Reinforcements and Chats

The Old World - Marienburg - Year 2517 IC

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Marienburg was one of the wealthiest cities of the Old World. A vast trading hub, one of—if not the—largest in the world. Maybe in the Far East of the world, within Grand Cathay or Nippon, there might be a trading hub of a larger scale, but to the denizens of the Old World—be they of the Imperial provinces, Bretonnia or Kislev—Marienburg was as big as it got.

One of the quirks of being such a successful international trading hub was the people who came to the city, be they future inhabitants, merchants and traders, or those who are just passing through. Elves and dwarfs were not an uncommon sight. Halflings were just another sight so common as to barely get noticed, in much the same way that the colour of the paving was so mundane as to not even register in the collective consciousness.

But, there were the occasional visitors who did indeed raise a few eyebrows. In most other cities, those within the Empire, reactions might be a touch more extreme. But in Marienburg, those raised eyebrows were it, and after those few moments where the eyes beneath those eyebrows drank in the unusual sight, those brows lowered and the owners went back to their business. So long as these unusual visitors didn't cause trouble then it wasn't their problem.

Only in Marienburg.

One such visitor was in the midst of arguing with a middle-aged human. The human's face was a blotchy red—his furrowed brows indicated that said redness was anger and not embarrassment. He also had a penchant for jabbing his finger into the chest of the one he was arguing with. Which was an impressive feat of bravery, considering he was jabbing a chest that was higher than eye level.

The other side of the argument was a large grass-green reptilian figure that was stood on two legs. It stood tall at roughly eight and a half feet, and was garbed in dark breaches, a crimson tunic and a brown surcoat made from leather that reached its knees, the front worn open. If there was any expression on its face, the average street-goer could not tell. It was clear that the creature's face wasn't built for expressiveness.

The only thing that gave away any sense of annoyance that the reptilian was feeling was the way its left hand kept twitching toward the hilt of the zweihänder slung across its back. It was an impressive blade that a human might struggle to use. For a being with an extra two and a half feet over most humans, it was to the lizard what a normal zweihänder was to the average Empire greatsword soldier.

'-my men in Lustria.' The human finished his tirade.

The lizard didn't react right away, seemed to wait instead for a continuation of the rant. When none was forthcoming, it tilted its head and let out a slow gust of air from its nostrils.

'Are you done?' it asked in ever so slightly accented Reikspiel. The human puffed up and opened his mouth but he was cut off by a sharp hiss. 'I have never been to Lustria, so I could not have taken part in any ambush in Lustria.'

'You damned liar!' the human roared, momentarily catching the attention of the rest of the street. 'Your ilk comes from that wretched land!'

'I am not my cousins any more than you are a Kislevite, human.' The lizard finally emoted annoyance in the form of narrowed eyes and head tilted just so. 'I've never seen the land of Lustria, never set foot there, and have no business there. And I will not apologise for my cousins' actions.'

The human's red face turned a darker shade, and his hand went to the sword at his hip. He wasn't able to start pulling it free of its scabbard though, before the distinctive clicking of a flintlock's hammer being pulled back reached his ears. The lizardman in front of him likewise paused, hand now rested on the hilt of his greatsword. Both turned their heads to the source of the sound.

It was a smaller lizardman, this one a turquoise hue and garbed in a red coat and grey breaches. Pressed against its shoulder was the stock of a musket. The click had been the hammer of said musket being very deliberately pulled back into the ready position. The muzzle was pointed at the human, nowhere that would be fatal should the trigger be pulled, but the human was likely to live the rest of his life with a severe limp should the musket fire.

'Leave,' the smaller lizard hissed. Unlike the larger reptile, this one, while also speaking in Reikspiel, had a thicker accent, though the single word uttered was still perfectly understandable.

The human hesitated, eyes fixed upon the flintlock in the smaller lizard's hands. 'Since when…?'

'Long enough.' The larger reptile still projected its annoyance in its tone, though it had relaxed its posture. While the human couldn't see it, the saurus was amused. The reaction to us using muskets never gets old. 'Best you do as the skink says. He'll be less inclined to put up with you than I am.'

