Anrielle

Lara unscrewed the top from her hollow mitran cross.  Inhaling the lotus within, she shuddered and trembled.  She put the cross away just in time to see a dark-haired girl approaching.  Smiling at Lara, the girl handed her a folded sheet of scented papyrus.

Lara opened the note, reading with initial indifference. 

"Festival...

Derketo..."

Lara frowned. 

"So... the wealthiest priestessess in this nasty little city wish to celebrate their own luxury.  Typical."
 

Wulfran raised his hand in greeting, as his dapple grey mare cantered east past Karone's post, glad he was far enough off to be spared verbal greetings. He needed the time alone. He liked Karone and had almost choked on his ale when she called Vhaelon, petty dictator that he was revealing himself to be, "Centurion Blondie" and the expression frozen on the officer's face was priceless. The smile that was starting at the memory died as he remembered the immediate aftermath, the punishment issued for a tavern house jest, the insistence on southern frivolities in a room full of off duty Cimmerian mercs. No, these weren't flower wearing Aquilonian dandies, with their shiny buttons and pretty parade maneuvers; these were killers from the cold, harsh Northlands. These were the reavers that still gave northern Aquilonians nightmares when the name Venarium was whispered.