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  1. Previously... Hey guys, here's my second Guilds of Historica wonder, this time for the glory of Varlyrio! This is the first part of a huge collab series that we got together, so stay tuned for more . At the end I'll make one post with the whole story for easy reading, but for the meantime, here's the first instalment! Hope you like it! The Tiger of Illaryian: Part I On the outskirts of Illaryian, for countless thousands of centuries, there has stood a towering statue of a giant stone tiger. Perched atop the tall and elegant Royal Arabesque Mansion, this tiger’s claws scratch the very sky. More than one traveler has come to cringe beneath the looming giant in the dark and gloomy night, at least half convinced that it was some gigantic immortal tiger hound, coming to steal their souls. But not the pair of travelers that stood upon the Tiger of Illaryian this night. “Che bella notte!” murmured a wistful girlish voice. “Luca? Are you happy that you are Rego?” Arama looked into the young man’s bright green eyes as he leaned back against the foot of the giant stone statue. She took his hand in hers, caressing it lightly. Luca di Carli cast his eyes about the sandy outskirts of the city before replying. From the roofs of the old mansion they had a beautiful moonlit view of the entire city of Illaryian, all the way out to the boundless sea in the east. “Why do you want me to talk?” Luca answered in a detached way. “You have qualcosa to tell me.” “Può essere,” she hesitated demurely. He looked back at her at last, with keen interest. “Scommetto!” he said. “Let’s go up to the top!” Arama responded without answering directly, blushing beneath the black hood that was wrapped around her pretty face. She took a deep breath and looked at Luca expectantly. He smiled a dashing smile and put his hands together for her to step in. In just another second they were both crawling across the broad back of the statue, making their way further and further over the edge of the mansion. Now a light mist crept in and began to cover the city in its haze, so that the ground beneath them was lost in its swirling depths. Arama gasped and sat down on the brow of the tiger. “This is the perfect place for my story,” she breathed, looking at the buildings around her with a feeling of excitement and freedom pulsing through her veins. The entire world lay there beneath them! Beneath Luca di Carli and Arama di Athena de Cioto! “Accidenti!” Luca slowly stood up by her side and she gave him her hand again to steady him, looking up into his eyes with just a slight glimmer of fright in her own. Luca stood slowly up by her side, and she gave him her hand to steady him. “Don’t try to go up too high, signore,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “No,” he answered, “no. Don’t push me to go too high, De Cioto.” She laughed and shook her head. “I went to the Sunken City,” she said abruptly. “I know,” frowned Luca, fingering his cloak. He clenched his fist. “I forbade you to go.” “I know. And what you predicted… happened…” Luca looked at her quickly, his eyes wide. “Quasi,” she gulped. “Well?” Luca looked down at his feet, and at the black fog beneath them. “I won’t bother you with all the dettagli. They wanted to kill me, signore.” “The Kolgari?” Arama nodded and swallowed. “Girl! How could you, Arama?” Luca flashed out angrily, dropping her hand and leaping a pace away. “Don’t you care if Varlyrio is torn apart? I warned you. Arama, it was the one thing I told you that you could not do!” “Attento!” the girl called out, leaning forward on her hands. Truly Luca was standing in a precarious position, on the tiger’s upper jaw, directly overlooking the dark abyss. “Come closer to me,” Arama begged. “That’s why I went to the Sunken City! Luca, the Kolgari Elves are wary. After the terrible fashion in which Supano Amancio treated them they are loath to commit to any allegiance beneath a new sovereign. But now, I have a way!” Her eyes shone and she gingerly rose to her feet too, stretching forth both hands towards di Carli. “What do you mean?” Luca asked mistrustfully. “Oh Luca, listen to what happened!” She snatched up his hands from his side to balance herself. “I was in the Sunken City,” she began. “No matter how I got there. Come ho detto, my life was in the gravest danger, for they had discovered that an infiltrator from the world above had come to the caves, and they scoured the forests and dens to hunt me down. But I was not all