Echos of Cyre: Remains and Revenge

[Psycho Cuten]

With a little stale bread and a few swigs of water in her, Sophia's stomach had still not settled, and not because of the horrible rations in this makeshift camp. How easy would it be, she wondered, to find a niche in some brelish town. A steady job she'd be suited to, and fresh meals every day at a cozy inn, and a warm bed with soft sheets.

The sun was setting, its orangish glow diffused across the western sky, her dark brunette hair swaying in the gentle breeze, and Sophia recalled the moment in the orchard with Khale, on her eleventh birthday. She blushed a rosy red and smiled, thinking how carefree she was back then. The thought saddened her, thinking of how complicated things were becoming.

Reaching for any means of distraction, Sophia grabbed the dwarf's magic bag she had taken so long ago, but never thoroughly examined. She now dreaded it, inexplicably, recalling the terrible events that lead up to her acquiring the bag. Sophia stubbornly pushed that thought out of her mind, pulling out the contents of the bag she was familiar with. The flat tipped executioner's sword, she drove into the soft mud, and tossed, with no small effort, the weathered darkleaf armor unceremoniously next to it. Sophia continued rifling through the objects with a passive gaze, trying her hardest not to think about where each object came from.

(Sophia is emptying the bag for all it's contents to be shown before the party. Anyone else is welcome to chime in.)

[Trojan Hamster]

Jarot came to a stop next to Sophia and crouched down by the pile of gear that needed to be sorted before tomorrow. They would need funds in Wroat, and a few souvenirs from their escape might fetch a good price if they could find an interested buyer. He could wait until their trip he supposed, but right now he desperately needed something to take his mind off the day.

His rough fingers traced along the finely crafted darkleaf as he focused intently like he had been shown by his mentor years ago. He had yet to have much success himself, probing the spirit of a weapon or armor, drawing out its past battles, and its maker’s toils, was something that required concentration Jarot had always lacked.

His mind wanted to remind him of all the weakness he had seen today, in his people. “His” people, what a ridiculous concept, he wasn’t a leader, he wasn’t even really playing the part. He was just a wolf leading a herd of sheep. A weak wolf.

It wasn’t the twisted wreck of a nation that he saw today that bothered him so much, it was the realization of how much that mattered to him.

Jarot growled and focused back to the armor under his hands, he couldn’t think about this any more, not if he was going to find a way to destroy the Silver Flame.

((Using Sense Magic on all weapons and armor we have. Takes 10 minutes per item, 1d20+7, DC 10 + Caster Level of item, feel free to roll for me ))

[Caedrus]

((Stuff identified, communicated privately))