[Q1] The Chains that Bind Us

Waking up was a hazy thing, a cloud not only over the archivists eye's that didn't seem to want to lift, but one over his mind. One that made it hard to remember where he'd been before he'd fallen asleep. Had he fallen asleep? No, that wasn't quite right was it. He'd been healed, that much he remembered. Healed from his encounter with the false god, and back home, sore, but whole and resting. 

It had been a mistake to accept something for the pain. It had left him vulnerable in the wake of sending his husband away to deal with the starvation that was spreading across the Free Marches almost worse than the flames before it. Faelyn had never allowed others within their home, much less guardsmen. There was no need for it. Arlathan was safe. It was supposed to be his refuge, knowing that he and his people could not be touched within its borders while the Wolf watched. But years before, in insisting that his home be constructed on the very edges, in seeking his solitude, Faelyn had left them all open to this very act. 

A familiar weight was at his throat. Heavy and oppressive, one that he had not felt for thousands of years. That caught his attention first as pale grey eyes slowly opened to survey the unfamiliar surroundings. He was not in Arlathan anymore, nor was he alone it seemed. These were not people he knew, but yet they were to share the same cage it seemed. This was a situation he was familiar with, one that he knew immediately where they all stood. And just how very screwed they all were if they were not careful. 

Faelyn was also deeply aware that the golden vines that curled around his face, neck, and arms, marked him for what he was. If these people could see past it. It marked him a slave, and he hoped that they saw it for that... not as someone who devoted himself to the very man who'd left those marks in the first place. A precarious situation to be in. All of it was precarious. 

While he was unsure if he was the first one to wake or not, he needed to provide what hope he could. And to keep sanity and reason above all else if they were to escape. If you are awake, good... If you are able bodied, better. But whatever you do, I beg you to stay quiet and keep your voices low. If we are very, very lucky, we may yet slip beyond without loss of limb, or worse yet, life.

---

Summary: Reflection on where he'd been before he was taken (home in Arlathan). Awoken, and somewhat unnerved that his vallaslin could be misconstrued for happy dedication to Elgarn'an rather than a mark of slavery. A request to remain calm, and quiet.

Order: Nezumi, Zezette, Stringbat, Ashon, Stitchy.

Jorah's last memory had been sitting down with a street pamphlet and a glass of wine. It was a piece requesting Antiva's complete and total surrender, given the death of their king. It entreated the commonfolk to consider sparing their lives, and turn over what remained of the royal family and the Talons. He had found run over on the near-barren streets, which had all but halted in traffic since the embargos had begun. He had come home to sit down and make arrangements for his family given how the country was falling apart at the seems.

Now, Jorah's head split with pain. His face betrayed his sickness as he winced awake. His fingers immediately ran through his scalp, as if trying to squeeze the curse out of his brains. He lay like this for a few minutes. As he heard someone's voice, he cracked his eyes open and looked around himself. Four others were about him. A graceful looking elf riddled in the scars of slavery had spoken, requesting they all remain quiet. With a raspy voice, clogged with unnatural sleep, he replied, [color=orange]"How are we still alive at all?"[/color] and then he eased himself up into a sitting position. Where is this? Why were they all here too?

He squinted at the rest of them, trying to make out any details that might offer a clue, before noticing the enormous lock around his neck. It was the size of a dinnerplate of solid lead, with a keyhole the size of a coin. "No problem," he thought, and stuck a finger in to play with the pins.

Jorah flinched as something cold and sharp snapped onto his finger. [color=orange]"Ahhh-shshshs,"[/color] he cried while trying to be quiet and looking around with raccoon eyes. He drew his finger out, and the dark raspberry color of blood flowed from the tip. He grabbed what was left of his torn-up, dirt-covered white tunic, and pressed it onto his finger. 

 [color=orange] "Maker, it bit me!"[/color] he announced with a husky whisper. He looked up with more urgency now. [color=orange]"What is this all about? Am I a slave like you?"[/color] he asked the elf callously.

