Town Centre

"HUH," Said the Suddenly awakened Asthor the sneak. He checked his sides and soon saw a man who was stroking his white, long beard.Out of natural instincts, for what had befallen him and his father earlier Asthor suddenly, as if he was a master at unholstering, pulled the mysterious thoranium axe off of his red leather armor/shirt. But he saw who the man was, Dropped his axe in mid swing, and, instead he asked the man who he was. Without waiting for a response Asthor ran off into the settlement and foundeda few tents

"Huh? Uh, yeah, I can bring you to our Lord, Who are you and what do you need to meet him for?" The guard responds to Asthor "Sneak"

Father Wolfgang rode around the encampment observing the civilians and refugees. He was being escorted by four dismounted Knight-Brothers clad in their heavy armor and wielding their swords. When Wolfgang came to a spot where some workers were resting he came to a halt and motioned to his Knights. They found a sort of crate that Wolfgang could stood upon. As he managed to pull his crippled leg up onto the wooden crate he pulled a small book from one of his pockets. The priest cleared his throat and began to preach.

"In the days of old, our ancestors experienced a terrible calamity we all know as the Cataclysm. Hope is fragile, and in this time their was none left. Until he came. He called himself John, but his people would come to know him as Saint John. John was a poor man, a humble man. He wanted nothing, he took nothing, and what he might have had he gave to the unfortunate. He was a healer and a friend to any who would listen to his words. He taught people how to be happy, he taught them how to live again, and above all he taught them how to hope again."

"Saint John knew their were heavenly figures watching over us. He knew of Angels, and he worshiped them, because he knew that through Angels came hope. And this is the basis of Angelism, my friends: finding faith in the Angels above us, knowing they will protect us. Even know, they look over Aozora with a watchful eye, and I swear to you my friends they will guide you and protect you until the end of time."

A young girl walked forward; she was the child of an artisan who followed Wolfgang to the camp. "What happened to John?"

Wolfgang frowned and sighed. "Saint John had many enemies. He was eventually captured by those who hated him, and then burned on a cross. Hence," Wolfgang pointed to a black cross sigil on one of his Knights, "the Black Cross." The child frowned and seemed sad. "But he is heaven now, my child. He ascended and became an Angel; he watches over you now. Your fate is in his hands, and he will protect you, this I promise."

Hmmm, interesting...

He listened to the guard's banter for a while, until he noticed the man on the outskirts. He watched, not knowing whom they were, once he saw that he was okay, the dragon would take flight. He had to find a new home, err... cave, cavern, thing...

Osma's thick, dark eyebrow rose as a blue frog hopped up on the large wheel near her carriage window. Her breath held, unsure what poisons the thing might burp forth. She let the curtain she held back fall. The carriage, trimmed in gold paint the shape of stag horns, shifted as she shuffled to the other window. The yellow curtain was pulled back. Her elbow rested on edge of the window's frame.

The heavy aroma of burning wood was dragged along the fledgling road leading from the settlement. The small party she commanded had only stopped a moment, in the hopes of inquiring where they were to the old man (GEORGE). Seeing him poke a mushroom at the cry-baby Ashtor, Osma thought better than to ask the village quack anything.

"Drive on." She commanded as she hit the back of the carriage so that the driver would hear. She watched the frog, hop in vain to stay on the wheel and finally, hop off. If they had been going backwards the thing would have been crushed.

Stupid amphion.

Her eyes turned to George as the carriage party moved toward the "gate" of the makeshift settlement. Inside the carriage, Osma nearly slipped from her seat as the carriage came to a stop. The brass head adornment slipped down and knocked painfully against the bridge of her nose. If they weren't so close to where she hoped to settled, she would have let out a louder curse word than the loud whisper of "fricking..." she let lose.

"Lady Osma," The driver stated. "Midwife and herbalist. Respected by all of..."

