Libera, a quiet hawk arrives, following Skaldia.

On the cusp of a momentous dawn at the frontline Compact encampment, the world might seem suspended in a breathless hush. Sprintime and the air is tinged with the fresh scent of new life, an ironic prelude to a battle that looms with the morning's light which just decide whether the world ends as we know it or not. The encampment, nestled against the eerie yet protective Hedge, buzzes with a tense energy, as soldiers and allies such as sylv'alfar and giants prepare for what may come.

Twilight casts its mystical cloak over the land, a time when light and darkness blend in a fleeting dance. The sky, a canvas of deepening blues, gradually reveals the first stars, twinkling like distant beacons of hope amidst uncertainty. The Hedge, an enigmatic barrier standing tall and thick around the camp, rustles softly in the evening breeze, its leaves whispering secrets of the ancient land.

In the heart of the encampment, tents and makeshift shelters dot the landscape, with the glow of campfires flickering like fireflies in the dimming light. Soldiers and knights, clad in armor and bearing the banners of their houses or the Faith, share quiet conversations and steely glances, their faces etched with determination and the weight of the coming day.

Nearby yet so far away, Harrow Hall stands ominous and foreboding, a silhouette against the darkening sky. Its presence is a constant reminder of the impending confrontation, a shadow looming over the hearts of those who have come to challenge its darkness.

There is the sound of drums beating and of flutes playing a melody as singers from the Bard's College make their way in a procession to a makeshift stage illuminated by torches for those who might gather tonight.

Daoud, a Harrow Banshee arrives, following Cufre.

Skaldia quietly moves to find a seat as things get started, glancing to her sister. The Harrows are here, to hear the tale that likely started with their ancestors. Somewhere, Skaldia managed to find a flask with some brandy in it, from which she takes an occasional sip. Her attention turns toward the sound of the drums and flutes and the Bard's College, her eyebrows lifting in surprise at this grand display.

Mattheu takes Rounded and medium sized unimportant chest from leather rucksack with pouches.

Ann has found a seat in the audience once she had heard the procession from the Bard's College. Her attention is towards the makeshift stage. She will nod to anyone that looks in her direction but her focus seems to be on the stage and what is to be presented there.

Mattheu takes Vantuluimea from Rounded and medium sized unimportant chest.

Mattheu wields Vantuluimea.

Jan settles out on the periphery, watching curiously.

Insaya has no great reputation for song or yarn. Or really anything, much, truth to tell. But with what could be the sum of all their fears just east of night, Insaya is brought out by the pulse of tocsin to wait in the lonely dark in the gap between two tents.

3 House Riven Soldiers, 1 Greenwood Tribe Blood Warriors, Lianna, 1 Bisland pride guards, Feydin, a white-tailed eagle, Vigilance, a juvenile female Oakhaven Bloodhound, Berthold, Tinsel arrive, following Mia.

Insaya gets tiny earthenware lamp from leather satchel with a comfortable strap.

Oura, a white-tailed eagle, Valor, a juvenile male Oakhaven Bloodhound, 2 Greenwood Tribe Blood Warriors arrive, following Thesarin.

Cufre takes a seat alongside Skaldia. She looks to the others who have gathered, her gaze shifting from one knot of conversation, camaraderie, or both, to another.

Rosalind ventures in, finding a nice place place to settle comfortably.

Mia picks her way slowly through the assembled crowd, trying to avoid smacking the sheath of her sworn against anyone's legs. Navigating her way through clusters of people here and clusters of people there, she eventually finds a seat to rest in, her night-dark eyes alert and watchful.

Thesarin moves in behind Mia, looking to and fro as they move to their seats. In this place, the Prodigal Marquis seems to have abandoned any attempts at dressing to the Compact fashions, and looks nothing less than one of the shav warchiefs of the woods around, furs and leathers and bare arms covered in intricate tattoos. He settles quietly, coming to sit beside her.

