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Situated near the centre of the sleepy hamlet of Wicken, the Smiling Pig is a typical country tavern… Smoke gently rises from the chimney of the thatched building as the autumn evening draws in, and a warm glow from the fire can be seen through the windows. Stepping through the heavy front door and directly into the taproom, visitors are greeted by the friendly smiles of the landlord and his wife - the enduringly jovial Redmanes, gnomes who have called this place home for longer than many can remember.
The bar is cosy with simple wooden tables and chairs arranged around the roaring fire which, tonight has a generously proportioned hog roasting on a spit over it. Well‐polished horse brasses and a few tarneished weapons provide the bulk of the decoration in the inn, although it’s the magnificent display of huge, prize‐winning vegetables that catches the eye of first-time visitors. The smells, the sounds and the fare of this place, a second home to many of Wicken’s folk, are somewhat parochial… and are cherished by all.
Many are the tales told here of the Blight, the great shame that lies no more than three hours hike from here… yet few of this place’s regulars have ever had cause to venture into the great city - and fewer still have come back untarnished by the experience.
This early in the evening, the Smiling Pig is rather quiet, in fact - beyond a pair of men, who from their attire don’t seem to be locals, minding their own business near the bar - the only other patron so far is Hervel, the villager who grew the enormous marrow that occupies pride of place at the centre of the vegetable display. A half-full tankard on the table in front of him and a rosy glow in his cheeks, Hervel is keen to talk to anyone who comes into the bar… and, as he does every year, he loves to boast of his prize-winning vegetables.
The lonely road, it winds and wends its way westward, then north, then west again. Its wayward path skirts the edge of a derelict split-rail fence before shying away, rolling carelessly down a hill and crossing the tepid waters of what might be called a stream. There, nestled by the water, the shop of Salom Mortara sits sullenly beneath the sorrowed grey sky. Dusty windows showcase peculiar baubles and ersatz tschotchke, all sitting mildly askew. A rusted shingle sign juts out from near the door like a broken appendage, its rusted fastenings allowing it to hang crookedly.
Timeless Treasures
The door opens with a jerk, some sad little bell tinkering the unlikely arrival or departure of a patron. A man draped in a dusty, dark overcoat emerges, his face obscured by a large brimmed hat. He pulls the door to, withdraws a key, and inserts it in a keyhole. With a turn, a click-click-click rattles up the edge of the door, engaging an unseen security mechanism. Salom Mortara turns and makes his way toward the path that leads into Wicken proper.
A cool autumn breeze pushes him along his way, forcing him to hold his hat farther down on his brow. The blazing orange leaves of the nyssa sylvatica trees line the path, nearly obscuring it. Still, Salom has walked this road many times before. He could make his way blind if he had to. As he walks he hums or whistles, and when The Smiling Pig comes into view, sings himself a little song, his voice growing bolder with each syllable.
"When th' sun sinks low in th' troubled sea,
And th' night winds blow and th' rain falls free,
When th' daylight fades and th' shadows fall,
O, th' weather watch spies a coming squall."
The warmth of the inn draws him in. As he crosses the threshold he plants his hand along the doorframe, finding a familiar notch in the wood, an irregularity the Redmanes had never bothered to repair. It had been there for years. Some things never change, he thinks, and that idea is comforting, somehow.
As he steps inside he finishes his song.
"Then th' clouds boil black and th' wind will wail,
Now, we're caught in th' teeth of a living gale."
"Allo, Hervel! Devil of an evening, isn't it? How're you faring tonight?" He glances at the strangers, cocking his head and raising his eyebrows curiously.
Aishe Danior, a relatively young man (30's), may wear loose fitting clothes, but they’re of fine homespun cotton and clean. He seems to do what he can to keep them clean as well, paying particular attention to his nails.
Though he sports a morning star and a dagger, it’s clear from the position on his belt, that he favors a light crossbow nicely strung at his hip.
Aishe takes a moment at the door to enjoy the smells - the ale, the pig, the fire - before heading in from the windy streets. He strides to the bar and, winking to the Redmanes, says to Hervel, "Boy, I dunno, I heard the marrow was larger last year."
He chuckles, "That's just what I heard!"
After a moment, he laughs brightly and calls over the landlord, "Please fill poor Hervel's tankard! A half full tankard is no good for such a fine vegetable as this! And bring one for me, for I'm parched cutting firewood all morning!"
He wraps his blistered hands around his own mug as soon as it may arrive, glad to be done with the work of the day. He still has some reserves from his prior work with the caravans, but he doesn't squander and so finds what work he can to keep him here.
"May I buy you a drink sir, you look as parched as I feel. Surely a man with your talents in singing will share a tankard of ale!"
"I'm Aishe, and still a newcomer here by the local standards, though I'm a month in my rooms already." he grins widely at the man in the wide hat.
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If someone had been peering through the mullioned tavern door at the moment just prior to when Moria Keening, professional mourner, lifted the latch, they would have wondered at the quick change in her countenance. A warm and sympathetic smile took the place of a dark, empty look—but the warmth of her sympathy is tempered by a professional air of sadness.
“Hello, good people. Please allow me to present myself--I am Moria Keening, and my trade is easing the grief of survivors of the recently deceased. Has anyone in town passed on recently, by any ill chance? Does anyone require the services of a moirologist? In these troubled times, I am expert in providing the appropriate levels of demonstrative grief and carry with me my years of experience in the delicate art of consolation to any who have seen a loved one passing on to a more blessed plane. But any of you can inform me of such a tragic situation in due time—for now, with the tavern keeper’s permission, may I purchase a drink and regale you with songs of the veil?”
