"Not a problem," the mirror man seems to look at Jorvik and Kuragin's strange dress, its reflective face affording both the men the same opportunity, "An explanation."
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"Boss Jorvik, gobbos wanna make big plan... run big scam or sumfin. Me tell 'em not to bother powerful jadwiga like you. They no bother us now. But, if we need gobbos to do dirty work for bosses, mebbe Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight can make it happen. "
Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight is fascinated by the mirror man. "OOOoooOOOOooooo!!" he exclaims, as he tries to get a good look in the "face" of the mirror man. "Me can see Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight there! Me very handsome goblin!"
He keeps looking at the mirror face of the odd person.
Ishbaad stands still, doing his best not to appear impatient. He knows this part is not for him. Subtly, he kicks his foot out to get the goblin's attention, trying to get him to stop before he draws to much attention to the group.
With any luck, they will be past this little check point and on to their actual destination.
"What?!!? An explanation? Shall we go for drinks so I may get drunk and spill my innermost secrets to you? Are my papers not valid? Do you wish to know my history, my years of torment in the castle? How about my lineage? My unknown snowcaster father?
"Come this is tiresome. I wish to return home. To see what once was. To see what will be. To know what I have lost in the south if I can ever gain again in the north. The sun sets, the time runs, and here I stand speaking.
"Let us pass."
The mirror man looks angrily back at Jorvik... at least that's the impression Jorvik gets from his own face staring back at him. The thing's voice is impassive, however, "I did not ask for an explanation. That you are a Stilyagi was an explanation," after a moment, it adds, "For your manner of dress, and his. Your lineage was written on your papers. Your torment is not of concern."
The mirror man does not move to block Jorvik, but the other still does have its hand held out for Kuragin's papers. "It is the law," the other one states, "By royal decree this past month. In Whitethrone, all non-Jadwiga must be accompanied or have papers, and all Jadwiga must show papers. None are allowed on the streets between the hours of midnight and dawn."
Aoife stands silently behind Kuragin, her hands slowly turning the harrow card end over end, pausing randomly to gaze at the stylistic image of the blood-red ant emblazoned upon it. Her hands are free of the gauntlets, and initially she feels a latent, seemingly distant fear that she a piece of her is missing without the enormous gloves covering her hands. The anger, hurt, and drive to avenge her father is still fueling her every motion and bending her thoughts toward the pleasure of grabbing ahold of the usurping witch, imagining with relish the rocking back of the woman's eyes if only Aoife's gauntlets could close, vise-like on the queen's tender neck. Beyond the rage and hatred for the acting-queen of witches, Aoife felt lost and alone without the gauntlets because each was a tangible link to her father, maybe even an intentional gift from him to her, and she knew she would never have reached this place without them.
As these thoughts and feelings stir within her mind, she remains silent before the strange creature and looks off with unfocused eyes.
No sooner has Ishbaad found a private place to turn into an oread once more than Greta leaps down from a rooftop in front of him. Her face is feral and furious. "You! You're not a winter wolf - not even human! And you... you must have been wearing a rimepelt! In The Howlings!" Her form starts to shift and her ears elongate as her whole body hunches over.
Kuragin indignantly passes the mirror man his paperwork, who in turn holds the papers up to its face. "You may all pass," it says blandly as they both return to their posts.
Ringeirr seems to visibly relax at this and leads the group southwards to his destination. "Going to the Water Palace," he says, "And the Hidden Gardens." This takes the companions past the Porcelain District, where the main street features rows of shops dedicated to selling fine porcelain - mostly sculptures, vases, plates, cups and the like. The most lavishly adorned of these shops feature porcelain dolls, eerily similar to the guardian doll housing the spirit of Thora Petska. None, however, seem to have the mirrored eye that those ghoulish guardians do.
The smell of the nearby bone mill pervades the area and, for some, ruins the charm of these ornate shops.
Porcelain makes a wonderful - if expensive - gift to any Jadwiga, the finer the better.
Whether or not you wish to share these facts is entirely up to you.
The streets are busy, but accompanied by obvious stilyagi as they are, no-one gives the companions more than a second glance. The quiet dignity of the Porcelain District is not disturbed by anything so common as hawkers. One particular shop, called 'The Cocoa Pot' has the delightful smell of hot chocolate wafting out of its door. A group of garishly dressed Jadwiga seem to be laughing over some hilarity and, upon noticing Kuragin, give him a friendly wave.
My goddess, when your servant says he will repent, you mean to make sure he repents, don’t you?
A wave of shame washes over Ishbaad. Interestingly, he realizes later, he wasn’t at all afraid of the physical fight Greta might bring to him. Painful though it might be, his only thoughts were the shame in disappointing her, in letting her down. The truth of his lie revealed brings a shame that nearly cripples him.
”I am sorry, m’lady. My deception is revealed, and your anger is justified.” Ishbaad immediately relents, accepting the admonishment. He keeps his black eyes locked on Greta’s icy blues, his face not yet twisted to that of a yeti. Despite her shifting form, all he sees is the woman who shared a bed with him. Beauty unbridled.
”You deserve to know. While we could have come in the city any way we chose, because of the Jadwiga we travel with, we did not want to be bothered. The rimepelt seemed the easiest way to pass through quickly and with minimal delay.” Ishbaad takes a deep breath.
”Then I saw you, and my world was undone.”
Ishbaad stares at the winter wolf hard, waiting for her to respond.
Look at you. Worlds apart. Opposites in so many ways. You are wild and untamed. Servant of the embodiment of evil, tyranny and unjustified oppression. I am controlled and deliberate. Servant of the embodiment of goodness, justice and valor. Why am I so drawn to you? Why am I so drawn to that which would destroy the very fabric of who I am?
She may just reach out and tear my throat out. Perhaps I deserve it. In my selfishness, I not only put those I love in danger, but managed to break the trust of one whom I never would have imagined I would care to have that trust with.
Several moments pass in silence as Ishbaad is caught with the flood of emotions swirling in his head.
His face remains passive, like the mountains he was cut from.
Upon the mirror man's remark, Kuragin spreads his arms and let's the creature admire his garments - now supplemented with genuine Taldan articles.
"Of course I am a stilyagi" And proud of it...
Kuragin presents his papers to the mirror man, and keeps his face very straight when doing it. Inside, however, he feels very nervous while the creature is checking the document. And when the party is told they are free to go, the witch breathes out in relief.
"It is good for you, that I am a stilyagi," Kuragin says to the others, now obviously in a better mood. "No one will wonder outsiders when they are in the company of a culture crow. But on your own, you would get the guards on you immediately. So stick with me or Jorvik"
"... and this is the Porcelain District. I am sure you can guess where the name comes from." Kuragin explains, happy to act as a tour guide for the others. In general, the usual grumpiness of the witch seems to have been left outside the city walls. In this urban setting he feels comfortable, despite all the danger. Here he feels home. "The porcelain is very valuable, and especially the dolls are very appreciated gifts (and you might guess the uses for them). But, you might find the construction of these items slightly distasteful. I will spare you the details, but I'll let you know that the source of the porcelain is the very same as the source of this unpleasant smell."
