Crows Murder

[07:11:25] Crow had been setting his shield aside when the familiar rhythm of movement caught his attention. His gaze settled upon Edge, observing the measured motions with the quiet recognition of a man who had not forgotten everything his years had taught him. There was something unmistakable in the controlled transitions, the deliberate shifting of weight, the unhurried precision that made each movement appear effortless. Memories surfaced, not as words, but as the echo of lessons learned long ago, when patience and balance had been drilled into him alongside the more obvious arts of combat. He did not look to Edge for approval, nor did he attempt to take the lead. Instead, Crow matched the rhythm he recognized, allowing the old discipline to return through muscle and memory. For a time, the Killer who measured every shadow and weighed every word gave way to the student who understood that control was not always found in striking first. Sometimes it was found in knowing precisely how not to move.

[07:17:15] Edge had been at his meditations, the movements that had been developed ages ago and disseminated to those who had came to Mount Ordeals. Not necessarily as lads, even his brothers in caste who had came to train. To learn of his ways. Quiet. Deliberate. Balanced. Atop the world, above the clouds, harmony had been paramount. The inner struggle to find peace, to listen to the world, to find one’s place in it. The movements were slow, rhythmic, honing core musculature, controlling the center of one’s balance, to swim through the air with focused intent. By now, of course, the movements had been spread through the caste over the many long years. It was not overly surprising that Crow knew of them. Perhaps Sleen had even showed the man, or perhaps he had learned from another. The footsteps had not alerted him, but the texture in the air, and the sight as he pivoted. On his exhale, he allowed his breathy voice to fill the breeze along with birdsong and the rustle of leaves and needles, “I did not know you practiced.”

[07:26:28] Crow was, strangely enough, not lost in thought. The movements came without conscious effort, as though the passage of so many years had failed to erase what had once been etched into muscle and memory. Each motion flowed into the next with measured precision, his weight shifting almost imperceptibly, his hands tracing controlled arcs through the air. There was no haste, no wasted movement. Only balance, breath, and the quiet discipline of a lesson learned long ago.

“I have,” he replied simply, his voice calm, almost meditative. The rhythm seemed to offer him room to breathe, to set aside for a moment the constant calculations that so often occupied his mind. “I was taught these arts a very long time ago. Along with the rather unexpected experience of being dressed in silk and instructed in the proper tying of an obi.” A grin tugged at his lips, a rare glimmer of amusement breaking through his usual composure. He continued the movements, his gaze briefly turning toward Edge. “Much later, I discovered that my father had Pani ancestors. That came as something of a surprise.” His grin lingered, though there was a knowing quality to his expression now. “Perhaps you have heard the name Hosokawa.”

There were those who imagined that an Assassin had no family, no history beyond the Caste, no ties that could reach beyond the shadows. They were mistaken. Crow simply understood better than most that bloodlines could be liabilities, names could become targets, and kinship offered no guarantee of safety. He had once killed his own brother to prove precisely that point. The memory did not interrupt his movements; neither did it change the steady rhythm of his breathing. Some lessons, once learned, were never forgotten.

[07:36:14] Edge ‘pushed’ the air, guiding his internal forces, lifting from a squat, carrying by fingertips horiontally, a slow thrust of his hand in the same manner one my thrust a sword. The movements were slow, but they taught combat, for when one’s energies must burst like flames. The turning of a wrist, the same as the turning of a blade, the footsteps a pivot and defense to an oncoming strike. It seemed a dance… a dance of death; but, calm, at peace.

His own lips hinted at a smile at the words. “I would not know,” he admitted, “for I do not come from the Pani. I am what is known as an oriental. My family,” he explains openly, “were members of a tribe in the Tahari. It was there that I was brought screaming into the world, isolated by the vast desert, the shifting dunes, the freezing nights, the blazing days. It was there that I earned my name of the Black Wind, as I ended my tribe’s enemies in the blinding sandstorms. I have relatively little experience with the Pani, but it pleases me to know that you partly
[07:36:14] Edge: descend from their people.”

The words flowed with the ease of breath. The target of one’s bloodline, one’s lineage, was something he knew well. Something he had struck and beat and hammered into his students past. And the killing. So few knew the kill of one’s own brother nowadays.

“The Caste is not the same as it was when we were young,” he comments an observation.

[07:43:40] Crow continued the measured sequence, his movements flowing with Edge’s, though he made no attempt to imitate the other man’s every gesture. His own hands turned through the air with the precision of a swordsman accustomed to understanding the purpose behind each motion. At Edge’s account of the Tahari, a flicker of interest passed through his eyes. The Black Wind. A name earned in the midst of sandstorms and bloodshed was one he could appreciate without needing to know the man’s entire history.

“Then we share less ancestry than I first imagined, but perhaps more understanding than blood alone would offer.” A faint smile touched Crow’s lips as he completed a slow outward sweep of his hand, drawing it back toward his centre. “Although I lived mostly within Ar and was even born there. I have been one to travel. On one of them the Pani taught me that a blade is not always best served by haste. Sometimes the hand that waits, that yields, that allows an opponent to commit himself, has already decided the outcome.” His gaze briefly met Edge’s. “It seems the desert taught you a similar lesson, though I imagine the sand was less forgiving than a patient instructor.”

The smile faded gradually as Edge spoke of the Caste. Crow’s movements did not falter, but something in his expression grew more thoughtful. “No. It is not.” He let the words rest between them, his breathing still steady, his hands rising once more in a controlled arc. “Time changes the men who serve it, and the Caste is no exception. Some changes are necessary. Others are merely the old struggles wearing unfamiliar faces.” He pivoted smoothly, one palm extending while the other settled near his ribs, as though guarding a blade that was not there. “I sometimes wonder whether we have grown wiser with age, or simply more skilled at explaining why we do what we have always done.”

[07:59:51] Edge crouched smoothly and rose with a blocking arc of one hand, the visualization of stepping forward into the área of a strike and stopping the arm beneath the hilt that might end his life. The hand withdrawn as the other thrust. The battle in the mind was one that was often expressed by the body, and training was not always a sweat-soaked, bruised and bloodied ordeal.

