Not even a heartbeat passes before Vazo'yn solemnly nods his head in acceptance of this great burden. The Fates, the Mists, the whispers that urged him on this journey. Unseen hands that move the world ever forward. The signs cannot—will not—be ignored.

"I will go," he says quietly but with unshakeable conviction. The cards rest heavily in the pouch at his side. His hand goes subconsciously to hold them.

"I will be one of the fated seven."

He feels a strange relief at having accepted his role. While the weight of the world bears down on his shoulders, there is a serenity in giving over his future to the whispers.

That old lady just threw some bones and rocks on the road. I wonder what that's for? I wait, I know that..it's some kind of fortune telling thing. How do I know that?

Ylis gets closer to get an ear in on what is going on.

OOC: Ylis was absolutely within earshot even before the witch was using Thaumaturgy to amplify her voice.

Riven remained in the shadows, eyes narrowed. His arms were folded across his chest, but not out of defensiveness—restraint. He watched as the old woman collapsed to her knees and delivered her prophecy with all the weight and flourish of a seasoned performer. The dramatic pause, the tear-streaked face, the booming proclamation of extinction... Thirteen days.

A whisper of unease moved through the crowd. He could feel it like static in the air.

And then, of course, the solution. A handful of volunteers, seven to be exact, tasked with saving the world. Seven heroes.

How convenient.

Riven exhaled slowly through his nose.

"Thirteen days," he repeated under his breath, the number bitter on his tongue.

He stepped forward a pace now, just enough for the light to catch the edge of his hood, his voice low and calm but clear enough for those nearby to hear.

"And yet, here we are, placing the fate of the world in the hands of whichever seven souls are naïve enough to raise their hands first."

His gaze moves briefly to the elf—already committed, already resolute. 

“You claim to see the path,” Riven said, looking at the old woman now, “but not the end. That is... remarkably convenient for someone making demands.”

He glances toward the crowd, their silence more deafening than the prophecy.
“Tell me,” he adds, quieter now, almost to himself, “who volunteers for the end of the world?”

He says nothing more, only watches.

Joy’s fingers tighten around the edge of her book as her eyes trace the omen again—not just the pieces on the mat, but the spaces between them, the fractures in fate that speak more than the old woman’s words. Her heart sinks as she sees the truth. The path is not certain. The danger is immense. The odds…grim. She lifts her gaze, meeting the old woman’s eyes. Just for a moment. Long enough to see the knowledge she withheld. Long enough to know she did it for hope. 'Kindle the Light. Protect the Light.'

Joy closes the book with quiet resolve, not quite quickly enough to prevent Jack from getting a good idea of her findings. She rises, giving Vazo'yn a resolute nod. Her voice, when it comes, is calm and clear. “The Fates have shown us a path. This road will not be easy. It will test us.”

She takes a breath, then smiles—not with foolish optimism, but with a paladin’s faith. “But I believe we can do it. We are not helpless. And we are not alone. So I’ll go.” Her hand rests over her chest, where the Dawnfather’s symbol gleams faintly in the sunlight. She turns toward where Riven is barely visible in the shadows, eyes shining. “The ending depends on the seven. Why not come along, so us naive sorts don't decide on it without you?”

I think I'lll stay by this one, she sounds like she knows what to do.

Randas eyes meet the other elfs eyes across the way and she nods in response to his words.

"I think so yes." The dark-haired man whispers back to the dark-skinned elf that had come up behind him.
He then listens to the old woman and her reading of the bones, almost fainting at her apocalyptic message, having a hard time grasping the magnitude of it all. This must surely be some mistake, the fate of the whole world in the hands of seven people. He was quite sure there would be many others in town, not to mention in the world, both more brave and more likely to succeed in this endeavour than himself.

And then hears a voice answering the call, a drow no less, he wouldn't have imagined a more unlikely saviour of the world.
And then the man stepped forward, not to answer the call but to challenge the reading it seemed. What she had said didn't quite seem like a demand to him but he would agree it was a bit naïve to head east because a possibly senile old woman suggested so. Still, no one was forced to answer the call it seemed.

He then notes how the young kneeling woman closes the book and rises again, she too answering the call, even arguing for the unconvinced man to come along. He felt relieved that no one was looking at him for this. It wasn't that he didn't care, he did, but what could he possibly do to help, he was certainly no hero, much less one of these seven heroes. He is about to fade back into the crowd as he feels a sharp sting in his neck and a feminine voice in his head. 