Kuragin answers the wave from the local stilyagi with a smile. He approaches the table, making sure everyone can take a good look on his attire, and the company he travels with.
"Добрый день друзья, прекрасный день, чтобы удовлетворить вас. Могу ли я беспокоить вас, чтобы спросить, что это последнее слово в городе? Я был уехать на некоторое время, и поэтому, к сож"
"Good day friends, a fine day to meet you. May I bother you to ask what is the latest word in the city? I have been away for a while, and so unfortunately clueless of latest rumours."
Greta halts her transformation, puffing and panting while eying Jorvik carefully. Her canines shrink and the beauty of her human form is revealed once more. "I saw you fight Agilur for my honor," she says simply, "You are not a winter wolf - you did not need to do that. He could have killed you." Her angry glare remains but her words, at least, are soft.
"Tell me, Ishbaad - if that is truly your name - was anything you told me true?" the oread does not need his inquisitorial powers to know that she is hurt, and perhaps surprised about that.
"You should know also," she says, standing up straight, "That the pact does not apply to non-wolves. You are not bound by it, and do not need to stop seeing me." The statement strikes Isbhaad like a splash of cold water. Why would she say that... why would she say that if she didn't want to keep seeing him?
"Oh, that explains why you only speak to me in Taldane!" she admonishes herself.
"Recently arrived, eh?" calls out the man who seems to be the leader of the group, "My name is Pavel Turosky. Quite the retinue you have there! Is that an Oread?" He admires Ishbaad as a critic might admire a particularly exceptional piece of art.
"Not much news of Whitethrone, I'm afraid," Pavel continues, "It's rather boring around here since martial law was declared. Our playthings need all their paperwork in order..."
"Boring!" cry his companions at once. This routine was practiced.
"... and so we must either fill it out or accompany them on their little missions. The Market Square is also covered in trees. While this is interesting, it does make it hard to find rare clothes and other cultural artefacts. We tried to take it up with Queen Elvanna herself, but she apparently isn't even in the city. Her children were no help at all. 'Whatever mother thinks' this, and 'whatever mother says' that."
"Boring! they yell again, ignorant to the irony of declaring something as boring in exactly the same way time and again.
Ishbaad stands in front of Greta, floored by her response. He moves his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first. Each time she pauses, then adds something else, he is even more floored.
Less times than one might count fingers on a single hand, Ishbaad has allowed any betrayal of emotion on his face. This is one more, as the confusion, indredulity, shame, and hope all swirl through his mind and can clearly be seen on his stony features.
She is hurt because of my deception. She would not be hurt if she didn't care...
"I cannot say why I fought for your honor any more than I can say why I was so taken by your beauty at the gates, though I know the reasons are the same. I am Ishbaad the Chosen. I am an Oread cut from the mountain itself, not a winter wolf. I do not understand this, but I..." Ishbaad cuts himself off, then takes a second to regain his composure.
"I spoke no lie to you. I only hid my identity from you. Admittedly that was to trick you and allow us to pass into the city without getting bothered. Though I see now that even that, after... well... It is a betrayal of trust I would not expect you to forgive... or forget." Ishbaad takes a deep breath.
I must not fall into her trap. I must not give into my weakness, this temptation. Agilur defeated me. Gave me a way out, a chance to walk away. A chance to forget about all of this as a one time lapse in judgement. Iomedae would never approve. I cannot allow this temptation to hold sway over me. Just walk away.
"It... The pact... does not apply to me?" he asks, surprised that the words were spoken aloud.
No! That is not walking away from temptation!
His mind rages, imploring the inquisitor to simply walk away. End this before he allows himself to get deeper. But somewhere else in his mind his senses are flooded with a rush. The sensation of not just acceptance but... attraction? Not his attraction to her, but more that she is attracted to him for reasons he cannot explain, and dares not question.
I am Oread. Jewel was human. That worked. Why not this?
Wait. No. It isn't about her race. It is about what she stands for. She could not be more opposite than me. How does an inquisitor of Iomedae fight oppression and fear-mongering while bedding a female winter wolf in human form? Walk. Away. Now.
"Yes, I speak Taldan. I have heard the Jadwiga speak in your tongue." Ishbaad's heart begins to race as he prepares himself to ask the question that sits on the tip of his tongue. The portion of his mind that would tell him to stop is drowned out by the rush of adrenaline he feels, knowing he is about to dive headfirst back into the temptation he convinced himself he needed to walk away from.
"You could... teach your language to me, perhaps?"
"Ha ha ha!" Greta's burst of laughter is genuine and all tension seems to flood from her, "I tell you you may keep seeing me, and that I know your true self now... and all you want is language lessons? Ha! I may never understand you southerners, but I will teach you or Northern tongues. You can then tell me in my own tongue why a southerner is so interested in how I feel about Elvanna and Baba Yaga."
Greta draws a map on a piece of parchment, clearly indicating where her den is. "I guess we need not meet at the Last Howl. Let us see how your mountain flesh holds up against my claws."
The woman is more of a pragmatist than she seemed at first. Shrugging, she completes her transformation into wolf form and trots off.
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"You say midnight to dawn, even Jadwiga are not allowed on the streets? By what decree? As I have stated, we are recently arrived and I wish to stay out of trouble."
"Is that make up sex they are having?" Flushing red, Jorvik turns to look at Aoife.
"Best not to stare Aoife. Once day Auntie Kuragin will explain why they are hugging like that."
"By decree of Queen Elvanna," the mirror man replies, without the hint of condescension that Jorvik would receive if he asked one of his peers.
Ishbaad grabs at Greta's mane as she walks away, whispering something into her ear. The wolf lopes off, turning a corner and is gone as quickly as she appeared.
What am I doing?
He turns to look back at Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight, staring up at him quizzically. The goblin says nothing, just stares.
Unnerved by the strange behavior, Ishbaad leans down and whispers in his ear. "I told her I want to understand what she is screaming when we..." He stops abruptly and stands back up.
"You get the idea." he smirks and then follows along as the group approaches the intersection with a strange mirror-faced... creature.
Ishbaad stands still as the eccentric jadwiga inspect him. Gone is the rush of adrenaline and excitement that came with Greta. Now is the uncomfortable position of playing the part of a slave, or plaything. He knows in his heart that it isn't true, but the discomfort of the condescending attitude is still no fun.
He glances at Aoife, hopeful that she will handle it ok, and worried about the quiet hole she seems to be drawing herself into in her mind.
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The interactions happening around the child have their sound dulled, faintly echoing into Aoife's ears as little more than muffled murmurs. Ahead in a shop window her eyes focus on one of the strange porcelain dolls. There is a sickening feeling growing within her stomach as she steps away from the others until she reaches the storefront, her nose nearly pressed against the frozen pane of glass.