alone.” “Who was with you,” Luca asked sharply. “He said, ‘They call me The Tiger.’” Arama looked up into Luca’s eyes, a fiery look on her face. “His name is Prince Råiden Tígrisdýrið.” “Is it, ih! Why were you with this Råiden?” said Luca coldly. “He met us as we drew near to the city. His eyes danced when he saw me—Luca, he fell in love with me,” Arama’s eyes danced merrily too. Luca vouchsafed no reply. “But Luca,” Arama said eagerly, grabbing his cold cheeks, and making him sit down by her side, “this Kolgari is from high circles. Circles of elves. Don’t you see? He saved my life. Sì!” she stopped Luca’s mouth, “They poisoned me with their magic, they found me, and I was bleeding to death. Then The Tiger convinced them all, every one of them, to let me leave in the morning.” “But you were bleeding to death!” mocked Luca. Arama laughed and threw back her hood, tossing her hair over her back. “I was in the land of the Kolgari, the most famous magicians in the Guilds! I don’t think anyone else would have cared if I had died, but Råiden took me secretly to an ancient shrine, a beautiful enchanting place, Luca. There he put my hand upon an amulet with a muttered pronouncement, and bene signore, faint and dying one moment, in the next I promettere, I felt healthier and happier than I ever had before in my life, and all my blood came back into me, and my wound disappeared completely. See, here is the scar, all that is left of a deadly wound! That amulet, Rego, is worth more than all of the Kolgari.” “Now suddenly I do not understand why any Kolgari ever die,” commented the Rego ironically. Arama bent over and put her lips to his ear, “Po signore, the amulet can only save humans.” “But who is this Prince Råiden to you?” Luca asked coolly. “Certo, he is my dearest love… when I am with him,” Arama smiled coyly. “Don’t you see you grande idiota! He is the key to the Kolgari. Listen to my plan! I have never made a better one…” Arama hunkered down and cast her hood back over her head, for the night was cold, the mist had slowly vanished, and she would not have been seen by anyone else for all the world… But as for that, it was too late. Not so far off, in the Palazzo Vincenzo—a new mansion under construction on the outskirts of Illaryian, with a charming view of the ancient stone tiger monument—a lone architect still wandered the half built corridors and roofs. But for a while now he had ceased wandering. “Sana Argenta! Tis the Rego,” he murmured keenly, as he knelt down in the shadows behind an empty window and watched the pair of figures on the head of the Tiger of Illaryian. “And that… that is the figure of una signorina—puh! if she is a signorina.” Signore Brabantio Moccenigo, for it was he, put his hand to his forehead and squinted to catch a glimpse of the girl's face beneath her hood, but the moon was to her back, and with an exclamation of disappointment he grabbed the windowsill. “There is something here,” Brabantio muttered. “Qualcosa that is not right. And if only I could use this qualche cosa to my advantage!” Suddenly the girl upon the tiger’s brow laughed and threw back her hood with a gesture, shaking her hair in the wind. Signore Moccenigo gasped. “By Sana Argenta…” was all that he murmured, “It is Arama De Cioto!” .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-. Brabantio Moccenigo followed the cloak-and-dagger pair to more than one of their secret reunions. From then on he was their shadow, a dark and sinister shadow, cunning and scrupulous, learning dark secrets and deadly proofs. Brabantio only failed to take into account one thing. If he was dead, none of it could possibly do him any good… One fateful evening as Signore Moccenigo’s plans at last began to fall into place, a little before the sun also fell into its place beneath the horizon, Arama di Athena De Cioto sat out in a wide field upon the grass with Luca di Carli’s arms around her waist. The field was an abandoned one, but even so she was wrapped up closely in a black mantle and hood, and the Rego also was cautiously disguised, so that none should recognize them. But Signore Moccenigo knew their faces and their names, without even seeing them, for he had dogged them there. As he lay hidden behind a small and ruined stone wall he pondered the measures he had taken to ensure success. Was everything completely ready? Had any little detail been overlooked? That very pomeriggio he had finished writing the letters. Already one was in the hands of no one less than Prince Råiden