Turning to Salom Mortara, she says “Hail, stranger. I was near enough to you on the road to gather that we share a penchant for two things—broad brimmed hats and the old songs. Allow me to share a few, and perhaps you can teach me yours. I warn you in advance that many of mine will bring a tear to the eye of the strong.”
Many a bard would have tried to cadge a drink out of Redmanes with a song, but being a mourner of some standing in the profession, Moira parts with her coppers in hopes of gathering the innkeeper’s information about the local bereaved. Standard procedure. As is swinging her drums forward (pending permission from Redmanes) and, using delicate flicks of her hands and her wrists, providing rhythmic accompaniment to her repertoire of ancient songs. These tunes are usually, but not exclusively, concerned with death and dying. She begins with an otherworldly tune about the inevitable links between life, death, and magic:
”Witchcraft has not a pedigree,
‘Tis early as our breath,
And mourners meet it--going out
The moment of our death.”
After playing a while, Moira will visit the various characters at the bar, introducing herself, distributing slips of fine black-edged stationer's paper with her trade name and the details of her profession spelled out in looping calligraphy.
Aishe takes the fine card from the stranger. Fancy!
If he's able to get a word in, he'll ask, "I've not lost anyone in a while, but I did lose a brother to sickness as a child. I expect you'd have helped the fear I had in those days huh. Pretty cool." he grins.
He thinks a moment before adding, "I can see leaving the cards on the deceased bodies of the bandits on the road occasionally encountered. I had to kill one on the way here a couple months ago now. I'm sure the poor bastard had family and was just doing what he could in these difficult times."
"Are your rates expensive for such services? This is very fine paper..." he wonders if such a service could be pre-paid. Fascinating!
Down the street from the Smiling Pig stands a squat cottage. Outside the front door hangs a pole painted with red-and-white stripes underneath a sign decorated with a moustache and a pair of scissors. Above the door reads "Bill's Barber Shop".
Inside the shop, an older man reclines in a barber chair, still wearing the apron of his trade. He takes an occasional sip from a metal flask. He watches a huge bull of a man wearing a similar apron sweep the hair clippings from the floor. The larger man's face is dominated by a huge handlebar moustache.
After sweeping the last of the clippings into a dustpan and dumping them into an ashcan, the larger man leans on his broom and surveys the shop. "Well, Bill, I think that's gonna be it for today. Shall I close up for the night?" After a pause, the older man grunts in agreement. The large man sets the broom in the corner, and flips the sign hanging in the door to "Closed." He then removes his apron and hangs it on a peg.
"I'm headin' over to the Smiling Pig for a pint or two. You comin', Bill?"
Bill slowly stands up and stretches. "Nah, I'm in for the night. I'll just go upstairs for dinner with the missus. G'nite, Ian! See ya tomrorrow."
Ian straightens his crimson necktie and smooths his waistcoat. He then puts on a tweed jacket and dons a black felt bowler hat. Taking a finely-crafted walking stick from the umbrella stand, he opens the door. "All right, Bill. Have a good night!"
Stepping into the cool night, Ian heads straight for the Smiling Pig, the very establishment where he'd been discovered for his ill-fated and short-lived boxing career. And to think that I almost made my fortune by beating other men to a pulp! He shakes his head at the memory of that folly. I'm happy now in this little town... I expect I'll take over Bill's shop in a few years... the old guy's eyesight is failing...
Ian opens the door to the public house and is greeted by the familiar sights and smells. The other regulars call out greetings, and he returns them. He nods at the strangers, curious as to how they'd found themselves in Wicken, but eager to hear their tales. He saunters to the bar and orders a pint from the barman, and plants his huge frame onto a barstool that seems barely able to support his bulk.
It's at that time when another stranger enters, announcing herself to be a professional mourner. "Evening, Miss Keening, and welcome to Wicken! So... what, exactly, does a professional mourner's services entail? Not that any of my friends have departed... just curious!"
Euphemia slips in quietly, already hearing the faint music of Moira's performance within and being careful not to disturb it with her entry. The young woman smells faintly of herbs and is donned in a long brown skirt and matching vest over a white-sleeved blouse with a satchel slung across her chest, an iron holy symbol of Desna hanging from her neck, and around her waist a sash of dyed blue cloth.
She slips on over to the bar, retrieving a few coins and placing an order of, "Mead, please," as she settles in to one of the chairs.
Curious blue eyes alight over the various individuals to drink in the sights of them as her flagon is filled and delivered, before finally the false cleric speaks aloud in a soft, cheery voice, "We have quite the gathering tonight, I see!"
Excited by Aishe's interest in her profession, Moria begins answering his questions.
"I'm sorry about the loss of your brother. I have also lost family members to illness, which is part of why I'm on the road these days. I usually don't have too many troubles with bandits myself, they often need a wailer and I'm happy to provide. I... I don't think leaving my card on their body... well, it might be taken the wrong way. But I do appreciate the thought. As for my rates, I ask a fair price for my expertise, but often I lower it. These are hard times and we must do what we can for each other. And do you ply a trade, sir?"
"A fair question, Mr. McGoon. In my neck of the woods, a family expresses its grief in part by hiring a moirologist like myself to sing the dead to their final rest--a parting lullaby of sorts. Now, sometimes that lullaby takes the form of a wail of anguish. Other times, a chant of deeds. Some folks prefer a rowdy wake, where I lead them in dances to show the brightness of life in the face of darkness. I'm the band at the wedding--but it's a funeral. I'm also skilled at consolation--when the doctor fails to cure the illness, I attempt to cure its after-effects. Most people do not think much on death, but as someone who has seen its many faces, I can ease its aftermath. And, no offense to any ecclesiastics present, and if you'll permit me a professional boast, Mr. McGoon, I believe that I can do as good a job as a priest--often better."