There she was, eerily before Aoife, the twisted effigy of her friend, Thora Petska. Ragged breaths escalate nearly to the point of hyperventilation as she looks upon the dolls with disgust and the child is painfully reminded that she is a stranger in this place, unwanted and unwelcome. Her only thankful thought was that Nadya didn't have to see these disturbing playthings.
Her own words, a promise and a vow, spoken to a true friend that Aoife never had the pleasure of knowing. The image of Thora's face as it faded, erased from existence by the falling snow was briefly superimposed atop the pristine-white of the porcelain doll due to some wicked trick of her mind.
"I swear it to you. And we will make sure this... Lady Nazhena Vasilliovna... remembers your name before the end."
Aoife's hand clenches at the thought of her last words to Thora and grinds her teeth while looking upon the abhorrent dolls lining the storefront. In her hand the Queen Mother harrow card is gifted with another folded and tattered edge.
Ringeirr walks over to Kuragin very slowly, head bowed. When he reaches the Jadwiga he bows even lower. "My master, may I speak?"
He waits for Kuragin to nod before whispering, "Master, I must remind you that the appointment is time sensitive. Should we go ahead of you and explain your absence? Or would you like to go now and return here later?"
The stilyagi in the café raise their eyebrows at the borderline impudence, but defer to Kuragin. After all, that was a very low bow the 'servant' executed. He probably knows he'll get a beating for speaking out of turn later on. None notice Ringeirr's knuckles turning white beneath his gloves as he clenches his fists.
"Indeed he is an Oread..." Kuragin brags excitedly, when the name of the man hits home. "Ah! 'Prince' Turosky! How honored I am to meet a man of such refined taste. Kuragin Kseniya, at your service." The witch gives Pavel a playful bow while he speaks. "How odd are the new you speak of. And do the rumours tell us why our beloved Queen has left us without her care?"
While Ringeirr's acting is excellent, the annoyed look on the interrupted Kuragin's face is very real. But the Jadwiga remembers why they are, and plays along. "This one is correct. W... I do have a meeting, and I shan't be late. I hope we can return to this conversation on a later, gentlemen. Now, I must bid you farewell!"
Well here I am. Back 'home'. Why has Desna cursed me to return? I long for the days roaming with the mammoth lords, hunting the great game that ambled across the tundra. The camps fires where we swapped stories and bragged about deeds that were never done. What is my purpose here? What will I accomplish by facing that which I had hoped to burry and never to think on again?
Jorvik sees Kuragin approach 'Prince' Turosky, and turns to his companions.
"Friends, this man, 'Prince' Turosky, is the stilyag here. We would do well to name him an ally."
Swiftly, Jorvik joins Kuragin. "Hello friends, I am Jorvik Rybalt. Well met all. It seems that in our long absence we have failed to keep up on the news and happenings here, but also the fashions. My where ever did you find a cut of cloth so resplendent? It seems that both our knowings of current events and our wardrobe are in need of an improvement.
"Is there a location we can call upon you tomorrow? Our entourage has remind us of an important meeting. We seemed to have tarried with all the sights and sounds of home crashing into to us over and over again."
Prince Pavel Turosky inclines his head and makes a flourish with his hand. "The pleasure is all mine, Kuragin Kseniya. We meet here most mid-mornings for something delightful the Varisians refer to as 'brunch'. Perhaps we will see you here tomorrow, and don't forget to bring your oread! The halfling would be most welcome also. You can leave that one at your lodgings. He smells of fish."
As they linger outside the coffee shop, the smell of hot cocoa wafts over to titillate the companions' nostrils. There is something truly wonderful about this unique blend of northern spices and a hint of winteryew nuts that blends so beautifully with the bitter chocolate and imported Garundi refined sugar.
Smells just like mother used to make. The thought comes unbidden to Aoife's mind.
"Alas, but I found these garments in the market," Aoife hears the distant conversation between Jorvik and Pavel as though in a dream, "A travelling Keleshite silk merchant was assuring me that these were all the rage in Sothis these days. Come back tomorrow and fill me in on current southern events, and I'll be glad to catch you up on Whitethrone events... and show you the dens where the best fashionista suppliers have scurried off to!"
* * *
Ringeirr leads the way out of the Porcelain District and down to the Water Palace - the decadent hot spring baths at the edge of the Floes District, Whitethrone's most elite neighborhood. The buildings here have been built on the islands east of the Royal Palace and are inhabited almost exclusively by the Jadwiga Elvanna and the higher ranking nobles of the more recent Queens' houses. Inside the Water Palace, air elementals dance in heated chambers in a display of the obscene power possessed by Irrisen's nobles.
The natural hot springs also heat the air of the Hidden Gardens, Irrisen's enormous greenhouse complex. Roughly a third of all the fruit consumed in Whitethrone is grown right here. It goes without saying that no fresh fruit eaten in Whitethrone is eaten by the Ulfen underclass. The heat of the springs, combined with the magics of the witches who oversee the project, ensures that even tropical fruit can be served fresh at the tables of Irrisen's wealthiest nobles.
Just between the Hidden Gardens and the Water Palace proper, Ringeirr singles out a small, humble bathhouse (most probably frequented by lesser Jadwiga and traveling non-humans). He exchanges a knowing nod with the servant tending the door, and enters with the companions. The attendant raises his eyebrow as Kuragin, obviously oblivious to the cold walks past. "Endure elements potion. Part of the disguise," Ringeirr whispers in his ear, not wanting to explain why a Jadwiga is being allowed here.
The humid heat inside this building is stifling, and all but Kuragin must take off layers or sweat through them. Ringeirr shows the way to a small private bath, at the back of which is a lone statuette of a woman covering herself with a towel. Ringeiir twists her around and a very well hidden secret door slides open.
The walls of the corridor behind the sliding door are plain, and lead into a small shrine dedicated to Milani the Everbloom. To the side of the shrine are a dozen humble cots, all of which are made and unoccupied. Perhaps only Jorvik and Kuragin find it conspicuous that there seem to be absolutely no mirrors in the entire complex.
Standing up from the shrine is a statuesque Ulfen woman dressed in ceremonial robes and a simple, but very functional breastplate bearing the rose on a street running red with blood design of Milani upon its collar.
"Welcome to the Shrine of the Everbloom," she begins in a quiet but confident voice, "My name is Solveig Ayrdahl. Who are you, and how can I help you?"
Ringeirr remains quiet, indicating that the companions should do the talking here.
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Disappointed that the Mirror Man has ignored him, but not entirely surprised.
"Boss Turosky? Okies. Me will remember he friend of Boss Jorvik."
As the others discuss plans, Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight starts thinking about going to see his mother. It has been a few years, and he doesn't even know if she's alive. Goblins don't always get all that sentimental about such things, but Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight has been around humans for perhaps too long. He's started to think a little like them.
