From Chaos, the Order.

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From Chaos, the Order.

Postby Marren on Mon May 07, 2018 8:48 pm

The parcel was quite plain to behold, almost overlooked completely throughout the course of the day. A simple leather bound book, wrapped in what may have been one of Fuglys bar towels. dirty, faded and worn almost to the point of falling to pieces at a touch, the package sitting harmlessly on the desk of a rather prominent elven businessman, far from Nanthalion inside the city limits of Verdspar. He hadn't even noticed it sitting there until the day was over, his paperwork filed away, candles and lanterns throughout his shop extinguished... all but one on the desk. Crossing the room with cloak in hand, preparing for the walk home, the man leans over the desk to blow out the final candle... and freezes, his seafoam green eyes focused on that parcel.
For several seconds he doesn't move, barely daring to breath... he had been alone all day, no-one had entered his office except him.... So, "where'd you come from?" Asked of the towel wrapped object. A sigh is given as his cloak is thrown into the chair on the opposite side of the desk, the parcel taken up and cloth unwrapped. "Oooh... well hello, there." The book. It finally arrived. He had requested it's acquisition... years ago. Hells, he had forgotten all about it. But the moment the book is turned over in hand, the cover lifted... there is no doubt in his mind, and the memory of his long ago obsession comes screaming into the forefront of his mind.

There, on the first page, is the Sigil of the Order. The controversial, scarcely heard of mark the Order of the Unspoken uses to mark their safe houses, hide aways, stashes... even their members.. If the stories were to be believed. The second his eyes fall on the sigil, a sharp intake of breath before that breath is held. And held. Finally the air rushes from the elfs lungs as he hurries around the desk, cloak shoved into the floor, immediately replaced on the chair by elven posterior. Setting the book on his desk, the man scoots his chair closer, opens a drawer and extracts both a bottle of wine, and a glass. A few moments later the glass is filled and set on the desk, candle drawn closer to make reading easier. Again the book is opened, the first page turned over to reveal a small square of folded parchment tucked into the book. This is how the parchment reads:

'I,
It took longer than I ever thought it would, and required great personal risk on my part to acquire, but here it is. It's the only copy and aside from you and I, not another living soul knows it exists. I'll expect payment this time, Old Friend.
-R'

Excitement courses through the mans body, his hands even shake when he reaches to take up his wine, wetting his lips and tongue before the glass is replaced, the parchment set aside... and the page turned, green eyes absorbing every word they cross like a sponge soaking up water. The book is hand written, in the same hand that wrote the note. long flowing script written in High Elven, the author obviously a master scribe that takes pride in his work. A shaking breath is taken, the ghost of a smile on the business mans face... he has waited almost a century for this moment, and can't help the rush he feels when he starts reading.

"In all the Ilfirian Empire, perhaps even the rest of Belariath too, there is rarely a name spoken surrounded by more mystery, danger and intrigue than the Order of the Unspoken. A League of assassins as the hushed stories say, a collection of skilled killers that know no limits... even the nobles themselves could be targeted by this dark organization. only His Majesty, Emperor StormBringer is ever truly out of this guilds sights, all others are fair game. Nobody really knows who first started this guild, that knowledge lost to the decay of time, generations upon generations having come and gone since it's inception. In fact... to the typical villager or townsfolk, the Order of the Unspoken is nothing more than a myth, a tale constructed some time ago that refused to die throughout the annals of time. Only a few really believe the Order ever existed at all and those few tend to keep their opinions to themselves. In public, anyway. Behind closed doors is a different matter entirely, the Order whispered about, rumors built up to creep through the dens of debauchery of the world, places like the Lonely Inn and other unsavory places civilized folk tend to avoid... what follows is a collection of information... tales, rumors and testimonies collected in those very places relating to the Order of the Unspoken, chronicled in the hopes that you, the reader, will find some hint of truth in the words, and shed some small sliver of light on this shadowed organization."