TLDR: Jorah has a bad headache. Jorah wonders where he is. Jorah asked "Why aren't we dead yet?" Jorah's lock is the size of a dinnerplate. The lock bit Jorah's finger when he tried to jimmy it. Jorah asks Faelyn if he's a slave like him now.

It was the same routine as it was every night with Kershaw. Inventory, locking down the shop, dimmimg the lights, something small and cold for supper because by the time he got to eat all he wanted to do was sleep and sleep he had. He registered the difference in scent around him before he ever opened his eyes. The weight of the collar and the knowledge not to touch it as he took in the scene before him.  A very tired sigh left him then.  Stretching, bones popping as he did so. We are not meant to be dead. deadpanned in his answer to the man with the bleeding fingers.  Not a injury to expend the energy to heal.  Working on keeping the undercurrent of anger that he felt under lock and key.

A thing that shocked him somewhat. He had passed from one master to the next without any emotion to affect the current goal he held. Even, if at the time, that had not been freedom.  Ah, cages didn't suit him any longer unless it was one made of his own choosing.

Standing with soft groan. "I am a healer and tinker by trade. His voice hushed. Leaving out any mention that he was intimately aware of the art of killing. That for the moment was not a needed detail. For now he inspected the area around him trying to find any weak points and hidden corners. The one wondering the obvious and confused over death. Elf. What are your skills? The rest of you?

If they were stuck in a cage they might as well have a loose understanding of their strengths when the opportunity presented it to be free of the collar they wore or the threat that this place might hide. He did not need a knife in the gut. Again.

TLDR: Kershaw generally taking stock of his own aches answers Jorah's question and then asks what everyone's skills are.

She woke with no memory of having fallen asleep. Disoriented and dizzied, her head ached, pulsing in a dull pounding echo of her sluggish heartbeat. Worse, though, was the weight of metal that curled around her neck, a choking pressure that bid her first believe she was still dreaming. It had been years - centuries - since she'd last worn a collar, but her body remembered, and her nightmares all too often taunted her with painful flashes of recollection. If this was a dream, it was a cruel one.

But...no. Against the darkness of her closed eyelids, the cadence of voices bantered back and forth, unfamiliar accents and alien turns of phrase that momentarily eluded her. As the voices whispered back and forth, Katriel stretched her senses outward, keeping her eyes closed so as not to immediately betray her wakefulness. The scents of the individuals around her were wholly unfamiliar - males all, but each unknown to her. Their voices, hushed though they might have been, drowned out any song beyond their immediate circle. And her magic...

Her magic was dampened. She reached for it, turned it towards the weight around her neck - only for it to draw away from her, a wave receding from the desperate shore. Draining into the lock itself. She cut off the flow of mana, jolting the magic back into herself.

Her pulse sped, and she cast back in her thoughts in an effort to distract herself from the black tide of memory. She'd been on the road for some few days now, travelling between Amaranthine and Arlathan. Her encounter with Fen'Harel still weighed heavily upon her mind, and she had lingered near Arlathan long past when prudence might have bid her depart. There was no explanation in those recent recollections to add clarity to her current circumstances, and the weight of the binding around her neck left her feeling helpless, confused, and....angry. She held tight to the latter, let it take shape and burn away her mounting sense of unease.

Anger was always preferable to fear.

Her eyes snapped open, pinprick pupils mere slits against the well of gold that surrounded them. A dark, dangerous rumble started in her chest, more draconic than humanoid, ruthlessly muted as she rose to a seated position from her inelegant slump of repose. A quick glance down her person noted that her weapons had been confiscated, her sword and daggers missing from their sheaths. She still wore her armor, but the idea that she had been disarmed, that someone had gotten so close to her while she was unconscious...

Her clawed hands rose to the collar around her neck, to the tiny, intricate keyhole contained thereon, and her eyes darkened for a moment before they rose to study the faces of the men around her. A halfblood, a human, a kossith, and an elf. A motley crew, to be sure. They were but missing a dwarf to have near all the races of Thedas represented in one singular circle. By chance, or design?