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"Me is Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight, and me is great goblin hero." He pauses a moment, remembering some of the things that have knocked his hubris down a few notches as of late. "Well, me great hero as goblins go, maybe. Not so great of hero as my bosses here. This is Boss Jadwiga Jorvik Rybalt, powerful hero and inspiration to us all! Then is Boss Jadwiga Kuragin Kseniya, power winter witch. Yes, he is not a lady, but is still a witch. Me get confused sometimes, too. Then is powerful man from south, Ishbaad the Chosen, blessed of Iomedae. He bring light of Inheritor to north, so we all be better. And then is my fried, Aiofe Limerick. You know let her small size make you think she no big hero. She face down foes many times her size without getting scared. Just like Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight!"
The little goblin has been noticeably puffing out his chest while giving all of the introductions.
"What is Everbloom?" he asks after all of this.
Disappointed that the Mirror Man has ignored him, but not entirely surprised.
The Stilyagi 'Prince' seems not to even register that Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight was there. Owning Snow Goblins is so... so... Northern and so five centuries ago.
Solveig frowns, but inclines her head towards Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight. "Nice to meet you, Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight. I can honestly say that I have never met a goblin hero before. Thank you for introducing your friends also.
"Milani the Everbloom is the Goddess of Hope, and the light of freedom to those who are oppressed. She would make an excellent deity for a Snow Goblin, should he wish for spiritual support in throwing off the shackles of the Jadwiga. Like your friend's deity, Iomedae, she was a friend of Aorden, the Last Azlanti, before his passing. Unlike Iomedae, she was simpnly a saint before he died and not a god. She ascended to godhood in the wake of the Last Azlanti's death.
"Now," she says patiently but firmly, "Perhaps some of you can tell me what brings you to Whitethrone."
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My world is changed forever. My life is complete. I have a daughter, and her name is Aoife Limerick. Nadezhda has ever had a way with bringing out the beauty in words, and I could not approve more of the name of our firstborn child.
Before Nadezhda would name her though, she persisted in asking me about the oddest thing: she wished to know if the babe laughed or cried. I told her that all healthy babes cry, and that our daughter was no exception. Then, she made me do a pantomime of Aoife's cry. She wanted to be absolutely sure it could not be interpreted as a laugh.
I would have laughed myself had she not been so serious.
I have a daughter and her name is Aoife Limerick. I have a beautiful and loving wife and her name is Nadhezda Limerick. I have never been so happy.
---
Nadhezda informs me that yesterday was the winter solstice. I love her for how she keeps track of such things. The seasons, the stars. They fascinate her like no-one I have ever met.
Aoife is sleeping as I write this, cradled in Nadi's loving arms. She is such a good mother. I asked her again this morning why she wanted to know if Aoife laughed. She just shook her head and refused to explain. Then she made me that intoxicating hot chocolate of hers and, as ever, I was transported to a different world in a cocoa boat on a sea of sweetness, carried by a spiced wind.
* * *
"Thank you for that introduction, Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight." Ishbaad says sincerely, in stark contrast to their greeting with Greta at the gates of the Howlings district. He smiles, hoping the little goblin has forgiven him.
Ishbaad wastes no time, cutting right to the heart of the matter. He knows they are in a safe place, for if this holy shrine were to be discovered by the witches, it would be a smoking ruin.
"We are not the black rider himself, but we have been given his power. We are here to overthrow Queen Elvanna and usher back the Queen of Witches so that she may bring back order to this country, and most importantly, stop the spilling of winter through portals all throughout Golarion."
Not a bad synopsis, if short and lacking some context... He muses.
"I know your goals here are to usher summer back to Irrisen, and I do not oppose them. So it may seem counter-intuitive to help someone such as us, who is only here to overthrow the current queen who has outstayed her welcome. It may seem counter-productive to bring Baba Yaga herself back. But this is our mission nonetheless. We would stop the spread of winter to the whole of Golarion through Elvanna's winter portals. Perhaps once that is accomplished, there will be more we can discuss about your long term goals as Heralds of Summer's Return."
"Well met, Solveig Ayrdahl. I am Jorvik Bloodspeaker, man of the north. It appears that everyone has taken a great interest in our purpose here, be it friend or foe. We should really have this better rehearsed by now but Ishbaad speaks truly, and well." He claps the man on the shoulder flashing him a weary smile.
"And Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight is a goblin hero, as odd as that is to both say and hear. More times than I care to count he and his flaming concoctions have saved my life.
"I thank you for welcoming us here, though we know that by doing so you have exposed yourself to even more risk. We have stated plainly and truthfully our purposes, and I must confess though I have cast my lot with Desna, Milani seems an apt patron for this place and your cause. I am sure that you have done her proud. As a man of learning, when time permits, I would like to hear more. Unfortunately, I guess we should move on to more pressing matters.
"Ringeirr, and the Heralds of Summer's Return, believe that you are a woman that can assist us in this endeavor. We are newly returned and though we have heard a bit here, and a smidgen there, intelligence is often more powerful than a strong, hammer wielding arm.
"Resources to defeat this evil will also be required. Though we have some ... erm ... acquired items to hawk, we are not sure if we will be sufficiently equipped for the job.
"Lastly, and perhaps more importantly, though we have sworn to accept this quest, and may it be fulfilled or may my half-blood paint this city a red memorial it will never forget, perhaps we should acquire more like minded individuals to help with actually fighting this tyranny, so we may be returned to the old, better tyranny. Yes I know how foolish that sounds, but the old tyranny was much perfected, and isolated."
Jorvik looks to his companions to see if he has misspoken or failed to correctly convey their thoughts and feelings.
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The eloquence of Jorvik's words and commendable, intelligently constructed arguments are wholly lost on Aoife, who stands a few paces behind the others and looks upon Solveig Ayrdahl with unemotional eyes. The child's gaze is subdued and cold, as if she were looking directly through Solveig, paying no more attention to the woman than if she were a frozen tree stump. This woman and her cause, the importance of meeting her and finding allies, Aoife could not bring herself to care for this.
In the market, she had heard talk of the southern lands, though the city mentioned seemed foreign to her. Hearing of the south made her think of the south, and look back on that place with tenderness and longing. There was warmth, rolling green hills, and everyday, normal people that did not try to kill her and all her friends. She even questioned to herself if she ever should have run to Ishbaad's house and set off on this doomed journey. Either she had been too slow to save her father, or she was deluded to think she could have, and both thoughts would haunt her now. There was small voice inside herself, distant but growing it tenacity and firmness, though it didn't speak with words, only painful emotions and regret, and its message made her feel a fool.
Tomorrow, if she could manage, she would return to those talking about the south, and learn what she could of what was happening there. And then maybe, just maybe, after she had strangled the life from this acting queen of witches, Aoife could return there.
She had never known how much she missed Madame Jar of Pickles, who had always seemed a stern and strict nanny, but miss her now Aoife did. Maybe even Nadya could be convinced to return there, with Orm and Mjoli, it would be the closest thing to a mother she had ever known... Nadya was the closest thing to a mother she had ever known.
Roused from mental wanderings, the child shook her head and looked to Solveig. "My name is Aoife," she starts, her tone dull and droning. "Just like Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight told you."
"Queen Elvanna killed my father," she pauses, still almost looking straight through the woman. "And now I will kill her for that."