Through the night, the elven man sat at his desk, the candle burning lower and lower, the wines contents following suit. Pages turn at an astounding speed, so thirsty is he for the knowledge held in those pages, if one could call it knowledge. Ninety four years have come and gone since he first posed the idea of this book to his friend who, unlike him, had a knack for gathering information in the most unlikely of places. A promise to try had been given, an oath of secrecy on the matter shared between the two conspirators. And then, nothing. For almost a century he heard nothing, not a word from his friend. Until tonight. On and on he would read, the dawns first rays of light beginning to shine on the horizon, gulls crying out their hunger, the sounds of the market stalls out on the streets opening for the day... but it's the tolling of a bell in the distance that brings him back to his senses, signaling the arrival of one or more fishing vessels, returning home with holds near bursting. "Morning already... well... I suppose the rest can wait til tonight after work. I should send word to the wif--" how had he not seen it? The very corner of another note stuck between the last two pages... Only halfway through the volume he had no reason to flip ahead. Fingers tug on the parchments corner, the elven man facing his desk as the note unfolds in his hands, and immediately is dropped onto the desk. Just like the books cover page, this parchment sports the Sigil of the Order, and just two words written in common:

"We know."

To say he was a brave man might be a bit much, an exaggeration perhaps... but he's no coward. Still, anyone who knew that Sigil and received -that- note, obviously a warning, would be unable to repress the fear as it welled up inside, unable to stop the cold shiver from running down their spine. It's as close to a brush with death as he cares to get. Panting with near panic, the elf starts when that bell tolls again, more ships returning home... in a flurry of movement he moves around his shop, blinds parted to be peeked through before window latches are locked and double checked, the door locked and bolted. Twice. Finally with resolution, he crosses the shop and slams the book shut on his desk, drawer tugged violently open in his haste, the tome stuffed into the drawers confines before it's shoved closed, a key on a chain coming from around his neck to lock the drawer before it's replaced and hidden beneath his tunic. They know. They know he's been prying into affairs best left forgotten. And he knows what happens to those that pry into the business of criminal organizations... how many had vanished throughout history without a trace for getting too close? Could they really get to Him here, in Verdspar, so far from Nanthalion? Yes. They are everywhere. So, he does what comes natural to an elf who fears his end, and has more than enough coin to throw at any problem he has... the businessman takes his seat again, pulls a piece of parchment over infront of him, and opens the inkpot, quill lifted.

His friends notes had given the names of many of the nobles in the Empire, even names of prominent citizens of Nanthalion that have, either through politics, economics, or conquest on the field of battle made names for themselves. It's from this list of names that he addresses his letter. His writing is hurried, and yet still quite beautiful, the fluid, flowing script put onto the parchment written in High Elven... had he all his wits about him, he likely would have used common.

"Lords and Ladies of the Ilfirian Empire,

My name is Igneus Sol`dren, I own 'Sol`dren Publishing and Book Repair' in the city of Verdspar, and I write to you now in fear for my life, as well as those of my wife and son.'

Quill stops an inch from the parchment, hovering there threatening to drip ink while he stares at that sentence. Why is he writing, does he expect the nobles of some far away place to send him aid? In what form? Who can stand against the Order, after all? The Order, which has slipped in and out of known existence for centuries, the Order that still strikes fear into those smart enough to believe. Why would the nobles even care, and most of all.. what could they possibly do to help?
He knows the answers already, the parchment being crumbled and twisted before it's end is fed to the candles flame the letter discarded into the hearth. No, not the nobles.... A glance at the drawer, and a sigh... yes, the nobles. No-one in Verdspar will be able to help him, they're all fishermen, scholars, sailors... They aren't soldiers. No, and he doesn't need soldiers... "fighters... I need fighters." So, he starts over, a different letter being written hastily before he reads, and rereads it. A nod of approval before it's folded and sealed with a deep purple wax, the crest in the wax actually an image of a book opened, pages fluttering, the letters S.P. beneath the book. However, the letter isn't addressed to anyone in Nanthalion at all. This letter is sent via winged courier to the only other choice he has... His brother.

The response is quick, not arriving in letter form, nor any missive... less than a week passes with Igneus looking over his shoulder every moment, growing more and more fearful and paranoid as time passes until five days after his letter was sent.

