StoryTeller
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Post by StoryTeller on Oct 2, 2008 1:31:31 GMT
Larsen entered through the door to the Skulking Orc Inn relatively unnoticed. Not difficult seeing as how it was well past dark and there were but a handful of patrons.
Larsen had heard talk through the day as he wandered about the streets getting familiar with the place. A regular habit he had developed many years ago. He found that the educated man stays alive longer (just a theory). While he strolled about from shop to shop and down the odd streets, one name came up on at least three different occasions.. The Skulking Orc Inn. It seemed that it was the "hotspot" for activity in this Capital city of the realm. Having secured a room just across the way and down a bit, Larsen now felt the urge to take a look at the place he had become so curious about. The decor was no different than the hundreds of other taverns he had frequented. Nor was the menu or even the general atmosphere. Initially he did not understand what it was that made this place so popular but that soon became evident after he sat and enjoyed several meads.
Larsen had begun his third ale and was about to take a sip to take off the brew's head when several dark robe-clad men came in. Using a trained eye, Larsen watched the men as they moved around and sat at what he could only presume was their regular spot. 5 of them in total, each with a dark robe covering what he deduced as armor and weapons underneath. Their swagger indicated too that these were no ordinary men. These were men who were trained. Skilled in the art of war. Larsen continued to listen in on their banter when another person came in, another that caught his immediate attention.
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Post by Azriel on Oct 2, 2008 23:41:39 GMT
Azriel glided across the threshold, stylishly opening the rickety oak door and paving a path of moonlight upon the Inn’s floorboards. Azriel’s ominous shadow cascaded across the hardened faces of the secretive soldiers, their steely leers eyeing the new guest vigilantly. Azriel inclined his chin, his carmine irises grazing the hem of his hooded robe. This intimidating stare silenced the militants, the men resuming their dark murmurs.
Azriel observed the tavern with a sharp, scrutinizing stare. He had been reticently pursuing the five soldiers for approximately seven kilometres, donning their Prussian blue robes that merged with the night. Azriel had observed their strange behaviour, especially their vindictive gait and their deceitful eyes. Whatever these soldiers were doing, it was not on the side of good. Azriel possessed no stealth, his clandestine behaviour failed by his soaring height and brilliant ivory robes. The soldiers had readily recognized their follower as they sauntered along the avenue. Azriel concluded that the men must have darted into this tavern to avoid a skirmish with the mage.
It was a wise move, on their part.
Azriel permitted his glance to survey the Inn, capturing the detailed silhouette of - presumably, an elf. The elf possessed a sly grin, his eyes a sharper version of his own. ‘A very mischievous elf, indeed.’ Azriel noted inwardly. The mage peacefully drifted across the foyer, arriving at the table adjacent to the elf. Azriel perched upon an old chair, its wood worn to a dull finish. Azriel crossed his elegant legs, addressing the elf sidelong.
“Lle anta amin tu shor syri tael?” (“Do you need help with those men?”) Azriel inquired in Elvish. It was in the Thalíon dialect, so Azriel was uncertain the message would be similar.
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StoryTeller
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Post by StoryTeller on Oct 3, 2008 2:18:29 GMT
"Nae untaen delein shalenthear" (No thank you friend and kin) Larsen said, politely and with a smile. He raised his ale as he nodded simultaneously. His own Elvish coming across rather brogue-ish and clearly a mixing of dialects most commonly found in those found living in the slums of cities. More commonly in fact found within guilds. Thieves guilds to be exact.
His smile continuing, perhaps from too many drinks, or perhaps from some inner merriment... Larsen hailed to the very interesting stranger... "Well met, to what can I claim to be the honor of such an interesting visitor at my table? Would you be passing through or intending to settle? I myself am only here briefly. Business." Larsen recalled the last time he had met one of these elves... it hadn't gone well then so naturally, more-so than normally apprehensive, he kept his guard ready and let his thoughts stray to the press of the several daggers hidden on his body. Just to be certain. While his thoughts returned to the newcomer, he quickly tapped his lute sitting on a chair to his right as if to reinforce the type of business he was here for.
