Thaegrin allows a long pause after the man's questions.
"Do I need to repeat myself?"
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Thaegrin internally rolls his eyes, more at himself for waxing poetic with a dullard. Caught thinking to himself as Ezkal changes into a large, dark bird, the wizard narrows his eyes. He would expect such an ability from Iskandarr, not the Gorumite. The thought leaves him as the Thelkonlander disappears into the night. After the innkeeper is well inside his establishment, he looks down at the one surviving agent of the Mimic. "Get up, we're not going to kill you," sighs the old Feraweni, offering a hand to help him rise. "And I think the innkeeper forgot you in all the excitement. I would say to count yourself lucky to have avoided his wrath, but he seems a little dim. Forgetfulness might come naturally." He flashes a grin at the surrendered man. "The same could be said of your chief, this Mimic creature. He seemed to have a boorish and clumsy approach to his trade, if he indeed was an intelligence officer. An insult to the profession, if you ask me..." the court wizard trails off, suddenly aware that he might be wasting words on another fool. Thaegrin gestures in the direction the man's comrades fled. "It does not look like allegiance is a virtue upheld by the organization, given how your associates abandoned you. If you follow after them now, what do you think will be waiting for you: a hero's welcome, or their shame twisted into contempt for you? At this very moment, they probably think you are dead..." The wizard pretends to straighten his robe and adjust his pack as the silence sinks in for the captive in front of him. "...and that sounds like a golden opportunity, my friend. We're leaving in the morning, embarking on a new venture. Care to come with us?"
"Do not mistake my disdain for the Mimic as benevolence towards you. The tide raises all ships, innkeeper. Will you cast off, or be swept away?"
"Unhand me!" sputters the old man, recoiling from the innkeeper's clutches. "It seems someone else has removed the torches from your inn. Now, get on with your uprising if you wish. Or, don't and wait for Amerys to resume control over this situation." The wizard raises his sleeve to cough into the crook of his elbow. The fit lasts a few moments, and his eyes are watery when he recovers. "I was poisoned while in your establishment, but I will not hold that against you. You can show your gratitude by forgetting my involvement with the events here tonight. Do you understand?" the Rudianos agent adds in a tone that brooks no argument.
"That minion knows nothing. I have studied alchemy somewhat," he adds. "The dangerous fume in question is highly explosive..." Thaegrin gestures calmly to the spreading fire on the thatching. "Your livelihood is at stake; you will lose the building and everything inside in moments. Whatever you hoped to gain from your little uprising, is it worth losing all of this?"
A sputtering harrumph announces Thaegrin's arrival on the scene, his disguise as a Silver Tabby dismissed. His old eyes study the octopus pieces. He glances at Iskandarr, and then the captive and the innkeeper. "Pity." He mumbles bitterly. He lifts his gaze up to the roof as the flames begin to spread. "Tell me, Innkeeper. Is it a common business practice to store poisonous vapors a stiff breeze away from your kitchen?" He punctuates his question with a hard look to the man with a crossbow.
A man in black stalks through the night, careful to stay out of the light of the torches as he rounds the corner of the building. A dark glove shields his face to keep the spreading fire from glinting off the silver tabby mask.
Thaegrin utters a magic word and a blue energy flickers around his form for just a moment before vanishing. He remains in the dark, preparing to sneak ahead.
"Just him, the leader. I got the sense that his men are afraid of how unhinged he might be become, what horrible things they might be ordered to do. I would like to convince them to let him die, on the condition that they go free..." "Time is of the essence. Join your brother if you wish, but together we should kill only the Mimic and disengage." Without waiting for a reply, the black garbed Silver Tabby leaps over the balcony railing. Thaegrin falls, silent as shadows.
When he lands, he angles his head to listen, and judge how close anyone might be to where the alley meets the road where the Mimic waits.
