Wednesday November 18th IC 1428
Benito Cenzi - The aroma of spiced potatoes wafting up from the downstairs kitchen primed my stomach for the chef's bountiful offerings. All around me was velvet and dark hardwood furnishings. A stale sweetness from years of pipe smoke and perfume gave everything a sensual musk. This wasn't the oldest brothel in Eldred's Cross, but its reputation wasn't made based on longevity. Quality was the name of the game. If you wanted the best, you went to Bison's. The companions here were unmatched anywhere in the realm. The madame, by reputation, was known to be the most exotic beauty on these shores. Some say she is a grey elf from eastern Llohna, hand maiden to the Everqueen. Others boast that her beauty was crafted by wizardry. Whatever the case few have sampled her legendary skills. Now we sat in her private meeting room, a fellowship of kindred spirits. Sharing an abominable secret. Owing that bond to the devil himself.

My associates had just returned from the kingdom of sorrows, victorious over the Father of Lies. Their much deserved respite was to be spent in the one place in the realm whose offerings were equal to the achievements of my dear friends.

To my right a musician plucks at his smoke cured lute, finding a suitable tune to match the grand tale spun by heroes. One rarely hears tales of conquest in hell and seldom meets the victors in person. I have the privilege and honor of calling them friends.

Adjusting my bacon and butter filled flanks for greater comfort in the overstuffed chair, I settled in for what was to be an evening of high adventure. To my left, also enjoying the fine furnishings and hospitality of Bison's were the love struck couple I had counseled in my days as a simple friar at The Chalice. Though elements of the church had conspired against them. It appears love prevailed over fear and mistrust. The fair maiden was a blossom of womanhood that would reduce kings to beggars. At her side the steely warrior shaman of the Angel's Reach. Though their verbal exchanges amounted to sparring, their eyes told the true story. For creatures of their prowess, surrender was never easy and doubly so here. On the next divan, near the velvet curtains keeping the November winds at bay, sat the pair of rangers. I say the pair, because that is what they truly are. Silverhawk of the Verve was assigned to the quest for St. Rose on the good word of her sister, an esteemed member of the Imperial Rangers. As I sat in the meeting chamber that fateful night preceding the quest I could see her youthful curiosity regarding the man whom her sister nominated as lead scout for the endeavor. Their trail-tested affair seems stronger than ever. The mark of experience has made each of them more beautiful. More of an enigma for me is the man they call Corman Mastiff. He joined them in their quest. A representative of a tribe of Vorseman. I had read about these men in journals from Clovermen priests visiting from the island north of The Grimme. Next to him was one of Bison's more beautiful courtesans. A rare gem from Castille. Hair the color of roasted chestnuts, eyes a bright green of emeralds. A contrast to his blond locks and chiseled angles. The two were content to embrace while Calais began to recite their journey.

I had shared my story regarding the dark ones successful mission to disrupt my research into the nefarious nature of the bell recovered from the Abbey of St. Rose. The succubus he had sent to steal my research had succeeded despite my wariness and caution. Now through the ordeals suffered by my present company I come to understand the full nature of Satan's plan. I had come to find my part in the play was small, but pivotal. Satan had worked and conspired for nearly four hundred years to place the bell in to tower of the Basilica in Florenta. Sot that the ringing of the bell would usher in the four horsemen of the apocalypse. All the holy men of the church, myself included worked feverishly to place the bell in the tower thinking we were fulfilling a prophetic reunion. How foolish we were. Our vanity serving Satan's ends. If not for these most worthy people we would all suffer for our vanity, perhaps even to the extinction of man.

I learned later that St. Catherine had mad know to those in high positions the true nature of the bell.

When Calais and the others had completed the telling of their adventures, the strong mead and wines were taking their toll. Aster the bartender had managed to procure a clay jug imported from the Vorseman's home village. The significance of this gift was not lost on him. A sheen of tears welled in his eyes giving them the look of tiny candelabras set against the void. Uncorking the bottle he raised a glass as we each in turn partook of his lost history.

Soon the couples found a private room to express their joy at life and love against such great odds. I myself accepted the role of guardian. Though Bison's is a top knotch establishment, its affiliation with the Facci leaves something to be desired.

In the morning a took a stroll outside. The morning market was an opportunity for good conversation and fresh biscuits that an old friar cannot bypass. As I was pressing my thumbs into a fresh baked roll I swear I saw a man on giant leathery wings carrying a naked maiden aloft over the rooftops. My eyes are not as good as there were in my youth, but I could have sworn the woman was none other than the Madrigala paladin. I turnd on my heel and headed back to Bison's to ensure no foul play had befallen her. When I arrived the couple were emerging from their room unharmed. These aged eyes it seems cannot be trusted even in the broad light of day. As the two passed me in the hall I caught a wink from Enzo. His silvery eyes were always a bit disconcerting, but now I think I had even more reason for caution.

In any case it was good to have old friends back safe and sound.