The gourd inside comes free with just a little pressure. You have acquired inventory item: gourd-from-inside-a-head?
The leshy straightens back up and wrings its small, leafy hands.
Meanwhile, the rat glowers beadily at everyone, remaining seated by its captain. The captain has what looks like a gold necklace wound around his middle as an impromptu belt, though there's currently a fair bit of blood on the gold links from the arrows and kleaver.
The gourd seems to have liquid inside judging by its slosh in Klo's hand.
As he speaks, Kló holds the gourd delicately, not fully sure what to make of it.
”It says this gourd is good for walking. And that its mistress is at the market.
He looks down at the rat captain as he prepares to leave. "We should wake him before we leave. He may come with us. And if not, I don't want him pressing his attack again once we're away."
Knute peers at the dregs in the bottle quizzically, and sniffs. "It must have gone bad or something, and lost its healing effects. Eysteinn said it would only last a day." The ranger looks up at Klo to offer the ork potion instead, but sees the man's wounds healing. Knute looks away. He hesitates, then says, "You're from Hofn? We're usually...hostile...to men practicing any form of seiðr," he says, thinking of Eysteinn. "Where did you learn to heal yourself like that?" He sounds confused and curious. I've seen so many strange things in such a small amount of time. He inwardly sighs.
Turning back to the rats, Knute mutters, "all right, unbound it is. But we should at least take the captain's knife." Keeping a wary eye on the conscious rat, he picks the "sword" up, examining it.
Knute looks towards the river and laughs. "Well, he won't be leaving with his crew, at least," he says, pointing to the rat-raft floating away. "Maybe he will be amenable to coming to market. Could you ask how far it is to market, by the way?" He directs the last at Klo, nodding to the leshies.
"We should cage it," Halla offers. "Perhaps we can trade it at market for the children."
The conscious rat hisses at Knute but doesn't interfere with the sword taking other than to rattle off another stream of verminous curses.
The captain's "sword" looks a lot more like a sailor's dagger from up close. It has a blade of solid steel, and a smithy mark unknown to Knute; it does not look to be of Ulfen make.
The gourd leshy moves back into the garden, straightening bent and broken vines, but answers Klo, and Knute's question once relayed through Klo.
Judging by the size of this garden, that might be about an hour.
Kló frowns at the leshy.
He turns to Knute, watching the hunter’s response to his words ”What I do is an old thing. As old as the mountains, I’m told. It is like galdr … and seiðr.”
”It is my family’s way.” There is a guarded tone to his last statement, and you can’t help but remember the way the other older people treated Bjorn as somewhat of an outsider, despite the man being a born Hofnite.
The moment is broken up by Knute’s sighting of the rat ship, and Kló squints to see it in the distance. ”You’ve good eyes. I say we bring our little rat-prince along, as a friend if he behaves. If not, maybe Halla is right. Either way, the plant-creature says the market is nearby. An hour, give or take.”
The leshy shrugs at Klo's further question.
With a sigh, Halla heads back to where she dropped her bundle to retrieve it.
Tassidar's hand touches his chin in thought as he considers the exchange between Knute and Klo. Was this bear of a man a Druid? The elf had initially thought him to be warrior or berserk, but Tassidar could see there was more to this man than his incredible size. Could Klo actually accept him as an equal? He did appear to be more at ease speaking to the Leshies than the others. Additionally, It was becoming apparent that he was emerging as a leader in the group.
Tassidar addressed him directly.
"Very well then Klo. Would you like me to ask the dread rat pirate to join us either as a guest or a prisoner?"
There is a problem with asking the dread rat pirate much of anything, alas: namely, that the dread rat pirate is still unconscious. His loyal retainer seems determined to stay by his captain's body.
Of course, both rats could be carried without much trouble.
Kló shrugs, "If he wakes before we leave, sure. If he doesn't wake, we carry him." He looks down at the rat's companion. "Tell him we're taking his prince, and he can peacefully accompany us. I'm not leaving him here, and it looks like they don't have a ship anymore."
The big man turns to the rest of the group, "Is there anything else? Did anyone else take injury?" he seems ready to sling the rat over his shoulder and set out if everyone is ready.
