Samen tries to remember this part of the city. Usually by this point, his nose would be in a book and father would be chiding him on the risks of walking and reading.
Marianne is clearly still uncomfortable in the city. While her hands are never on her weapons, they are always close. She trusts her siblings to find the bank, and instead watches the crowds around them for danger.
"Say Mar, you haven't spotted a tail on us, have you?"
Samoon also scans the crowds behind them.
You curve around the last of the hills. On a flat stretch between the Gold Hills and the Dead, you see the "Street of Finance", better known as Finn Street. Money is made, spent, and lost here. Austere banks, garish halls of chance, and bland army recruitment tents form a pattern of dark, bright, and brown.
A marble, columned fortress in the center of the Street of Finance towers above the rest. The Tablets keep watch on every detail of Finn Street as they tabulate more and more golden Forge coins to send out to the world.
Samoon, you notice one interesting thing - there are no poor here. No beggars, not even a person in shabby clothing. In fact, your motley family stands out in the early evening. You mostly see well-dressed businessmen from the banks closing their shops for the night. A few of them give you a long glance as they walk by, noting the two tall oreads most of all.
One ifrit in particular, a middle-aged el wearing gold-rimmed spectacles and a passably nice suit, narrows his eyes as you pass by his door. He points his finger in the air and clears his throat. Addressing Wamblee, he says, "Pardon me, tall oread chap - are you Hotah Firenze's son by any chance?" He pronounces the word chahnce.
He nods grimly. "Your father sent us a letter soon after he was injured. We were to take inventory, and send your family a letter when we received confirmation of his death. Has the worst happened?"
Wamblee does his best to ignore the trappings of wealth - and the looks.
He looks at the bespectacled ifrit, and simply says:
"Yes."
Listening to the explanation, he replies:
"May we speak indoors?"
He nods, his double-chin peeking from his tight collar as he does so. "Of course, of course! You look rather..." he pronounces it rawther, twirling his hand as if searching for a polite term, "tired from your travels. May I interest you in refreshments as we discuss?" He unlocks his door and holds it open for all of you. "My name is Vincenzo Ferri. Please, come in."
The banker settles into his leather chair in what seems more like a personal office than a bank. After a minute or two shuffling through his drawers, he brings out a single sheet of brown paper and says, "Now, my apologies for this, but a bit of necessary unpleasantness..."
Mother waves his words away wearily. "We may be from out of town, Mr. Ferri, but I know to bring proof of my husband's death." She brings out a small, flat circle, like two stone dishes screwed together. She twists them apart, releasing a small puff of ash. Ferri deftly catches the ash with the contract. Where it touches the signature, it flares a fiery red for a second.
The banker nods, satisfied. "I will accompany you to the central holding facility tomorrow morning. We will find Mr Firenze's belongings there. Now, as for your papers..." He reaches into a different drawer, and pushes six small pieces of thick paper across the desk. "Those will vouch that you have legitimate business in the bank tomorrow, and your stay has been extended by an additional day."
His eyes shift between the walls and a few of you. "If you don't mind me asking, have any of you actually been to Forge before? Do you need directions to an inn or some such similar?"
"Why were we given odd looks in this part of town? Especially Wamblee and Samen?" Marianne asks bluntly, ignoring the banker's question as she gestures to the two oreads in turn.
Ferri gives you a look of mild surprise. "My dear, are you to tell me your upbringing has been so rural? Well, you see, oreads..." He looks over at Wamblee, and gives a long look at Samen, "typically don't make their presence known on Finn Street. Just a funny quirk of the world, one supposes."
"Hmph. Typical Ifriti racism. No, the irony of that sentence is not lost on me. In fact, I would - hrrk!"
Samen gets cut off as he doubles over in pain. As he writhes in agony and begins screaming, blood begins pouring out of his eyes, ears, and nose.
As if that weren't enough, his feet come un-tethered from the ground and he starts floating helplessly around the office.
"What in the? Samoon grabs at Samen, trying to bring him down to the ground.
Ferri looks utterly perplexed; his double-chin peeks out further. "Umm, I say you..other oread...this is highly irregular!"
Samen desperately reaches for Samoon's hands, eager for some stability.