The human seemed to war with his desires versus common sense. Eventually, it turned out that common sense was indeed a common commodity, for he let out a loud curse but twisted around and stormed off regardless. The skink kept the musket trained on his retreating figure until he vanished around a street corner.

The larger reptile lowered his arms, crossed them over his chest in a very human gesture, eyes clouded in consternation. 'That's the third time somebody has confronted me over whatever is going on in Lustria.'

The smaller lizard didn't overtly react, other than to carefully push the hammer of the musket back into a safe state, after which he then rested the weapon upon his shoulder, muzzle aimed skyward. The skink's eyes constantly moved side-to-side, scanning the street non-stop. The saurus cast a side-eyed look at the silent skink with eyes narrowed in annoyance then let out a breath.

'Relax,' the Saurus said with a rumble.

The skink snorted lightly and finally eased up from its rigid stance, though there was still a stiffness which had nothing to do with posture.

'Not adapting well?' the saurus asked.

The skink tilted his head, seemed to consider the answer before replying with a small 'No.'

The saurus let out a breath of air through his nostrils and started to walk down the street, trusted that the smaller reptile would follow. He was accurate in his prediction, the skink followed, to the side and just slightly behind, a position of respectful deference.

'You make it look easy.' The skink's voice was plain, almost a monotone to any human ear that might listen, but to the saurus, he could hear the undertones that suggested the skink was annoyed with himself.

'I'm not the one to measure against when it comes to acting as we do.' The saurus huffed in bemusement. 'What is the problem? Usually your ilk have an easier time adapting than saurus.'

The skink gave a vague gesture of uncertainty. 'Acting like the warmbloods feels… wrong.' The hand not holding the musket at rest came up and almost physically deterred the saurus from speaking. 'I am aware of why we're doing it, but each summer has more of us acting the part even among ourselves.'

The saurus gave a sympathetic hum, aware that it was a human habit he'd picked up from his centuries of travelling the lands of the young race and incidentally fuelling the skink's point, as their conversation was between the two of them with no human involvement. They were both still speaking in Reikspiel, though that was more due to a strong recommendation to do so on the occasions that any member of the Outland Legion were actually within a human settlement—speaking in tongues that the locals couldn't understand seemed to upset those same locals, even when they had no intention of listening in.

'Would you like to be transferred to Major Mort's regiments?' the saurus asked instead of trying to defend those who had started to have a hard time switching from playing the part they'd been given. He couldn't fault those with that problem when he himself was the worst offender.

The skink tilted his head inquisitively, seemed to consider the offer. Mort was the Oldblood with command over the regiments collectively known as the Full-Blood Regiments, the ones who had first formed as part of the then yet-to-be Outland Legion. As a badge of pride, they still used uniforms based on the Legion's earliest experiments with garbing themselves, just a simple tunic with a breastplate and an armoured skirt.

Over time the Legion had picked up and experimented with different clothing and armour options before eventually settling for the red coat worn over grey breaches, shirt and waistcoat that over two thirds of the Legion now used as the uniform. Though there were some variations between the different regiments, it was mostly in the style of the red coats. The rationale behind that chosen design had been that it looked suitably impressive for clients, almost noble in appearance—the only give away that they weren't from a noble's wardrobe was that they had been made from woollen fabrics over the silks and cottons of nobility.

Nobles of the imperial provinces looked favourably upon the uniform and saw it as being proof of the "civility" of the Outland Legion and those serving within. Those lower on the imperial social ladder saw the uniforms as proof of professionalism, that the Legion was an organised outfit with its own identity and standards to be upheld.

'Mort and his regiments don't often interact with the clients. You won't have to act so often,' the saurus explained.

The skink looked at the musket nestled in his arm, clearly indecisive. The saurus understood. A lot of the skinks had taken to using the black powder weapons after the Legion had started to embrace them. However, under Mort, as well as changing to the older uniform, all skinks under his command only used either sword or spear. It was playing to Mort's strengths, the Oldblood was well versed in turning his forces into a solid wall that none could pass without far more blood spilt than most considered it worth. More than one orcish mob had learnt the hard way that Mort's phalanx broke for nothing.

