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Going to take a little break. See you all in a bit!

Written on the back of the note and left in the Priory some time later by a balestriere with sunken, bloodshot eyes, working through some manner of withdrawal, before she attends a late shift watching the floor of the Krak...

I am well enough.

My brother balestriere yet lives - to him and others now it seems a fate worse than death, but something he'll have to live with for a time longer. Might be he can remember our words, or might be he'll buckle. I know he's better than that, though.

Rennik Colmes and I are settling final details between our little contract when I ask the usual question - the safe one, between professionals. Why one does what they do. What sort of prize are they expecting at the end of the path.  I expect the usual responses of a comfortable retirement.. an endless deluge of mizzar, wine, women, or whatever satiates.  His answer catches me off balance, as it's something I didn't think I'd ever hear another soul admit aloud.

When he's about business he's a careful, almost paranoid sort. Reluctant to take drink. Watching everything and nothing at the same time.  When he tells me though, the mess in Syter's murder, the cloud of the "why" of that chaos begins to dissipate and a sort of sense comes to light. I try to play it off with a laugh and nudge him towards the eventual goal of this current legateship with the grace of a Groknak, it's all I can do to hide the realization that we're more alike than I care to admit.

The coffer is fat enough that I could likely swim in the dinar. The glory of our victory as I give a shitty speech in the Krak after should have been enough - but it's not. Two fools, chasing the most elusive vice of all.

The Lyrists are making grand showing of introducing the two students who are about to graduate. Alejandro and Edha, both faces I've grown familiar with are taking it as well as they can despite nerves. It reminds me of times amidst the Fellowship, the same inane and vapid rituals to bolster camaraderie as they welcome new souls into the fold. I remember shuffling my feet and bellowing my oath with courage found in mead consumed moments prior, remember my voice cracking and my infinite shame as Hadrick laughs and gives me that wink of his in some effort to encourage me. I remember it did.

The crowd is cheering - it rouses me from the thoughts and I remember that I'm supposed to clap, too. These minglings, these appearances with our allies are a necessary thing that I wish my siblings took to more readily. I find I'm angry about something - furious even, and it's not about my comrades leaving me with the softer diplomacy. It's the glint in their eyes - the hope. The students, the balladeers. They sincerely believe the pretty words chiseled into stonework and monuments about the Krak, still believe there's something worth finding in this dying gasp of a world. That it can actually be saved. I muster what grace I can to congratulate the pair and wish them well on their quest, despite my doubts. The Grandmaster appears and, as if sensing my frustration, renews fires I try to smother..

Harbor hope you should, Isotta Delmare...

More cheers. More laughter. More celebrations as the Grandmaster finishes her speech and congratulations and the hall is left to her Cinquefoil.  The newly graduated balladeers hug the guests and receive well wishes. I find myself thinking of a cold and dirty backroom in the Fortress. Five people huddled around a headless corpse still spurting blood whilst we swore our oaths. I wonder what words she would have offered to us then, were she present.

Why do I even care about this?

These items are received - Isotta affixes her own signature to the Contract before filing it away, and sets to finding the Sergeant at next opporunity...

A package delivered in person by Isotta to the IVth Legion's barracks, directed towards Rennik Colmes. A brief letter, a bottle of Modan Port, and a sealed missive...

Sergeant Colmes,

Perhaps the start of something wonderful, this. You've no need to worry of knives in the back or petty squabblings amidst the bellows when it comes to the sacred exchange of coin and contract.  My soldiers are preparing as we speak - set ink to parchment and let us set to glorious, bloody purpose. For the sake of the Citadel, yes?

ISOTTA DELMARE
Balestriere of La Banda Rossa

Delivered with the letter is a sealed Contract...
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((PM'd))
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A half-sheet of parchment is returned, written in a precise script that lacks any flourish. It smells vaguely of cigarette ash if read soon enough

Lynneth,

If the College is trying to build something of a bridge to that little oasis, you should advise them that a meek, frightened rabbit should not squeek and flop about whilst wolves sniff about for prey to fill their bellies. Shutting one's mouth and remaining hidden does wonders for ensuring the weaker beast's survival.

