Tuning Blade

The wind nips at the travelers as they ascend the mountain trail, harried by the frigid air. It is the final leg of their three-day journey. And the most taxing thus far.

For Octavia, a day of grueling training would be much more inviting than the march through the miserable cold. Even with the added warmth from the wool and straw barding covering her robes, the winter air easily finds its way to her very bones. Her Assassin’s hood does no better at keeping away the cold wind.

But as the teachings of friendship prove, having someone to talk to has made the trek much more bearable. Octavia’s mind is kept off of the chilling gusts as she speaks with Cotton Rose beside her. Since their mission in the Delamare sewers nearly two months ago, the two recruits have grown to be close friends. Their success together was easily noticed by Mirage, and convinced her to put the two together on their current contract mission.

Another lead had been uncovered on the Templar excavation plans in Delamare; The supplier of the dragon powder kegs which Octavia had destroyed. The lead pointed towards the restless and warring Griffin Kingdoms. More specifically, the town of Griffinstone.

Now, Octavia and Cotton Rose pursue the lead, tasked with finding the Templar supplier and the source of the dragon powder. But before they can truly begin their search, they need to reach the griffin town atop the perilous peaks.

The trail winds upwards, zig-zagging along the steep cliffs, giving ample view of the immense valleys and snow-capped mountains which make up the land of the griffins. Cotton Rose hums a tune as their climb continues.

Her companion’s song sounds familiar to Octavia.

“Still practicing even all the way out here, I see. You’ve picked up those new scores quite well.”

Cotton Rose beams, nodding. “Thanks! I really like those songs. Though I was hoping to maybe switch from learning drums to something else. I want to learn how to play a stringed instrument, like you do.”

Though hearing Cotton Rose’s interest in the instrument type of her specialty, Octavia cracks a subtle grin. She isn’t sure if Cotton Rose’s noctral physiology would allow her to play anything with strings. Perhaps her wings could allow her?

“I would love to teach you about stringed instruments. I would only need to figure out exactly what would work best for you. Or, rather, what you had in mind specifically.”

“I’m somewhere between mandolin and lute.” Cotton Rose figures.

“Interesting choices. Both are very… cultured, instruments. We’ll see what we can do when we return to Delamare.”

A bend in the path places the two Assassins at the beginning of a new trail, which leads to the front gates of Griffinstone, a fair distance ahead.

However, this path is not thiers.

“Mirage’s notes show another entrance to the town.” States Octavia, pulling out her map in front of her as Cotton Rose leans in to see as well. Pointed lines and scribbled arrows indicate a second path aside from the main mountain road.

Octavia lifts her head, scanning her surroundings. There is an outcropping nearby, but no second path.

“Hang on.” Cotton Rose spouts as she trots to the outcropping’s edge. With a beat of her leathery wings, Cotton Rose leaps into a hover, moving around the steep edges to the side. She disappears, returning moments later.

“Over here, Octavia!”

Octavia makes her way over, and leaning over to the side, spies what Cotton Rose discovered; A separate ledge much further down on the side of the mountain face. The rocky platform is beaten by fierce winds, and contains what appears to be a cave entrance bored into the cliff wall.

“That’s our entrance, it seems.” Octavia says as her eyes return to her map. Cotton Rose returns to the ledge, planting her hooves on the rock.

“Seems so! But how are you going to be able to reach the platform? It’s too far to jump…”

“You’re going to have to fly me over, Cotton Rose.” Octavia puts simply as she stows away her map.

Cotton Rose’s eyes widen. “Uhm… I don’t think I can do that. I-I mean, I’m not saying you’re fat Octavia, but I just don’t think I’m strong enough to carry you.”

“Are you sure? I’ve seen pegasi your size carry ponies with ease before.”

Cotton Rose shakes her head. “A pegasus could, sure. But I’m a noctral, Octavia. My wings are a lot more fragile than feathered wings. I could pull something if I’m carrying too much weight.”

“There’s no other way,” Octavia insists, “We must get to that ledge. It isn’t too far of a flight. Once we are near the ledge, you can let go of me.”

Though the hesitation remained in her eyes, Cotton Rose nods.

“Ok. Let’s make this quick. Ready?”

“Yes.”

Hovering just above, Cotton Rose wraps her hooves around Octavia’s midsection and flaps furiously to lift her off the ground and into the air. The two flutter in the harsh winds with nothing but miles of openness below them, as if dangling on the end of a puppet’s string. Cotton Rose begins to strain herself, grunting in pain.

