As the lunar light wanes, additional caravans manifest from the cool darkness, both from their rear and fore. Their gradual inclusion into the jocular procession lends further vibrancy, with each individual lantern adding to the shared illumination, casting dancing shadows on the road around them.

Their approach to the grand city of Isfa is heralded by an array of guards standing casually around the large gates. Each one dons a colourful set of armour, the diverse hues reflecting the vivid spirit of the City's reputation. Their polearms, both an emblem of their authority and a tool of their trade, offer a contrasting solemnity to the kaleidoscopic attire.

The gates of Zinda themselves are a testament to the city's artisanal prowess. Intricate carvings of twisting vines and blossoming flowers adorn their surfaces, brought to life by the gentle glow of unhurriedly burning torches. The resultant interplay of light and shadow breathes life into the stonework, transforming the gates into a mesmerizing tableau.
Bright flowers and deep green creeper plants cover most of the stone wall surrounding the gate.

Each city guard raises a hand and ushers each incoming wagon to a halt, engaging in lively discourse with its revellers. Amid this choreographed interaction, a guard directs his attention to their party, his gaze falling on the driver, Inayat. With a voice that reverberates authority softened by a festival's joviality, he extends them a hearty greeting, and expresses his interest in their origins.

Inayat, the seemingly chosen spokesperson for their procession, explains their foreign origins and the shared desire to partake in the city's vibrant celebrations. The guard's gaze scrutinizes their worn wagon, visibly battered from recent skirmishes, and studies their faces streaked with the grime of travel. His raised eyebrows cast a shadow of doubt, and a palpable ripple of tension passes through the party.

The silent assessment endures for a tense ten seconds, before the guard's features soften into an accepting shrug. His voice echoes out, "That'll be 5 gold each to gain entry to the splendid realm of Isfa, a sanctuary for the beautiful and free. Welcome one, welcome all."

Eager to dispel any lingering uncertainty and to proceed without attracting undue attention, the party members hurriedly rummage through their pouches, retrieving the requested gold. Karl, in his characteristic manner, offers the guard a warm smile and 10 gold, wishing him a pleasant morning. This unexpected display of goodwill appears to take the guard by surprise, and in response, he ushers them through the ornate city gates ahead of the others.

Rolling through the gates, the cityscape of Isfa unfurls before the party like a tapestry, taking your breath away. Large towers pepper the horizon with banners and ribbons waving in the distance, silhouetted in the dark sky. Multi story buildings of golden sandstone, their facades beautifully adorned in a similar style as the entry gate line the street ahead of them, already starting to come alive with activity; the city's inhabitants are waking and preparing for the day. Street vendors set up their stalls, their goods creating a patchwork of colours against the monochrome backdrop of the early morning.

In the quiet, the soft hum of the city coming alive reaches their ears, the scent of blooming flowers carried on the cool morning breeze mingles with the faint smell of the ocean, a testament to the city's location on the coast.

The scent of the city changes as the wagon slowly moves further into its embrace, the saltiness of the sea giving way to the delicious aromas of the town – the warm, yeasty smell of bread baking in a nearby bakery, the savory aroma of roasting meat from a street vendor, and the subtle spice of incense wafting from an open window.

And all around, blooming flowers. Whether growing wild in meticulously maintained city flower beds, nurtured in pots outside shops and houses, or artfully hanging off walls lining the streets, they are a riot of colours. Deep reds, purples, yellows, and pinks all vie for attention, their petals gleaming under the warm torchlight. Their fragrance adds to the tapestry of scents, a sweet undernote that makes the air in Isfa feel heady and full of promise.

Guiding their wagon through the lively streets, the party passes by a narrow alley. Gelin's keen eyes catch sight of a hunched figure slouched against a shadowy wall. Upon closer scrutiny, he discerns a glimmer of scattered gold surrounding the eerily still figure.

Alerting his companions, his voice is lost amidst the mesmerising flurry of sights and sounds that seize their attention. Undeterred, they continue their journey through the city, each new encounter a feast for their senses.

Soon, they approach a welcoming inn, its sign proudly displaying the moniker "Silver Horse". A small crowd of jovial revellers occupy a table out front, their laughter and conversation spilling out into the street.

They guide their wagon to an available space near the entrance, where Karl hops down to secure their camels. He tenderly wraps an arm around each animal's head, murmuring words of reassurance. The rest of the party disembark, stretching their limbs to shake off the weariness of their journey.

Without a moment's hesitation, Ladi strides towards the inn's entrance, the door swinging back just as Karl begins to stoop through the low threshold. The unfortunate collision between door and head leaves the tortle momentarily dazed but undeterred from the promise of a warm, inviting inn.

The inn stood proud and inviting, its sturdy timbers and sandstone facade glowing softly under the moonlight and lanterns.

As they pushed open the heavy, well-worn door, they were immediately enveloped by the inn's warm, vibrant atmosphere. A joyous cacophony of singing, laughing, and lighthearted banter filled the air, punctuated by the clinking of glasses and the occasional slap of a hand on a table. The room was brimming with merry patrons, their faces flushed from drink and mirth. These clusters of camaraderie ranged from raucous groups engaging in hearty debates and storytelling, to quieter gatherings of intense conversation or contemplative silence.

To the left of the entrance was the inn's serving area, presided over by an older Orc lady with a pleasantly weathered face. Her tusks gleamed in the warm light as she meticulously wiped glasses with a clean cloth, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes, sparkling with intelligence and years of stories untold, moved deftly over the scene, missing nothing.

Further to the back left, a sturdy wooden staircase led upwards, each step worn smooth from countless patrons seeking the inn's comfortable lodgings after a night of camaraderie. The low murmur of conversation and soft, occasional laughter hinted at the continued warmth and companionship to be found even in the quieter corners of the inn.

At the very back of the room, a robust fire crackled merrily in a stone hearth. It cast a warm, dancing glow that chased away the desert's night chill, painting the scene with flickering shades of amber and gold. Around this source of warmth, tables were scattered haphazardly, populated by an eclectic mix of folks. Humans, Elves, Dwarves, and more were all drawn to the inviting hearth, their differences set aside in the comforting warmth of the fire and the shared enjoyment of the inn's robust hospitality.