“I, too, have traveled the length and breadth of our world,” he replied, “learning of its peoples, after my name had reached the ears of our elders and was extracted from the desert to the city of Tor for my induction into our caste. Haste, at times, is necessary, but to believe haste is the only way is a child’s mistake. The Pani who instructed you was correct – allow the enemy to commit. The conflict is won before it even begins.”

It was pleasing to know that there were others who followed a similar path, and it gave him a glimmer of hope against what he had believed almost a lost cause.

“Mmm. Old struggles with unfamiliar faces, the youth seeking to prove themselves, to change and make their mark. It is expected,” he considers a moment as he turned, his gaze catching Crow’s a moment, and he finally drew his movements to a close, bringing his feet together and allowing his hands to fall gracefully to his front in their steepled posture.

“When doubt rises that we have become skilled in explaining away the trappings of our lives, then it must be combated, questioned, challenged. The doubt must be brushed away with the winds of awareness, of surity, of having met each inner confrontation. That is the objective, but it is not the lesson. The lesson is in the journey.”

[08:06:01] Crow brought the sequence to its conclusion with a final, measured turn of his wrist, allowing his hands to settle before him. For a moment, he remained still, his breathing even, his eyes resting on Edge. There was no immediate reply, only the quiet consideration of a man who had learned to weigh words as carefully as he weighed the movements of an opponent. At last, a faint smile touched his features.

“The journey,” he repeated, as though testing the words against his own experience. “A lesson that is considerably easier to understand than to practice, I suspect.” He inclined his head towards Edge. “It is one thing to question oneself when alone, with no eyes upon you and no consequence beyond your own pride. It is quite another to od so when the Caste is watching, when a decision must be made, and when every choice carries a cost.”

His gaze drifted briefly toward the shield he had set aside, then returned to Edge. “I have seen men mistake certainty for wisdom, and doubt for weakness. Both can be dangerous. Certainty may blind a man to what stands before him; doubt may leave him standing still when action is required.” His expression grew thoughtful, but it remained void when one would read his mood or feelings of it. “Perhaps the task is not to brush doubt away, but to learn what it has come to tell us. Sometimes it warns us that we have overlooked something. Sometimes it is merely the fear of being wrong.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “The difficulty, of course, is knowing which one is speaking.”

HE offered Edge a small nod of respect, his stance relaxed but attentive. “I would welcome a Caste with more men willing to ask those questions, and fewer who believe that having survived the journey means they have reached its end.” His dry humor returned in a subtle glint of his eyes.

[08:18:32] Edge listened as the breeze of the camp caught wisps of his jet mane, a flutter of a lock across his face. He was as calm as he might be in a winter’s snow or the desert sands, and he seemed at peace with the world around him, as if he were meant to be exactly where he was at precisely the time he was there.

“That is why the journey is the lesson,” he replied to the pensive words. “Certainty hardened by pride…” he gave a shake of his head, “…often expresses defensively upon questioning. A rigid spine, the flexion of muscles, the intensifying of the gaze. Such a man is not ready for the world. And petrifying doubt, hesitating, means the mind is also not ready for the world. I, too, welcome a caste with more men willing to ask the questions.”

Mirth reached the corners of his eyes, a smile that crinkled at their corners.

“There is no end to the journey until the end has come. Therein is the lesson. Lifelong learning. I have spent too long atop the mountain, and is why I am satisfied to return to my brothers. I am no sage, nor am I any authority. I am but one with my ways and I seek to know those of others.”

Three steps forward, closing the distance, at a casual pace. There is no threat. Eyes of starlight gaze into Crow’s as that smile persisted.

“I will remain, if you will have me, young Crow.”

Another extension of his hand, this time for the reason of solidarity.

[08:25:32] Crow regarded the extended hand for a moment, his expression remaining measured as he considered the man’s words. It had been a long time since he was called young. There was something to be said for a man who did not claim authority simply because he had once stood above others, and less still for one who understood that the journey did not end with rank or reputation. He finally reached out, clasping Edge’s forearm in a firm, deliberate grip. “Then remain, Killer. A caste has little use for men who believe they have learned all there is to know. I would rather stand beside one who continues to question himself than one who believes he can never be wrong. Now understand that some believe I have become to rigid. That I strive to for a degree of perfection that I do not own.” His gaze was steady and thoughtful. “You will find your brothers here. And I expect you to challenge us as readily as you allow us to challenge you.” A faint, restrained smile touched his mouth. “Welcome. Speak to Arsus if there is no tent I will assure there comes one.”

[2026/10/24 12:20:32] Crow: /me moved from his tent. His face dark and grim. Surely this was not the day to get into an argument with him. His eyes, sharp as daggers moved from the bond to the killer. “Tal Arsus. Kedja.” he greeted. Although there was much kindness in his heart for both, his voice and tone didn’t represent it at all. He was serious. Very serious. More serious than he had been in a long while.

[2026/10/24 12:21:46] KeDjA: /me huffs when Arsus says something about calming down and raises her left hand into the air, gesturing wildly. “Calm down? I’m supposed to calm down? Who’s going to tell that to the Vulos and Verrs when they’re clucking and bleating with hunger, just because some coin slut had to throw herself at a man and leave them to their fate?” She spins on her heels and flinches when she sees Crow. In her rage, she’s once again failed to notice who was approaching. She grumbles discontentedly and roughly sets the basket of Vulo eggs down on the table behind her.

[2026/10/24 12:26:45] αяѕυѕ: “Tal Crow,” Arsus replied dryly. Arsus couldn’t yet figure out what had gotten under Crow’s skin, but it must have been something major, judging by the way he sounded—and especially by the look on his face. “Trouble?” he asked. When he saw Kedja set the basket of eggs down roughly on the table, he called out, “Careful, the eggs!” “You can always kill the whore when you see her,” he then said mischievously.