At the moment, it hardly mattered. All of them were wearing collars, and by the turn of the conversation thus far, none of them were particularly pleased about their current circumstances. They were alone, for now, but she cast her senses further outward, and noted signs of life further afield. Her grasp on her collar tightened. When she discovered who had done this, she would salt the earth with their blood. She would rip open their bellies and cast their entrails across the sea. She would -

She took a breath and answered the last question that had been posed to the group at large. "I am skilled with a blade, and with various combat magics," she intoned, keeping her volume muted. "Though without an enemy near to hand, I am rather at a loss as to how that might aid our current predicament." Her gaze skimmed over the visage of the only other elf in the group, her golden eyes tracing the golden lines of the vallaslin that scrolled across the stranger's face. A question arose, but she did not give it voice. This was not the time for idle curiosity, or for half-cocked speculation. She would hold her tongue, and her judgement, until further answers were forthcoming.

TLDR:// Katriel wakes but remains still and quiet as everyone else speaks, feigning unconsciousness for a while longer. Discovers that the collars drain any magic used against them. She opens her eyes, growls, and sits upright. Fights murderous impulses. She lists her skills in answer to Kershaw's question, and then gives Faelyn a long, considering look.

Cade heard the murmuring of voices and felt movement around him as he started to come to. Something felt wrong, his limbs were still heavy with whatever unnatural sleep he’d been put into. He’d been out on the road when the news about the royal’s death. The news they’d been getting out of Antiva had been odd as of late before that and now with this… Cade wasn’t sure what this meant for his homeland and he’d been driven by a need to know more. So, he’d left home only planning on being gone for a few days as he gathered some information from different people who might be able to make some more sense on this, as they were more on the ground in Antiva proper than he was.

It was out doing this that he’d gotten the news of the death of Francesco Campana, apparently killed by the hand of one of the ancient elven gods. Cade hadn’t heard Merilin, Eriar, or Nahreida mention this particular one outright but the fact that one of them was likely walking among them settled in Cade’s mind as a bad omen. So, he’d turned his horse for home to sit with the three of them and figure out what the hell was going on.

Traveling alone was never something Cade thought twice about. He was a commanding presence on the road and many seemed to avoid him when they could if they didn’t know him. He never really thought twice about it, especially in Rivian where is bare chest and arms indicated the amount of death that had been dealt at his own hands, either literally or through military prowess. Every single death, commemorated on his body in a raised scar.

He’d been ambushed on the road. He remembered that much and managed to take two or three of the warriors down before a mage got him with a sleeping spell from behind.

Cheap shot, really.

That was the last thing he remembered before waking up like this. He grumbled lightly, sitting up slowly, and felt the lock move against his skin. He reached up to touch it, not going as far as to shove his finger into the thing like one of the other men had. This wasn’t right. His hand moved up a little further to where the Merilin’s collar usually sat and a small growl escaped his mouth when he found the skin bare.
He looked over the other people in the room. Elf with markings that would once have Cade assuming he was Dalish but he’d learned better since being found by Erier, a human male who looked to be of Antivan descent (one to watch), a Qunari, and an aberration, closer to Eriar than Nahreida if he would have a guess.

What the hell is going on? he asked, feeling for a weak joint in the metal of the lock and wrapping his hands around either side of it and using as much of his strength as he could manage to try and pull it apart.

TLDR: Cade was out information gathering on Antiva when he heard news of Campana’s death, was returning home when ambushed, is quite angry at waking up in a collar that isn’t the one he agreed to have between him and his lovers, takes stock of the people there and is trying to pull open the lock.

When Cade tampered with his lock, he'd feel an electric current race through his hands. The harder he pulled, the more electricity would flood his system. It's enough of a shock to knock him off-balance, and make him smoke a bit.

Once Cade stops messing with the lock, the shocks do not stop. If anything, they seem to get worse the angrier he gets with his situation; as if this current is tied directly to his emotions.