The innkeep greets them with a welcoming smile, "Hello, I'm Greselda, owner of the Silver Horse. Locals or visitors for the March of Vice?"

Unveiling her visage from beneath the hood, Inayat returns with a courteous grin, "We're grateful for your welcome. This is indeed a charming inn you run. Could we perchance secure some rooms?"

Retrieving a large tome labelled 'Rooms' in a worn ink scrawl, Greselda meticulously flips through its pages until she finds a nearly blank one, only two entries marking its surface. "We have two vacant rooms and three pre-booked. One of our available rooms can accommodate four beds... and we've got enough floor space for your large friend there," she teases, casting a jovial glance at Karl. "It'll be two gold for the night."

With a hearty chuckle, Karl replies, "The floor and good company are all I need."

"We'll take one room," Inayat concedes, placing two gold pieces on the counter.

"Up the stairs, at the end on the right" she says with a smile.

Lingering at the back, Gelin's gaze roams over the room, surveying a lively crowd sporting a multitude of fashion styles. Groups chatter merrily, filling the space with their lively banter. His eyes land on two solitary drinkers among the cheerful throng. One, an aged elf, barely maintains his upright position on the stool, while the other, a lady swathed in hues of yellow and green, keeps her gaze lowered, her posture closed off to the jovial surroundings, perhaps a rough night.

Wearied by the day's unfolding events, the party ascended the inn's creaking wooden stairs, the musty smell of the centuries-old establishment filling their nostrils. They ambled down the lantern lit hallway, passing closed doors that lined the right side. The first three were securely bolted, each adorned with a small sign declaring them "booked".

However, the fourth door caught their attention. It stood slightly ajar, an unusual sight. Both Inayat and Gelin noticed the anomaly, but their exhaustion and the subtle hum of the inn's life downstairs led them to shrug it off without immediate concern. They continued towards the end of the hallway, drawn by the prospect of much-needed rest after their recent journey.

Pushing open the fifth and final door, they were welcomed by a welcoming sight - an inviting room boasting warm, comfortable beds bathed in the dwindling glow of a corner lantern. The flickering light cast dancing shadows on the room's rough-hewn walls, offering an ambiance of homeliness that was hard to resist.

Yet, curiosity held a firm grip on Gelin. Against the pull of rest, he quietly slipped back out into the hallway. Turning his attention back to the previously disregarded ajar door, he peered cautiously inside. His heart skipped a beat as his gaze fell on a motionless form sprawled across the room's floor. It was a dwarf, recognisable from his robust stature and attire that suggested a life of affluence. The sight was as unnerving.

Feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline, Gelin swiftly retreated back to the sanctuary of the party's room. His face was pale as he relayed the shocking discovery to the rest of the group within the dimly lit chamber.

Upon hearing the unexpected news Ladi, Karl, and Raknaur, who had already found solace in the inviting comfort of their beds, rose slowly, their curiosity piqued. Inayat, always ready for action, was the first to rise and follow Gelin back to the hallway.

They stood in the threshold of the room, their eyes absorbing the shocking sight before them. An eerie silence hung in the air, the tension palpable as they observed the dwarf's lifeless body.

In an effort to uncover the truth, Gelin gingerly turned the body over, being careful not to disturb any potential evidence. The dwarf was indeed wealthy; a copious amount of jewellery hung from his person, each piece glimmering in the dim light. His face was clean, well-groomed and devoid of any signs of struggle or discomfort.

Checking for a pulse, Gelin's heart sank as he found none - the dwarf was unequivocally deceased. A thorough inspection of the body revealed no visible signs of injury, deepening the enigma of his death. Confused as the mystery of the wealthy dwarf's demise unfolded before them.

As the heavy footfalls neared their proximity, they paused for a moment at the door adjacent to theirs, the ominous silence that ensued was shattered by an abrupt shout, "We found him!" The hushed murmur of hurried conversation followed, culminating in "He's dead."

Instructions to "Check the other rooms, we need leads," were barked, shattering the tense silence that had descended upon the hallway. The doors of the other chambers were rapped upon in quick succession, each knock echoing through the silent corridor.

Finally, their own door was targeted, a resounding knock followed by the stern order, "Silent Verse, open up." Gelin moved to answer the door, his hands gripping the handle tentatively. He pulled the door ajar, only for it to be forcibly pushed open from the other side, causing Gelin to stumble back. The door swung wide.

A guard stood framed in the doorway, his armour was a gleaming array of silver and gold that caught the lantern light. Two white flowers were emblazoned on each of his shoulders, a stark contrast to the hard, metallic sheen of his armour. His stern countenance bore an authoritative glare as he pronounced in a deep, unyielding voice, "You are under arrest."

His proclamation was met with shocked expressions. The party exchanged bewildered glances, their faces mirroring their collective confusion. "Excuse me, what are we under arrest for?" Inayat retorted, her voice sharp with indignation.

"There is a dead body in the room next to this one," the guard began, his gaze never leaving the party's faces, "and you are the only folks up here at the moment. You may be innocent, but this is now a crime scene and you are a lead."

Their protestations fell on deaf ears as they hastily explained their recent arrival and total ignorance of the crime committed. However, the grim-faced guard remained unmoved by their insistence of innocence, maintaining his authoritative stance as he proceeded with his duty.

The guard's gaze softened momentarily, indicating a hint of belief, yet it was evident he was simply adhering to standard procedure. "Just hold tight. Our commander will be with you," he announced, stepping out of the room and closing the door softly behind him.

Within the confines of their room, the party engaged in hushed discussions about the predicament they found themselves in. Their theories and speculations filled the air, forming a tangled web of 'what-ifs' and 'maybes'. Their musings, however, were abruptly interrupted by another knock on the door.