He glanced at the men in the robes and noticed how they would often shoulder check to look at his new acquaintance. How interesting he thought.
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Post by Azriel on Oct 3, 2008 6:27:11 GMT
Azriel eyed the lute with a benevolent glance, a smile gracing his usually diplomatic countenance. His companion’s impish nature was surprisingly trustworthy, radiating a kind soul beneath the exterior. Azriel confirmed he could trust this elf; ‘To an extent.’ Azriel grinned, knowing it was foolish to completely dissolve your guard. Azriel languidly glimpsed to the soldiers with a tactful and scrupulous glance. A sinister aura permeated from beneath their cloaks, those weapons like hidden fangs of a serpent coiled under a rock. Azriel calculated that administering a low profile would ensure their imminent encounter with battle. ‘We are provoking the cobra, intimidating it before it strikes.’ Azriel returned his focus slightly, keeping a multiple account on the environment. For convenience’s sake, Azriel continued to speak in the Thalíon tongue.
<I am only here to ensure those soldiers do no harm unto the civilians. I am a nomad, I travel where my services are required.> Azriel murmured, watching the five militants observe his anomalous presence. It was blatantly unwise to pursue the squadron to this extent, for they were now cornered like rabbits in a snare. Azriel patiently waited, noticing that the Inn’s door welcomed another guest. Azriel regarded the newcomer with an amused expression. ‘This night is a fascinating one, indeed.’
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StoryTeller
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Post by StoryTeller on Oct 6, 2008 2:51:45 GMT
With an understanding nod and a lift of his cup to accentuate his empathy, Larsen took a long haul on the drink all the while sizing up the situation. Clearly this moment had possible trouble written all over it. It had been awhile since he stained his daggers with another's blood and he was in no hurry to repeat that fiasco. It wasn't his fault the prince walked in on him.
He shook the memory away and back to the moment. He put down his nearly emptied cup and smiled... "Ashier nae salenthae, dun calenslathus. Eh, sum danell anslaea" He said with a more serious tone (If indeed things go poorly, my blade will assist only fairly here). He wanted to ensure to this new acquaintance that his position was as yet undecided but should things erupt, he could be counted on only to become involved to represent the side he decided deserved it most fittingly.
In the common tongue he went on, albeit with a softer voice to avoid being overheard.... "It is not my place to interfere but seeing as how you apparently have brought some form of trouble with you and chose to sit at my table, thus involving me... I feel... *ahem*... rather strongly that you quickly enlighten me as to which side my dagger's should lean towards".
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Post by Azriel on Oct 6, 2008 4:43:23 GMT
Azriel never received the chance to elaborate, for the soldiers’ behaviour had suddenly slipped into a dark spell of severe malevolence.
Azriel narrowed his eyes, the sparkling ruby hue churning with a makeshift flame as the candlelight created a thin sheen over his face. Azriel’s glare was not intended to reflect malcontent nor intimidation; not in the slightest. In fact, Azriel’s vision was in the opposite direction. Azriel focused on the five soldiers, the leader zealously fiddling with the silver cross guard of his sword. His subordinates eyed Azriel and his companion with hungry stares, their wild grins exposing their gleaming teeth and building insanity. Azriel clicked his tongue; this charade had carried on long enough.
“That’s enough!” Azriel roared, briskly standing in his poise, “Your behaviour is inappropriate and a complete disregard for the public eye. I suggest you exit the premises.”
The soldiers languidly straightened their legs, standing with a slight swagger. The entourage appeared frightening indeed, dark circles lining their eyes to accommodate the malicious aura enveloped around them. Azriel did not remove his analytical eyesight from the militants, his arm snaking to his hip. A satchel was strapped beneath his pearl robes, its shape quite detrimentally light. Azriel fished out a sleek, curvy blade. The soldiers stiffened upon recognizing a weapon. Azriel expelled a slightly irate breath, not wishing to be viewed as a fighter.
