Andarin: The Mountains: EMISSARIES;

“This city is afraid of me. I have seen its true face.
The streets are extended gutters and the gutters are full of blood and when the drains finally scab over, all the vermin will drown.:
The accumulated filth of all their sex and murder will foam up about their waists and all the whores and politicians will look up and shout 'Save Us!'...:

...and I'll look down, and whisper, 'No'"

Nicodemus is not silent as he moved. How could he be? With flames dancing about him, destruction was everything that his element stood for. Fire was only silent in the gentle hold of a candle, and that was not true fire. That was not his flames, because his were far too feral. His flames were a wildfire, a back draft. His eyes, his mane, his muscles, all were evidence to the crudeness and the passion that composed him. All was evidence to the fact that he was unstable, he was unpredictable and unable to control the whims that possess him. His eyes held flames, his were rigid and full of intensity in a way that it almost hurt you to look at them. Nicodemus was raw fury over and over again.

There was purpose to every step, and those who he would have acknowledged normally received nothing but the passing of his flames. It was clear that Nicodemus was on a mission.

Fenrisulfr had charged a duty upon him. And with Nicodemus, duty was everything. Jormungandr was not in sights, but that was a different promise altogether. And that was something that had to wait for now. For now, the abilities of his mind were keeping a close eye on her, while the other part of him was calling them. Coordinate the emissaries. He did not call them as a horse normally would, but sent Andraste and Keir to do it. The phoenix left his withers with gusto, and let herself burn brightly among the black night. She circled a few times, before returning to hover high above Nicodemus, a beacon in the night. Keir, meanwhile, was running, barreling towards them, wherever they were, growling, chattering, screaming if it was needed to capture their attention.

He extended his mind, calling them each individually. Magnolia. Micah. Oceantree.

He waits, silent, flames crackling the only sound in the late hour.

SEER

**NICODEMUS**

Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It's us. Only us.