Tígrisdýrið, with directions to open it at once. Moccenigo thought himself very clever for having sought out such a delicate ally, and in the brief letter he promised to send more, which should be opened only if he himself by any chance died. In reality he knew that Råiden would never open the second letter. It was nothing but leverage. He would give it to him at the same time as he sent out the other letter to the Rego. Yes, that was an excellent plan. They would not dare to trouble him—for if any ill befell him they would only end up in worse problems, dalla padella alla brace. Brabantio leaned over the wall to cast a quick glance at the merrily chatting pair. Only he knew the horrible surprise which was in store for them soon. “As you sow you shall reap,” he murmured beneath his breath, forgetting how his adages might always cut two ways. What he fully expected to reap was nothing more nor less than a full king's ransom once they bought him off! He was made for life, and his family would share in the good fortune, although he was not so rash as to let them share in the obvious dangers. Yes, everything was working to perfection. Ricatto had never been so easy! Arama De Cioto was bored. Luca was still vacillating about her plan, and she was sure that he was wasting his time. She rolled over in the grass. “No, I don’t want to be Rego myself,” she grinned, rolling her eyes at Luca as he asked her for the hundredth time. “Then let me be,” admonished di Carli, running his hand through the girl's long hair beneath her hood. Suddenly Arama’s whole attitude changed. What was that? No, it was already gone, but she had seen it clearly. It was someone’s face, watching them from over the low wall to their left! She rolled over in the grass again, her heart in her throat, so that she could look up into the Rego’s face. “I… I have to go, Luca,” she said uneasily, scrambling to her feet and kissing the Rego’s hand. “Le mie scuse, sorry! Addio!” She walked slowly backwards, watching Luca’s baffled face, until she got around the corner of a wall. Then she turned and ran. She ran around in a half circle, as fast as she could, until she found herself watching the wall from which they had been watched. There was no one there! But to the left there was a man on his feet, walking swiftly towards the Northern Gate of Illaryian. He was the only person on the horizon. She crept after him. If he was going to go far she would need a horse… but then she didn’t really need to know where he was going, if she could only get close enough she would see the coat of arms upon the man's breast coat, perhaps even recognize his face. Arama clenched her fists and grasped the hilt of her knife. As the man entered a tavern stable to search for his horse she saw the sigil upon his sleeve. The house of Moccenigo! She would be there before the clocks struck midnight, and she guaranteed that whichever Moccenigo this was, his life would not be a long one. “Kiss your soul goodbye,” she murmured softly into the air, as she wheeled round and hurried off into the night. But after all the sun was high in the sky the next day when a dark figure rode up to a halt before the beautiful Villa Moccenigo in Porto Caglaveri. “I am here before him,” muttered the masked figure, slipping off the horse and leading it around to a picket. “Aspettami,” she whispered to the horse. Arama had been riding through the night here and there, following the mysterious Moccenigo wherever he went, until at last he left Illaryian completely behind, and divining that he was at last headed for La Villa Moccenigo, she put the spurs into her horse and reached her destination before him. All was prepared now. But she had to make sure that her move was a final one. There could be no loose ends, lest for lack of caution the house of di Carli come tumbling to the ground, and the house of De Cioto along with it. With a bound she was over the fence into the Moccenigo Villa grounds. Arama looked up at an open window on the second floor and a look of determination flitted across her face beneath the mask. All was dark within that room, although in others candlelight was visible behind the curtains. “That is where I must look, scommetto,” she said hoarsely. She sprang swiftly up onto the wall, climbing with agility from sill to sill and from corbel to corbel until she reached the window on the second storey. With one quick glance inside she pushed it open and slipped in. She closed the window after her. Arama stood in a darkened study filled with