Knute slips the rat's dagger in his belt. "I'll just hold on to this until we know he won't try to stab us with it," Knute mutters. The ranger looks uneasy at Halla's comment about trading the captain for the children, but says nothing. At Klo's questions, Knute shakes his head. "I think the rest of us took no hits. Unless there's anything else the leshies have to offer, we should probably head to market." As he says that, Knute makes ready to go, salvaging what arrows he can and shouldering his bow.
The elf nods to Klo and Knute before speaking to the prince's companion.
For Klo's benefit he adds,
"Message delivered."
---------------------------------------------
Once on the road Tassidar attempts to speak with Knute.
"So in about an hours time we should be at this market. Well, if we can avoid any further skirmishes, or talking animal burrow to burrow salesmen, that is. <<<sigh>>> That was an attempt at levity"
"Things have been happening so fast, I haven't really had time to thank you for everything since we first met. Frankly I am suprised I didn't become cat food that first night, but your late companion didn't seem keen on sharing your camp with an elf. Anyway, I wish to thank you for your fair treatment of me."
The missed shot is easily found, sticking out of one of the little fence-posts of the garden.
The rat squeaks irritably back at Tassidar, which the elf is able to translate: "Holdin' Cap'n for ransom, eh, you big bastards? Well the crew's skived off and left us high and dry, so what choice d'ye leave me? LICE IN YOUR NETHERS! Hrmf! An' Cap'n is Captain Baletooth the Black! Captain of the Free Rats of Absalom! I'm first mate Patches, you rotten lubber!"
(Clearly, he is named Patches for the patches in his fur, rather than an eyepatch.)
Klo picks up the rat captain with one hand; the feathered hat flutters to the ground. Patches gasps and scurries to pick it up, cradling it close to his chest with tiny paws and giving a reproachful look at the big man which may or may not be acknowledged.
The leshies wave to Klo, but are busy fixing the damage done. The leshy that had fallen looks to be not actually dead (inasmuch as one can tell on a plant...person), and has been moved to sit in the shade of the big tree.
With a bag of somewhat under-ripe produce, two rats, and a gourd as your profit for the morning, you set off walking once more.
"...this is a strange day," Stirgen observes.
***
As you walk, the road broadens, and becomes more populated. The first other traveler you actively meet is a little figure who stands about waist high; he vaguely resembles the satyr in some respects-- goat hind legs and tail, a humanoid torso-- but where the satyr had had the head of a man, this small creature has the head of a billy goat, complete with two back-curving horns and yellow goat eyes. The creature is also heavily decked out with carved wooden jewelry-- bracelets, rings, earrings, necklaces, armbands-- so much so that on parts of its body, the brown fur beneath can barely be seen for the wood in the way. The little creature clicks and clacks as he walks, due to all the trinkets. Though the creature gives your group a startled look and a side-eye, he offers a mild nod and veers to one side of the road to let you pass without being in your way.
A few minutes later, what looks like a glowing cloud comes up on the group of travelers from behind, moving quite fast-- however, once closer, you realize it is dozens, perhaps even a hundred, of very very small little 'people'-- each no taller than the length of your hand, appearing as spindly little elves or perhaps stretched out humans. They have rainbow-hued gossamer wings, and no clothes or possessions that you can see. They buzz down the road chattering in voices almost too high and soft to be heard, and pay no heed to you at all, other than tugging at hair or doing a few cartwheels and rude gestures right in front of people's faces before buzzing onward again, beelining down the road.
Your rat prisoner, the conscious one anyway, keeps up an intermittent stream of abuse upon Tassidar, in the Taldane tongue. Whether Tassidar translates the ongoing insults is another matter.
You crest a small hillock-- and ahead you see what can only be the Market. Dozens and dozens of brightly-colored tents and booths, wagons and tables, are set up here. There is a bustle of frenetic activity, a sense of everything in the market always being in motion. Piping music lilts your way, and the sound of raucous cheering and noise. A few more minutes' walk will see you there.
Kló nods thanks to Tassidar, then agreement to Knute, before setting off.
As they march—the small body of the rodent rapscallion a light burden at worst—Kló considers the gourd. He looks over to Tassidar and Rikka, both of whom seem to have some capacity with seidr.
”Do either of you know what this is?”
As they continue towards the market, the lush, vibrant, but dangerous beauty impresses itself once again on Kló. So much so that he finds himself drawn a bit out of his usual stoicism. He points out the fyr, the small goat-man with his various wooden bric-a-brac, then stands still during the spritely onslaught. The big man even goes so far to stick his own tongue out at a tiny intruder in his face, but blushes when he sees anyone see him. ”Sprites,” is his only excuse.