"Well, I'll drink to that! The best parties I've ever been to have been wakes!" He raises his glass and calls, "To the dearly departed—May they never be forgotten!" He then takes a long draught of his tankard.
Salom whirls on his scuffed, high-top boot, clasping the brim of his hat and sweeping it down into a stiff little bow aimed more or less in Moira’s direction. ”My lady. I have a penchant for a great many things, not just overly-dramatic hats. Chief among them, currently, are wyldoak brandy and a tobacco pipe, though those are subject to change from moment to moment. But don’t let that fool you, lest you think I’m utterly saint-like, I do have my vices as well.”
He motions to barkeep Redmane for his usual brandy.
”As it happens, there always seems to be someone passing on around Wicken. Why, we’re dropping like flies! As to the appropriate level of demonstrative grief, well, you are likely the expert there and, as far as I can tell, a man’s grief is worth little more than a few, fleeting glances, feigned sympathies, pats on the shoulder, and a care package of home baked breads and pickled corn. Beyond that, it’s just warts on a sow’s rear. At least in my meager experience.” He surveys Moira’s fine studded leather, her buckler and her sword, then smiles genially. ”But now I’m sure you’ve been much more successful with it that a peddler like me ever was. You’ve done quite well for yourself. Tell me, what’s the most gruesome manner of death you’ve been asked to sing about?”
Salom takes a seat beside Hervel and Aishe and listens to Moira’s somber strain. Despite his aloof demeanor, he watches her closely. When she finishes, he claps fervently, forgetting he’s holding his cup and splashing a bit of the fragrant liquor over his hands. He wipes them on poor Hervel. ”Bravo, Miss! You weren’t taking us for a lark. Positively moving.”
”I did lose a brother to sickness as a child.”
”What a pity,” Salom offers. ”Only one?”
Euphemia picks up her flagon to join in Ian's toast. "To the dearly departed!"
"You're a traveler, then?" She shifts her attention to Moira. "Desna's blessings upon you, my lady! The road here has been safe and sure, I hope? No troubles along the way?"
Moira turns to Euphemia, first--
"I thank you! I tend to travel safely, as the bandits often recognize a professional mourner and grant us safe passage, and as I was saying to Mr. Danior, I do occasional assist at their backwoods interments. Those in dangerous professions are often repeat customers.
While exchanging pleasantries with Euphemia (despite her usual distaste for religion), Moira processes what to say to Salom. Those who speak glibly of death mourning, in her experience, is often in a deeper form of mourning themselves. After playing another song, she approaches him for a chat over a pint.
She thinks,"If only I was as prosperous as he seems to assume I am... I'm nearly out of cash, and not yet to Castorhage."
With a professional's attention to a potentially difficult customer, she turns to him with a winning, though muted, smile...
"Mr. Mortara, I sing my songs over many a broken and torn body, but professional courtesy would keep me from describing the details in a tavern, even if good taste did not. You seem to hold mourning lightly--but those baked goods and jars of pickled produce may mean more than you know. I have seen griefs that shook communities to their very bones--I have tended to the very poets of regret. Often one's ability to feel loss varies from individual to individual--perhaps you are just not one for grieving? Or perhaps you might find yourself in need of a professional someday? Take a card, please."
Moira feels her winning, professional smile a little more difficult to maintain than usual, meeting Salom's eyes as the black-edged slip of paper dangles from her extended fingers.
As Moira finishes her song, one of the younger Redmanes, his hair a shock of neon pink - not unlike others of his family - takes up the tune from Moira. His song talks of death, much as the words that had come before, yet it soon turns to the joy of living... a jovial melody soon rising from the slow dirge that preceded it. The song is a familiar one to those who have spent time in Wicken, a lilting song that talks about the beauty of the Sellen river that rises so far to the north and makes its way, bringing life wherever it flows, ever southwards.
The rhythm slows at the cautionary verses, as the Sellen slows and pools near the alchymic factories of Castorhage and, for those final leagues becomes the Lyme... the great mother Lyme that winds her ponderous way along the dreadful banks of the Blight... poisoned and diseased yet far from dead, the river is the cities lifeblood - something conveyed by the strangely hopeful emphasis to the gnome's song.
...and finally, as the words tell of the Lyme's passage into the sea, the happiness in the song returns - the toxicity of the river cleansed and purified by nature. Soon enough the tune has come to an end, to the appreciative applause of the staff behind the bar... and, as if on cue, the door opens - the cold from the rapidly darkening evening sending the flames of the fire in the hearth fluttering. Apologising, a cloaked figure steps in to the 'Pig' and hangs his wide-brimmed hat - rather unceremoniously - on one of the blades adorning the wall - nodding to the assembling patronage, he coughs to the Landlord, "One of your finest please!!! Something to wash the taste of the Blight away"
"I'm sorry about the loss of your brother. I have also lost family members to illness, which is part of why I'm on the road these days. I usually don't have too many troubles with bandits myself, they often need a wailer and I'm happy to provide. I... I don't think leaving my card on their body... well, it might be taken the wrong way. But I do appreciate the thought. As for my rates, I ask a fair price for my expertise, but often I lower it. These are hard times and we must do what we can for each other. And do you ply a trade, sir?"
Aishe takes a sip of ale, "Oh, I'm between trades at the moment!" he says with some pride. "I'm quite skilled with the cart, wagon, or trap - loading, unloading, hitching, driving, you name it. But that's more a skill for a traveling man and I mean to settle down a bit. Dunno exactly what that means exactly, but I'll feel my way."
”What a pity,” Salom offers. ”Only one?”
He nods knowingly, "Yes, lucky. Almost lost a sister, nearly burned for witchcraft, but she sunk and, thanks to being a strong swimmer, survived the dunk. It was a small town you understand."