Octavia readies herself to leap to the ledge, but instead falls to it with Cotton Rose still on top of her, her wings giving out at the last second. They plop onto the rocky platform with a tiny crack of the stone. They breathe a sigh of relief as the platform held together.

Octavia and Cotton Rose quickly enter into the cliff wall entrance, catching their breath. Cotton Rose pants and groans as she rubs her back. A smile finds its way on her lips, despite her pain.

“Phew! Ow. That wasn’t so bad. Aughh.”

“Thank you, Cotton Rose. Do you need a moment to rest?”

“No, I’ll be ok. Hooo... Ok. Let’s go.”

The cave ran deep into the craggy bowels of the mountain. Its pathway had torches mounted along the walls and bends, but most had been blown out by the invading winds from outside. Octavia relied on Cotton Rose’s night vision to lead the way, the sound of their hooves crunching the snow of the cave floor echoing off the walls.

Upon reaching the end of the smothering caves, they stop at a dead end, finding nothing but a sullen wall.

“Dead end,” Cotton Rose observes, “But there is something here. Two grey seals. It looks like they each have a key slot for our hidden blades.”

Octavia and Cotton Rose stand side by side, simultaneously extending their hidden blades into the seals as they place their hooves against them. A shifting of hidden mechanisms occurs, moving the wall backwards and unfurling a set of stone steps, leading to what looks like a cellar door. Tiny wisps of light shine through its cracks.

Octavia moves to push the doors open, flooding the cave with light. Cotton Rose instinctively shields her eyes with a leathery wing as the brightness of the setting sun reaches them.

The two climb out from the cave door, finding themselves towards the back end of Griffinstone, in the shadow of a large and decaying stone statue of a griffin royal. The sun dips further below the mountains in the distance, darkening the air.

The town seems entirely empty outside. Lonely streets and hushed corners instill a lasting peacefulness. Though the dilapidated nature of the entire town takes away from the serenity. The smell strikes Octavia particularly.

“Our contact is in the Crag’s Roost. A local bar, I imagine.” Octavia states.

“Where should we start looking?”

“Simple. We follow the noise.”

Octavia trots forward with Cotton Rose in tow, passing by the large griffin statue. It catches Cotton Rose’s eye for a moment, giving her a grin.

“Wow… You are one handsome statue!”

“Is this the place?” Cotton Rose asks as they stop before a pair of swinging doors. Light from lanterns and a fireplace seep through the ribbed frame, glowing in the night time air.

Octavia glances to the side, observing a huge log laying on its side, riddled with weapons. Axes, daggers, knives and anything with a sharpness to it are stuck into the rough wood, presumably owned by the bar-goers.

One large round axe stands out among the other weapons, its etched symbols and unique design appearing to be of some special design. The axe’s head partially resembles one half of an Assassin’s symbol.

“I have a feeling this the place.”

In stark contrast to the cool and silent air outside, the Roost is filled to the brim with commotion. Loud and boisterous chatter rings out, with clangs of mugs and clawed fists pounding on rickety tables following the cheerful laughter. Griffins of all shapes and plumages toil about, having a merry time on this evening spent indoors. It is likely the only place to find any fun in this town.

Though they receive a few unwelcome looks from the closest griffins, the hooved Assassins are surprisingly ignored. The room is roughly divided into two major groups of griffins, who cast glares at each other with more intent than they do the sudden pony visitors. The bar lies ahead at the back of the room, a clear path made from the division of tables and chairs.

“Let’s try not to make a scene.” Octavia whispers.

Cotton Rose nods. “Not make a scene, got it.”

Moving ahead, the Assassin trots happily to the large bar, tended to by an older male griffin. He eyes Cotton Rose with unfettered judgement.

“Excuse me, good sir!” Cotton Rose proclaims as she plops herself onto a bar side stool, “I’ll have your most popular beverage! No ice, if you please!”

Before Octavia could face-hoof in light of her partner’s enthusiasm, another speaks up.

“You won’t be able to stomach it, pony. This ain’t no cider bar.”

The seasoned and scraggly voice came not from the bartender, but from the griffin seated next to Cotton Rose. The female griffin grips a mug in her talons, cracking a smile across her dark beak as her emerald eyes appear from the shade of her grey hood. Her own garb shows signs of extreme use, battered and torn, covered in thick leathery material to serve as added armor. The griffin equivalent of barding, it seems.