“This is your gracious warning,” Azriel lowered his voice, the tone possessing a nearly transcendent quality, “leave now.” The soldiers refused to obey, their jeering upsetting Azriel. ‘You dare insult my skill? You have been warned, gentlemen.’
Azriel pricked his fingertip with the blade, a crimson droplet beading on his flesh. Azriel lifted his sleeve, exposing a very interesting forearm. A tattoo was permanently impressed in Azriel’s skin, its Phoenician characters merely garbled text to the simpletons in the distance. Azriel smeared the blood drop across the tattoo, ensuring all the characters were coated in his blood. The tavern fell deathly silent.
One soldier raised his brow sceptically, his grin simultaneously amused and piqued.
“That’s it?” The soldier jeered, “Is that the best you can muster? You are a pathetic fool!” Azriel blatantly ignored his enemy, concentrating on the task at hand. The soldier gradually succumbed to impatience, marching towards Azriel. The militant unsheathed his sword, the blade singing into the cold air. Azriel focused on the soldier, his stony face focused near the floor. The attacking offender suddenly jerked in mid-gait, glancing to his boots.
A writhing pile of centipedes gathered around his ankles, the mound of insects crawling on the man’s legs. The soldier screamed, hacking at the wriggling pile with his blade. The centipedes were unyielding and relentless, frivolously consuming the soldier with their millions of itchy legs. The Inn’s patrons dashed for safety, hastily fleeing the scene. Azriel preferred that no civilians were present, for they could be accidentally harmed in the process. Azriel glimpsed to his Elven companion.
<You may want to run, my friend.>
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Post by Lei'Dren the Falling on Oct 6, 2008 18:00:56 GMT
Awoken suddenly by the screaming of patrons in the tavern below him, Zieran grumpily roused himself from the stiff pile of wooden boards that the pub owner laughingly called a bed. Not sure whether he should take the time to pack up his goods, or if this was merely another brawl, he decided to strap a single knife to his inner thigh, and hastily stuffed his other possessions into a bag that he shoved under the bed.
Considering for only a moment, because the screaming wasn't fading, the svirfneblin pulled out his favorite heirloom, a simple black ring. He focused, forcing his mind to bend a tiny flow of energy into the band and whispered to it <Undaeri>. He felt the shadow enchantment envelop him, and suddenly felt more comfortable about the whole situation.
Strolling down the stairs, Zieran stopped, his confidence quickly faded into horror when he saw the source of the screaming. His concentration dissolved, taking the spell with it, and he suddenly felt very exposed.
The dark gnome could only watch in horror as hundreds, maybe thousands, of centipedes swarmed over a man standing in the center of the bar. He could see the man's skin slowly disappearing as the centipedes feasted. Although he could not force himself to look away from the screaming spectacle before him, on the edges of his vision he saw two men watching, one whose arm was covered in blood.
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StoryTeller
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All hail the mighty word. [H:1]
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Post by StoryTeller on Oct 7, 2008 5:18:26 GMT
Larsen had been around long enough and seen enough magic users back in the day to recognize when it was a good idea to make like a teleport spell and vanish. He quickly leapt to the top of the table for fear of being the carrions next meal and bounced along towards the back of the tavern where he was about to run up the stairs when he seen a small man standing there wide eyed before him.
Startled for only a moment, Larsen recouped and hastily ran past the little man and across the landing then out a window at the end of the hall where he worked his way down to the streets below. In short order, he was across and down a ways to his room at the One Eyed Crow.
It was near on 4 candle marks before tiredness was to win over him and put his feverish thoughts to rest. For him, this was only the beginning of much to come. Morning would certainly prove that. If only he knew.
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Post by Azriel on Oct 8, 2008 16:19:00 GMT
Azriel witnessed his Elven companion’s hasty departure, the entity wildly darting up the stairwell and escaping into the depths of midnight. Azriel smiled ruefully. ‘This is why I have no friends.’ Azriel half-heartedly jested, his thoughts possessing a twinge of misery and remorse.
