Delivered Parchments

*A rolled parchment appears in the air before you and settles into your hand.  It unseals itself and opens to the words within.*

Kineada and Vorcet,

There are a few issues I need to discuss with both of you and given our schedules, I feel a missive will be best for preliminaries.  As you are both aware, Westbridge has been under Vectorian occupation for some time.  Though TriPower had once geared up for an assault on the backward government, with Throm's demise and the seeming retreat of their armies, it has once again been left to the citizenry to fight for themselves.  It is no surprise that the oppressed have grown accustomed to their treatment, too afraid to make a bid for their freedom, as Vector's punishments are brutal and swift.

I feel it is left to those of us who aid in keeping balance to restore Westbridge back to what it should be - an open hub for all, a diverse city where many races can freely travel, and many governments and clans as well.

It falls to us, then, to begin a crusade to squash the occupation, but I must have the agreement of both of you before we begin seeking out others who will readily aid us.  This in itself will be difficult, as where I see numbers, other clans see affiliations and may not readily work side by side to garner support and free Westbridge.  However, this is a secondary issue to the primary.  Do we feel the obligation strongly enough to embroil our clan with the political mixings of Vector?

My vote, of course, is an unequivocal yes.  It is important, people need help... I feel it is time to bring about balance for Westbridge once more.

Sanria

Thunder Crash

Sanria  tried to focus on the letter on her desk.  She clenched the pen in her hand and pressed hard, her  hair continually needing to be pushed back as she  wrote.  She had gone home and talked to Colin about what her plans were only to be met with a desperate plea for her to stay out of political affairs.  "Send  someone else!  There  has to be someone  else!" Colin had growled.  He was angry  at the Keepers, as though they somehow had put her up to the plot.  He was just angry.  Sanria knew  that the black  makou in  him  was at fault, but it had  gotten increasingly difficult to do the job she had  signed up to do while Colin  wanted her closer and closer to him. It was stifling. When she told Colin she had terminated her most recent... mistake... she watched  him do everything short  of tear down  the cavern. Nioma now sat in Sanria's office, laying on her back, playing in quiet contentment with her magical toys.  Safe from the rampage back home.

The truth was, Sanria hadn't  done anything yet.  She hadn't done anything but  try to push Colin away, push him to the brink, make him want to leave her side.  She'd acted  on nothing.  She shook  her head.  It was no one's business what was going on with her body.  No one needed to know, not yet. There  were reasons, she  knew, for Colin's desperation.  A singular  one, more than  the others, that lay  cooing to herself  on the floor.  A child that he  didn't  make yet was  raising.  Sanria shook  her head again  and pulled in her focus.

"Kineada and Vorcet, There are a few issues I need to discuss with both of you and given our schedules, I feel a missive will be best for the preliminaries."

Sanria paused again. Her  throat closed up, her eyes burned. The last thing she needed was anyone doubting her capacity to lead and make decisions. She clenched her teeth, forcing every emotion that roiled within her to the back of her mind.There was business to take care of now that would get her every attention.

Rain

Rain clattered on the roofs of Emerald street, engulfed in the blackness of the night.  It was autumn and lately the wind had turned cold and vicious. Winter would soon be on the doorstep of Westbridge. On Penny Lane a young boy, dressed in rags, was scavenging coins from the large white marble fountain that gushed forth.  Further up, on Emerald street, a dog barked. The sound of gnarl-like chattering of the Vectorian speech became audible and the boy raised in alarm. But alas, Penny Lane was a dead end, and the light of the Enforcers had caught him in the act.

From the shadows, another ragged beggar watched as the Vectorian Enforcers had their fun with the boy and beat him up until his skull collided with the marble of the fountain's edge. Before the Enforcers left, the boy was kicked in the gut twice and then left to rot as the garbage they thought he was. The puddles around the boy were tainted red, as were the coins in his clutched fist.  It was a Westbridge mentality these days. What I find is mine, and I keep what I find. For under Vectorian rule, life was harsh. Death for coins, coins for food.

After the Enforcers left, the other beggar rose up from the shadows and walked over to the boy. He evaded the puddles as he went, and kneeled next to the boy. The lad was still alive, but barely. With ease, he pried the fist open and took the coins from him. And then, surprisingly lifted the boy up in his arms, and retreated into the shadows with him as the rain washed away the blood.

The Blueprint

As he ascended the stairway into the tree, memories flooded back to Ror. Inside Ror saw that the furniture had long ago decided to fall apart and decay, and nature had taken over. He used a stick to brush the many spider rags aside, and concluded that his home would need extensive work to make it habitable again. After some time, he worked his way into what was once a living room. Gliding with his hand over the carving in the wall, he smiled, triggered by the happy memories. Ror continued his inspection and eventually found the study, and surprisingly, there was an intact box of makou crystal sitting in the rubble of what once had been his desk. Of course, thought Ror, as he kneeled and touched the crystal. How could I have forgotten? A faint click was heard under Ror's touch and he grinned. "You were expensive, but worth the money. And if you are still here," whispered Ror, "are your contents as well?" He pushed open the lid and then smiled broadly.  Unharmed by the passing of time was a scroll he had cared for quite a bit. He took it out, and unrolled it in his lap. The ink had not faded, the blueprint had survived.