[2026/10/24 12:31:11] Crow: /me snapped his head towards Kedja as she spoke so boldly. He could guess as to what had transpired or how she felt. It was the law of Gor. A woman, once free, with the responsibility had found her way to her knees. Instead of the bond celebrating the new found freedom of the woman she found herself angry. “Is this about the slave of the killer that was once the farmer ?” the question was not directed to only one of them. He would move to Kedja as she put down the basket. His hand would shoot to her neck – in an attempt to grab her and pull her close. “If you wish to throw a fit … ” he paused as his eyes pierced through hers. “I would suggest you do it another moment … or when I am gone.” his voice low and with this dark whisper. If he had been in another mood surely it had been a promise of primal desire and need.

[2026/10/24 12:35:28] KeDjA: /me glances briefly into the basket, but apparently all the eggs had survived the fall just fine. And even if they hadn’t… there were so many… At Arsus’s words, she grabs one of the kitchen knives and drives it into the wood with a quick, forceful motion. “I will,” she promises ominously. She takes several deep breaths in and out to calm herself down. She knows, after all, that there’s nothing she can do about it right now. So, after a few breaths, she announces, “We’re having pancakes tomorrow.” At that moment, she feels a hand on the back of her neck and her muscles tense, while at the same time her hand releases the knife’s handle. A contradictory reaction, yet one that conveys more than words likely ever could. Her eyes narrow slightly at Crow’s dark, quiet words before she replies just as softly, “Then I’ll wait until you’re gone, Master.”

[2026/10/24 12:41:05] αяѕυѕ: Arsus watched as Crow’s hand shot forward. Arsus shook his head. “Yeah, we’re talking about the slut who abandoned her animals—I’d be mad, too,” Arsus said sharply as Crow grabbed Kedja by the throat. “Now you can let her go and take your anger out on someone else—preferably the one who’s actually responsible.” Even though Kedja was just a slave, she was his. Seeing Crow lose his temper like this was something new for Arsus. In his rage, Arsus had thrown vases against the wall before, but that was as far as it went.

[2026/10/24 12:45:14] Crow: /me would pull her against him even more, having her reach to the tip of her toes. The masculine scent of burned wood, leather and spice is like this cloud around him. His other hand grip to her chin as to have her face him. “That will be a good choice.” he breaths while his eyes lock to hers. There was something dark and primal in his gaze. One that could portray desire, focus or murder it was difficult to say. When Arsus spoke about letting go of her, he would turn his attention to him. His motions slow and hardly acted out in anger. There was no rage only control. “You two sound like an old companioned couple.” he reasons. “If you let her behave this way … without discipline you will be the one questioned and scrutinized.” It was clear that Crow was not intimidated, but had no intent to pursuit this any further. He would release her. “I love pancakes.” he added while he adjusted his tunic. Ensuring the insignia was worn on his sleeve.

[2026/10/24 12:50:51] KeDjA: /me presses her lips together as he forces her onto her tiptoes. Her hands clench, and her green eyes can barely hide her emotions as he turns her face toward him. “I’m trying,” she murmurs in response to his decision. A soft, dark sound escapes her throat as her eyes dart back and forth between his. When Crow lets go of her, she sinks back onto her heels and instinctively takes a step back, as if trying to escape the darkness. Her hand briefly slides to the back of her neck to rub the skin above her collar. Her eyes wander to Arsus, and she blinks for a moment before the corners of her mouth lift slightly, perhaps as a kind of silent signal.

[2026/10/24 12:54:26] αяѕυѕ: Arsus didn’t answer right away. He looked at Crow with icy eyes. “It’s my property, and in the end, I’m the one who decides how you treat my property. And I’m the one who decides how I treat my property and no one else. As for the elderly couple, that may be true, after all, I’ve owned Kedja for over 500 years. Kedja takes out her anger on objects; you, apparently, on living beings as well.” Arsus’s voice was sharp, but not confrontational. Wars had been fought and people murdered over slaves; he didn’t want it to come to that. “Pancakes? I’ll take eight,” he said.

[2026/10/24 12:59:02] Crow: /me regarded Arsus without so much as a flicker of expression. The man’s words were received in silence, Crow’s dark gaze resting upon him with the patience of a blade held at the throat. Ownership, it seemed, was the shield Arsus had chosen to raise. A convenient one, perhaps, but it did little to answer the matter at hand. “Your property, Arsus. Your responsibility, then, to ensure that it does not become an excuse for poor conduct. You are entitled to decide how you treat what belongs to you. That does not place your decisions beyond observation, nor does it make the consequences of those decisions disappear.” He allowed a brief silence to follow, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly at the comparison drawn between Kedja and himself. He offered no immediate defense. “Eight pancakes, then.” A faint, humorless trace of a smile touched the corner of his mouth. “At least one matter this morning appears to require no further debate. Now let us go.”

[02:31:42] Crow entered his tent, already looking forward to the few hours of quiet that passed for sleep in the life of a Killer. He had barely begun to loosen the fastenings of his tunic when something caught his attention. A smell. An unmistakable, rather unpleasant smell that had no business lingering quite so strongly within his quarters. His brows drew together as he paused, taking a moment to locate its source. It led him towards his bed. Crow stood beside the furs, peering down into the darkness. The scent of animals had apparently decided to invade his tent along with whatever else had found its way inside. He had been alone for long enough that the possibility of company beneath his bedding was not the first explanation that came to mind. Then he felt something warm beneath the furs. Which one of the camp slaves had decided that crawling into a Killer’s bed without permission was a sensible way to spend the night? He reached towards the edge of the furs, lifting them just enough to investigate, his voice low and dangerously calm. “Whoever you are, I suggest you have a very good explanation for being in my bed.”

[02:36:30] Crow hears the heavy breathing, yet it did little to ease the unease settling over him. Quite the opposite. Every instinct told him that something was amiss. He abandoned the furs and turned towards the place where his weapons were, moving without haste but with deliberate care. Sleep could wait. Steel, at least, offered more reliable company. There was no answer to his earlier warning. Whoever occupied his bed seemed entirely uninterested in waking, let alone explaining their presence. Crow’s fingers settled around the familiar grip of a dagger as his gaze returned to the dark shape beneath the furs. He did not draw the blade just yet. Instead, he listened, measuring the rhythm of that breathing, searching for anything that might reveal what had invaded his quarters. A slave with poor judgment was one possibility. Something far less ordinary was another. “Wonderful,” he murmured dryly. “Either someone has mistaken my tent for an inn, or I am about to discover why the animals smell worse than usual.”