As the door creaked open, a stunning half-elf woman stepped into the room. Her skin was a rich, dark hue, and her dress flowed around her like a cascading sunset; vibrant hues of orange and red interwoven with intricate patterns that danced around her form. Over this colourful ensemble, she donned an ornate silver breastplate that shimmered under the lantern light.

She carried an air of sharp severity around her, her stern gaze swept over the room with a haughty and imperturbable air. Her poise and demeanour were intimidating, conveying a sense of command that was undeniable. There was an implicit understanding that she was a woman not to be trifled with, a woman of significant power and influence. Her entrance into the room brought with it an immediate shift in atmosphere.

The woman introduced herself as Madame Samira Arah. She informed them that she was the newest member of Zinda's ruling council, known as the Rulers of Coin.

Samira promptly instructed the remaining guards to quietly take care of the body in the next room. Her orders were concise and unarguable, and the guards promptly disappeared from the room, leaving the party alone with Samira. The tension in the room seemed to ease slightly as she gracefully reached for a bottle of Jeli wine, offering each of them a glass.

With a calming aura surrounding her, Samira began to explain her role and answered any lingering questions the party had. She disclosed that she was the head of the Jewelers' Trade, the prestigious guild responsible for crafting and dealing in gems and jewellery. Her position, she explained, came with its fair share of responsibilities and dangers, which had honed her skills in protecting valuable assets.

This expertise had led to her additional role as the security specialist for the Rulers of Coin. In this capacity, she controlled a group of enforcers known as the Silent Verse. Her words painted a picture of a woman who was as much a protector as she was a leader.

Samira's voice turned solemn as she revealed the identity of the deceased. The victim was none other than Jacopo Ain, the eldest son of Massimo Ain, who held a significant seat on the Rulers of Coin.

She explained that due to a recent attack on the family member of another prominent Ruler of Coin, Jacopo had been under protective guard. However, with the intoxicating lure of the March of Vice festivities, he had managed to elude his protectors.

The previous attack, she revealed, was against Zenia Ruba, the eldest daughter of Myx Nargis Ruba, another member of the ruling council. Zenia had barely escaped with her life. Samira couldn't confirm if the two incidents were related, but the coincidences cast a shadow of dread over her.

Leaning in, she extended a proposition to the party. Due to potential loyalties within the Silent Verse towards Grand Messer Amos, the head of the Rulers of Coin, Samira wanted an unbiased investigation. She proposed that the adventurer's question Zenia and unearth any ties between her attack and Jacopo's murder that may lead back to Amos.

As compensation for their efforts, she was willing to offer each party member a substantial reward of 200 gold pieces. Her determined gaze surveyed each of their faces, awaiting their response to her offer.

After some thoughtful deliberation, the party decides to accept Samira's offer and acknowledge the need for subtlety in their investigations.

She notes the Rulers of Coin had gone to considerable lengths to keep the attack on Zenia concealed, fearing that any leaks would disrupt the eagerly awaited March of Vice, commencing the next evening with a grand parade. In the same vein, she revealed that Jacopo's death would also be kept under wraps until the festivities concluded.

Madame Arah then proceeded to inform them of their first destination - the Thornapple. This was a well-known tavern owned by Zenia's family, where the lady in question was currently under protection.

As a parting gesture, she handed over a token of her endorsement to the party. The small object was delicately crafted into the shape of a rose.

"This token will give you the access you require," she had warned them, "but be prepared for resistance. The town guard isn't popular with everyone."

"Sorry about the arrest but we have very little in terms of leads, you must understand this. If you do this for us, consider yourselves no longer suspects and friends to the Silent Verse. Not to mention a little reward" she winks.

She then swiftly departed, an entourage of silent guards following closely in her wake. Gelin quickly stuck his head out then ducked in, closing the door.

"We've got our work cut out for us tomorrow," Gelin voiced the collective thought, a note of dry humour creeping into his tone.

The party shared a glance of mutual understanding, a silent agreement passing between them. As the weight of their weary bodies sank into their respective resting places, a shared resolve settled within them. Their eyelids grew heavy, their breaths evened out, and the tavern's ambient sounds faded into the backdrop. For the time being, they would allow themselves some much-needed rest. The tumultuous journey would continue to roll onwards tomorrow.

They wake to the day's light stretching its early fingers into the room. The creak of the floor and the soothing swish of the mop greeted them as they descended the stairs of the Silver Horse. The common room, filled with raucous laughter and clinking glasses the night before, now lay tranquil.

Greselda's mop dancing to a rhythm only she could hear. She looked up as they entered, her face breaking into a smile that seemed to light up the room.
"Good morning!" she called, her voice warm and inviting.
"Hope you enjoy your day, don't forget the parade later today!" Her words, laced with the excitement of the impending celebration, lingered in the air like a musical note.

With a last wave and thanks, they made their way out of the Silver Horse, the door closing behind them with a soft thud. The street outside greeted them with its gentle bustle, the sounds and smells of Isfa's morning routine.

The cool, brisk air, tinged with the tang of salt from the nearby ocean, kissed their faces, and the sun, newly risen, cast a golden glow on the cobbled paths. The scent of fresh-baked bread and spices seemed to dance on the breeze, leading them onwards.
Isfa's architecture, bathed in the glow of the rising sun, stood like a painted picture.

They stood for a moment, taking it all in, the simple beauty of a new day in a new place. After some discussions they turned towards the docks. Their goal was clear, the name "Alistair" hung heavily in their minds, a potential betrayal that pulled at them with an urgency they could not ignore.

Their missing companions—Grox, Big Fish, and Turtleneck—were gone, their absence a persistent ache that drove them forward, especially Karl. They must have come here by boat; it's the only explanation as the Merkad flowed south. They would question the dock workers and follow leads. And so, with determined steps and minds sharpened by purpose, they made their way towards the water's edge.

Walking down the streets, the party passes through the market district, where vendors are setting up for the day's trade. Stalls laden with colourful fruits, fragrant spices, and exotic wares, awaiting the throng of shoppers that will soon fill the square.

