The voice cuts through the din of Rhubar’s like a blade drawn just a fraction too slowly and Caio knows it before he truly sees it. The cadence and the faint disbelief wrapped around the syllables of his name is unmistakable. Near the back of the tavern, half-swallowed by pipe smoke and lamplight, sits Kestrel Vane. He's older now, rougher around the edges, but undeniably the same man. Once a scout and information-broker for the 99 Hundred, Kestrel had a laugh too loud for somebody who lived by secrets and a habit of watching doors, even while drinking. He was the sort to never stay anywhere long enough to get caught. His dark hair is threaded with silver and his leather coat patched rather than polished, but his eyes are just as sharp  and calculating as Caio remembers.

Their eyes meet and the years fall away, bringing back memories of icy delves beneath Necorath, stolen bottles passed around campfires and whispered, reckless fun. A flash of surprise crosses Kestrel’s face, giving way to something like wary relief, before finally settling into caution. There's no hostility, but he has the look of a man who has just realized that a ghost from his past has walked back into his life armed, changed and very much alive. Kestrel doesn't rise or call out again, but lifts his mug a few inches from the table in acknowledgement.

”Come on, you got this.”  the Caio from another world  adds to the reassurances of Cypherien’s friends.

With a grateful nod to those around him, he pushes past the bindings holding him back and steps into the tavern.

The interior, and the frigid reception, are exactly what Caio is expecting. He holds there in that awkward silence, cold, black eyes meeting the stares of any who dare to gawk for too long. Then his gaze finds Kestrel’s. The only change in expression is the slight hint of a smirk at the corner of his mouth, his best attempt at being disarming. 

“Ever the sharp eye, Kestrel.” he whispers, inaudible to anyone else in the bar but the words find Kestrel’s ears along with a chill that runs up his spine. “Might I join you for a drink? We have much catching up to do.”

Kestrel’s fingers tighten around the handle of his mug as Caio’s words are placed into his ear as precisely and intimately as a knife at the ribs. He slowly exhales through his nose and leans back on the bench.

"Well I’ll be ****ed and fed to the crows," Kestrel murmurs, low enough that it blends with the bar’s ambient roar. His eyes flick to the figures behind Caio, before returning to the shadow elf. “I was starting to think that you were a story we told to scare apprentices.” He nudges the opposite side of the table with his boot, clearing space. “Sit, then. If you’re buying, I’ll even pretend I’m happy to see you.” The corner of the man's mouth quirks upwards in a crooked half-smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve changed, Caio Cypherien. Got that look about you now.” Kestrel tilts his head, studying the elf. “The kind that usually means gods, graves… or both.” He raises his mug a fraction, echoing the gesture from moments before. “So, drink first and then you can tell me why you’ve come knocking on old ghosts.”

Ghoul flaps down to the table and gives out a little squawk, as if in response to Kestrel’s ‘fed to the crows’ comment. Caio sits as well, and his familiar retreats to his shoulder, regarding the man across the table with his saucer eyes. The ranger flags down a barmaid and orders whatever Beschcadik has to offer in the way of dark ale and bracing spirit. He orders another round for Kestrel as well.

“I thought you lot liked knocking on old ghosts. And graves. I suppose you’re less keen on the gods, but I’ve come to learn they’re not all as narcissistic as one might think.” he’s quiet for a beat glancing back to make sure his friends have found a comfortable spot before turning back to Kestrel as drinks arrive. “Málë.” he cheers, raising his shot. 

Kestrel startles when Ghoul drops onto Caio’s shoulder, the squawk earning a sharp glance and a reflexive twitch of his hand. He lets out a quiet, incredulous huff, when he realises what the bird is and who it belongs to.

