Calling o'er sky, the glorious argent and blue.

[Aden Flin]

Those who frequent Cear during the early morning hours would be afforded the opportunity to read quite a splendid and elegant looking letter. Written with an eloquent hand, on the finest of vellum, the following notices appeared in triplicate within the city. One appeared on the front door of the Mistyvale Inn, a second on the front door of the Buck Inn, and a third tacked in a prominent position on the inner walls, fixed in place with a simple, unadorned crossbow bolt.

“The corporal grasped his shortsword hilt
And cried out to his Lord,
His comrades echoed his resolve
And spun to draw their swords.
The name of Tharon soared on high
As steel rasped free of sheath,
They prayed that He looked down upon
The band of them beneath.

Their enemies drew nearer now,
Their laughter growing still.
Their steps grew light and careful at
The soldiers' hardened will.
Three swordsmen took the forefront,
Their blades were black and cold,
Two wizards and a priest stayed back,
Their power yet untold.

The corporal grasped a silver horn
Which hung down from his right,
And raised the thing up to his lips
And blew with all his might.
The note rang out with clarity,
And strengthened their resolve,
And then they launched into the fray,
To see what would evolve.

The dance of blades was furious,
Steel and iron clashed,
Neither side would give an inch,
But neither could it last.
The corporal's blade was light and true,
It kept his foe at bay,
His two comrades fought hard as well,
And neither side held sway.

The wizards and the armored priest
Looked on with keen delight,
For the corporal was outnumbered here,
His men would fall this night.
They rolled their sleeves to free their hands
And raised them without haste.
To end the torture early
Would have been an awful waste.

The corporal faltered in his step,
His guard swung open wide.
His black-mailed foe stepped in and launched
A strong thrust at his side.
But the corporal regained his step,
His feint was a success,
His weapon batted down the thrust
And found the blackened breast.

He wrenched his sword free, then he turned
And drew back with a yell,
He let his blade fly forward
Even as his victim fell.
The strike was meant to claim the life
Of yet another foe
But whether it was good enough
We may not ever know.”

A brilliantly painted Crown of Gilt, seated upon coiled bolts of violet silk, sat demurely beneath the excerpt. The letters were unsigned.

[Minuvas]

*tears down the notice, in the Inner wall as he walks by it. Don't know where these people get the idea they can litter around the area with their trash.

He chucks it into the nearest waste bin.*

[Aden Flin]

The early morning crowd would find three new notes posted around the City of Cear. A fourth letter hung nearly a mile towards Thrall's Gate, hanging from the trunk of roadside tree.

The first and second note, written elegantly on vellum, was found in prominent locations throughout the North of Cear district, and the Trades and Commons district. The third note hung pinned to the inner walls with a slender, common-looking crossbow bolt.

The fourth note, hanging simply from that aforementioned tree, was found secured with a simple wooden arrow shaft.

The notes were identical:

"For as the blade flashed through the air
Toward the target's back
A magic missile darted in
And halted the attack.
The corporal's sword was shattered
In a blinding flash of light
Hot metal shards ripped through his plate
And magic lit the night.

Another bolt streaked forward then
He watched it strike his friend,
And as the soldier groaned and reeled,
He knew they'd reached their end.
Their Enemies stepped forward then
And raised his weapon high,
His eyes were red and fiery
As he grinned and let it fly.

The corporal turned his head away
Not wishing for to see,
But what he heard was not quite what
He'd thought that it would be.
The sword hissed down as it was swung
The soldier's fate to seal,
But the sound that reached the corporal's ears
Was that of steel on steel."

A brilliantly painted Crown of Gilt, seated upon coiled bolts of violet silk, sat demurely beneath the excerpt. The continuations were unsigned.

[Phelan Almaran]

Phelan, as quietly paces through the morning mists, notices one of the poems. Looking about quietly, he picks it off the wall, mutters a few words and disappears. Now invisible, he quietly rolls the notes up and places it in a pocket.

"All this does is cause unrest," he mutters quietly, "it would be more productive if these people actually began doing things. If they want to return Dasarian independence, then actions, rather than words, will bring that about."

Quietly making his way towards the center of town, he shakes his head, thinking to himself:

~I wonder who does all this... I wish I could help.~

[Minuvas]

*looks at the Notice hanging from a tree no more than a few hundred feet from the Church*

"More Littering? What strange author continues to write of corporals. The glorious tasks of our Imperial Corporals are for battle-records, and taverns. Not for such silly tree's."

*Plucks the note again, crumples it up and throws it yet again into the nearest trash-bin.*

[Rheia Althia]

Maeve noticed one of the two remaining notes, her strange jade eyes churning in the early morning light. Glancing around and seeing no one she stopped for a moment to read, her armour clinking softly as her steps slowed.

There are others...somewhere. Smart to keep this secret, for an uprising now would only mean death. Marduk, keep this one safe...so his message may continue to be spread quietly on the rising of the sun.

A gentle smile graced her lips, and she turned to continue on. Her thoughts drifting to her recent discovery of her own self.

