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Jessica woke slowly as she heard the three women talking. Her eyes opened and she groaned slightly as she tried to sit up. She looked very disheveled, with a serious case of bed head, but otherwise seemed to be alright physically. Whether she was fine mentally was another story entirely. She looked at Rag and said weakly, "Is everyone alri..." It was then she saw Kiley and her eyes widened at the woman's presence. "Kiley?!" She tried to rise and move to her friend but ultimately failed and sunk back down on the bed in pain as she groaned and clutched her head. She gave a slight smile and said, "Anyone know what carriage hit me?"
"Yes." Sunday somberly lied to the fighter.
The young fighter from Sandpoint goes pale when she sits up to see Jessica, and paler still when she looks to see Sunday.
"Y-you killed him," is all she says in a whisper.
Jessica looked confused as she asked, "Killed who?"
"... what? Who?" Sunday responds, obviously confused.
"T-tal," she sobs, "y-you just ripped him a-apart an-an-and kept bringing him b-b-b-b-back to do it all over again. H-he begged for it to end, b-b-b-but y-you wouldn't let it!"
Kiley curls up on the bed, wrapping herself in the blankets and squeezing as far into the corner as she could to get away from Sunday and Jessica. Her eyes are wide and wild as they dart between them.
Sunday stares blankly at Kiley, utterly lost. "Nooooo, I would definitely remember doing that."
Why does everyone think I'm a Necromancer? I'm Ustalav, but still...
Jessica was at first stunned by the accusation from this woman she considered her sister. It was inconceivable what she accused them of and she was hurt as Kiley moved as far from them as she could. She looked at her friend, her sister, and asked quietly in a horror strikes voice, "W-w-what? I...I would never do that Kiley, I love Tal, I gave my maidenhood to him. I...he..." She was shaking, her eyes laden with tears, she couldn't handle this as she curled into a ball on the bed and muttered quietly, "Nonononononononono."
Sunday looked back and forth between the two women, growing more confused. "Yeah, Jessica would never hurt Tal, she loved him for some reason."
"But you did," Kiley blurts out, falling over the edge into hysteria. "You killed him! Sunday killed him! You all drew it out! He was begging for you to stop! Then when it was over, you'd bring-- You'd bring him back. You told him you loved him and-- and you'd do it again! And again! Then, you'd--"
KIley breaks down sobbing. Through the cries of pain and anguish, everyone can hear a soft broken voice utter just a single sentence.
"I thought you were my friends."
I'm not sure what that has to do with us supposedly killing Tal... wait... Sunday thinks to himself before he starts to piece bits of the confusion together. "Kiley," he starts softly, "that wasn't us, it was those shapechangers. We rescued you. We saved you."
Jesica gave a wail of anguish at Kiley's accusation and sobbed out, "But I never, I can't bring back the dead, i-i-it's beyond my power. R-remember Kiley, they were shapeshifters, the mudmen that replaced my family. Th-they c-c-c-could have pretended to be us. they n-n-nearly fooled me as my f-f-family, couldn't they have fooled you too?"
"It's just another trick," Kiley tells herself between sobs, "just another lie. They always lie! They always turn on you! Don't listen! It's just another trick!"
The small young girl covers her ears and rocks back and forth as she repeats the mantra.
A few bits of nonsense escape Sunday's mouth as he stands there, at a complete loss. "We... we're not lying to you Kiley, I promise." he says weakly.
"But it wasn't us..."
Jessica said sadly, "But she doesn't understand that Sunday. I...I think they broke her." Jess's voice was very quiet and hurt but she knew there was likely no reasoning with Kiley just now. She looked to Sunday and said, "Would you help me to one of the other rooms please, I think we need to remove ourselves from the room for a while. She needs time to calm down and I think someone else needs to explain this to her, she won't listen to us right now." Uncurling from the bed Jessica held a hand out towards Sunday as she made to stand.
"But... we saved her." he mumbles out in response.
Once Jessica put out her hand he cautiously took it after a delay. "We saved her. I promised her. We saved her." he repeats as he leads, or rather, as Jessica leads him out of the room.