“Still collecting horrors, I see,” he mutters. There’s a reluctant fondness beneath it and his eyes linger on Ghoul a second longer, before returning to Caio as the barmaid sets the drinks down with a thunk that rattles the table. “Málë,” he echoes, snorting at Caio's words as he lifts his own shot. The old toast rolls off of his tongue easily enough and the man downs it in one smooth motion. The burn of spirit is strong and unapologetic. The ale follows more slowly, foam clinging to Kestrel's moustache as he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

“Fair,” he concedes at last. “We did always have a thing for the dead that wouldn’t stay polite.” His stare sharpens slightly at the mention of gods, like a man eyeing thin ice. “Still… hearing you talk about them like that?” He shakes his head once. “That’s new.” Kestrel leans forwards, placing his forearms on the table, and his voice drops another notch. Around them, Rhubar’s noise has cautiously resumed, but there’s a bubble of attention around the table.

“So,” Kestrel continues, his eyes darting towards Caio’s companions before settling back on the elf, “you didn't come all this way just to reminisce and buy me drinks. Not with the look that you’re wearing.” His mouth tightens. “Which ghost are you knocking on tonight, Caio… and how bad is it going to be for the rest of us when you do?”

Caio had always been uncomfortable speaking about divinity one way or the other when he’d been palling around with the troupe of occultists. Looking back he realizes how young he must have seemed to them even though he was decades older than many of them. He shrugs dismissing the past for the moment.

”I have changed.” he says softly. He drops his voice even lower, Kestrel would need to be inches from his lips to hear were it not for the magic once again placing the words directly in his ears. “But you’re right, I didn’t come here to reminisce. I come with an offer. The ghost I’m after is one you’re quite familiar with, but if you haven’t realized already it’s a toxic relationship. Once she’s had her way with you she will discard you, or string you up like puppets. I’m hoping that you are aware of this and already have an exit strategy, but I warn you that she is far more dangerous than she looks, and yes I know she looks dangerous. If you want to come out on top and not just come out with your lives and dignity, you should work with us.”

Shiva sits down with Iskander, Astrid, and Alaris two tables over from where Caio is reminiscing with Kestrel. The member of the 99 Hundred is almost precisely what she'd imagined for a member of the group, to the extent that she's nearly disappointed to be proven right. But this is Caio's bridge to cross, she will not intervene unless it is to assure her friend's safety. 

So she orders a drink when a server passes by their table, but otherwise remains uncharacteristically quiet as she scans for any signs of trouble. Their arrival had ruffled more than a few feathers; a place like this probably gets regulars, the occasional tourist, and folks out looking for something or someone. Yet the tension their arrival stirs causes something like relief for her. It says that they weren't expected. They haven't been discovered by the wrong people. 

In her silence, she thinks to offer a muttered prayer to Khonsu for clarity. The entire idea is still foreign to her, and she cheats herself towards Iskander to create the appearance of whispered conversation. 

"Khonsu, Traveler, Arbiter of Justice. Allow me clarity of sight that I may root out vile intent. Allow me deftness and strength that I may act on the behalf of others, in their defense."

Kestrel doesn’t interrupt, but he goes very still as Caio speaks. The easy slouch drains out of him, until what’s left is the man that the elf remembers from long nights on watch and longer days in bad country. When the magic delivers the inquisitor's final words to Kestrel's ears, the man's jaw tightens in recognition. He exhales slowly through his nose and tips his mug just enough to watch the ale slosh.

“Still cutting straight to the bone,” Kestrel murmurs at last. “Some habits are eternal.” His eyes lift and he glances sideways toward the darker corners of Rhubar's. “We’re not blind,” the man says quietly, “and we’re not fools. Clarissa doesn’t keep company like ours because she trusts us. She keeps us because we're expendable.” His lip curls humourlessly. “You’re right about the puppets. Strings are already being measured.” Kestrel leans in so close that an eavesdropper would only catch the smell of spirits and smoke, his voice low and rough.