"Errrhg... Isn't it, though? This is the kind of week we've been having."
He manages to hold his stomach, though the unexpected and irregular motion is making him visibly queasy.
The woodcut floats out of Samen's pack - it appears to be experiencing the same effect that Samen is. The same four purple points are glowing on the map.
Uncle and Mother aid Samoon in getting Samen under control as best they can. Mother clucks and scolds Samen for 'playing with magic again'.
Ferri seems uncomfortable with the odd occurrence. "Well, if there isn't anything else...get yourselves a good night's rest...good for what ails you and all that..." As soon as feasible, he politely ushers you all to the door and bids you return to his office on the morrow.
You are now back on the nicely-cobbled street, with extended passes in your pockets, under a dimming Volcano.
Once they are out, Marianne starts talking ”We need to figure out what those four points of light represent, maybe then we can figure out why the woodcut is going haywire. Seeing as I remember all of you falling asleep during Grandmother’s geography lessons at the same time I did, we are going to need to find a mapmaker or some such,” she pauses for a moment, and then adds: ”And that ifrit asaldhó called me rural for not knowing that oreads avoid this area of the city!”
[spoiler=Translation]
“asal dhó” translate to “burning ass”, best slur I could come up with in the time I’ve got to post this.[/spoiler
"We had best find a place to spend the night," says Samoon.
"I agree, Samoon. A nice bath and a good night's rest will do wonders for us. Now let's see if I can remember where father and I would stay..."
"... I really should've paid more attention to the details of the city."
Wamblee pats Samen on the back and asks quietly and with concern:
"How are you feeling after that?"
***
Wamblee tries to speak with a likely looking Ifrit.
"Excuse me. Could you direct us to a suitable inn? We are visitors to Forge."
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Marianne shakes her head when she sees Wamblee attempt to secure directions from an ifrit, and catches a passing sylph’s attention. ”Excuse me, would you happen to know of an inn myself and my family could stay at? Preferably one that won’t have a problem with catering to oreads and sylphs? We’re all a bit too roadweary to deal with racist b$@!@$%@ right now,” she says in a cheerful, friendly manner.
"Thanks, Wamblee. I uh, it's hard to explain. It's hard to move, like it atrophied my bones. I think... I think it's trying to turn me into a Sylph. Once it doesn't hurt quite so much, I expect this to be an exciting development."
”Trying to turn you into a sylph?!” Marianne asks incredulously. ”Well, why not? I have learned more about Sky in one day that we have recovered in the past several centuries, but still... Why would it be turning you into a sylph?”
"Gods only know. It seems to have adopted my skill at relating to others, so perhaps it has adopted my ambitions as well. It could be trying to make me a hybrid of all the races because I believe such creatures must have existed. ... Be careful of your trinkets, they might try something similar on you."
Wamblee looks at Samen with a mixture of concern and fascination.
"That is...most unusual. That said, I have felt a little different myself since we resumed on the road to Forge. Stiffened, hardened skin. Not as dramatic as your change, but perhaps that does reflect personality.", Wamblee adds with a slight smile.
”Samen’s is reflecting his beliefs about that progenitor race of his, Wamblee’s sounds like it is making him more oread, and mine is granting information about Sky... anything to add Samoon?”
"Iron Hills. Let's spend some coin and get baths, for Sky's sake. And you two, as long as you aren't turning into undead blobs of tar, I'm fine," says Samoon with a laugh. He looks around and gives a sigh. "This place makes me miss Light, though. It's rather gruff here."
Wamblee shrugs.
"I do not object to Iron Hills. I certainly can spare the gold."
Looking around, he continues:
"It is not the friendliest place I have ever been in. At least not to us."
"A bath sounds great. Speaking of blobs of tar, I'm unconvinced creatures of darkness wouldn't be able to infiltrate this city. We should continue thinking defensively, even as we rest and recover."
Traveling once again around the flat conglomerate road, you come at last to the Iron Hills. In the dark purple peaklight, the hunched forms of dilapidated iron equipment take on a sinister cast.
