her training on Arelith. 'Keep moving, Kritheris!' A familiar voice plays out in her head. 'Heal, Kritheris!' The voice groans out soon after, and Kritheris frowns in disappointment. She never was that good in her training sessions with the other wardens.

Steeling herself, she knew that she would only likely have a single shot at the Noble in her current frail state. She had to make that shot count. Her mind picks up the pace, what is this wannabe Lich likely to do? Will he monologue? Is he stupid? She blinks in realisation. “Harold.” Kritheris whispers for his attention. “Can you remove curses?” Harold nods to her quickly. She continues: “Can you cast another Undeath to Death?” He nods again, and her gaze flicks to Bhesin as she addressed him: “Can you cast dispels, disjunctions, and breaches?” Bhesin nods quickly and answers: “All three, and my sword can rip wards with the right imbuement.” Kritheris nods confidently, then asked: “Can you counterspell?” Bhesin grinned broadly, then nods to Kritheris.

“Right.” The woman utters as she peeks another look at the wannabe Lich. “First thing he's likely to do is command the guard to attack us. Sir Bhesin, I need you to counterspell him long enough for Harold do his work.” Bhesin nods confidently in his understanding. “Harold. They're likely being controlled through a Curse of Obedience, if the Noble has to use the Command spell. Remove the curse.” Harold nods without question. Bhesin speaks up: “If he has more undead in there, he'll send them after us once we interfere with his guards. Once we free the Graycloaks, I'll get them to lock shields with me.” Harold utters: “Good plan. I'll slap any groups of undead with Undeath to Death.” Kritheris smiles broadly to the pair, then adds: “Then we know what to do. Ready?”

After a quick nod shared in the group, Bhesin slides his sword back into its sheath, then steps out into the vault with his shield raised, revealing himself to the opposing group. Behind him step Kritheris and Harold, readying their respective actions. “Aha! Well, well.” The Noble utters as he notices the group, crown sitting proudly on his brow. “If it isn't the heroes of the day. Come to join me? You don't have much of a choice.” With a deep laugh, he raises a hand into a somatic motion. With no spellwords offered, his hand attempts to cast the command spell with only somatic components, but the gathering magical energy suddenly breaks apart in a soft crack against his hand. Flinching, he focuses his attention on Bhesin, who seems to be mirroring any somatic motions the noble is attempting to do. “Clever.” The Noble almost spits out as Harold quickly steps before the Graycloak guards.

“P-Please-... h-he is-... controlling us, somehow.” One of the Graycloaks pleads to Harold. “R-run-... I can't-... stop myself-... I d-don't-...” Tears roll down the guardsman's face, but his words do not deter Harold. Instead, the Scrivener places his hand against a glowing mark on the guardsman's neck and utters a quick prayer to Jergal and Kelemvor. In a brief flash of light, the mark is gone, much to the Noble's displeasure. Attempting to catch Harold off guard, the Noble attempts a one-handed casting of a destructive fireball, only for that spell to also be countered by Bhesin. The Noble growls with indignance. The curse lifted from the guardsmen, Bhesin calls out to them: “Alright lads! Lets go!” He bangs his free hand against his shield. “Attention! Attention! Lock shields and make ready! To me!” The Graycloaks shake in place briefly before their drill instruction kicks in, and they step to Bhesin's side to lock shields with him. They look around themselves nervously, unsure what fate awaits them.

“Well done.” The Noble utters in venomous distain. “You outplayed me in this little game.” He lifts a book into his hand, the cover bearing the symbol of Jergal. “But with these books-...” His hand motions over the Book of Souls he held. “...I can summon as many soldiers as I will. Matters not where the souls are-... the Fugue, an afterlife. All shall serve me!” He cackled menacingly, which is interrupted by Kritheris speaking up: “Ah! So you are going to monologue like an idiot!” Her words anger the Noble, his attention focusing on the book he held as he holds a hand over it, incanting a profane magic intended to corrupt the book and its purpose.

