Fireside Soup

Log Info

• Title: Fireside Soup
• Emitter: Iuitl
• Characters: Geir, Iuitl, Cryosanthia, Zeke, Burai, Tenoc, Svarshan, Merek, Kaydin, Sandy
• Place: W02: Mictlan
• Time: Friday, January 24, 2020, 6:19 PM
• Summary: Several Sith-Makar gather around the central fire, sharing food and information, and discussing their castes and purpose in Alexandria. Cryosanthia makes a small performance. A couple non-sith appear as well, providing food, confirmation and candy.

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Located within the Deep Woods, and hours past Wilderness Pointe, in the heart of its northern woods, bones frame this hollowed-out space. Massive and heavy, they reach towards the sky, meeting--almost--in the center like great and worn stalagmites. Or giant teeth. After a few seconds--it's quickly evident that this is a space carved from a dragon's bones. A very, very large...dragon's bones. The air smells of ash, brimstone, and earth. Underneath the apex of the bones lie the workings of a central Fire.

The grounds are run by shamans of the sith-makar, and the sacred space dedicated to the Death Singing Dragon, one of their names for the goddess, Vardama. There are always a number of them about, from a mixture of tribes. Formally, the sith use it to sing the souls of their dead back to the land of Wing and Flame, and celebrate the Memory of Blood. It was here that brave heroes stood, and vanquished the ashen warriors of old, thereby freeing the land from Thul's curse. Informally, it is a gathering place.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-  Appearing, in order  -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
Geir         5'8"     200 Lb     Sith-Makar        Male      A short, copper-scaled Sith-makar.
Iuitl        5'2"     149 Lb     Sith-Makar        Female    Short sith, mottled black scales, tired green eyes
Cryosanthia  6'7"     245 Lb     Sith-Makar        Female    A dashingly tall, lithe white lizardgirl with tattoos.
Zeke         6'8"     239 Lb     Sith-Makar        Male      A blue-scaled sith-makar in shadowy robes
Burai        6'10"    280 Lb     Half-Orc          Male      Brawny half-orc, primal and uncivilized.
Tenoc        7'0"     280 Lb     Sith-Makar        Male      Tall, green-scaled Sith'Makar hunter
Svarshan     6'4"     307 Lb     Sith'makar        Male      Demons: Another name for spicy BBQ
Merek        5'10"    215 Lb     Human             Male      A black-haired, dusky male with golden eyes.
Kaydin       5'3"     158 Lb     Half-Elf          Male      A blonde half elf male with fair skin
Sandy        5'0"     136 Lb     Llyranesi         Female    Purple haired, plump elf. Presumably irritable.                                                                
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The lack of wind accentuates the quiet that has settled over the woods, with only the odd wild animal and the sound of snow falling above adding to the noise from the gathering of Sith. The central fire is uncrowded though, with a few pondering its mysteries. One Sith, copper in colour, has settled with his back to the fire. He cups a bowl with one hand, and hungrily spoons what looks to be a hearty soup into his maw.

There's a black-scaled swiftclaw here. It seems to be basking near the fire. Seems pretty innocuous.

Cryosanthia isn't homesick, really! It's entirely a coincidence she's walked entirely across Alexandria, through the north gate, and all the way to Mictlan. She strides confidently into a place of familiar faces and familiar smells. To be honest, she still hasn't figured out where to eat in the city. The fire draws her, and she approaches the copper coloured Sith with the wonderfully smelling soup. She slinks around politely into his field of vision. "Hello! Peace to you, scale-brother. Is there more of that food?"

Geir gives a bit of a start when Cryosanthia speaks, and he looks to her with wide eyes. He quickly chews and swallows the mouthful he had been enjoying, and he nods to her.

"Yess, one hass been tending to a pot. And peace on your nesst." The copper-scale stands and gestures with a hand. He walks a quarter the way around the central fire, to where a large pot is set partly over the fire, with a green-scale youngling tending to it. She seems happy to see Geir, and nods deferentially to Cryosanthia. "Soup, yes?", she asks cheerfully, her voice nearing a chirp. She uses a ladle to dole out a full bowl, and offers it to Cryosanthia, along with a wooden spoon. " Cryosanthia follows, eagerly taking the bowl and tucking the spoon under it, She executes a small bow to the youngling, "Yes, Soup! I'm much honoured by your cooking."

She looks back to Geir, her tail coiling happily from side to side behind her, "I'm Cryosanthia. Do you wish company and talk?" The black swiftclaw -- which is Iuitl using one of her magical powers to be a goofball -- steps over to where the other two are. It chirps and whistles raptor noises. And then one of its gripping claws reaches up to its opposite shoulder, and pulls. Away comes the disguise, as if pulling off a cloak in an uncanny visual effect, and Iuitl is standing there with some kind of treated hide, which she bundles up and stuffs away somewhere in her robes. "May I have some as well?" she asks.

The green-scale nods to Cryosanthia, her head bobbing up and down. She blinks and stares as the swiftclaw becomes not-a-swiftclaw, and she nods softly to Iuitl. "Yess!", is her response, her tail tapping one of the firepit's rocks behind her. A bowl is filled and offered, with a wooden spoon.

Geir seems pleased, even amused, by the exchange, and nods to Cryosanthia. "One is named..." The copper-scale pauses, mouth partially open as he observes Iuitl appear. "Did? Were? How?" His tail curls and uncurls behind him, swaying back and forth like a cat's. He offers a bow to Iuitl, and his expression grows mirthful. "One appreciatess ssuch magic. You would impresss the younglingss greatly. Oh.." He looks to Cryosanthia.

"Cryossanthia, thiss is Iuitl. A sshaman. One is Geir, alsso sshaman. And Iuitl, thiss is Cryossanthia. One hass only jusst begun exchanging wordss."

Iuitl reaches out and accepts the bowl of food and spoons some of it out to enjoy it, looking between Geir and Crysosanthia. Her eyes fall on the much taller of the two of them, looking up at her face with a thoughtful shine. She thumps her tail briefly in greeting to her, then side-eyes Geir. "It's not some children's illusion, Geir, it's powerful polymorphic magic, a gift from the Forgetful Drago. But... yes, I do expect the children will enjoy the spectacle." She is much more well-spoken than most Sith-Makar, taking pains not to hiss her 'S' sounds. It makes her slower. She's also a bit of a nerd, obviously.

"I heard of this one. The boisterous one that made a big show when she came through the portal. Are you some kind of performer...?" Iuitl asks of Cryosanthia, with an innocent curiosity to her eyes.

Cryosanthia is familiar with friendly swiftclaws, having been around hunters. She is not expecting one to turn into a Sith-Makar however. Her neck jerks straight and her pupils widen, she stares, watching the hide be stripped off then folded away. Her spoon rattles against the underside of her bowl. She tightens her grip, silencing the spoon. Her tail was startled still, but resumes a friendly sway.