Euphemia picks up her flagon to join in Ian's toast. "To the dearly departed!"
Aishe grows quiet, and hoists his glass high, thinking of those he’s lost over the years. The ones he cared about, and the ones he didn’t - they all deserved some respect at least. Draining his ale, he calls over the landlord for another. Meeting new people is thirsty work!
He listens happily to the song, and wonders at the newcomer, but as he already has a circle of interesting people to chat with, doesn’t yet introduce himself.
He turns to Euphemia, "So do you have a trade m'lady? What do you do with your time?" he asks clearly interested, in a casual, friendly way.
Euphemia's attention is caught by the stranger entering the Smiling Pig, but it quickly darts over to Aishe as he questions her.
He turns to Euphemia, "So do you have a trade m'lady? What do you do with your time?" he asks clearly interested, in a casual, friendly way.
A warm smile comes to her face, "The name is Euphemia Blaithe, healer by trade and devotee of Desna! Although, I've never been far from Wicken...." At the last part, her countryside drawl takes on a quiet tone, although she quickly perks back up as she continues. "I live over on the edge of town with my mother."
The young woman straightens up in her seat, taking another sip of mead to wet her lips.
"Sorry to hear about your brother, and what happened to your sister, good sir. Have you been liking Wicken so far?"
The quiet half elf in the corner is taken in by the stranger in the hat talking about the Blight. If anyone paid particular attention to her, they’d see four different holy symbols sticking out of her bag, for some reason. Tess never had the guts to return there after her mother secreted her away as a mere baby. She couldn’t help but wonder about her elven father, however.
She instinctively placed her marked left hand into her belt pouch and felt the glass
Blown tobacco pipe, purported created by her Primitave father, all she had to remember him by.
Tess started to get up and approach the man, but before doing so, she glanced at the windows, and ducked her head to avoid any mirrors in the place. They always creeped her out for some weird reason.
Taking her precautions, she approached him. ”Any stories from the Blight to share? Meet any artistic elves on your trip?”
A young woman, who might once have been pretty, but for her too thin frame, sunken cheekbones, unkempt hair and vacant eyes sits in the corner of the room, nursing her drink.
She turns those empty eyes on the room, surveying it briefly before turning her attention to the shapeless blob with a single eye, a gaping maw filled with sharp teeth and four tentacles like limbs sticking out of it, puddled by her side. At the end two of the tentacles are sharp appendages, looking somewhat, yet not quite like a talon.
She looks at the creature, speaking to it. "Look at them - all so blissfully unaware of the truths of the universe. How insignificant they are in the greater scheme of things,"while shaking her head. "Everything is transient. Nothing lasts."
The creature in question gives a dark chuckle.
A warm smile comes to her face, "The name is Euphemia Blaithe, healer by trade and devotee of Desna! Although, I've never been far from Wicken...." At the last part, her countryside drawl takes on a quiet tone, although she quickly perks back up as she continues. "I live over on the edge of town with my mother."
The young woman straightens up in her seat, taking another sip of mead to wet her lips.
"Sorry to hear about your brother, and what happened to your sister, good sir. Have you been liking Wicken so far?"
”Oh, wonderful! I have these blisters…” Aishe shows off his mornings results, hands badly blistered, his being unfamiliar with his way around an axe. A few are red and angry - having burst in his efforts. But he withdraws them quickly, ”Oh, you don’t want to see that - particularly on such a fine evening.” he laughs at himself.
”It was a long time ago, my sister that is. She always had a way with animals, more druid than witch I always said, but when a black cat started following her around everywhere, the locals became concerned. When she talked to animals the went ballistic. She didn’t actually talk to animals you know. She just found her voice soothing to them, so she’d speak to them, and they’d calm and crawl into her hand or lap. Sweet really.” he looks off into some middle distance, remembering his youth.
”She’s in Opparra now, doing her thing with some of the gardens in the city.” he grins. ”Nicer gardens than you might find around here - well, more manicured but their marrow isn’t as large, is it Hervel?!” he calls out to the farmer, grinning at the strengths of a strong farming community and good rain.
He hears the Blight mentioned again and his mind searches for something to connect it to. Not being from around here, he doesn’t immediately connect blight with any city… they’re too fine! He listens closely to the conversation, wondering what he’s going to learn.
As Moira finishes her song, one of the younger Redmanes, his hair a shock of neon pink - not unlike others of his family - takes up the tune from Moira. His song talks of death, much as the words that had come before, yet it soon turns to the joy of living... a jovial melody soon rising from the slow dirge that preceded it. The song is a familiar one to those who have spent time in Wicken...
Moira's applause is vigorous, praise for a song well sung. She asks the younger Redmanes if he would please teach her the gist of it before she moves on, "It's such a nice song, true to geography, but readily a metaphor for the river of life as it wanders from youth to age, and finally back into the cleansing sea of eternal rest. I could bring peace to many a sore heart with that tune, lad, and would take it kindly if you would teach it to me." She's almost too busy humming to fix the tune in her head to notice the newcomers.
She's not so distracted that she's tuned out Aishe and Euphemia, though. Hearing about Aishe's hands, Moira turns to him, and offers a favor— “Mr. Danior, I happen to know how to use bardic magic to cure wounds and have an extra spellslot hanging around, and it’s late in the evening, I doubt I’ll need it for ought else—buy me another of these good strong ciders and I’ll set your hands to rights and better than rights.”
”Oh, wonderful! I have these blisters…” Aishe shows off his mornings results, hands badly blistered, his being unfamiliar with his way around an axe. A few are red and angry - having burst in his efforts. But he withdraws them quickly, ”Oh, you don’t want to see that - particularly on such a fine evening.” he laughs at himself.