"Yes. Thank you." Osma cut the driver off as she stuck her head out the window of the carriage. "Looking to resettle, which I image is the story of many who stop at your gates. Do you have an open market settled just? It's just, well, we've had a terrible journey. The roads, when they are existance, are really just crap. Literally, there were pot holes filled with crap. I think perhaps we ran over some privy holes or something. Sorry for the smell." Her hand waved to the brown-black mud on the carriage wheels and underbelly. "Are your markets open? We've nothing to eat but rabbits and I'm -dying- for something less adorable. Nothing makes you feel more like a jerk than skinning a cute a bunny. Or watching one be skinned, in my case."

Anyone who ever survived a week long bout of diarrhea in a foreign land knew that plants from different kingdoms reacted within the body differently even if the stupid foreign plant looked the same as a common edible one you were used to eating back home.

Osma would never assemble another wild leaf forest salad again.

At the news that she was the first herbalist to arrive, Osma's lip curled and her eyes rolled. "Ohhhh," her shoulders deflated and the backside of her ring clacked against the outside of the carriage. Well great. Now I gotta be the guinea pig or find some crazy idiot to eat all the unknown crap for me.

That old guy poking people with mushrooms and shoving toads down people's pants...

Osma stuck her head farther out the window, trying to spy the tiny figure of the old croon George. He was just the crazy old bastard to maybe, unintentionally, kill.

The guard distracted her with the disappointed that they didn't have a variety of foodstuffs. "Aw!" She gave him a dirty look. All well, at least she had some spices from home. Pointing towards the road they had left behind, she spoke to the guard. "Do you see a crazy old man along the road? You're bound to smell him before you see him, even over the poop skank." Her hand waved to the "mud" stuck to the underside of the carriage. "Fetch him for me. He is my assistant. Or will be, whenever we get to set up shop. How does that work? They pass out tickets to stake a land claim once I get to Itao...Imato..." What the frick was the name of the place?

With Katashima a lost civilization, Momotaro decided to move on in the world and find a new place to retire. A land of refugees suited him just fine.

He would wonder around playing his flute. It was an upbeat, relaxing tune meant to be played during times of harvest. Hopefully it would put the settling locals and guards in a good mood.

Someone of sufficient magical skill might sense three spirits following him: a large baboon, a dog, and a pheasant. They were all friendly and would invisibly be wandering around, observing the antics of the other settlers.

Setting up shop now, just to have to move it after the designs came out later didn't sound like a wonderful idea to Osma. She let that thought be worn on her face as she sigh. So much work to do. That's what moving your life to another kingdom got you. Not that she choose to move her life, persay.

George's scretching carried own the road, threatening to make Osma's ears bleed. Oh,Geeze. He is certifiably insane.
"Well? Go and fetch him." She barked at one of her own hired men. With a sigh, she let the curtain fall on the Aozora guard and waited with her arms cross until a knock was placed at her carriage door. "Open." That had better be that loony old guy so they could get the show on the road. They were jamming up the line to enter the town center.

The guard opened the door to the carriage, which was lined inside with a yellow cushions against the dark mahogany wood. Pretty fancy for someone who was midwife and herbalist, at least in most kingdoms. Osma herself was well dressed, not a speck of blood or the a sign of work about her garments or hands.

George on the other hand. Oh, George.

A critical eye looked him over from the toes that were exposed in his worn shoes to his scrubby bread. What the hell is clinging to it?" She wondered. Whatever it was, it appeared to move. George was in sore need of delousing. " Do NOT come in." Osma jutted out her hand to stop him, should he try to enter the carriage.

"You are in need of a job." Osma stated with her chin rose, as if that could help cover his smell. "And you now have one. You will be my...." Her eyes rolled to the carriage roof. The title Poison Checker came with a heavy wage. Food Taste not much cheaper.

"Assistant." She settled on the word with a smile that died when she turned her eyes back to George. What was he doing now? "What say you?"