“Now. Charge him, Bhesin!” Kritheris orders of the Amnian, the man taking the order gleefully to heart. “Sophi!” He cheers excitedly as he draws his longsword, the energy conduit etched into his blade flashing in chaotic raw arcane magic. His boots rumble the vault's stone floor as he comes to clash with the casting Noble, his shield hand tossing a series of breaches and disjunctions before the sword made contact with the wannabe lich's flesh. The Noble's magical wards are torn asunder by the bombardment, and the blade sinks shallow into the flesh of its target, halted by the power of the Crown the Noble wore. With a widening grin and a reddened tint of a glow into his eye, the Noble reaches a hand to grab the blade as Bhesin struggles to free it from tough, necrotic flesh. Entrapping him, the Amnian and the Noble struggle in place, the tide of favour being set against Bhesin as the Noble starts to corrupt the energies of the blade with a dire malignant red, causing his spellsword enchantments to fail.

Releasing his grip on his sword before the corruptions reached his hand, Bhesin slides a step back, only to become witness to a blur passing under him. The Noble's expression contorts into surprise as a blurred Kritheris appears out of invisibility, holding a knife in both of her hands, the blade shrouded in blackened mist. With a book in one hand and Bhesin's partially corrupted sword in the other, the Noble is completely open to a devastating assault, unable to defend himself as Kritheris plunges her baleful knife into the gem of an amulet dangling at his chest. The Knife sinks into the hardened surface with no resistance, and the gem's faint light immediately flickers. The Noble collapses back against the wall behind him with a pained grunt. The Crown, for whatever reason, did not protect him from that blow. Dropping the book and sword, he retaliates with a backhanded slap of the woman's face, sending her to crumple into the floor.

“Wench! How dhyaarhe-...” As he spoke, blackened bubbling bile spews out of his mouth, causing him to hold a hand against it. His skin pales further as his muscle mass suddenly starts to atrophy. Feeling a sudden weakness, he wheezes and slides down the wall. “W-what have you d-done to-... me-...” He wheezes out as he continues to gazes upon the blackened bile in his hands, which he quickly realises is congealed blood. The red glow in his eyes also flickers, then starts to dim. He watches Kritheris slowly get onto her feet. Her expression is set into indignant anger, and she stares at the noble as he agonisingly writhes. “A-Answer-... me-...” The noble chokes on his own rising blood, his form becoming more and more desiccated by the moment.

Bhesin and the Graycloaks watch on in horror. Eventually, Bhesin asks: “W-What is happening? I've never seen this type of magic.” Harold squints. He suspected what this might be. He could easily see that life and unlife both were being drained from the Noble in something typical of an entropic collapse. He has only ever seen this happen in certain places, much like in the deepest halls dedicated to Jergal, or even the ritual chamber that Kritheris herself performed her communion in recently. He held his tongue as Kritheris stared into the Noble's eyes, her lips slowly pulling into a silent satisfaction as she watched him slip away.

In a final fit of resistance against the inevitable, the Noble kicked his legs out a bit as he returned Kritheris' stare, until the light faded from his eyes entirely. Bhesin and the Graycloaks slowly sheathed their weapons, understanding that the threat had passed once the crown fell from the decaying head of the former Noble. Eventually, Kritheris started to lurch over to one side, Harold moving quickly to catch her. Seemingly finding her unresponsive, Harold lays her out in concern. Examining her, he couldn't find any evidence of a wound or ailment, yet her skin was starting to pale much like the noble's had. Unsure what to do, he turned his gaze up to Bhesin in worry, and the guardsmen suddenly run out of the vault to look for help, leaving Harold and Bhesin alone with Kritheris.

Soon, the group has their attention taken by the rapid approach of heavy boots. A pair of Doomguides storm into the Vault, weapons in hand. One of them seemed to deviate from the usual seen in Neverwinter; he had an oath plate attached to his belt, a practice usually held by certain paladin sects. Approaching quickly, he kneels to the unconscious woman, tossing his weapons and mask aside, revealing himself to be a gruff and aged man. “Damn it all-... I'm too late.” He almost spits out, his gaze flicking over the surrounding area. “Sir Alphonse?” Harold asked the aged Doomguide, earning his response: “Shut up. What did she do?” The Doomguide's gaze locked harshly with Harold for a moment, then flick to the baleful knife that is still lodged in the Noble's chest.

Seemingly realising something, he reaches over to pull the knife out of the deceased Noble, carefully lifting it in hand to examine its blackened mist. He almost growls out, then utters: “You stupid, stupid woman. What madness have you embraced?” Lifting his free hand to set over the baleful blade, he utters a prayer: “Oh Kelemvor, Harken to the call of your loyal servant. Your hand has bade my action upon these holy grounds, to find a friend set most dire.” He bows his head reverently. “Bestow onto me the power to deliver the deserving onto redemption, so that her soul may meet its rightful Judgement. I beseech thee.” The man's open hand flexes, and he lifts his head once more. When his eyes open, a bright glow flashes within the whites of his eyes, and a burst of divine power slams into the blade from his open palm. The blackened miasma shrouding the blade lifts and fades.