When they crest the hill, the big man stops in his tracks. His comfort—found in the wilds—retreats at the riotous colors and various peoples, and his cold stoicism returns. He gives a single, labored, long sigh through his nose before he looks at the group.
”Into the wolf’s range, then?”
Halla's heart sinks a little as she takes in the multiple tents, booths, and wagons and all the nooks and crannies and alleyways between them. "How will we ever find them?" she murmurs. "What if they've already been taken away?"
An excellent question, Halla...
Approaching closer, you can see the general layout of the market, at least-- paths have been beaten down in the lush grasses, and the tents and stalls cram in close in any available section of earth. To northern eyes, the tents are a riotous display of color-- fabrics dyed in scarlet or azure are rare enough to signify wealth, in the north, but here, each booth seems to be trying to outdo its neighbor with colored flags and fabric. The bustle of Jol-day, with all its guests and entertainments, seems like a very thin and sedate shadow to the revelry and trade happening below.
Flying figures zip over the tents and stalls, and on the river, running by the market, the booths reach all the way down to the water, which boasts at least a dozen small boats and rafts (including, you see, the Catspaw). Figures dive and swim and apparently conduct trade on the water as well as on the land.
The scents of cooking meat and other foodstuffs tantalizingly reach your nostrils, as well as the sounds of bells, piping, drums, and a hubbub of voices. The road itself is full with figures scurrying towards the market-- most of them are smaller than you all, but a few are the size of a man, and here and there you see some who are larger, even. The few travelers you have met on the road so far-- talking rats, plant-people, the erl-karl-- have hopefully prepared you for the utter surreality of the beings you see at this market: a man with the head of a rabbit (and a white tail peeking out from his woodsman's clothes) strolls arm-in-arm with a woman who similarly has the head of a doe deer. What could pass as a human child save for its bright blue skin and blazing orange hair runs along the side of the road, hurling balls of colored light into the air in its wake. Three toads the size of dogs hold court by the edge of the water, croaking and ribbiting at each other in sonorous, sedate tones. And so forth...
And yet, nightmarishly-strange as the locals are, you still attract stares. The fey and other denizens nudge each other and go silent as you pass, watching your progress curiously.
As you reach the outermost tent, a little green-skinned creature that somewhat resembles the sprites of earlier (though it seems a bit more substantial) buzzes up on dragonfly wings to get into the face of whoever is leading on the walk. Unlike the sprites, this tiny spirit is wearing clothes-- seemingly stitched together out of grasses-- and a helmet made from an acorn cap. A scrap of green cloth has been knotted around one of the creature's upper arms. The other holds a rapier no bigger than a sewing needle.
The little fairy chatters imperiously in Sylvan.
"Hang up hang up hang UP! Halt in the name of Diamalla! What's this, then? What's all this about? Big-folk manlings, stodgy clod-wogs, an elfidius, what's your business, eh, eh? Trading, or raiding? Buying, or lying? Selling, or telling? Well speak up, I haven't all day! Who do you serve, you great lumping mudwobblers?"
Kló’s dark eyes linger on Halla’s face, and he shrugs. ”We’ll pick up their trail. We have to.”
A scowl is the only initial response the little creature gets as it flits into Kló’s face and begins its tiny tirade. As he listens to Tassidar’s translation, though, he gives a single attempt to blow the creature away … like one would a dandelion.
”Who’s Diamalla?” He looks at the way all the strange creatures gawk, then considers the way the diminutive defender seems to assume the worst of them. ”You think they’re this wary of all folks from our home? Or maybe a certain pack of green skins have caused problems here, too?”
He points at the little creature as he looks over at Stirgen, "This is the kind of creature that tuned you small."
"Tell it we are seeking something that has been stolen," Halla suggests.
"So in about an hours time we should be at this market. Well, if we can avoid any further skirmishes, or talking animal burrow to burrow salesmen, that is. <<<sigh>>> That was an attempt at levity" "Things have been happening so fast, I haven't really had time to thank you for everything since we first met. Frankly I am suprised I didn't become cat food that first night, but your late companion didn't seem keen on sharing your camp with an elf. Anyway, I wish to thank you for your fair treatment of me."