"Younglings and me!" The white sith smiles. It's clear she's looking Iuitl over, noting her white feathers, dark scales and tired eyes, that have a lovely bog colour. Then the thought clicks, she's being asked about her act. "Yes! That was I. I am of the Speaker Caste and have learned Diplomacy and Comedy, as they usually go hand in hand. And I like entertaining others, so I am a performer."

The green-scale chirps as another Sith comes up to request some soup, and Geir gestures slowly towards his previous spot, where his soup waits patiently. "Let uss ssettle by the fire and have wordss.", he suggests.

He walks carefully back to his soup, and sits down once more, with a bit of a pained sigh. "Aah. So one is a speaker-casste?", the copper-scale asks of Cryosanthia. "One hopess to obsserve one of your actss or sspeeches."

To Iuitl, he nods slowly. "One did not mean to imply your magicss are child'ss play. But that if one wishess to impart hisstory or gain the interesst of the younglingss, that changing sspell would get their attention."

Iuitl finds a place to seat herself near the fire when it's indicated, nibbling at her food. She watches Cryosanthia, the much more exuberant creature bringing a similar joy to her own features. She clearly doesn't have the internal energy to keep up with such a personality, but seems to appreciate it. "I'm a historian," she replies, "And the Forgetful Dragon has blessed me with many powers of the arcane that... differ from what holy men and wizards may do. I'm a witch." One of the more recent forms of magic practitioner.

"I can fly as well. It's very fun," she adds, with a cheerful bristling of her droopy head feathers.

"I am looking for a chance to rise to the occasion." Cryosanthia says, following Geir to a suitable seat, silently watching him sit, noting the sigh. She coils down onto a log, folding her legs to one side and wrapping her tail over them. The firelight reflects off her scales and leather armour, backlighting her. "I have spent some time with hunter-caste, but I am speaker-caste, yes."

Cryo waits for Iuitl to start eating first, deferring to the elders, listening and answering before she starts on her own food. "A Memory-Keeper? I'm honoured to meet you! I'm envious that you can fly, that must be such a freeing thing. I have no knowledge of the gifts of witchcraft, but glad the Forgetful Dragon has shared them with you."

"You can fly?", Geir wonders, his eyes widening slightly. "With the aid of magic or can one physsically fly?" He straightens, pausing to press a hand against his side a moment. "The Death Dragon has not chossen to share ssuch a gift to one ssuch as thiss one." He pats his chest, making the armor jingle slightly.

"One hopes to attain ssuch a thing in future." He glances to Cryosanthia and nods. "One hass sspent time in the company of the hunter casste." This said with a certain wistfulness in his voice. Geir spends a few moments to finish up his stew, setting the bowl and spoon aside. "But that wass a lifetime ago."

The question of being able to physically fly makes Iuitl look at Geir briefly like he's lost his mind. She looks down at her tiny frame, with her lack of wings or any reasonable way to fly, and back up to him in deep amusement. "Yes, with the aid of magic," she answers, trying not to laugh. "Only for a few minutes. At least until I find a suitable hide of a large bird so I can soar among the heavens as I please."

"It's very freeing. There are many gifts I have, and share with those that need them. My first was the gift of healing, and I have used it since whenever I could," she explains to Cryosanthia. "What can you do? You're a performer, but do you have gifts of magic?"

"Ssa, girl." Svarshan reaches down, and swipes at the snow on the swiftclaw's neck. In Mictlan, at least, it is warm. The work of shamans, it is said. Work spearheaded by elders within the community, and supported by the People's magic.

The siftclaw stands, legs tense--muscles tight, as though she would be off. Her rider gives another brush against the snow. It's gathered along her back, head, and tail--effects of being out in the wider world.

The two have just arrived at the edge of bones; Mictlan's more physical border.

GAME: Cryosanthia casts Snapdragon Fireworks. Caster Level: 1 DC: 14

Cryosanthiastirs her soup, mixing the dark meat in with the noodles and veggies, then taking several spoonfuls as she listens. "I hope to fly too, sometime. I would enjoy hearing your hunting tales Geir, it is a way to keep them alive." She briefly touches a pouch she wears around her neck.

Cryo glances over as a swiftclaw and rider approach, then turns her head back to focus on Iuitl. She nods, "I have a few magical gifts, amusements more than anything. I can make phantom sounds and small rays of cold. This is my most favourite one."

The white sith wriggles her fingers through an arcane gesture, pointing at the fire then up at the sky. A tiny fire dragon, flies from her hand, zig-zags through the heart fire and around the youngling tending the soup, then shoots up into the sky, exploding with a bang and a spray of sparks that arc down, the flash briefly illuminting the trees and bones.

The loud bang and spray of sparks definitely gets everyone's attention, though the hue and cry begins to die down when nothing else happens, aside from a few spooked animals and younglings.

A green-scale youngling offers up bowls of soup from a large pot set by the central fire. Settled by the fire a short distance away are Iuitl, Geir and Cryosanthia, who converse and enjoy their own bowls of soup.

Geir nods to Iuitl enthusiastically. "One would imagine sso, being able to take to the sskies on a whim. One doess not know if one would enjoy it. An airsship ride did not sit well with one." He turns to Cryosanthia as the conversation turns to her and gifts of magic. The copper-scale jumps up when the small dragon explodes, his khopesh partly pulled from his sheath. Geir peers at Cryosanthia a moment, and then laughs heartily. "Wonderouss."

The swiftclaw gives herself a hard, fast shake. Snow poofs! and smacks her rider in the face. On the legs. Feet. He squints and just...sits there for a moment. In the saddle. His scales are typical of the sith-makar: rough, of course. Nothing like the smoothness of 'softskins.'

...which is part of how that whole name came about. The Treati has been an adjustment. He grasps the front of the saddle, and, giving the swiftclaw a LOOK, stands-stirrup, and swings over. Drops, onto the earth.

The swiftclaw pretends not to notice. She gives herself another shake, tack jangling, jingling--and glances over towards the SOUP.

"I hope to be like that, firey bright and distracting and go out with a bang. I'd like to last just a bit longer though. It is my favourite spell, it always cheers me up." Cryosanthia says with a relaxed grin, sounding wistful. "Sometimes I use it to call for help too."

Cryo turns to keep an eye on the swiftclaw and her rider. Her very solid and intimidating rider. She notes the tribal garb, the symbols of history, the scars of his life and the well worn weapons. All the signs of someone she should meet! She stands and thumps her tail, waving at Svarshan to come over. She also is completely oblivious or ignores the threat to the soup. Settling down on her seat again she tells Geir, "Thanks."

The green-scale serving soup eyes the swiftclaw warily, and hisses a warning to the beast. She dips her ladle into the pot, and goes to offer it to Svarshan. "Ssoup, yes?", she says, showing off her wide range of common. Her tail thumps the ground behind her.

Geir nods to Cryosanthia. "It doess sseem to be a usseful spell to have.", he says quietly.