The Doomguide breathes a sigh of relief as the knife once again becomes mundane. He dutifully packs it away into a warded container as the rest of the group watches. “So-... what was that, exactly?” Bhesin asks Alphonse. The Doomguide replies: “Foolishness, is what it is. What idiot makes something like this?” Bhesin stares at the Doomguide for a moment, eventually causing him to grimace. “Oh-... you mean, the knife. This, my friends, is a Hex.” The revelation makes Bhesin flinch. “A Mortality Hex, to be specific.” Alphonse elaborates. “A gods damned life eater.” His hand lifted to motion to the dead noble, now crumbling into little more than a pile of bones devoid of flesh. “It has clearly eaten him, and it was eatin' Kritheris here.” He leans over the unconscious woman. “Ye' hear that, you fool? The damned blade would have eaten your soul, an' what would Kelemvor have to judge? Nothin'! Are you trying to piss him off?”

With a heavy sigh, the Doomguide sits himself back, Bhesin and Harold looking on in surprise and disbelief. “Surely, that sort of magic doesn't exist.” Bhesin comments, the Doomguide offering a quick shake of his head. “I'll tell ye' right now.” The aged man says to Bhesin. “You don't even know the half of what Necromancy can do, ye' silly spellknight. Slap a bit of negative energy onto your imbuements and you have a fun time, aye?” He scoffs at Bhesin, then points a hand at Kritheris. “This silly girl's so damn talented with necromancy that she can make the dead dance just by singin' at 'em. Now she's went and made a blade powered by 'er soul! Imagine that! I'm sure Mystra's watchin' us right now an' wanting to slap sense into 'er as much as I want to.”

The Doomguide groans. “I'll 'ave to have a talk with 'er. Remind 'er of some things. Pity she went an' knocked herself right out.” Bhesin squats next to the Doomguide, shrugging before he asks: “Want me to take her up to her inn room?” The Doomguide nods quickly, then says: “Aye. I'll join ye'.” At that, the pair moved to pick up Kritheris and carry her out of the Vaults, Harold staying to place the artefacts into containment and direct Doomguides in cleaning up the crypt of remaining undead.

[Madgamer13]

Kritheris woke up a day later to the soft snores of Sir Alphonse in her room. While she was laying comfortably in her bed, he seemed to be sleeping in her chair, and in no way that could be considered comfortable. Seemingly not much worse for wear, but exceptionally hungry, she gently wakes him up. The old man offers a broad smile of welcome for her when he shakes the sleep from himself, and the old friends share pleasantries and stories of the time they've been apart. Sir Alphonse was one of her first teachers in the Necromantic Arts, and did many things together in service to the people of Neverwinter. The topic of the conversation naturally advanced to his disapproval of her new Dweomercraft, and a reflection on his wisdom of how much of a bad idea it was for her to be sent to Thay by the church to learn from the best. In Necromancy's case, learning from the best also meant learning from the worst. Kritheris sighed at the notion.

With the pair all caught up, they were interrupted by a gentle knock on the inn room door. A messenger with a prim and proper smile greets them, informing Kritheris that she has been summoned to the castle for an informal meeting. The woman's stomach lept, was this the summoning the noble spoke of? Only one way to find out. Kritheris and Sir Alphonse set out for Castle Never. Arriving promptly, they are greeted by First Scrivener Harold and Sir Bhesin. The throne seemed to be empty today, perhaps Lord Alagondar had more important business to attend to. A court representative approached with a hooded man of familiar stature to Kritheris; the same star-cloaked one she saw spying on her before.

“Ahem. Greetings.” The representative offered with a formal bow at his waist. The court's guests returned the show of respect with bows of their heads. “I am Lord Agast. Lord Alagondar offers his apologies for his lack of attendance today, but I can assure that your affairs are no less important for his attention.” An odd smile sets onto the representative's face. “This court has received many reports from various sources about activities in the Neverdeath Crypts and the involvement of Lord Deshad. Many of these reports are quite contradictory-...” He pauses with a twinge of indignance on his face. “...But we've been able to uncover enough of the truth to understand the proceedings.” The representative nods confidently.