"It sounds like something of an uprising going on downstairs," Thaegrin turns to say to Tholan's back. He pauses, finding a moment of clarity. This disruption could allow the four of them to slip away quietly -exactly the secrecy that Thaegrin originally preferred. Iskandarr is the best hunter I've seen. He would manage to track us down. But then again, if the Mimic and his men are able to put down this little insurrection, there would be no doubt that the obtuse intelligence officer would hunt them, too. And that hunt might not wait til morning... A mild cough catches in his throat and burning pain revisits the old Feraweni lungs. He recovers quickly, but the ache lingers. He regards the muscular Drolleye on the other side of the room. Thaegrin can guess what the Thelkonlander would prefer to do, but the wizard has also been surprised by the wisdom in Tholan's choices before. Moreover, he cannot remember the last time he asked the imposing figure's opinion on anything. "We have a chance to get away and resume secrecy, but that might leave a loose end. A mustachioed loose end, if you take my meaning. Or, we can aid these Arched peoples in their little rebellion, jeopardizing the covert nature of our mission. What do you think we should do?" "Oh, and let us not forget the third option:" he adds with a dry tone, "We could kill everyone..."
The Silver Tabby hastily rolls up the writ of Unlimited Credit to avoid triggering the runes and stores it apart from the other papers collected from the desk. Likewise, the magical dagger is tucked away safely on the wizard’s person. Despite his anger at the innkeeper, the Rudianos agent cannot help but try to calculate just how much the Mimic owes the proprietor downstairs.
He tries the glass door to the balcony with as much quiet he can afford.
The situation sounds a bit frantic downstairs, and the Rudianos agent does not have time to carefully go through all the papers on the desk. He quickly scans them for any kind of rudimentary context before shoving the papers into his bag. While his hand is in his pack, he pulls something out and affixes it over his eyes and nose.
The wizard speaks a magic word, and Tholan sees Thaegrin’s pointy grey hat and flowing grey robes shrink and darken to form-fitting black garb designed for stealth and maneuverability. A Silver Tabby mask turns to look at the Thelkonlander. “If anyone is heading up here, forestall them for a few moments, please,” Thaegrin’s voice comes from the cat’s sparkling face. The old scholar disguised as an assassin uses the magic in the mask to check the room for any magical properties. He mostly curious about the knife. Taking cautious steps with a lot of hurry behind them, he picks his way to the door of the balcony.
to identify any magic detected:
Fumbling at one of the potions at his belt, he hurriedly glances at the label to to confirm it is the right one and then pours down the bitter coaly contents into his burning throat. Pressing the sleeve of his cloak against his nose and mouth, the old Feraweni takes in a few deep breaths to try to replace the harmful gas from his body with clean air.
What kind of establishment IS this?! Slowly, the gears of his mind turn toward revenge as he blinks away the tears triggered by the harsh chemical. I'll poison his food stock, I'll poison his ale! Whatever this damned innkeeper is hiding is about to be found out!
Thaegrin peeks down the bedroom window to judge the distance to the ground.
He wastes no time trying the next door, with as much secrecy as he can manage.
Thaegrin tries first door on the left, as quietly as he can.
Thaegrin wonders aloud about extra food storage upstairs and starts up the steps.
If he reaches the top of the stairs, the old Feraweni looks for windows or other ways out of the building.
"Yes! Show us how clever you are and attack us in the dark of night! That will teach us a lesson!" Thaegrin sneers at the Mimic as he leaves. After the door slams closed, the court wizard raises his voice for everyone inside. "Beatings, manacles, and torture. Unless you are into that sort of thing, I suggest you remain inside! From the windows we can watch him waiting outside, to fester and fume! More's the pity, because neither him or his men will be enjoying free beer!" He dramatically slaps a handful of gold coins onto bar next to the tavern owner who still weeps with laughter. "Good man, two rounds for everyone here! And some hot food to share!"
Without waiting for permission, he turns to enter the kitchen. Before he disappears behind the door, he turns and gives a look to the three Thelkonlanders. His dark eyes flit to the windows facing out to the street.
A second later, the Feraweni finds himself in the kitchen, and devotes the next few minutes to helping the staff prepare and dish out lots of whatever hot food is readily available -probably stew or meat on the fire- if they were lucky, fresh baked bread.