"I will come too..." He exclaims with all the courage and firmness he can muster as he takes a step forward again. "...I mean, if you'll have me?" He adds a bit awkwardly, looking to the young lathanderite and the drow. He didn't particularly trust the drow but he must admit that this one seemed different. And the young woman, until just recently a girl, perhaps she was naïve but he couldn't stand by and see her go off without an escort. Also, admittedly, the words of his blonde companion had given him little choice in the matter...

Riven’s jaw tensed at Joy’s words—just a flicker of muscle, but enough to betray the churn beneath his stillness. She spoke with clarity, with calm, as though the weight of the world were something you could simply carry by believing you could. And even worse her demeanor made it sound possible.

The witch’s bones still lay scattered on the mat, and already the elf who had been clinging to her side had stepped forward. Then the paladin. And now… she looked to him.

Ignorant, no naive. They didn’t know what they were stepping into. Not really. They heard “thirteen days” and imagined some noble end. But that wasn't how life worked and endings weren’t like that imagined or real. They were messier.

Her gaze still remained on him. Her eyes were steady. Not pleading. Not expectant. Just… earnest.

It was unbearable.

He exhales,  and with a single, reluctant motion, Riven steps forward—just enough for the sun to catch his face. He squints at its intrusion before continuing.

“If I go,” he said, the words rough-edged with hesitation, “it won’t be for fate. Or hope. Or bones thrown on a mat by someone who decided we should trust her screams.”

His voice wasn’t loud as he continued to meet the cleric's gaze. When he spoke again, it was quieter—but far more serious.

“It’ll be because someone needs to see the end coming before it arrives. Because someone has to watch the rear as you blindly go forward." His eyes shifting to the the witches mat once again before raising his hand to his face, fingers brushing the sweat-damp fringe of hair from his brow. No pretense. No malice. Just tired eyes and a mouth set in grim understanding.

“I don’t believe in destiny,” he said. “I believe people make choices some good, some bad but theirs to make none the less."

A brief  glance toward the elf who had been the first to volunteer. Then back to the paladin, the light catching on her armor like a beacon.

“Thirteen days.” His mouth twitched into something too bitter to be called a smile. “I’ve wasted more time on less important things.”

Riven turns to the horizon a place were where the setting light creates shadow, not for answers, but but to gather his thoughts before responding.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s walk toward the end. Just don’t ask me to pray.”

"First there were to be Nineteen. Now there is to be seven. I wonder how many there will be in the end" the dwarf says to himself. "One!" he says, louder, a burst of volume from the so far, quiet dwarf, as if coming out of a reverie.

"It's not often you get a warning before something terrible happens" he adds.

He looks at the Paladin, "You look like you can make something out of those bones is that true?" He then looks at the others gathered around, "I will go to. I will be four of seven, and will leave eighteen in the past, with the other eighteen" he says, not adding any explanation, then once again becomes silent.

Quote from Naiya_Varma >>

 

 

“It’ll be because someone needs to see the end coming before it arrives. Because someone has to watch the rear as you blindly go forward." 

“I don’t believe in destiny,” he said. “I believe people make choices some good, some bad but theirs to make none the less."

“Fine,” he muttered. “Let’s walk toward the end. Just don’t ask me to pray.”

OK Mr. Gloomy Doomy. Wow, adults are so serious, thinks Ylis. This whole situation while strange and possibly dangerous was still a bit exciting. Adventure! And somebody gotta pay for what they did to Aunt Kristin.

Joy blinks in quiet astonishment as more people volunteer. Her smile grows wider, brighter, even as the weight of their choice begins to settle.

She looks to Jack first, her expression warm. “Of course we will. It would be an honor.” Her eyes flick to Riven with a knowing, amused glint. “You don’t have to pray. Just keep walking.”

Then, to the dwarf—her smile softens into something more solemn. There’s depth in his words she doesn’t yet understand, but she respects it. “Yes, I can...I just wish I remembered learning it. The night took much from us, but dawn always comes."

At first, the crowd seems uncertain, but with each passing volunteer, they become more and more hopeful, with the last two holdouts, Riven and Giles, receiving actual cheers even though the crowd broadly did not understand much of what either was saying beyond their acceptance of this dangerous mission. 

The witch regards the intrepid collection of would-be heroes with an approving smile. “Seven companions. So be it.” She struggles to get herself up to her feet. “You shall be the Fellowship of the Wind.”