bookshelves and counters, with a beautiful desk right beside the large sash window through which she had entered. “Ehi!” she whistled beneath her breath, rushing over to the desk upon which lay certain opened papers and letters. “Brabantio Moccenigo,” she purred threateningly, reading his name from off a dozen papers. She paled as she hastily looked more closely over the first one that came to her hand. “Accidenti! he knows far too much! Meno male I am in time!” she cried in a fierce undertone. With a bound she reached the door. It was a private study. “Tis locked! Che fortuna! The secret is still safe, these letters prove themselves to be the only ones that he has written, and they could not have been perused by any other within the house. He would not have allowed them in. No, he would not have left the papers exposed were it not a safe room, where no one but himself ever entered.” With a rough hand the infiltrator spilled the other papers about upon the floor and searched the drawers carefully for more evidence—but besides the two letters upon the desk, one of which had been addressed to the Rego, and the other to an anonymous individual, there was nothing whatsoever to interest her. Still, for precautions sake Arama seized several important blueprints, documents relating to the construction of a Cattedrale in Caglaveri, and other architectural papers. She shoved them all into her bag and hid behind the broad and heavy curtains with a grim smile. Across her back was slung a light crossbow and a full quiver, and the crossbow was already loaded… “Signore Brabantio!” exclaimed the masked figure suddenly, hearing a horse gallop into the yard without. Arama spun swiftly round and looked down towards the entrance. A lacchè was opening the gate for a tall man upon a handsome white horse. Even in the distance Arama recognized him at once. She closed her eyes briefly and felt that she could still see that face peering over the low stone wall at Luca di Carli and at her. She grit her teeth and shifted uneasily behind the curtain. Then suddenly a calmness took over her frame, and she felt that she was no longer even Arama di Athena De Cioto: she was only a nameless assassin now. With a cool pert look upon her face she watched as Brabantio Moccenigo exited the building again with a hurried step and remounted his horse. Then she opened the window with a gentle movement, stepped out onto the roof again, and followed him. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.
  2. Previously... Here's my second build for the collaboration, along with the third part of the story. Huge thanks to my fellow collaborators for help with this build, especially @TalusMoonbreaker for the idea to use this backdrop. Enjoy! The Tiger of Illaryian: Part III It was the nineteenth of November. With winter coming on apace there was nothing better for the Marquis of Motu to do than build yet another brand new fancy manor in the heart of Illaryian, the famed capital of Varlyrio, and nothing better for Lady Motu to do than inaugurate the brand new manor with yet another of her famous balls. But this one was a little different. This time it was a mask ball. Un baile di mascherati… Råiden Tígrisdýrið snapped his mask over his face and thrust his hands into his pockets. He was leaning back against the balustrade, waiting for someone, chewing a popular Kolgari gum behind his mask. “‘This is the mask I’ll be wearing,’” he repeated to himself, “‘there will scarcely be two of these.’ No, davvero, there is not even one!” he muttered in dissatisfaction. But suddenly the mask he was thinking of appeared bobbing round the corner, tripping towards him through a throng of masked ball-goers. “There you are at last, Råiden!” whispered a low, girlish voice. “I, at last? Carina, you are the one who just arrived.” “No, no, on the contrary,” the girl looked hastily about, through the eyes of her mask, “I have been in the camerino all this time, just trying to get by all of the pretty girls who are so vain and throng the mirrors so. Prince Råiden, you want to dance with me, right?” “Hush, no! Well, yes, può essere after a moment,” he added shyly, “but I have something to tell you.” Råiden looked both ways and mysteriously turned his back on the interior palazzo, looking out over the city which lay before them. Arama, for the girl in the mask was she, leaned over the balustrade with him. “Che cos'è?” she asked curiously. “I was just told that Signore Moccenigo died, Arama,” Råiden whispered in a very low