Kor edit Feb 21 2024:
1-8 qps, depending on length and quality.
Rplizer +1 qps : o
Extra meticulous edit +1 qps : o
Length bonus +1-2 qps : o
Part of a series +1 qps: x
Summary: +1 qps : o
Total: 3 qps
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In the dim recesses of the inn’s basement, shadows coalesce like ethereal tendrils, curling around the patrons who huddle in smoky corners, their faces obscured by veils of wispy haze. The air is thick with the pungent aroma of pipe tobacco, mingling with the scent of aged leather and the bitter sweetness of spiced wine. The flickering glow of dwindling candles barely pierces the gloom, revealing worn tapestries draped across the walls, their colors faded with time. A lone Gleeman strums a melancholic tune on a battered lute, his voice carrying the weight of tales untold. The denizens of this clandestine refuge, their garments a patchwork of faded silks and threadbare wool, exchange furtive glances beneath the brims of wide-brimmed hats. It is a sanctuary for those who thrive in the twilight between light and shadow, where secrets linger and destinies are woven like the threads of an intricate tapestry.
A darkly cloaked figure materializes at the top of the stairs and descends, determined strides cutting through the ambient chatter like a dagger through smoke. The air clings to his frame, thick with intrigue, as he navigates the labyrinth of tables and slouched figures. His keen eyes search the room, as if looking for elusive prey, scanning the faces concealed within the veils of swirling vapors. Murmurs rise and fall like the ebb of distant tides.
Finally, the figure arrives at a lone table, where the flickering candlelight reveals the form of a second man, sprawled over the table, draped in the shroud of intoxication. His features obscured by the shadows cast by the uneven flame, the man in the red coat lies motionless. The newcomer’s eyes gleam with a mixture of exasperation and resolve. With deftness and surprising gentleness, he rouses their inebriated man, whose eyelids flutter open to reveal momentary confusion and then bleary recognition.
“Finally. Where have you been?”
“It took a little bit longer to move around than anticipated. Your band of rabble have been creating a bit of a situation all across Ghealdan, in case you hadn’t noticed,” says the darkly cloaked man. He reaches out his hand. “Call me Ismael.”
The bleary-eyed man glances over the room as he takes the hand in a firm grasp. “Yes, I know, I received your missive…you signed it and all…”
“Yes, well, wouldn’t it be more intriguing if I had signed with a false name? Where is your sense of drama? Anyways, can we talk here, or can we go somewhere else?”
Suddenly, the hair on Ismael’s arm prickles as he feels the other man connect to Saidin. He instinctively seizes a connection himself, diving through the initial dark layer to the rough torrent of power beneath.
The man in the red coat holds up a hand disarmingly. “Peace, just give me a moment.”
He weaves something complicated that dissipates into the air, unseen by the uncaring patrons around the two men and nods. “We can speak now.”
Ismael nods. “Have you and yours noticed the recent signs?”
Red Coat, still bleary eyed, tries on a grin and says. “We haven’t needed to look for signs, friend - we have something better.”
Ismael returns the grin knowingly. “Yes, well, those who have abandoned your cause are traveling far and wide now…putting on the livery of monarchs, getting drunk in taverns, spreading tall tales…but one stuck with me.”
“Oh?”
“Yes…it was something told to me by a man who took his own life days later. He was severed.” Ismael grimaces and continues. “Oh sure, he tried to piece together a life, but that is a void that a job and a few drinks will never fill. They say Saidin will claim our minds, but I have yet to see a severed man retain his sanity, even when they do manage to keep a will to live. They mostly speak nonsense. Poor, unfortunate half-men, the lot of them.”
Red Coat nods carefully, eyeing the other man. “And what did he tell you?”
“He told me that the Prophet was dreaming again.”
The smokey air seems to freeze around the two men, the din of the tavern fading into a thrumming moment caught in time as two men lock eyes. Finally, after an interminable moment, Red Coat speaks.
“Well, that narrows down who it was. I was not aware he had been severed, let alone passed on.” Red Coat pauses momentarily, as if casting a silent prayer into the void. At last, he speaks. “You said again. I suppose he told you about the last time it happened?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’d feared as much, but now it may as well be out in the open.” Red Coat pauses and licks his lips, reaching for his mug before he notices that it is actually on the grimy floor. “Masema does not simply teach us of a Prophecy, but he has had actual visions of the Lord Dragon himself. He shared this story with one of his longest standing lieutenants. One who has stood his ground and kept the faith.”
Ismael nods thoughtfully. He clears his throat and phrases a question very carefully. The question itself, mostly lost in the din of the bar, was benign but aimed for one thing: verification. As the man in the red coat begins speaking, he knows he is successful. He will get a true answer.
Because Ismael had his own Dreams. Dreams filled with secrets he had spent decades confirming. Dreams that made it abundantly clear he is not a Prophet, nor a man who should delude himself into the whimsy of fancying himself the Lord Dragon. But they had told him when the time would be right to reach out to those who had sworn their lives to the search for the Dragon, few of them that remain. They had told him what the true Prophet, perhaps this Masema, the one he was destined to serve until the day the Dragon was Reborn, would see in his Dreams. His Dreams told him that he was nothing but a mere pawn of prophecy and not to place delusions of grandeur upon himself, for he had one purpose: to serve and prepare this world for the Rebirth.
The man in the red coat shifts slightly and continues his story. And as he tells the tale, Ismael finds himself beginning to smile. It was all true. Masema was not having mere dreams, but true visions of the Lord Dragon – and they dovetailed perfectly with his own dreams. He could not be wrong. The Lord Dragon, the Coramoor, the Car’a’carn, He Who Comes With The Dawn, and so many other names Ismael had come across for him in his travels, was truly speaking through his Prophet. As the story concludes, he is fully grinning. The paradigm had shifted. It was time to Redeem this world in preparation for His return.
Ismael locks eyes with the other man, a strange glimmer in them. “Seems I have some things to share as well. I will send another missive. I imagine one of the lieutenants will reach out to me, but when can I meet with Prophet Masema?”