"Oh, it is quite fine, I've seen it plenty enough. But you should wear better gloves when you work, sweetheart," Euphemia chastises. She sets her drink down on the bartop and drops her eyes to her satchel as she opens it up and begins rummaging through it, briefling tossing a questioning look up to the man, "Let me wrap them in some bandages so they stay clean?"
Regardless of his response to her offer, she'd nod along to the rest of his words with a sympathetic hum. "Some people see something strange and they just can't accept it... it's a real shame, you know. The world is full of such potential and beauty."
As if on perfect cue, it is at this moment that the false cleric takes notice of Luriel— and then the hideous abomination of a tentacled blob next to the ghastly waif. Euphemia blinks once, twice, then slowly turns her attention back to Aishe with a questioning, somewhat disconcerted look and a quick jerk of her head towards the pair in the corner, as if asking him if he were seeing that too.
Luriel notices the strange stares she is given from the other patrons but does not pay them any heed. She has had those stares all too often. ’They do not see the truth. They live their petty, miserly lives without even knowing who are the true masters of Golarion.’
She returns to brooding over her drink. She hated sitting at such noisy watering holes with insignificant mortals, yet it was generally in these places that there would be people gathered to talk about their business, which some of it…could prove useful. For with each soul that Azathoth consumed, his link between Golarion and Dark Tapestry grew ever stronger…
The young - although what is young for a gnome? - Redmane puts a warmed cider on the table next to Moira, "Courtesy of the house... for your song", and before she turns her attentions to Aishe teaches the mourner some of the intricacies of his song.
Across the bar, and a little closer to the fire, the new arrival - a stranger to Wicken as far as anyone can recall - sits himself down at the table across from Tessara and introduces himself as Wendell, "...and pleased to meet a friendly face at last. I'd never been to Castorhage before last month... never really had the need nor the desire. Then, 'bout a month back, my son - fool that he is - went and boarded a boat to the city. Some folks 'round my parts, we're from upriver you see, they said he'd done something bad and probably fled to the Blight to disappear... don't matter to me, he's still my son, and I needed to know where he is. So, I got myself passage to the Blight and for the last month, I've searched high and low". Wendell reels off names of districts that Tessara has heard tell of but yet has no real comprehension as to what they truly are... 'Toiltown', 'The Jumble', 'Festival', 'The Artist's Quarter'...
"High and Low I looked... and yes, to answer your question, there's elves in that city - afraid to say, they're as mean-spirited and broken as their human cousins... but there was not a sign of my lad. Now I've run low on money and I need to head back home before my harvest goes to rot", there is a deep melancholy to the man as he looks down at his drink.
Tessara could feel the sadness radiating from the man. Once again, for some reason she felt strengthened, almost emboldened, by absorbing the melancholy. "Well, Wendell, I can't help you with gold, but I've been thinking about visiting the city. If you give me his information, and I muster the strength, I'd check for him as well. Obviously I can't promise anything, but if our paths crossed, I'd give him your message," she described as she offered to help the sad man. She had more questions about the elves, but didn't want to hog the conversation. He was in pain...she didn't want to make the conversation all about her.
"Mr. Mortara, I sing my songs over many a broken and torn body, but professional courtesy would keep me from describing the details in a tavern, even if good taste did not. You seem to hold mourning lightly--but those baked goods and jars of pickled produce may mean more than you know.“
”The pickled produce meant a great deal to my indigestion,” he replies seriously.
"I have seen griefs that shook communities to their very bones--I have tended to the very poets of regret. Often one's ability to feel loss varies from individual to individual--perhaps you are just not one for grieving? Or perhaps you might find yourself in need of a professional someday? Take a card, please."
”I--” he begins, no doubt poised to deliver another acerbic quip. Instead, he stays his reply, scrutinizing the card in Moira’s hand as though it were another anomalous miscreation like the one gurgling near Luriel over in the corner. He accepts it reluctantly, but with a nod of the head. ”Of course.”
Once the young woman turns away, he places the card on the bar and, pressing his index finger against it, pushes it away. A business card! For a funeral. How vulgar.
He really out to look into having something similar drawn up for himself. Business has most certainly been on the decline.
And although he intends to leave Moira Keening’s business card where it is, the fine, black-edged stationer’s paper finds its way into his coat’s breast pocket. The girl is pleasant enough (for a professional mourner) certainly, but there’s also something assuaging about her. ”Like petrichor,” he says aloud, then chuckles merrily.
Slamming his cup down on the bar, he ignores the stern look he garners from the the young Redmane and ambles over near Wendell to hear his tale of woe.
”There was your folly, sir--searching for anything in the Blight. My father spent some days there as a young man before escaping that spider’s web of a town, and swore he’d never go back. As I hear it, one doesn’t find anything in the Blight, things only find you. And since you are standing here with us sans son, well, best to shore up your losses and tend to your crop. You can always grow more. Sons I mean.”
'Interesting...missing people usually attract trouble..and when trouble comes, it brings coins, and possibly a chance...for a feast... Luriel thinks to herself. 'We'll just bide our time and keep listening...'
As Moira and Euphemia tend to Aishe’s hands, he grows red-faced and quite embarrassed. ”Oh, it’s nothing, really! I’m sorry to have brought it up - you are both too kind. Too kind by half!” he tucks his hands in his pockets, and comes up with a few more silver, ”Redmane, fresh drinks for my healers!” he cries trying to push past his embarrassment and weakness.
He catches Euphemia's glance, and looks over to the woman in the corner with the... abomination. He looks back at Euphemia and shrugs. "It doesn't take all kinds, there just are all kinds. The creature seems harmless enough, or at least well trained, but I wouldn't get too close with food just in case." he grins and sips his ale.