voice, so that the girl barely caught the words. A shiver went down Råiden’s spine. “Capire, see this, bambina.” Arama’s eyes opened wide and her face turned pale and she was glad that it was hid behind a mask. The paper that Prince Tígrisdýrið showed her had a few quickly scrawled words upon it, and the girl recognized that feverish handwriting at once. If I perish I hereby swear that Luca di Carli is the author of my death, beyond the shadow of a doubt in my own mind. Råiden, domani I will pass you another letter in the same way. You must open it only if some disgrazia happens to, tuo veramente, Signore Brabantio Moccenigo. Råiden crushed the letter in his hand again and shoved it down into one of his colorful pockets. “What?” faltered Arama, “Whatever would the Rego do that for?” She turned away and put her hand up under her mask to her face. She leaned against a pillar to steady herself, and bit her lip as she felt tears spring to her eyes. How much did Råiden know? What if… what if he knew too much? She took a deep breath and realized that Råiden was speaking to her. No, it was not Råiden. Behind them a barely articulate voice murmured, “That is what we have to trovare—to find out,” as a masked person brushed past them. Arama started again, staring at Råiden with fright in her eyes. “I thought we were alone,” she murmured, her voice trembling. Råiden rapped his fingers on the railing. He looked at the man in the dark red cloak and the black mask as he walked on out of sight, and then he pulled up his own mask and put his mouth to Arama’s ear, whispering through the feathers of her mask. “His father was murdered,” he whispered softly. “I think that the Rego debba stare attento…” Arama opened her mouth but words wouldn’t come out. She raised her hand to the Kolgari’s forehead and gently combed back his wild, matted hair, too frightened to speak. He little knew that she used the very same hand that had pulled the trigger of a crossbow on Brabantio Moccenigo just days before. Suddenly a fellow in an extravagant and costly gold mask strolled carelessly around the corner of the wall and set his eyes on her with an expressive look, visible even through the eyeholes of his mask. Arama’s heart beat faster, and she tried to suppress it, for she feared that at any second Råiden at her side might hear it. But Prince Råiden stepped aside for just a moment, hurrying after Ilazio Moccenigo to bring him back. The man in the gold mask stepped up to Arama with a gallant bow. “Mi faresti l'onore di un ballo?” “No, Luca, you must not!” Arama urged, blushes covering her face as she pulled her hand away from him. She suddenly felt very hot under her mask. “No!” she pushed the Rego away from her. The music was starting. Arama caught Råiden looking back at them out of the corner of her eye. Luca di Carli abruptly grabbed both her hands and pulled her up off the balustrade against which she was shrinking. “Oh, su coraggio, what is the matter with you?” he asked gaily. “Signore,” Arama mumbled reluctantly, in protest. She looked directly at Råiden with a stare of hopeless helplessness in her eyes as the Rego whisked her away. “Does Råiden know who Luca is?” she thought uneasily. Råiden did not, but he stared after them in dismay and astonishment. “The first dance was to be mine,” he said to himself, “what is that sciocco doing, dragging her away like that?” He sprinted suddenly forward, hurrying round the corner into the ballroom. “Who is that fellow?” Prince Råiden demanded in an undertone, watching the pair as the man in the gold mask led the ball with his arms around Arama’s waist. He addressed a person in a simple dark green mask and costume, who was also watching how the pair in the feathered headdress and the regal golden mask danced. “Accidenti,” answered the other eagerly, “that I can tell you, for I happened to see him in the camerino for a moment with his mask off.” “Parla amico, what did you see?” asked Råiden in the same eager, urgent tone. He noticed that Arama was dancing distractedly, unevenly, and unwillingly, while to his eye her companion seemed utterly taken up with the dance, not a care in all the world troubling his head, not even the evident displeasure and distress of his dancing partner. Råiden frowned and took a deep breath while he shoved his hands in his pockets. The gentiluomo in the green mask lowered his voice to no more than a whisper as he answered Råiden’s query in a confidential way, “Signore, you may believe me or not, but the compagno dancing