The choir of singers along with the musicians from the Bard's College make their way up to the stage in a semi-circle. You might recognise on them the many different sigils of houses currently in the Compact and perhaps for history buffs, of houses no longer around. Of sigils that represent the gods, of other things like the Nox'alfar and giants. Of spirits both near and far. If the choir had a theme, it would be there are so many voices being represented tonight, so many stories.

Stepping up to the stage are two figures. One is a very pale, gaunt and heavily scarred knight with crimson eyes; Titus of Sangris. The other is Mattheu with violin.

Titus speaks, a voice that is a haggard whisper from decayed lungs.

"Welcome, brave souls, to this hallowed eve before battle. As we stand united under the stars of our ancestors and the spirits who have left us, let us remember the Code that guides us?not just in battle, but in the essence of our being. We must know our enemies, we recognize their paths, paths we detest, yet we must face them with unyielding honour. Our anger, our sadness, these are not weaknesses but fuel to forge us into better warriors, better protectors of what we hold dear. To fight for futures not our own, but of futures for those we will never know and protect the opportunity of their choice. Our enemy desires to strip page after page from the Story of Stories."

"Tomorrow, we clash with destiny. If we emerge as victors, it is our solemn duty to bear witness to all that transpires, to remember every fallen comrade and every foe. Their stories, however dark or valiant, are threads in the grand tapestry of our world's history. Let us not allow these threads to unravel or be lost. The choir will sing the story of the sylv'alfar prince who we will meet his forces tomorrow. And lord Mattheu will guide us in the melody with his violin."

The stage goes quiet and dark for a moment although one can see a single candle lit. Barely a mote of light and hope in the overwhelming darkness.

Skaldia settles in to listen, looking to Cufre, and offering the flask silently. She looks forward again then as Titus begins with his introduction. Her eyes scan the singers on the stage, Mattheu with his violin, the darkness that follows. She's already riveted, and the tale has not even begun.

Octohopper, a prismatic jumping spider arrives, following Ferrando.

Alberico, the Malespero aide, 1 Malespero Guard, Louis, a Malespero Armsman, Mar, the Magpie arrive, following Pasquale.

There is a look of pride when Ann spies Mattheu on the stage with Titus. Shifting some in her seat which causes the bells on her to ring softly through the night air as Titus speaks. Attention riveted there. She has always enjoyed Titus stories no matter the subject and she knows she will learn something new from it.

As the stage goes dark all that can be heard upon the breeze is the full cascade of bells upon Mattheu. A shake within bounce as he steps out from the shadows to start a tap upon stage, then upon body of violin. Each tap sounds more as a haunting heartbeat slowly coming to life. A low hum as he puts bow to strings pulling notes into a long dragging somber melody.

With each rise of bow Mattheu keeps his head down, pulling further with bow across strings to bring call of a song which has a haunting tale to be told. The intro chords settling as he keeps tapping his foot in that soft -thump, thump- a heart beat growing.

Cufre takes the offered flask and drinks shallowly from it before offering it back. Her attention is set on the stage.

Mia tilts her head up as her husband moves to join her. For a long moment, she's silent -- watching not the stage, but him, dressed so very like he was the first time she met him outside of a war camp in the Gray Forest. A breath seeps out of her then, long and slow. "My love," she murmurs to him in greeting, words so very, very rarely said between them. Words never said in public. She swallows once, then offers Thesarin her hand.

Ferrando checks dexterity and stealth at hard. Ferrando is successful.

Jan is along the periphery of the crowd gathered to watch the stage for the performance, watching with crossed arms. One arm braced on the other to deliver the pad of her thumb to her lips to worry it between her teeth while she distractedly watches.

Ferrando is that guy who arrives for the show after it starts, but through careful approach vectors and a surprisingly light step probably nobody really notices.

The song "Shadowed Serenade" begins to be sung with the choir, their gentle voices mix with the instruments being played in the darkness. The single candle looks sometimes to nearly go out, but it holds on. And when Titus sings, he wears a wooden mask of an attractive sylv'alfar male wearing a golden crown as he sings the part of Orichalcum's Mask. When he sings, only the violin of Mattheu can be heard.

