RP: Crucified For No Sins

Part of the Welcome To The End of Eras Arc

Summary:Kasyr, fresh from his meeting with Leoxander, resumes his original bit of business. Specifically, investigating the disappearance of a work crew within the necropolis. Along the way, he encounters both Lanlan & Iintahquohae - though the company is cold comfort, given the reception that awaits them, and the things they discover along the way. That, and because Lanlan is very good at needling Kasyr about Valrae's disappearance.

Graveyard Gates In this area a massive metal gate stands, half open and unlocked it swings just slightly with a cold brush of the wind, creaking in need of repair. The rusted gate stretches out a few ways on both sides of you and the only way to enter is to the south, the way to the path is north. An ominous-looking shrine now stands to the east, its patronage unnaturally intent upon something; its worshipped is an other-worldly force which chills the very soul of any passers-by who do not serve him.

Lanlan is in the abyssal black library, a haunting place full of secret horrors bound in leather and trapped in paper waiting to be unleashed. A place of dust and stagnant smells–except, for the one corner where the Archmage boredly turns the pages of a grimoire. This place is with its polished table and chair, its clean air, is Lanlan’s Corner of the library. The book itself is probably much older than it looks, either because the author was bad or the subject was unpopular. Reading is a terribly slow way of learning. Slow and torturous. And he hadn’t been at it for long before he decides it’s something for a different Lanlan entirely to deal with. A tomorrow Lanlan perhaps, or a next week Lanlan. Then he disappears the book into his secret pocket space, and leaves. He makes sure to wear his gris-gris talisman whenever he’s here, just to avoid being harassed. None of the undead that linger or wander aimlessly pay him any mind, and he’s forced to wait for their tedious shuffle. So by the time he’s made it to the gates to the Necropolis, he’s fairly impatient. But there are other things for him to do here. More important things.

Kasyrs' pace is brusque, and yet, it's nowhere near the extent of how quickly he can move. Then again, the swordsman isn't trying to hide his approach. Rather, he's aiming to march right to the graveyard gates, even as a small swell of city guard and undead amass at the forefront of the necropolis. After all, while subtlety could serve admirably to get him to where he needed to be- it would be very easy to interpret a sudden materialization as the prelude to some hostility. Not that expressly marching to the middle of an angry crowd is less of a display. That said, it -does- provide a visible signal to his citizens that their worries weren't being ignored. And a notable deterrent to the undead who had seemed poised to escalate beyond simply throwing rocks and insults. "If you have grievances, you can maybe try filing them through the proper channels." His hands clap together neatly, before spreading apart- a motion that likewise parts the crowd in front of himself as he continues along the way. "Or through one of your various speakers." It's on that note that the swordsman calls over his shoulder- "I'm going to the building site, try not to ..." He gestures, vaguely at the crowd as some fill in, and some train after him suspiciously. It's along this way that the swordsman does perk up, a distinct sense of recognition creeping through proximal empathy and their lingering bond, "So, is there a point to ensuring I can't see you? I feel that makes discussions difficult."

Iintahquohae wasn't one for hiding who she was or even what she was, so any aggression she's met with by undead is met head-on, or just...in kind. That probably doesn't do much to help vampire's overall image in the city, but what did they expect? Cowering? It'd only get worse the further into the graveyard the seamstress tread, but she's of the mindset that these were once her stomping grounds, so she should be able to stomp a bit. ...Even as a decently sized brick of Larketian stone is hurled her way from behind a gravestone, that she dives behind another to avoid getting hit. All this for a visit to the library? Ridiculous, but potentially worth it if she makes it there unscathed. Her most recent customer sparked an interest in proper reanimation, and the Black Library had to be the next best place to dig up something on necromancy after the Necromancer's Guild itself. She clutches her prize while heading for the gates, and finds herself walking almost head-long into Kasyr shortly after he's done speaking. Her footsteps slow. Don't ask how she weaselled her way into the graveyard and the library beyond it. “Uh.” There's a look of recognition that she fixes him with, squinting, before she steps to the side, and into the crowd. Why didn't she remember his face from bothering him at his castle before? Also there was that whole issue with his payment for her services that she needed to pester him about. “They have bricks,” she warns.

Lanlan is merely meandering along…or trying to. The dead-brained ones bunched up at the closed gate cause a temporary hindrance. And though he’s aware of Kasyr’s presence nearby, he doesn’t address it promptly. Until he’s addressed. “The point isn’t for you,” he says, though his voice is disembodied and seems to come from a grotesque being who’s horribly close to being a skeleton, but not close enough. Possibly a woman once, given her tattered black dress. With nary an effort but whimsy, he plants a foot against the wall to the side of the gate and becomes completely horizontal, walking up it as if it were just another section of the floor. “Besides, I wasn’t aware of anything we had to discuss.” This time his voice comes from another zombie, several yards away from the first. This one’s still mostly whole, or appears to be. Its Sunday Best is hardly shredded at all. His voice also lies, there were several things Lanlan knew of that needed to be discussed, but he doesn’t think Kasyr knows of them. From atop the wall, Lanlan is able to spot a willowy figure, and then find familiarity in her steps, and then confirm it’s Iintahquohae when she speaks. And what’s that in her hand but a prized piece of intellectual property from the Black Library? She must be taking her position as librarian even more seriously than he realized. “So the tyrant has allowed for the undead to have bricks now,” he muses, an eye on Kasyr to measure his exasperation. “I guess the pen really -is- mightier than the sword, if it compels you, eh?”

Kasyrs' exasperation is so far beyond the pale, that it does more damage to his soul, than a brick to the face ever could. Or a brick to the shoulder, given one collides into him, with little more than a sound of impacting metal. There's a brief flick of his hands against his coat, dislodging some of the dust, before he turns his gaze towards the individual he can currently see, "Clearly." A pause, and he finds himself adding, "You should curb that habit of walking into prospective war zones." That comment may have evoked some bristling from some of the undead present, alongside some fresh hecklings along the line of 'tyrant', 'Maconite', 'Genocidal' and a fair number of more colourful epithets. As for Lanlan, well- "That -was- the point of establishing trade with Macon in the first place. Everything needed to repair the necropolis et city. That said, they seem to take umbrage with using the bricks for anything except-" Okay, this time he actually moves his head to the side, likely less out of necessity, and more the indignity of eating one directly to his face. This is also not doing a great job of simmering down tensions at the gate. "Well. I'd like to talk to you further, but I'm not going to stand here and give them an easy target." And thus the Kensai proceeds further into the necropolis, seemingly heedless of the fact that his passage was gradually accruing a larger, and infinitely more hostile entourage. Something which does seem to be enough to cause a breach in decorum, given that a trio of soldiers shove their way forward through the brief gap in the crowd formed by it's shift towards the Kensai. "Do you really have to-?" ...He's not even going to argue it. At least it was useful if the seamstress decided to persist in doing something.