“That said… you don’t warn a man like this unless you’ve got more than your conscience pushing you. Maybe you have changed, but you’ve also picked a side,” the man points out, eyeing the silver gleam that clings to Caio now. “Gods don’t lend their knives to cowards,” he asserts, sitting back and drumming his fingers once against the table.

“So, here’s where we stand,” Kestrel continues. “Yes, there’s an exit plan. No, it doesn’t end with us on top. Just with us breathing. If you’re offering something better than that…” he trails off, meeting Caio’s eyes squarely, “I’ll listen, but I won’t sell my people on riddles and old loyalties alone. If this goes wrong, Cypherien, then it won’t just be Clarissa who comes for us.” The man lifts his mug again in challenge. “Tell me what working with you actually looks like.”

Quote from ZeeOfIstus >>

Shiva sits down with Iskander, Astrid, and Alaris two tables over from where Caio is reminiscing with Kestrel. The member of the 99 Hundred is almost precisely what she'd imagined for a member of the group, to the extent that she's nearly disappointed to be proven right. But this is Caio's bridge to cross, she will not intervene unless it is to assure her friend's safety. 

So she orders a drink when a server passes by their table, but otherwise remains uncharacteristically quiet as she scans for any signs of trouble. Their arrival had ruffled more than a few feathers; a place like this probably gets regulars, the occasional tourist, and folks out looking for something or someone. Yet the tension their arrival stirs causes something like relief for her. It says that they weren't expected. They haven't been discovered by the wrong people. 

In her silence, she thinks to offer a muttered prayer to Khonsu for clarity. The entire idea is still foreign to her, and she cheats herself towards Iskander to create the appearance of whispered conversation. 

"Khonsu, Traveler, Arbiter of Justice. Allow me clarity of sight that I may root out vile intent. Allow me deftness and strength that I may act on the behalf of others, in their defense."

Khonsu’s answer doesn't come as words. The din of Rhubar’s sharpens, the sound separating into layers. There's the honest roar of drink and dice, the performative bravado of mercenaries trying to be seen and the low, guarded murmurs of those who would rather not be noticed at all.

Shiva feels the weight of the night settle around her shoulders like a familiar cloak. Certain things fall subtly out of step with the world. A man near the bar laughs a moment too late, his eyes darting to Caio and Kestrel, before returning to his cup. Two figures in the back corner share a bottle, but never drink, their hands resting too ready to be truly relaxed. Near the stairwell, a woman with inked knuckles and a pilgrim’s scarf fingers a charm that is arcane rather than religious. None of them move yet.

Shiva stills as her awareness is deepened by Khonsu's divine power, allowing her to feel the rhythm of the space and who moves outside of it. She feels the tension of muscles, the fleeting sensation of leering eyes, and the charge of latent arcane strength. Noting the three sources of this unrest, she grabs her drink and takes a big swig before boisterously shouting to her companions.

"-and after all that, turns out the demon was just the farm hand having his WIFE twice a week!!" She cackles at the ending of a story that she never started. Wiping a tear from her eye, she smiles and leans in to speak more quietly.

"There are eyes on Caio and his old friend-don't look. Probably watching us too. Four people. Ready to act. Either they're the other members of the group or we were recognized somewhere on our journey. I'm leaning towards the former. Or maybe..."

She leans back in her seat as though the day had been long and exhausting. "Some people are just unfriendly ********."

Alaris nods and tilts back in their chair, bursting out laughing just after taking a sip of spiced tea and glancing over the rim of the cup. Their experience in reading body language on the streets of Piotrgrad allows that one glance to take in the four who are just not sharing the raucous vibe of Rhubar's. "I love that story! You tell it so well!" the aasimar laughs and coughs, sending tea in a mist across the table. Wiping their mouth, they continue in a softer voice, chuckling a little as they say, "Shiva, I wish you had bought me that scarf we saw in the market earlier. I need it to clean up this mess!" Raising a hand to a passing servant, they say, "I'll take two of what my friend is drinking," before nodding to Astrid. "Iskander, do you like the bar? Lovely carvings... is that level of detail common here?"

