Second voyage

Falka slips off the ship into the skydock away from the others. Docking and a trip into a city is always a good place for a drink and Falka knows this, hesitant to go far he does look for a place near the docks to listen.

While yes he wants to drink, he also is going to listen for talk of the Syndicate.

Talin smiles, "I will pay good coin for information. Anything about why they're really here. They're putting a good face on something, I can feel it."

He pauses and considers the folks he's with. "I don't know how much it will help, but the higher ups will be at the fancy dinner tonight. Maybe much of the crew. Of course, it'll be interest who's not there, but they will definitely be short handed while it's going on."


Talin will share what he knows of the schedule.

"If you happen to know where I can trade up some subtle and flexible armor, I'd be appreciative."

Vethalia makes a face, stupid Syndicate.

You have a dinner invitation? And you are looking for a good armor you say?
You, fetch the purple one while me and our new friend talk. The leader sends the youngest of the lot off to fetch a dark purple armor. It look really well made, and strong. This improved leather armor, does seem to have a flaw, of a long cut in its side, and the leather seems darked with blood around the cut.
Its a fix'er up'per, but you are resourceful. Now this is what I want you to do:

"I will judge to the best of my ability. I don't know the full complement of the airship, but should be able to tell if more than just the leadership is there."

Dinner at Angleholm Monastery


The Great Hall of Angleholm Monastery is vast, its vaulted stone ceiling vanishing into shadow, its pillars etched with glowing runes that shimmer faintly in rhythm with the candlelight. The walls are bare of tapestries — instead, they bear engraved sigils and circles of power, reminders that this is no mere dining chamber but the heart of a place devoted to arcane mastery.

Long wooden tables stretch the length of the hall, polished smooth by centuries of use, their surfaces set with pewter plates, silver goblets, and the subtle gleam of enchanted cutlery. The air is filled with the mingled scents of roasted meats, baked breads, and faintly spiced magical delicacies that give off tiny curls of glowing steam.

At the high table beneath the great window of the hall sits the gathering of honor.

The Prince of the Stormspire Syndicate, young yet sharp-eyed, his golden hair catching the light of the runes, carries himself with the confidence of one who knows both the weight of his future title and the strength of his fortune. He speaks sparingly at first, weighing every word.

Beside him, the Archmage of Angleholm, an elf of striking composure, her presence regal and severe, watches the Syndicate delegation with quiet calculation.

The Master of the Academy sits at her right hand, more animated in tone, offering polite remarks and maintaining the flow of conversation.

The Master of the Archive, a frail but sharp-eyed old man, leans close to catch every word, his gnarled hands folded on the table.

Professor Vivianna Reed, white-haired in her deep purple robe, sits with measured poise, offering small, precise interjections as though weighing the intellectual merit of the evening itself.

The Master of Runes & Sigils, white-bearded and broad-shouldered, listens more than he speaks, occasionally tracing an idle rune into the condensation on his goblet.

At the lower tables, the Syndicate’s retinue mingle with the advanced students of the academy. The crew of the airship find their seats here as well, close enough to feel the weight of ceremony, but far enough not to intrude upon the high table. The conversations here are quieter at first, restrained by the formality of the occasion, though glances and whispers flit between students eager to impress and retainers keen to observe.
Zandor Kalryth is sitting near the Crew of the Independence. He has been here a few days, as he accidentally got left behind by the cargo ship he arrived on. He is here as the date of Kasandra Mistral a blueskinned senior student with hair that flows in the breeze.

The meal begins with baskets of dark bread and soft cheeses, followed by hearty goat stew and roasted fowl, carried in by students pressed into service for the evening. Midway through, the magical dishes arrive: shimmering fruits that glow faintly until bitten, wines that shift color with each sip, and delicacies that steam with harmless motes of light. Each is served with polite explanation from the attendants, who struggle to keep their hands steady under the eyes of their professors.

Talin circulates in the crowd, making sure to get close enough to the Prince to get a good look at his face and general body type, thinking back to the young man who fell from the ship. He tries to read the man's body language to see if he is hiding any pain or if his presentation is above board.

Talin assess the gathering and concludes that most of the crew of the Syndicate airship appear to be at the meal and seeks out an appropriate window to place the candlestick in with three candles lit.