'Just think about it, it's your choice.' The saurus reassured the skink. 'If you want to go to Fortis Regiment, I'll put in a word with the major.'

'I thought you didn't like Mort?' The skink changed the subject.

'Doesn't mean I can't work with him.' The saurus very deliberately didn't let any feeling into his tone, hid it so well that he doubted even the skink would pick it up. The clash of personality with the other Oldblood was something he'd much prefer to keep private.

There was a momentary pause. 'Thank you.'

'It's fine. We're outside of comfort as it is, need to make sure we get whatever ease we can. If I can help, I'll do what I can.' As the saurus spoke, his eyes lifted to the sky, observed the sun and took note of its position. 'Hmm, almost late.'

Despite his words, he paused at a merchant's stall, eyed a particular article displayed for sale. After a moment of clear deliberation, he fished about his person and eventually found a silver shilling which he handed to the merchant while pointing at a bag of small white orbs. Once the pair of lizardmen were walking once more, the saurus tipped one of the orbs into his palm and then deposited that same orb into his maw.

'What's that?' the skink asked, confused. It didn't look like any food, even by human definitions.

'They're called mints. The humans are convinced that they ease stomach pains.'

'Do they?' the skink asked curiously.

'Haven't tried. But they have an intriguing taste.' As the saurus spoke, he tilted the bag in silent offer.

A handful of moments later, the skink teased one of the white orbs from the coarse-fabric of the bag and slid it between his teeth. Moments later, the skink's eyes were widened and he looked as though he couldn't tell whether to spit the mint out or endure.

'How do they turn coldness into a taste?' the skink asked after swallowing.

'Not a clue,' the saurus answered while rolling the mint about his mouth with his tongue, relished in the clicking sound as the little orb occasionally connected with his teeth. 'As I said, intriguing taste.'

As he spoke, the pair turned from the street and to the Marienburg docks. It was cluttered, busy with dockhands all working their day away. In the waters at the edge of where the Manaansport Sea turned into the waters of the River Reik, a large sea vessel was making its approach, the bow of the craft pointed such that it was coming to the south dock.

The ship was noteworthy in its appearance. At a passing glance, it was comparable in size and shape to a trade ship as was so often seen taking up space at Marienburg's docks. A closer look would give pause, for while it appeared the ship was crafted from wood planks, as was the norm, a close eye would show that the planks were built upon a base of stone. Above the water lever, the pretence seemed to fade, and instead of the base being covered by wood, the builder had instead decorated the ship with a layer of volcano glass in intricate patterns.

It was almost like somebody had once seen the ships of Marienburg, but not understood why the design had been made as it had. Inexplicably though, this vessel defied expectation and was sea-worthy. This also was not an isolated case, for some of the more experienced dock workers who had been working those docks for the past two decades? They recalled that same ship, for this marked the third time it had berthed itself in Marienburg's dock.

The two lizardmen watched the ship pull alongside the dock and begin the process of lowering sails, sidling adjacent to the wooden planks of the dock. A pair of kroxigors were visible upon the deck, waiting to lower the long boarding plank. Once the vessel was utterly still, the ramp was lowered and the two crocodilians moved aside to make way for a skink in a lavish cobalt blue coat. The skink stepped off from the ship, orange eyes already meeting an important looking human with greyed hair who was rapidly approaching.

'Dock-master Schiffer,' the skink called out with a voice of good cheer and familiarity. 'Still ruling over your little fiefdom?'

The human's expression didn't change from the severity that had been etched on it even before the skink had called out with such familiarity. 'Captain Horeo.' His voice, like his expression, was akin to a sort of disapproval that one imagined upon the face of a particularly tired parent. The dock-master held out a hand expectantly, the other clutching at a little leather bound book.

The skink, Captain Horeo, made an exaggerated put-upon motion, eyes rolled skyward and an over-the-top huff, but didn't vocalise any complaints as he reached a hand to the inside of his heavy coat and pulled out a small pouch which jingled with each motion. He rested it upon the human's waiting hand.

'That should cover it, as usual.' The skink's tone was still friendly, borderline carefree, but an undertone of iron had emerged, a wordless warning not to try and change the rules on him. 'Bleeding me dry, Schiffer.'