The Forsaken Tree

You now stand in the central area of the graveyard, various tombstones and open graves spread out across this place. Once upon a time, it was choked with empty caskets- the telltale sign of necromancers and graverobbers. And yet, that dismal sight has given way to something worse. In the midst of the area, a massive tree juts forth from the barren earth- its enormous branches raking the sky like jagged claws. Its surface is black, of such a profound nature that even moonlight fails to find proper purchase, the finer details of its sinuous bark difficult to discern at a distance. And a closer inspection reveals fresher horrors still, as postulant mushrooms fester within the recesses of the tree, within every crack, or pronounced groove- awaiting the faintest touch or gust of wind to spurt into a vile substance reminiscent of an infected wound. Those foolish or curious enough to touch this substance will find themselves afflicted by a virulent rot, one that would reduce body and bounty to fresh rot - more fodder to feed the gnarled roots which now intertwine through those once empty graves.

Iintahquohae whips her head around at the sound of the Archmage's voice, and can't help her amused look at his perch atop the wall. The tension around them all must be palpable, but anything that lightened the mood was good enough for her. “He's letting them have bricks and stiffing me on a bill,” she murmurs. Hopefully not loud enough for anybody to take seriously. It's then that the seamstress is suddenly very aware that she's surrounded by...let's call them plainclothes Trintus guards, but they aren't doing a very good job of hiding who they are. Their clothes are a little too red and not giving a very subtle nod to that particular house's heraldry. Also they're conveniently moving in a way that keeps the seamstress in their center, despite the crowd. Strange. “Get down from there and don't get bricked, Lan,” she shouts. What did she bumble her way into tonight? She has to see for herself what Kasyr is up to and...maybe help? Hopefully not hinder. The overall vile words hurled at the king would be laughable if it weren't for the bit where she received similar comments during her little jaunt into the necropolis earlier. And if they weren't likely about to be completely surrounded. She didn't really want to stay still and risk another brick being hurled at her that she can't dodge, so the seamstress momentarily turns her attention toward the tree for a better look, and to purposely walk around it to make her a moving target rather than something easier to brick.

Lanlan can see the party moving south, in two ways, and he doesn’t want to miss the action. So even after just coming to the top of the wall, he lets himself fall off. But he just floats along, laying on his side lazily, propping his chin up on an elbow and propping his elbow up on thin air. His coat, all chthonic violet and shimmering, seems to do the work of propelling him forward in short bursts. He’s something like a jellyfish, being blobbed forward by his tendrilous coattails. “Well, you’d better get to discussing then, before they figure out that they should really be using fire if they want to hurt you at all.” This was certainly not designed to give them any ideas. He seems utterly delighted to hear that the very thing that was getting Kasyr so much ire lately, is now being used against him by the very people he was receiving that pain for. “Is that so? What poetry!” To Inks, he spins over to float along on his stomach and prop his chin up with both hands. “Oh thank you for your concern! But they can’t see me right now. I’m only letting you see me because we’re such good friends. So what brings you here?” Then he adds in, for mischief’s sake, “And how do you two know each other?”

Kasyr had hoped to be relatively hands-off with the seamstress, but the moment she begins to gallivant around the tree, a sharp pang of concern crops up- one that briefly sees a flicker of something unhallowed slither from within his shadow, and wind its way around towards her position, meant to ensure that should she stumble towards the tree, she'll get pushed away before it's unhallowed properties can mar her. The bricks and smaller stones the Trintus men can deal with. "Such a goddamn mess." While it doesn't help that Lanlan is offering a very unhelpful play-by-play of the situation, it's made even worse with a distinct chime rings through the air- a dolorous tone of something proximal, but still distant. There's a murmur somewhere along the lines of 'hate this place now', as he does his best to move along. That said, the press of bodies is far thicker now- in part bogged down to figures bowing down before the tree, others proselytizing the greatness of the great insect- and more still, wearing symbols of a crooked upon armbands, whose rhetoric only seems inflamed by the Kensais presence. The walking, talking Iconoclast of their newfound faith. "Wanted your help in figuring out that other situation- since if this boils over, it's their problem too. I think Trivacae recognized that. Wanted to work that angle first." Kasyr doesn't really say that out loud, but- he's assuming Lanlan's paying close attention, likely for gloating purposes. "Anything I'm forgetting, or just enjoying the show?"

Iintahquohae finds herself distracted from looking at the tree when Lanlan floats into view. “You're magnificent, even in the darkest of times,” she says, unable to contain a grin. She needed to figure out how to animate her fabric the way his did as he floated. As for his question about Kasyr, the seamstress turns her head the kensai's way and shrugs. “I tried talking to him at the castle once and then he sent someone to my shop to help her find a house...And still hasn't paid me for it.” Inks wasn't blind to the clear familiarity Kasyr and Lanlan seemed to have, so she fires the question back. “How do you know him, Lan?” This didn't really answer his first question, so she lifts the book she had tucked under her arm. Something about necromancy for novices. “Learning.” But her head turns as that strange sound fills the air, grey ears perking up in effort to locate its source. She entirely misses something approach her from Kasyr, and it continues to go unnoticed while she tries to gather what's going on in the cacophony of noise. She does take several steps back from the tree as undead start bowing before it, and she can't help but wonder if playing nice with one that is just about to kneel, or crumple, more like, given how weak its decaying knees look, might be a good idea. She tries to time herself to the undead's stumble into a kneel, dropping to a knee herself to help catch them before they fell apart beneath their own weight. For all she knew, that decaying, shrunken face that turned to her might've been a sprightly old man when alive. Despite her efforts, the undead man shrinks away from her touch, muttering something not worth repeating about vampires and their parasitic nature. Well, she's halfway to her knees as it is, so the seamstress decides to just stay put, maybe learn something. ...Hopefully stay out of trouble. If Lanlan is still floating nearby, she mouths to him, “What in the world is going on?” But that was more for show. She isn't entirely clueless, but maybe one of those undead preaching about their bug god might 'enlighten' her? The seamstress doesn't really know what angle she's going for yet.

Graveyard

This area resembles the main graveyard area, with the exception of the massive gate to enter or leave. You notice several of the graves here have been violently broken and destroyed. Someone of great strength or size must have done this, but why, is the main question. The only way to go here is back to the east.