Octavia steps forward, finding the griffin’s attire to be a familiar design.

“Are you expecting anyone?”

“Yup. Two ponies who stand out like sore thumbs.”

“Thumbs?” Cotton Rose lifts an eyebrow.

“Sorry. Sore ‘hooves’,” The griffin says disdainfully, “Name’s Arla. Here to help you with your mission. Sorry this piss-poor town has to be your first impression of my country. The towns further north are better. At least the ones not in the way of the civil war.”

“Happy to make your acquaintance. I’m Octavia, and this is Cotton Rose.”

“… Damn,” Arla chirps, cocking her head, “You’re a bat. You have the fangs and the wings and everything. Is that normal for ponies?”

“I’m a noctral. It’s very normal. Well, to myself at least.”

“Are all griffins this unaware of the races that exist outside their home?” Octavia questions, a hint of displeasure in her words.

“Nah. I just had to be sure. Knowing how those unicorns work with their flashy magic and all, I couldn’t tell if your friend was a spell-gone-wrong or just different.”

Octavia frowns at the griffin’s forwardness.

“It’s all good! Though what about you, Arla? You have black and white feathers. Most griffins I’ve seen are brown-ish and… well, brown.” Cotton Rose quips, keeping the mood lighthearted.

Arla takes a huge swig of her mug, as though drinking were her method of using her brain. Octavia rolls her eyes at the concept.

“Fair enough. Griffin plumage, and other things like beaks or eyes, comes from different family lines and different places in the kingdoms. There’s a bunch of us, basically. Just like how you ponies are all different shades of crayon, or whatever.”

“Quite,” Octavia replies sternly, “If you’re finished, we should be getting to why we're here.”

The griffin chuckles after finishing her drink. “Alright miss Pushy. Take a peek at the second table in the corner, to my right”

As Arla directed, Octavia quickly looks towards the table tucked into the corner of the Roost. Three griffins sit huddled together, their beaks bearing plain looks, unlike the mostly happy and drunk crowd.

“The griffin in the center, oak-feathers and grey beak, is the Templar agent I’ve been tailing. He has what we need.”

Arla taps the bar table twice, signaling for the bartender griffin to fill up another mug. Cotton Rose watches it slide down the wooden bar as it stops in Arla’s talons.

“How should we approach this?” Octavia queries, surveying the bar once over. Arla only places a claw to her side, smirking.

“I’ve got it covered.”

Following a subtle nod to other faces in the bar only she could see, Arla gets up with her mug and kicks forward a small stool. She stands atop it, gathering the attention of the split sections of the bar goers.

“The best of evenings to all of you fine griffins! That Griffinstone ale stuck in your brains yet? Or could you go for even more?”
The room lets out a cheery roar, laughter and shouts filling the void from both sides. Arla continues.

“I just wanted to say one thing as we keep drowning our brains and filling our beaks to the brim. Our kingdoms’ civil war still rages on, and I can still see it even in a far off and neutral town like Griffinstone. We Westers and Easters aren’t so bad when we can enjoy a little drink on a night out, right?”

The mood shifts to hushed grumblings and curses, but some of the more outspoken griffins agree. Some smiles appear.

“So let me raise a mug.”

Octavia and Cotton Rose look on.

“To the Easters! That we have a swift victory in this war, so we can shove it in the West’s dirty face for years to come!”

A resounding roar of laughter from the right side of the bar drowns out the sudden surprise of the griffins from the left.

“If they think they can actually win the war, then let them prove it!” Arla exclaims, proceeding to lob her heavy mug at one of the left tables, knocking it over and nailing a griffin in the beak.

Nearly every griffin on the left side full of Westers gets to their paws, anger in their eyes. In opposition, the right side of the room jumps from their tables, backing Arla’s claims of their Eastern prowess.

Octavia and Cotton Rose stare in worried shock for but a moment, before the old griffin bartender raises his voice.

“You two lasses might want to find some cover. Unless you think you’re good with them hooves in a brawl.”

“We’ll make do, thank you.” Octavia replies, calmness returning to her face.

In a near instant, the entire bar erupts into a flurry of fists and kicks. Griffins from both sides hurl themselves at one another, beating their massive wings and grabbing anything in reach to wield as a weapon. Half the total griffins slug it out in a drunken stupor, while the others clearly and concisely throw clawed fists at their enemies.