Knute smiles at Tassidar's joke, and nods at the rest. "Of course! It's Skaði's work to be kind to one's fellow travelers on the road. Thrymr was just... Cautious. Understandably so, so soon after the attack." He pauses for a moment, then continues, "If anything, I should thank you, for coming to aid us without hesitation. You've already helped a lot with your languages and magic." Knute hesitates again. "You were hoping to meet the other elves, right? That was your reason for coming so far north? Hopefully we'll see some at the market."
Knute is stunned by it all--the creatures on the walk to the market, the market itself, all of it. He takes a deep breath and follows after Klo towards the market, dodging the sprites as best he can. He silently echoes Halla's despair. This place is so huge, and more than half of them don't speak our language... As they get closer to the market, Knute points to the Catspaw. "We might run into the rats, or another of their leaders here. Possibly the one who gave them the ability to speak, or their "god". We should keep an eye out for them."
The ranger looks worried as Klo almost literally brushes the "guard" aside. "Be careful," he mutters, "that one seems to have a pride out of proportion to his size. The last thing we want is a fight with the fae here, where we're surrounded by them. Or for you to get shrunk to his size," Knute adds as a little joke.
Stirgen looks sour at Klo's words, and fingers one of his crossbow bolts, but doesn't say anything.
The name Diamalla doesn't ring any bells for anyone, unfortunately. As for the rat captain: still out cold, draped atop Klo's backpack.
Your other Pet Rat decides to chime in, shouting up at the fairy-- in Sylvan, no less-- "They're brutes! Ganged up on me poor cap'n, they did, nearly cut him in half, and bullied him around! We wuz just mindin' our own business!"
The green-clad fairy gives the rat a look that suggests this may not be entirely believed, and looks back to you.
Kló nods along with Halla’s suggestion, ”The tree-man understood when we mentioned it was our children. Maybe some of these people will, too.”
Otherwise, he watches the exchange between the fae protector and the small pirate, ”And let’s make sure we tell the real story here, too.”
As he waits, he looks into the tent-city, trying to spy someone who might be the leshies' master.
Tassidar nods as he listens to his companions.
"I feel you are right Klo, the truth is the simplist answer. I will try to convey, in a polite way, that the children were wrongfully taken."
Turning to the winged guard the makes an appropriate courtly gesture to the guard and speaks.
Tassidar gestures toward Patches the first mate.
Tassidar places a hand upon his own chest.
Tassidar patiently awaits the green creature's response.
The little fairy's demeanor softens some as Tassidar speaks, and finally he sheathes his tiny rapier.
"Well, at least you're mannerly for a bigfolk! I'm called Damiano, and I'm Diamalla's chosen knight! I suppose ignorant mudwobblers wouldn't know who she is... she's Market Mistress, because this is her crossroads, see, so don't go making trouble! Or you'll have me to reckon with!" This is punctuated with some fierce, tiny air-punching.
The discussion of the pirate 'prince' makes the fairy snicker and spin a few cartwheels in the air. "Cor, did he tell you he's a prince!? Baletooth's an enemy of the peace, he is! But sometimes we have smashing duels. Why, once, I fought him to a standstill over a pit of hungry geckos, with his ship on fire all around us...!" If there's a logical inconsistency between 'pit of geckos' and 'being on a ship', it doesn't seem to bother the fairy. For several minutes he Elaborates upon this duel, complete with re-enacted gestures, while those of you who don't speak Sylvan stand by with various degrees of patience-or-not depending on temperament.
Eventually the fairy stops mid-word and shakes himself. "But enough about that! Anyway. Cause trouble in the market and I'll feed you to the sangoi! Bigfolk are always sitting or stepping on little people! I don't think there's any babies for sale but I guess you could try Lady Opalrag's booth, she might have manling babies. North side of market, the tent with all the taffeta and feathers. The garden's misress-- that's probably Mistress Sula, she's got a booth just by the fountain, center square. If it's elfarios you're wanting, I think Mav's selling memories just yonder, under a big gold tent."
Tassidar's assertion that he pays some honor to the Twins earns a sharp-eyed glance from Damiano. "Well, you'll probably be wanting to get some gray, then," the fairy says after a pause. "Mr. Bodkin has plenty of scraps. If you want to put up with him. He's on the east side, the patchwork tent.
"Alright, be about your business!"