Azriel expelled a deliberate breath, quietly closing his eyes as he resumed his concentration. Azriel extended his bloodied arm, reaching towards the festering, writhing mountain of centipedes. In time, the insects gradually receded and obediently returned to their earthen adobe beneath the Inn’s floorboards. Azriel hid his victorious splendour, masking the vulpine cleverness with the veil of night.
The soldier now ceased to exist.
Azriel expressed his regret to the witness hiding on the stairwell, his mournful countenance speaking for the dreadful spectacle. Azriel loathed having to act contrite on behalf of a phenomenon that proved natural to himself. ‘You are no hero. Simply leave, and no one will care.’ Azriel quoted inwardly, upholding the duty to ostracize his presence. Azriel hesitated when he arrived at the Inn’s entrance, resting his hand on the door. The only way to redeem his reckless behaviour was to discover who those soldiers were, whether they worked under a tyrant or were magically possessed, and permanently end their conniving scheme. Azriel furled his fist angrily, his self-hatred returning with a roaring wildfire as he claimed a step out of the Inn.
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Post by solar on Oct 11, 2008 3:04:10 GMT
As the first rays of the sun broke over the horizon, a lone figure approached the city. Finally she had arrived.
The golden furred wolf surveyed her surroundings, having spotted what she was looking for the wolf made her way over to a clump of bushes and hiding behind them.
After a moment or to two later a young elven female emerged, clad in leather say for a cotton shirt and cloak. Tyreana stretched her weary limbs feeling only now exhausted and hungry for having lost the wolf’s stamina plus she had traveled for a good part of the night.
Making her way down the old cobble stone streets, keeping an eye open for someone to point her in the direction of the local inn. Coming across an elderly gentleman sitting on a crate, Tyraena approached and greeted him warmly proceeding to express her need. Having learned what she required, Tyreana thanked the kind man and went on her way.
Arriving at the curiously name Inn the One Eyed Crow she proceeded to enter. Having acquired a room and also inquiring if meals where served, Tyreana took seat at one of the tables in the corner, eagerly awaiting the spred that the Inn keeper said would be provided shortly.
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Post by Starrienna on Oct 11, 2008 3:25:11 GMT
It wouldn't be too long now, no, not long at all. The Inn lie ahead, just beyond the massive oaks, at the base of the largest, strongest oak of all.
Starr smiled. A smile for days of old. Pausing for a moment, her hand coming to rest against the rough bark of the old oak. Unknowingly she stroked the wood as she remembered having passed this way before, a long, long time ago. Had things changed? She was sure they had. Didn't they always? For some, time seemed to stand still and for others, time was something they never need think about, worry about. Time was a mystery that most never realized.
Starr knew that Amariese was away from the Inn and yet, the urgency of getting there pulled and tugged at her. What was it? What was the pull that engulfed her and urged her on, on toward a place that she had not seen in so many, many years? Her cousin, Amariese, made up the Inn, she and the heart of the one that created it, Mergalwire. Starr had never had the pleasure of meeting Mergalwire but it was if she had known him all her life. Amariese kept the Inn alive and many a night tales were told of the glory of the Inn in the old days, of the quests, the feats and battles and Amariese kept the love alive. The love of a beloved friend, Mergalwire and all the friends that once gathered at the Inn.
Shaking her head, Starr gathered her wits and started off again. It wasn't long before the glow of the candle light came into view. Nervousness caused her steps to quicken and soon, Starr was standing at the door of the Inn. Taking a deep breath, she pulled down the door latch and entered, careful not to make a commotion lest she be noticed more than any other that might enter. Taking quick measure, Starr knew know danger would be found within the Inn as wards were in place to prevent anything from happening within the Inn that might cause harm to any patron within it's walls. Still, that majick was old and would never fade but, you never know what you might find these days and one could not be too careful.