The child then looks down the tattered harrow card still held in hand, apparently resigned that her words were either a good enough explanation, or that she did not owe any additional response.
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The child slowly opens the book, letting the journal's pages gently fall open as her eyes peer down and take in the elegant, wavy script penned by her father. Her gaze drifts down the sheet while her tongue, unbeknownst to Aoife, juts awkwardly from the corner of her mouth and pokes into view. Her entire hand rests on the page and slowly lowers while the child reads each line as it appears above the receding fingertips.
My father... he wrote this... she thinks, unintentionally smiling as the moment passes and she has allowed herself to forget he is forever gone. And my mother, he talks about her... so lovingly.
Aoife pauses and simply stares at the word, Nadhezda.
Father would never talk about her. Never. I tried so hard to ask about her, to learn about her. He was always so hurt every time I mentioned her. Father was gone so much and for so long, traveling around the world, and every time he returned I always managed to screw things up by asking about her. It always hurt him so, to think about her. Why did I put him though such pain by always asking about her? I should have let it alone, he should have been enough for me. I knew it hurt him to think about her, to talk about her, to think about when she suddenly...
The child can feel a fresh welling in the corners of her eyes and the odd, tingly yet warm sensation across her face that was the inevitable precursor to tears.
I just wanted to know about her... the child pleads with herself, now confused if she was wrong to want to know about her mother, wondering if having one parent should have contented her. To know why she left me. To know why she left before I could even know her or remember her face. She was my mother and she left.
She left me. She left us.
A slight twinge of anger pierces the saddened flutter in her chest.
I think father always wanted to know the same, at that moment a portion of the hurt and pain was replaced by frustration for the child. He wanted to know why she left him too. Would he not tell me why she left, because... he didn't know either? Or was he saving me from the truth?
"I do not know where she is, or even if she is still alive," is all father would ever tell me.
But even when she was gone, she still haunted father, the child now again feels the full weight of sadness and longing wash over her once more, at once dissolving the half-formed emotions of anger. I wish she haunted me... so I could feel her close.
Nadi... Nadhezda... my mother, Aoife continues to think having finished reading the entries some time ago. Father wouldn't even tell me 'Nadi' was his loving nickname for her. It was always 'Nadhezda' when he spoke of her. Ishbaad was the one who told me about the name 'Nadi'. And when I brought it up to father, he was so cross. He never asked how I learned about his pet-name for her, but he knew. He seemed so hurt and lost when I said it out loud, like he had been reminded a piece of himself was missing.
The child's tiny nose sniffles and surprisingly the slightest of smiles spreads across her face. We were happy once, she thinks, sliding her hand once more gently across the page with great love and affection, as if she were touching a parent's face. Father, mother, and I were happy. Even if I don't remember it, and never can remember it... it happened. I had a family, even for a short while, and we were happy. I had a mother that loved me.
I had a father that loved me.
The tears flow from her now, and her head sags on fragile shoulders. Without looking the child flips the page to look at the very next entry...
Solveig first listens to what Ishbaad has to say. "Thank you for being so honest and up-font with me. It is refreshing in a land filled with lies and deception to hear one speak so plainly of things that could easily damn him. I pray that you choose carefully who you say it to, and can only assure you that you have chosen well in me." Solveig's smile is genuinely reassuring.
She waits for Jorvik to speak before offering an opinion.
"Bringing back Baba Yaga is in antithesis to all we stand for," Solveig furrows her eyebrows, dimpling her forehead, "But Queen Elvanna is the worst of that Queen of Witches' brood by far. At least under the others, the people were forgotten underfoot. In her mad fear of repercussions, she sees enemies everywhere. Whole villages have been razed and their citizens tortured, maimed and killed. Perhaps it is best to choose the lesser of the two evils - even if that is the one who began the evil so long ago.
"Yes," she resolves, "Let us see a new queen on the throne of Irrisen. One that, perhaps, will let things return to normal. One that allows a chance of a better life for we Ulfen people of Irrisen."
Solveig looks over the haul that the companions are off-loading. "You may all stay here for as long as you like. While based here, you will find that Whitethrone operates much as any other city - it just does so from within the icy fist of Queen Elvanna. If you are careful, and only travel with the Jadwiga, you should be able to procure whatever you like and sell the goods you have there. I will speak with my fellow Heralds, but I feel confident we will be able to provide you with some supplies ourselves. In addition, any holy items you would like, I can try to craft for you. I only ask the cost of the materials. I will never refuse donations to Milani, but risking your lives for my people is be more than sufficient."
Aoife introduces herself and Solveig becomes crestfallen. "You are Tighearnán's daughter? Oh, my poor child," she rushes over to embrace Aoife tightly, "Your father was a brave man, and he died well. I do not know if that brings comfort to you, but I have traveled much in my life and seen much death. In the end, dying well is all we can do. Because of him, his friends survived."
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Solveig notices Aoife reading Tighearnán's journal. She reaches down and places a hand on the child's shoulder.
"It is good that you have this journal," she whispers softly, "But it can also be a hard thing to hear the innermost thoughts of the ones we love. Just remember, anything you read in there that you did not already know... well, the words in there were never intended for you. Journals can be a way to help us work through feelings we do not understand and are not always... true to our hearts.
"If something angers you in there, forgive your father these private words. Remember him as you always did."
Solveig leaves Aoife to her reading to the light of a continual flame candle.
I can barely write. Nadezhda abandoned Aoife outside in the snow today, never to return. Thank the gods I came home early from the hunt, or I would have found a corpse instead of a babe crawling through a drift and bawling for her mother. She left a note saying she hated us, hated having a family and wanted her freedom back. She wrote that if Aoife was strong, she should be able to survive on her own by now but cared not if she - our daughter! - survived abandonment in the snow.
I would have thought the note a forgery if it were not her exact distinct handwriting and had it not mentioned things only we two knew... as she tore those memories - and my soul - apart.
Cared not if Aoife died? How? How could she do this? My heart is broken.
What happened to my Nadi? I cannot do this alone.
---
Aoife's first steps.
Erastil's eye, will the pain ever end?
* * *
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"Milani the Everbloom is the Goddess of Hope, and the light of freedom to those who are oppressed. She would make an excellent deity for a Snow Goblin, should he wish for spiritual support in throwing off the shackles of the Jadwiga. Like your friend's deity, Iomedae, she was a friend of Aorden, the Last Azlanti, before his passing. Unlike Iomedae, she was simpnly a saint before he died and not a god. She ascended to godhood in the wake of the Last Azlanti's death."
Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight thinks on this a moment. "Maybe me need to know more about Milani the Everbloom. Me always pay homage to Zarongel, because Zarongel bring goblins fire. But, maybe that not best for one who want to be goblin hero. Especially if he wanna be hero to more than just goblins.
"In past, me not so good at looking out for friends. Goblins don't usually think that way. Me do great wrongs to friend Boss Jorvik, and it make Jorvik no like Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight very much. Me try much harder, lately, and learn way make fire booms not hurt friends so much. But me know me still have lots to learn about being great hero.