At his home, a splendid villa in the wealthier parts of Verdspar, Igneus receives his brothers reply in the form of a resounding triple knock on his door that seems to echo with the strength of the visitor. His son, fourty seven years old is the one to open the door, his voice soon calling into the house, "Father! There are some men here to see you!" Summoned from his study, Igneus appears at the door, his pristine robes of white crafted from the finest silks money can buy... the complete opposite of his visitors, three in total. Two rather burly human men clad in studded armor and kilts, gladius and round, wooden shield worn by both. But it's the third who speaks, a woman by the shape of her and her voice, which comes from behind a mask of red and black. "Igneus Sol`dren?" Her voice... It's raspy, quiet, almost forced... then he spies the horizontal scar that crosses the woman's neck, eyes widening. Unlike the other two, this woman wears chain mail that even he can see is elven made, a kite shield on her back, long sword at her left hip, and a rather well-used spear in right hand, strips of red and black fabric dangling near the spears head. "Darius sends his regards. Is there somewhere we can speak..." even under the mask he can see this woman's sharp eyes of sky blue peer over his shoulder, Igneus turning his head to spy his son snooping. "...in private?" A stern look from his father and a silent promise of a thrashing sends the younger elf away, Igneus inviting the three into his home and locking the door behind them. The usual long-winded greetings are foregone, no offer of refreshment made to his guests while he leads them to his study, and locks that door too, even going so far as to close the windows and shutters before uttering a word. Over the next hour, talks are held between he and she, the two humans taking up position by the door and remaining as silent as the statues they resemble, not a muscle moved. Terms are discussed, eventually an agreement being forged with the two shaking hands. The woman, who's name was Fara, would remain with Igneus, his personal escort and bodyguard, while the other two men would stay at his home where they would be joined by two more of their comrades within a few days time, tasked with guarding his family with their lives... A task they took to immediately. In return, Igneus would send via a courier thirty mehrial per man per week, not including Fara.. her price was significantly higher, nearly double. Unfortunately, mercenaries are trained for war, and small jobs like this, or guarding caravans or trade vessels.... not to defend against the Order.

Two nights after the arrival of Fara and her brave two, the woman sellsword and her client return to his home from his shop, -even in the face of death, there's still work to be done.- to find the door slightly ajar, complete darkness inside. Fara had proven to be well mannered, and rather jovial during their brief time together... but at the sight of the door her demeanor changes in an instant, Igneus able to feel the tenseness in her body from four feet away. She's alert, and ready. "Stay behind me no matter what." She tells him, drawing the long sword from her side and shield from her back... her spear had been left inside when they left, basically useless in the confines of a residential structure.

Into the dark the mercenary strides, boots hardly making any sound at all, her armor jingling softly beneath her tabbard with every step and shift of her body. Into the darkness she strides, with Igneus right behind her, a dagger of mithril in hand... His only weapon, one he never really learned to use beyond cutting apples and opening letters. In the front room, Fara looked back at Igneus, "Stay here, put your back against the wall." And so he did, though it did nothing to calm his frayed nerves nor his fear. 'They're here', he thought to himself as Fara moved further into his villa damn near too quietly for even his elven ears to hear. Soon, she vanishes from his sight completely.... and stays gone for some time. Fear begins to bud, blossom into panic and dismay, every little sound whipping the elfs head this way and that in search of shadowy figures out for his blood. But none come. The only one that does is Fara, her sword sheathed. So quiet is she that he doesn't hear her return and upon catching sight of movement out of his peripheral vision, Igneus reacts out of pure terror, his dagger raised and brought stabbing down several times to the surprised cries of the mercenary, who's shield is raised just in time to intercept the blade each time. Within seconds, Igneus is pinned, face down on the floor with a terrible burning pain in his right shoulder. Fara, with a knee in his back and hand twisting his arm, breaths heavily, sharp whispers dripping from behind her mask, "it's me, Fara! Drop the damn knife... attaboy." It takes a few minutes for him to compose himself, Igneus staying in the front room while Fara moves through the house, relighting lanterns and candles. "BOSS!!!" just the sound of her voice chills Igneus to his bones, blood running cold. His family! All sound seems to forsake the elf save for the pounding of his heart in his ears, sandals flung from his feet he runs so quickly through the home. In his chambers, Fara lighting more candles sheds plenty of light on his problems. There, strung up from his bedposts by their wrists, are the humans, ones throat clearly cut clean down to the bone, his sword and shield still worn, indicating he had been surprised, according to Fara. The other humans sword and shield are not on his body, and no fewer than seven daggers rest in his chest... each and every one piercing his heart. And between them?
Later, Fara told Darius that Igneus had fallen to his knees at the sight of his sons severed head laying on the bedsheets, the young mans blood used to write a message to his father on the chest of his headless, naked body. "Surrender the book." His wife was nowhere to be found. Igneus' anguished screams were said to wake neighbors all around him, even bringing the cities guard. The villa was sealed, guarded day and night while an investigation was begun and Igneus was forced, or perhaps he was relieved to be told he couldnt stay there. Within three days, he and Fara had arrived at Darius' home, a rather large stone mansion, staffed by slaves taken in battle, most of them human though a few moriel serve as well. But it's not the slaves that made Darius' home feel secure. It was the three scores of mercenaries training all over his property. But even as a brother, Darius could not force Igneus to explain the message Fara had seen written in blood. All Igneus would say from that point was 'they know. They know, and they'll kill us all.' And to Darius' dismay... His brother was right.