Schiffer weighed the pouch in his hand for a handful of seconds, then gave a satisfied nod, deposited the pouch somewhere about his persona and then plucked a quill from where it had been stowed behind his ear and scratched out a few words into his little book.

'Welcome to Marienburg, Captain Horeo. Enjoy your stay and may it prove most profitable for you.' Despite the words, the tone was still bland and full of disapproving sternness, as though he doubted the validity of his own worded hope.

'A pleasure, dock-master.' Horeo didn't ease on the friendly tone but the iron underscore did fade. If anybody didn't know Horeo, they would think he was being utterly sincere. The saurus who had been watching the scene with some faint amusement? He knew the red scaled skink.

Horeo noticed both the saurus and the skink that had been watching, made an exaggerated show of spotting them and approached, a hand held out. The saurus extended his arm in turn and the pair clasped the other's forearms in a show of camaraderie.

'Colonel Solin, it is a pleasure to be able to see you once more.'

The saurus, Solin, gave a slight bow of the head. 'And the same to you, friend.'

Horeo cast in intrigued eye at the red-coated skink with a sound of acknowledgement. 'Kin.' He then tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. 'Coadmit, correct?'

The skink started in surprise. 'You recognise me, captain?'

Horeo waved a hand in a dismissive motion and turned to face his ship. 'It might come as a surprise, but I remember every saurus, skink and kroxigor I transport to the Legion.' The captain paused a moment, and then pulled a rolled up parchment from within his coat. 'But enough reminiscing, you are here to pick up this summer's batch of new-blood, hmm?'

Solin made a sound of affirmation, which Horeo heard. In return, Horeo called out to the deck of his ship, where another, similarly dressed skink waved down at him and then disappeared from sight.

'So, what do we have this time?' Solin asked.

'I'm getting there, I'm getting there.' Horeo huffed as though annoyed at the apparent impatience, though his tone remained light and Solin couldn't make out any trace of actual annoyance.

From the deck of the ship, there was the sound of a raised voice barking out orders. It took two minutes before there came the thudding of multiple footsteps. From the deck of the ship and down the boarding ramp came a large number of Children of the Gods. Skinks, saurus, and kroxigor came marching until they formed a trio of loose formations.

Half of the citizens and workers on the docks paused in their activities to watch the strange show of lizardmen disembarking the already strange vessel. The only ones who didn't give even a second glance were those who had seen this before, three summers ago when this same event had happened last. Well, the last time that it happened in Marienburg, Solin snorted at his mental self-correction. Usually, they didn't get the luxury of having actual docks for the procession that was occurring.

Solin stopped himself from shaking his head when he saw his kin, still clad in the traditional garb of crude-looking (to young race eyes at least) armour, feathers and in a couple of cases a cut of fabric that almost looked like a loincloth.

Once it appeared that everybody had gathered up, Captain Horeo unrolled his parchment. 'We have here… skinks. Sixty of them.'

Once he spoke the number, Horeo lifted his eyes and looked to the gathering of skinks, silently counted out as though to double check that they were all there and accounted for.

Solin also counted. His eyes narrowed as he noted a discrepancy, but held his tongue for the moment to let Horeo finish. He also noted that the skinks in question had all been spawned destined for life in the Legion. Instead of the typical fin-like crest so often seen on skinks, these had all spawned with natural feathers decorating their crests. Marshal Ingwel had a name for the apparent mutation: raptor-skinks. Fitting, they did share that look with the feral wildlife back home.

'Saurus, forty.'

Again Horeo paused to quickly count and fact check. This time, Solin's own count was exactly as was recited. Nothing to note about the appearance, no mutation, these were simply saurus who had been selected or had volunteered, depending on how advanced the geas was in each case. At least a few had that look to them that suggested the geas was starting to wear off.

'Skink artisans and crafters, seventeen.'—Pause—'Kroxigors, seven.'

Horeo paused again. This latest pause was longer than was needed to count out what was very clearly only seven kroxigors, and then he lowered the scroll and gave Solin a look that the saurus was vaguely able to identify as sympathetic.