The early morning hushed voices blend with the clatter of carts and the occasional bray of a stubborn mule. There's a rhythm, a dance that the town knows well. It's a symphony of simplicity that fills the air with the promise of a new day.

Noting the heaven food aromas, they leave the market behind, continuing their walk to the docks. The calls of seagulls and the salty tang of the sea grow stronger as they approach. Ships line the wharf, their masts reaching skywards, and their weathered hulls telling tales of voyages and adventures.

Burly workers, a mix of orcs and humans, are engaged in the arduous task of unloading the ships. The sound of their grunts mixes with the creak of ropes and the splash of water. The docks are a place of sweat and toil, where the bounty of the sea meets the hands of the working folk.

Amongst this industrious scene, a half-orc worker catches the party's eye. Seated on a crate and leisurely smoking a cigarette, he seems momentarily detached from the bustling activity around him. His muscles ripple beneath his tattered shirt, and his eyes, though tired, watch the proceedings with an experienced gaze.

Approaching him, they introduce themselves, and with a slightly less than interested tone, he returns the favour, "I'm Darius. What's it to ya?"

They question him on a possible boat that might have arrived either yesterday or today, describing Alistair, the caravan guards, and the missing others. The half-orc's eyes narrow slightly as he listens, his brows knitting together in thought.

Darius takes a long draw from his cigarette, the tip glowing like a firefly in the morning light. He exhales slowly, a plume of smoke drifting into the air, and finally breaks his silence.

His words are measured, carrying a weight that suggests he knows more than he initially lets on. The docks, it seems, are not only a place of trade but a place of secrets and whispers, and Darius is but a humble keeper of some of those hidden tales.

Darius leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. His eyes, filled with the weariness that comes from long days and longer nights, seem to sparkle with a mischievous glint. "Saw a ship dock yesterday mornin', all right. Caravan master type, he was. Fancy garb, looked like money."

His eyes shifted from side to side, then raising his hand, rubbing his thumb and fingers together, hinting at a bribe that might loosen his tongue further.

Ladi looks at him, reluctance in his eyes. But the need for information outweighs the sting of parting with the gold. With a sigh, he hands over 20 gold pieces.

Darius takes the money with a satisfied nod and leans back, puffing on his cigarette. "Well now," he begins, his voice carrying a storyteller's cadence, "it was a ship like no other. Guards lined the deck, stern-faced, watchful, definitely the land voyage type."

He continues, describing how the caravan master looking figure disembarked, his footsteps heavy on the wooden planks, his hand exchanging a generous amount of money with Darius's supervisor.

"This man," Darius says, his voice trailing off as he tries to paint a picture with words, "had a way about him, a swagger. Walked into town like he owned the place. The boat? Left shortly after, sails filled with wind, disappearing beyond the horizon."

He takes another draw of his cigarette, the smoke spiralling upward, caught in a dance with the sea breeze. "Tried to figure out who they were, but we've a strict don't-ask-don't-tell policy on these docks. Too many shipments, too many questions. Time's money, you know."

Darius's eyes seem distant for a moment, lost in the maze of ships and sails that make up his world. He then snaps back to the present, speculating that they most likely were sailing further down to the main Isfa Docks.

He leans in again, his voice dropping even lower, "There's a fella down there, goes by the name Merza. Works the docks like I do. He might know somethin'. But be careful," he adds, his eyes narrowing, "The docks have ears, and not all of 'em friendly."

With a final nod, he sends them on their way, his attention returning to his work, his body melding back into the orchestrated chaos of the docks.

Karl, a more somber look in his eyes, informs Ladi and the others of his intention to do some digging for information. He lays a reassuring hand on their shoulders. "I'll meet you guys later tonight back at the Inn," he says, his voice resolute as he heads back towards the centre of Zinda, leaving them with a feeling of unease.

Approaching the heart of the market, they notice that life has bloomed since their earlier passage. Stalls have revealed their wares and colourful carts lined the market space, vendors calling out their sales. Citizens, once hidden behind closed doors, now stroll the streets, their eyes bright with curiosity, their hands eager to touch, taste, and feel the offerings.

The party's attention is quickly drawn to a cart at the edge of the market, where a vendor is flipping eggs and sizzling spiced goat on a smoking fire. The aroma reaches out, a culinary siren song, pulling them closer. Their stomachs rumble in response, reminding them of the long days and nights fuelled by nothing but dried meats and dates.

They approach, their mouths watering, and place their orders. The vendor, a friendly-looking woman with a ready smile, serves them heaping plates, the eggs golden and soft, the spiced goat fragrant and tender. They find a spot nearby, under the shade of a tree, and eat with gusto, the flavours dancing on their tongues, nourishing not only their bodies but their spirits as well.

As they eat, they take in the market around them, watching the ebb and flow of life in Zinda. The city, once a mystery, begins to reveal itself to them in small, intricate details. The way a shopkeeper lovingly arranges his fruit, the laughter of children as they chase a stray dog, the way the sunlight filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows on the cobblestone streets.

They finish their meal, wiping their mouths, feeling not just full but content.

Agreeing to meet back in an hour or two, they separate to wonder the stalls, replenishing their stocks. The market continues to bustle around them as the party members started browsing.

Nestled between colourful stalls, a booth laden with vials and jars catches the eye. Behind a wooden counter, an old woman with wise eyes and gnarled hands is meticulously grinding herbs.

A sign above reads, "Miriam's Remedies," promising cures, enhancements, and mysterious delights. Raknaur examines the variety of potions and elixirs with a discerning eye. The old herbalist, Miriam, suggests the greater healing elixir with a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling. After some haggling, Raknaur parts with his 100 coins and leaves with the vibrant red bottle.

Ladi humming to himself and walked further down the market, a clang of metal rings out from a sturdy, open-fronted shop. The blacksmith, a hulking man with arms like tree trunks, hammers away at a piece of red-hot metal, sparks flying. His shop is an arsenal. Scimitars, axes and mauls hang beside shields, bows, crossbows and arrows meticulously arranged. Ladi's eyes are drawn to the weapons, specifically a sleek and elegant light crossbow. After the last few days, Ladi knows that this could mean the difference between life and death.