"Let's see it," Rikka says when Klo holds up the gourd. The seidrkona murmurs witch-words over the gourd, squinting at it.
"Oh... interesting. If you drink the liquid in this gourd, you can move unentangled by plants and bracken," Rikka says. "It should last a fair bit-- half an hour, I think. What about that jug you got from the satyr, your... payment? Would you like me to look at that?"
”Aye,” Kló responds distractedly to Rikka, then pulls out the jug and hands it to her, ”And thanks.”
The whole while, he watches the exchange between Tassidar and the floating fae. At the combat reenactment, he looks over at Knute with a bewildered expression, then shrugs. After the tiny man floats away, Kló shakes his head.
”Much of that didn’t make sense to me.” He considers the collection of tents once more. ”Lady Opalrag might be smart.” His hackles rise at thinking of a merchant who may deal in babies. ”And this Sula.” He touches the strange gourd, ”she may recognize this. Might make her open to our requests.”
He seems reluctantly ready to plunge into this strange mess of a merchant’s gathering.
"Ask it about the orks and their big wolf," Halla puts in. "Have they been here? Has he seen them? How long ago?"
Tassidar found Damiano's conversational style rather refreshing for at last the elf had met someone whom explored the art of verbal communication more than a few sentences at a time.
However, Tassidar saw even Klo displayed sign of wishing to get directly into the matter at hand.
The elf gives a polite and qenuinely entertained clap.
"Thank you!" chirps the little fairy in response to Tassidar's praise, doing a mid-air pirouette. "Ah. Orcs? Big ugly things with no sense of humor? Yes, a few days back, I think it was. They carried blades of--" Damiano's voice sinks a little, unhappily, "COLD IRON... and they were not happy to be here. Four of them, big and ugly. But their leader spoke civilly. He was a great big chap on a great big wolf, and he was all in steel. And as to days... hm, six gone, I think? I suppose. An age ago, gosh! Don't know where they went, though. Had other things on my mind, yes, indeed!"
Tassidar nods.
The elf gives the diminutive knight a farewell bow before turning to the rest of the party.
.
"I asked him what you bid me to, here Is what he said . . . "
. . . So I am ready to make our next move, but before we go I have a favor to ask. I know not all of you are not entirely comfortable with my magic, but you have seen I use it to advance our cause. Some of my magic I can hold on these scrolls of parchment in glyphs, like runes carved on a northman's weapon. If we can afford some, I need more parchments and special inks to prepare more like these."
The elf thinks for a moment.
"Err, this Orc clad in armor, or whatever he may be, have any of you seen this being before?"
Halla fixes the strange elf with a pointed glare. "All we have is to ransom the children," she replies, "and it may not be enough."
Tassidar replies to the dark haired woman kindly.
"While I hope we can simply pay ransom for the children peacefully, I somewhat suspect we may not have enough wealth or trinkets with us to purchase them in that manner. Your enemy has gone to great lengths to capture and bring them here."
"Also, we must consider the need for additional food and supplies to get the little ones home safe. Some of my magic can assist with that."
"Please don't mistake my request as suggesting we do anything that would be contrary to the well being of the children. If it comes down to a fight, the scrolls could be helpful."
The elf sighs.
"Assuming we have to go back the same way we came, we will still have to make it through the occupied complex."
Tassidar pulls himself from his concerns and tries to put on chipper air.
"Well, I guess let's cross one bridge at a time right? Should we look for the owner of the garden first? She may have some good advice on how to proceed."
Kló listens to Tassidar as the market’s tiny defender flutters away. ”The snow has always been cold. Your kind have always wielded seiðr.” He shrugs as if to say ’this is the way things are’.
”I’ve never seen the orc. Supplies would be good, though.” He fishes out some coin from a watered belt pouch. ”I can make purchases while we ask where the orcs went. And who they talked to and why while they were here. It may give us some idea of what they’re planning.”
"While I hope we can simply pay ransom for the children peacefully, I somewhat suspect we may not have enough wealth or trinkets with us to purchase them in that manner."
"And if we don't?" Halla asks. "We just traded one man for two rather than fight a single enemy." Her eyes flicker to Kló and Stirgen. "Would you take on the entire market?"
"Also, we must consider the need for additional food and supplies to get the little ones home safe. Some of my magic can assist with that."
She shrugs. "I have gone hungry many nights before now."