Arla melts seamlessly into the brutal chaos of flying stools and shattering bottles, steadily making her way towards the West’s side of the bar. The Templar agent and his two associates defend themselves, oblivious to the grey-clad griffin nearing them.

Several griffins of the Easters shift their attention to the Templar and his companions, moving ahead of Arla. They target the two other griffins, casting them into the worst of the sporadic fighting. Leaving the Templar alone within Arla’s sight.

Within the midst of the brawl, Arla approaches the Templar griffin, who draws a dagger upon seeing her. He jabs forward, narrowly missing Arla. She replies with her two hidden blades, stabbing him in the chest before forcefully knocking him to the ground.

Octavia loses sight of Arla as she crouches upon her kill, the fighting continuing to engulf the bar. Though most of the griffins are focused on tearing each other apart, some made a futile attempt to take a swing at the two hooved bar-goers. One particularly drunken griffin swings lethargically at Cotton Rose, only to miss and tumult over the bar table. The bar tender calmly tosses the griffin back into the fray.

“There’s no sense in staying in the midst of all this. We’ll wait for Arla outside.” Octavia states, gaining Cotton Rose’s approval.

The two make a speedy exit, the bar fight not slowing one bit. Just as they step out into the empty streets, Arla appears from behind.

The griffin brushes off her clothes as Cotton Rose takes a glance at the bar. She pauses for a moment as a random griffin is hurled out the window and into a trash bin.

“I’m surprised that those griffins even tolerated being near each other. How come they didn’t fight with each other until you made that toast?” Cotton Rose queries.

“It’s because we’re in Griffinstone,” Arla replies, “Literally no one cares about this shambling mess of a town. Westers and Easters can come here just to get a rest from the fighting. There’s no reason to waste time fighting over this rock. Unless most of them are drunk.”

Arla steps in front of the weapons-log, pulling out the large round axe which caught Octavia’s eyes earlier.

“Nice axe!” Cotton Rose spurts with a grin.

A smirk appears on Arla’s black beak as she places her axe in a holster on her back.

“Thanks. Here’s the information from our late Templar friend. I’ll let you hang on to it. I already have my valuables.” Arla says, juggling a pouch of coin pilfered from her assassinated target.

Receiving the crumpled letter, Octavia skims through its contents. She nods, pleased at what it holds.

“That griffin was working with another group of griffin Templars nearby, in a mine not too far off from here. That is where they are mining the dragon powder.”

“We could use a guide to help us get there. Is that were you come in, Arla?” Cotton Rose asks.

“Yup. Don’t want either of you to fall to your messy deaths up here. I know the safest path to that mine. Should be easy on your clunky hooves.”

Octavia nods as Cotton Rose takes a glance at her own hoof in bewilderment.

“Let’s be off then.”

The mountain path is a steep decline, feeling more like a treacherous slide waiting to happen with each of Octavia’s steps. Cotton Rose flutters about in the air as they descend, keeping only inches above the rocky ground as she picks up on her humming again. Arla stays on her claws and paws at the head of their party, leading the way as her spindly lion-tail swooshes behind her.

Octavia places each of her hooves carefully where she can see them, ignoring the return of the cold mountain wind as she and the others near a bend in the path, reaching around to the side of the cliff. They forge on, hugging the jagged wall of rock to avoid the harrowing ledge and the drop below.

Octavia stops. The ground beneath her hooves rustles with a growing shiver, tiny pebbles rattling in place. A sudden shift in the earth reaches their path as a tremor echoes through the mountains.

“Mountain quake! Pick up the pace!” Arla yells, already sprinting on the narrow ledge.

As Cotton Rose darts through the air, Octavia trots speedily behind, keeping a firm eye on Arla’s back and the running space she has. The tremor continues to shake the entire cliff.

With a mountainous chunk of falling rubble, a large section of the path ahead is disheveled, creating a huge gap.

Her feathers lifting her, Arla leaps across with cat-like grace, reaching the other side of the gap and a wider section of pathway. Cotton Rose follows closely, shooting through the air to the safety of the pathway.

Octavia blows out into a full on gallop, vaulting over the gap.

“Guhh!”

Her chest impacts the very edge of the broken path, knocking the air out of her and robbing her of any solid grip.

Her eyes widen as the air rushes past her, the rocky depths of the mountain base growing closer and closer as Octavia plummets. Paralyzing fear prevents her from letting loose a scream.

In a flash, Arla scoops Octavia out of her spiraling dive and rides the mountain air back upwards. The griffin’s strength and ability to fly even while encumbered with a full grown mare astounds Octavia, though she reminds herself that griffins are naturally stronger fliers than most pegasi.