Using Sunday's hand Jessica rose, albeit slowly, and managed to move towards the door. She lead the man towards another room and entered, it was much like the one they were just in except there were no other residents. She sat on the bed and gestured towards a chair, "Please Sunday, sit." She waited a moment for him to comply or not and then tried to explain, "I know we rescued her Sunday, and she'll understand that soon. For now though I think they convinced her that we really were the ones tor..." Jessica's voice broke off in a sob, it took her a moment but she eventually continued, "Right now Kiley needs to calm down, until she does she won't listen to anyone trying to explain what really happened to her. Later Grace or Delendir or Elisai can explain it to her and I'm sure she will understand. Right now though she needs us to be out of sight." She smiled sadly and said, "Please Sunday, believe me, she will come back to us soon, she just needs to rest right now."
"Not well enough..." he simply says to Aifa on his way out.
Once they're in the other room Sunday looks at the chair offered before slowly sitting into it. As Jessica talks his face is level with hers but slowly a sinks toward the floor.
"But she was happy. And strong. She was stronger than me. Much stronger. And we saved her. We took too long. But we saved her. We saved her."
"Didn't we?" he says as he lifts his head back up.
Jessica nodded, "I agree, we did save her, from them anyway, but now she has to be saved from what they did to her." She considered the problem then, and what Aifa had said, "You know, Aifa may have had a point, they had Kiley longer and she hasn't know us as long as Aifa knows Ragmhildr. We also know that those...things, are very good at impersonating people, I mean they almost fooled me when they repla..." She broke off again with a hitch in her breath, it still was all so painful so she skipped ahead, "Maybe we should see if we can send for Ameiko, I bet she'd be willing to come and help Kiley through this, and if anyone can get through to her that what happened wasn't real it's Ameiko." She looked at Sunday questioningly, hoping that the idea would have some merit.
Sunday stirred momentarily before standing up. "You're right! Ameiko raised Kiley. She can definetly help her. Should we go get Shalelu too?"
A little while later, Ragnhildr finds Jessica and Sunday. She looks at the two of them with eyes that speak of worry and sympathy.
"Aifa and Kiley are asleep. The wounds of their bodies have healed, but the wounds on their hearts and on their souls are still open and raw," she says as she takes a seat. The young woman takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly.
"I can see, even for the short time that I have known you, that you have been through much together, and that yours is a bond of trust and friendship. A bond that cowards born of those who lay with swine and trolls have sought to use for their own ends. Aifa will be as she once was, but your Kiley-- I do not know," she says slowly, thoughtfully, really, "I can also see that I and my kin have stumbled into something that is much greater than it appears. I have not forged the same bond that was between you and Kiley, but I hope I will be given the chance. I know you have no reason to trust me, but I hope that I may tell you of mine and Aifa's clan, so you may know the weight of my words, of my oaths. Would you hear me? Would you hear me brother and sister in arms?"
"... sure." Sunday answered, not really having anything to lose just by listening for right now.
While others carry the prisoners to begin their recover, Grace leaves the half-elven ranger to discuss matters with the city guard. To be helpful, she takes charge of the sack of items collected from atop the clocktower. She makes her way through the temple to an unused room and sets the bag down on a table. Her throat aches a bit after all that singing. She could use a bit of hot water mixed with lemon juice. She turns, intending to fetch just that when the bag, improperly placed on the table, shifts and an item tumbles to the floor.
"Hello, what are you?" Grace asks as she picks up the battered old pistol. She holds it up to the light and gasps, eyes widening in surprise.
"Is this possible?" she asks aloud as she makes her way to a chair and swiftly sits down. The diva stares at the pistol, hands shaking lightly.
"Whatever is it? Some sort of wand?" Yavenee asks as she studies Grace. As the others reunited with their recovered loved ones, she knew the process would be difficult and was no place for a stranger.
Grace looks up from the prize she holds.
"Hmm? Oh. I hadn't realized you had followed me." Grace says with a wan smile.
"It is called a firearm. A pistol, I believe. Some lads used them back home. Something about an alchemical process which burns powder and creates an explosive force, propelling a ball of metal out the tube and into a target."
She holds up the pistol so Yavanee can see the grip. Someone has engraved the word, "Grace" there in script and inlaid it with gold.
Delendir looks side and side as the guards approach, intimately hoping he could be cheering up his waking friends instead. He though looks for the evidences found in the mill and the tower "Look, these cult was collecting souls. They are carving this symbol on their victims and got some of our friends and good citizens of Sandpoint."