A robust woman commands an emporium of garments. From humble tunics to extravagant gowns, her selection spans both necessity and luxury. Leathers and linens hang beside delicate lace and intricate embroidery.

The aroma of cooking meat leads to a bustling food stall, where a jovial man ladles rich stews and grills skewers. Beside him, barrels of Jeli wine, famed in the region, are tapped and ready.
Wandering leisurely, Inayat takes in the vibrant sights, sounds, and scents of the market. The fabrics' gentle rustle, the clinking of armour, the aroma of fresh food. For the first time in a while, Inayat's heart fills with the simple joy of being alive and part of this colourful place.

Gelin's eyes narrow as he approaches the relic and exotic goods stall. Amidst the trinkets and baubles, he recognizes the shoddy quality of most items. But his Bone Naga skull is real, and heavy. The vendor, caught in his deception, sweats and stammers as Gelin's keen observation unfolds his charade. With a sly wink, Gelin expertly maneuvers the negotiation, leaving with 250 gold pieces and a smirk on his face. The vendor, meanwhile, clutches the skull, both relieved and excited. It's a genuine treasure amid a sea of fakes.

Agreeing to meet back in an hour or two, they separate to wander the stalls, replenishing their stocks. The market continues to bustle around them as the party members each embark on their own path.

Nestled between colourful stalls, a booth laden with vials and jars catches Raknaur's eye. Behind a wooden counter, an old woman with wise eyes and gnarled hands is meticulously grinding herbs. A sign above reads, "Miriam's Remedies," promising cures, enhancements, and mysterious delights. Raknaur examines the potions and elixirs with a discerning eye. The herbalist, Miriam, suggests the greater healing elixir with a knowing smile, her eyes twinkling. After some haggling, Raknaur parts with 100 coins and leaves with the vibrant red bottle, feeling more prepared for what's to come.

Ladi, humming to himself, walks further down the market. The clang of metal rings out from a sturdy, open-fronted shop. The blacksmith, a hulking man with arms like tree trunks, hammers away at a piece of red-hot metal, sparks flying. Ladi's eyes are drawn to a sleek and elegant light crossbow. After testing its weight and balance, he exchanges coins for the weapon. With the recent dangers in mind, Ladi knows that this purchase could mean the difference between life and death.

Gelin, meanwhile, approaches a relic and exotic goods stall with narrowed eyes. Amidst the trinkets and baubles, he recognizes the shoddy quality of most items. But his Bone Naga skull is real, and heavy. The vendor, caught in his deception trying to oversell his goods, sweats and stammers as Gelin's keen observation unfolds his charade. With a sly wink, Gelin expertly manoeuvres the negotiation, leaving with 250 gold pieces and a smirk on his face. The vendor, clutching the skull, feels both relieved and excited. Finally, a genuine treasure amid a sea of fakes.

Elsewhere, a robust woman commands an emporium of garments, offering everything from humble tunics to extravagant gowns. Inayat's attention drifts between leathers and linens, delicate lace and intricate embroidery, absorbing the rich textures and vibrant colours. Nearby, the aroma of cooking meat leads to a bustling food stall. A jovial man ladles rich stews and grills skewers, while barrels of Jeli wine, famed in the region, are tapped and ready. The scents and sounds bring a smile to Inayat's face, filling the heart with the simple joy of being alive in this colourful place.

After an hour or so draws to a close, the party minus Karl meet up again at the breakfast food cart, just in time to hear a commotion on the other side of the market. The laughter and casual chatter of the bustling square give way to a sudden disturbance.

As the characters move through the market, a stocky woman in light green pantaloons and a man in purple robes irritably barge past them, almost knocking them down. They feel a palpable tension in the air, a dissonance that draws their attention.

Shrieks of fear rise from another herbalist vendor ahead, piercing the usual marketplace din. The crowd shifts and sways as some panicked people start fleeing the scene. The party's curiosity turns to alarm, and they quicken their pace toward the chaos.

They arrive to see the herbalist who works the stall ahead, his face contorted with madness, attacking a man on the ground. He scratches and bites like a feral animal, his eyes glazed and unseeing. Gelin's keen eyes notice a dissipating orange cloud around the figures, a detail that confuses him.

The crowd, witnessing this horrifying scene, descends into full-blown panic. A stampede forms as market-goers scramble past, their faces pale and eyes wide with terror. The party is jostled and knocked back, struggling to maintain their footing amidst the human tide.

As the seconds tick by, the realization dawns on them that this is no ordinary market brawl. Something sinister and unnatural is at play.

Inayat's instincts kick in as she watches the attack unfold. Her eyes narrow, and with a determined stride, she draws her whip and marches forward. Gelin, ever perceptive, follows suit, quickly wrapping his hands with cloth, preparing for a physical intervention.

The merchant, lost in a frenzied fury, seems almost oblivious to the surrounding scene, his eyes wild and his movements erratic.

With practiced grace, Gelin manoeuvres around behind the deranged attacker while Inayat, with a flick of her wrist, sends the whip lashing forward. It wraps around the merchant's wrist with a sharp crack, and she pulls, jerking his arm back. Seizing the opportunity, Gelin lunges forward and grabs the other arm, then pushes the merchant towards the ground with a decisive shove.

The merchant thrashes and kicks, his strength fuelled by madness, but he's unable to escape the firm hold. His wild cries slowly subsiding and fading, his eyes cleared and started bawling tears.

The remaining crowd around them, momentarily stunned into silence, start to slowly whisper amongst each other. The victim lies on the ground, his face pale and contorted with pain, blood oozing from his wounds.

Several compassionate bystanders move to help the wounded man, their faces etched with concern. The party's attention is momentarily drawn to the victim, their minds turning to how they might assist.

Before they can approach, however, several silver-armoured soldiers sweep in, their movements precise and authoritative. These soldiers wear the same intricate armour as the Silent Verse members the party encountered earlier.