[02:43:50] Crow retrieved a candle from his desk and lit it, allowing the small flame to push back the darkness as he approached his bed once more. Only now did the light reveal that the shape beneath his furs was decidedly not human. Crow paused, holding the candle a little higher. The smell was unmistakable now. Livestock. The very same livestock that had been barging into the Port in such numbers lately. His gaze narrowed as he studied the still form beneath the bedding. Had one of the beasts somehow wandered into his tent? And, more importantly, how had it managed to get under his furs and into his bed? “Of all the places in this Port,” he muttered, the disbelief in his voice. “You chose my bed.” He held the candle steady, keeping a cautious distance while trying to determine precisely what sort of unexpected guest had taken possession of his furs. Before he attempted to remove it, he would very much like to know whether it had horns, hooves, or perhaps was th larl he had been hearing others about.

[02:48:23] Crow stared at the creature in his bed, the candlelight finally revealing the full extent of his misfortune. A bosk. An actual, living bosk, sound asleep beneath his furs as though it had paid for the privilege. For several long moments, he said nothing. Centuries of training had taught him patience, restraint, and the ability to face death without so much as a raised eyebrow. Apparently, none of it had prepared him for livestock claiming his bed. He slowly lowered the candle, then raised it again, as if a second look might somehow produce a more reasonable explanation. It did not. The beast continued to breathe heavily, utterly unconcerned with the fact that it had invaded the quarters of a man who made a profession of dealing with unwanted visitors. “Of course,” he murmured at last, his voice dangerously mild. “The Port is overflowing with bosks, and naturally, one has decided to sleep with the Black Caste.” He glanced towards the tent entrance, then back at the sleeping animal.

[02:53:30] Crow glanced towards the tent entrance, then back at the sleeping animal. His eyes narrowed as a new and deeply unwelcome thought occurred to him. If the beast had found its way inside, there were a few guards that would pay for it. He didn´t take it light when those that have no business here could get within the camp. He set the candle one one of the trunks that were in his sleeping quarters and folded his arms. First he would study the sleeping intruder with the cold calculation he usually reserved for troublesome clients and candidates. “Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” he told the unconscious bosk. “You have offered no payment, presented no contract, and I have absolutely no interest in your herd’s political disputes.” The bosk snorted in its sleep and settled more comfortably into the furs. Crow stared at it. “Remarkable. My first client who refuses to negotiate, ignores my authority, and has the audacity to snore in my bed.” He exhaled slowly, then reached for his tunic again. “Tomorrow,” he decided, “I am finding out who is responsible for this livestock disaster. Tonight, it seems, I shall be the only Assassin in the Port without a bed.” A pause followed as he looked at the bosk once more. “And if anyone asks, I was clearly no match for a very large, very hairy professional.”

[04:27:45] Crow stood at the firepit. His eyes drifted to the candidate. There was something in his gaze that was already a warning. “Some candidates remember me very well … by the blisters upon their hands. Their obsession with fire. He would put some logs into place and lit up the fireplace. “You failed to do as you were told. That …” he held pause. “That will be met with consequences.”

[04:32:40] Dust had only just woken after a lengthy night collecting people’s belongings from the boat and moving almost every bit of furniture around someone’s house 4 times before they were happy with the arrangement. He had slept in the Inn for maybe 5 hours before he had remembered about the fire and was about to sort it…. but then Crow was already there. He made no excuse. No defiance. He just stood. “I will take whatever punishment you have Sir.”

[05:08:58] Crow had the habit to find that one small moment of being late, not tending to the fire. Even his own son had taken it heavy for everytime he had forgot or was too late for adding a log. He would approach slow. As if there was no real sense of direction. It was like this snake, slithering with no real threat in mind and yet at the very moment in which he perhaps became uncomfortable close, his fist seemed to have come out of no where with the intent to strike the man hard across the jaw. If he was able to hit him (below 33 = failed between 34 = 66 = hit but will stand 67 to 100 = hard ) it would hopefully bring his point across. “This is your warning … this fire is your life … you protect it … if it dies you might die too.”

[05:09:05] zCS # [Roll] Melchior Wardell rolled 59 (100).
[05:09:20] zCS # [Roll] ZandarLetts Resident rolled 89 (100).

[05:18:32] Dust had caught the movement a moment too late, The punch hit hard against his face and he took a step backwards. his instinct was to fight back. To defend himself. His right hand balled into a fist. Though that in itself was a shock to the wayfayer. He was used to seeing punches coming. Used to feet trying to slice his feet from below him. This… was something else. His fist came around towards the man without even a thought – forgetting for a moment that he was meant to be impressing the man. Right at the last moment it was like…. a touch rather than a fist. “Understood.” a simple word – a look that crossed the man’s face with the etch of a man that still had anger boiling inside.

[05:24:42] Crow barely moved after the fist stopped short of his face. His eyes remained fixed on Dust, taking in the clenched hand, the tension in his jaw, and the anger the candidate had not quite managed to bury. For several Ihn, he said nothing. Then he gave a small, humorless smile. “There. That was the moment I wanted to see.” He stepped back, allowing Dust room to settle himself rather than pressing the advantage. “Your body reacted before your mind could catch up. You were struck, and every instinct you possess told you to strike back. You nearly did.” His gaze sharpened. “But you stopped. At the last moment, you remembered where you were and why you came here.”Crow tilted his head slightly. “Do not mistake me, Dust. I am not praising you for allowing yourself to be hit. Nor am I asking you to become a man who never fights back. There will be times when hesitation gets you killed, just as there will be times when a drawn fist ruins everything you have spent weeks building. The difference is whether you decide to strike, or whether your anger decides for you.”A faint, dry edge returned to his voice. “And for the record, if you intend to hit me, candidate, I would prefer you do it because you have made a decision not because you forgot yourself halfway through a lesson.” Crow straightened, his expression settling into its usual composure. “Now tell me, Dust. When your fist came around, what made you stop?”