He makes a pause and points towards the last note "They are currently claiming souls in Turtleback Ferry. Someone needs to do something about it. And look, they were even planning to take the soul of the Lord-Mayor of Magnimar"
Despite his surly tone, Delendir attends the guards on anything they want, displaying patience not common on him.
"It sounds like a powerful weapon. Both deadly and beautiful" she replies noting the engraving. "And It would appear,meant for your hand." she says curious. She had learned a long time ago that coincidence was merely a construct of those unwilling to accept the way the the world truly worked.
"Perhaps more than you know." Grace says. She draws from her cleavage a pouch. From that she unfolds a note and offers it to Yavenee.
Please care for my Grace, for I cannot.
The lettering of the word "Grace" is a perfect match for that of the engraving.
"We've not known each other long. You might know I am Chellaxian. I was given to a foundling home as a babe. Not given the name Grace, as you can imagine. Raised there. Put to work as soon as I was capable. Ran away as soon as I found the strength. I managed to steal this note from my file before I fled to the streets. It was inspiration for my stage name. I believe it to be from my mother."
Jessica nodded as Rag asked to speak with her and Sunday and replied, "Of course, you seem to have as much reason to want them brought down as everyone else."
Having finally finished rearranging the art work in the entry area Krysta finally stalked off. She grumbled about the bothers of young pranksters as she stalked through the halls, her gaze intent for any sign of the twins. Sara and Samuel, of course, were no where to be found, they knew better than to let the fuming dragoness find them. It was around then that she stumbled on Grace, and Yavenee going through the items they had found in the tower. She entered the room quietly and snuck up on Grace and Yavenee as quietly as she could. When she got right behind them she asked, "What's that?"
Yavenee looks at the note, holding it with care as she notes the identical script. "It stands to reason that a fierce performer like you would come from a fierce warrior." the witch says assuredly. "And now, guided by providence, this weapon and the piece of your mother's spirit that is a perfect of it has found you. It matters not how you came by it, it is your name. Grace." she says resting her hand on the much taller woman's arm.
The sound of Krysta's sudden question makes her jump with a start.
Grace opens her mouth to answer. The dragon's sudden appearance causes her to gasp. She rises, turning quickly, hand on her whip.
"You." Grace breathes the word out. She then breathes in the restore her nerves. "Manners, dear. The key to getting on well with others."
Grace holds up the weapon.
"A pistol. It seems it once belonged to my mother. I would like to know how the snake woman obtained it. A question I plan on asking her when we find her next."
"My clan is small, but many of us travel the lands of Golarion. We seek to set right the wrongs we find and more often than not pay for it with our lives," she begins, pulling out a silver pendant that hangs from her neck. The pendant looks like a smaller version of the round shield she carries. Engraved into the metal is the stylized image of a dragon circling the boss of the shield and a blackened stripe that was engraved in a way that made the image of the dragon appear to be going over it.
"This is the symbol of my clan. The dragon is Venturskoldr, an ancient dragon of silver scales and great wisdom. The shield is his gift to the founder of our clan, Whitescale, his masterwork and affirmation of his oath to our clan. The band is the scar left on the shield from the battle Einar fought against his old jarl, and affirmation of our oath."
"Years ago, before Irrisen howled with eternal winter and was ruled over by the daughters of the Witch Baba Yaga, before the fall of Taldor's glory, and before Cheliax's rise to power, there was a clan that traveled the northern reaches of the Grungir Forest. Few braved those words, for the Norns, the keepers of fate roamed there. The fey and their tricks awaited the unwary, and deep in the heart of the ancient wood, for it was ancient beyond memory even then, there lay a beast of mighty magic and a foul curse. To seek him is folly, and though many have tried to slay him, none have succeeded. There are legends that speak of this fey dragon, Fafnheir, the Father of all Linnorms, but this tale is not of the brave warriors who sought to become kings and only met their death."
"This tale is of a warrior who sought only to do what was right. Who sought not a kingdom, but the strength to defend those who could not."
It was on the eve of winter and the Clan of the Bear's Claw was seeking a place where they could be sheltered from the winds. The clan was lead by Koric Stout-arm. His family was the largest, possessed of many warriors and sorcerers. He bore the strongest weapons and his family always claimed the best steel from traders and those the clan would raid. Koric saw his life was almost perfect, for there was only one in the clan who could challenge him.