Lanlan just bobs along, hardly paying any attention at all to what’s happening beneath him once the anti-fun police start setting up a perimeter. He can feel his phantasmal construct getting closer to him, though, and knows it heralds the approach of an actual horde of shambling zombies. He can almost see it in the distance, like a field of black-grass swaying along with an unfelt breeze. He leans over to see Kasyr lending a helping tendril of shadow to the much more than capable Inks, and scoffs. “Oh stop infantilizing her,” he says. “She can be thrown through a building but she’ll wither at the touch of a bony hand? At least do something -decisive-.” Though the presence of the tree did bring him unease. He had to forcibly overcome that by consciously remembering their triumph over the putrefying godlet. “And no, I’m not sure which of the many things that could go wrong you mean. I know that he doesn’t want to be associated with…the people that you’re associating with lately. Especially if Valrae doesn’t turn up soon...” Joy flew out of him in that moment, and he side-eyes Kasyr to quantify his feelings on that latest bit of dreadful news. It’s been almost a month now since the mayor went missing. And none of his efforts have turned up any leads. Except Larket. “How do -I- know him? Well I met him years ago at some silly games back when I was just a wiggly little caterpillar. I didn’t really -know- him until…When do you think, Kassy? That time with Gevurah when you tried to assassinate me for calling you…what was it again…?” Those wounds had healed, in some ways. In others, they’d be open eternally until some form of justice that only Lanlan could recognize was meted out. At least they could be flaunted now. “Learning!” He says, echoing Iintahquohae. “So clandestine! Very well, a wizard is entitled to her secrets. I think it would be poor etiquette to pry, too.” He rolls his eyes at himself, and at the book on wizardly etiquette for gentleman magicians.

Kasyr is almost grateful for the jabs from Lanlan, they help to give him something to focus on, "I'm worried about the tree." And given that sense of unease they briefly share, it seems like the one thing they could likely sympathize over. As for Lanlan's claims of ignorance, the swordsman simply inclines his head first towards the small Caluss congregation, then to the literal militants, and then finally to the bulk of just ...everything, "Really?" That said the mention of Valrae does undermine his more heated emotions, an uncomfortable frown crossing his features, "We'd know if something happened, wouldn't we?" That's all he really wants to say about it. As Lan begins to recount their 'marvellous history', the swordsman begins to stride over towards the seamstress, especially given that her inadvertent handling of an undead has left her with the remnants of one scattered across her hand. It doesn't matter that they looked like their existence had been held together by the grace of gods alone. Far be it for the the confused expression from the Inks, or the seemingly contrite, or even fervent position she assumes. There's an angry ripple of voices that spreads through the crowd- leading to the swordsman taking Lanlan's advice, striding over- and promptly hefting her up and over his shoulder. They were nearly at the work site and- 'Fwoosh'. Behind him, a solitary bottle hurtles through the air, a flaming cloth sticking out from the neck. It's with some effort that he contains the briefly murderous impulse that crops up- leaving him to instead step back. That said, even that seems pointless, as one of the Trintus guards steps directly into it's path, a shield brought out in one fluid motion- leaving its contents to spill over in a spray of flaming liquid, that sees the defensive object shed mere moments after. "Great. Fantastic." Lanlan's eyed again as the swordsman begins to move, keen on extricating himself towards what -should- be a building in progress, "You forgot the gala, where I warned you that you were drinking blood."

Iintahquohae is at a loss when the undead man essentially crumbles in her hand, and moments later she's hoisted over someone's shoulder. “Wh-” Well this isn't how this is supposed to go. The seamstress carried -other-people, not the other way around. Her initial thought is to kick and flail until whoever her captor is drops her or if she's particularly lucky, sets her gently back onto the ground, but the side of her face is pressed against a head of hair and calico ears that aren't undead. Her nose scrunches at the unfamiliar scent of his hair in her nose, and lifts her head up a bit. ...Why is Kasyr carrying her. “Pardon me, Your Grac- Hah. Kassy.” Lanlan's comment about infantilizing her is much appreciated, and she almost motions for the Archmage to float on over to lend a hand with getting her down. Instead, while she's right up against the King Kassy's ear, she murmurs, “If this is repayment along with that note about a house, I think you could do better.” Or maybe not. Maybe being hauled off from a mob of undead was a better form of payment than the seamstress initially thought, especially after she sees that explosive bottle one of the Trintus guards shields them from. “Strike that, actually. Thank you. ...Just put me down eventually, please?” Not now. Eventually. At least from this peculiar vantage point she can watch the king's back. “I don't feel very clandestine,” she adds for Lanlan, and considers chucking her necromancy book toward him like one might throw a disc so at least it's in safer hands for a bit. She wonders if he'll catch it when she does throw it.“We got anything like that at the library? It'd save me,” she waves a hand at the general chaos and horrors around them, “from this. You'd be my hero.” Belatedly, it dawns on the seamstress that Lan and Kas have been chatting this entire time. “Then, to Kasyr's calico ear, almost comical in her forced naivete,“You know Val too? That's shocking. We run in similar circles.”

Lanlan casts a shallow-eyed gaze toward the monster tree, gave it a callous consideration, and turns back to the front where the militants are being repelled by the Trintus guards. The worshippers at the tree are paid even less of a worry. “Caluss is dead,” Lanlan concludes. “Beyond death, even.” He wasn’t willing to consider otherwise. He smirks, as he sees a shady militant ignite a glowing ember in the shadow of a mausoleum’s great stone wall. Three more light up next to it. “We haven’t felt any harm come to Valrae,” Lanlan agrees. “But noticing something wrong is much easier than noticing something that hasn’t happened.” As if to accentuate his point, fire bombs arc over the graves spinning like wheels of fury in the dead air to splash and spread flames along the king’s feet, coming from an entirely different location than the first bomb the guardians deflect. “When was the last time you felt something that wasn’t from either of us.” When he scoops up Iintahquohae, he rolls again onto his back and muses a warning. “You’ll have to set firmer boundaries, Inky. Letting strangers carry you like a wayward child makes you seem weak.” He merely frowns at Kasyr’s last remark. Then he livens up again. “Oh! You’re right, and didn’t I also forget what you did to the tailor’s husband? I can remember it like it was yesterday, still reeling from your expulsion from Xalious and looking for some place suitable to displace all that -rage-...!” And then, as he’s just bobbing along like a drifting jellyfish, a book flies over his head. The one he spotted Inks reading. Unfortunately, it's gone just out of the reach of his fingers (not that he made any motion to go for it) and continues sailing past. Then it's Khitti’s voice in his ear, and his (or Inky’s) flayed skin in a pile if a book isn’t returned. Suddenly he lurches in its direction, shooting a gnarled staff out of his sleeve and catching the book just in the crook of its head. He slowly, gently reels it back up toward himself on an invisible tether as if it were a fishing net. “I’m afraid they took them all when they were given the charter,” he laments, turning the book over as the staff slides back into his sleeve like a recoiling spring. He holds it only with the tips of his fingers to protect himself from most of the grime.