Octavia is set down slowly upon the safer and wider path ledge, with Cotton Rose holding her as Arla touches down.

“Oh thank Luna! You saved her, Arla!”

“Well I did say that I didn’t want either of you to fall to your deaths. Nothing like a good out of control ground-ward plummet to get your blood pumping though, eh?” Arla replies, knocking Octavia on her side with a friendly bump.

Octavia smiles. “I owe you my thanks. But what were those tremors? An earth quake?”

Arla shakes her head, “Bah, who knows. Earth quake, scoria worm, maybe a poorly planned mining explosion to clear debris.”

“Wait, scoria worm?” Cotton Rose twitches her ears, “What’s that?”

“You know, scoria worms? Giant, rock-eating serpent things with toothy maws? Not ringing any bells?”

Cotton Rose shrugs.

“Huh. Thought everyone had them.”

“We can discuss possibilities about giant worms later. We have a mission to complete, if you two don’t mind.” Octavia interrupts.

“Pushy’s right. We should be close to the mine.”

As Arla takes a step forward, Octavia stops her, causing Cotton Rose to bump into the griffin’s behind.

“Please don’t call me that.”

“I call everyone who I meet what I see them as. It’s how I get to know people. That includes ponies. If you don’t like Pushy, then how about Snooty?”

“Pfft… ‘Snooty’! Heehee-!” Cotton Rose giggles, stopping short as Octavia’s glare briefly shifts to her, before returning to Arla.

“I would appreciate it if you called me neither. We’ve got to take this seriously Viny-…” Octavia suddenly stops, breathing calmly. “… Arla. We’ve got to take this seriously. Just, please, call me Octavia.”

With a swish of her tail, Octavia spins around to continue down the rocky pathway. Arla stood for but a moment, waiting for Octavia to be further away.

“… Snooty it is then.”

“Oh! Do you have a name for me?”

Arla looks to see Cotton Rose appear beside her, giddily awaiting her own nickname.

“I dunno, you’ve been kinda random so far. How old are you?”

“Nineteen! I don’t know how old that is in griffin years.”

Arla chuckles. “It’s alright. Let’s go, Kid. We should make sure Ms. Snooty doesn’t fall again.”

With a joyous Cotton Rose in tow, Arla catches up to Octavia in the lead, resuming her task as the guide of the group as they continue down the path.

“This is it.” Arla whispers.

The three Assassins lie flat upon a large boulder overlooking the wide open mine’s entrance. Unlike typical mines, this one is more akin to a quarry, dug straight into the belly of a mountain crevasse which hid it from sight. The rocky platforms and bottom levels are covered in wooden scaffoldings, ramps and bridges, catering to a contingent of griffin guards. The miners themselves are nowhere to be seen.

Deep from within the mine, a pinkish glow radiates outward. The mineral source of dragon powder, draconite, paints the mine-quarry in its eerie light. The bright pink rocks shine like jewels of unparalleled value.

Octavia scans all she can see, noting guard patterns and certain hiding spots. Most importantly she spots a small workshop full of papered documents.

“How should we do this, Octavia?” Cotton Rose asks.

“This is where the Templars are getting their dragon powder. But we need to uncover who is funding this operation. That workshop down there should have some answers. Let’s make our way down quietly. Arla, you-”

Octavia’s ears shoot up upon seeing the empty space beside her. She quickly turns her gaze downward, catching a sliding Arla just as she leaps from the rock face. With two hidden blades primed, she crashes down upon two unsuspecting griffins in the middle of the mine, alerting the entire area to her presence.

Before Octavia could even curse under her breath, Cotton Rose gasps.

“She won’t be able to take them all on her own! I’ll go help Arla while you get the documents!”

Without a second glance, Cotton Rose took to the air above on her bat-like wings. She zeros in on the griffin guards atop the higher scaffoldings, swooping upon them with her hidden blade as Arla dove axe-first into a brutal brawl with the griffins on the lower level.

With a sigh of contempt, Octavia slides down the rock face and launches herself onto a wooden bridge below, rocking the shambling wood planks as she lands on her hooves. Though direct action is something she was hoping to avoid the distraction is working nicely. Not a single guard stands in Octavia’s way to her objective.

Entering under the dim glow of a hanging lantern, Octavia arrives at the workshop, which is nothing more than a few billboards, desks and tool bins placed loosely together.