"High and Low I looked... and yes, to answer your question, there's elves in that city - afraid to say, they're as mean-spirited and broken as their human cousins... but there was not a sign of my lad. Now I've run low on money and I need to head back home before my harvest goes to rot", there is a deep melancholy to the man as he looks down at his drink.
”There was your folly, sir--searching for anything in the Blight. My father spent some days there as a young man before escaping that spider’s web of a town, and swore he’d never go back. As I hear it, one doesn’t find anything in the Blight, things only find you. And since you are standing here with us sans son, well, best to shore up your losses and tend to your crop. You can always grow more. Sons I mean.”
Aishe’s first thoughts run to Castorhage. Ahhhh, Castorhage is the Blight! he makes the connection at last. But it sounds like a horrible place, surely no city can be that foul?
”Sir, perhaps your son moved on and only stayed in the city a short while? I came up from the south, but bypassed the city in my travels. Perhaps I’ve seen your son on the roads. I do have an eye for people. Tell us, what did, er does, he look like?”
Moira is suffused with warmth—maybe it’s the ruddy glow of the cookfire on the rich timberwork of the tavern, or maybe it’s that she hasn’t had a chance to talk with good folk in a long while. She’s also, just perhaps, a bit tipsy from the three (or was it four?) ciders she's either finished or is still nursing (she has two at the moment). She decides to join the conversation around Wendell. After introducing herself to Tessara and Wendell, she butts in: “I’m so sorry for your loss…t son, Mr. Wendell. I myself am considering a journey to Castorhage, as my profession, alas, tends to thrive in difficult situations.” Moira explains her work using her usual pitch, delicately avoiding any connection between mourning and the farmer’s current situation. She hands Wendell a card. “Like Ms.Omelian, I’d be willing to keep an eye and an ear out for your son, if you’ll tell us how to recognize him. And unlike Mr. Mortara, I think your parental concern is admirable—it does lead me to wonder why a son would leave such a caring parent, though I’m worldly enough to know that prodigal sons don’t necessarily need reasons for leaving the fold.”
Night had come to the settlement as the halfling finally stepped into Wicken. It had taken him longer to reach the quiet hamlet than it should have but he had been away from civilization so long it scared him more than even Mama Grouswowe. The thought of filled his mind with and echoing abyss of screams. He could feel his feet begin to move faster and his mind told him to run. A shiver ran the course of his spine down to his legs he looked up just in time to stop from running right into a door.
'What?!' his hands sprang for his short blade that hung at loosely by his waist as disturbingly beautiful voice drifted from the other side of the door. He looked around and saw noone else around.
'We go now. Now or we run. NOW.' with that he fought with fear to move his hand forward and push the door open. There was no resistance and the sounds and smells that he had forgotten about swirled about his body calling him in.
The dwelling was full of chatter as we watched a group of others now circling about two tables. One man. Old. Human. He spoke while the others listened.
'Who is he? They listen. Why?' The halfling crept closer pushing himself amongst the others to make his presence felt. 'They will listen. I speak now. NOW.'
Barely more than a whisper the halfling set his dark eyes upon the old man. "You. You speak. They listen. I speak. They listen."
He bared his teeth to show that he meant to have them hear his words. Words that he had not spoken in over three years. His voice cracked even saying that little. Dressed in over sized leathers that he had been lucky to stumble upon they had served well while in the wild. He hoped they would serve here equally well with the stains of dried blood that splattered the various sections. The sleeves had been roughly cut back to just past the elbows because they had been too long. An old thick woolen brown cloak rested on his shoulders. The cloak showed its age with the snags and holes that could visibly be seen. He shifted his cloak just enough to show the hilts of two long knives that he wore at his side. Yet the most intimidating about this feral creature was the axe that rested on his back. Twined around the haft of the axe was a collection of charms consisting stones, teeth and tiny animal skulls.
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"...whoa. Whoa there. We'll listen, we'll listen, we're all good listeners here..."
Moira leans back from the table a bit, in a manner we earthlings might recognize as similar to Han Solo meeting Greedo, right hand discreetly on the hilt of her longsword, left on her chin, where it is poised for any necessary quick somatic components. She tries to make subtle, but significant, eye contact with McGoon and Redmanes...
The halfling looks at the female and nods triumphantly. He removes the great axe from his back and drops it no so gently onto the table in front of the old man. A ringing echoes through the room as the charms rattle against one another.
"You. You have wandered to the city. I search. I search for the orc blooded. You. Have you seen?" he looks at the female and then back to the old man waiting for their answer.
"Please tell us this isn't your son.." Salom whispers urgently to Wendell. He slowly reaches for an empty tankard to use as a weapon. He knew he should've carried his tool belt. At least a screwdriver. "But the family resemblance is unmistakable."
As a traveller, Aishe has had to face people like this new stranger. Folks who are not skilled with civilization, and have no filter for it. They speak their minds, whatever happens to cross it. They are often self important and take more than they give. But with every stranger, there is some hidden gem, some facet of them that makes them shine. He wonders what makes this little one shine.
”So you hate orcs huh? Probably just as well. I hear they have some civilization to the north and west, but I have yet to see a civilized orc. They all seem brutish killing machines to me. Or is there someone specific you seek?” he wonders at the last.
Euphemia takes her fresh drink with a small smile, lifting it up in a half-toast as she considers the man's next words...
"It doesn't take all kinds, there just are all kinds. The creature seems harmless enough, or at least well trained, but I wouldn't get too close with food just in case."
She giggles. "A fair enough point. I will keep it in mind."
When the door opens again, that curious blue gaze is already darting over to see who is entering the Smiling Pig now — she regards the halfling inquisitively, murmuring something about how "Travel's in the air," but does not seem alarmed until he begins growling and baring his teeth, at which point she sets down her drink and carefully hops to her feet as if readying for trouble...