Kasyr doesn't need his empathic senses to feel the situation is rapidly mounting to a boil, their sheer presence serving to inflame the ire of those present, even as their inaction cultivates their boldness. There's an awkward nimbleness to his motions as he hops away from the spreading flames, culminating in a rather petulant punt of some flaming shards at the tree itself. Well, that, and an awkward moment of his posture growing rigid, and his ears cropping up as she starts whispering into his ear. -why- " Maybe don't gallivant into hostile territory next time, Inks." As he speaks, he begins to reach offhandedly into his coat, a scalpel measured out. Those aware of the Kensais' reputation falter, though the bulk simply take it as an invitation to press forward. "Never going to hear the end of this." Without any flourish, the scalpels jammed into the air and dragged down- a seam in the world torn open in the midst of the group. By any and all accounts, a gaping rift that will no doubt be interpreted as some flagrant attack on the necropolis itself - though for the moment, it represents a means for Kasyr and the guards to rapidly hop forward, slipping from their current position, and to his ultimate destination. What -should- have been a towering edifice of stone and scaffolding, a substantial crypt designed by an undead engineer, meant to serve as a new home for the necropolis' new citizens. But what is, in fact, a partially demolished ruin- its building blocks having instead been repurposed into riot-bound rocks, to the stones thrown through the storefront. The scaffolding still exists, but it's since been reduced to a catawampus construct. It takes him a moment to process what he's seeing, and it's only after the fresh whisper from the seamstress on his shoulder, that he shifts into a partial crouch to facilitate her sliding to the ground. "Maybe she went for a much-needed sabbatical away from this godsforsaken continent." And to Iintahquohae, "Rulers tend to, by necessity." His voice is growing more terse now. Clipped. Lanlan's likely direction side-eyed with something approaching anger, "You mean the empty corpse that was hijacked. And which, you proceeded to- what? Misplace?" He can feel the anger rising, but he's just as quick to swallow it back, to reserve it for later, his tone shifting instead to disgust, "Must you?" It's not just the state of the edifice that bothers him- there's something off here. An acutely familiar feeling that coats this place- that's seped into it's foundation, into the very mortar. Even the grave dirt around them trembles, flecks of rust red providing colour to the otherwise barren earth.

Iintahquohae ;; “You're right Lan, I really should.” And so the seamstress begins to wiggle herself free of Kasyr's hold on her. As the Archmage continues to describe her husband, however, Iintahquohae freezes. “You. What. It was you?!” Whether she's still being held by Kasyr or has her feet firmly planted on the ground, Inks does not look happy. If it weren't for the overall tense setting they were currently in, the seamstress would scoop up Vailkrin's King, and throw him somewhere with a bit more space to properly deal with him... Why did that thought feel so familiar? Repetitive? That rise of fury within her hesitates at that unusual sense of deja vu, and Inks has to look to Lanlan, brow raised. “Are you sure? I...I remember fighting that person. In the forest out east..” It all happened so quickly, and she remembered being hauled away over someone's shoulder. She didn't even remember what Odhranos' body's assailant even looked like. While her confused expression tried to shift back to something relatively neutral, internally her mind was at war with itself, in one instance resisting something and in another trying to acknowledge what is truly there. Fortunately or unfortunately, depending on how one looked at it, Inks was familiar with this sort of feeling. Spending years in such close proximity to the temporal fragment she spun into thread long ago resulted in an overall jumbled mind sometimes. But the scalpel Kasyr produces, then neatly slices through the air with, that seems to anchor her to the present, and capture her attention. How did he know how to – Before the seamstress can bother with asking, she's carried through. Once she's able to slide down off of Kasyr, she turns around for two reasons. One to get a better look at the necropolis, and two, to see how that seam the King sliced open mends itself. She purses her lips at their conversation about her husband. “...Could you maybe not talk about that?” Thankfully her back is still turned, because it starts to crumble before she recomposes herself and whips back around to face the mess of scaffolding. “Forget it. He's back. He's wherever he wants to be while he's back, which is not anywhere near here, and it...doesn't matter.” She really is a terrible liar and the bitterness in her tone is a dead giveaway, but the seamstress presses on. She needed a distraction. “What are we doing here? What can I do to help here, Kassy? Lan?”

Lanlan sighs as Kasyr kidnaps Inks and takes her to a Second Location, one that’s not very far away at all. But he doesn’t feel the urgency and tags along like a slow-moving fog. “Coulda just did that in the first place,” he mumbles to himself. He idly watches the so-called revolutionaries mounting their confusion as their target seems to have disappeared entirely in the wake of an attack that would be called brutal and unprovoked, later. A massacre they’d call it, to give it more drama. “You’re all so lucky to be alive,” his disembodied voice whispers to the unliving, “or dead, undead–whatever. But he’s gone now, and your spectacle has lost its audience. Best to tell your masters you successfully goaded an attack out of the king.” He dances his fingers over their heads and small bits of glitter twinkle into being in the air between. They quickly blossom into ethereal butterflies that seem to cling to one agitator or another and follow. Eventually, Lanlan does meet back up with Inks and Kasyr, and he resumes subtly trying to inflame things. “Yeah, yeah I know that’s your excuse I’ve heard it already…” He’s over it already. Odhranos has (in some capacity) returned, and he even rejected his old body. The dregs that were left of it anyway, who could blame him? The issue of Valrae was more present and pressing. “She’s pathologically unable to do so, unfortunately,” diagnoses Doctor Lanlan. Iintahquohae’s distress and confusion is infectious, at least to him. Her feelings on the matter of Odhranos seem so…earnest. Maybe this isn’t some kind of weird game the two were playing. “Of course, I thought you knew all this already. We should talk about something else, how about–Ah! The gross misappropriation of resources.” And here is the trophy: a crumbling could-be structure of hardly more than bones. It was in even greater disrepair than Inks’ memory seems to be. “Actually, -is- this what you wanted to discuss? I’m not sure how -I- could be of any help in this.” All this stonework. “But you know who could…”