Einar was born a bastard, his father the least son of the least family. Einar would have been cast out long ago, but for his strength and wisdom. He bore his lot without complaint, content to do his best in any task given to him. He was too young to take a wife, but many of the young maidens looked at him with longing, for he was strong and his strength would win the treasures his family lacked.
So it was, on the eve of winter, Koric sent Einar out to find a place to winter alone. Einar did not complain, though he knew well that Koric may have well sent him to his death. Einar would do what he could for the clan and set out early in the morn. He walked many days and nights until he found a place with game and wood enough to survive the winter. There he also found a small clan of the fae folk, small enough that both they and his clan could survive comfortably through the winter. Einar, certain he had found a place for his clan left and looked for them. By the time he had found them, the first snows were beginning to fall.
He told his clan of the game and wood. He told them of the clan they would have to share with, and told them of how much game there was and how few their number was. The clansmen nodded in agreement, for though he was young, Einar was wise. Only Koric did not.
Koric raged and spat fury. He would not share the game and would slay all of the clan Einar had found. He would force the young man to drink of the fae folk's blood and feast on their flesh so that he might know the thrill of battle. Einar balked at this and protested Koric's decision. Koric would not be swayed, and in fury sought to slay the young man.
Einar, though, proved the quicker. He ran into the night, cursing Koric and his lust for blood. He ran to the fae folk to warn them and help them find a new place to winter. He ran until he could not. He walked until he could not, and crawled until he could warn the fae folk.
Though they believed him, they could not leave. One of the women in their clan was heavy with child, and would soon give birth, and they lacked the strength to fend off the warriors of the Clan of the Bear's Claw. Einar, seeing that he was the only one that could protect the small clan vowed to be their strength. He would be the shield they lacked.
So Einar worked to prepare the field for his battle. Though the warriors of his clan had shunned him, he had watched them, and learned. He prepared traps to catch and slow. He prepared trenches to trip and lead them where he could fight them in ones and twos. Still, he knew it was not enough, and so he tirelessly worked.
From the trees came an old man, wizened by many years in the forest. He had watched curiously as the lone man readied a defense against the clan he had seen earlier. The young man would never hope to defeat them, for the warriors coming had been imbued with mighty spells and driven to a mindless rage by their leader.
"Why do you toil so," the old man asked as he approached.
"Warriors from my clan come to slay those that have chosen to dwell here," Einar replied.
"Then why will you defend them," the old man asked.
"Because it is right," Einar replied without hesitation.
"No warrior," the old man scolded, "do not take me for a fool! Answer me true. Why do you defend them?"
Einar thought for a moment, and answered, "because I must."
"I warned you boy, do not take me for a fool! Now answer me! Why do you defend them," the old man roared.
Einar, his patience worn thin, shouted to match the old man. "Because they cannot defend themselves! They have not the strength and I am all that stands between them and my kin. I am all there is so I must! Have I answered your question," he shouted.
The old man smiled, satisfied with Einar's answer. He plucked a silver hair from his beard and plucked a limb from a tree nearby and wove his spell. He crafted a magnificent shield emblazoned with the image of a dragon on it's white face and gave it to the warrior.
"Do you swear, for you and all of your descendants that you will be the shield for those who have none? To defend those that do not have the strength? To die in their place if need be," the old man asked.
Einar looked into the man's eyes, and so swore. He felt the power of the shield fill him. He felt not the ache of his work nor the weakness of limb from his long hours readying to meet his kin. The old man smiled, and in a flurry of snow disappeared. Einar had no time to marvel at what he had been given for his kinsmen were on him soon after.
Einar fought with just his shield, which bears the name Whitescale. He fought for three days before Koric appeared before him. Koric snarled and sought to cleave the young warrior who'd defied him in two, but Einar, given strength by Whitescale and wielding the axe he'd wrested from Koric's brother would not be so easily defeated. For seven days and seven nights their battle raged. Neither tiring. Neither slowing.
On the dawn of the eighth day, Koric began to tire. He sought to sunder the shield that Einar had used to defeat all of his kin. The blow was swift. The blow was sure. Whitescale was left scarred, the blade of Koric's axe digging a furrow in the center of the shield. Koric's axe, though, shattered in his hands. Einar, waiting patiently for the chance to end the battle, moved swiftly and cleaved Korics head from his shoulders in one mighty blow.
The Clan of the Bear's Claw was no more. SInce that day, the Whitescale Clan has been, and will so long as we honor the oath Einar swore. So long as we do, or clan will never die.