The Choir:
In lands where dreams and myths entwine,
Lurks Orichalcum with schemes malign.
By night he roams, a guise so tame,
In whispers soft, he calls your name.

Orichalcum's Mask:
"Don't fear, my children, come to me,
In my embrace, you'll find safety.
Surrender your names, let go your fear,
In my world, no pain will you bear."

With stolen names, he weaves the dark,
A puppeteer of lost souls' spark.
In shadows deep, he guards the night,
A betrayer cloaked in false light.

Beneath the mask, a prince betrayed,
A heart once pure, now dark and frayed.
He sought a love that turned to bane,
In Legion's grip, he now remains.

"Don't fear, my lost ones, hear my call,
In my reign, no more you'll fall.
Give me your names, join my dark choir,
Together, we'll quench the world's fire."

"So sleep, my children, under my wing,
Orichalcum's whispers do I sing.
In dreams, find solace, in night, find bound,
In my care, forever, peace is found."

But beware, oh mortals, the charm he weaves,
For Orichalcum, his vengeance conceives.
A scorned man's heart, a tempest wild,
He craves destruction, as fate compiled.

Through realms of chaos, his steps resound,
A puppet master, lost souls he's bound.
In stolen names, his power grows,
A symphony of doom, as darkness flows.

But in the shadows, a flicker remains,
A glimmer of hope, where courage sustains.
A hero rises, against the tide,
To shatter the darkness, no more to hide.

In the clash of worlds, a final stand,
Against Orichalcum, fate demands.
The scorned man's heart, a tragic lore,
Must face redemption or be no more.

So rise, oh mortals, break free from the spell,
Defy the darkness, let hope propel.
For in unity and courage bold,
The world shall endure, its story told.

For a moment, the candle is extinguished. But then there's a spark like flint and steel and the candle once more is lit. And it begins lighting more, the single candle becoming many flames.


Pasquale goes to stand near Jan, his attention turned onto the storytellers.

Thesarin raises his eyebrows at Mia's greeting. He looks out around at the audience, and then back to her. He lowers his head, just a bit of a smile coming to his face. "...my love." He takes her hand and squeezes, just hard enough to be firm. "For always." He's quiet as the singers tell the story, watching the dance of the lights, glancing back toward Mia as the theater begins to brighten again

Skaldia takes back the flask when it is offered from Cufre, and she takes a slow absent-minded sip from it. Her dark eyes flick from the choir, to the violinist, to the mask of Orichalcum, to which she narrows her eyes slightly, as if he really were the Traitor. She screws the cap back on her flask after a moment, and rests it in her lap, making no other movement or sound as she watches the performance.

Jan lifts a hand to gently brush a hand across Pasquale's back.

Cufre closes her eyes as the singing begins, and she sways a bit in time with the melody. She opens her eyes at the pause, missing the start but catching the effect of a candle that was one becoming, now, many. She claps for it.

In that moment, in that brief moment, Mia's eyes aren't on the stage. They flicker over Thesarin's face, taking note of lines that weren't always there, and over his temples, as if only now realizing they've become dottered and peppered with gray. She laces her fingers between his, leans ever so slightly towards him, and turns her eyes back to the performance. It's a story she knows too well, but that doesn't stop her from staring at the masked man in the golden crown.

Pasquale looks Jan's way and gives her a little smile.

Its in the candle's flickering out, where Mattheu stops playing, even to settle his hand to strings to keep them from singing past when the candle is extinguished.

Within spark of renewed light, small fire spreading out into line of many candles pick up across the stage. Drummers settle in picking against stage and drums together to build in with a strong prescence. A thrumming takes over the whole of camp as teams of drums fill to surround audience in their echoes. Only to suddenly find a hard stop. A silence fills over the camp.

Then light drumming upon body of violin, as drums start to pick up again. Their own thumping leaving echoes around all, dipping to hear violin play with a graceful sweep of the bow, the strings come alive, whispering the first notes of the melody like a secret shared among kindred spirits. The initial softness of the music seems to echo through the air, drawing the audience into a world of subtle emotion.