The rider stops for a moment--exchanges words with another of the warrior-caste who happens by. Then, reaches up--and takes the mecate before walking them both towards the fire.

"Peasse to you," Svarshan says warmly. The words are slow, with a sort of difficulty to them. "I iss good to ssee new ones. At the Fire. ...and you," he says, a flick of the tail to Iuitl. "One hears you have yet to. Join caste." To join a family. He looks to Geir, then. "One recognizes your breath. Thank you." To the others, "This one is Svarshan, of the warrior-caste. Honor to our. Empress."

The words are warm though, and peaceful. One could well mean nothing by them. His shoulders are relaxed, his stance. The swiftclaw gives the occasional shiver; shakes off snow.

"My tribe was... paranoid. My magic is new even to them, and my appearance and behavior seemed like a curse." Iuitl explains to Svarshan. "There will be a ceremony. Late, but it will happen."

Geir grunts farewell to all and slips away.

Cryosanthia snaps upright to attention. She is taller than Svarshan, by a little, but so lithe that when she stands in front of him the impression is of a flagpole in front of a wall. She thumps her chest, indicating her armour is strong. "This one is Cryosanthia, Speaker-Caste. Honour to the Empress. Peace upon your Nest."

The white sith-makar sits once more, nodding at Geir and listening with curiosity to Iuitl's explanation. "I hope it goes well. It... it helps."

There is the sound of someone coming toward the campfire. A gentle thump-tap-clink, an unusual rhythm against the stones and dirt as the new figure joins the light of the campfire. Zeke has his hood lowered to reveal his blue scales and the six arching black horns atop his head. He nods in a very unsithlike manner to those around the flames and stands on the edge of the light. With a soft exhalation he offers greetings. "Peasssce on your nessstsss." He nearly - nearly thumps his tail. A motion like he might but the motion doesn't quite follow through. He comes just in time to hear Cryosanthia's greeting. "Thisss one isss called Zeke. May thissss one join you?"

"..." Silence. Silence. The warrior stands there a while, near-immobile, as thoughts pass through the brain. He...

"When magic broke?" he asks after a while, and tilts his head. He focuses on Iuitl. Focuses. Then, an abrupt thump of the tail. "Ssa. Many things have. Changed. One is glad to sshare words, Iuitl-of-no-caste."

He looks to Cryo then, and thumps his tail. "One is glad to sshare. Words. You sspeak well," he says, and there is a warm amusement behind it; almost as one mocking at himself. Aware of his defects, maybe. When Zeke arrives, he thumbs his tail towards the shaman-caste.

There are a group of them about the Fire. Geir had been serving soup, and there are warm smells of food and caste. Community. Outside Mictlan, it is snowing. Inside...

A swiftclaw, dusted in snow, stands next to Svarshan, looking slightly grumpy.

Iuitl places her fingertips to her forehead when called 'of no caste.' "I would ask you don't use that phrase..." she murmurs, seeming deeply embarrassed by it being used like a title. She focuses on her food, and shovels down some of her food. "Yes, when magic broke," she answers.

"Yess! Pleasse, be sseated, be warm!" Cryosanthia leaps to her feet to make space for Zeke. Up and down so much, perhaps she should stay standing. She slips over to the tureen, dips her head to the green-scaled youngling. "Soup, yes?"

"Soup, yes?" says the youngling, holding out a bowl and spoon.

The bowl is passed from green, to white, to blue sith-makar, and Cryo makes a little bow. "Ssorry," she coughs, gazing from Zeke to Svarshan "I mean, sorry. I worked very hard on my ESSS. I mean no disrespect to either of you, if it slips in or is absent. I know it is not easy on our tongues."

"I'm still working on a title for myself too." Cryo tells Iuitl.

"Ssa," the warrior says, tones warm. He flicks his tail then, and looks to the side. Reaches down, and takes one of the proffered soup bowls.

"One...does not undersstand, but one lisstens," he says. And lifts the bowl. Offers a thump of the tail to Cryo.

Zeke sits carefully and slowly, adjusting the folds of his cloak to keep himself covered as he accepts with a gracious and somewhat embarassed nod the bowl of soup. He has to set his staff aside first, leaning it against the place he is sitting. Then he settles the bowl on his covered legs, seemingly unaware that his crystal toes are poking out. There's nothing that he could do to cover them in any case, so he ignores them. "You have thisss onesss thanksss. Thisss one desspairss, thinksss that thisss one will never be able to sssay thingsss in the common tounge ssso easssily." He seems amused nonetheless. In a good mood.

Suddenly, a shadow passes over the moon. A hissing, malevolent roar follows, with a heavy shape diving downwards. A loud, crystaline sound erupts after. Loud, but sounding child-like. After that: silence.

"It's nice to hear. It sounds like home, it's relaxing." Cryosanthia says, looking around for more newcomers before taking her seat again. She reaches out her arm and wiggles her fingers, gesturing at nearby footage. Whatever she was doing is interrupted by the shadow across the moon. She chirps, staring upwards, "That wasn't me!"

The warrior looks upwards, sharply. "...one will look," Svarshan says thickly, roughly. "This one will look, and report to the People," he says. Then, "Peasse to your nessts." The swiftclaw stops mid-shake and shiver. Her head snaps up, with the alertness the sith-makar love them for. I am so ready to find something and bite it! that look says!

Zeke glances skyward warily and nods farewell to Svarshan. "Thanksss to you, for thisss one wasss thinking much the sssame." If Svarshan hadn't gone, it would certainly be Zeke's duty to go. Now though the sith can sit and enjoy this soup which... is quite good. "Thisss isss very good. Thisss one hasss not had anything but hossspital food in daysss." He sighs briefly.

Cryosanthia waves at the wall of departing warrior. It's clear she has a burning curiosity, but also a sense of self preservation that has kicked in. The fire is warm, the soup is good, and it sounds like Zeke has a good story! "You were in the hospital? I wish to hear this tale, what happened? I've heard of recent happenings."

"Evil spirits?" comes the rumble, a throaty basso as the Sith emerges from near Svarshan's departure point. He pauses, sketching a rumble as he nods to the gathering. "Martivir h'rrac. Peaccce." He pauses, grimacing as his tongue ties itself sideways with the foriegn words.; "..hssk. Traders' Tonguesss. How get anything done with thesse wordsss?" He grimaces-- then a glance. Snifffasniff! "....soups?"

When she hears the phrase 'evil spirits,' Iuitl makes an exaggerated, mocking hand gesture to ward off evil spirits. Then she slurps from her soup, as if this wasn't her making fun of the paranoia just then.

Burai emerges from the wall of trees bordering the space. He has a bundle of logs over one shoulder, carrying it. The other hand holds a woodcutter's axe, choked up so that the heave weight of the axe-head is easier to control. He walks to the fire and lays down the axe and the firewood next to it, then turns to look at the others at the mention of spirits.