"Should we look for the owner of the garden first? She may have some good advice on how to proceed."
"First we should see if the children are still here," Halla argues, looking to Kló. "The more time we spend, the further they may be getting from us. If we can find them, or news of them, then we can seek what friends we might find and discover what help we may claim."
Kló nods, "Sounds good."
"Very well, lead on."
Knute looks uncomfortable at the fae's stated aversion to cold iron, resisting the urge to shift the blade to be more out of sight. The ranger chimes in with Klo: "I could use some supplies as well. More rations and arrows, probably." He pauses. "But we should first find out how many days' lead the orks have on us, I agree," he says, nodding towards Lady Opalrag's booth.
The elf wears a chagrined look.
"I hadn't noticed your quiver was running low. I haven't fired an arrow since we climbed the overlook. . . "
Tassidar takes half of his quiver and offers a dozen finely crafted arrows to Knute fletchings first with a smile.
" . . . and your bow rains twice as many as mine. Please accept these."
Stirgen, who's been fairly quiet until now and looking constantly in the direction of the smell of the roasting meat, speaks up:
"I have little enough to contribute, but I do owe you all my freedom... I've more than a few gemstones with me that these spirits may want to trade for, if you think it will help. Also, am I blind, or does that pirate rat not have a fine golden chain wrapped around his waist? It might make a pretty necklace for some fey lady. And that hat of his--"
Stirgen looks around, and notes that Patches, the first mate, has been trying to hide the hat behind his back (Patches had hurriedly picked it up and brushed it off from the ground Klo had hefted the pirate cap'n onto his shoulders). "It's a bit of frippery, but is that not what these spirits go for?"
"...oh," says Rikka. "Give me a moment..."
After some more careful studying of the things the party is carrying with them, Rikka determines that both the second satyr-jug, the gold chain, and the feather in the rat's hat are all magical. The hat itself is not, but it's a nice hat.
"I'm not sure about this chain," Rikka says, fingering the links around the unconscious rat's waist. There's dried blood on them now. "But the feather is... strange; if stuck in a fine hat, it appears to make the wearer be more gifted with grace and luck... but only some special people who already live by that anyway. The jug is more straightforward-- drinking it will enable the imbiber to actually fly, for a short period!" Rikka says, clearly finding the idea charming.
Tassidar is able to attempt to identify the chain, without overly taxing his faculties. The chain will bolster a creature's hide itself, making his skin more impervious to damage.
Plume of Panache
Amulet of Natural Armor +1
Patches the rat engages in a fierce tug-of-war over the hat and feather, snarling, but rat muscles are no match for humans. "You buggering thieves! That's the captain's!"
"No, that's spoils of war," Rikka answers, when the Taldane is translated.
After some discussion, the party takes the path leading north from them, which skirts around the edge of the market, with hill on one side, leaving room for few enough stalls (though some entrepreneurs have tried anyway). They pass a weaver at her loom who looks human enough at first glance-- but in passing you realize she has a second set of arms, smaller growing from beneath the first, which she is using to deft effect on the loom. They pass a thin, grey-skinned man selling rocks... just rocks... his booth piled haphazardly with smooth river pebbles, chunks of granite the size of a man's head, and every other size and shape in between. They pass a small grassy sward where a lithe young man (?) (skin colored bronze, no taller than four feet) and a similarly active young woman (?) (blue-skinned, with wild white hair, but nearly six feet tall) are dancing... with not enough clothing between the two of them to cover an infant, one might say. For a few seconds everyone feels thoroughly captivated by the dance, but after a few seconds you wrench yourselves free and move on, resisting the urge to turn around and keep watching.
There is a dog, or what looks like a dog, manning (dogging?) a tent where well-gnawed bones are laid out for inspection. Near the north end of the aisle, there's a very large tent, walls of green velvet with a vine pattern, where the display tables are many-tiered and full of potted plants large and small. Halla can identify many of the plants at a glance-- basil and thyme and the other kitchen spices (many of them rare in Hofn, but not unknown due to Sven's trading), but also chamomile and feverfew. For every plant Halla can identify, there's another one she can't-- plants foreign to the Ulfen climate.