As the composition unfolds, Mattheu's fingers dance across the strings with precision and finesse, coaxing a tender sweetness from the instrument. The melody weaves a delicate tapestry, each note an intimate expression, resonating with a poignant beauty. The violin's voice, pure and ethereal, creates an emotional landscape that captivates the listener, evoking a sense of nostalgia and longing. Mattheu begins to intensify the strokes of the bow, gradually building a crescendo. The once gentle strains now swell with a growing intensity, the music taking on a newfound strength and urgency. The violin's timbre transforms, and the notes become more pronounced, carrying a weighty richness that fills the space.

In each step to the next tempo from Mattheu, drums fill in any void to bring climax of the performance, the violinist unleashes a torrent of sound, the bow slashing through the strings with a fervor that borders on frenetic. The violin, now a powerful force, resonates with a thunderous energy, the melody, once soft and tender, has evolved into a triumphant roar, commanding attention and leaving an indelible mark on the senses.

Candles begin being lit and glow with a golden light, the choir begins to move off the stage to join you all who have gathered. A candle given to each of you, and should you so wish, to light that candle as they raise their little lights high above their heads to make the starlit sky glow even brighter. The motes of light might not be strong by themselves, but many little flames seem to push the darkness away. A mixture of golden candles and silvery starlight, stories of the past mixing with the stories of the present.

The song "Ballad of the Free" begins, and this is brought on with the moving playing from Mattheu's violin as it mixes with the Choir of the Free singing, with the drums that have a way to make your feet tap, and the whole ballad might even bring goosebumps as you hear it in your hearts. The Mask of Orichalcum is laid down and instead Titus stands as a pale knight.

The Choir:
In the shadow of Harrow Hall's fight,
The Compact stands, a beacon of light.
Against Orichalcum's dark, deceitful claim,
We rise, unbroken, in freedom's name.

The Knight:
"Arise, brave hearts, deny the night,
In our bond, we find our might.
Reclaim your names, your destiny steer,
In our world, we conquer fear."

In the War of Names, we break the chains,
Against Legion's shadow, our spirit reigns.
In unity and strength, our path we carve,
Against tyranny, we will not starve.

No more shall shadows claim our tale,
Our spirits free, we will not fail.
In darkness' grip, we shall not bend,
We are the Free, to the very end.

"Hear the cry, Children of Dawn,
Together we fight, together we're drawn.
Take back your names, from darkness retire,
Together, we douse the tyrant's fire."

So stand, my kin, beneath freedom's wing,
The Ballad of the Free we proudly sing.
In dreams, find valour, in night, unbound,
In our hearts, forever, liberty is found.

"Don't fear, dear world, we shall prevail,
Against the darkness, our spirits sail.
In unity, with purpose clear,
Orichalcum's reign, we shall sever and shear."

The final clash, where destinies collide,
Orichalcum stands, consumed by pride.
Yet the warriors of the Compact stand tall,
To banish the darkness, to break the thrall.

"To banish the darkness, to break the thrall. To banish the darkness, to break the thrall." The words are repeated louder and louder as more and more candles are lit as the drums rumble so loud like thunder until they stop and the whole stage is silent.

To this, Titus stares at you all, all those faces that glow in this darkness, perhaps one last story to share.

Ann has been listening and watching but when Matti starts to play and the music plays with one's emotions she closes her eyes to soak it all in and bows her head as she clasps her hands before her. Any that might be sitting close by would see she is biting her lower lip and murmuring. Strange that. Likely feeling moved to pray to the spirits she prefers more than anything. Opening her eyes when a candle is given to her and she's nodding her thanks to the giver. She stares at her candle as she listens to the knight and then her attention is drawn back to Titus as if she can feel his eyes personally on her.

Jan looks around, head tilting to the side in puzzlement and she murmurs softly to Pasquale.

