>>5719960A cheer goes up, and the Thief and Archer bow their heads in especial gratitude as they join the refugees, resolve breaking with the creature comforts they’ve sought suddenly within reach. Ekaterine frowns at first but, as the human and halfling peasants reach out to touch your armour in supplication, and offer their heartfelt thanks, her misgivings melt away. Still, you take her half-articulated point. The <Voice of the Metatron> is no mundane magic, but a gift from the Dark Gods Below and Beyond. It is, put plainly ‘dark magic’ from an ‘evil’ source, as the Gods of Light and their followers reckon things. But then, how many mundane humans are fit to recognize it as such? Magic is magic, to the nonmagical… And luckily, there are no members of the Paladin Order at the gate this day.
…Hm. Odd. Aren’t there, usually? Well, they’ve lost a lot of respect since one of their members was ‘possessed’ and ‘attempted a coup’, as your official narrative frames it.
Once the people are seen to, and your two Reptilian allies are warmed up enough to move about normally once more, you see to the main purpose of your visit: you travel, Ekaterine at your side, to see the ailing Paladin King. With some of the coin you still have in reserve, you hail a carriage—you have done more than enough walking these past few weeks, thank you very much—and you make swift passage through Hawksong.
“I hope we aren’t…” Ekaterine begins, interrupting your quiet admiration of the vast metropolis.
You turn to her, and see her wringing her gloved hands.
“No… No, he must be… Father will be fine, right?”
You reach out and place one of your hands on hers, but do not know what to say. She recognizes and understands your hesitation to offer concrete comfort, but seems to take some solace in your presence, squeezing your fingers with her smaller, slimmer ones.
When you arrive at the palace, though, it is with a creeping feeling of dread—a dread that amplifies with proximity. When you lean out of your carriage window, you understand the nature of the sensation: it is the lingering and instinctive dread you feel in the presence of a gryphon, amplified a dozen times for the presence of a whole flock (or pride? pack?) of the damnable things—and milling about them, cloaked riders in the finer formalwear and enchanted armour of Hawksong’s Paladins.
“Why are there so many?” the Thief asks aloud in True Speech.
“The threat of ten rampaging dragons will have that effect upon frightened prey such as they,” the Archer suggests with a small smirk.
You nod, take a deep breath, and exit the carriage, and then help your human wife down.
“Princessss Ekaterine, and her Princcce, have returned from our… Exxxtended honeymoon!”