"We of the Whitescale Clan keep our oaths. We may die in the doing, but we keep them," Ragnhildr says quietly after she's finished her tale, "I will not break my word once given. I feel that my cousin and I have strayed into something far larger than it seems. I wish to help you on this journey in place of your friend. If you will have me, then I will fight by you and be your shield, though it may cost me my life."
"Okay." Sunday simply replied, though there was a pause before he answered as it took him a second to register that she had finished telling stories.
Why she felt the need to tell this long story though instead of just asking to come along in the first place was also something he couldn't surmise, must have been a custom of the Northerners.
Jessica listened intently to the story as Ragnhilder spoke. This was perhaps the most involved she'd become since this whole mess started upon their reaching the city. When the woman finished Jess nodded and said, "Yes, I believe your help would be valuable. I can't speak for everyone else but I would certainly suggest that we accept your assistance."
Krysta arched one of her amethyst colored eyebrows at grace and asked in simple reply to her admonishment, "What are manners to a dragon?" She listened to teh brief explanation Grace provided about the strange object and said, "It seems that this cult has a great deal of knowledge about all of you, it wouldn't surprise me if they sought that 'gun' out to use against you in some manner." Her brow wrinkled in confusion as she leaned on the back of Grace's chair, "Now only one more question, what is a gun?"
"If they're having that was a deliberate attempt to have some power over you then we know two things. The first, they fear you, so much so the week an object that they would hope to use against you, perhaps to have one of the vile shifters even pretend to be a an older version of your mother to disorient you. The mere thought of anyone doing such a thing angers me. The second is that they have invested time, resources and energy in targeting members of this group. Jessica's family and friends, a link to your mother, Delendir's father in law.....It would seem an alliance of enemies or a single enemy willing to invest in eliminating us at any cost."
"Manners," Grace says as she glances sidelong at the transformed dragon, "Are currency. They are a way of getting what it is you desire without offending or causing harm. If you intend to be involved in non-dragon society and to hide your dragon nature, it would be wise to learn manners. Otherwise, you will get what you want less often than you might otherwise."
Grace stands and holds up the firearm, pointing it toward the window. She looks down the sight, though her finger does not touch the trigger.
"This is a weapon, Krysta. One which works at range." Grace lowers the weapon and looks back toward Yavenee. "You might be right. Had we dallied too long it might have been me who was the next target. The questions still remains, however. Where did she get this firearm? Was it from my mother? Where is my mother now? I've gone through my life pretending those questions weren't always inside my hesrt but the truth is, I would... like answers. For the little girl who never got to be a little girl, if for no other reason."
"You will have them before she dies as long as I can help." Yavenee says earnestly.
Krysta considered Grace's admonishment on manners and finally said, "Yes, I suppose you're right. Still, they are a nuisance sometimes." As Grace went on to explain the gun and what it did the dragon looked on in curiosity. After hearing where the weapon came from, the fear she would have been targeted next, and Grace's desire for answers Krysta's watchful gaze became determined and slightly angry, "You will get your answers, and if anyone tries to stop you they deal with me, you are part of my horde now, I protect what's mine."
After her conversation with Jessica, Ragnhildr heads back to the room where Aifa and Kiley rest. On the way, she passes by the room Grace and Yavenee and Krysta are in. Tired, but curious, the young woman stands at the door for a moment before curiosity wins out and she knocks on the door jamb.
"May I join you," she asks in a polite voice, unknowingly displaying better manners than the dragon.
"... do you need anything right now?" Sunday asks Jessica, his head tilting to look to her after the white haired one sauntered off.
Grace's dark lips curl into a smile.
"Well, I couldn't have asked for better company. I suppose my opera career must wait until this business is finished."
The large warrior woman's entrance is noticed.
"Of course, Ragnhildr. Do come in. I hope Sunday hasn't been giving you too much trouble."
"Thank you. He hasn't given me any," Ragnhildr assures Grace, "I hope that he trusts me, but I know that's a slippery thing to get when shapeshifters are involved."
The warrior seats herself in a comfortable chair, letting out a sigh as she does so.
"I hope I'm not prying, but it seems that you have a story to tell," she says, looking at Grace, her expression curious, rather than accusatory, "Would you mind sharing it with us?"
The young ulfen woman waits, not as a warrior, but as a collector of tales, stories and legends.