Just like that, the captain has handed out assignments. If things go sideways, Shiva will focus on the spellcaster in the scarf while Alaris will take responsibility for the pair sitting together, and Iskander will cover the one at the bar. As always, Astrid will fit in where the Scribe pens her story.

To Iskander the group was speaking with a strange cadence in his second language, something that made him doubt his understanding of Taneman more than it relayed clear instructions to him. This wasn't a group he was used to working with after all.

Still, Shiva abruptly starting a story at the end and the others being unfazed, would let even the most oblivious man know something was wrong.

Iskander looked at the bar, wondering why Alaris would care about such a simple piece. The carvings weren't anything complex, simply basic geometric patterns to make it a little less plain. A few gouges from rude patrons too, but those were obviously out of place.

His eyes alight on a man with a strange preoccupation with one or both of the men on the other table. The trouble they were trying to warn him of? His mind races through how he'd subdue him, where he'd step, where any weapons may be hidden. He nods grimly to show he understood.

"The design is nothing special. I'm surprised you don't see similar things in the East," he said, trying to indicate the side of the bar the man he'd identified was on.

"No, nothing like that. This city of yours is a revelation of wonders, to be sure."

Alaris then dives into an animated retelling to Iskander of the battle against the fleder so many days ago, engaging Shiva and Astrid to join in and to all the world (or at least hopefully the common room of Rhubar's) sounding like just one more band of mercenaries reliving past shenanigans.

Discerning the coded language, Shiva considers arguing with Alaris's assertion to handle two of the potential assailants but decides against it. If they need help then she'll be there, she imagines that the witch won't be too much trouble as long as she's ready for magic. 

As the aasimar launches into the story of the fleder, Shiva is once again blind sided by just how much had happened amongst their group in such a short span of time. She groans with irritation as Ari and Astrid speak of the battle in the abandoned church. 

"The whole thing was such a massive pain in the ass. I had to throw myself from the rafters of the damned building to skewer the biggest fleder with enough force to stagger it and help everyone bring it down before someone was killed. Then a daemon came out of the vile thing and just floated away like fairy dust! Then I got sped through nightmare puberty a day or so later! Was a ****ed up few days."

“I have no intention of selling you on riddles.” Caio responds, cool and flat as marble. “We plan to circle around her, silence and neutralize her pawns in the court before she realizes that she is our actual target. Leave her with no alibi and no allies to turn to once we tighten the noose round her neck.”

Caio takes a casual sip of his ale, letting his eyes drift across the room momentarily. “From you all, we primarily need information. Her movements, what she’s after here in Beschcadik, weaknesses, blind spots, that sort of thing. Then, inevitably, a fight will come. If any of you are willing to fight, well that would of course increase all of our chances at getting what we’re here for.”

He turns back to Kestrel, watching the man’s reaction. “Think you can sell them on that?”

Kestrel rolls his shot glass between two fingers, the rim never quite touching his lips. The man's eyes are fixed on Caio with unnerving stillness, even as Rhubar's clamour of laughter, dice and chairs scraping back too hard presses in around them. Finally, Kestrel gives a a soft, humourless snort.

“Still cutting straight to the bone,” he murmurs. “No poetry, or mysticism, just knives and logistics.” The man glances towards the rest of the tavern and, when his eyes return to Caio, there's something guarded in them. “You’re not wrong,” he admits. “Clarissa doesn’t ally with people, she leases them. Short-term contracts, high interest.” A faint curl of distaste touches Kestrel's mouth. “You’re right about the court too. She’s been testing doors there, seeing which ones creak when leaned on. Viziers who like their pleasures quiet, clerks who like their promotions fast and guards who think that loyalty is a matter of coin and commendations.”

He sets his untouched glass down.