Without a word, they take both the merchant and the victim into custody, efficiently managing the scene. A concerned murmur ripples through the dispersing crowd, but amidst the confusion, a fellow merchant breaks free and approaches Ladi. His eyes wide with gratitude, he thanks the party for their swift intervention. With a tremor in his voice, he explains that the wounded man is none other than Arel Avim, the son of Solenn Avim, a prominent figure who owns the Weavers Trade and holds a seat on the Rulers of Coin.

Acting on intuition, she shows her rose token to one of the Silent Verse soldiers. The soldier's eyes flicker with recognition, and with a curt nod, he assures her that they will take care of Arel. However, he emphasizes the need to get him out of danger as soon as possible, his voice betraying a sense of urgency.

Raknaur's keen senses are drawn to something else entirely. As the crowd continues to thin, he notices a very faint orange mist still lingering around the stall where the incident occurred. Curiosity piqued, he approaches the mysterious haze, his every step measured and cautious.

As he enters the affected area, a slight tingling sensation washes over him, accompanied by erratic rushes of energy. His nostrils flare, detecting a unique scent – a blend of the arcane mixed with herbology, a curious and unsettling combination. The mist seems to carry with it emotions, raw and primal.

As Raknaur ventures further in, he suddenly feels rushes of anger and rage. It's not overwhelming, but enough to paint a vivid picture in his mind. Startled by the unexpected emotional assault, he quickly steps back out into the cool morning air, his heart pounding.

The party regroups, their faces etched with concern and curiosity. The incident at the market has evolved into something far more complex and potentially dangerous.

Inayat's instincts lead her away from the dissipating orange cloud and towards the back of the stall, her eyes sharp and focused, looking for any clues or evidence. The market's hushed chatter fades into the background as she meticulously searches the area. While she finds little of immediate interest, a glint catches her eye – a vial identical to the greater healing elixir Raknaur had purchased earlier. Glancing up, she notices that everyone else is too preoccupied with discussing the event, their attention elsewhere. Without a second thought, she discreetly pockets the elixir.

Meanwhile, Ladi continues conversing with the grateful merchant, his thoughts turning towards their next destination. With an air of casual inquiry, he asks, "Where might the Thornapple be located?" The merchant, still shaken but eager to assist, confirms that it's not too far away. "Just head down the road as soon as you leave the market, and it'll be on the right," he explains, gesturing in the direction.

Leaving the market behind, they head north up the street, the sounds and scents of commerce gradually fading as they move towards the Thornapple.

The vibrant streets of Isfa lead the party around a bend, and as they leave the market's bustling atmosphere, they find themselves before a grand establishment. A big gold embossed sign swings gently in the coastal breeze, proudly announcing the "Thornapple." Outside, patrons are already indulging in conversation and drink, enjoying the pleasant midday sun that feels far less harsh by the coast.

Their curiosity piqued, the party continues towards the wooden entrance, the door creaking open to reveal a world unto itself. Despite the Thornapple being packed with people, there's an immediate sensation of coolness as they step inside.

Dozens of tables filled with chattering guests occupy the spacious room, and a huge stage across from the entrance is alive with the preparations for a performance. The air is filled with laughter, the thump of metal mugs on tables, and a buzz of excitement that speaks of anticipation for the evening's entertainment.

But it is the figure behind the long, well-stocked bar that captures the party's attention. A stylishly dressed, middle-aged orc with a stout build greets them with a broad smile. His fairly lavish robes stand out, not typical attire for an innkeep, yet fitting his charismatic personality. His eyes sparkle with warmth as he raises a hand in an enthusiastic wave.

"Welcome friends, and a blessed March of Vice to you! How can your uncle Nargis help you tonight?" he proclaims, his voice carrying a timbre that seems to envelop them in a familial embrace.

The party members exchange glances, sensing that they've stepped into a place where many paths cross and some personalities flourish more than others.

They approach the bar, Nargis's smile widens, a knowing look in his eye. As Inayat engages in conversation with Nargis, Gelin's observant eye roams the room. Two armed figures, seemingly more focused on the tavern patrons than their drinks, lurk in a dim corner, and a young female orc sits at a table in between them, back against the wall, smiling at fellow patrons. This picture raises questions in Gelin's mind, and he tucks the observations away for later.

Nargis, meanwhile, opens up about his status as one of the Rulers of Coin and his role as the overseer of the Tavern Keepers Trade. The Thornapple, he explains, is the centrepiece of their family, a place of gathering, celebration, and business. His eyes gleam with pride as he announces a special performance by the renowned Diva Luma, a native Isfanese and a figure of musical legend.

When the party probes about the attempt on Zenia's life, however, Nargis's demeanour changes. His face tightens, his eyes narrow, and his words become measured. It's only when Inayat produces Samira's token and reveals their task that Nargis's guarded stance eases.

He acknowledges the guards, nodding subtly toward the corner table where Gelin had earlier spotted the figures of interest. Zenia is there, the target of their concern and their mission. Nargis's voice lowers as he suggests that keeping Zenia in the tavern, surrounded by witnesses, should deter another attack.

With a newfound sense of purpose, they grab drinks and follow Nargis's gaze to where Zenia sits, protected by two plain-dressed Silent Verse guards near the stage. As the party approaches, the guards depart at the sight of Samira's token, leaving them to join Zenia at her table.

The tables surrounding Zenia are packed with revelers, and the din of conversation, laughter, and clinking glasses creates a shield of anonymity. It's easy to talk without being overheard, a perfect setting for a confidential conversation.

Zenia looks up as they approach, a mixture of curiosity and caution in her eyes.

Her warm welcome is filled with a brightness that seems to glow from within. Her grey skin is complemented by hair braided in elegant loops, and her eyes sparkle with genuine interest. Though her demeanour is easy-going, a faint tremor in her voice reveals her underlying nervousness. As she engages the party in conversation, her fascination with adventurers comes to the fore, and she eagerly inquires about their work and travels. Her voice lilts with a touch of longing as she admits to once considering the adventuring life herself, only to acknowledge that her father, Nargis, would never permit it.