Kasyr counted whatever small blessings that their messier introduction meant- given the pooling of undead elsewhere meant this spot had somewhat freed up. But even then, he feels there should be -something- some form of hostility. And yet, all he can feel is a piercing sense of sadness, in part from Iintahquohae, and partially carried on the wind, in the tone of a chime. "Oh." That does explain it. Just as Lanlan had spotted his construct drifting lazily through the air, now they rested near the tail end of a carcass cavalcade - needles within a haystack. Better still, those who had initiated the mess had been muddled- their motivations seemingly sated through suggestions. This meant, Kasyr had little to focus upon, save for Iintahquohae, the Archmages needling, and the structure before him. He dwells on the seamstress for a moment longer, before his attention flicks to the tower, and the drifting motes of red which peel of it and swirl in the air around him, like dandelion tufts. "Just leave her be, Lan." His hand raises to the stone, and that sense of something only intensifies, the swordsman tracing his hands over the exterior, and towards the entrance to the tower. There's no fluctuations of feelings to be found here. Just anger, fear, and desperation etched into the walls like graffiti. "Larry Mar's construction. They sent a notice that an entire set of work crews went missing. Rather then endanger a bunch of guards to come investigate, I figured I'd personally attend to it." The offer of aid is uncomfortable, and he can't help but echo, "You're a seamstress. I apologize for pulling you into even this much." Lanlan is the next to be addressed, his armchair observation of Valrae provoking a long sigh, "Accurate. But, it's possible she was overwhelmed. Even I was, for a few years. Nothing changed." When he turns into the archway of the crypt, he's not greeted by an ambush, but rather, an absence. Nothing dwells in the shadow, no sound save his own echoes along the stones- save, perhaps the faint trickle of rock, of stone shifting. "I -wanted- to discuss the Underdark, because I'm still hoping things can be salvaged. Unfortunately- well. It never stops, does it?"

Iintahquohae is already in the midst of tying back her hair with a ribbon while looking at the mess of stone and Lanlan makes a suggestion that she thinks is supposed to be about her. Sure, she can move it, assuming it's what needs to be moved. Odhranos and S'erok taught her enough about terramancy that hauling rocks was cake with her strength, she just needed to know where to drop it. Her head turns briefly to the spot where the seam they walked through once was, and she has half a mind to ask Kasyr to re-open it so she could pelt some of those undead with stone. Not the nicest way to handle them, but it's hard for her to try feeling anything kind to them now. “I could try writing to Val,” Inks offers to Lanlan. “My magpie is good at finding people, I think. But he's slo- Larry?” She recognized the name of that old gargoyle. The traces of blood Kasyr seems to be collecting look like something she'd be better off avoiding, so the seamstress tries to give him some space. If the comment about her being a seamstress is supposed to be a dig, she doesn't take it that way. “You'd be surprised how useful we seamstresses are with problems in Vailkrin, Kassy.” She fixes him with another puzzled look. How'd he know her nickname was Inks before, anyway? Maybe Lan or Val mentioned her before to him. While the Archmage and Kasyr presumably begin a conversation about the Underdark, Inks changes her mind about treading lightly around Vailkrin's king and steps right on past him, under the crypt's archway. Are they looking for clues or gargoyle bodies? Probably both. “Of course it never stops,” Inks calls over her shoulder, a hand diving into her jacket pocket for one of her trusty chunks of glowing stone for some light. “It's Lithrydel. Are ya new?”

Lanlan chortles. “Me!?” But that’s all he can even say, and it echoes again. “Me!” He looks at Inks and shakes his head forlornly, his eyes confirming ‘someone else’, definitely. But he has an idea about who the someone else is already, since -someone- seemed completely unsurprised by Inks’ apparent confusion, and so far, her memory loss seemed to be quite specific… “Don’t worry, Inks. If anything’s wrong, we'll get to the bottom of it.” He saves a somewhat curious glance for Kasyr, just to measure the reaction. The right thing to do might be to act on his hunch, and that, he thinks, is what Valrae would do. He’s fine with pivoting, for now. “Seems silly to tear down your own house, but what do I know about what these guys think.” As the decaying horde approaches, Lanlan slides a subtly scented handkerchief out of a pocket and brings it to his nose and mouth. “Ah! The underdark. You wanted to explain the means by which you would use my labour for your profits? Good, I felt funny about bringing it up myself.” He was putting on a brave face for Val, but she’s been gone for probably a month now. “I think you should try writing to her. I have but–you should too. Anything at this point, even from a magpie.” He tries to sound sincere, but he has serious doubts about a magpie helping anyone, and he isn’t prepared enough to lie about one. It sounds forced. When his phantasmal construct is in range, its dolorous bell sounding, its pale deathly lantern glowing, Lanlan causes it to divert. Just some subtle tugging on his old robes and the deathless, lifeless thing has its course nearly randomly altered. The horde gradually bends like a flowing river of sludge to follow it, though by now some are probably only following the one in front, having forgotten the reason they were trailing in the first place. “I didn’t know you were -also- a stonemason, Inks!” He says it partially in jest, but allowing himself the small expectation that she may in fact be, a stonemason.

Kasyr should probably just resign himself to this. She'd fended off an eldritch abomination with a chair, while a human, of all things. Of course, she was just going to meander in. "Just hopeful. Or tired. They overlap a lot." As Inks lights up the crypt interior, she'll immediately hit paydirt. Chunks of sculpted stone lay shattered, wings, claws and visages of countless different styles- their pieces strewn about like some avant-garde art piece. A tableau in red, given the myriad pools of dried blood- accumulations which seem to have drained down from the upper floors, if the stains on the stairs were any indication. "You can count on Lan to help you out, je vous assure. And if this is any indication, I can guarantee you'd be safer wherever he directed you to." While it's unlikely that the archmage would be so kind as to loop him into things like he had for Inks- the swordsman still tries to get a decent bearing of where Lanlan's face would be through their bond, and whatever aura of 'smug' he's giving off. Mostly so he fix a look in that general direction, and a slight shake of his head. "There's a lot of curious things about all this. The papers, representatives like Lefty. I can't make heads or tails of any of it, enfin." The swordsman hops forward, hopefully to try and cut ahead of Iintaquohae before she takes point, though a part of him is almost guessing that will just provoke her into try to do the same. "Wouldn't it be our labour? ...Though, if that es you hinting that you'd like to be cut into whatever deal is made- I'm not saying no. Despite everything between us, you have been helping my citizens." Even if they didn't seem too keen on helping themselves. Another floor, another mess. A rinse and repeat process, only punctuated by scratch marks, handprints, and the gradual thinning of the leftovers. "Want the short description?"