There is a solemnity in the voice of the Warmonger Storyteller, a touch of sadness as he looks at you all. But there is hope, faith, conviction and pride too as he gives a nod here and there.

"I have had the honour of being your storyteller for two years. My friends, my comrades of this great Compact, of allies new and old, as we gather here under the cloak of twilight, a question lingers in the air - what truly unites us against our enemy who desires to destroy the world we live in? Is it our armies, standing shoulder to shoulder on the battlefield? Perhaps it's the gold that fills our coffers, or the gods to whom we offer our prayers? Could it be the shared thirst for vengeance that drives us against our common foe similar to our great enemy Orichalcum was driven to vengeance?"

"But as I stand before you, I'm reminded of a deeper, more profound truth. It in't just armies, gold, gods, or even vengeance, despair or hurt that unites us. It's our stories. There is no force on this earth more powerful, more enduring, more capable of shaping our hearts and minds than a good story. And what is life, if not a story?"

"Stories transcend the boundaries of time and space. They are the invisible threads that weave together the tapestry of our lives, of our houses, our nations. They echo the triumphs and tragedies of the past, carry the wisdom of the ages, and kindle the fires of hope and resilience in our darkest hours."

"Tonight, as we share our stories, we are doing more than just speaking words into the night air. We are affirming our connections, our shared humanity, our collective spirit. In the face of an uncertain future, our stories become the beacons that guide us, the bonds that strengthen us, and the legacy that we will leave behind."

"So let us tell our tales - of bravery and sacrifice, of love and loss, of honour and redemption as we fight together tomorrow. And while we might lose so many who we hold dear, let each story remind us that no matter what we face tomorrow, we stand united, not just as an army, but as the keepers of each other's stories, each other's dreams."

"In this hallowed gathering, under the watchful eyes of the stars, we are one yet many."

And with this, he draws his sword and points it to the sky's constellation of the Wolf that shines so brightly above. His final words a vow.

"To the last."

Ferrando is overheard praising Titus.

Ferrando is overheard praising Mattheu.

Skaldia listens to the violin, closing her eyes for a time, letting the music wash over her. Face tilted upward, she lets the music fall on her like a cleansing rain. But in time, she can't help but open her eyes, and stare toward the shadowed ruins of Harrow Hall beyond the hedge of thorns, silhouetted in the darkness now. Her attention returns to the storyteller, as he speaks. She takes a candle offered, and lights it, and her gaze turns back to the stage. Eventually, she lifts her candle high, in a salute to them.

Ann is overheard praising Titus.

Ann is overheard praising Mattheu.

Pasquale is overheard praising Titus.

Pasquale is overheard praising Mattheu.

Insaya thumps against her shoulder with the heel of her hand in salute.

Rosalind is overheard praising Titus.

Cufre holds her candle high, looking up to it at first, then to Skaldia's, then to the others that surround them. It's not so unlike having looked around those gathered when they first settled in before the stage. When the singing resumes, her attention is on the performance, her eyes are open, and her candle, if not as high as it was, is still a light against the darkness. When Titus utters "To the last," she takes it as her cue to blow out that light.

Mattheu lowers violin and bow to his side, shifting to be able to hold bow and neck of the instrument in one hand as he pulls a glinting blue sword from his side to raise to the stars above them. Small diamondplate bells jingle from the handle and hilt. Repeating Titus's words, "To the last." Then saying something in Ravashari as well.

Mattheu says in Ravashari, "to prevent that choice from being stolen again!"

Mattheu is overheard praising Titus: To the last!

Ann raises her candle high after Titus words. But she's staring at Mattheu because she heard his words in Ravashari as she says with the rest of the crowd, "To the Last!"

Skaldia blows out her candle too, and joins in the chorus of shouts, "To the Last!"

Ann says in Ravashari, "to prevent that choice from being stolen again!"

"To the last." Thesarin doesn't shout, yell, or call out. He says it in a voice that carries, in a tone that's firn, loud, and resonant. He looks back over toward his wife, giving her hand another firm squeeze as he does.