Away from the shadows of the Irons, you come to the Scrap Market. True to its name, many of the buildings here seem to be made from scraps and leftover parts - bent sheets of metal, twisted wood from the Runts, even broken swords and shields are all incorporated into the architecture.
In a more familiar part of town now, Samen recalls the inn that Father took him to once (Father generally wanted to get business taken care of early to avoid the hassles of extended passes). Past a bar with particularly corroded copper paneling, you see it - The Hero's Helm. A rusty helmet is nailed to the top frame of the door. As you enter, the door hits the helmet, making a sound like a kicked bucket.
The inn's mainroom appears to be empty save an arguing ifrit couple. The middle-aged el attempts to get in a word edgewise, but his wife is berating him soundly. "I swear you'd like beer to dry in the bottom of every single glass in town if I let you get away with it! Now go soak them so ye can be about it in the morning!"
The matronly ifrit turns to the sound of the helmet-bucket. "And good dim to you! Rooms or beer? You'll have a wait on your hands if it's beer, thanks to my lazy fat husband."
”We definitely need rooms, but a beer sounds good even if I have to wait a bit. I don’t know about my family though”, Marianne says, glancing at the others as she finishes.
Wamblee speaks softly.
"A beer and then a room, if you would."
"That''ll be just fine. Take a seat, just watch the splinters in that far bench over there. If you don't mind leftovers from the pot, I'll spoon you up some vegetable stew on the house. Just goes into Greg's pit of a stomach or'wise. Three gold for the six of you for the night, and let's just call it a silver for the beers."
Before the food comes, Mother and Uncle make their excuses to head up to their rooms (Mother and Marianne are sharing a room). In the light of Father's recent death, you notice that Mother, while not yet old, is certainly no longer young. She leans on the handrail as she ascends the stairs. Uncle does not seem exhausted as much as unhappy - before he went upstairs, he was looking over his shoulder and shifting in his seat every few minutes, talking only if spoken to.
The innkeep brings out the promised vegetable stew in earthenware bowls. She also brings an assortment of common oread fare - granite and sandstone. The beer is a rich amber with a full taste (though perhaps a bit strong for those not used to drinking beer)
She seems to notice Samen for the first time. "Hey, you been here before, right? Can't forget them face paints. What business brings ye back?"
As soon as Marianne tastes her beer, she poors half the mug into Samoon with a playful smile. ”Pass it down if you don’t want that much, but I certainly plan on being road-ready tomorrow, and oread beer is probably a bad idea given how much of a lightweight I am.” She digs into the stew with gusto, complimenting the woman on her cooking.
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...I'm an alchemist; brews are very familiar to me," says Samoon, tasting the beer. "Hmm, not bad. Good local yeasts around here, or so I've heard."
"...never understood how one can eat rocks," says Samoon. "Clearly evidence that oreads are actually constructs." He toasts Mar with that barb, winking at his brothers.
"...you'd think Uncle would be a little happier. I wonder if he has some inkling of what will happen next. Samen, we would be wise to keep a lookout tonight, as much as I'd like to sleep for a thousand years. Ah, that got the road dust off the throat," he says, and turns to the soup. "My compliments, innkeeper."
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Samen, unsure how to respond, settles on peevishness. "Our father has perished, inadvertently unleashing a curse of the Dark that has dogged our heels all the way to Forge. Were this curse to overtake us, then darkspawn could very well drop down upon all civilization as easily as the rain. ...Or we're hungry, tired, paying customers who don't want to answer any assuredly polite, yet nosy questions."
He raises his hands, pantomiming weighing the options on a scale. "Take your pick."
The innkeep laughs. "You remind me of my son's teenage years. Ye make a fair point though, didn't mean to pry. Let me know if ye need anything else. We don't have any phoenixes in the back for yer darkspawn problem, sorry!" She lets out another phlegmy laugh, then, proceeds to start cleaning the other tabletops, seats, and the bar. She hums an old love song, mostly in tune. Every once in a while, she mumbles, "...mio amore, mio amore..." under her breath.
Satisfied that he handled that perfectly, Samen wordlessly eats his rocks and soup, then retires to bed.
Wamblee contentedly and steadily chews through every rock on his plate and sups his beer.