The blue-scaled sith nods politely to Tenoc as the other sith enters the light of the campfire. "Thisss one offersss you welcome. There isss indeed sssoup." Though it is not his to offer so he does not. Though he does offer a slightly questioning look toward Cryosanthia as if to ask if there is enough for their new arrival. Then, he answers her. "The sstory issss sssmall enough in truth. Thisss one wassss almossst attacked by a grieving patient resscently. Thisss one hass been sstaying clossse to the Sssoldierss Defenssse ever ssince. Thisss one then wassss mossst glad for a reassson to come to Mictlan."

"Yes, welcome, Peace be upon your nest. Have a seat, and you as well, have a seat and thanks for the firewood." Cryosanthia waves the other two over, adjusting the arrangement of logs and slipping over to the soup pot with its youngling tender. She holds up two fingers, "Soup, yes, yes."

"Soup, yes. Soup, yes." The small green sith-makar serves Cryosanthia with an admonishing look, as if she isn't using the tradespeak correctly.

Cryo dips her head, taking the two bowls and distributing them to tenoc and Burai, "Be warm with food. I have no idea what flew across the moon, what that was. This one is Cryosanthia. Zeke, the patient that attacked you, were they ill with the ooze plague?"

Tenoc sketches a mark on the air-- not quite as exaggerated as Iuitl's, but inherently the same-- a ward against the Evil Eye. Glancing around suspiciously for something, he settles near the fire with a rumble of pleasure. Warmth-- basking!

"Ooooze?" he remarks, glancing over at Zeke quizzically. Sniff. "One will not melt into glistening puddle, will one?"

Burai takes the bowl with a slight nod. He turns back to the fire and then remarks without looking, "I saw it too," he says. "The shape before the moon. But I didn't recognize it either."

Zeke considers. "Thisss one missspoke. Thisss one meansss that the parent of a patient became... upssset. Sssaid that we were not doing enough for hisss hatchling." He sighs and shakes his head. "Sssometimesss this one agreesss." He looks upwards to the sky. "Sssuch ill omenssss come, and do come. Thisss one praysss to the Dragonfather that the light followsss."

Tenoc snoozes.

"I understand, that is not good. Cryo bobs her head, her voice trailing off. Her tailtip flicks as she searches her thoughts, "We're going to have to be the light. The ooze plague is a magical one. Um... there's a lot to it actually, but the Temple of Elune is working on it. I had a thing to remember what I was told. I can tell you in a moment."

The blue-scaled sith takes a small sample of his soup and then a larger one, trying not to show how hungry he is. His stomach grumbles at the slowness, and he tries to ignore the sound. Instead he focuses on Cryosathia's words. "Yesss, thiss one agreesss. We mussst be the light in thessse dark timesss. We mussst perssservere." Zeke waits for her to find what she's looking for.

Burai takes a small spoon of soup and then tastes it tentatively. His eyes widen slightly. He begins to spoon more into his mouth. Only when his bowl is half empty does he slow enough to speak. "Ill omen or not, this is good." He inclines his head in gratitude. Then he lowers the bowl. "I am called Burai," he says with a hint of formality.

Cryosanthia rises up. She was searching her thoughts, for the thing she put there to help her remember. She steps back, checks her feet, her tail and the area around her, determining her stage. She waits for Burai to settle and once he has, he touches her eye ridge, sweeps her hands wide and looks all her audience in the eyes.

"There is the Shard Tower of Power you'll always forget
That jumps around the city like it's chasing a bet.
It's Mistress the Fae Queen who enslaves with wide nets
and tattoos of snowflakes on all that she's met

"Her Vampire, Kol Demontryer, who burns with desire,
For Mikilos the Sage, to extinguish his fire
And bring him to his side where his name is carved deep
for their friendship has survived his strange undead sleep.

"Yukia the Ice Witch, or demon, I'm told,
Is the source of the magic ooze plague cold,
which lingers, then grows, and explodes in a instant,
At healing spells cast, making healers reluctant.

"It's a grand interlocking, lugubrious wheel,
designed to bring Alexandria under her heel,
Full of worshipping corpses, who always obey.
Unless Heroes can stop her, she'll have her way.

 Cryosanthia rolls perform/comedy: (16)+7: 23

The words come to an end and Zeke thumps his tail in appreciation. The sound startles him and he hunches away from it slightly, wagging his tail a bit more carefully in the aftermath. It seems he approves of this rendition. "Aye! Thisss issss how it goesss. Though thisss one hasss not heard that the misssstresss of thiss tower wassss fae. From who did you hear sssuch newsss?"

Burai watches Cryosanthia as she begins. He seems to pay more attention as she continues and he realizes the significance of the words. When she's done he leans back slightly, trying to commit the information to memory. "Yes, how did you come by this information?" He glances at Zeke and then back at Cryosanthia. "All of it," he adds.

"There is a Scribe, named Merek, who works at the Temple of Elune. I just met him a few days ago, right after he got himself killed in the Northern Wastes trying to get into the tower. He passed on that she was Fae." Cryosanthia explains, "Merek had been brought back, and Mikilos met him, and told me many of these details. I think I kept them straight, the plague may be from the Mistress, but I'm pretty sure he said Yukai was behind it. I thought perhaps there might be some non-magical healing herbs or leaches our Shamans were aware of, but I don't know any to ask."

Zeke nods. "If Mikilosss sssaysss it, then it iss probably sssso. Thisss one hasss found hisss information to be wissse." The blue scaled sith finishes his soup and considers. "However few could put wordssss together ssso neatly. What you have done will make the passsing of sssuch information easssier."

Burai nods slowly in agreement. Then a thought seems to strike him. "Are you a bard?" he asks Cryo. "A teller of tales?" He tries to think of another way to put it. "A..ah...a speaker?" He looks between the two Sith to see if any of them show any sign they are familiar with the terms.

Merek has come upon the place the sith'makar look to be, cleaned up from before with his black attire on as well as a scarf which he wears. He comes within the place, then he looks to see folk, noticing that Cryosanthia is about, he maneuvers to settle in next to the woman, a nod to the people as well.

Cryosanthia's performance did not go unnoticed by others as well. Around the fire, and at other fires, a few heads turned. Perhaps there is a show every time she appears, but as observed, her short rhyming song did make a lot of details easier to remember and perhaps spread.

Cryo herself is still standing on her small 'stage', which is her trodden square in the snow. She's basking in the attention, which feels as warm as the fire. She gives a sweeping bow as a way of finishing, then steps over beside soup cauldron when she sees Merek arrive. She nods to Burai, "Yes. I am Speaker Caste, performance is my specialty. I am not a keeper of memories, but I do tell tales. I know of bards, I sadly am not that skilled."

The place is busy, and teeming with life. Especially now, with the cold outside. Not here, of course. Here, it is something of an eternal spring or autumn, magic maintained by the shaman-caste, and the actions of the People. A few of the sith-makar, especially the females, look uneasily towards Merek.