FOR THE DURATION OF THE THREAD:
Every time Cade has an outburst of anger, he'll cause a lightning strike, or electric shock near to him (and to those closest to him). Not enough of a shock to kill anyone; but it'll hurt like hell. From this point on if Cade messes with his collar, lightning will strike nearby, alerting their captors that something hinky is going on. He's seemingly gained the ability to control lightening however as a non-magic user, Cade may not realize how to control the ability. And he may miss that it's tied to his emotions. Stitchy can choose to keep this ability after the quest has ended.

The healer is right. We are not meant to be dead. Dead play things aren't very fun to him. There was a stiffness about him as he rose, looking down to catalogue just how tattered his own clothing was, to find that the soft green linens he'd been wearing had at some point been taken from him, replaced with a hastily stitched rendition of the clothing he'd once worn day in and day out in his thousands of years a slave. 

A length of fabric that wrapped across his hips like a skirt, pulled high on one side To expose the length of his leg from ankle to hip, everything above left bare save for the golden collar. It had always left every scar on display as they criss crossed his skin, leaving more scar than unmarred skin after milenia of torture. It had been an effective means of embarrassment in years prior, leaving him so exposed, and that had not lessened with time. 

He couldn't allow the unease he felt to keep him from keeping these people alive. As he had prior, this was something that he had to ignore, push to the side and continue past. I was once a slave, yes, thousands of years ago. Held captive by the very same man who likely holds us captive now if these rags they've given me are any indication. Elgar'nan. That or someone has a very poor sense of humor. But no longer. I am the archivist and Bow of Arlathan and during my years a slave, I helped to free others. a pause, as he watched the lock bite the rogue's sticky fingers. Keep your fingers out of that if you want to keep them. He'd never thought any of them would be foolish enough to try such a thing. 

Babysitting hadn't been high up on his list of priorities, yet that seemed to be exactly what he was destined for.

My strengths lay in the elements and the arcane. My ability to draw a bow was stolen a very long time ago. As for our purpose here, It is fairly straightforward that we are meant to be kept as slaves, and in the same hand, exactly what is not to happen. The sooner we leave, the better. Though we will need the keys. That is our task. Removing themselves from the immediate area was easy enough. At least on the surface. Obedience in a slave was counted on. And not a soul in that cage was an obedient thing. 

Pushing the gate free took only a moment, the hinges new and oiled and not a sound was made.

---

Summary: Who's made to wear short skirts? Faelyn is made to wear short skirts. An old call back meant to embarrass and degrade him. He confirmed that he was once a slave and is now the archivist and Bow of Arlathan leadership, that his power lays in elemental magic and the arcane. States that keys must be found, and that they must leave soon and quickly. The door to their cage is simply pushed open and due to its newer construction, does not make noise.

The five of them were sprawled in a wagon-cage, horse missing and neck yolk abandoned and dropped in a pool of mud. A dense forest loomed around them, cold rain dripping from the iron bars, the pine leaves, and the dark gray air of an apathetic sky. The dampness gave the breeze an extra tooth to bite, reminding them all of the smell of wet dirt, pinecones, and, oddly, smoke. Jorah watched the elf open the freshly oiled door with curious dread. If his lock had bit him, surely another such unholy trap was nearby. His expression briefly betrayed the warning on his face, which he vocally withheld to watch if this stranger would prove his newfound paranoia: that the mud below might swallow them up. Instead of airing these thoughts, he hurriedly responded to the elf, and then, to the healer.

[color=orange]"You're the... bow?"[/color] he asked, shuffling to the side to give access to the door. Jorah knew vaguely of these Arlathan titles, but he had never much business in that neck of the woods. [color=orange]"I-I shouldn't be here,"[/color] he concluded, assuming the rest of them were also some sort of titled lord or mayor. He remembered the propaganda pamphlet, rewarding commoners for delivering their elite to Elgnar'nan's captured territory.