there is no other than the Rego of Varlyrio himself. Che ragazza molto fortunata!” “Lucky girl?” Råiden gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in his pockets. Arama was completely overwhelmed with feelings and thoughts and ideas as the Rego led her around the room, twirling her about and holding her close to him. Each time she struggled in his grasp, and Luca grinned at her inexplicable behaviour with a jolly unrelentingness that further exasperated the poor girl in her dangerous position. Her cheeks glowed beneath her mask and she spoke to him in a breathless, barely discernible voice. “Did anyone see you, Signore? Does anyone know who you are?” She looked at him demurely as he spun her around his arm, and he thought he caught a glint of angry reproach in her eyes. “No, it’s scarcely likely,” Luca smiled, “while even if anyone had, you don’t really suppose they would know you also? Sst, anyway, better to dance in silenzio. Who can say that I even know you?” “Avventato,” was all that Arama murmured through her teeth, looking down at the ground, spinning round and round until she was dizzy. When she looked up through the spinning walls and floors of the room she thought she saw Råiden’s mask watching her from a corner, while she saw a man next to him turn to him with a confident remark. They were both watching her. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. She couldn’t dance anymore, she was faint and sick and afraid. “Fermare! Stop!” she cried, tearing herself out of Luca’s arms in the middle of the dance. “What, che cosa? Where are you going?” Luca grabbed her wrist, but she jerked away and threw herself towards the doorway, stumbling through the other dancers. Suddenly she slipped on the marble floor as Luca sprinted after her. Her mask had been half torn off her face as the Rego tried to stop her, and her head was swimming. She was afraid that she really was going to fall headlong to the floor, when she suddenly felt a pair of strong arms around her and looked up into Råiden Tígrisdýrið’s face. He crashed back into the corner of the doorpost with the momentum of her rush. “Arama, stai bene?” “Sì, no,” she faltered, looking up with relief into his eyes, “he forced me to dance, the cattivo in incognito!” “Ah, do you know who he was?” “Né mi interessa.” Arama looked about and saw that Luca was leaning against a pillar in the far corner watching her contemplatively. “L'insolente…” Arama didn’t finish, freeing herself from Råiden’s arms and kicking the wall. Råiden put his hand up to her flushed cheek and she gently removed it to rearrange her hair about her face, and to put her mask back in its place. Råiden watched her, observing that her eyes were bright like fire, and that indignation was written all over those pretty cheeks. “Non importa, it was only the Rego, Luca di Carli,” Råiden commented glumly. The instant that he had said it he regretted it. Arama looked at him with a question in her eyes, and then looked quickly back over at the Rego leaning against his pillar. “Davvero?” she said sceptically. “Penso,” Prince Råiden shrugged, cursing inside. Suddenly the fire in Arama’s eyes seemed to double and her face was covered with a pretty blush. “But it is nothing,” she said affectedly, “the Ciotos have always been close to the throne.” “Lui pagherà,” muttered Råiden in an undertone, looking with cold fury over at the Rego, who pushed off of the wall and meandered slowly out of the room. Suddenly Arama leapt up onto the balustrade which overlooked the city, for they had wandered back out into the portico. “Why don’t we make him pay?” she said eagerly, flushing and looking about furtively, her fingers wrapping around the knife she concealed beneath her clothes. At the same moment she felt a paper being thrust into her other hand, and she looked up to find her eyes locked with those of Ilazio Moccenigo, the son of the man that she had murdered. She looked up to find her eyes locked with those of Ilazio Moccenigo. She smiled with a masterful effort and glanced down at the note after looking at Råiden for approval. Hush, read the note, let us meet domani, at the balcone delle Scale. I will be beneath it in a small gondola. Come alone. Råiden read the note upside down and then Ilazio whispered, “Eat it.” The Kolgari stared after him as he melted into the crowd of merry party-goers. “Domani,” Råiden murmured, and by the time he looked back Arama had already swallowed the note. .-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.