Near the edge of the clearing, several warrior-caste exchange words. One of them is more recently arrived--a broad-shouldered sith-makar, with a swiftclaw behind him. He looks over as the performance ends, and the eyes widen. He thumps his tail, but looks serious. Quiet, and returns to conversation.

There are several others around the fire--sith-makar organized by caste, as is their wont. There is some mixing, of course, though, family is family and sometimes it is just that way, with shamans talking shop, and crafters comparing notes. There is soup to be had--a great pot of it, at the central Fire.

Zeke politely moves over so that Cryosanthia has a place to sit when she chooses to. So that she will not be crowded. Zeke nearly thumps his tail again, but manages to forstall the movement with care. "Thisss one thinksss you give yourssself too little credit. Here, sssit and be well." Green eyes flicker but remain on her. "Greetingss again Darshan. Did your missssion go well?"

GAME: Kaydin rolls survival: (14)+12: 26

Kaydin makes his way to the mictlan. He often traded stories with the warrior caste and provided supplies to the gathered sith makar. He knew the forests and knew which herbs could heal and which can be used for cooking. Infact he is dragging a wagon with a dire elk in the cart, with several bundles of herbs vegetables and fruits. He moves to where the pot of soup is and gets a bowlful for himself before giving them the supplies and meat he brought. He smiles and waves to Svarshan as he walks over to the cleric/paladin. "Been a while since I seen you old friend. Kill any demons recently?"

Merek looks thoughtfully to the other sith, but doesn't comment to them, while he looks to Cryosanthia when she's stepping back from what she was doing. "How are you?" he asks, then he looks to Zeke, trying to see if he recalls the sith, perhaps. He doesn't recognize Burai, Kaydin he's only met perhaps once, he nods to them, he does know Svarshan, and offers a nod as well.

"Soup, yes? Soup, yes?" Cryosanthia says very specifically to the small sith-makar, the youngling, the soupling? That is handing out the bowls of soup.

The soup steward serves Kaydin first, then gives two bowls to white sith, repeating, "Soup, yes. Soup, Yes."

Cryosanthia turns, handing bowls and spoons to Merek and Burai. Did she already give Burai one? She's lost track, gearing up to perform will do that. She smiles, and slips into the space Zeke arranged, the seating logs having changed again, but remains standing. Svarshan, Darshan in the tongue, might be coming over and prompt another reshuffle. "Merek! I'm fine! Are you recovered enough? I told everyone about the Fae Queen, they wanted to know how you found out."

"There iss confusion. And darkness near the downtown of the Ssity. The temple ssent me this way after. Disspatching their priessts," the warrior says. His words are slow, and difficult. Tight. He thumps his tail towards Kaydin. Merek gets a hard look. Warrior-caste, of course. And, sith-makar are protective of their own.

Then, back to Kaydin, "Ssa. Though perhapss...no. All one ssaw was. Darkness." And to more immediate matters: "You have brought. Food?"

Zeke seems to relax subtly, but he is still somewhat tense. "We have met before Merek. Though thissss one hass heard of you sssince. Thisss one did not know you had dealingsss with the misssstresss and her tower, or her creature Kol." He turns his attention toward Svarshan, looking surprised if one can read sith-makar features. "Darknessss? In the sscity? Thisss bodesss ill inded." He sighs.

Burai gruns and heads into the Woods.

"I been learning combat from the warrior caste. In return I been moving about the woods, gathering supplies and meat for the others." Kaydin explains as he looks to Cryosanthia and nods at the white sith. He then looks to Merek. "So what brings you here, You arent dragonborn." He says as he begins to eat the soup he was given. He smiles to Cryo. "I am a Kaydin. I was raised in the woods near wilderness point. My mother is a local druid and I often do errands for the druids since I am more able to move about without drawing too much attention. Most are unused to the city's ways."

Merek looks thoughtful a bit, while he seems to tense when others tense, and with the recent things to happen with him, it is clear he is on edge especially with the tone of the conversation, then he tries to relax a bit. "I think it was Mikilos that mentioned it was Fae. I only know of Yukia and of Kol," he admits, while he shifts a bit, "Both of them have killed me," he adds. He does nod to Cryosanthia, and to Zeke and Svarshan, explaining that all. He does look to Kaydin, "I'm descendant of dragons, with my magic. I mean, you are not one," he chuckles.

"Hey, it's ok, relax." Cryosanthia moves and gives Merek a brief hug, which is not too tight because she's still managing her soup bowl. Also doesn't want to dribble something off her spoon on him. She steps back to where she can stand casually, taking another couple spoonfuls of her soup. She nods to Kaydin, noting his introduction, then looks around at the others, "He's been a good friend to me. I... may have gotten confused about who said what. There were a lot of smoothskins in the Temple. It might have been Mikilos the Scribe. Oh, and if I have not said before, I'm Cryosanthia, the coming up with a title. Does 'Joyous Blade' sound good?"

"The ssity teems with the dragon-blooded," Svarshan says, after a pause. His voice is quiet, wry as he leans down--the tone at odds with his words as the child with the cups wanders over. He holds out his hands for a bowl. "One met a desscendant of. The Great Counssil of Dragonier. Ssome months ago. In Alessandria, one has met many others. I begin to wonder at thiss. Ssity."

"They ssay Alessandria exists at a crossroads. Perhaps that iss the truth of. It," he says. He crouches there, quiet and relaxed, arms gently cupped for the bowl from the child.

"Thisss one would believe that, that thissss sscity exissstss ssso." Zeke nods in agreement, a not terribly sithlike movement, but one that seems natural to him. His bowl is empty now so he sets it aside and shifts somewhat. "It issss hopeful then, that there will be asss much good asss ill. Though it ssseemss ass though it isss due for more good." He flashes fangs in a slightly agressive manner. "Asss you ssaid Cryosanthia, we mussst be a brighter light."

"Dragons are interesting creatures...On one branch they are primal and evil and savage, and on the other side, noble, strong and powerful. Even Daeus is known as a dragon." He says softly as he watches the folks. He then looks to Cryosanthia and nods. He then turns to Svarshan. "So if you want to hunt something, I can track as good as anyone." He says softly. "I know the forests around Alexandria, and know how to track my prey." He says as he watches the warrior. "Seems the dragonborn are crawling out of the woodwork." Kaydin says as he eats his soup. "Dragons are an apex species...they become dominant in their environment, often throwing the balance of nature out of the window." He says between bites.

Merek offers a light chaste hug back to Cryosanthia, looking a lot calmer while he smiles. Then he looks between folk at the conversation, and nods, when the topic is changed as well. "I think it is because Alexandros seems to be a... Mystical point within the Tellurian of the many places," he says, then he nods a bit. He looks curiously to Kaydin, "I don't know, a few of the dragons work well with nature!"