Iintahquohae nods to Lanlan, but her frown doesn't quite go away just yet. “I'll write to her, then. Maybe Facet can track her down.” That bit was unlikely. Were magpies even good at tracking things? She didn't know much about birds, just that she liked them. As for being a stonemason, she has to laugh. “Maybe if the tailoring gig fizzles out.” She holds the glowing stone in her hand up above her head, throwing her and roughly a foot around her in a cone of relatively dim light. It's an older stone that she'd need to replace, but it works for now as she glimpses the broken remains of gargoyles in the debris. The scent of blood causes her nostrils to flare, but she does her best to ignore it. She wasn't hungry. There's a considerable delay in her reaction to the lantern-toting construct Lanlan has. “How did you make that, Lan?” She tries to keep her tone casual, despite the sight of one of the undead (or rather, very much completely dead) workers her light manages to catch. The word 'Bootlicker' is carved across its gnarled forearm, and another's apparently ruptured torso nearby has a twisted symbol of a tree, which the seamstress can only assume is a depiction of the tree they portaled away from. She keeps an ear open to listen to Kasyr and Lanlan's discussion,uncaring if the swordsman took the lead, and briefly lowers herself down to a crouch to better examine one the carved tree in the corpse's torso. Serrure was better at this sort of stuff, and she wishes that spectral detective were still around. Though if memory served, he dealt more with ghosts, not undead. Or gargoyles, for that matter. “Don't get too far,” she calls out to both of them. “Look at this.”

Lanlan rolls over in the air as if floating one way or the other might make him more comfortable. "Let me know if the tailoring thing starts to fizzle," he says in a carefree way. He idly watches her work as if his eyes just happened to land there. Absently he recalls the work that was done to create the droning beacon; the dreams of death, the envious thirst for life recreated in a light source, the call trapped in a bell. All wielded in the ragged mask-wearer's tattered robes, given form by nothing other than belief. His belief. Could it be explained even if he was so inclined? He hardly understands it himself. "I found what all dead things covet most of all, and I made a far-off promise to them that they could have it. That's their wish-whisperer." The herd has no idea about any of this, it does what it's body tells it to, not its mind. Inks seems to have found something interesting, though, and he deigns to descend nearly to the ground with a silk handkerchief protecting his mouth and nostrils. He leans with a scrutinizing eye over the mutilated corpses. He looks at the cuts, in particular the gashes that spell out the dead's favored footwear flavour. "One of the newly turned did this," he says conclusively. "This was probably dead for a long time," he adds, noting the bloodless marks and the sickly purple and black flesh. It made sense suddenly, that there might be different communities of dead things, divided not only by heritage in life but by time of death. Generations. "Maybe a Drow, then." He chuckles to himself, imagining that Quintessa could turn out to be right after all, for all the wrong reasons. If it was a Drow when it was alive, then does it still consider itself so? He'd have to ask an undead Drow if he ever met one. 'To whom do you owe allegiance', it seems to be the most important question to ask, perhaps for all of them. Another one might be 'Can it be bought?'. "Then again, most of the Drow population that was lost seems to have been slaves." So it could've been practically any race when it lived.

Kasyr may have been hoping to briefly distract himself from the present with plans of the future, but when the offer is greeted with dead air- he simply falls quiet. At least, until Inks takes the lead in playing private investigator, drawing his attention towards the marked corpse, "Fantastique." As Lanlan begins to make his own deductions about the scene of the crime, the Kensai creeps a bit closer, if only to fall into a crouch- one hand moving to touch the corpse. "It's a message." That much was obvious, but- "Not one for us. They're not keen on non-undead entering the necropolis." That -sounded- right, but he can't help the uncertainty in his voice. Was it possible that it was meant to be delivered later? But no, they'd taken the vampires' bodies, so why not this one? " This es meant for..those who are loyal to the city, then. A warning. Threat, more like." The swordsman's fingers move to the emblem now, tracing over the ruined flesh, even as Lanlan theorizes over the identities of the perpetrators "Could be. They were certainly 'liberated' by Caluss when he passed through. It would make sense, in a twisted way." Did the origin even matter, though? They were all here now, a fresh problem to contend with. "Honestly, could be any of the people Caluss had collected over the years. Maybe even some enterprising locals not happy with their lot in life et looking to capitalize. All of the above, peut-etre." The display on their way had certainly shown several flavours of crazy- and banking on the worst outcome was a tried and true tactic for Kasyr.

Enough so, that for a brief, bitter moment- an intrusive thought emerged- that Lefty could be right, not in the veracity of his theories, but more in their brutal utility. If fiction -was- fact, would this still be happening? He tries to discard the notion, to focus instead on the present, "I think I'm going to try et get ahold of the necromancers. See if I can get their help to extricate any undead who are...less than sympathetic with the... disturbing status quo that es establishing itself. The Black Library may be help, too, given that institution still seems intact." Likely due to the largely undead staff it's enjoyed over the years, though the contents of its shelves no doubt helped. "J'imagine those who remember Redhale would be willing. If we can find who needs help, given-" He gestures towards the mess laid out before them, before rising back up to his feet and addressing the pair near him. "..So, I'm not brushed up on my gargoyle knowledge."He'd never researched how to kill them," Are they fully dead- or could they be restored?"

"Doubt it'll ever fizzle,” Inks replies to Lanlan, grinning. “Unless running around nude becomes a widespread fad.” Gods, she hopes not. That would be disgusting. She falls silent as the Archmage continues and Kasyr chimes in. She didn't have much, if anything at all really, to contribute to talk about Caluss. Instead, she sidesteps out of Kasyr's way so he can look at the corpse, while she turns her attention back to a broken gargoyle. She nudges at a shattered stone wing with her boot, revealing an in tact gargoyle's head, frozen in an expression of surprise, which implied to her an ambush. While lowering to a crouch to collect it, the seamstress shrugs at Kasyr's question, but thinks she might understand why he asked. “I'd guess they aren't dead the way we can die. They're kind of like golems, aren't they Lan? The limbs of my mannequins can move around independently, but...” It isn't quite the same, is it? Gargoyles, she assumed, possessed souls. Her mannequins didn't, so the idea that sprang to mind may very well not work. Still wouldn't hurt to give it a try. With how broken the gargoyles she could see in the dark were, that task might take ages. She turns the gargoyle head in her hands with some care not to drop it, half expecting it to spring to life and animate in her hands.

The gargoyle head is given a cautious rattle while keeping it within her grip in some effort to rouse it, well aware of how ridiculous this might look. It didn't help that the seamstress made a point of looking into the stone face's eyes as if it were a real person like Lanlan or Kasyr, but that usually helped humanize her mannequins when she brought them to their imitation of life. She had a lowered, magick'd tone she used when 'waking' her animated mannequins up as well, and tried that on the gargoyle head to see if it might work. “Hello,” she murmurs, and the others might notice a faint bluish glow on her tongue, “Can you tell us what happened to you?” Glancing away briefly, she looks to Kasyr, then Lanlan. “Try to find its torso just in case – She,” she squints at the head, and doesn't correct herself. The contorted stone face looked feminine. “She might need her head reattached.”