“The 99 don’t trust her,” the man continues, lowering his voice further, “but they fear being the ones who blink first. You come in promising a clean exit, one where she takes the fall and they don’t get crushed between her and the throne?” He tilts his head. “That’s a tempting story. As for selling them on a fight…” Kestrel adds, a glint of something old and dangerous surfacing in his eyes. “That depends on who you think is still alive to sell it to. Vitun and Fyrik are gone, but there are others. Bitter ones. Ones who still wake up smelling Nyelcë’s smoke in their hair and one or two who might hear your name and remember a version of themselves that wasn’t damned yet.”

The man leans back in his chair and the wood creaks under him.

“I’ll take this to them,” he tells Caio. “Information, leverage and the promise that Clarissa bleeds first. That’s a pitch worth making...” Kestrel glances towards where Shiva and the others are laughing too loudly and drinking too casually, “but understand this, old friend. If she even suspects that you’re here, then the knives come out fast. Not just hers.” He reaches for his drink and downs it in one smooth motion. “So, if we do this,” the man says quietly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “then we do it clean and we do it soon.” His eyes meet Caio’s squarely. “What do you need first?”

At Shiva's warning, Astrid does her best not to glance around to find those who are watching Caio. She takes up her mug and nervously sips her ale. 

"Oh... uh. Yes." Astrid tries to catch the unspoken cues from Alaris. She quickly thinks back on the encounter with the strange creatures below the church in Piotrgard. "... And if it weren't for Nikolai I may have lost my life." She manages a weak chuckle and rubs her neck remembering where the fleder sunk its fangs into her throat. 

The cleric then begins to dig through her bag of spare parts and removes her ever useful copper spring. Palming the spring, she picks up her mug for another drink. "Caio, be careful... Shiva has spotted four others... that seem to be watching you," she whispers between taking sips from her drink. 

At the mention of Vitun and Fyrik and Nyelcë, Caio’s brow furrows. Old questions blossom like witch hazel in the dead of winter, tattered flags that snatch the inquisitors cold attention.

“Speaking of old ghosts…” he starts, voice going grave,  but does not finish. He sighs instead and downs the last of his shot. “There will be time to catch up later. You are right, we must work swiftly. As I said, right now we need information. What exactly is she having the 99 do for her?” 

Kestrel’s jaw tightens at the talk of old ghosts and a flicker of something raw crosses his face, before it is buried beneath practiced irreverence. The man drums his fingers once on the table and then stills them.

“She’s not using us for brute force,” Kestrel says quietly. “Not yet. Clarissa’s smarter than that. She knows that the moment that bodies start piling up in the street, eyes turn inward.” He leans forwards a fraction and lowers his voice until it barely stirs the air between them. “Right now, the 99 are knives in drawers. It's quiet, discreet work. Procuring rare reagents, banned texts and old Sarameian ritual components that don’t officially exist anymore. She doesn’t move for common necromancy. She’s after things tied to authority, oaths and bloodlines. She wants names that still carry weight in the empire and anything that smells like legitimacy twisted sideways.

The 99 are being used to launder magical involvement, by having spells cast through intermediaries and rituals broken into harmless-looking fragments, so that no single mage can be blamed. If something goes wrong, it’s always somebody else holding the knife. It's one big test of loyalty. Sending members on errands that almost cross a line and seeing who hesitates, who asks questions and who doesn’t.” A humourless huff of laughter escapes the man. “Anybody who proves too cautious stops getting invitations.” He leans back and folds his arms.

“She hasn’t ordered an assassination yet, but she’s positioning pieces and making sure that when the killing starts, it looks inevitable and lawful, even necessary. That’s what should worry you. She doesn’t want chaos. She wants permission. For what it’s worth," Kestrel adds, quieter still, “a few of us have noticed the pattern. That’s why you’re still breathing after saying her name in here. If you’re going to cut her off, then you need to hit the channels that she’s using us for and take away her deniability. Force her to act openly, or not at all.”