"Me think that Iomedae good Boss for Ishbaad, but me wonder if she too harsh for poor little goblin like Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight. Me make too many mistakes," he pauses to look at the ring stuck on his finger, scratching at it, wishing it were off of him, "But me really try to learn. Maybe me need to learn from someone else... someone not so harsh to judge, or not so free to hurt friends.
"Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight want to learn more about Everboom. Maybe she good Boss for little goblin who try hard to be hero."
When he sees Aoife moping more, he sees what he can construct to make her happy, remembering the little bracelet of wire and stones he created soon after meeting her. He then has an inspired idea, and comes up to here, a bundle of odd looking cords in his hands. "Eefie," he says, concern obvious in his voice, "Me not know all what burden you carry, but me worried you gonna be sad forever. Me not wanna lose best friend me ever have. Maybe these will help you to shoulder the burden you carry. Me think they only help with physical burden, but maybe they help a little with burden on soul." He hands her his muleback cords, which he hasn't worn since Coramus gave him the cloak of resistence.
"Maybe you and Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight need to learn about Milani together. Me think that Iomedae is to harsh a mistress. Maybe both of us need to learn about forgiveness."
In a tiny voice he finishes, "Please no be so sad all the time. Me not want you to go away like Boss Coramus. Me need you."
Aoife introduces herself and Solveig becomes crestfallen. "You are Tighearnán's daughter? Oh, my poor child," she rushes over to embrace Aoife tightly, "Your father was a brave man, and he died well. I do not know if that brings comfort to you, but I have traveled much in my life and seen much death. In the end, dying well is all we can do. Because of him, his friends survived."
As the woman hugs her, Aoife finds herself returning the embrace and reaching out her own arms to hold Solveig. Any mention of her father by those who knew him at the end, before he was taken from her, stirs a faint feeling of connection for the child as if through these people she can sense some lingering, ghostly sensation of his closeness.
"You knew him," the child pulls back and looks up to the woman's face. "At the end... at the time he... died?"
"I would like to talk to anyone that was with him... then, if he helped them to live."
The youth thinks for a moment more, her mouth slightly scrunching up as unasked questions form in her mind. "I don't know what dying well is," she admits, clearly on the verge of breaking down at any moment. "Was he scared at the end? Was he in pain?"
Even to a child, it seemed dying well did not make sense. To die well was still to die, and that was always a tragedy.
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When he sees Aoife moping more, he sees what he can construct to make her happy, remembering the little bracelet of wire and stones he created soon after meeting her. He then has an inspired idea, and comes up to here, a bundle of odd looking cords in his hands. "Eefie," he says, concern obvious in his voice, "Me not know all what burden you carry, but me worried you gonna be sad forever. Me not wanna lose best friend me ever have. Maybe these will help you to shoulder the burden you carry. Me think they only help with physical burden, but maybe they help a little with burden on soul." He hands her his muleback cords, which he hasn't worn since Coramus gave him the cloak of resistence.
"Maybe you and Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight need to learn about Milani together. Me think that Iomedae is to harsh a mistress. Maybe both of us need to learn about forgiveness."
In a tiny voice he finishes, "Please no be so sad all the time. Me not want you to go away like Boss Coramus. Me need you."
She turns from Solveig, leaning out suddenly toward the snow goblin and reaching forward with quick hands. With force she pulls Ice Melts Quietly to herself and hugs him tightly. Taking the cords from him, she looks them over the motions to hand them back. "Thank you," she says, trying to muster a smile. "These are great. They are great gift. But I already have a magic cloak, just like you do." The child inclines slightly and twists her shoulders, showing the intricate stitching of the cloak on her back.
"Please don't worry about me, little brother," Aoife says, continuing to hold the disingenuous smile for goblin, hoping to fool him. "I'll be better soon. You don't need to worry. You are home now. Maybe you can find your own family. It is important that you find them."
And there will be no forgiveness for Lady Nazhena Vasilliovna or Queen Elvanna.
"Besides," she begins, now gaining momentum on her acting as her emotions seem to rally slightly, racing to catch the expression outwardly showing on her face. "I'm not leaving for a while yet. I've made promises. Not only to you and others, but to Thora too. That we would remind Lady Nazhena Vasilliovna what she did to our friend."
"And we promised to Baba Yaga's rider, Black Midnight, that we would stop Queen Elvanna."
"I have a gift for her..." she shows the tattered Queen Mother harrow card Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight.
"And anyway, little brother," she says, hugging the goblin once more. "When it is time for me to go home... I hope that I can convince you to come with me."
I hope I can convince all of you return south with me, she thinks, while still embracing the golbin and looking to her closest companions. You are, all of you, the only family I have left now.
Ishbaad feels a sense of relief as Solveig explains the basics of their situation, a simplicity to moving about the city, coming and going from this hidden temple, and that relief surprises him.
They are in the belly of the beast now, close to their target, but to have the opportunity to stop this mad rush they have been on ever since passing through the portal is in it's own way, calming.
"We have acquired a great deal of goods, valuable and mundane from our travels so far. It would be good to reassess our situation and convert much of these things to gold. I have some concerns over our current methods of divine healing. We have used up nearly the last of our healing wands. We would very much like to acquire a couple of those." Ishbaad states, getting to one of the details a bit bluntly, and not so gracefully.
"Pardon me for my bluntness in the boring part of our business. As we rest from our travels, I would like to hear more of your goddess. I consider myself a bit of an expert on Iomedae, my lady."
"Another thing that I think would be beneficial is to learn more about this city that Aoife and I are strangers to. I can guess well enough what it means to be a "plaything" for the Stilyaga Jadwiga, but I would hate to say or do something that would put anyone in jeopardy because of my ignorance, or worse, our mission."
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It was no coincidence where she started reading the journal and the passage detailing her birth. When she had parted the book's pages, its old, well-used spine had easily fallen open to an page apparently reviewed many times before. The shape of the book naturally sat in that position, as if it had been opened to that particular page so many times before that the journal itself remembered. 21 Kuthonia 4703 AR, the day Aoife was born. Her birthday had immediately caught her eye when the pages fell away and parted before her, and she knew in that moment where her father had gone back to reread his own words of joy and contentment with their family.
The child continues on, reading beside the continual flame candle, flipping through the pages that followed, briefly glancing at the words and taking enough time on each page to understand the emotion her father was feeling at that moment in time. But even for all his warmth and love, and caring, Aoife couldn't help the building urge growing within her to know when, and how, her mother had left.
Jumping ahead, entries at a time, she continued to catch brief glimpses that, although most of the time everything seemed perfect, some undercurrent of her father's fear and dread peered back at Aoife from amongst his words. It was then, when her eyes were naturally drawn to the date, 21 Kuthonia 4704 AR, her first birthday, the horror of her father's words pierced her own heart. Aoife had dug so long, asked so many times, hoping beyond hope to find this truth... but now she was staring at the ugliest, most vile specter of haunting reality and it was looking back at her with contempt and disgust. In that moment she would have given anything to forget, forever, the long awaited truth she had longed for.