Kritheris shrinks. Was this going to be another injustice? A part of her wished that Sir Alphonse didn't stop the blade from eating her. The Representative continued: “In the hours after Lord Deshad invaded the Neverdeath Crypts, it was decided by this court to force entry into his manor as part of the Militia's response to the threat. Why we decided to do this is due to a long standing investigation into his questionable activities, which seemed to have finally come to a head when-...” He paused, his gaze coming to rest with Harold. “...Miss Gwette completed her Communion with the Final Scribe, and obliterated most of the Undead in the crypt with her voice.” His tone had some heaviness to it. A subtle accusation of the First Scrivener, which made Harold react with an obedient bow of his head. The representative continued: “Our raid of his manor revealed some of Lord Deshad's hidden activities. An unknown basement with a hidden passage-...” His gaze sweeps over the group. “...A laboratory, studying undeath. And a holding area for bodies. As far as we can tell, he has been performing rituals on bodies bound for the Graveyard for a while now.”

Sir Alphonse grit his teeth, then interjected: “How was he able to do this for so long?” The representative lifts his hand for calm, replying: “When he worked his ploy at a slow pace, he seemed to be quite good at hiding it. Many of the false reports this court has received about Graveyard activity and Miss Gwette's purpose here can all be traced back to Lord Deshad in one way or another.” A small smirk set onto the representative's lips as he set his gaze with Kritheris. “He tried to make you look like an agent with ties to both Luskan and Thay. The Thay connection was particularly difficult to handle, given your history with them.” Kritheris squints somewhat to the representative as he spoke. “The truth of the matter was that Lord Deshad himself had something of-... a quill pal, so to speak, in Thay. We inevitably cornered the one carrying the letters, and were able to review them without his knowledge.”

Sir Bhesin turned his gaze upon Kritheris for a moment, then gently set his hand onto her shoulder. Lord Agast cleared his throat to speak. “I'm not sure what you did in Thay, Miss Gwette, but a lot of those letters spoke of you in extremely unkind ways.” His hand raised to dismiss the topic. “But, anyway. When you obliterated all those undead, you undermined the pace of his plan. With the Neverdeath Crypts so vulnerable, it became the perfect time for him to strike. His goal was the Crown of the Lich, and to become one himself. Beyond that, we can only assume he wished to overthrow Lord Alagondar for his own gain.” The representative straightens himself out. “The mages of the Many-Starred Cloak were already readying themselves for an inevitable confrontation when you went charging into the Crypt.” He nods to Kritheris and Bhesin. “Much to everyone's surprise, you were able to halt the threat before high magic intervention became necessary.”

Sir Alphonse puffed his chest out in some pride, the man offering a sidelong grin to Kritheris. The woman didn't seem quite as prideful herself. “Needless to say, making such a bold move revealed his ploy.” The representative explains. “And I can say with confidence that whatever power he claimed to have here in Neverwinter is a lie the moment he decided to unjustly confiscate your personal belongings. As he did so without the court's approval.” The Lord's expression fades into some displeasure. “We found the box that once contained your belongings in his manor, but-...” He slowly shakes his head. “...I'm sorry, Miss Gwette. Everything was destroyed.” Kritheris' shoulders sink as her gaze locks with the ground.

“The court has seen fit to recognise the valorous acts performed, however.” The representative turns his attention to Harold. “First Scrivener. This court recognises the losses suffered by the churches of Jergal and Kelemvor. We pledge to do what we can to alleviate this pain, as would be expected under Tyr's even hand of justice. We shall discuss the full details of that assistance at a later date.” The representative dips his head to Harold, who returns the gesture with one of his own. The Lord then moves on to Alphonse. “We have reason to believe that you are now the most senior member of the Doomguides here in Neverwinter, Sir Alphonse. The court would appreciate your attendance when we meet with the First Scrivener over matters relating to the Neverdeath Graveyard.” Much like before, the Representative offers a bow of his head, and Sir Alphonse replies as he bows: “Aye, Lord.”

The Lord's attention skips Kritheris to set with Sir Bhesin. “Sir Bhesin. Your valor was proven in the depths of the crypts, and without your deft assistance, Neverwinter would have been much worse off in this encounter. You do Amn proud, and this court would like to offer a modest reward and a letter of commendation for you to return to Athkatla with.” The Representative bows his head respectfully to Sir Bhesin, the Amnian smiling broadly as he says: “Of course, Lord.” He salutes. “I gratefully accept your offer.” The representative smiles broadly, then waves a hand over to a plump man at a nearby table, whom is apparently counting coins into a large bag. Soon, he trundles up to Sir Bhesin, presenting the large coinpurse and a fancy official letter for Bhesin to take.