'And one skink priest to become the new major.'

Solin was barely able to hear the sharp intake of breath from Sergeant Coadmit. He was too busy taking a step back as though recoiling from a blow to his breast. It took thirty, maybe forty seconds before he was able to shake a fogged haze from his mind, and then his eyes zeroed in what had to be the skink priest in question.

The skink was an ultramarine-blue in colour, and wearing what Solin was now able to remember as being the traditional garb for a skink who had been touched by the Old Ones and gifted with the ability to manipulate the winds of magic. He was also the only skink of this batch to have the standard fin-crest. The priest appeared uncomfortable at the Oldblood staring at him, for he shifted awkwardly and averted his eyes as though by not seeing Solin then Solin wouldn't be able to stare at him.

'You knew this was coming,' Horeo said, though he had softened his voice as low as he could and still be heard by Solin. That in order to go to that low a volume required shifting his words to Saurian rather than Reikspiel was an indicator of seriousness, for Horeo, like Solin, was one of those who had a hard time switching from playing the role to go back to acting a normal lizardman.

'Doesn't change things.' Solin gave the answer in kind, then exhaled and turned to Coadmit, raised his voice to normal levels and switched back to Reikspiel. 'Sergeant, take the new-blood to our camp outside of Marienburg. Let Major Ralc'teeh and Captain Yen'ayes know that their new… students, have arrived.'

Coadmit hesitated a moment, his eyes drifted to the newly arrived skink priest, then back to Solin. 'And the new major?'

'Well we're not leaving him here. Yes, take him too.' Solin snorted. He then looked again to the skink in question. 'Ey, ey, you. Priestly-boy. Follow Coadmit here, do as he says and I'll sort you later.'

The priest didn't look overly reassured, but managed to acknowledge that he had been given an order by the Oldblood and looked to the red-coated skink for instruction, despite the natural hierarchy being that as a priest, it was typically the other way around.

Coadmit didn't look overly enthused at his sudden temporary position of authority, but he stepped forward, positioned himself so all of the newly arrived lizardmen could see him clearly and called out an instruction for them to follow him. It didn't take long for the strange procession to march away and disappear into the labyrinthine streets of Marienburg.

'Always fun watching new-blood arrive, all innocent,' Solin commented idly to Horeo, who let out a hum that said he had heard, but not much else. 'Life in the Legion gives enough experience quickly enough most tend to stop looking at everything with that weird awed look before they see their second summer with us.'

Horeo clicked his tongue, and put a hand on Solin's arm as the Oldblood made to turn. 'We're going to a tavern.'

'Are we? Don't you have some more duties to tend to?' Solin didn't make any reproachful tones, just genuine curiosity.

'I can sort that later. I just paid the city enough of those coins they so love that I can stay docked for a six-day if I wanted. It has been three summers since last I had a chance to chat with my friend, so Sotek can come take me away himself before I give up a chance to do just that.'

'I'm fairly sure Sotek has better things to do than deny you a chat with me,' Solin said, his posture relaxing, shoulders dropping. 'Now Ulric on the other claw might do so.'

'Hang the human gods—they have no jurisdiction over me.' Horeo's tone returned to his friendly timbre and a clear laugh could be heard. 'Just give me a second to get something and let Sahls'dedepp know he has the boat while I'm gone.'

Solin nodded, allowed the crimson scaled skink to vanish back up the ramp and aboard his vessel. It took five minutes for Horeo to reappear, this time carrying a small chest tucked beneath his armpit.

'What's that?' Solin asked in mild curiosity.

'How do you think the few coins you Legion fellows actually do carry come to be? Besides, I can't really do my bit in the same way you do. Trade loosens tongues on docks where's I can actually make land.' Horeo shook the chest once, caused a rattling as the contents were disturbed. 'The humans are weirdly fixated on some of our stuff.'

'It's the gold. Humans are attracted to the shininess like some of the birds around Madrigal,' Solin retorted. 'Since when do we trade away anything?'

'I'll show you when we're at the tavern.' Horeo did an exaggerated double-take at the building that he had been guiding the pair to. 'Ah, here we are. The Drunken Griffon.'