[05:31:27] Dust ‘s eyes flickered to the man for a long moment then back to the fire. The thoughts being processed like he was trying to walk through thick mud. On the boat, he wouldn’t had hesitated. He would have defended himself. Yet there was a small part of the man who he had left a long time ago on the banks of Lara – remembering the words from his father. He quoted them now. “The strike is not the defense you wish. It is the body’s reaction to anger. Know it, feel it, understand that and you will become a better man.” He then looked to the fire “You are right. I forgot myself and the instructions. Whether for a moment or for a long time, it does not matter.” He then placed another log on the fire as it slowly embered

[05:38:39] Crow watched Dust place another log upon the fire, the orange glow catching the hard lines of his face. For a moment, he said nothing. The words the candidate had quoted were not those of a fool. They were the words of a man who had been taught something worth remembering, even if life had buried it beneath years of habit. “Your father sounds like he understood the difference between a reaction and a decision.” Crow stepped closer to the fire, holding his hands behind his back. His gaze settled on the embers, though his attention remained on Dust. “You say you forgot yourself. Perhaps. But you also stopped. That matters.” He glanced toward the candidate. “Do not make the mistake of thinking discipline means never feeling anger. You will feel it. Fear, humiliation, frustration. Sometimes another man will strike you precisely because he wants to see what you do next.” A faint, almost wry smile touched his lips. “Do not make his decision for him by giving him the reaction he came looking for.” He crouched briefly to adjust a shifting log, then straightened. “You have spent your life learning how to survive at sea, Dust. Your father’s words suggest he was trying to teach you how to survive yourself.” His emerald eyes met the candidate’s. “That may prove the more difficult lesson.” Crow let the fire crackle between them for a moment before adding, more quietly, “Tell me something. When you stopped that fist, was it because you remembered my instruction… or because, for one moment, you remembered the man your father wanted you to become?”

[05:47:40] Dust again had to think long and hard about the answer. Not because he was choosing the right words to say but because he simply wasn’t sure exactly what the man wanted to hear. There were things he did not know yet – many things. Even after living 50 years in a place that hadn’t aged him much, a gorean man at heart – he still didn’t feel like he was much of that man that his father had wanted him to be. “My father was a man of steel but knew how to use it in the right way. My mother a woman of words. Long, lengthy, with the touch of a woman who cared for their only son.” He said plainly “I remember them daily as a way to try and shape a life I feel very much like is still to be shaped. I have led men into battle, I have discovered many wakes of life – North and South. When my boots hit ground, I go and make my living for a while. Slaver, Merchant, builder of boats. When the sea calls, I return. I believe that my father wanted more for me. More than just a man that does things because he has to but because he supposed to. So I would say the later. On a ship you have no chance to think for yourself. You are lead by a leader. A captain. You fight because you have to – to defend the very boards you live on. This choice today was not because I didn’t want to punch you back, but because – somewhere – the boards are no longer at risk.”

[05:57:00] Crow listened without interrupting, his expression thoughtful as the firelight moved across his features. There was something in Dust’s answer that interested him more than the candidate might have realized. Not the mention of battles, ships, or the many trades he had pursued, but the distinction he had finally begun to make between necessity and choice. “Somewhere, the boards are no longer at risk,” he repeated quietly. He let the words settle before turning his gaze toward the candidate. “That is worth remembering, Dust. On a ship, the threat is often clear. Someone attacks, you defend. Someone gives an order, you act. The survival of the crew may depend on it.” He paused remembering his own life upon the Stormcrow. A contract that had led him to the role of captain, because the men on board felt Crow, or his alter-ego Silas, the better leader. Their mutiny was not anticipated so he had remained Silas the Captain of the Stormcrow. A story he might one day tell at the campfire. “But here, you will encounter men who want you to believe that every insult is an attack, every challenge a threat, and every moment of discomfort something that must be answered.” Crow moved to the other side of the fire, unhurried. “Your father may have wanted you to become a man who does more than what necessity demands. Perhaps that is what you are beginning to discover for yourself.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “You have spent years being many things, Dust. A sailor. A slaver. A merchant. A builder. You know how to take on a role when circumstances require it.” His gaze held the candidate’s. “But who are you when no captain gives the order? When no enemy stands before you? When there is no ship to defend and no immediate danger to justify your actions?” He glanced toward the embers. “That is the man we are trying to find. Not the man your father wanted, nor the man you think we expect. The man who remains when there is no one left to tell him what he must be.” Crow nudged a settling log into place with his boot. “And for what
it is worth, Dust, I would rather train a man who can admit he wanted to strike me than one who pretends he felt nothing at all.” A dry glimmer returned to his eyes. “Though next time, I would appreciate it if you kept your fists to yourself until you have decided what they are for.”

[06:08:16] Dust listened to Crow – his every word taken in as he digested it – and then – right at the end – he couldn’t help but let out a low hearty laugh at the man’s words. He watched the fire – the flicker of the flame – the change of the flames direction when the wind blew too hard. He remembered another lesson from his youth. Then he nodded to Crow “One i hope will keep alive once danger has passed – one who will achieve what he came here to achieve yet very much feels out of his depth doing. A life is merely one pathway taken where others remain or others could be taken. A choice between them unclear at the beginning, yet once you start to travel down there is no going back. That is what lead me to your gates, and why I continue.” he said simply “And why my actions were stopped. I wanted to punch you simply because I was angry. That is never a reason.”