Then he beams to Cryosanthia while he begins to remember something, "We did all meet a little dragon, it was supposedly an adult masquerading like the smallest dragon in the world, wanting fish. Golden too!"

A bowl is delivered to Svarshan. Out of deference, the child does not inflict tradespeak or feel the need for draconic. The elder warrior is honoured with a proffered bowl, silence and a bowed head.

Once served, the youngling retreats to the soup cauldron and focuses on serving the other caste-groups that have come for warmth, both inside and out.

"I have no idea how to deal with a darkness. The priests sent everyone away, here is the best place to be?" Cryosanthia looks to Svarshan and Zeke, thumping down on her seat, her tail stretched out behind her. "I'll cheer you on as best I can, and if something comes near me, I'll poke it! Out with a bang, like I said. I think I prefer the noble, strong and powerful aspects. Although, that tiny one sounds adorable! I'd love to meet it. I've had enough savage evil."

POOF.

Plummeting out of the sky above Mictlan is an elf. An elf with purple hair and a bustle. She plummets about ten feet and all but crashes into the gathering, managing to just avoid it.

"SVARSHAN, WHY DDIN'T YOU TELL ME IT WAS MICTLAN, YOU ASS."

Sandy gets to her feet, rubbing the back of her head and shooting the elder PalaSith a slightly murderous glare.

"The other theory iss. ...draconic is the mosst accessible type of. Ssorcerer. Asumit was one of the. Firsst of that. Kind. Born in Verssis one thoussands. Ago. One learned this when one traveled in time to find--"

"--Ssandy," the word is said dourly. Flatly. Because of COURSE one travels through time, space, and across the other end of the world to find...

Sandy.

"Do not tell me. Merek iss flirting with you. As well," to Sandy. "And what do you mean. Mictlan. One hass been avoiding. You. Esspecially ssince you gave the ssmall ones. Candy." Candy. Filled to the core with soft, chewy espresso jellies.

Zeke rises to his feet slowly, cautiously. Looks around the fire. "Thisss one ssshould go, thisss one iss curiousss about the darknesss, and thisss... gold dragon yesss?" He nods to everyone and backs away toward the dark around the edges of the campfire. "Peasssce upon your nessstsss. Blessssingsss of the Dragonfather upon you all."

Merek offers a polite nod to Zeke as the man is on his way, "Peace," he says. He does lift a brow at Svarshan's words, with a smile and wave to Sandy, "Ah, nice to see you doing well," he adds to the woman. "Business going alright?" he asks. He then shifts his attention to Cryosanthia, and before Zeke is on his way, for his benefit if he hears, "We're not sure of what it is, definitely not the usual dragon, very nice though." He does tap his lace gloved hand upon the stubble of his cheek, "I prefer dragons that generally are nice as well. The Matriarch of my family was a black dragon, so you know the way that might be." He does look to the white sith'makar, "I am thinking about taking up a little bit of cooking for a hobby."

"Who the hell is Merek?" asks Sandy after Svarshan asks about 'flirting'. "What, that numbskull?" she gestures at Merek, now, having deduced who might be being talked about. Merek is, after all, not much of a name for a Sith-Makar. "He does look a little creepy," she muses, "probably a silk-fondler." Then she turns back to Svarhsn and jabs a finger at him. "YOU summoned me, dammit. Don't act surprised to see me! You and the bloody broach!"

GAME: Cryosanthia rolls perform/comedy: (8)+7: 15

Cryosanthia flips backwards over her seat, out of the way. It's an expertly executed tumble that ends with her crouched, ready for action. No, no it's not. She flips, slips, and rolls in the snow, her tail sweeping a wide arc clear and exposing the ground. She's left sprawled, looking like a low snowbank, with eyes. This is embarrasing. Perhaps if she closes her eyes, they won't notice.

No. They'll notice. They're already staring.

Cryosanthia leaps to her feet, shaking the snow off. She meant it all along, "Ta-daah!"

She bows to Zeke, hands folded, "Well met, Blessings of the Dragonfather. Peace be upon your nest." After a moment she adds, "Please remember me."

She nods, listening to Merek, "Cooking is always good."

After that, a few moments tic by, Svarshan's words make their way through the machinery of her mind and click, "Sandy? You're Sandy? You sell clothes? I wanted to buy Clothes. Uh, hi! I'm Cryosanthia the Snowy. And you have candy too?"

"...do not eat the. Candy," Svarshan replies. He is somewhat distracted, this warrior-caste. Grumpy, even. And... "..." the muzzle does not work. The WORDS do not work, this warrior-caste who so often has trouble with language.

With words, with one plus one word equals a sentence, or two sentences equals a phrase. Yeah, that's the hard stuff.

"...it..." he says, and makes a gesture with the claws. And to Sandy, "It iss a curssed. Item," he says, blandly. Then looks over as the palescale does a flip and inclines his muzzle. "Well done. Sspeaker!"

Merek looks then to Sandy with her words, while he lifts his brow a bit, then he shifts attention to the cup of water which he has with him to drink from. He does content to listen while he nods to Cryosanthia in thought. Not sure what to say, he does look a bit distant, like he did yesterday, not as perky as was a little ago.

"Yeah, that's me. I do make clothese these days. It's what I do in my retirement. Make clothes. That and fall on Svarshan from time to time," says Sandy, aiming to deliver a swift kick to the Sith-Makar's knee while she's at it. "You're welcome to come by the Prestigous Moon at any time... any time that it's open, anyway." She snorts.

Cryosanthia shakes herself off, striding forward. She pats Merek solidly between the shoulderblades, whispering to him, "Be Bold."

The white sith-makar makes a small bow to Sandy, her hands clasped. Straightening she says, head tilted curiously, "I hope to come by. The Prestigious Moon, I will find it. And Darshan has a device that summons you, cursed? Cannot it be traded or moved, how did he come by it? For what it helps, I have not seen Merek fondle any silk, that is a false rumour."

The warrior's stance is less friendly. Not hostile, just not--welcoming. Not open, in any case. "One has heard from many throats," he says, voice low. Then reaches up, and pinches his brow--for a scaled, that point just above the muzzle.

PINCHES it. "Ssa. A finger-waggler crafted it ass a. Joke. It was given to the. Children. ...for a few weeks. Ssandy kept appearing at childrenss' caste-parties when they would. Press the button," he says, with a kind of odd look.

"At thesse parties. They tend to ask for. Gifts. They called it the. 'Flaily Angry Gummy Candy Button.'"

"It's a curse, all right. It's a linked brooch of friendship, like the lizard said. Fortunately, it has limited charges, but anyway..." Sandy turns towards Cryosantha and grunts, "Well, just because you've never SEEN it doesn't mean he's not, like, a creepy fetishist or something." She sniffs, disdainfully! Gives Merek a once over. Points at him. Points at her eye. SHE IS WATCHING YOU.

