[!]

Whispers spread through the streets, coming from the hospital.

A militia led team of five went out.

. . .

Two come back alive.

[!] Hums fall silent, the howl of the night wind morphing into the cries of a woman in mourning. Pain and heartache at the loss of a dear friend broke the serene silence of the darkest of nights… The cries of a local tailor.

“I never thought I’d lose a friend like this… Tis cruel through and through!”

Once the cries of an anguished lady ceased, one might spot a green candle lit in the highest windows of the Pink Peony Club, surrounded by sewn flowers of fabric and the most expensive green jewels. A homage to a dear friend, one who Penelope believed to have sparkled brighter than any frivolities.

[ ! ]

As the Southern Reach Tournament ends, after months of matchups - Ser Maliketh is the victor.

A decent win against Ser Vanyel in the first round.
A hard-fought battle in the rain against Bracchus in the second.
A decisive victory against Ser Falliren in the semi-finals.
And finally, a neck-and-neck fight against Locke in the final match.

After emerging from the cage, he dedicated the victory to the Lady of the Lake's honor and Eibhlin Terebis' favor.

@yoursecondexwife @thiefclass @Reedie @dinosipscoffee

✧ [!] ✧

North-east of the Spire, on a small hilltop, a bonfire is lit with a blue-purple flash in the late hours of the night. It burns for some time, smoke rising into the sky, four figures silhouetted in the light. They disappear before midnight, as the makeshift firepit burns out. Something shatters the silence, the wind soothing the aftermath of words offered freely. An oath is made, twice over. 

Come morning, all that remains are the scattered stones, upturned dirt, and some scorch marks.

[!]

The forge of the smithy "Luck" continues to burn. Its doors are closed to customers, but a youth in a green hood frequents the grounds. Inside, he can be heard hammering his woes away. Those who see him may notice a lack of glimmer in his eyes.

[!] 

Shortly after the fog dissipated a rumor began to spread.

There was a new face in town. A half-arsa man dressed in Ko’ram style clothing with dark hair and purple eyes could be seen tending to the needy and poor of the spire.  If approached by any, he would offer up conversation and aid where he could. He himself looked rather sickly, but if asked to rest for his own health would persist  

[!]

The usual signs of activity over at the Honed Horn Smithy has died down as of late. One of the smiths there making frequent visits to the tavern instead, usually leaving behind many empty mugs for Maarten to clean up.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

A starving scar riddled coyote was
last seen limping towards the
Hermetic Assembly, it is never seen
wandering back to the spire.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

[!]

     Those who meander the town have noticed a certain Elven highborn has been manning the 'Luck' forge for the past week without rest, without sleep, evident by the bags hanging below sunken and equally sullen eyes. Stranger still, there's not a hint of pageantry in an otherwise grandiose appearance, dressed in a plain loose shirt instead. Others heard him argue with the Militia Captain, demanding a duel. Although the door was slammed in his face after a few taunts and cheeky words. What is known for sure is that Falliren has kept the fires of the forge alive all this time.

[ ! ]

Those out and about the town might notice a certain pregnant elf wandering about in a haze. 

She looks malnourished and sleep deprived, and if one ventures close enough, she can be heard muttering about finding her body. 

If spoken to, she does not respond, simply moving forward. Always moving forward, yet never going anywhere at all. 

Something is deeply wrong with Elova.