She holds her hands up to deliver you all to the world. The townsfolk once again cheer. It is clear that they know very little about what is happening, but what they do understand is that the witch, known to the people of Trostenwald, has offered them hope and answers in this jarring and traumatic time. These people know that they are unable to follow, and most either cannot or do not wish to anyway, but they know that someone is prophesied to save them. 

The witch looks back to the mayor, who is looking at his watch with disinterest. “Now, good mayor, if you would please provide these heroes some horses? The Ashkeeper Peaks are a good distance away.”

“What?!” Rinad says with the tone of a man who tracks every copper coin that is funneled through his little town. “Madam, it is one thing to allow this… whatever this is, to distract the people of this town after they have been attacked by some magical means, but it is another thing entirely to drain our limited town resources to participate in this Emon-like theater. The answer is no.”

The old witch looks to the newly formed party as if to invite them to solve their first problem on this quest.

Vazo'yn looks over his new companions brought together by fate.

To the lady who seems as called by fate as he, Vazo'yn offers a knowing nod, "May they guide our steps." She may feel a strange emboldening from his words.

Some of the others seem content to come along for the ride. And the one who holds to the shadows comes in spite of destiny. For whatever their personal reasons, they answer the Fates' call all the same.

The Fellowship of the Wind.

After helping the witch to her feet, Vazo'yn turns his attention to the mayor once more. His golden eyes are alight with a fierce, intense purpose, and though he speaks with conviction, it's a quiet confidence. There is no raised voice or emphatic gesturing. Just the calm insistence of one who's sure of their path.

"If the elder is right and we, the Fellowship of the Wind, avert this catastrophe, then it will be due—in part—to your foresight and generosity. Your town will be saved and your citizens' loved ones brought back from bone and dust. Trostenwald will be the jewel it once was."

He paused for a moment, though his eyes never left the mayor.

"But, if you're right, and this is all a farce," though Vazo'yn is sure it's not, "then you will have rid yourself of seven naive wanderers and their hungry mouths, and a handful of horses who will eat even more. Your town's precious resources can be spent on those who truly need them."

Another momentary pause.

"You will be safeguarding your town's future either way."

[[Persuasion: 12 and a D6 Bardic Inspiration to Joy.]]

Randa wasn't sure what to say if anything, she had thought they would walk towards what ever this was, the way they had volunteered one by one she was reminded of the old dukuns tales in the Grove; tales and legends of ancient days, of quests and conflict between her people and the Ki'Nau and the Great Serpents.

She didn't know how to ride a horse.....indeed hadn't seen one before until a month ago......but now didn't seem the time to bring it up...

She looked around at the others then down at her ' borrowed' threadbare, barely opaque shift, " I'm........going to go change.......while you sort out the animal situation.  Back Soon."

"Sir, Mayor, Rinad" the dwarf says in a calm tone, quiet so his voice doesn't travel. "Look around you, everyone in this town is older then they were an hour ago. I hope you don't find that some have aged pass their time, but you may. Perhaps you should focus on your people now, let those fool hearty enough to take on this quest, do so. But without your horses, the quest fails now, and your people have no hope of recovery."

"I know it is a lot to ask, Mr. Mayor, but...If this aging happens every night, time is of the essence to save as many people as possible. We'll need our strength to...do whatever it is we are meant to do once we get there as well."

(Joy tries to help with Vazo'yn's persuasion)

"What a load of yellow chicken liver!"

"Are you being serious?!!" Ylis is absolutely enraged, her ears pulled back along her head and her whiskers standing straight out from the fury on her face.

"YOU!" she points at the mayor, "You must have been the cause of all this chaos! Otherwise you would be happy to find a solution! Instead you don't want us to help the town! What are you getting out all these peoples' suffering? HUH?!" She leans in, her fists shaking at her side. "Everybody knows the witch is trying help, and the first thing you do is say no no!" 

Ylis growls and stomps her foot.

Riven stood at the edge of the group, half in shadow, watching. The mayor’s refusal met with argument, pleading, fury—and still he remained silent. Arms crossed. Expression unreadable.

When the shouting faded and the witch’s hopeful smile began to falter, Riven moved.

He didn’t stride. He walked. Quietly. Deliberately. Each step was a choice.

He stopped a few paces from the mayor. His eyes—sharp, pale, tired—flicked once toward the stableyard in the distance. Then to the gathered crowd. Then back to the mayor.

He let the weight of the silence press in.

Then, with quiet finality:

“Loan them.”

Just that. No plea. No explanation. 

Seven mounts. Nothing more.

OOC: Intimidation check please, Riven.