“I don’t think ‘old undead’ would bother with mutilation,” Lanlan says, carelessly disputing that it might be a disgruntled long timer. “It’s redundant and wouldn’t cause any pain. Look, it doesn’t even bleed.” His theories were for his own enjoyment, he has no investment in the consequences of them being newly turned, other than being correct. No, he’s much more invested in his own workings. “So what is the partnership with Tristoth worth to you,” he says with an air of curiosity and mischief. “Since you want to barter for it with this horde I gathered with my belltoller, I might want to reconsider the terms of its use…”

Inks’ newest preoccupation takes up his latest interest. “Hm? Yes,” he confirms confidently. “They used to be very much like golems, in the beginning. Since then they’ve evolved into something much different, much more complex.” He knows as much about golems and gargoyles as he does about microwaves. But he likes them anyway. Gargoyles are among the cleanest, most sanitary monsters to call Vailkrin home (when they aren’t a pile of rubble), and as such they deserved a special amount of respect. Ideal guardians, strong as stone, fast as a bat’s wing, silent as a statue. Apparently, they were also somewhat brittle. “I can see some of the pieces…” Lanlan seems to glance down at the rubble idly, disguising the effort he was mustering. With a callous lifting of his fingers, a practiced carelessness in gesturing intrinsic to the success of his spell, he animates several chunks of stonework. Intricately carved on some sides, haphazardly split on the other where it was evidently smashed. Nothing like what Inks was preparing. They wouldn’t even pretend to live, merely move. The slate-gray pieces of gargoyle hopped and skittered along the ground, over pieces of the watchtower, over pieces of itself. It clumsily scrapes and bounces into its pieces, clumsily trying to put itself together again nearly mindlessly. Eventually, it has a jagged configuration. Deep faults, chipped edges notwithstanding, its complete. The gargoyle’s solid stone eyelids crack open, and its mouth seems to shutter as a coarse grating noise comes from the pit of its throat. It erupts into a baleful scream as life (or something like it) returns. Its piercing scream is such a bane to Lanlan that he tumbles head over heels backwards several times with his gloves clenched tight over his ears as he floats away from it. But then the gargoyle realizes the danger is passed. It hears Inks’ question. “A helmet–no a mask–of chains swaying in front of its face. Eyes swirling like the abyss. Just hate and hate and hate…! And they all followed it and they loved it…” The gargoyles laments creak out of its cracked stone lungs with perplexity and sorrow as it recalls its death. Lanlan has drifted back down by now, and eyes the gargoyle with contempt for screeching like it did. “Mask of dangling chains? Good.” Caluss had nothing to do with chain masks.

Kasyrs' still frowning, even as Lanlan runs through his own reasoning, "I don't think pain was the goal. The mutilations seem more goal-oriented than sadism, per se." There's a pause, for a moment, before he finally offers a conciliatory, "I don't think you're wrong though. Largely, au moins. The undead population had been fine insofar as seeing their needs met until Caluss' lot arrived." As Lanlan drags the conversation back towards the Underdark, the Swordsman's expression sours- caught somewhere between irritation and resignation. "At this juncture? Likely nothing. It would be an additional cost, up front, and then for some time after. And while it -could- prove beneficial over the course of years? Well, the odds of them backstabbing Vailkrin- especially given the matters brought to the table, and your own workings? More an eventuality, than a possibility." There's a pause, and the Kensai can't help but make a click of his tongue, "If my own estimation is correct, Laezila es apt to deal with one of the other house heads. And once one goes- I believe the city's decline will finish." Why is he bothering to explain it? It's a paranoid point of view tempered by pessimism, and experience. "In theory, that would be, would always have been, the most profitable outcome. I just - " He waves his hand vaguely in the air, "I don't think it matters, one way or the other. You're not really interested, j'pense."

His attention flicks away from the archmage again - trying the best he can to ignore his presence in the same manner a cat might unperson any sort of uncomfortable part of their reality. Instead, he favours the morbid puzzle pieces that are being assembled - more for the queer artistry involved in the process, than any real hope for an answer. It was rare, after all, for anything to go according to plan. Which might explain why he's so taken aback by the dreadful keening that tears through the air, and has him immediately slinking back to lean against one wall of the incomplete structure, tactically ensuring he's not within view of any of the windows. "Huh." A mask of chains was specific. That sort of symbolism seemed extremely specific, and the fact that it was on display in a manner that was front and foremost made it seem important. "The question es, then, are they related to the problem as a whole, or something else? And es this meant to use Caluss as a smoke screen, or-?" Far too many questions. And they were wasting an excess amount of time in enemy territory. "You did well, Inks." He tries not to look her way as he says it, instead busying himself with the process of collecting what motes of a Gargoyles features he might be able to. If the trick worked once, it could again. "We should collect what we can, see if we can find another witness - or something, et then get out." How long, after all, until someone was directed to this location, to ensure their message was discovered? Really, the swordsman is on edge enough, that he's actively listening for any hint of footsteps that might belong to another interloper.

The confirmation Lanlan gives is reassuring. So her idea of talking to a gargoyle's head had the potential to work. She's distracted by the sound of a collection of stones scraping against stone, but tries to keep her gaze fixed on the gargoyle's eyes while Lanlan pieces her body back together. Its scream elicits a wince from the seamstress, though she tightens her grip on the head rather than hurling it as far away as possible. Her ears flatten against her skull in effort to muffle some of the sound. But then she speaks, and as she describes her demise Inks walks over to her reconstructed body and gently places the gargoyle's head back on her shoulders. The description didn't mean much to her, so she tried to gauge both Kasyr's and Lanlan's reactions. Before she can voice her own questions, the Kensai has beaten her to the few that crossed her mind, so she settles with keeping her attention on the gargoyle. It'd be such a shame to keep her fractured like this.

“D'you mind if I bring you back to my shop, patch you up?” Partially an experiment to see if she could even complete the task, and partially for some unusual soft spot Inks possessed for gargoyles. The question was more Inks voicing her intentions rather than something for the gargoyle to answer. From her jacket pocket, the seamstress produces a square of folded muslin that she shakes loose to reveal a very plain-looking bag. Of course, it isn't plain, but the trick isn't especially unique. It holds more than one might suspect, clearly, as Inks begins collecting the she-gargoyle's pieces. All but the head, which she'll cradle in the crook of her arm so she isn't left to darkness. “Do you remember your name?” She asks the gargoyle, but then she turns her attention to Kasyr. “Thanks. Competence is my middle name. ...Sometime with an 'In-” at the beginning, but we don't talk about that.” She flashes a grin while hefting her haul of gargoyle body parts over a shoulder. “Gold or silver veins, Lan? Which do you think might match this lady's stone better?”