[06:15:42] Crow regarded Dust for a moment, and the candidate’s laughter drew the faintest hint of a smile from him. It was good to hear it. Too many men, when confronted with their own shortcomings, chose either anger or silence. Dust, at least, was beginning to recognize the difference between being challenged and being diminished. “Then perhaps you are beginning to understand why you came here.” He turned his attention to the fire, watching the flames catch along the fresh log. “You speak of pathways as though choosing one means surrendering all the others. Perhaps it does. But do not confuse commitment with blindness, Dust. You chose to come through our gates. That choice deserves to be taken seriously, but it does not excuse you from questioning the road beneath your feet. And you are correct. Anger is not a reason to strike. Neither is pride, embarrassment, or the need to prove that another man cannot make you feel small. Unfortunately we are often met with the ego’s of warriors. You will learn there is little
love between the Red and Black. There will be times when you must use violence. When that time comes, I expect you to know precisely why you are using it.” A brief pause, then a dry smile. “Preferably before your fist is halfway to my face.”Crow folded his arms, his demeanor settling back into its familiar composure. “You feel out of your depth. Good. That means you have recognized the depth of the water before throwing yourself into it.” He inclined his head slightly. “Now we discover whether you can learn to swim. Keep that thought about your father. Not because you must become the man he wanted you to be, but because you are finally beginning to decide what sort of man you want to be yourself.”

[06:25:47] Dust had never considered that the road that lead him here meant surrendering all others. He had just followed it because he felt like he had to. A desire to be something more than what he was. Being on the sea lead him to different ports and cities and had let him live life’s where there was always something missing. Even here today, he felt like he was drowning under the weight of what he taking on. But the Northern traditions were deep. He would not allow himself to drown. At least not yet. He nodded to Crow now – his eyes more resolved. He himself added another log to the fire processing the whole conversation. It had felt too long that he had remembered the small nuances his father had drilled into him over and over. Too long ago that his Mother had insisted him re-write his letters until they were perfect. But in that time he had learnt a lot about himself and the man he wanted to be – or didn’t want to be. The simple pleasures of a slave on his lap, a drink in his hand, nothing to worry for but the ne meal or the next fight on the open seas. He didn’t miss it – which he thought he would. For the moment it felt right being here. “Aye. The man I want to be myself.” He repeated

[06:43:10] Crow watched Dust add another log to the fire, noting the change in the candidate’s expression. There was still uncertainty there, and no small amount of doubt, but something else had begun to take root beneath it. Resolve, perhaps. Or simply the stubborn Northern refusal to go quietly into deep water. “Good,” he said at last. “Then remember that answer when the work becomes difficult. It is easy to speak of the man you wish to become beside a warm fire. It is considerably harder when you are tired, angry, frightened, or convinced that the men teaching you have lost their minds.” A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “Which, I assure you, is a conclusion you may reach more than once.” Crow shifted his stance, his gaze settling on the embers. “You have lived enough lives to know what it is to be a sailor, a merchant, a slaver, a builder. You have known the comfort of familiar habits and the freedom of leaving when the sea calls. I won’t pretend those things mean nothing simply because you have come here.” He looked back at Dust, his expression growing more serious. “But you said something worth holding on to. You no longer miss the life you expected to miss. Pay attention to that. Do not dismiss it, and do not assume it means you have already found your answer. You are still learning what this path asks of you.” He gave a small nod toward the fire. “For now, keep it burning. Observe. Listen. Think before you act. And when you make a mistake, do not waste your time pretending you didn’t.” His eyes met Dust’s once more. “You need not become the man your father imagined, candidate. Nor the man I might prefer you to be. Become a man who knows why he makes his choices and is prepared to bear what follows. That will be a better beginning than most ever manage.”

[06:49:45] Dust listened quietly, his gaze shifting between the tents now. A faint chuckle escaped him at the suggestion that he might question his teachers’ sanity. “I think I’ve already reached that conclusion once or twice,” he admitted with a crooked grin. “Though I’m beginning to suspect there’s a method to the madness.” He nudged a stubborn log further into the fire with a stick, considering the Assassin’s words. “My father always knew what he wanted me to become. For a long time, I thought I knew too. But perhaps I’ve spent more of my life trying to prove something to others than deciding what I wanted for myself.” He glanced up at Crow. “I don’t expect this path to be easy. Nor do I expect to get everything right. But I’m still here, and that’s a choice I made myself.” His grin returned briefly. “Though I reserve the right to mutter about your sanity while I’m making it.”

[06:50:15] KeDjA strolls between the tents after returning to camp. A bucket in one hand, the other hanging loosely at her side, she hums as usual. Despite the increasingly changeable weather, her feet remain bare, so she makes hardly any sound… if it weren’t for her humming. With a flourish, she sets the bucket down on one of the tables in the kitchen area and wipes her hand on her kirtle. Then she grabs the kitchen knife lying there and fishes the first object out of the bucket… a fish. It hasn’t been dead long. But it’s dead enough that it’s long since stopped wriggling.

[06:53:42] Crow allowed a quiet, genuine chuckle at Dust’s remark, inclining his head as though conceding the point. “By all means. Mutter away. So long as you learn to do it quietly enough that no one mistakes it for an actual challenge.” His green eyes rested on the candidate a moment longer, the sternness in them tempered by a hint of approval. “You are still here, Dust. Not because someone dragged you through the gate, nor because your father expected it of you. You chose this. Remember that when the days come that you would rather be anywhere else.” He gave a small nod, accepting the end of their conversation without demanding more from the man. “Go tend to what needs tending. Keep your eyes open, your mind sharper than your tongue, and your pride on a shorter leash than your instincts.” As Kedja’s humming drifted through the compound, Crow’s gaze briefly followed her to the kitchen table and the bucket of fish. His expression shifted into faint suspicion. “Though I would advise keeping clear of whatever Kedja is
preparing. I have learned that curiosity is useful in our work, but there are limits to how much a man should investigate his own supper.” A dry smile returned as he turned away, leaving Dust with the fire and the thoughts he had earned. His focus upon the bond.

