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The map on the table details the stronghold of the cultists from a bird's eye view. Truth be told, it not as <span class="mu-i">illuminated</span> as maps of the Daffodil Kingdom and its neighbors may be, nor as intricately detailed as some models of the world. But where it lacks in flourish, it makes up for in the precision of its scale. Careful attention has been placed upon the differences in elevation as well, to inform your approach.
"How recent is this map?" you look to Natasha, whose gaze points towards the heretics. With their eyes hidden but for the magenta light flickering behind their blindfolds, you cannot read their expressions. Yet you get the feel they're both quite amused at something. "If this was from the village at its height..."
"The Order put this together over the past week," Damien says. "We can vouch for their veracity."
"You did not alert them to your presence?" you look to the ridge leading up to the hand-shaped tower upon the cliff. "If they sacrifice the village and hole up in the tower, they could draw this out into a siege. Which would take time we may not have... and levies better spent defending the border."
With a cliff facing the lake... depending on how deep its catacombs go, and how much supplies they've prepared, they could hold out there for years. Especially if they've some underground cavern that connects with the lake for fish and fresh water. You are not eager to sacrifice your men at arms to storm a sorcerer's tower, least of all one as ominous as a great hand grasping for the sky.
"We did not," Damien says with a placating hand. With a smirk, he says a few words you wish he didn't. "Should the Light shine upon us, you will have an opportunity for those decisive battles you love to force, oh Maid of Charlemont."
You scowl at the epithet. Boric's fists clench. Wisely, he does not reach for his sword when Fiona scoffs.
The color has drained from both Rodrim and Natasha's faces, who both look like they just learned that they were in the presence of a greater demon called by the Dark One's priests. Of the many epithets you have earned... that battle in your foolish, over-zealous youth is the one you like the least. Even if those deeds raised your family from men-at-arms to knights.
"You're the Butcher of Alans?" Nathasha finally asks, swallowing the urge to vomit. "The mad-dog girl who slaughtered a thousand men on the plains of Getea, clad only in the blood of her enemies? Whose body is said to be carved with a two hundred and seventy three curses against the Old Gods and their followers? Wed to her lance alone, mother of da-?"
"Silence!" Boric slams his fist upon the table. Natasha winces and obeys. "I will <span class="mu-i">not</span> listen to some pagan wildling besmirch my lady's name. This is an outrage, why is this girl even here?"
"Because the river is Blue, and Blue is one of the Light's seven children," Fiona speaks for the priestess, a fair point. "The blessings she can conjure are vital to our plans, Boric, son of Jan."