[color=orange]"I thought it was people in charge that he wanted? Or at least, like you said, the interesting ones..."[/color] he trailed off, squinting through the rain at the woman who growled and stared with venom. His hesitation to continue and, instead, gawk betrayed the insult before he realized it. When he did, he flinched at the thought of their suspicions and, Jorah resumed muttering, wide-eyed and desperately wondering if he was trying too hard.

[color=orange]"I'm just an old stablemaster... horses, mules...."[/color] He huffed, frowning, looking at the lock as if he couldn't decide if he were more puzzled by it, or why he was here. [color=orange]"I am not interesting, and this Elgnan (yes, a mis-proununciation) must be something if he can't tell the difference."[/color] The crisp bitterness in his voice at being left alive to be toyed with could be mistaken for as a peasant's outrage for being thought a lordly snob. He felt about the lock, gingerly now. He began to mutter expletives with the names of his servants to himself.

And Jorah tried to look captured with interest by the lock, while he whale-eyed the elf leaving the wagon's confines.

☆ tldr: Setting is a cage-wagon in a pine forest on a rainy day on a rural beaten up wagon trail. (Think skyrim intro, but full cage and no snow. Or the hunger games forest on a yucky day.) The air smells of smoke. Jorah gawks at the woman (Katriel) because she is weird, and then admits he is stablemaster (a lie) to explain his skills.

From Master, to master, to yet again another master and then freedom. Now this. Jorah's musings made him worried. Not for himself he was already in the thick of it but for the rest of the Vultures and those under the four that watched.  It sowed on his features as he watched the elf open the door as if it was nothing to the wagon that held him. He wondered as he always had if it would have been better if he had followed the teachings he was born to. 

He would not be in a cage again had he. Would not be wondering if it were a blade he were to take up out again than the healing arts he so favored. He followed the elf out. Once given the room to truly stretch, did so, and in that took his shirt off to drape around the elf's shoulders.

Would do him any go expect to get caught up in a wound if he were shot with a bolt anyway. Moving to the head of the wagon to search for traps that might be in the area.

Ooc: Kershaw hands faelyn his shirt after stepping out of the wagon to then go look for traps.

It was clear that the elf with Elgar'nan's markings - stripped to his smallclothes though he might have been - knew far more about their current circumstances than any of the other collared in the cage. Her expression darkened even further as he spoke...and as he continued to speak. Her considering look from before was turning swiftly to one of annoyance. Her anger lent credence to irritation, and regardless of whatever context the man was able to provide, Katriel found herself baring teeth in his direction. Fighting to keep a reign on her temper, and ignoring the man next to her (Cade) who struggled to pry his collar apart, she looked out to the world beyond the bars of their cage. With an idle thought, she pricked her forearm with a talon on the opposing hand, smeared her fingers with blood, and touched them to the floor of the cage as she flung her magic out in a wide arc.

Fortunately, the collar only seemed to drain magic that was actively aimed against it. It left her casting alone as she directed it further beyond its reach. After a moment, however, Katriel frowned as her magic sense caught upon life in the distance. Subtly, so as not to be discovered, she drew her mana back into her.

And the red-haired elf was still talking.

"Is it your age that makes you so verbose, or are you normally so incapable of holding your tongue?" The words came out on the near edge of a hiss, keeping her volume quiet even in the face of her irritation.

She might have had more in common with the elf than anyone else at the moment, but in truth, that only counted against him. In this particular circumstance, being spoken to as if she were lesser, being instructed on what to do, especially in so haughty a tone - by one who used to be a slave, no less - rubbed her in all the wrong ways. She did not, furthermore, understand why or how he was so forthcoming with his past - or his knowledge. Surely he would realize that only made him seem more suspicious? The cage had not been locked. It had opened too easily. Whomever had captured them and placed these collars around their necks had planned for them to escape it.

The situation reeked of a trap. But of what kind, she wondered? She felt it already, the cool air of the dungeon against her skin, the sting of the lash, the warmth of blood beneath her talons. And the dark. Ever the dark.

