People commence their toil and grind, greeting you busily but politely as you pass. After all, you wear the mark of the Temple, dressed in your official garbs for the upcoming inauguration.
You have made it through the initial training, endured what the teachers have thrown at you; you have seen others bend, twist and finally break under pressure. Whether it be by strength, determination, charm, or an influential family member who helped you through, you are where you are.
In typical Druchii style, the structure you now walk through has little in ways of lavish decoration. It shows pride and strength, but also great pragma and efficiency. It has always and ably walked a thin line between the two.
On your way through the corridors, you find a few others that seem to be headed the same way, although it takes them a while to find out. The building is maze-like in build and appearance, and there is no telling which direction is which, truly.
A quick inquiry tells you that these others are indeed headed for the Council chamber as well, where they were to meet a man named Tarbo. The name rings a bell, somewhere, somehow—yes, it hung in the air once or twice during your whole training—but you don't remember ever having cared much. You don't see much reason to change that, either.
After mounting staircases, sloping floors, passing cyclic corridors and wrong chambers, you are finally pointed in the correct direction. Before you stand the double doors that open to the council chamber, where you will meet your final test: composure.
You find an elf shouting at the guards to let her through, but the guards don't budge a muscle. As soon as they recognise your emblem, the guards immediately withdraw their spears from the doorway and allow you access. You leave the she-elf to stare indignantly at the whole proceeding while you enter the chamber.
And what a large chamber it is! Worthy to hold a city council in the busiest of meetings, a long table optically split this room in half, holding a number of chairs arrayed along the length. Sunlight reaches deep within by virtue of the long, sturdy skylight above, and the tall windows overlooking the neighbouring park.
Woefully undermanned for such a large chamber, only two people are present when you enter: a scribe and someone you can identify only as Tarbo. There is some quiet discussing between the two; the conversation is rounded up when you enter, and you are greeted with a smile. The scribe bows to all of you and leaves silently.
“Ah, you must be the applicants I was told about. Welcome,” Tarbo greets you. “Please, pull up a chair, have a seat; we've placed nametags for your convenience. There should be enough to accommodate everyone.”
Tarbo folds his hands behind his back, displaying a similar emblem as your own, signifying that he, too, is a member of the Temple. “You may wonder what it is you are doing here. Frankly, that was the same thing I asked your training master when I was told to make the final selection before your inaugaration, and told to do so within this very week.”
He takes a deep breath before continuing, all the while keeping a slight smile on his lips. “You are all potential members of the Temple; whether you aspire to be head guard of the more ranking members, or to be a paladin to further the cause, or an inquisitor to ferret out banned cults, there is one recurring quality you must posess: the ability to sniff and snuff out danger.”
The smile broadens to a grin, showing one of Tarbo's eyeteeth. “Now, some apprentices of our own are about to graduate, or so I would hope. The competition is stiff, to say the least.”
He frees up his hands and instantly claps them once to fire up everyone's attention. “So I crushed two bugs with one swat! Some of the—hopefully more talented—would-be assassins have mingled among you. You may have met them in the corridors, you may even have asked them directions; from this day onward, they will be among you.”
“It is your job to find and kill them. You will be using your skills of rethoric, analysis and psychology to find the perpetrators, since you will have to convince your fellows of your right. In the meantime, these apprentice assassins will be trying to, ah, lessen the threat. You get my drift.”
Instantly, the she-elf you saw outside briskly walks past the guards, chin held high, and delivers a scroll to Tarbo. She barely bothers to bow, too insulted that she wouldn't be allowed in, and leaves immediately. Tarbo takes the scroll with an amused chuckle and starts reading it, keeping some other papers to hand while humming a tune. Apparently, knocking off people seems to involve a surprising amount of paperwork.
“Oh, before I forget: dead people don't graduate. Just to get any misconceptions out of the way.”
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- Players
- Mel'Reyna
- Drakhan
- Tastyfish
- Lamehk the Slavemaster
- SleekDD
- Morvai
- The Blade Liger
- Tylarion
- Darmort
- Mornar Shethurith
- rankrath
- Prince Cal
- Kin'eleth
- seanzala
- Malevion
- XtremeNL
- Ashnari Doomsong
- A neutral shade of black.
With 18 players, 10 constitute a majority.