[02:08:36] Crow (melchior.wardell) had been watching. He had seen Arsus give the man a command. He had not intervened. There was no raised voice. No sudden movement. Only the quiet weight of his gaze settling upon the seeker. Crow’s eyes dropped briefly to the man’s feet before returning to his face. “You moved.” He allowed the silence to stretch for a moment, letting the consequence settle before continuing. “You were given one condition. Remain as still as the stones beneath you. You were told precisely what would happen if you failed.” His expression remained unreadable. “Do not explain it. Do not justify it. The reason does not matter.” A slight tilt of his head followed. “Now you have a choice.” Crow gestured once toward the pile of belongings. “Pick them up. Leave.” He would give there a pause. A pause in which a life could flash by. “Or remain where you are and accept that you have failed this particular test. Whether you are permitted another opportunity is not yours to decide.” He stepped back, giving the man no assistance and offering no further words. The test had never been about whether Zavier could endure discomfort. It was whether he could obey when every instinct told him to act.

[02:12:11] Zavier Montgomary (zandarletts) felt his jaw tighten, the answer rising instinctively to his tongue before he held it back. He had obeyed the campmaster, yet here he stood condemned for moving; the frustration showed briefly in his eyes, though his feet remained planted upon the stones. His belongings lay within reach, but he did not look towards them. “I will remain,” he said quietly. “I accept that I have failed your test.” He met Crow’s gaze, swallowing the bitterness of words left unspoken. “Whether I am given another opportunity is yours to decide. I am here to learn.”

[02:16:30] Crow (melchior.wardell) regarded him in silence for several long moments. The admission came without excuses, and that mattered more than the failure itself. Crow had seen the frustration in the man’s eyes, the instinct to defend himself, and then the deliberate choice to swallow it. His gaze remained steady. “Good.” The word came quietly. “Not because you failed. You were supposed to understand that failure would be possible.” He shifted his weight slightly, the leather of his sword belt giving the faintest sound in the stillness. His eyes narrowed slightly. “You now know where the weakness appeared. Not in your legs. In your mind.” Crow’s gaze dropped once toward the man’s belongings before returning to him. He stepped closer, stopping well short of invading the man’s space. His expression remained stern, but there was a subtle difference in it now. Attention. “Do not mistake that for acceptance.” The man would breath him. Perhaps smell the scent of burned wood and leather. His green eyes were like emeralds. Hard and sharp as if they were able to cut the man right there and then.

[02:23:22] Zavier Montgomary (zandarletts) held Crow’s gaze with tired sky-blue eyes, the scent of burned wood and leather reaching him as the man stepped closer. His jaw tightened briefly at the words, though he kept whatever answer stirred behind it firmly contained. Hunger had settled into a persistent ache since the night before; even while gathering wood, he had not stopped to find food, and the few mouthfuls of water taken from the nearby waterfall had done little to sustain him through the hours that followed. Now his throat felt dry, his legs heavy, and remaining still required more deliberate effort than he cared to show. He swallowed carefully, resisting the urge to ease his weight from one foot to the other. “I understand,” he answered, his voice roughened by thirst but quiet enough to carry no challenge. “I will not mistake it.” For a moment, he felt the pull of his belongings nearby and all that leaving would mean, but his eyes stayed upon Crow. He drew a slow breath and remained planted upon the stones, allowing the
silence to stand.

[02:30:11] Crow (melchior.wardell) remained still for a moment, studying the man before him. The signs were there now, the dry voice, the controlled breathing, the subtle tension in his legs. Crow had no need to be told what the body was beginning to demand. Yet he had not moved. That was what mattered. Crow’s gaze remained upon him, measuring rather than judging. “Then understand this as well.” His voice was quieter now. “Discipline is not proven when obedience is easy. Anyone can stand still when the body has no reason to move.” Crow glanced briefly toward the man’s belongings, then back to him. “You are hungry. Thirsty. Tired. Your body is asking you for relief, and your mind is looking for reasons to grant it.” He let the silence return for a long time. He was a man of patience. It had been beaten into him. And this man before him would feel the wrath of it clean and fresh. It must be clear by now that granting permission into the training was not an easy won thing. “Some men are considered worthless while they wait. Lower than slaves. As they can be commanded to do anything. Humiliated to the bone. All to test how eager they are …” he shrugged. “And here you are … only to stand still.” There was challenge and mockery in his voice. A slithering snake that hissed in the mans ear to give up and no longer endure the cruelty of those men that wore the black.

[02:36:13] Zavier Montgomary (zandarletts) felt the mockery bite more sharply than the ache in his legs, a brief tightening around his blue eyes betraying that he had heard it plainly. His empty stomach cramped beneath his ribs, and he waited for the worst of it to pass without bending or pressing a hand against it. There was little dignity in standing there while another man described how easily he might be reduced, but reaching for his belongings now would mean abandoning what he had come for. He drew a measured breath through his nose, careful not to turn it into a weary sigh. “It sounds a small thing when you say it,” he admitted, his voice dry and low. “It does not feel small now.” The words cost him a little pride, though he held Crow’s gaze as he spoke them. He wanted water, food, somewhere to sit; each had become difficult to keep from his thoughts. “But I still wish to be here.” With that, he fell quiet again, his feet remaining where they had been placed while he worked through the next stretch of silence.

[02:44:12] Crow (melchior.wardell) studied him for a long moment, the admission drawing neither approval nor ridicule from his expression. “Good.” The answer came quietly. “Then remember this feeling.” Crow’s gaze remained fixed upon him. “You have discovered that something which sounds small can become very large when it is placed between you and what you want.” He drew a breath as if to signify the words further. “That is why the test matters.” Crow let the silence settle again, but this time his voice held less edge. “You are not required to pretend that hunger does not hurt. You are not required to convince me that your legs are not tired.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “You are required to decide what you do with that discomfort.” Crow glanced toward the belongings resting nearby in a very obvious manner. “You already made your choice once.” He looked back to Zavier. “You moved because you feared the consequences of another … ” there was a devious smile playing on his features. “I always wonder … when it will dawn to candidates and seekers … which one they need to fear most.” he let the words hang there.