Merek lifts up a brow in perplexion at the conversation, while he looks to Sandy and to Svarshan, with a nod about to Cryosanthia. He then seems to perk up a little with the words from the sith'makar, "I appreciate it," he says, then he looks to the elf with a nod as well, "Alexandria is a City of Dragons. The Prestigeous Moon as far as I know makes pretty great attire." At the commentary he lifts up his brow, then he looks to his friend while he offers a light nod while he stands to settle up with them, looking thoughtful.

Cryosanthia inuits that there is a button, metaphysical or real, that children can press. A button that produces an elf who showers sugar candies. Any Child, ANYONE, Cryosanthia for sure, would be unable to resist pushing constantly. At least, this is what she presumes from the ancient warrior's rough explanation. Perhaps, she should not indulge the temptation of the candy or the button... that she can't see.

"I see. I'm new to Alexandria, yes, I have not seen much." She agrees, and she's spend half her time outside of the city because it's overwhelmingly big and strange. "I hope to see more."

"...It recharges through. Esspresso candies. Which you give the. Ssmall ones," the warrior-caste says grumpily. GRUMPISHLY. He has had to change so many diapers, that look says. He has been up until four in the morning chasing sugar'd, caffeine'd up children.

Who have teef, and claws.

He reaches up to rub at his muzzle, then. "Alessandria is different," he says eventually, then, to the palescale. "It iss not the Ssity of Dragons ...but it iss a sstrong ssity. There iss much to learn if one avoidss the. ..."

"...be wary of the. Magess. Or at leasst mindful. That iss all."

Merek looks between the three in thought, while he shifts to cross his arms a bit, "What's the matter with Magi? I've met plenty," he mentions, assuming he means the wizard, not just sorcerers. He does look to Cryosanthia while he considers, "Reminds me, I should look into making a few new things."

"Mages? Wizards? Yes. I'll avoid them." Cryosanthia says, there's a stiffness to her tail, a thinness to her pupils. "I... I don't see my mission bringing me near them."

Svarshan looks past Merek, to meet the palescale's eyes. And then, looks away towards the bones, where the swiftclaw is nuzzling at an outstretched hand. Food? that asks. Food? He smiles quietly, warmly at that but it doesn't ease the tension in those shoulders.

A look from one sith to another can say so much.

THOSE stories. Secret stories. Secrets, not shared with outsiders for risk of--the life of the People, themselves. Some secrets are kept more closely than even the druids' language, or a thief's diamond.

Mages. It's one of many.

On the outside, though? The warrior watches the swiftclaw. "Esspresso beans," he says, underneath his breath. And then, "One heard of progress on thiss. Plague," he says at length. And, "What mission, Sspeaker? Or. One might assk?" Some things are caste-only. Within-caste. Warrior secrets. Speaker secrets. Shaman. These exist.

Merek looks between the two of the sith'makar, while he seems to consider. He nods to the two, and doesn't push the subject, while he shifts his attention to hear what Cryosanthia might say, if she's permitted to speak it.

Cryosanthia's gaze locks with Svarshan's. Her look says a lot. Perhaps it's the rock-like, foundational, grounded aspects of the old warrior. His solid security allowing her to relax her barriers, betray a personal secret. She is terrified of wizards. She has a weakness and wounds from them. As much as she can pretend and dance over the chasm, there is one there, that cuts deep. She is holding together things that want to fly apart in an instant.

And yet, in words, she can pretend all is well. The white sith-makar smiles, "Broadly, to spread the wit and wisdom of the Sith Makar, and learn the ways of the softskins. In specifics... I'm still working those out. Find things to do. Leave a Mark, support the Empress." An answer that perhaps keeps the Speaker-caste secrets, but is non the less true.

"Warrior caste protects," the scarleg says. The saying of warrior-caste, a saying of one caste to another. Svarshan is quiet, quiet. And then drops to all fours, and curls up on the earth.

Then lets his eyes drift...partly shut.

Partly. His language, the subtle shift of shoulder and tail, includes Cryo, and watches warily, the nonscaled nearby.

Merek looks between the two, while he seems to consider. He does realize that this is personal in exchange, while he offers a polite smile to Cryosanthia, noting to her he understands, so looks away to let them do all of that. When finished, he then looks back as Svarshan looks to be warily napping. He nods to Sandy, if still about, then he adds for the benefit of his white-scaled friend, "It was nice to see you, this weekend I will likely have time to teach a little bit about what we talked about." Likely the bloodline thing, he means.

The man does pull his scarf a little bit about his features, "I also know of a wonderful wondrous item you might like, that might assist." He offers a light chaste little hug while he nods a bit.

Cryosanthia gives Merek a quick hug. She pulls away and nods, "Ok, I shall try to come by. I can't possibly afford something like that. Be safe on your travells back."

She is lingering close to Svarshan, wanting to stay within the protective curve of his tail, share warmth. Something spooked her earlier today and she hasn't shaken it off. She folds her legs and curls up, a pale collection of scales against the lava-hued one. She takes his tailtip and aligns it with hers. Her eyes are less suspicious, but she still keeps one on the elf who seems to be lurking with impish glee and leashed potential, but isn't actually doing anything... just right now.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- END LOG -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=- Dramatis Personae -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Iuitl
Just a couple inches taller than five feet, Iuitl is not a very imposing creature. She stands with a hunch, often supporting herself with the large spear she carries around. This sith-makar has mottled black scales and a ratty head of long white feathers. Her eyes are shaped such that her gaze always looks tired, with a pair of eyes that stare out, like pools of green bog. Her teeth are fairly well-maintained, despite this appearance. Her clothing is a set of robes and furs that shield much of her figure from view. The end of her tail, almost always visible and barely kept raised off the ground, has a tuft of ashen grey feathers in much the same style as her head.

Cryosanthia
Cryosanthia is a tall, lithe lizardgirl with flamboyant mannerisms and a flashy style. Her scales are a bright, snow white, complimented by her frills and keratin-scale 'hair' which are the pale blue found in glacial ice. This gleaming tapestry is marred by dark tattoos gouged in her hide, green-black in colouration, which at times have a dark glow. Her snout is long and tapers elegantly. Her legs and tail are likewise graceful, despite being a significant portion of her size and mass. She seems light on her talons and energetic, head glancing quick from side to side. Her eyes are bright and like her frills, the palest of blues with a dramatic slit pupil.
Cryosanthia's clothes are a simple kit of kilted leather armour in white. It is close fitting enough to seem a part of her, but it lacks the lustre of her scales having instead a dull finish. She has sandals that leave her talons free, as well as a hat that is hanging to the back as often as it is on her head. A long blue feather is tucked into the woven band. Finally, she wears a cloak, likewise fashioned from white leather but with a satin interior that matches her eyes. It gleams when the light catches it right. Belted to her hip she has a rapier, a couple of pouches, and a tiny bag on a thong around her long neck.