"I didn't say pain was the point…" Lanlan twins responds to Kasyr with restrained exacerbation and a shrewd, defensive look. "I said they don't know their audience. I know you're doing your best but make your best better, please." He will look very smart in front of the audience now. And as they still aren't finished discussing Tristoth, and may never be until it fills in with dirt, he continues giving Kasyr the chance to do the 'right thing'. "Ah! It's worth nothing to you, that is a shame," he says without a trace of pity. There's a sense that a crescendo looms, amassing around him like an aura and waiting to be released through his lips. "I'm sure my great pains will be worth much to somebody, and truth be told I don't believe I can be known to assist you without steep recompense, anyway." He makes his eyes look pleading and remorseful as he says: "Of course you understand? At least until the angry pebble king lies back down in his quarry." He pretends to drift off in his musings, "So who might better use an obedient battalion of shamblers, I have heard of stirrings from a particular noble on the other side of Rynvale but can you imagine getting these guys all on one boat…? Brings back memories doesn't it. Ah well." He's probably made his point.

"I feel for my former matron," he says, not quite admitting that he agrees with Kasyr's assessment. "And whosoever she loops into this scheme. She's woefully underestimating the situation, that's what I think…" he's just about to let it lie, but then he seems alerted. "Have you heard something?"

After the gargoyle calms and speaks, and Lanlan's ears stop ringing, he listens in with aloof curiosity. "What does it symbolize to you?" He quizzes.

The gargoyle has mostly immobile facial features, but her voice brightens when Inks invites her over, invites her away from this place of monsters. It's the eyes that give her away truly, even the stony crystal things they are reveal a depth of new found hope, a light shining out from within. It has the sad latent effect of drawing attention to a diameter-stretching crack and a tiny dimple of a chip in one eye. "Of course I would! Maybe I coud be a better guardian to you than I was to them…" she mutters about her failure. "And call me Gemma," her voice happily grates. "Because of my eyes."

Lanlan is sure he's missed something for a moment after Inks asks him which precious metal it should be. Briefly he sees Gemma with a gaudy golden chain and a tiara. Then he sees. "Oh no," he says awestruck by her vision. "That's an impossible choice to make. Silver…gold…or even mithril? Can you imagine, Gemma?" She scarcely can, and probably doesn't even see colors.

Kasyr squints, but doesn't rise to the jab, nor the provocation in regards to the Underdark. Relying on others had been his first mistake - and there's an awareness (more akin to a paranoid certainty), that whatever goalpost was set in the moment, it would likely be shifted whenever things seemed comfortable, or too convenient. The only thing the Kensai can offer is a curt, "Ideally six feet down." in response to Lanlans pebble king comment. That said, if Lanlans potential 'Offer' of removing the undead from Vailkrin was supposed to be a threat, he found the wrong audience. "Getting them out of here would be no small blessing, if you've noticed the paper. They wind up winning someone else's war, all the better." And even moreso, if the blame for a heap of (feral) undead being kidnapped and brutalized wasn't tied to the crown. "Perhaps they might curb an appetite for vengeance- since I feel that's part of what it is."

That musing, though is distant- because Lanlan isn't entirely wrong. It's not footsteps the Kensai has honed in on, however, despite how much he's straining his ears. Rather, it's an unfamiliar malignancy, and an unpleasant fervour that has begun to creep forward- tendrils of emotion that came from far too many sources. "Company." And not the sort his current accomplices were in the process of befriending. Their welcome had officially been overstayed, and it was on that note that he finally materialized a blade- the metallic outline barely even formed before its' being dragged across the floor, a narrow gash formed between this point and what he deemed an adequately discreet point. Namely, the cellar in the hanging corpse. Altogether, an adequate exit point, and one that may even allow for the retrieval of a few more fractured gargoyles if one were quick - though, perhaps not, since even as  Inks and the archmage pass through the breach, it would already be in the process of sewing back up. A literal narrow escape, but one that would ideally avoid compounding what was already apt to be a small catastrophe given it would leave little trace behind.

Only then would he finally address the seamstress properly, "Well, your...patient seems amenable all the same- so I'd say your bedside manner es not lacking." He wants to laugh, but without the tension of the situation, the only thing left to do is deflate- as it dawns on him the complications that would be due in time. Worse, despite everything, he'd already started to lapse back into familiar habits- even with the measures he'd taken. What cordiality was there begins to seep away, replaced instead by a more guarded formality, "I appreciate the help, both of you. But I should likely get back to work- as Lanlan was keen to point out, things are apt to get far worse, before they get better, given the situation abroad es only going to compound things further." And, on that particularly curt note, he'd move to leave, "Do let me know if I can do something to help."

“Gemma? I like it. I'm Inks. That's Lanlan,” Iintahquohae turns Gemma's head in her hands to point out the Archmage, “and Kasyr,” she adds, turning the gargoyle's head toward him next. “And you absolutely could be a better guardian, but let's get you fixed up first.” Clearly the seamstress is distracted with visions of her new gargoyle friend with glimmering veins of silver and gold and maybe mithril if she can swing it, but her ears perk up at the warning of 'company'. It may look ridiculous, but Inks hugs Gemma's head to her bosom like she's shielding an infant from danger, and she beelines for the exit Kasyr has created. She's halfway through when her expression shifts to something utterly perplexed. “How in the world did you learn how to rip seams so cleanly like this? I've never seen anyone else do it before...” It'd be foolish for Inks to think her trick was exclusively her discovery, given the existence of portals and folks that hopped planes and things, but there was a method to hers that this felt eerily close to. Her thoughts almost forcibly transition to something else without her realization so she can't dwell too long on what she shouldn't know, and her attention turns to Lanlan.

“I might stop by the Mage's Tower with her to see if some pyromancers might be able to help me melt down a lot of silver and gold. Promise I won't set the library on fire!” Inks might have pulled her seam ripper from her pocket to mirror Kasyr's blade and cut a way for herself to Xalious, but funnily to her she hesitates, as if repeating it might jar a memory that shouldn't be there. “I think we'll just walk out.” She's halfway up the cellar stairs before she registers Kasyr's question. “I think we're good. Maybe uh...make sure the streets aren't so dangerous? Hemlock Way and Nightshade Ave are a mess and I'm not replacing my shop's glass -again- for another brick to smash through it.” And up the rest of the stairs she goes. The Kensai and Archmage can probably still hear her chatting away with Gemma. “Have you ever been outside of Vailkrin before? You might get a kick out of sunlight. It's nice-”