... Not that she is very good in a fight. No, she's far better at healing and supporting with beneficial spells. But there seems to be enough decent combatants in here if things got messy with the halfing...
The halfling looks at the female and nods triumphantly. He removes the great axe from his back and drops it no so gently onto the table in front of the old man. A ringing echoes through the room as the charms rattle against one another.
Euphemia bunches her shoulders slightly as the axe is drawn, but when it is dropped onto the table she relaxes slightly and returns to her seat.
"I... I do not believe I've seen any travellers matching your given description come through here, sir."
”So you hate orcs huh? Probably just as well. I hear they have some civilization to the north and west, but I have yet to see a civilized orc. They all seem brutish killing machines to me. Or is there someone specific you seek?” he wonders at the last.
"Orcs. No. Ogres. Yes. I hunt for the orc blooded. The half orc. He is worse than... OGRES." At the second mention of 'Ogres' the halfling grinds his teeth and you watch as a little blood begins to trickle down the corner of his mouth. Soon his pupils begin to dilate and the vein in his neck starts to pulsate as the rage courses through his body. He digs his fingers into the table and leans forward and quickly whips his head about talking to everyone around him. "I search. I head for city. The half orc. He is there. You. You head to city. Bring me."
'We need a guide. Yes any will do. We will not find the half orc. We need them. Convince them. Convince them NOW.' he hated that voice. It spoke to him like a child and he was no child, but the voice was right. It was always right in times like these. He never could have survived all those years without it. The voice was his guide and he trusted it as much he hated how it was always right.
He looked at the female leaning back in her chair. Then the others who whispered so he could not hear. Were they able to help him? If not what was he to do? Finally he turned back to the old man. He had been quiet more watching than talking. Was he not the Speaker.
'Make him speak. He knows the city. We heard him speak about the city. Yes make him speak. SPEAK.' He slowly turned and set his eyes on the old man. The halfling looked as if he was ready to pounce.
"You. Speak. Speak...NOW."
It was at around this time that the door swung open one more time, and a young man a veritable study contradictions entered. Pale skin and blonde hair suggested northern ancestry, but that suggestion was belied by a slight build. A starched white shirt of cotton embroidered with insignia and covered by an intricate vest of brown brocade suggested nobility, but the clothes were spattered with mud, and the shirt sleeve and skin beneath it both torn. The young man slowly surveyed the scene like one trained to fight, but bore no weapon - not even a dagger. He stared at the presented tableau - skull strewn miniature axe, drum bearing mourner, neon haired gnomes and Desnan neophyte - like one unaccustomed to oddity yet seemed strangely unconcerned by the sullen half-elf with the shapeless abomination by her side.
Striding forward to the bar the young man took advantage of the confrontation nearby to talk to the barman "A hound spooked my horse, he threw me, and I fear he's gone lame. He's leashed outside. Have your boy stable him and rub him down - I'll stay here for the night. A small suite will do." he looked past the vegetables to the spit. "Draw a hot bath for my room while I eat. I'll have the roast and for wine - no..." he added catching sight of the barrels behind the bar "Make that cider. A pint."
The young man slaps a fresh minted guinea on the bar "Tell me when that runs out." he commands, and turns to face the room.
Idly he looks from table to table, noting the commotion that surround the young elven lady and the halfling, and pauses by the bar.
Moira takes the opportunity presented by Oscar's (admittedly rather tranquil) entrance to tell Wendell, "Fear not, fellow traveler, we'll try to talk with this halfling to see what he needs, and I think there are enough of us here to take care of him, whatever those needs may be."
She then turns to the halfling and says, slowly and clearly, as often best serves when talking to those half out of their mind with grief (and which does well enough with those half out of their minds for other reasons, "Now, please, comrade, start from the beginning. Tell us your troubles--but please, make yourself easy. Try a deep breath."
Wendell, who had just set his drink down when this new stranger - so few words yet suddenly the very centre of attention within the inn - had seemed ready to talk a little more of his son... shaking his head, subtly so as not to alarm this wild halfling, the man from upriver is quite clear to Salom - this is not his son!!!
Uncertain as to what exactly the halfling wants, Wendell speaks hesitantly, "There are orcs in Castorhage... and there those spawned of the union between those beasts and humanity". A look that is half disgust and half wonderment comes across his face, "It's a melting pot, a crucible, an alchymic vessel of sorts... so many peoples, intermingled and living on top of each other in terrace upon terrace of slum... it is no wonder that there is so little 'humanity' in the place. My son... maybe he is lost to the city - I can but pray for him now. As to your half-orc? I wish you fortune in your search sir but I cannot help you".
At the bar, a tankard of zesty cider is poured for Oscar and the landlord - his eyes occasionally flitting over to the halflng - promises that someone will indeed tend to his horse. Intrigued at this new stranger, and maybe thinking that he comes from a far off land, the patriarch Redmane asks, in a friendly manner, "What brings you to Wicken? Passing through? On your way to or from Castorhage? Or maybe you came to see our church? "
Oscar turned back to the bar. "Passing through. I was visiting the ruins of the old abbey where the poet deTreväme wrote his masterpiece. The map said I could make the trip from there to my manor in a day. I was late heading out and pushed on through the twilight. I don't blame poor Ignis for spooking in the gloom - werelight shows the trail but ruins night sight. I'm hopeful he'll be recovered in the morning."
Oscar pauses for a second "If he isn't, do you have a lad I can hire to take a message to the manor? It isn't far - half a day by foot - but I'd prefer not to worry my mother."