She huffed, and jumped from the cage behind the kossith. Her glare towards Faelyn was no less poisonous, even as she murmured, "There are a handful of lifesigns just a few dragonlengths away, beyond those trees. Enough people to form a camp. If we are to find keys for our collars, it would reason that they would be kept there." She glanced at the human that had cast her such an unnerved look (Jorah) before fixing Faelyn with another hard glare. "The why, the who...they do not matter. Elgnan," she could not help the small smirk that crossed her lips here, there and gone with a breath, "will not win, this day."

tldr:// Katriel cuts herself with her own claws, using magic to sense beyond the bounds of the cage. When she discovers that they are not alone, she tells Faelyn that he talks too much, and she begins to get suspicious of him. She jumps out of the cage and tells the group that she senses people camped just beyond the trees, and then makes fun of Elgar'nan.

As Cade’s hands wrapped around the lock and he started to pull at the lock he felt electricity surge through him. No stranger to pain he continued to pull and pull. Each pull caused the electricity to course through him even more as he continued to use his strength to attempt to pull the lock apart. He continued until the pain got unmanageable causing him to crumple and drop his hands, his body tingling and aching and accompanied by a light smell of burned flesh and hair. He said a few choice curse words in Rivani as he lay there rubbing his palms, trying to catch his breath again. All the chatter around him was grating on his nerves already. Cade was a man of action and sitting around conversing about who had taken them and why seemed a bit on the pointless side to him.

He pushed to stand, groaning a little at the stiffness of his body from the electric shock, gently denying any help that might be offered him. His hand slipped into his pocket where he found the handkerchief Eriar had given him before he’d left, he pulled it out of for a moment and inhaled her cent before retuning it to the pocket of his trousers. They didn’t strip him of everything, just his shirt and Merilin’s collar. The thought of someone touching it that wasn’t his lover had a flash of anger surge through him. To his surprise, and probably the surprise of the others in the cage lightening flashed and hit the ground nearby the cage. He frowned and looked towards the sky for a moment.

I think we need to get moving, he said and went to follow Faelyn to the open cage door, swinging himselff down onto the ground and holding a hand up to help others, What’s the likelihood these have a tracking magic to it? I’d like to get it off and if possible find my belongings.

Kershaw feels like he's been bitten by a little bug, perhaps a mosquito. Nevertheless, the place he felt the bite on his arm begins to swell. And as the minutes pass, Kershaw cannot stop looking at Faelyn. The Elf's vallaslin seem to glow golden, shimmering as if magic flows through them.

For the duration of the thread, Kershaw will find himself agreeing to do whatever Faelyn says. Almost like he's been bewitched to worship the Elf.

Play things are play things, friend. He doesn't care where they come from. Noble are not, that is what we all are to him... Faelyn was unsure if he was something painful to look upon, or if the discomfort read from his so schooled features that led the tall healer to lay his shirt across his shoulders and give him some layer of protection from prying eyes. The temptation was there to retreat into it, wear it properly, allow its length to hide him away, but he could do no such thing. Not and retain any sense of forward momentum in getting these people to safety. 

That forward momentum was almost snapped in half and ground under heel as daggers were hurled at him for that very act. His tongue glued to the roof of his mouth a moment, words dead in his throat. But that would not do anyone any good. The heaviness that settled on his chest was an old, familiar one. These were often the slaves that instead of finding their freedom would crash and burn, gaining scars just as he did. There was little he could do to help that fact. Direct your rage elsewhere, dragoness. I am not your enemy. 

Fishing around at his feet among the pebbles for a piece of flint, it was a few seconds before he held flame in his hand, drawing the water in the air around them to cast a foggy mist around their gathered party. I do not know if they'll be tracking them or not. In years past, no. They weren't. I'd been able to get people to safety with collars still in place to be dealt with by a smith later. Now...? I am unsure. It has been milenia since my time. It is possible he has changed his way and I do not think it wise we keep them on. But the fog will roll ahead of us and can hide our movements at least visually. as he stepped off towards the direction the so angry dragon gave them, pushing the fog forward, but remaining close enough to the healer. He had his shirt after all.