Once Bhesin put the gifts away, the representative set his attention with Kritheris. His tone softens as he begins to speak: “Miss Gwette. There are those in this court that believe you afflicted with an accursed fate. Death itself seems to follow you-... yet, it also brings necessary change.” Kritheris continued to stare into the floor, even as she is spoken to. Her expression hardens. “Without you, none of this would have been possible. Lord Deshad would have eluded us for much longer, and brought much more suffering to Neverwinter. Reports we have received detail your suffering from the communion greatly, and how Lord Deshad exploited your moment of vulnerability. This court recognises your pain, and would like to offer compensation in an act of compassion.” The representative then motions a hand out to the plump treasurer once more, who packs a few large bags and a handful of gleaming gems into a modest coffer.

With a gentle slap closed, the coffer is carried over to Kritheris, and the plump treasurer pushes his glasses up his face before holding out the coffer to her. Kritheris sets her gaze upon the coffer, but merely stares. The plump man shifts a bit, lifting the coffer a little more to hold near the woman, but she continues to merely stand there, staring. A subtle shake sets into her hands and shoulders, and the representative asks: “...Miss Gwette?” There is no answer. Without an overt sign of any emotion, she merely stares. The Representative turned his gaze to the star-cloaked man standing next to him in confusion. Sensing awkwardness, Sir Bhesin speaks up: “Ah-... Uh. Miss Gwette -graciously- accepts your compensation, and thanks you for the-... kind words?” He awkwardly holds out his arms to accept the coffer, the plump treasurer hefting it into the spellknight's arms eagerly.

“Very good.” The representative muses, then dips his head respectfully to the group. “I thank you for your time, and shall no longer take up any more of it. Good day.” At that, the Lord steps away to tend to other courtly business, the star-cloaked man with him gazing upon Kritheris for a moment before turning away himself to make a journey towards a backroom. The group soon depart from the Castle, Kritheris lagging behind in deep thought. “Hey. You know what'll be good?” Sir Alphonse calls out to the group, purposefully slowing them for Kritheris to catch up. “Eatin'! Ey?! Ey?!” The group cheers, minus a Kritheris, and Alphonse puts an arm over her shoulder to guide her to a familiar dockside eatery.

Settling into a familiar bar with a familiar Chef, the group made their orders with some of the money gained from their adventure. Another massive fish is placed before Kritheris, and the group set into their food ravenously paired with deep mugs of beer. Despite the cheer shared by the others, Kritheris herself merely seemed to sit in exhaustion. Eventually, after only eating half of her plate, she lifts her coffer and makes a quiet departure, leaving the boys behind on their stools. “So, uh-...” Sir Bhesin utters as he leans forward against the counter. “...Harold.” He grins a bit. “About that whole-... Communion problem.” Harold upnods Bhesin in return and asks: “Yeah?” Bhesin continues: “After all that has happened, I'm pretty sure it is obvious that Kritheris isn't some sort of-... blasphemer. Or traitor. She protected the crypt, right? That has to count for something.”

Harold slowly shakes his head, then explains: “Ah-... no. No. You see, there is more to it than just-... the consequences.” His words perk up Alphonse a bit, although his expression hints at a rising displeasure. Harold continued: “Every scrivener has a book. Kritheris had one-... had, being the word. During her communion, her book went up in flames. The same white flames that consumed the-...” He pauses, flicking a gaze to the Chef, who totally wasn't eavesdropping, honest. “...others.” Sir Bhesin's expression sets into some sternness of Harold as the First Scrivener continued: “Isn't the first time something like this happened. I admit it has been the first time a book was burned like this-...” He rolls a hand. “...The books usually decay and rot away within the blink of an eye. But how we interpret it is the same. The loss of a book in such a way is seen as a punishment by the Final Scribe.” Sir Bhesin's expression sets into some displeasure, and he utters: “Really? You're throwing her out of the church because of an interpretation, and not through a judgement of her own actions?”