I'll find you. We're due a game of cards and a few cups of rosewine.

-ISOTTA

Id like to suggest the addition of a tattoo artist somewhere in the well. A couple of ideas:

1) Someone in the Souk

2) La Banda Rossa tattoo artist who inks up people of the public for a small fee, and maybe inks up Soldari for doing Cool Things. Maybe Fenick or Antonia could do this depending on the flavor?

Isotta uses a knife to roughly separate a large pile of Dirt into smaller portions upon a table, using the arrival of the letter as a brief respite from her preparations.  Sunken eyes lined with crows feet scan the words, and she gives her usual "Mmn" grunt and rips a segment of empty parchment off the bottom to pen a short reply:

Was hoping it would buy me a few days of peace from the chirpings of potential Recluta, but they're always thrown in my lap for some reason. If they managed to pull you away from election matters long enough to write such a letter, they must not be entirely worthless.

Owe you a drink, or maybe a round at the glaziers.

-ISOTTA

With ratty cigarette between lips and trusty tin coffee cup in hand, Isotta goes over her reports and correspondence with a resigned misery and hangover in the morning. Upon reading this letter with sunken, bloodshot eyes, she would mutter:

"Never have I seen a more glowing recommendation...."

A wet coughing fit would follow, and afterwards the Balestriere spits a disgusting grayish blob of spittle into the nearby vomit bundle by her desk. She takes another drag from the cigarette and shoves the note into a particular file....

Azim,

Look at us - seems we've both managed to survive life as a drudge. When you've a moment, let's catch up over a bottle of Il Modo's finest.  My treat.

We can celebrate, then speak of matters regarding our fair Citadel. I'd offer the Fortress for hospitality, but the other Apothar and her pet seem so anxious when visiting lately, I'll not begrudge you if you prefer warmer locales.

Let me know where, and I'll come with the bottle.

-ISOTTA

Jamileh,

Received your revision. Glad to see my charming smile is working - I'll bring along some proper killers for this.

Let's meet to set ink to parchment and speak of other troubling news regarding our Citadel. Might be we need some outsider expertise on a matter.

-ISOTTA

Kythaela made a call for us to meet in the Krak for a job. The Lion, Tough Toli, Peacock, and myself. A proper hand of killers, we set to meet someone out on an old homestead along the lonely highway. Client's an old man, building a new fence as he explains the work to be done. He tells us his daughter's been snatched up, and wants to hire La Banda Rossa to see her returned safely. Name's not as important as the payment. Exceedingly large, for a man of apparent simple means.

A short jaunt into the dunes sees us to the camp. Dozens of the bastards, holed up in a little oasis. Slavers, trying to ply their trade so close to the Well. We pretend to be curious buyers as we approach their little barricade and spot the girl. She thinks it's all a game, calls out to the father about her new friends. He winces, because he knows what's coming.

Tough Toli's hammer comes down with enough force to cause the sands to quake and the barricade is no more. I charge to secure the girl as the killing starts proper - she stands in a sort of shock for a moment as the dregs fall and die, and I'm thankful I don't have to chase a panicking hostage.

Someone manages to blow their horn, and off in the distance the scouting band answers. They're too close. A lurching in my stomach as I realize we're going to be holed up in their little camp, fending off the reinforcements. I tell the man to keep the girl away - he tells her to play in the water and not to turn around for any reason. I feel my Well's running dry as I march out with the others, but I don't have much time for introspection as the bolts come flying towards us. It's a bloody affair - through the pumping blood I can hardly keep count of how many we've killed. My body lurches as I've tripped up and riddled with bolts, but the magic keeps me alive long enough to roll with the blows and keep cutting until it's all over.