Aoife had been a fool. She was never wanted by her mother. She had been left to die, to freeze and pass away in the cleansing white freeze of the snow.
Both hands reached out, sliding beneath either side of journal's covers, and slammed book shut, as if she hoped to obliterate the penned words from the page. With a jarring motion she slid the book away and rocked back and forth, shuddering at the thought of her unwanted existence.
She had been wrong to ask father about her. Father should have been enough for Aoife, she lamented to herself for pestering him about a woman so vile. She forgave his every outburst and sigh at the child's mention of her mother, because he knew better. He know what her mother truly was. Her father had loved her. Her mother had seen how unimportant, insignificant, and useless Aoife was. A child unworthy of a mother's love and devotion. A child better left broken by the slow degradation of her failing body temperature in the cold as she eventually stopped moving, stopped fighting, and her fragile body succumbed and welcomed the freeze.
Somehow, her father had managed to save her, but maybe he would have been better off had he been too late. Maybe Aoife's mother and father would still be together had they never birthed a child.
She cursed the book for drawing such thoughts into her mind and reached up with both hands to clasp and wrap her head. Her eyes were fixed on the journal, its words having entirely broken her small, fierce heart. She knew she would read more, she would learn all she could about her mother and father, but it would be after she let go of the fantasy that her mother had ever loved her. From this point forward, she vowed to herself, she would miss her father only.
Her mother had turned her back on Aoife, now the child did the same in kind.
The brief moment of the different, talkative and relaxed Kuragin is gone. Among these strangers, the witch resumes his broody and tongue-tied personality. And so, he is more than happy to let the others do the talking.
"It is just as these southern people tell you. To release the Queen of Witches, we need first to find and free Her hut."
With her weatherworn sleeve Aoife wipes her eyes, trying her best to suppress the overwhelming sadness long enough to pass along the journal. She cannot take reading further entries for a time, having much disappointment and loss to process before she is ready to open herself up again to the stinging truth hidden amidst its pages. But she knows if she kept the journal there is no way she could restrain herself from reading further, and if another such horrific truth devastated the child, she wasn't sure she could go on living. Her only choice was to take it out her hands while she still could. Before she learned too much too quickly. In time, she wanted to know everything, but not so in such rapid, crippling succession.
When her friends are gathered together, the child approaches slowly and opens the journal to the very first page. She begins to read, not the first entry, but a forward, penned on the inside front cover.
This is the second journal of Tighearnán Limerick. The first I have sent to the Grand Lodge in Absalom for posterity. It is only fitting that this new chapter of my life begins with a new book, a new account. This account will not be of my wanderings and adventures, but of my family and my home.
She stands for a moment longer looking upon the words, her eyes locked on her father's elegantly penned signature.
"This is my father's journal," she says, closing the book with a slow, cautious motion. "In the first entry father writes about when I was born..." Aoife stands still, grappling with the idea of willingly giving away one of the only tangible links to her father, an act that felt like a betrayal to him.
With a forlorn sigh the child continues on.
"Can you hold onto it, please?" she holds out the book to her uncle with a clearly pleading look in her eyes. "Please do not let me have it back for a few days, no matter how much I beg you. You've always protected me and kept me safe... please protect me from this for a while."
As soon as her guardian has taken the precious journal, the youth turns and walks away without another word.
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Ishbaad crouches down as Aoife approaches. It was such a minor thing, something he barely considered when he did it. His size was so imposing, he always thought it was important to see things from Aoife's perspective. To get down to her level, and perhaps that would help make sure he didn't seem so intimidating.
The oread looks his niece square in the eyes, watching her struggle with the pain and sadness she feels, having so much truth bared to her so suddenly.
There is so much I wanted to protect you from, child. This pain, this world, the truth... Yet I see you broken, and I see that at every turn I failed. You do not need my protection from the physical dangers of this world. In fact, so many times already it has been me who has need your protections from the monsters that would kill us. Yet the monsters of your past, of your mind, I am helpless to stop.
You must fight them alone, and I am doomed to watch in helplessness.
Ishbaad's eyes rim with moisture as he takes the book silently from the girl. He nods, sliding the book into his magical bag. Several moments pass as he observes the girl whose emotions are in tatters.
Suddenly he reaches his arms out, swooping Aoife up in a massive bear hug. He stands to his full height, squeezing her tight against his chest while her feet dangle several feet in the air.
He holds her there, not sure if it is against her will or not, but needing to show that he is there for her, raging against the helplessness he feels.
"I'm so sorry Aoife. I don't want to replace your father, but I'll still love you just the same," Ishbaad whispers, muffled in her scarf and furs.
After a while, the Oread gently sets the girl back down on her feet and relaxes his bear hug. He turns away quickly, still unwilling to allow anyone to see the moisture on his face.
"Maybe me need to know more about Milani the Everbloom. Me always pay homage to Zarongel..."
"...Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight want to learn more about Everboom. Maybe she good Boss for little goblin who try hard to be hero."
Solveig shudders at the mention of Zarongel. "I have no love for dogs either - especially after my narrow escape from the Hounds of Cheliax - but the wanton destruction he favors is antithetical to much that I hold dear.
"Milani is a new god, relatively speaking. For two millenia, she was a sainted hero of Aroden. Most of her worshipers are humans, half-elves or half-orcs but she has a decent following of halflings and other races, especially those who value freedom. If you chose her religion, you would be the first goblin I've heard of who venerates the Everbloom. (Don't forget the 'L')." Solveig smiles gently at the curious snow goblin.
"Would you like to hear of Milani's life before her elevation to sainthood?"
"You knew him," the child pulls back and looks up to the woman's face. "At the end... at the time he... died?"
"I would like to talk to anyone that was with him... then, if he helped them to live."
"I was not with your father when he died," Solveig admits, "But I did help him with shelter in the city, and provided him with what information I had. Milani bade me aid him, but he and his fellows were not trusting types. I do not even know what their mission here was, save that they wanted entry into the Royal Palace."
"I don't know what dying well is," she admits, clearly on the verge of breaking down at any moment. "Was he scared at the end? Was he in pain?"
"From what I heard," Solveig struggles to find the right words, so she just says them, "(I am sorry, I do not know how else to tell you without concealing the truth). Anyone fleeing from the white witches of Irrisen should be afraid, but his death was a quick one. Crushed under a tonne of ice."
"Pardon me for my bluntness in the boring part of our business. As we rest from our travels, I would like to hear more of your goddess. I consider myself a bit of an expert on Iomedae, my lady."
"Certainly!" Solveig brightens, "Please, feel free to sit in on my conversation with Ice Melts Quietly in Sunlight. As for the city, I can tell you of the places to go and not to go... but there is so much to tell of this city. None of it good. Is there somewhere or something in particular you are looking for?"
"It is just as these southern people tell you. To release the Queen of Witches, we need first to find and free Her hut."