Ignoring the mining manuals and clunky tools, Octavia uncovers a pile of lettered orders stacked underneath a rusty shovel. Placing the spade to the side, she rummages through the letters. They have been lazily sorted by date and topic, though Octavia easily finds the letters written by the mine’s Templar patron.

“Here we are. Sent from Brighthoof, written by a Master Templar Foun-”

Octavia feels a sudden presence from behind. She sidesteps to avoid a massive hammer, wielded by a griffin guard. She lifts the heavy weapon with little effort, sweeping it in Octavia’s direction. The tool-cluttered tables are brushed aside as Octavia rolls to once again evade the strike.

The burly griffin is slow and cumbersome when preparing her strikes, making a quick lunge with Octavia’s hidden blade the best choice of action.

That’s what Octavia’s rational thoughts tell her. But her conscience hesitates, telling her body to stick to dodging.

Barely scraping by from more swings of the griffin’s hammer, Octavia acts quickly, gripping the wide shovel she had set aside moments earlier with her teeth. She leaps behind the griffin, performing a swift spin on her hooves.

The spade of her shovel finds its mark along the back of the griffins head, and in one forceful blow, the enemy guard collapses.

Octavia drops the shovel and steps over the griffin, quickly pocketing the letter she had been reading. She thought for a moment about cracking open the hanging lantern and setting fire to the rest of the documents, but decides against it. The griffin she had dueled is only unconscious. Instead, Octavia leaves the workshop as it is, moving to reunite with her comrades.

Hopping down to the bottom level, Octavia takes in the aftermath of the battle. Every last griffin guard lay dead, utterly defeated by the sheer power and speed of Arla and her round axe. Cotton Rose moved about nearby, looking dismayed as she gave each of the griffins their last rights and a whispered apology. Arla attends to her axe’s well-being in the meantime, until Octavia approaches.

“That’s all of them. Not the most exciting of fights I’ve had, but still pocketed a good amount of spoils.” Arla says, taking a breather from her spree.

“Is that all you think about? Blood and money? We could have been done with this whole mission much sooner by avoiding such rashness!”

“We still completed the mission though, right? If there’s a fight to have, why waste it?”

Octavia’s displeased expression turns to Cotton Rose, causing the noctral to shrug nervously.

“As Assassins, stealth should be our first approach to everything. The creed-”

“Listen, Snooty,” Arla interrupts, “In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m a straightforward griffin. I love being an Assassin for the merits, not the ideals. The creed is more like a set of guidelines anyway. Protect the innocent, stay loyal, use the crowd, yadda yadda. I’m not straying from those things. But when things gotta get done, I do them my way. And what’s done is done.”

Octavia can feel herself fuming on the inside, hiding it behind a cool yet irritated demeanor. She scrunches her snout in disapproval, but relents.

“Fine. Let’s move on to more important matters.”

“What did you find, Octavia?” Cotton Rose asks, finally finding her time to quell some of the abrasive conversation with her cheeriness.

Octavia holds up the letter she recovered. “Our Templar patron’s name is Fountain Pen. From this letter’s contents, she appears to be a noble from Brighthoof. I can’t help but wonder if this mare is the same mare we saw in the sewers in Delamare.”

“Maybe,” replies Cotton Rose, “She did seem really noble-y. Either way, we have the source of the funding. We should probably head back to Delamare.”

“You guys leaving already? Helping you two has been the first action I’ve seen in weeks. It’d be nice to tag along.”

“Depends,” Octavia mutters, raising and eyebrow, “Would your Mentor approve?”

“Technically my orders were to give you as much help as you needed. If you’re going on a Templar hunt, then you'll need all the help you can get.”

“… Hmph. Fine. You can join us, Arla. Just don’t make the trip back to Delamare too rambunctious.”

“No promises.”

“Ughh…”

Gathering themselves, Octavia and her fellow Assassins depart from the empty mine, returning to Griffinstone and soon after starting on their trek home to Delamare. With her second recruit mission completed, Octavia dwells on the challenge to come. This Templar patron must surely be dealt with, and Octavia had a feeling Mirage would give her the task of eliminating her. And that would mean finding out how to overcome the hesitation to kill.

There would be plenty of time to think on that. For now, as the three set their steps upon the mountain trail, conversation fills the air. With the addition of Arla and her rowdiness, Octavia knows their trip will be anything but boring. Or civil.

At the very least, she will still be able to ignore the cold.