As Inayat steers the conversation towards the attack, the room's light seems to dim, and Zenia's face goes more solemn. The shift is palpable, and the party leans in, attentive to every word.

Zenia's recounting of the event is both vivid and halting, her voice catching as she describes shopping along the River of Gold. Accompanied by several of her family's servants, she was enjoying a typical day when a sudden, unexplainable illness seized her. She recalls a cloud of orange ash materializing around her.

Her servants, caught in the strange cloud, were transformed, their eyes wild, attacking her and each other with frenzied abandon. Zenia's voice breaks as she describes the terror of seeing trusted friends turned into savage enemies.

She pauses, taking a deep breath, and the party waits, sensing there is more. Zenia's eyes take on a distant look as she remembers a figure bumping into her just before she felt ill. The memory is hazy, obscured by fear and confusion.

She goes on to describe the sick feeling that gripped her during the attack, a nauseating sensation that was as swift as it was intense. And then, just as quickly, it faded, leaving her dazed and disoriented. Her recollection becomes fragmented, a series of disjointed images and sensations leading to her father's arrival with guards.

The tale concludes, and a heavy silence settles over the table. The party exchanges glances, each processing what they've heard. The orange ash, the sudden madness, the unidentified figure, starting to sound familiar.

The hushed conversation between the party and Zenia is suddenly interrupted by a rising cacophony from outside.

The doors swing open with a flourish, and the tavern is bathed in a wash of vibrant color and flamboyance. A troupe of performers, adorned in bright feathers and shimmering silks that dance in the light, make their grand entrance. Their laughter is bombastic, infectious, and pure theatre, turning every head and drawing every eye. The crowd's reaction is immediate and electric. Laughter meets laughter, cheer meets cheer, as they respond with great enthusiasm.

Zenia, momentarily setting aside her previous sombreness, lights up with delight. Her hands come together, clapping in rhythm with the crowd. Even Nargis, the tavern owner, is swept up in the exhilaration. His smile stretches from ear to ear, revealing his genuine pleasure as he joins in the applause.

Amidst the sea of performers, one figure stands out. “That’s Diva Luma and the Elucidarium Divas!” Zenia exclaims, her eyes twinkling with admiration. The party follows her gaze to the dark-skinned woman at the forefront. Diva Luma is the very embodiment of glamour and poise. Her outfit is a breathtaking array of sequins that sparkle like stars, complemented by bright, plumage-like feathers. It's an ensemble that catches every glimmer of light, making her the undisputed centrepiece of the group.

With a series of graceful waves and acknowledgments to their adoring audience, Diva Luma and her Divas gracefully navigate the bustling tavern floor. Their destination is the stage at the back, strategically positioned near the party and Zenia. As they ascend, the party takes note of their proximity — their table is fortuitously located right next to stage right, front row seats.

The Thornapple's dim interior was set aglow, not by torches or magical illuminations, but by the sheer energy of its patrons. The previously overwhelming tension the party had carried from the recent events seemed to dissolve into the atmosphere. The very walls of the tavern seemed to thrum with excitement, and the wooden floorboards vibrated with the eager shuffling of feet. The mood was infectious.

Raknaur, usually stern and focused, couldn’t help but let the corner of his mouth twitch upward in a hint of a smile. Beside him, Inayat's eyes sparkled, the weight of their previous encounters temporarily forgotten. Ladi, ever the jovial, was already tapping his foot in anticipation, his fingers drumming a rhythm on the table. Meanwhile, Gelin, leaned coolly against the wall. Though his eyes continued to dart around, gauging the crowd for potential threats, even he couldn’t resist the occasional nod to the infectious beat of the crowd.

Diva Luma, bathed in the soft glow of the stage's lanterns, raised her hands, signalling for silence. The room's din gradually dwindled to an expectant hush. With a dramatic flourish, she and her dancers bowed deeply, their silks and feathers creating a cascade of colours. The tavern's patrons leaned forward in collective anticipation.

"Welcome to the start of the March of Vice, all you beautiful people. Let's celebrate!" Diva Luma's voice, powerful and melodious, rang out. Her smile, genuine and wide, promised an unforgettable performance.

Then, with a motion of her hand, the first notes of music began.

_____

(Verse 1)
Golden streets of Zinda glow,
As the twilight starts to show.
In Isfa's heart, the music plays,
Marking the start of a drunken haze.

Feet tap fast, and hearts beat quick,
As the street’s pulse grows thick.
Diva Luma takes the stage,
Welcoming the festive age.

(Chorus)
Come, dance with me under the moon,
Don't delay, not a moment too soon.
Lift your voices, let the city hear our tune,
Together we'll dance, from dusk till noon.

(Verse 2) Silken flags of vibrant hue,
Rise and fall, as they flew.
The aroma of spices in the air,
With laughter and joy everywhere.

Lanterns bright, and fireworks soar,
As the city awakens, evermore.
With every beat and every song,
Zinda district grows strong.

(Chorus)
Come, sing with me under the stars,
Embracing the night, breaking all bars.
Lift your spirits, chase away your scars,
For ten days of Vice, the world is ours.

(Bridge)
Shadows dance in Zinda alleys,
Stories told of nights in the galleys.
But tonight, we rewrite our tale,
With every song, dance, and joyful wail.

Diva Luma, with eyes so bright,
Leads the city into the night.
With passion, fire, and soulful glee,
She sets every heart free.

(Chorus)
Come, sway with me to the Isfa beat,
Feel the rhythm, from your head to feet.
Lift your dreams, let them take the front seat,
March of Vice, where destinies meet.

_____

Instruments from far-off lands combined with traditional Isfanese melodies to produce a sound both exotic and familiar. . Her dancers moved in sync, their bodies swaying and twisting in a dance that was both sensual and festive.