Solin recognised the tavern as the same one that Horeo had stumbled across last time the pickup had been in Marienburg. That had also marked the moment where Solin had learnt that even the Children of the Gods could get drunk. Horeo had been such a jolly drunk. So jolly he'd spent a good few hours dancing about with his breaches on his head.

'Classy place.' Solin's mouth couldn't give a sardonic smirk, but his voice certainly did the job as the pair entered through the door.

'No disrespect, they love me here.'

'No, they found you hilarious. And it was years ago so they've probably forgotten you.'

Horeo stuck his tongue out, as though he were a human spawnling, but quickly stopped in favour of giggling and parked himself at a nearby empty table, rested the chest on its surface. Solin sat himself opposite.

The tavern wasn't busy, likely due to the time of day. There was a fire in the hearth, which was a little surprising, considering it was currently summer, there was already heat enough that most humans were comfortable without. Maybe it was for the benefit of any non-human patrons who stepped into the premises—Solin couldn't say what an elf's heat tolerance was. Or a dwarf. Or most races for that matter. It was simply something which had never come up before. He was only aware of human resilience to frigid temperatures because he had been to Kislev once, not long enough ago. Why any race not afflicted by mutation would willingly linger in such a cold realm was beyond him.

Other than the two lizardmen and the two members of staff, there was a trio of elves in one corner whispering in hushed tones that actually made it harder to ignore them than if they'd simply murmured. And there was a dwarf and a human at the table as far from the door as possible. The human was clearly black-out drunk, only conscious through sheer stubborn will, while the dwarf stared at the two reptilians with a look of utter bafflement, before he then peered at his tankard with the most suspicious look Solin had ever seen anybody give an inanimate object.

'What can I do ya for?' a female Halfling asked, appearing at Horeo's elbow before Solin had fully sat himself. If she was surprised at the unusual customers, she gave no indication. 'Ey, aren't you that fellow that got drunk and danced about half nekkid a few years ago?'

Solin snorted, tried to hide his amusement but failed so spectacularly that Horeo's resultant glare at him looked less like he was cross, more like he had been mortally wounded.

'Ale for me,' Horeo said to the waitress once he realised that the wounded eyes look did nothing to stir sympathy, and waved a hand at Solin. 'And whatever he wants. On me. Not that the green cloaca stain deserves it.'

'Bretonnian brandy,' Solin spoke before she'd even moved her eyes to him. 'Whichever flavour, not picky.'

Once the Halfling had disappeared, Horeo slid the chest toward Solin and motioned for the saurus to open it. Solin did so, and peered questioningly at the contents. It was full entirely of various items of their people. Items such as a ceremonial headpiece of a skink priest, golden bangles, even a few armour plates. Solin looked to Horeo, took note of the amused glaze to the skink's eyes, and then returned to looking at the items.

It took longer than Solin was proud to admit before he realised. They were indeed items that would very rarely be given away… except these were not crafted to the standard that would be actually worn and used. When he voiced his observation, Horeo chuckled lowly.

'These are the results of our artisans and crafters when they are still learning their trade. For us? A waste, not worthy of being used, but too much effort to melt down and start anew. For the humans? They love the stuff. I get their coin, I can buy any hearsay in a tavern using said coin, or buy resources to send back to Tiamoxec, and so far I've gotten us more than we've given away.'

'You fit right in here,' Solin said with a chuckle, accepting the cup of brandy the returned Halfling offered him. 'Shall we call you the new merchant prince of Tiamoxec?'

'Hah, no. Won't be making such a good trade this time.' Horeo's voice turned sour.

Solin leaned forward. 'What? Why?'

Horeo turned his head to look in the direction that Solin believed that his ship lay. 'Pirates attacked us. Your new-blood got a taste of combat before they even got to you. You couldn't see it, but I need to fix up before I can leave.'

Solin let out a soft curse in Saurian. Vulgarity always felt more potent in their native tongue than when expressed with Reikspiel. In Reikspiel, vulgar words were just words that had a meaning that had been twisted to a negative association. Saurian vulgarity was made from words that had no direct translation and yet poured feeling and concepts into those blunt sibilant syllables in a way that could never be done with the human tongue. Strange how the only times I slip into Saurian is when I'm swearing. 'How bad?'

