Their eyes met briefly, before the performer’s gaze snapped to meet what Zelsys could only assume to be the Inquisitor’s stare. She simply ignored the sound of aggressive sign language, the rustling of fabric and metal plate, but she couldn’t quite ignore the response that Strolvath gave.

“I’ve got no fuckin’ idea. Maybe the Livin’ Storm makes a different flavor of lightnin’,” he stated, grinning ear to ear. Then, there was silence. The Inquisitor joined them at the makeshift table a few minutes later, though she sat turned away so as not to expose her face while she ate. Zelsys made no attempt to interact, thinking that it’d be better to not prod at her when something was clearly eating her up inside.

So it was that the party refreshed themselves and spent a short while resting, before they decided that it would be a good idea to move on. 

“Let’s get back to it,” Strolvath said, the first to rise from his seat as he stashed the near-empty bottle into his pack alongside a half-eaten meat ration. “Bugs ain’t gonna wait for us to wipe ‘em out, an’ the sooner we get it done the sooner we can get some proper rest.” 

He stood up and started walking towards the projection altar before he stopped for a moment, looking back towards Zelsys, “And the sooner y’can teach me that breathing method of yours.”

Zel gave a simple nod before she stood up as well, with Zef following suit. She noticed that when Strolvath gripped the control handle, the projection changed from a map to a simple directional guide. Now it only showed the simplified symbols for each of them, paired up next to arrows that pointed to a particular door. It might not have been necessary seeing as those doors were the only ones whose glyphs were glowing, but she supposed it would help avoid confusion.

They both headed towards their respective door, as did Strolvath and the Inquisitor towards theirs. The doors, of course, opened to reveal Fog Gates.

The four of them exchanged looks briefly, before both pairs stepped through their respective Fog Gate.

Crovacus Estoras, Acting Governor for the Sovereign City-state of Willowdale, felt like he had a foot in the grave. It had only been a few days since his hand-picked extermination party departed, and though signs pointed towards their ongoing success, he was facing stiffer and stiffer opposition in his endeavor to secure Willowdale’s continued existence.

The roadside banditry had, fortunately, vanished only two days after the party’s departure, which he wagered had to do with his suspicions of the bandits just being locust-men. And then there was the case of the serial killer… One of the last surviving members of the Black Horse family that had become a wanted man for racially motivated murders. The suspect made no attempt to hide his motives or allegiance, so it was only a matter of time before a bigger fish would show up.

It didn’t worry him that the wannabe ethnic cleanser problem had been solved, but how. The expression that his face was found frozen into, the immaculate wounds that made it obvious his sword hand and his head had both been severed in one cut. There was nobody in the resident records with skills like that, not even Quincy the Knife.

Crovacus could only hope that whoever did it wouldn’t become a problem. 

The threats that he received were… Benign. To be expected, when one played a role as contentious as his. Vaguely threatening anonymous letters, simple offensive symbols smeared onto the side of the town hall with mud, petty vandalism. He’d had worse before he had ever stepped foot into Ikesia.

No, it was the harassment of his collaborators that really made him concerned. An anonymous someone had gone as far as to hire a group of thugs to sabotage the geopolymer molds that were being used to make new segments for the town wall. It was amateurish work - the molds were just defaced and filled with what could be equated to quick-setting cement, but cleaning them would add precious time to the wall repairs. 

Simple construction workers, local millers, farmers, merchants, all were being harassed by hired thugs or even outright cowled figures. He could keep locking them up, sure, but their benefactors also kept anonymously bailing them out. All he could do was strongly encourage anyone and everyone to defend themselves to the fullest extent of their rights, but that didn’t do much when the average citizen scarcely owned a sparklock pistol or scattergun. That type of weapon could level the playing field against two people maybe, but not the groups of four or five that the harassers usually showed up in.

This issue could be solved, and was in fact already being solved, as he had recently granted a frankly unfairly good deal on arms manufacturing rights to the very Collier that ran a bespoke firearms store across from the town hall. It was bypassing the necessary paperwork, sure, but he knew her to be the best for the job, even if other manufacturers had longer track records and ready-to-go production lines. It’d only take a week or so before the old lady had a production line for her brand-new “Tyrant-muncher” firearms in the north-western quarter.

However, what worried him most was the enemies within the town hall itself. He knew exactly who they were, and it was this fact that worried him most. Some were Ikesian, yes, and this was understandable. However, they opposed him openly and directly, within the rules of the political process. On the other hand, a quarter of the senate had been mandated by post-war treaties to be made up of Pateirians and Grekurians. Among them also laid not just those who caused him the most trouble, but also those whom his private investigators had pointed the finger at in regards to the blatant sabotage and harassment.

They would be dealt with, but not before the exterminators returned. Crovacus needed muscle, loyal muscle that wouldn’t be bought or threatened, and he was rather confident that these four were his best bet.