Gelin, who had thus far been the most reserved of the group, raised an eyebrow as he watched his companions. He stood in the shadows, watching the unfolding scene with amusement. Zenia, beside him, nudged him playfully. "Why not give it a go?" she whispered, her eyes dancing with mischief.

Feeling the infectious energy of the crowd, and not wanting to seem like the odd one out, Gelin hesitated just a moment before shrugging and started to clap along. His movements initially seemed cautious, but as the music's rhythm took hold, even he began to loosen up, surprising even himself.

The stage was alive with vibrant colours, eclectic music, and an array of dance styles. Ladi's fingers danced effortlessly over the strings of his lute, every pluck harmonizing perfectly with the band. His joy was evident in the way his eyes twinkled, and the broad, carefree grin that never left his face.

Inayat, often the picture of focus and discipline, allowed herself to get lost in the moment. Every movement of her body became an expression of the joy she felt, her usual stoic demeanour replaced by a carefree abandon. The table top suffering the wrath of her boots.

And Raknaur, initially the embodiment of awkwardness, quickly became the sensation of the evening. His mechanical, almost automaton-like dance was unlike anything the patrons of the Thornapple had ever seen. His precise and distinct movements quickly drew the attention and admiration of the crowd. Every twist and turn, every jerk and snap, was met with roars of applause and cheers.

As the night wore on, the distinction between performers and audience blurred. Diva Luma, with her powerhouse vocals, led the revelry, drawing in everyone with her charisma. The Thornapple turned into a melting pot of cultures and stories, a celebration of unity amidst diversity.

At the apex of the final song, Diva Luma and her dancers reach into a small silk bag from their belts and hurl its contents upward, a rain of colourful glitter going up into the air and raining down upon themselves. Diva Luma's glitter was instead an orange powder, Gelin's stomach instantly turned. Panic rising quickly.

The tavern, which seconds ago echoed with harmonious music and laughter, now resonated with screams of horror and panic. The crowd pressed against each other, desperately trying to find an exit. Amidst the clamour, Gelin's voice rang out, shouting commands to his team, "Ladi, Raknaur! Take out the dancers! I've got Zenia!"

One of the dancers turned around and leapt at a band member, tearing at his face and gouging his eyes, he fell screaming.

Ladi, still clutching his lute, positioned himself defensively as the other crazed dancer lunged at him. Swinging the instrument, he used it as an improvised shield, deflecting the dancer's wild swipes.

Inayat, realizing the threat the orange powder posed, reached into her pouch for a piece of cloth, tying it around her nose and mouth. Darting from the stage, she sought to flank Diva Luma, who was closing in on Zenia with malicious intent.

Zenia's guards, realizing the threat, drew their weapons, attempting to position themselves between their charge and the deranged diva. Gelin slung his crossbow from his back quickly loading a bolt.

With a series of rapid movements, Gelin fired at Diva Luma.

Narrowly missing Luma's head, it sailed past the stage and catastrophically struck an innocent patrons neck. Instantly wracking Gelin with guilt, but no time to address.

Loading another bolt, he raised the crossbow again. Her movements were fast, frenzied, and unpredictable, but this time Gelin's accuracy matched her speed, puncturing her upper thigh. As Luma lept forwards, one of the Guards stepped between her and Zenia with his sword held in front of him. Instantly dismissing it away and knocking him down, Luma tore at his throat, leaving him gurgling on the floor.

Amidst the turmoil, a vase of water from a nearby table was hurled towards one of the dancers. The liquid doused her, momentarily disorienting her and causing her to hiss in frustration. Ladi, seizing the opportunity, swiftly drew from his burgeoning arcane soul, sending out a concussive thunderwave at the dancer attacking the band with a deafening crack, shattering the few windows at the front. The dancer and remaining band members are impacted with the sonic force, hurling them against the wall along with chairs and tables.

Raknaur, sensing danger, surrounded himself in a thick grey mist. Another pocket of mist appeared in the detritus of thunderwave aftermath, dissipating to reveal the draconic sorcerer had teleported.

As the mist cleared he summoned a sizzling molten dagger hovering in front of him. Flickering in the air, he sent it hurtling towards the prone dancer under the table debris. It pierced through, exploding, sending splinters and viscera in all directions. Some slow escaping patrons tripping and falling as shrapnel punctured their limbs.

Inayat, seeing the opportunity, focused her energy on Diva Luma. Throwing a smoke bomb towards her, the area filled with a thick, choking fog. While visibility was compromised, it offered Zenia and the other guard a momentary reprieve.

The remaining dancer onstage tore another band member down in it's rage. Inayat, seeing the danger Zenia is in behind her, quickly summoned an eldritch blast at the dancer, hurtling forwards and exploding them backwards into the wall.

The last guard lunged at Luma, stabbing the side of her abdomen. Seemingly having no effect, Luma lashed out with her hands, tearing his throat out in one fell swoop.

Inayat drew her whip and started rushing towards Luma, knocking her to the ground before she killed their only lead. Grabbing her shield off the table while she could. Luma sprung back up and tore at Inayat with relentless fury, like a cornered ankheg. Slashing with her nails, she cut through Inayat's robes and light armour, severely wounding her.

Luma too, amidst her combat with Inayat, began to stagger. Her movements became sluggish, her eyes drooping. Inayat, seeing the opportunity, moved with grace and precision, using her whip to entangle Luma's legs, dropping her.

As she fell, the rage left her body, hitting the wooden floor with a thud. She lay there for a moment, her eyes becoming clearer clearer. After a shocked moment she started moaning with pain, the extent of her injuries setting in.

Rakanur and Ladi helped the remaining patrons escape the tavern out the front door and checked the unmoving bodies. Both dancers, two band members and three patrons were dead or about to die. One with a crossbow bolt in his neck.

Zenia sat huddled under the table, whimpering, her father Nargis running over and consoling her. Gelin quickly rushed over and attended to Inayat's injuries, quickly making sure Luma was no danger.

Silence, punctuated only by moans of the injured and the heavy breathing of the battle-worn, filled the Thornapple. The once vibrant establishment had turned into a scene of horror.