Jackal Among Snakes

Argrave grabbed a silver handle from a shelf, pulling free a black box. It was large, and he was unprepared for the weight—Anneliese put her hand beneath it to stop Argrave from dropping it. They lowered it to the ground together. It was a black cube chest with a silver locking mechanism.

The four of them stood in Argent’s treasury, entirely unopposed. The place was a fitting treasury for the Lord of Silver… but quite disappointing for Argrave. Fine art, silver statues, or sculptures of Lords past might indeed be quite expensive, but Argrave would have preferred enchanted items. In ‘Heroes of Berendar,’ you might be able to sell an expensive painting to a blacksmith—that wouldn’t fly, here.

Instead, Galamon wrenched free gemstones from statues and poured boxes of jewelry into their lockbox. Once the box was full, he moved on to the backpacks, haphazardly tossing valuables in alongside the books and supplies he held. The elven vampire still had a grim air to him—he was far paler than normal, and instead of dour, he seemed enraged. His arm had healed to the elbow already, yet it seemed to be taking much out of the vampire. He drank from his flasks very frequently, draining them one by one.

Argrave knelt down to the chest, lifting it open—Quarrus had not bothered to lock it. There was a silver medallion within atop a pillow of purple silk. It was a strange, primitive looking thing, with strange letters on it. In its center, a woman held a horn up, pouring water from it.

“The inheritance medallion,” Argrave raised his head to look at Anneliese. “With this gone… no more Lords of Silver. No one will ever hold this seat again.”

Anneliese looked at him seriously. “Is that… prudent, taking it?”

“Well… the ancient gods are a bit more vindictive than the others. At the same time, they don’t pay much attention to the mortal world. I think.” Argrave took the medallion. “Destroying it might be problematic. Merely taking it, though…” Argrave weighed the medallion in his hand, then stuffed it into his pocket. “Every bit helps.”

Argrave stood from the box, walking to a corner of the treasury where things remained more on the curio side of things. He opened a few boxes—most of them were worthless things, truly just oddities—but eventually, he saw what he’d been looking for within. He turned the box in question about.

A gray, slightly transparent model heart lay within the plain box. Argrave touched it. The thing was lifelike enough that Argrave would not have been surprised to feel heat, but it was dormant. In the wake of the grim battle not moments ago, he could not muster the excitement he’d been anticipating at obtaining the Wraith’s Heart, the final piece he needed to become Black Blooded.

“Time to go,” Argrave turned around. “Leave the rest of the treasure. Maybe the freed breeder slaves can take…” Argrave trailed off, feeling the words weren’t fitting with Galamon’s presence.

“We should assess things in Sethia, alter our plans accordingly,” Anneliese suggested.

“Getting out is more important than doing some people-watching. Quarrus made a big commotion, both by fighting and dying—might be some of his underlings are sauntering up those stairs. While it’s a fight we can win, I’d rather sidestep it altogether,” Argrave commentated, stepping towards the stairs.

“…what of the albinos?” Anneliese asked quietly. “They saw—"

Galamon interrupted. “Please. I’ve done enough

at his vampire companion. He couldn’t

“Galamon… you couldn’t—”

arm up—the forearm was already taking shape. “I could’ve done something. I took

in response, and so he turned towards the

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scattered. The Vessel’s heart pulled away, seeking safety. Durran cut the straps on his saddle, freeing

great, even with the reach of Durran’s long glaive. As he dropped, he readied a spell in one hand. He threw his glaive forward,

grunted in pain, glancing down at his leg—blood dripped out of his wyvern scale boots, onto the paved streets. Something had broken, obviously, and badly. Water rained down on him from the dead

stood on one leg and hopped down the street, keeping a hand to the wall to support himself. He retrieved his glaive, then whistled. His wyvern craned its neck down to reach him, and Durran grabbed hold of its horns, maneuvering gracefully until he took a seat on the saddle. He pulled up

in the sky. Others had been injured and could not fly. Others were outright killed. Their attacking force had been devastated… yet the city of Sethia more so. At this point, ruined buildings had become more common than standing ones. Corpses lay everywhere. The streets were buried

top floors. The Lord of Silver had been fighting there… and judging by the waterfalls coming out of the windows and freshly made holes, he had lost utterly. Durran couldn’t picture what had gone down there. He had seen the Lord of Gold—he

he saw the Lord

as it writhed about the city, dispatching opponents indiscriminately. Brium had not yet betrayed them, but Durran could see it coming as clear as day. This well-executed

Durran did not know how, they brought a great trove of weapons to the field—southron elf war relics. Titus’ people destroyed many Vessels, yet their

holdout of the forces beneath Argent still standing in Sethia. An overwhelming

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down and crashed amidst rubble, but the top of the building was largely intact. Brium, human form reassumed,

very well—his forces had defeated all of those within Sethia with ease. Though he was worried about the confrontation with Quarrus, his worries were unfounded. The mercenary, who he initially thought had disappointed him, proved to be far greater than what he promised, single-handedly eliminating the Lord of

a war-torn ruin. The southern tribals and the citizens both died in numbers far too great. Brium had wanted Sethia—he seemed likely to obtain a shadow of its glory

moved away from his men, moved away from the heart of the city. Their movements made it obvious—they knew of what Brium intended to do. Another machination

conflict, his vision twisted. He was drawn to the sight at once, for his vision was typically flawless. In the far distance, two balls attached by a rope twirled through the air—they stayed suspended in midair, unmoving, purple light twirling around them. Brium squinted. They seemed to be growing,

must have affected his sight. He stood, climbing further up the roof. His vision was dyed red and distorted, and he was

chest. Brium raised a hand, but the glaive soared over

words sounded muddled—his voice sounded like something was wrong