Head bent low, face covered by her too large hood, Starr quickly saught and found a table in the corner, near the fire, and sat. Her eyes cast about, glancing and taking stook. No, no danger from those within. Letting out the breath she didn't know she held, Starr once more pulled the ragged parchment from her deep pocket and read the cryptic words, "The time is nearing, the time we thought would never come. Meet me at the Inn! You will be needed! A."
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StoryTeller
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Post by StoryTeller on Oct 12, 2008 0:24:22 GMT
If morning could have come a bit sooner, he would have been that much happier but tonight... it was not to be. It seemed barely any time would pass at all each time he snapped awake. He sensed something but couldnt put a finger on it. He had learned to trust his senses for they almost always bore fruit when he did but this time... this time the feeling was an ominous one. As if foreboding in its message. "Blast this feeling of mine. Why must I be cursed with it?" He raged inside.
Eventually the sun worked its way up the horizon and began to light the day anew. His constant and overwhelming sense of fear for what this day would bring growing ever stronger. "It must have something to do with that stranger last night. No good can ever come from magic users, not especially ones who could cause that sort of result". Larsen mused, nervously. He chose to grab all his gear and take this time to work his way out of this place. It didn't matter what he had come here for to begin with, no... what mattered most was keeping his precious neck healthy and attached to his head. He had grown rather attached to it all these decades.
Gathering up his belongings and packing them into his pack, Larsen was settling his bill with the innkeeper and on his way out the door when someone entered, a face he hadn't seen in a long long time. The day was indeed proving to be ominous indeed.
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Post by Lei'Dren the Falling on Oct 12, 2008 0:54:54 GMT
He didn't remember having gone back to his room. He didn't remember lying on his bed. He didn't remember that a bird had whistled next to his window. All that Zieran could remember was the screaming. And the smile. The man in the pure white robes, his arm covered in blood, smiling.
There was little doubt in the deep gnome's mind, any who could smile at such a thing could be nothing but evil, regardless of the color of their robes. And he wasn't sure, but he thought that the man may have spotted him. He cursed himself and his impotent reaction, and then it dawned on him: there were no other svirfneblin in Calendrune; they were rare enough in Garn itself!
That made up his mind. He was leaving the inn, the city, and the realm, and he had to as quickly as possible. If that dark sorcerer wanted to eliminate witnesses, one dark-skinned gnome would not be hard to find. He shuddered in horror as he pondered the fate of the man who had fled past him on the stairs.
Always on the run, Zieran, always on the run. Ever since you left Hollowhand, you've been running. When will you be able to find peace?
The gnome shook his head. It was not the time for such thoughts, clearly this was not a safe place to settle down. And all he had wanted was to see the match at the arena today. Everyone in town was talking about how this match would put all of the others in the past years to shame. He had been unable to buy a ticket, they were completely gone by the time he had arrived. Fortunately, a patron of the bar had, two nights ago, left his ticket on the table, where anyone could have taken it, so Zieran generously took it in safekeeping, so he could return it to the man when he sobered up. Unfortunately, the man was no where to be found, and the gnome had finally felt his luck begin to turn.
Now it seemed all in vain. He bundled up his small pack, making sure he had all of his personal effects, and tossed his cloak over his shoulders. He once more checked the room, seeing if anything was being left, and then, satisfied, walked down the stairs.
Standing at the bar was an impossible sight. The man who had run past him the night before was right there! Surely the sorcerer had killed him. The only logical explanation was that the figure in front of him was an animated corpse, meant to hide the deeds of the mage. His tenuous grip on serenity shattered, he bolted for the door, and ran headlong into someone standing in the doorway.
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Post by Azriel on Oct 12, 2008 3:04:54 GMT
Azriel expelled a bewildered breath, a concrete weight driving into his stomach with the force of a cavalry. Azriel glimpsed downwards, his interests attentive and his eyes slightly piqued at the interruption. A bistre figure poised beneath his lofty height, the eyes glistening with a dread unlike many patrons in the new dawn. Azriel stroked his chin insightfully, inclining his chin in revelation. It was the svirfneblin from the Skulking Orc Inn, hidden beyond the narrow vale of stairs in the midst of his conjuring magic. Azriel delivered a luminous smile, displaying his humanitarian persona.