---

Summar: Feels bad, man. Feels real bad. Tells Jorah they're all play things regardless of where they're from, and despite wanting to hide away, tells Kat that he is not the enemy here. Finds flint among the stones and uses it to spark a small fire in his hand, using his magic to create a small, rolling fog. He is unsure if the collars are tracked or not, but they were not in the past. Keeps Kershaw close and sets off in the direction that Kat pointed off to.

Jorah's eyes widened in shock as he beheld his fellow passenger jolt. He stared agape, mouth slightly open. He realized he had been also still fooling around with his lock and immediately dropped the heavy plate of it to dangle once more, too utterly frightened to touch it now. He looked once more at the fellow who wafted of ozone and singed bits. He seemed to be snuffing up some alchemy on his handkerchief while muttering foreign words. Jorah looked noticeably puzzled and in awe as the man rose a few seconds later, hopped off the wagon, only to scramble with the instincts of a scared rabbit away from the door as a bolt of lightning struck some meters away. From the farthest corner of the wagon, he peeked out, taking his arms off of his head.

[color=orange]"That's some handkerchief,"[/color] he tossed, voice shaking, to the Rivaini.

Then, he followed the elf, sliding carefully off the wagon, but positioning himself furthest away from the steaming spot the lightning had left. He took a moment to look around to figure out their surroundings. The bark on the trees was characteristic of the western Antivan forests. The earth was too damp for a forest fire in this season. The smell of smoke lingered, a sign of a campfire, or something else that had burned down, but whatever it was, it might be where this wagon track led, as they often do to the huts of farmers, hunters, and hermits. But, he also noticed a less trodden path, a narrow aisle through the forest where the grass and shrubs did not grow. He couldn't look around much more as a dense fog expanded from the Elf's hand.

He sidled up to the Elf, a bit more aware of being respectful, while warily looking about him as if Darkspawn might launch from the dense fog upon them. [color=orange]"You seem to know your way about this kind of situation. What needs to be done next? There is the road, but there is also that hunter's path over there,"[/color] and he gestured with his index finger towards where had seen the more obscure trail. [color=orange]"If this is some game, you must know the rules?"[/color]

tldr: jorah freaks out from cade's lightning. he vocally attributes cade's recovery to the handikercheif, while pondering if its filled with alchemy. he looks around briefly, but can't see further due to the fog. he tells faelyn he seems to know his way around, and asks him what he needs done. he specifically asks if they should follow the road, or an obscure hunter's trail he noticed. He also asks if there are rules to this game.

Kershaw felt the bite of an insect and thought nothing of it, was more mildly concern with the rapid on set swelling, but that to was left behind in favor of pushing forward. Maybe is he had given things a modicum of thought he would be more alarmed at the glowing vallaslin of his elven companion. There wasn't and there hadn't. For the spark of anger that at their imprisonment. Moreso the thought of a higher hand have sway and in turn subjugating him died. He quietly and quickly fell in step with the elf. A looming shadow.  Arvaarad

The title spoken with a bit of wonderment. Because he could speak it at all. Because it was the elf before him that held the distinction. He had no other word to use to properly convey how he was feeling. Arvaarad. Testing the weight of it. Wanting his attention, his voice low enough  that only he could hear.  He was all that needed to hear. How may I be of use?

Because that is what he wanted most of all. He was a instrument of war. A well honed, well tempered blade. His Former master would suffer no fools of the arcane and the crows valued him for his strength amoung his many talents. That meant nothing without purpose behind it. It was why him, a saaberas needed an Arvaarad.

The elf was the only one who deserved that honor. Even if he did not know his native tongue.

Ooc: Kershaw ignores the bug bite in favor of pressing on only to be way laid by the fact that Faleyn is obviously  his  Arvaarad.  Fully just seeing nothing but the glowing vallasin as a sign of this. Asks how he may be of use to faylen.