Just past the tent of herbs, there's a man dressed in expensive finery-- a beautful doublet of russet, with slit sleeves, as well as equally well-made leggings and short boots, and a half-cloak with a lining of flame-colored silk. (To Ulfen eyes, he no doubt looks totally ridiculous.) This individual has waxy skin, a pointy face, and hair the color of cobwebs; he is currently showing bolts of fabric to a customer about two feet tall. Still, his eyes travel to watch your passage as you go by. You surmise this might be the Bodkin of whom Damiano spoke.
Passing by, you reach in short order what must be the booth of Lady Opalrags. As Damiano said, the tent is of torn taffeta, ragged and shredded, and what appear to be bedraggled raven feathers hang from the strips, twirling slowly in the light spring breeze. The interior of the tent appears gloomy despite the many rents in the taffeta. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, but...
Inside the tent are several bassinets, of the type that can be rocked, with black shrouds over each. The hint of repetitive motion catches your eye, and then it resolves into a figure also shrouded in black, seated in a rocking chair, rocking back and forth. An infant child is in the figure's arms, and one hand holds a milk-sop to the baby's mouth.
The hooded head lifts to stare at you where you stand in daylight on the street. It's an old crone, as withered as Old Hilde if not more so, with a less-pleasant cast to her features. She stares, then smiles, and beckons with a withered, claw-like hand, come in, come in.
Halla looks around the tent, a stab of disappointment in her heart. These are infants. It seems clear that Hofn's children aren't here. "Ask her if she has seen any older ones," she urges, "if anyone tried to sell some. Or if she knows who in this land might want older children."
Tassidar arches an eyebrow as he determines the properties of the gold chain.
"The enchantment on this chain grants its wearer thickened skin, like a bear's hide for instance, making one more resistant to injury. Someone should wear it."
The market is like a fairy tail dream come true for the elf, so many sights, sounds and smells to take in with so little time to do so. Tassidar takes note of booths and people he would like to visit should there be time. Somehow he doubted he would get the opportunity.
The elf's large almond shaped eyes take in Halla's own as Tassidar tries to understand the human's emotions. He nods and steps into the crone's tent. Making a polite bow and gesture he speaks.
The crone watches, with pale eyes, the interplay between Halla and Tassidar. Her old wispy brows arch upwards when Tassidar steps inside her tent, and what is possibly a smile twists her withered mouth.
"I can speak the north-tongue," she says in a rasping, unlovely voice. "Though how sweetly you speak the silver-one, elfling. Hmnh hnh hhnh." This seems to be a dark chuckle.
The crone places the infant in her arms-- its skin is a warm brown that suggests it might come from lands far to the south of Hofn-- into one of the bassinets, and draws the shroud over it. From her chair, she reaches to the bassinets and sets each one rocking. Her arms seem perhaps abnormally long, to reach them all. You note that much as Damiano the fairy had worn a green strip of cloth around one arm, she has a black one round hers.
"Sweet as syrup, and cloves, and vanilla, on the gums of a teething babe... But talk, even sweet talk, is cheap. Hnh hnnh."
She settles back into her chair, eyes darting between each of you. "I know the children you seek. They passed through the market six days past, in the company of creatures not often seen here: green-skinned brutes from your dull, drudging world... hnnhh. But they did not come to trade the wee ones, oh no. I even offered to buy the youngest, still sweet enough for my trade... oh no, said the steely-man, oh no."
The crone clucks her tongue against the roof of her mouth scoldingly. "Alas and alack. Now that is free as frippery, for you're a pretty little sweet-speaker, boy.... but more than that, my babes, and it will cost you. The promise of one of your first-born children, perhaps. That's nice and... traditional."
Her eyes dart trough the group, shrewd and sharp, to see if anyone thinks that bargain is worth taking.
Kló marches through the din of the market—and doing his best not to gawk at so many of the oddities they pass—he gives the old crone’s booth a guarded look. After exchanging glances with the group, he lumbers in, having to leave his longspear and stoop his tall frame to get through the tent’s opening.
He can’t help but look at the infants, his eyes narrowing. Her first offer is ignored as he considers the old woman. ”Who do you sell to?”
Klo glances into the bassinets when he enters, but they are shrouded with the dark cloths and he cannot see the infants within. The crone gives him a slow, languid blink like a housecat might.
"Ah, now you do not have a sweet tongue, do you... I sell to those who pay, of course." She smiles showing old, yellow teeth. "And as I said: by paying, that is the only way you will have more from me."