On his return, he'll take a moment to look closer at the Syndicate crew, getting to know their faces and body types, in case he needs to impersonate any of them at a later date. If he can get close enough to hear their voices he will (and if he happens to hear something useful, mores the better.)

Vethalia mingles for a bit checking out the members of the Syndicate crew wondering if anyone is wearing a similar ring to the one they retrieved from the corpse. She maneuvers herself close to Kasandra.

"Kassie." She says with a grin, "Who's your handsome friend and where's Andariel? I can't imagine she's happy about any of this."

Falka sticks with Talin for a bit before breaking into the crowd and faux socializing. Keeping an eye on the rest of the crew as he sips drinks and keeping his ears open.

Zandor felt out of his element in the elaborate affair. Hand everyone a sword and turn this into a battle, he would navigate it easily. Dancing through death with a blade in his hand he could manage, but polite discussions among strangers, that was another matter entirely.

The woman Kasandra whom he was attending with seemed much more at ease than he was. If he was honest to himself he would admit that she was partly the reason he had missed the departure of the cargo ship, not that she had delayed him or asked him to stay, just that she had intrigued him enough. Most of the reason though was that the cargo ship had begun to bore him. There was always danger aboard ship, but the merchant trader shuttling goods like a ferry along short safe routes had grown tedious. It had gotten him to the island and paid him a little coin. Perhaps something more interesting would come up.

Zandor was broad of shoulder and athletically built. Dressed in a simple blue tunic, some would say that he cleaned up nicely. Mostly though he would rather be aboard ship or sword in hand.

With a slight smile to Vethalia, "Kassie?? Well you must be an old friend, I have not heard her called that yet. I'm Zandor. Are you a student here as well then?"

"Vethalia Pixeldust." The diminutive Goblin woman says with an exquisite bow, "Caravan Princess, scholar, maker of magics that go boom." She grins wickedly.

"I was across the hall from Kasandra and Andariel." She says with a shrug before leaning in and whispering in a conspiratorial voice, "I'm a student yes, did you know someone was pitched overboard from the Syndicate ship before the sun went down yesterday? Some noble, he went over and we saw it, we found his body too."

Vethalia makes a face, "Kersplat."

Vethalia sees the insignia of the syndicate on all the flagships' crew, the prince and his advisors. But only the prince had a golden ring with the syndicate symbol. The signet ring is the official signature of the Syndicate leadership, and its reasonable to assume that there should only be 2 rings in existence. One on seniors' finger, and one of the princes - but the crew of the Independence knows of one extra - the one you took from the dead man's hand.

After Talin has lit some extra candles, he finds some chatty soldiers from the Syndicate Flagship. They are easy-going and are longing for stories that are just a bit more exciting than transporting a rich kind around the continent.

---

A scream cuts through the hall as the light of the runes along the walls begins to flicker. One by one, the glowing symbols twist and writhe their elegant curves warping into snakes, dozens of them, their scales still gleaming with residual magic. They drop from the walls and slither into the panicking crowd, fangs glistening with venom.

Chaos erupts.
Students shove back from the tables, overturning chairs and spilling goblets. Some of the Syndicate soldiers break ranks in terror, while others rush forward, forming a protective ring around the prince. Their formation slams against a sudden wall of force, a shimmering barrier that seals the high table inside a glowing bubble.

For a heartbeat, the senior staff within the barrier look smug and safe, their expressions tightening into brittle composure. Then a shadow flickers above them.
A single serpent, its body glimmering with runic light, drops from the ceiling, passing straight through the protective and lands among them. It rises, poised to strike...

As his conversation with the crew is interrupted by the sudden appearance of serpents, Talin momentarily pauses to take his bearings, watching as some charge into battle and some charge from it.

Seeing the larger serpent appear at the head table and those within the barrier shrink from it, he makes up his mind and steps in the nearest shadow and dissapears from view.

The warrior leaned in closer to the goblin as she whispered her news about a syndicate ship and a person falling from it.

"Truly??" he whispered back in response. Such a thing resisted belief.

Zandor had little time to say anything more when serpents burst forth from the walls and students started running for the doors.

The warrior instinctively stepped between the women and the snakes, measuring their speed and number.

"I assume this does not happen often."