Igneus had of course hidden the book away from his own property, quite devious in its hiding actually... The tome had been stuffed into Faras pack when they left verdspar, Igneus able to keep an eye on it, while not having it in his possession, and in his mind, making him that much safer. He was wrong.

A week after Fara and Igneus' arrival at his home, Darius was called away, he and half his men to fulfill a contract. Being the leader, Darius no longer fights, but tends to the more economic side of the trade, accompanying his men only to seal the agreement in person, and returning home with only two men, and a rather heavy, if small chest of mehrials. But nothing could prepare him for what he found that night. The first sign of trouble was the sentries.. there were none. But he runs the largest mercenary camp this side of the elven Hold, and being High elven.. He's quite arrogant, confident in his men as well. So the sentrieshad taken a break, he thought. Until he entered through the front door, his men dropping the chest, which sends mehrial skittering across the stone floor as two swords are drawn and shields brought from their backs. Everyone. Every man left behind, every slave... everyone was dead. The scene before Darius was so horrifying, it made the veteran physically sick. Bodies strewn across the floor of his mansions foyer, seen only after each of the three summons spheres of light to illuminate the area, chasing away the darkness to reveal complete devastation. As a unit the three move, Darius drawing his mithril sword for the first time in an age as he advances, each body he comes to turned so he can see the face and feel for a pules. Dead. Dead. Dead.... All dead.. save for one.

Igneus survived.

Found not in the foyer with the slaves and fighters, but in the bedroom his brother had given him for the duration of his visit, with Fara. The warrior woman's mask was missing, found feet away cleaved in two, her face actually quite beautiful, serene... at peace, a single dagger buried between her shoulderblades, parchment tied to the hilt with the words "we will never stop. Give us the book." Which only served to fuel Darius' anger. Fara had been his mate, and second in command. Slain for a brother he barely sees or speaks to. He was ready to explode, unleash his fury on his brother, but his mercenaries words both sicken him, and fill him with pity for Igneus. "They... boss, they... Gods, they took his eyes... look." While Igneus had indeed survived the Orders infiltration of the merc. Residence, they had found him, questioned him... and punished him by taking away his only way of reading the book he sought so desperately for so long. It wasn't until the healers arrived that it was discovered not only did they blind Igneus by cutting his eyes out, they had muted him by taking his tongue, and deafened him by rupturing his eardrums with some long, sharp object. Blind, deaf and mute, Igneus had been taught his lesson, his punishment making sure he could not hear their secrets, read their secrets and of course, that he could never tell what he had already learned, Only allowed to live that he may sooner or later deliver the book that only he knew the location of. That was the last time Igneus would lay hands on the book. With one of his brothers men as a guide, the mutilated elf retrieved the book from his late guards pack, managed to scrawl an extremely difficult to read note (being blind makes writing quite difficult, but not all together impossible.) And, while Darius was busy writing letters to his men's families, busy burying his comrades and hiring replacements... His brother placed the book on Darius' favorite chair, excused himself from his guide and wandered out onto the property to sit under an old Apple tree. Hours and hours and hours he sat there, his guide going to Him at dusk, and finding Igneus had finally learned to use his dagger, opening his own wrists. The next day, his wife's body was found, the innocent woman appearing completely unharmed, except for the noose from which she hung about a days ride from Verdspars gates.

Darius had no children of his own, he and Fara not the parenting types... His entire family... brother, sister in law and his nephew had all been slain over the book that was sitting in his chair right now, the armored mercenary staring at the tome through his tears... The first to fall from his green eyes in centuries. "Faldor!" The call for his new second is almost immediately answered by the swift appearance of a sylvan man clad in leather armor and breeches, a quiver and bow on his back, a pair of tomahawk hanging from his hips. "Sir?" Faldor answered.

A rather heavy sack of gold was suddenly thrown toward the sylvan who catches it with ease, and plenty of curiosity. "I want you to go have a drink... have lots of drinks, talk with people. Mingle..."
And the sylvan listened with rapt attention as his commander spelled out exactly what it was he wanted, then without any complaint the mercenary strode from the mansion, headed into Verdspar to begin his mission. A mission he performed with gusto, apparently, as the results happened that very night.