If the answer was that it had been particularly bad, the future of the Legion being bolstered by sea arrival would quite likely be indefinitely put on hold, and they'd have to return to the early days of waiting for new-blood to arrive by quite literally walking the continents.

'I think they've been noticing me for a while, they were waiting. Didn't get a good look at them, but I think it's those undead pirates that have been harassing our Lustrian brethren.'

Solin leaned back in his seat, took a sip of the brandy and savoured the taste of blackberry. 'I suppose it's a good thing they can't follow you back to Madrigal.'

Horeo's eyes sharpened in vicious delight. 'Nothing saying they haven't tried in the past.'

There was a reason that instead of Oldbloods, or even priests, it was a skink chieftain who captained of the ship, and that a second chieftain was the first-mate. The isle of Madrigal was surrounded by particularly territorial tsunamisaurs. It was quite possibly the only reason that no map had any indication of Madrigal's existence. And by extension, the existence of the temple-city Tiamoxec. Even Marshal Ingwel's personal map didn't have the isle marked down. Solin doubted that Horeo's map was any different in that regard.

The only reason they were able to have a ship enter and leave Madrigal's waters was because Horeo had spent nearly a century of his existence as one of the handlers who worked exclusively with the water-based creatures, and the same went for Sahls.

Should both Horeo and Sahls die at the same time, the ship would be trapped outside of Madrigal, unable to pass by the creatures lurking in the deep. The only way the crew would be able to get home would be to travel by foot to an outpost hidden away on the mainland and pray that Annat'corri was awake and able to have them transported back through magical means.

It was a risk they took every time they sailed.

'I have an idea going forward, it's…' Horeo trailed off, delayed himself by taking a swig of his drink, the smell of which made Solin think of fire. 'I don't know if Annat'corri will go for it or not. It could be resources that can't be spared. And he might not want us getting into a feud with the undead. If we stop giving them a reason, they'll leave us be.'

'That's nonsense.' Solin huffed in irritation. 'Last we heard from Lustria, those vampires had desecrated Axotl. They know our temples are full of what they consider wealth to be stolen by all means available. A "feud" with them already exists.'

'But right now it's limited to Lustria.' Horeo countered, but then leaned back, conceded the argument that he wasn't really invested in to begin with. He'd already made it clear to Solin that he agreed, considering that he had an idea, just wasn't certain of the reaction of the one authority who could either breath life into it or cut it short. Horeo took another swig of his drink. 'Annat'corri actually heard from Lustria recently.'

'Oh?' Solin tilted his head.

Horeo shrugged. 'It sounds like there are stirrings in the air, aspects of The Great Plan in motion. Stirrings that Mazdamundi is taking seriously, he sent Kroq-Gar to the Temple of Skulls.'

Solin straightened, eyes widened. 'Kroq-Gar is in the Kingdom of Beasts?'

'Either that, or he's on his way there.' Horeo shrugged, though it didn't hide the look in his eyes, a look that Solin knew was mirrored in his own eyes. Their kind weren't often prone to hero worship. Kroq-Kar was something of an exception. There was not a lizardman in existence who wouldn't answer the call if Kroq-Gar made a rallying cry.

Solin shook his head, returned clarity through that haze of hero worship, eyes now narrowed in thought. 'We haven't heard of anything happening in the Southlands that would warrant Mazdamundi sending Kroq-Gar that way.'

'Nobody has, and we weren't told why by anybody that might know. At this point, all we can do is watch and see how things go.'

Solin tapped his fingers on the tabletop while he dwelled on the thoughts that were rising to his mind. 'Ingwel will be interested to hear of this, but unless he heard something more then we're probably going to stay here in the Empire's provinces for now.'

What he didn't go on to say was that there was an underlying nervousness that would be felt by the entire Legion regarding how Kroq-Kar might react to their less than traditional methods. Best to avoid an unnecessary meeting.

'What about you?' Horeo asked after a silence where he continued to sip at his ale. 'Any news and hearsay to share?'