"Do people often come to see the church? Is there something that makes it noteworthy? I'm in no particular hurry, and there's every chance I'll be here a few days if Ignis has lamed himself."
The young man took an idle sip of his cider and stopped, a surprised look on his face "Well! my congratulations to the brewer! I'll have to get a small cask to take with me, if you've one available. I'm very much looking forward to seeing how well it complements the pork."
Ranging all the way from the feral to the lordly, this is turning into quite the party! Aishe can't remember the last time there were this many strangers in the little town. Sure he hadn't been here long, but still. There must be something on the wind.
He calls out to the newcomer, "Sir, when you've finished your supper, you might join us. We're trying to help the halfling here to be sure, but we're just a few strangers getting to know one another around the fire. There's room for more!"
He slides down the bench to to give him his spot if he wishes it on the end and leans in to hear the halfling tell his tale.
"Oh!" Oscar responds, nodding "Very kind."
Trapped as he is by the law of polite society though, he turns back to master Redmane to beg leave "I am interested in the church, but I am ever a slave to my curiosity, and I fear it has been piqued by this halfling. I hope you won't think me rude if I ask to continue our conversation later?"
Euphemia looks over to the newest of the newcomers talking to the innkeep as the attention shifts onto him and away from the brutish halfling, though she periodically throws a wary glance back to Methilius.
Taking her cider up with one hand, she lifts the other to invitingly beckon Oscar over to the spot on the bench Aishe freed up. Her drawl is as smooth as ever as she begins speaking, "I heard about your horse, sir. I don't work with them much, but if you're worried about him being lamed, I could take a look. I know a bit of healing magic, too, if you or he requires it."
Taking advantage of the distraction provided by the feral halfling, a young man barely out of his childhood slips into already crowded inn. This man, actually a boy really, is dressed in non descript clothes with a long hooded cloak to keep out the chill. Should anyone peer under the hood would see a pair of gray-green eyes sparkling with intelligence that contrasts with the pale sickly complexion of his skin. Black hair falls down in an unkempt mess over his eyes and ears where he brushes it back in a gesture oft-repeated.
Finding an unoccupied table near the end of the inn (a difficult task seeing most of them were occupied by quite the eclectic mix of locals and foreigners.
But is SHE here...I was told she may have been here not long ago...
Waving the barmaid over he says in a soft, raspy voice ”Just red wine for me...whatever you have rotting in the barrel is all I need.” He then takes out a well worn flute, idly running his fingers over the hardwood.
A lot of activity here...perhaps the barkeep has seen her...or perhaps knows of one who may know where she is...I fear this road will lead back to the Blight...
He places a silver coin upon the table once the barmaid has returned with the wine. ”I...I also seek a favor...no not THAT kind of favor. I wish to know of a lady...a woman who has perchance passed by this inn on the way to Castorhage....” He then takes out a scroll case and unfurls a well worn vellum sheet, upon which is a portrait of an attractive young woman, a blue-green eyes and long brown hair, an easy smile painted upon her face.
”She goes by the name of Elsie...mayhaps you have seen her pass through here?”
Oscar looks at Euphemia in puzzlement for a moment, then his eyes flick to her chest and understanding dawns.
With a final apology to the barkeep, and a request for a round for the table, Oscar whisked over to the bench between Aishe and Euphemia.
"Hartwell." he introduces himself as he sits down. His eyes narrow a little as he looks around the table, then widen again as he looks back to Euphemia. "Of course - you're a Desnan priestess, yes? I saw the symbol, but I didn't expect to meet one of the Blessed!" he keeps his voice low to avoid talking over those questioning the halfling. "Are you sure you don't mind healing poor Ignis? I realise its probably not convention to ask miraculous healing for an animal."
"Of course - you're a Desnan priestess, yes? I saw the symbol, but I didn't expect to meet one of the Blessed!" he keeps his voice low to avoid talking over those questioning the halfling. "Are you sure you don't mind healing poor Ignis? I realise its probably not convention to ask miraculous healing for an animal."
The blonde nods, lowering her voice to match Oscar's. "Indeed, I am. Euphemia Blaithe, at your service." She dips her head in greeting and takes another sip of cider before continuing. "It is perhaps not the most conventional of requests, but if the horse needs it it is not wrong... and besides, a healthy horse makes for better travels."
She adjusts her bag slightly as she eyes the man and his muddied clothing. "You weren't injured too badly, were you?"
As the Smiling Pig continues to bustle with activity, the door opens yet again and a young woman with fiery red hair dressed in leathers strides in, a bow slung over her shoulder and a rapier hanging at her side. She stops and looks around for a moment, clearly a little surprised to see so many visiting the inn on this particular evening. Recognizing a few locals like Ian, Gillian offers an amiable nod as she makes her way through the crowd...and then stops as she spots the crazed-looking halfling and the apprehension on the faces of some of the other patrons.
She gazes at him for a moment and then glances to the elder Redmane behind the bar. "Everything alright tonight?" she asks casually.
"Do I need to ask him to leave?"
"Hmm?" Oscar looks down at his bleeding arm "Oh - I'd barely noticed." he sighs "I am a sight, aren't I?"
He pulls back his sleeve to show the arm, revealing a worn signet ring in the process. With a wave and a mutter the mud begins to evaporate, leaving clean cotton behind.
"Oscar Hartwell." he says quietly with the half bow that is all the crowded room allows. " Delighted to meet you" he hesitates a moment, question in his voice over title "sister Blaithe?"
He glances up as Gillian enters the room, stares for a moment, and then returns attention to Euphemia. "What brings you to Wicken?" he asks curiously "If you're on pilgrimage you are more than welcome to stay at the manor tomorrow night if you like. It's about 8 miles that way." He gestures orthogonally away from Castorhage.