Harold lifted a hand to wave dismissively and he says: “It is how it is.” Sir Alphonse suddenly interrupts: “Bullshit.” The curse draws a gasp from the Chef. “Let me get this right.” The aged Doomguide utters. “Ye're expellin' Kritheris for-... what? Slappin' down a few undead? Her book gettin' a bit hot? What's the real reason, lad.” The Doomguide's judgemental gaze sets with Harold, who replies with a shrug: “A lot happened-... people say things, other First Scriveners have opinions. I mean-... what would you do?” He asked Alphonse, who almost yells in response: “I'd tell 'em to bugger off, lad!” He slaps a hand against the counter. “Yer the bloody First Scrivener, lad! You're not meant to be makin' decisions in that way!”

The First Scrivener sighed, then shakes his head. He says: “But I had no choice-...” He is interrupted by Alphonse who yells heatedly: “Aye? Nay bloody choice? Not foolin' anyone with that!” Harold holds up his hands briefly, then says: “You don't understand-...” He is interrupted again by Alphonse: “Oh ah' understand well enough. Kritheris goes down there fer a bit of 'me' time, gets bloody smashed by Jergal, an' wipes out a whole bunch of people that should 'ave been released from service six years ago! Tha's it, aint it?” Sir Bhesin awkwardly watches the back and forth, keeping himself quiet. Alphonse continues on his tirade: “Ye' know I've never liked yer predecessor much. I had some hope for ya', lad! But now you're just speakin' like they were!” Harold holds up a hand once more, attempting to calmly say: “But, Sir Alphonse. There is a politics to these things-...” The Doomguide suddenly laughs loudly over Harold's words, stopping him.

“Politics? Bloody politics?” The Doomguide slaps a palm against his forehead. “What the bloody 'ell do you think ye' are? Bloody Lord Harold? Aye? Is that it? Bloody Politickin' in the church! An' what right does that give any of ye' political lot to extend service beyond what Jergal an' Kelemvor allow, 'ey? All Kritheris did was come in 'ere and do yer bloody job ya' mongrel!” Harold holds up his hands once more and demands: “Please, be calm, Sir Alphonse.” The Doomguide scoffs in return: “I'll nay be calm when yer buggerin' over a woman I think like me own daughter over some church politics, ye' Goblin-Goo-Gobbler!” Harold sighs deeply, setting his palms against his face for a moment. Eventually, he utters: “I don't have to take this.” He then slides out of his stool and departs without another word.

Sir Alphonse watches the First Scrivener leave, then huffs harshly once he was out of sight. Returning his attention to the Chef and Bhesin, he says: “...Sorry lads. Been a rough day, aye.” The Chef and Bhesin offer gentle nods of understanding. Alphonse continues: “Kritheris'll be headin' off at some point, aye?” Bhesin nods. “Right-... I'll say me goodbyes. When ya' going?” He asked Bhesin, the Amnian responding: “At any time. When she is ready.” The Doomguide offers a nod, then pats his hand on the counter. Rising from his stool, he dips his head respectfully to Bhesin before departing. Bhesin departs soon after, leaving behind a small handful of coin for the chef's patience.

[Madgamer13]

Kritheris and her companions found themselves upon the harbour, a large Amnian trading vessel loading the last hefty box of cargo onto its deck. Sir Alphonse swung his arms open to snap up Kritheris into a big, fatherly hug. "Ah'll miss ya', lass. Come by an' visit me in the forest again, aye?" Kritheris utters a muffled mumble into his chest in response. The aged man releases her, then wipes a joyful tear from his eye. Sir Bhesin had boarded the ship in the meantime, and a familiar sailor stepped to join him. "Tha's the last of the cargo, lass!" Kritheris nodded quickly to the sailor, then set a saddened smile with Alphonse. A soft goodbye is shared, and the woman climbed up the gangplank to board the ship. The plank is pulled up after her, and the sailors break into a series of whistles and shouts to each other and the dock workers on the shore. Mooring ropes are loosed, anchors lifted, and the sails flutter into the wind, causing the ship to tilt into the wind's powerful flow.

"Next stop, Arelith!" The captain of the ship yells out as he spins the helm's wheel. A sailor on the deck grins to Bhesin and Kritheris, beckoning them both below deck to their guest quarters. The ship's sail along the coast and through the Moonshae Isles is largely uneventful, and once they enter Arelith's local waters, they make quick time to Cordor to offload their cargo. Sir Bhesin stays with the ship after they dock at Cordor, Kritheris disembarking with a fond wave of farewell to him.