The saurus gave a shrug with a single shoulder, eyes narrowed in thought. Unconsciously, one of his hands tapped at his right breast, felt the texture of the parchment hidden beneath his surcoat, his record of everything he heard that was of interest. Experience was a keen teacher, everything was noted. Noted and then given to the right hands.

'Mostly just the usual.' He explained in a conversational tone. 'When I split off from Ingwel, he was following up on something in the eastern edges of Stirland, but it sounded like another case of bandits and marauders. Keep hearing about how our Lustrian cousins are chasing off Empire colonisation efforts. A Bretonnian crusade—as if that's ever new—to the Southlands. Chaos incursions against the Border Princes, and probably some against the Empire but we haven't yet come across any evidence of that. However, there has been a… lot of gossip about Kislevites fleeing south.'

Horeo made a sound of aroused curiosity and leaned forward as though to better hear. 'Kislevites fleeing? I've no experience with them, but aren't they the stubborn type?'

Solin nodded. 'That's why it stands out. These are the same people who have held back the hordes of the Chaos Wastes without a complaint or a plea for help. They just grit their teeth and push back. I'd never heard of any Kislevite fleeing anything and here we keep hearing about them fleeing across the border and yet no news of Kislev falling. Nothing to suggest there is any reason for them to abandon their homeland. It would be as though our kin began to flee Lustria for no apparent reason.'

The skink hummed thoughtfully. 'That is… confusing.' He tilted his head. 'I wonder…'

Whatever it was he was wondering, he elected not to say. Solin had a faint idea of what it was going through the skink's head, but chose not to think too much about it. It had been proven in the past that trying to predict events based on little certified fact never ended well. At least, it never ended well for Solin.

He downed the last of his brandy and made to stand, but paused as Horeo reached forward and grabbed his arm.

'Solinaraxl.' The use of his full name had Solin focus on Horeo intently. 'Go easy on Bonaeaix.'

Solin's head tilted in confusion. 'Who?'

'The priest. The new major.'

'Oh.' Solin paused, reminded himself that there was a skink waiting to be officially introduced and made into the Legion's latest major. 'He'll be fine.'

Horeo gave a very deliberate and sarcastic 'Hah,' which had Solin reward him with an irritated glare. 'Just give him a chance.'

'I'm not going to hurt him.' Solin let his offence at the notion colour his voice.

Horeo stared back at him, eyes narrowed and searching into Solin's soul. Finally, his fingers relaxed, and he pressed a small pouch with the familiar jingle of coin into the Oldblood's palm. 'I mean it. The poor little spawnling just got thrown into a feral cold one's nest.'

Solin chuckled at the comparison, weighing the coin-purse curiously. It would satisfy the Legion's few monetary needs easily enough. Rare were the times they even could spend coin in barter exchanges. 'Legion isn't that bad.'

'I still wasn't talking about the Legion.'

Solin stood, waving a hand over his shoulder as he made his way to the exit. 'He'll be fine. As fine as life with us allows us.'

Once outside, Solin pulled his bag of mints from the inside folds of his surcoat and absently slipped one into his mouth as he considered his options. Enjoyed the cold that wasn't actual cold.

With the new-blood arrived and under his care, he was to start moving eastward. The plan was to reunite with the other half of the Legion in either Hochland or Talabecland. However, it felt wrong to move so far without doing some job or another. Sun was still high, plenty of time to check around for any merchant caravans headed in the same direction that he was going. Merchant caravans that would be willing to pay the bargain price of rumours and gossip, or any materials that they might be able to spare.

It was always peculiar how merchants were more willing to pay with their goods than they were with their coin. Even when in doing so they actually lost more than if they'd paid for their services with that same coin they clutched to with such a tight grip. But rumours and hearsay were more important right now, which would help secure a job.

Again, just needed to find one headed in the right direction.

'O'er the hills and o'er the main,' he sang softly, kept his voice to himself. If the nearby citizens of Marienburg wanted to hear his singing, they'd better be paying for the privilege—he was no bard out to sing for audience. 'Past Bretton, Karak and Heim.'

And he disappeared into the streets, in the way that only Marienburg would allow an eight foot five saurus Oldblood.