[Eowade]

Sil stumbles about shielding his eyes from the tortous sun wishing at the moment he had listened to his neice about those last few flagons. When the parchment catches his eye. He squints and sorts out the words. "Oooh this is grand. Such art can't be fully appreciated in written form." He takes some time studying the paper then begins to hum as he walks away. He smiles to himself "Good songs have a habit O livin on."

[Aden Flin]

The sun rose lazily over the mountain-capped horizon, and with it the energy and life of the City of Cear.

Four more notes had appeared, all fixed in place with either a slim, wooden arrow, or a sturdy crossbow bolt. Two were secured overtop their older counterparts, letters that had not been removed, while the remaining couple were found affixed to the interior city wall, and a familiar tree trunk outside of Thrall’s Gate.

All four, as expected, were identical:

“The corporal snapped his gaze back then,
And opened wide his eyes,
The deadly sword had been turned back
By a blade of massive size.
The wielder of the greatsword stepped
Before the wounded man,
And recognition dawned on him
As her assault began.

The woman moved with catlike grace,
Her swordstrokes sang with might,
Her very being shined from her
With brilliant holy light.
The Enemy was overmatched
His eyes were wide with fear,
His heart sank as he realized
A Holy Warrior was here.

His eyes were not the only ones
To recognize the lass,
A startled mage began his chant
To call a deadly blast
His hand raised toward the holly knight,
And as his voice was raised,
The very sky went night to day
As other magics blazed.

Before the evil wizard had
A chance to throw his flame,
His words were changed within his throat
To garbled screams of pain.
A massive hand closed round his chest
And lifted him on high
He twisted round to see his foe
And looked it in the eye.

The elemental gazed at him,
And then it seemed to smirk,
As the rocky hand shot down again
To finish off its work.
The fragile mage stood little chance
Against the rocky beast,
And pain was all he knew from then
Until his breath had ceased.

The earthen monster shifted form
Took on an elven grace,
The slitted helmet serving to
Obscure the smirking face.
A druid stepped forward then
To choose her next attack,
Not noticing the other mage
Who rose up at her back.”

A brilliantly painted Crown of Gilt, seated upon coiled bolts of violet silk, sat demurely beneath the excerpt. The continuations were unsigned.

[Volkher]

Strolling around Hagen finds the new poem.
"Damed Fool!" he thinks."Alarming authorities and having no means to strike.He should recruit people of similar minds and build up an infrastructure instead of telling each oppressor there is an opposition".
Shaking his head,he take the note and burns it.
"But the poetry is pretty good" he smiles.

[Minuvas]

*after hearing of the note being placed on the tree yet again, and seeing it with his own eyes.

Minuvas hurriedly entered the Church, and looked to the Gaols inside*

"You three, with me. Stand now, Heretic. Your trial has been expedited"

The three men stood up, following Minuvas outside the shackles on their wrists and ankles rattled as they walked....

By the next morrow, a Spear had been impaled into the chests of three Men who had been pinned to the same tree as the note was.

A brilliantly painted Iron Fist, seated upon coiled bolts of crimson silk, sat branded into each of their foreheads.

A Neophyte was instructed to stand outside the tree and proclaim to all passerby "He who speaks of olden ways shall fall-aside the waypath as the Heretics before you. Follow the Laws, Citizens"

Minuvas overlooked his work and nodded, if they wish to die for simple things like posting laws - he could not wait the body pile they'd bring him should they try anything else. After briefly talking with the Talon Warlord, who seemed to be humored by the display, Minuvas entered back into the Church - opened up his book and continued to read.

[Vahene]

A Neophyte was instructed to stand outside the tree and proclaim to all passerby "He who speaks of olden ways shall fall-aside the waypath as the Heretics before you. Follow the Laws, Citizens"

Minuvas overlooked his work and nodded, if they wish to die for simple things like posting laws - he could not wait the body pile they'd bring him should they try anything else. After briefly talking with the Talon Warlord, who seemed to be humored by the display, Minuvas entered back into the Church - opened up his book and continued to read.

Emerald green eyes watched from the shadows, a sneer crossing the
figure's face as they hid in the darkness nearby, far enough away to be
unseen.

[Chia]

Squinting to read the notes still pinned in Cear, Chia glances at a nearby commoner.

"Hey, that's pretty good, isn't it? Got that thumpy-thump and everything. I wonder if they are going to do the whole thing together in the theater..."

She blinks as the man hurriedly departs.

"What? Never seen a tielfling before or something? Some people..."

She looks up again.

"That sure is some advertising."

[Grayle]

An apple drops from Grayle's hand as he comes face-to-face with such a horrific display. The flies that swarm around the undignified bodies of the impaled buzz in frantic circles outside Thrall's Gate.

He stares at the bodies for some time, expressionless. He doesn't even notice the strange poem...just the detritus of the murdered.

[Rheia Althia]

Maeve's eyes narrow slightly as the bodies come into her field of view. Their jade depths churn as she regards the scene with disgust and anger masked behind her calm and expressionless face. Her blood simmers within her, thoughts cascading through her mind.

[sirius]

Sirius heard of the incident some time later in the Mistyvale, "Three men dead because of an overzealous poet", he mumbled. "I pray the Guard catch the author - before I do" he thought to himself, frowning angrily.

"Thoughtless" he grumbled, "...and reckless". And those with him at the table agreed silently with nods.