The sylvan had a full purse, and a loose tongue to go with his apparently endless thirst for women and wine. The hooded figure in the corner booth sat quietly from the time Faldor stepped into the tavern with a grim expression on his paled face. "Gimme somethin strong, barkeep, and keep the drinks coming... I've spent the past few days in the underworld and I need a pick me up..." Faldor had proclaimed, dropping onto a barstool. Hours the sylvan drank and flirted and bellyached... His entire company had been butchered at the mansion across the way by some unknown enemy, or so he claimed. It was that very claim that caught the strangers attention, and held it throughout the evening, that and everything that followed.

The stranger, hooded and cloaked had been one of the assassin's doing the butchering, the very assassin who's blade cut igneus' tongue from his head... The same assassin who's dagger was left behind in Faras back. Without a single word, or a single move made the stranger listens calmly as the sylvan gets lost in his drink, his voice getting louder and slurred. Twenty fine men cut down he said. Over a book, he said... A book his Commander now has in his possession, back at the mansion... All alone, grief stricken at his families demise. Faldor played his part well, so well in fact that the stranger bought it, all of it. Hook, line, and sinker. The whole ploy had been executed perfectly, and before dusk too. By the time night fell, the stranger had simply vanished, not a soul even remembering he, or she was there to begin with. "That book is as good as mine," the stranger thought to themselves, "and with it, a fat payday, and maybe even.." dare the stranger think it? "Arbiters blessing." That thought alone sped him forward toward his goal, the mansion darkened, seeming hollow and empty, derelict. Except for the light in a single window, shadowed gaze peering in from a good distance, watching what must be the commander drink down tumbler after tumbler full of some kind of drink. "Kill him, take the book back... burn the house for good measure." That was the plan, but as we all know, plans have a way of going sideways.

His trap was set, the message spell from a seriously intoxicated Faldor ensuring he had done as he was told and would return on the morrow assuring Darius his plan was going perfectly. So now, he waits. Drinking to curb his emotions the mercenary eventually begins to strip off pieces of his armor, letting it fall to the floor. Normally his slaves would remove his armor, clean it, take it for repairs if needed.. but no longer. All ten of his slaves buried with stone markers, their collars buried with them to honor them. They had been innocent in this matter, but he knows too well that innocent people can still die upon a sword or spear. As the night progressed, Darius began to doubt his plan would work, doubt himself... to the point that by the time his doubts were proved unfounded, the warrior was extremely drunk, lounging across his chair in naught but his black leather breeches, and boots, the rest of his gear strewn across the sitting room, long sword leaned against the arm of the chair. And there on the table beside him within arms reach... The book. Alcohol and the heat from the hearth worked together, making him drowsy, green eyes closing slowly before his breathing deepens, Darius falling asleep for the briefest of moments.

"Drunkard... no wonder your men were so easy to dispatch. Three of us against twenty of them... and we still won. Pathetic." The strangers thoughts stirred endlessly, the property crossed by simply walking across the empty, well groomed field those scores of mercenaries had used for training. It's when he gets to the house that the strangers demeanor becomes more professional. A quick glance through the window allows him to see where all the warriors gear is, weapons and armor... It also let's him see the book for the first time. No door is opened, no window unlocked or forced... He just... appears inside the room with Darius, face hidden behind a shawl, hood drawn up so only His eyes, as red as rubies, can be seen. From behind his back, right hand silently pulls forth a dagger identical to the weapon left in Faras back as the stranger approaches, silent as the grave. Five feet away, four... Three feet... two... one more... gloved hand reaches slowly toward the book while dagger is raised and readied for a lethal strike, those ruby red eyes locked on Darius, watching for any sign he was stirring. Closer... eyes widen in delight as the stranger lays his hand on that book, for the first, and last time. As it lifts off the table, the book springs the mercenaries trap, laid hours before, right after Faldor had left. The weight of the book, set atop a thin strand of twine that dangles over the edge of the table beside Darius' chair, had kept suspended a simple keyring with but two keys on it. The key to the front door, and the key to a chest kept out in the stables with Darius' old soldier uniform and gear from centuries before. Eyes widen when the string slips, surprise shining in ruby reds as keys hit the stone floor and jingle loudly, the Commanders eyes snapping open instantly.