Geir
The Sith-makar before you is dressed in heavy scale mail. The armor has been coloured a dark grey, like untouched basalt.
The tabard, pulled over the armor, is the same colour, and is marked with a golden scale. The mark of Vardama. From their belt hangs a sheathed khopesh, and upon their back is a kite shield, daubed the same colour as the armor. Occasionally a spear is carried over one shoulder, as well several other bags and pouches, hanging from his belt or straps tied to his armor.
The dragonborn's face is dominated by a scaled ridge that extends from his nose to the back of his head. The nose is a short snout, and lines up perfectly with his pointed, and horned, chin. The ridges over his yellow eyes run into the two, sweeping, horns that extend a good foot and a half past his neck. The pupils of his eyes are slits, like a large cat's. Also very catlike is his long, flexible tail, which follows along behind him, his armor (and clothing) having been tailored to allow it freedom of movement.
The colour of his scales is a rich, orange and copper glow. Some of his scales, like those on his face, are prominent and spade-shaped. His hands and feet are covered in such scales too, with all of his digits and toes ending in black, curved claws. The rest of his scales, on his face, arms, legs and torso, are small, well formed... fitting together so precisely as to become invisible. Which creates the effect of solid, but flexible, metal.

Svarshan
With smoke curling from his blunted muzzle, the creature here resembles a thing smote from the earth's primal rock. His scales are the color of the earth's molten underbelly hardened to rusty obsidian, with a faint red glow running beneath. The overall look is volcanic ore, with pale-moon eyes and a heavy, blunted dragon's jaws. Daeus' markings rest on him in brand form, as one would use to mark cattle or livestock, and a necklace of fangs hangs about his neck. Long, twisted and unusually framed, they belong to the demons and devils of Hell.
At his full height, he stands over six foot tall, but only just, balanced solidly upon the tripod formed from his backward curved legs and heavy tail. He usually bears a solemn expression, an expression that changes with the reworking of rocky scale--but any and all is a mimic of the world around him, a study in different species.
Most days he wears a tribal cut--a wrapping made from darkened jungle-wood scales that begins around the waist and goes below it. The folds leave room for the downwards-sloping tail. Old-style symbols of the Platinum and Father Dragon, as well as Am'shere's Silver Empress embroider the waist-sash and folded sides of the wrap. His legs beneath show the marks of a 'scarleg' dragonkin, raggedly formed from old fights and youth's tempers.
When in armor, he wears a heavy suit lacquered the color of jungle darkwood and molded into scale-shape. It's decorated brightly, with bone and sinew and hide. For a modern-day comparison, think Aztec, Mayan, etc. A set of mithral chains wrap about his waist, for binding demons. Beside them hang heavy blade, javelins, and axe. A long profession of hunting demonkind has stained them gray and ash.
On Languages: Darshan is the Common-tongued pronunciation of his name, and Svarshan the tribal/Draconic.

Zeke
This sith-makar has scales of a deep blue color, a touch dark particularly toward the extremities but still very clearly blue. Six large sweeping horns adorn Zeke’s head, the forward two are more vertical but those after the first set follow the shape of Zeke’s head with a little sway. There are small scars around the base of each horn, as well as around each claw. Their source seems to be self-inflicted and nearly decorative rather than caused by combat however.
Zeke wears a chain shirt mostly hidden under layers of robes in shades of black and gray, and is usually hooded in a cloak of the same color. The robes are sheared short just around the hips and cover a pair of black kapri-style pants slit up the side of the leg and tied with a thick midnight-blue string. Zeke also wears an odd arm-slip up the arm that is not made of crystal.
Had that not been mentioned before? Both the left arm and leg of this sith-makar are made of a beautiful crystal that gleams brightly. The arm is bare from the shoulder down for the convenience of getting it in and out of clothing, but is usually covered by the fall of Zeke’s cloak.

Burai
Standing close to seven feet tall, this brown skinned half-orc has a bald pate, small pointed ears that lay close to his head, and fiery yellow eyes. His nose runs straight and true, and he is as yet free of the wrinkles or loose skin that come with age. Below a thick neck, his hairless body is composed of knotted shoulders and biceps, hulking pectorals, and brawny thighs. All of which is readily apparent due to his sparse attire.
His upper body is protected by armor seemingly made from volcanic rock, dull grey and lined with veins of red that glow like lava. The armor forms an inverted triangle that ends a few inches short of his waist. The upper portion is broad and akin to a gorget, then narrows to a rectangle just wide enough to cover the upper half of his abdominals. His thick belt features a few pouches and compartments, and below the waist he wears a canvas loincloth and reinforced leather greaves over sturdy sandals. Bracers of similar leather cover his forearms.
He carries a large sword meant for two hands - or alternatively two clips on his armor that can hold it in place across his back. The weapon is a good six inches wide at it's broadest point. The cutting edge is curved while the opposite side is blunt and straight with a rung-like handhold halfway along it's length.

Tenoc
Emerald of hue, dark stripes abounding across his body, Tenoc stands seven feet in height-- Sith'Makar, as tribal as those distant, barbaric jungles. Standing proud upon the earth, ebon stripes slash his body like tiger's marks; from horn-crowned head to thick tail, the only place they avoid is the paler-hued chestplate scales that sit ruggedly over heart and chest. Twin horns veer above and back from his brow, smaller points ringing from them in a natural circlet base-- all in black, darkly gleaming. Bright eyes glitter in hot gold above ivory fangs, an eternal, sharp-toothed grin of razor teeth within serpentine maw.
From neck and down, the scaled form descends in fierce confidence, scales thickening as muscles swell in size and power, living mail to clad an armored skin. Emerald stained over with tiger's black stripes continue along his body, formed twin plates thick upon his chest, narrowing to smaller scales along the rest of his body. A paler green reaches along the front of his across his chest, down to taper away along each limb. Dark stripes end at the touch of paler scaled chest, leaving only the play and reach of corded muscle, the power rippling within. Dark claws reach from each hand, talons to grasp, to score, to rend in dark array.
In colder (and more civilized) climes, the Makar wears breeches of rough leather frilled with bits of blue stone; each is laced at the knee, with either leg beneath swaddled in wraps-- bandaged against the prods and thorns of unpleasant forestlands, barest defense against thorn to softer foot or joint. A sash at his waist is gleaming golden silk-- looped above belts of stolid leather, they serve their purpose-- whereas the sash itself seems purely, ephemerally decorative. Torso bared save for the heavy golden collar hanging from his neck, the thick golden semicircle clings jealously beneath his throat, bright aurum seated in a silent array of emerald and gold.

Kaydin
The man before you has wavy blonde hair, which seems to cover his blue eyes. He has fair skin and pointed ears which betrays his elven heritage. He is also tall, definatly leaning towards the more human part of his parentage. He wears leathers and furs and clothing hand stitched and made by inexperienced hands. He carries a pack with him at all times and as such is putting things into it.