[02:51:28] Zavier Montgomary (zandarletts): me’s brow furrowed, confusion showing plainly in his tired blue eyes as Crow’s words settled upon him. He had understood the order to stand still, and he had understood the campmaster’s command when it came; what troubled him now was how he was supposed to choose between them. His lips parted, then closed again as he considered whether a question would be taken for another excuse. Hunger gnawed at him through the pause, and he swallowed against the dryness in his throat before speaking. “I do not know,” he admitted quietly, keeping his feet planted. “I fear the unknown. The fear of not knowing. The fear that one day the seas would have turned their swells against me and my crew and left me dead. But those days are then, and this is where I feel I need to be now. This is the unknown for me. Consequences and actions mater – words are taken exactly as they are meant. I fear that my whole knowledge is … worthless here and now and yet I remain willing to be changed. Molded as a new man.”

[02:59:46] Crow (melchior.wardell) listened without interruption, his gaze fixed upon the man as the words came. This time there was no correction waiting at the end of them. No immediate challenge. Only silence. Crow had heard men speak of fear before. Most dressed it in courage until it became difficult to recognize. Zavier did not. He had finally stopped trying to give the answer he thought was expected and instead offered something far more useful. Truth. His eyes moved briefly over the man’s exhausted posture. “You have spent your life learning how to survive what you understood. The sea. Storms. Men. Hunger. Death. And now you have deliberately placed yourself somewhere where those lessons may no longer be enough.” Crow’s expression hardened. He took a slow breath. “I wonder … how were you sure that the man that ordered you to gather wood was a man of any authority?” A faint, almost humorless curve touched his lips. “Surely you wouldn’t just take any mans word for it?” He would draw his dagger slowly. He carried two: chaos and order. ‘Chaos’ flashed briefly in that little light here this deep into the forest. The top moving slow over the mans chest but there where the man could see it. “Would you step back if I were to cut you, I wonder?”

[03:08:00] Zavier Montgomary (zandarletts): /me’s blue eyes dropped to the dagger as it passed before his chest, his breath catching despite himself. His stomach tightened with something sharper than hunger, and for a moment the urge to step away was so strong that he had to think deliberately about keeping his feet where they were. He could not keep that alarm from his face. “I took him for a man who had authority here,” he answered, his dry voice hesitant. “I did not ask him to prove it. I see now that I assumed.” The admission left his brow furrowed; he had acted upon a certainty that no longer seemed certain at all. With the blade so close, it was difficult to gather his thoughts. “If you cut me… I might,” he admitted. “I have experience pain before I even knew it was happening so I know how it feels, and do not like it. However, pain happens whether you prepare or not. I cannot promise you that standing here would stop that.” His gaze returned to Crow’s face, searching it with visible unease. “Am I meant to question a command when I do not know the man’s authority? To ask before I act? I am used to following instructions – the Captain’s command over a ship is final. Whether he has been a captain for 2 minutes or 50 years” He swallowed, leaving his hands at his sides. “I need to understand how to judge that.”
[03:10:26] Im Strange is offline.

[03:15:19] Crow (melchior.wardell)’s gaze remained on Zavier, the dagger held steady for another moment before Crow slowly lowered it. There had been no need to cut him. The reaction itself had told him enough. “You are beginning to understand the question.” Crow stepped closer, his voice quiet and deliberate. “On a ship, authority is visible. A captain has a crew. A rank. A vessel beneath his feet. The command structure is known.” His eyes narrowed. “Here, you cannot rely upon a uniform, a title, or the assumption that the loudest voice is the one you obey.” Crow tapped the flat of the dagger lightly against his own palm before returning it to its sheath. “You ask how you judge authority.” He would wait and than stated “First, you observe. Who speaks? Who stands with him? Who obeys him? Who does not? What does the situation tell you before you ever open your mouth?” Crow’s gaze remained unwavering. “Second, you understand that uncertainty does not give you permission to invent certainty. You assumed the man had authority. That assumption moved you.” A faint nod toward the ground where Zavier had failed the test. “You may ask for clarification. You may choose to obey. You may choose not to. But every choice has a consequence.” Crow let the silence return for several heartbeats. “An Assassin cannot afford to act simply because an answer feels comfortable. And neither can you. Unless you take up your belongings and go.” The fact Arsus was campmaster he let unmentioned as there was not yet anything to explain for the ranks of the caste when it came to a seeker.

[03:23:12] Zavier Montgomary (zandarletts) released a shallow breath as the dagger was lowered, though the tension across his chest lingered after it disappeared into its sheath. His eyes returned to Crow’s face, his brow still drawn as he considered the explanation. “This man did tell me he was the campmaster,” he said quietly. “That was why I believed he could command me.” He paused, conscious of how easily that might sound like another attempt to excuse himself. “But I took his word for it. I had nothing beyond that.” His throat worked through a dry swallow while he tried to make sense of the distinction. A title had given him something familiar to grasp in a place where he understood so little, and he had accepted it without considering the order already binding him. He remained upon the stones, the ache in his legs making the silence uncomfortable and he shuffled ever so slightly. “I understand the lesson now.” There was no satisfaction in the admission, only a thoughtful crease between his brows. “I will have to learn to look more carefully—and to ask when I do not know. Now may I move again? And search for something to quench the thirst? Or must I remain here til I learn another valuable lesson or die… from that.”

[03:29:42] Crow (melchior.wardell) studied him for a long moment, the faint movement of his own eyes betraying that he had heard the distinction. The man’s answer was not entirely wrong. He had been given a title, and in a place he did not yet understand, he had relied upon it. But the question now was not about the campmaster. It was about what Zavier did with uncertainty. A faint twitch touched the corner of Crow’s mouth at the final question. “Ah.” Crow’s gaze travelled deliberately from the man’s face, to his bare feet, and back again. “We men of caste hardly act upon what we belief. There is need for certainty.” he allowed this lesson to exist. Crow allowed the silence to stretch for another heartbeat before finally giving a small nod. “Yes. You may move.” His voice remained firm. “Drink. Eat. Sit if your legs require it. You have stood long enough.” he held pause as to see the relief upon th man’s face before adding “Of course … only when you do not want to continue with your wait.” There was a dark gaze one of intensity and perhaps even cruelty. This was better than a punch or a good kick in the nuts. With that he turned and left, leaving the man once again alone with all of his thoughts and questions.