The jingle wasn't what woke the mercenary. The feeling of a presence in the room with him had, a sort of sixth sense he'd developed after decades of warfare and mercenary work. The keys falling were never meant to wake him, only to alert him when the intruder had picked up the book. Darius doesn't look too smart, for an elf... but he's a tactical genius and a soldier through and through. The very second the keys hit the floor, those green eyes open, sharp as ever, and the commander flies out of his chair, a heavy fist landing square between the strangers eyes, staggering him backward and causing him to drop the book. And the fight was on. For what seemed an eternity the struggle ensued. punches, and kicks raining against the intruder, who in return slashed out repeatedly, his blade sending crimson droplets showering in every direction with every swipe... but after a few seconds, it's plain to see he stands little chance against the high elven merc. Assassins are not fighters, not warriors meant for drawn out fights and battles. They strike, hard from the shadows and vanish. This one clearly never served a day in the guard or any other similar job. While he wielded his dagger with expert hands, he was simply out matched, even bigger than Darius, his size didn't help. The end came quickly when that dagger went plunging downward toward Darius' chest, only for the elf to strike out with a fierceness, the weapon launched across the room when it's struck, but not without severing the index finger from Darius' left hand. Unarmed and losing, the stranger tried desperately to dive through the window... But Darius was too fast, too strong, and too enraged, and just as the assassin dove toward the glass, his feet leaving the ground, Darius' arms closed around his waist, catching the stranger in mid air. The assassin's forward momentum had spun Darius around, the commander using that momentum and putting all his strength into hurling the assassin away from the window... and straight into the low burning coals and embers in his fireplace. Damn near instantly the assassin was engulfed in flames, his screams terrible for any to hear, though only Darius could. Unwilling to let any friend or foe burn to death, Darius did the first thing that came into his military mind: burning his hands as he reached out quickly, the assassin managing to rise out of the hearth to his feet, right into those waiting hands, hands that twisted the flaming head completely around backward with a growling yell of frustration and searing pain from the commander. The fight was over.
The fight was over, Darius had been victorious. But that wasn't enough for the grief sick commander. Far from it. By the time the sun had risen, dawns first rays striking the manors roof, the bell heard from the port signalling ships coming in, Darius had dragged the smouldering body outside and across the field to that old Apple tree, plainly visible from the road in three directions, and with rope from the stable the mercenary strung his fallen foe up, arms pulled out wide, head tied to the tree trunk so the face could be seen by all, the killers own dagger slammed into the corpses chest. A message sent... and received. These unknown fiends had taken everything from him, all he loved, they had killed. His message to them was simple...

Come for your fucking book, all you filthy rat fucks! Come for your book, and join your brother in death!


From quite a distance, the fight was observed, the outcome guessed before it happened. She knew her Brother would fail, knew he would die. And yet, she had not raised a finger to help, or stop him. He had struck out on his own, so his fate was just that: his own. From that distance she watched until sun up, watched the mercenary string him up as a warning... A dare, actually, and she understood it's meaning too well. Will she fly in, kill him and take the book? Fuck no, she saw how strong he was. No, this one will take a group effort, and the sooner the better. If he hires more men things could get dicey.

Rising from the ground, this stranger clad in black robes, her hood raised and a black shawl across her face, leaving only eyes as white as the driven snow to be seen takes one final look toward the mansion, then turns from it. Finding her horse nearby, the assassin climbs with practiced ease into the saddle and collects the reigns. It's a long, hard ride to Nanthalion... but the arbiter must be told.

Mechanics:

Members will gather in the Cavern where the Arbiter will give instructions to go to verdspar, collect the book and kill anyone that tries to stop them.

Qdice
Death is possible (and quite likely)
Players will have 30 hp

This quest is open ONLY to members of 'The Order of the Unspoken', up to 8 players.


Goal: The mission is simple... retrieve or destroy the book and avoid capture at all costs. How it's done is entirely up to the players, whether they storm the mansion in force, or use stealth to infiltrate the mansion. Obviously, against such a larger force, stealth is suggested.

Rewards: 100 mhl per player.
Marren, Eolande Keita, Daynar Roke, Syl`Zhalti, Severus
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Re: From Chaos, the Order.

Postby Ellyssa_Flamewing on Fri May 11, 2018 2:10 am

Its entirely possible that I know at least one character that would be interested in participating in this, once we have it scheduled.
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