He chuckles gently in between bites, listening the commentary of his siblings.
"It had been too long. I had missed you all."
To the barkeep, paying over his share of the coins, he asks:
"Are there baths to be had this night?"
She nods absently, still half absorbed in her song. "Sure, give it about half a candle to warm water up for all of ye." To Wamblee, she says, "Ye mind helpin' carry it up? I only ask cause ye seem a strong sort, know what I mean?"
"That is all acceptable to me."
Wamblee is not one to shirk from heavy lifting.
"...I'll heft some water as well," says Samoon. "Oh great, Samen the Unwashed will be joining us. Aren't there oread currycombs for this sort of thing, Wamblee?" Samoon is enjoying himself now that they've found an inn.
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"Only the strongest of granite will do, Samoon."
Wamblee maintains a deadpan look before a smile creases his face.
After several trips up and down the stairs with heavy buckets, there is enough hot water for everyone to take a bath. The warmth and cleanliness feel like luxuries, even though you have been on the road only a short time.
The beds are clean, if a bit worn-looking. You all set up watches as previously discussed. The night is quiet, and it is easy to believe that all this nonsense about darkspawn and heirlooms has been a dream, or merely one of Uncle's tales.
In the morning, Uncle is already awake in the men's room, pacing silently like a caged animal. There are dark circles under his eyes. When Samen awakes, Uncle walks over to him. "My boy, one must admit when one was wrong, and I was wrong about how I treated you. And I am sorry." He says the words tensely, as if expecting a negative reaction from Samen.
Wamblee dreams of slick, oily tar.
It pours from the sky, covering the land. Light disappears, and then the very rocks.
He feels it rising to cover his feet, then legs, then still rising.
His gasping face faces the black sky as the vileness reaches to completely cover him-
-and his eyelids flick open.
He ponders this in silence over breakfast, and then is surprised by Uncle's words. He glances at Samen, to see how he will react.
Marianne awakes refreshed, and in a very good mood. She doesn’t quite remember her dream last night, but she recalls bits and pieces of a conversation with Queen Zephyr, something about a gift. The Queen looked old, worn and bloodied, but Marianne doesn’t care about any of that. She has seen a face of her god, even if she can barely recall it in waking, and feels the gift in her muscles as she stretches for the morning. For all I know, it was all the scroll and Queen Zephyr only appeared as I imagined her... But what is faith without faith? I have received a gift from a goddess, and I will use it well.
Samen dreams of floating through the air with the birds, weightless, and free. He 'feels' the air around him moving and flowing, in the same way he can feel the ground while burrowing. This is as it should be. This is as it was meant to be.
Samen blinks awake, grasping at coherency as Uncle Howie apologizes. "Uh, I forgive you. I apologize as well for being at odds with you all. I wanted to go around the danger or turn away from it, not jump right into it, but not I see the only way is forward. Thank you for your patience."
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Samoon dreams of killing Erret, again, and again, and again, and each time he does, the latest corpse falls to the ground, crumbling into dark breccia and obsidian. The corpses slowly become a mountain, which then grows, looming larger and higher. Fire breaks forth from its heart, vomiting ash and red lava down its sides.
"Volcano holds back The Dark...Volcano...holds...The Dark...Volcano...Dark..."
Samoon awakens with a start in the night, then goes back to sleep. His subsequent dreams are mercifully blank.
He wakes up again just before dawn, laying there for a bit. Anxieties made manifest in dreamland, he thinks. "Good morning, family. I'm glad we are still together." He sounds croaky and reaches for his waterskin, drinking quite a bit. "Whew. I think I dreamed an entire novel."
Marianne, Mother wakes up with a groan. After a few moments, she slowly gets out of bed. She smiles at you, her eyes still full of sleep. Putting a hand on your cheek, she says, "Mari, I just wanted to say how proud I am of you. I would have fallen apart if this happened to me at your age." She shakes her head, dark sylphan hair swinging. "I'm falling apart now, as a matter of fact." Her voices catches on the last word. She gives you another smiles, much weaker than the last. Turning away to hide the tears in her eyes, she says, "We should go get the boys. I want to see what your father left for us. I can't believe he intended for all this to happen to us."