"This will be no easy task," Solveig frowns, "The Hut has a threefold protection. The most obvious is the forest that surrounds it. The second are the creatures who inhabit this strange forest. Thirdly, and most dauntingly, there are the Winter Guard. They surround the Market Square and stop all intruders from entering the forest... and nightly they chop down the fringes of the forest, only to wake and find it regrown."
Solveig sits, looking a little lost for the first time since the group arrived. "Milani never told me I would have to help the travelers free Baba Yaga! But I vowed to help them," she mutters to herself.
"I am sorry, there is much to absorb," she says at last, wiping away the doubtful expression from her face, "And for the benefit of those who have been away for so long, the Winter Guard are Elvanna's personal guard. They have replaced the Iron Guard and assumed their duties, augmented by non-humans loyal to the Queen - including a white dragon called Logrivich, who acts as the captain of the Winter Guard.
"My contacts within the city say that she replaced the Iron Guard because too many of their number were loyal to Baba Yaga herself. They have spent the last few centuries attempting to wipe out the Heralds of Summer's Return, however, and making contact thus far has proved impossible."
"Iron Guards replaced because of their loyalty to Baba Yaga? A forest that re-grows every night? A white dragon?" Ishbaad blows out a long sigh, eyes wide as he contemplates all that Solveig has mentioned.
"And you say you have much to absorb!" Ishbaad gives a light-hearted chuckle, hoping to ease the tension.
"Well we need to start with what we know. Perhaps then we can figure out what will be the most obvious next course of action." Ishbaad sits down and takes an empty parchment paper, and begins to make a list.
Ishbaad stops writing and reading aloud in the halting pattern he used while his writing struggled to keep up with his speaking.
"Something tells me that we will have to face this Logrivich. I do not know why, but I can feel it in the geodes that knot my joints. I would not expect help from the winter wolves or the Iron Guard, but if they could be made aware somehow that there are forces in secret who would see Baba Yaga's hut unshackled, perhaps they may be valuable to help occupy the Winter Guard."
Ishbaad mulls over the news and thoughts, tapping the pen on his chin.
"Word on the street is that Queen Elvanna is not currently in the city. I dont' know what that means for the city, or why it would be the case, but it may be an advantage as we plan. I would suspect that Logrivich has a significant role in protecting her interests while she is away. Tell me Solveig, do you know who is in charge while the Queen is out of the city? The Stilyaga gave me the impression that no one is really in charge, deferring to Elvanna even in her absense."
"Can you hold onto it, please?" she holds out the book to her uncle with a clearly pleading look in her eyes. "Please do not let me have it back for a few days, no matter how much I beg you. You've always protected me and kept me safe......
A little voice in the back of Ishbaad's head pokes and prods, creating an urge to read through the journal that Aoife has entrusted to him. Ever since she gave it to him, he has been slightly distracted, thinking about his tattered holy text he has carried with him all this way, and the extra pages that are stuffed within.
He shakes his head to focus on the conversation at hand. The words on those pages aren't going anywhere anytime soon.
"Word on the street is that Queen Elvanna is not currently in the city. I dont' know what that means for the city, or why it would be the case, but it may be an advantage as we plan. I would suspect that Logrivich has a significant role in protecting her interests while she is away. Tell me Solveig, do you know who is in charge while the Queen is out of the city? The Stilyaga gave me the impression that no one is really in charge, deferring to Elvanna even in her absense."
"No one in charge? Well, certainly Queen Elvanna still keeps a tight grip on things and none do anything of import without her knowledge or say so. But as for the city's administration, the Queen's brood are now in charge. They are led by Princess Cassisoche, First Daughter of Elvanna, Duchess of Thronehold, who is always regent in her mother's absence," Solveig replies without hesitation, "But the worst of them all is her great grand daughter, Nazhena Vasilliovna. Her goons have been tearing through the city and terrorizing the peasantry looking for six foreign travelers.
"Say," Solveig laughs half-heartedly, "I know you're not all - or even half - foreign, but you wouldn't happen to have lost one of your number along the way? Ha! Wouldn't that be a turn up if the poor souls she was hunting made it here, right under her nose... and ended up here!" Ringeirr also looks amused, but for a different reason. He knows exactly who Nazhena is looking for.
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"Nazhena Vasilliovna," Aoife says the name slowly, pronouncing each syllable with a hard edge. "She is looking for six foreign travelers..." The child turns to look upon each of her friends as memories of rushing through the Pale Tower, room by room, removing Vasilliovna's foothold of power from Waldsby briefly flashes in her mind. The child had missed her meeting with the baroness in Waldsby, but she hoped, wished even, that she would be able to regale Nazhena soon with a particular tale of a poor child left in her care.
So that Aoife could make the baroness remember her dear friend, Thora.
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Ishbaad, in the end, cannot help himself and skips to one of the pages towards the end of the written portion of the journal. Looking for something to help them, he finds Tighearnán's first entry upon arrival in Irrisen.
We arrived in Irrisen a little over three days ago. The portal in the center of the Mwangi Jungle that was the source of its unnatural Winter - snows are impossible in that climate, but especially so at the beginning of Spring! - it came out in the depths of what we later learned was Glacier Lake, the lake next to which Irrisen's capital of Whitethrone was built. We made it to the surface with no breath left in our lungs, and would have frozen to death had it not been for a passing fishing boat. The man forwent his usual catch for a group of six bedraggled Pathfinders and warmed us by the... insufficient... heat of his meager stove fire.
Hours later, a man came to visit us. He had heard of what happened... and I think there was not much that went on in the Fishing Camps that he did not hear of... and wanted to speak with us personally. We were invited to his house, where a much more substantial fire burned. He spent the remainder of the night educating us of Irrisen, Whitethrone and the Jadwiga who rule the place. He even revealed to us that he led a cell of rebels known as the 'Heralds of Summer's Return'. The rebellion has been going on for centuries, and I would laugh at how little progress they have made in that time were it not for the pity in my heart.
This rebel leader smuggled us in to the city through a hole in the wall leading in to the Howlings District - a district rampant with Winter Wolves. The man is brave, despite his organization's lack of success. There, we met a forger who made papers for us identifying us as slaves of some Jadwiga we'd never heard of. With such documents in hand, we would be allowed limited passage through the streets of Whitethrone.
This man (who I continue to leave nameless in case this journal should fall into the wrong hands) took me to a secret shrine within the city, where we were allowed to base ourselves. We do not trust anyone here, and so we have shared little of our mission - only that we wish to get into the Royal Palace to oppose the plans of Queen Elvanna.
The leader of the congregation is a sour woman and remains aloof from my companions and I, but she sees the good we are trying to perform. I think perhaps she would like to make connections with the Pathfinder Society to further her group's aims. So be it. If we survive this, I will write to Absalom extolling her virtues and that of the Heralds. Erastil knows the people this place could use some help.
I think of Aoife often. I even think perhaps I will find a way to communicate with her... but what would I say? How can I tell her that, after this is over, I do not intend to return home? Well, not straight away at least.
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