They're all dead or dying. Relative silence in the dunes at last, as I drift back towards the client and his daughter. Old memories swell up - I think about how Hilde managed these jobs. A confident, warm smile, to frightened children. Promises of treats if they follow our orders and stay safe. A stupid, pitiful part of me tries this for some reason as I draw up to the girl. Clear my throat so I don't sound so wretched.

She looks upon me in horror. I realize, then, that I am covered in blood - my own, and splashes of so many felled. My blade still drawn, as I wobble towards them with shaky, exhausted legs. The man tells me it's enough - takes my invisibility potion, and hurries the girl away from the mess.

The payment is as promised, and more. The old man's exhausted - he knows he needs to move on now, and he doesn't offer his thanks as he chases after his little girl playing nearby. I look upon the fence he finished building, and wonder what the point of it all was.

Condottiero d'Armagnac is a man of few words - his lessons usually brief and potent. He told me when I was taking out my frustrations in The Pit, that proper soldiers keep their tantrums to themselves - that anger, held close and locked away.

It is a lesson I wished I recalled as La Capitana made it clear what the prisoner's fate was going to be, and mood in the room shifted dramatically. Our man at least had the grace to take his last drink of offered port and, in his last words, congratulated us on our "first victory". It was something I likely would have said if positions were switched, but the fury swells in my breast as if I was doused in oil and suddenly lit aflame. All the pain and humiliation as a Reculta that I've buried came to light at a simple barb, and I find when sense takes hold again I've severed the man's head from shoulders. Blood spraying everywhere, on everyone. Nobody says a damn thing as the body crumples to the ground, 'till Peacock exclaims he's just cleaned his cloak before.

La Capitana is pleased. The next order is given to the Lion. With the body not even cold, we three are to cut palms and swear the words over the dead. To serve until death. For coin and glory. For La Banda Rossa.

Shipburner's wearing his buffoon's grin, and Peacock looks mighty pleased with himself as the ceremony concludes. I can only look at the headless corpse bleeding out, and think of the  now emptied bottle of Modan Port on the table.

Itaja,

I know not if this will reach you. For many days since my arrival I have sought servants of the Divine so that I might refill my Fortune's well with their patron's favour. Many times have I heard of you upon the Bellows. Many times have I heard our guests speak your name in equal parts disgust and fear. My guess is that it was you who left that wine-stained message - that offer, on our doorstep some days ago.

The Assembly gave grave insult in not simply assigning the contract to the Banda Rossa, instead choosing these would-be heroes in some spectacle to bring you in for justice. I would clash steel and words with you, if you've not tired of dancing with the more flowery parts of the Rose. Worry not about aspirations of headhunting, until they realize their error this is a strictly personal matter. Let me know by word or Bellows, and I will come alone.

Isotta Delmare
Recluta of the Banda Rossa

Laremy's got the look that labels a man insane at first glance, and the words that come out of his mouth doesn't help either. Yet he's surprisingly convincing over a cup of coffee. I find he's as genuine as the rest of them, and would welcome his stars' favor just as readily as the Wheel - it's all the same in my well.

Seven nights of asking questions to an uncaring sky. A stupid thing, but my word is given. I shall see what boon awaits from a priest of the stars.

I want to make something clear.
You are Recluta.
You are worthless.
You deserve nothing.

It's when Condottiero Capuano's knife comes up to my throat that I realized I made a grave mistake. I should have held onto my anger, but instead chose to yell "hit" at the dealer four times in a row without even looking at the cards. She knows how to prod at old wounds that one thinks are hidden - she knows exactly what she's doing when she's dressing me down in front of the others. Maybe a lesson to be learned there, or maybe she's just enjoying it. I want to throttle her, and the others, for not joining me.

Watch my back, and I'll watch yours.

Arterian,

The Banda Rossa are ever available for special contract, should you have need for steel to keep you and your team safe amongst the dunes. Find me within the barracks or when I'm watching the floor, and we can discuss the details of the assignment and whether me or my fellow Recluta would make for a good addition. Some of our talents may surprise you.

Recluta Isotta Delmare