“I believe the proper greeting is 'good morning', not a head butt to the chest. I forgive you, nevertheless!” Azriel chuckled, his bemused expression possessing a naïve flair. Azriel delivered a gentle tap to the gnome’s shoulder, which was quite a challenge due to the magnitude of his stature. Azriel’s composure was collectively perfect, sauntering into the One-Eyed Crow Inn with an elegant gait. His magnolia robes billowed behind him, simulating a spirit drifting along the chronological timeline in search for closure.
Azriel observed the interior with a scrutinizing glare, analyzing the situation. Morning proved to be a joyous occasion for the patrons, the soldiers nowhere to be discovered. Unlike its shady counterpart down the lane, this tavern possessed a quaint sensation, a rather consoling atmosphere. Azriel hesitated in the midst of his reverie, catching a glimpse of an impish smirk and a mug brimming with ale. Azriel graciously regarded the stranger, who proved his camaraderie indeed. Azriel dipped his chin, recognizing his Elven companion from the previous night. ‘What a coincidence!’ Azriel chirped inwardly, keen on discussing the whereabouts of the dastardly soldiers. Azriel abruptly halted, sensing apprehension beyond his reach.
The patrons leered at his presence, an ominous aura radiating from their hollow eyes. Azriel winced, accepting the brunt of their hatred. Azriel was used to being an outcast, yet that did not prove that he was unaffected by the phenomenon. Azriel expelled a rueful breath, languidly advancing towards the innkeeper. Azriel tapped the counter with an anxious fingertip, coaxing the man to give his undivided attention.
“Excuse me, sir,” Azriel greeted politely, “I am looking for five –” Azriel paused, correcting the statement, “rather, four soldiers.” The innkeeper chuckled, his throat gruff from age.
“Calendrune is the epitome of soldiers, boy! You’ll have to be more specific.” Azriel stroked his chin, indulging in his intelligence to conjure an accurate description. Azriel explained the malevolent essence, their dreary obsidian cloaks and jittery behaviour. The innkeeper opened his mouth with a revelation, responding with a nod.
“Aye, I’ve seen those blokes lurking in the shadows. No one knows which battalion they serve. Lieutenant Leon Jaeger ordered an investigation on those soldiers, and received no information. All I know is,” the elderly man leaned over the counter, lowering his voice to a seething whisper, “They are definitely up to something, and they definitely are not from Calendrune.”
Azriel narrowed his calculating gaze, glimpsing over his shoulder to the patrons. Each individual deserved liberation from this cruel wickedness, and he would ensure those soldiers were brought to justice. Azriel expressed his gratitude, paying adieu to the innkeeper before preparing to exit the premises. Azriel acknowledged that he was unwelcome here. ‘As usual…’ Azriel sighed silently, passing the svirfneblin on his way out.
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StoryTeller
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Post by StoryTeller on Oct 17, 2008 5:31:05 GMT
"Awe Bugbear crap" Larsen swore under his breathe. He had hoped not to see the magic user again. They all made him nervous but this one... this one turned out to be something else entirely. At first he dove down behind his drink and dropped his head to somehow escape notice but it was futile... he saw that his cover had been in vain. The magic user looked him dead in the eye and gave a nod of acknowledgment. "Crap, crap and more crap" he continued to curse. "Well, I suppose its the same wherever I go... I don't find trouble, it finds me" he complained to himself.
Larsen watched briefly as the man bumped into a small dark gnome, "was that the creature I raced past last night on the stairs?" He mused. Then, as the man began to question the innkeep, Larsen over heard some key words... words that had some meaning to why he himself was here. "Could our paths be somehow crossing"? Larsen calculated. "What could possibly be the odds of that? No, this could not be my fate. I am NOT meant to join forces with the likes of this dark sorcerer to fulfill my quest. Am I?" Larsen wrestled with his thoughts.
His reverie was broken by the sudden "whump" of a body plopping down on the seat across from him.
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