The Mimic’s accusation triggers a deep chuckle from the barman, but soon the chuckle gives way to guffaws, and then descends into that special, unflattering kind of laugh reserved for the utmost hilarity. The poor tavern owner is quite beside himself as he leans over his own bar and shakes. “Oh!” Thaegrin looks wide-eyed in mock surprise to his laughing new friend beside him. “He’s chosen someone from the crowd! I shall do my best.” He says to those nearby, mimicking a performer’s bow. He raises his stage voice, loud, slow, and deliberate. “Of course I know who you are! The Mimic of Arched! The most laughable intelligence officer on this side of the sea! Do you think I am a spy? Shall I report to the ruins of my ancestors? I’ll tell those mossy scattered stones that there is a moustache sniffing about, naming any non-Amerysi a spy! And he’s not even on Amerys when he does this! Will he arrest every island native as well? Hahaha!” The court wizard never thought he would stoop to such performances, but this stooge and his men are a special exception. A disgrace to the world of secrets and subtlety. Thaegrin wanders from his place near the fire, closer to the bar, trying to collect his laughter, but consciously placing more furniture and people between himself and the Mimic and his men. Visibly fighting to hold back a smile, he holds a long finger across his upper lip and lands a hand onto another patron’s shoulder. “I moustache you a question! Are YOU a spy?” his voice comically lowered to sound slow and boorish, with a stare of mock intensity. He jabs his non-moustache finger into the tablemate next to him. “You must be a spy too!”
“Everyone here is a spy!” Thaegrin roars, throwing up one hand while still imitating a moustache with the other. He booms a parody of the Mimic, growing bolder by the second. “Arrest everyone here! Only I know who the spies are! I am in control!”
While he is the center of attention, Thaegrin can feel his connection to the many emotions around him. His personality tugs that connection so slightly, softening the crowd to shape their emotions if the surly Mimic becomes nasty.
Sharp laughter breaks out over the tense silence. The old, stooped Feraweni claps his hands happily.
Throwing his head back in laughter, he nudges the patron beside him, expecting to receive affirmation in the mirth. But instead he finds a face of perplexion. “Oh,” he holds his sides, catching his breath to explain the performance. He points to the Mimic, allowing his explanation to carry a bit further than to just the people surrounding him. “You see, the mustache and his lumpers are here looking for spies. And in blunder the loud foreigners,” he gestures to the three Thelkonlanders. “Who say they are visiting. A shabby disguise for spies, wouldn’t you say?” Thaegrin laughs and again nudges the bloke beside him, hoping to at least coax a smile from the fellow.
“And yet!” he recovers from his guffaw and continues in his stage voice. “The mustache takes the bait! The big hairy smelly bait, he bites right into it! The joke here is, the spy-seekers bumbled into the most obvious targets, forgetting the fact that spies would not show up on foreign shores and announce themselves as spies! Is that not hilarious?”
“Bravo! Hahaha! Clever! Topical! Well played!” he claps to the Mimic and his troupe of dupes, indicating to those around him that these clowns deserve their applause.
The old traveler falls back into laughter, slapping his knee.
This Mimic has no patience. He does not know how to savor the game. Thaegrin closes his eyes to keep from rolling them. Sometimes, the Thelkonlanders were adept at finding trouble. In this case, the trouble found them. The court wizard masks mild surprise when Tholan makes a peaceful response, and he realizes the wisdom the Drolleye has learned in his adventures. Knowing the crowd is always a valuable skill to learn, Thaegrin knew this before he even purchased his freedom. He scans the people now, looking for any variation in garb or skin tone that might indicate origins other than Amerys.
Thaegrin quietly nurses his water cup by the fire. He wears an exhausted, satisfied look as he casually scans the tavern and its patrons. He says nothing and keeps to himself.
DSP:
The old man glances up from his downcast entry. His face is long with weary, and his eyes are tired and dull. Paying the men around the table little heed, he follows the wall, hobbling around the edge of the crowd to find an open seat near the fire. He apologizes for nearly bumping into a patron, for his gait is unsteady and slow. As he settles in, he tries not to disturb his neighbors, mumbling "excuse me" and "begging your pardon". The wizard is careful to choose a chair from which he can continue to monitor the minds of this "Mimic" and his men. "Please," he gasps to a barmaid, "Just water for now. I am so tired." The old traveler holds up a bit of copper for her trouble. When she departs, his grimy fingers rub his temples.
Thaegrin watches the tavern drama unfold from the street, without the privilege of the dialogue. His brow creases slightly at the man-beast’s night-time activities, but says nothing, assuming Iskandarr would at least consider the wizard’s preference for discretion. His far-off stare breaks and he nods up at the tall woodsman. “Of course. If you can be troubled to find a place, that would be most helpful. Alternatively, our camouflage might be best found among the crowds, so I shall inquire there for the more common places on the island. I will wait for you here.” And if need be, I'll keep an eye on our reavers… Thaegrin stoops forward and hobbles on toward the tavern door. Halfway across the road, he recites an incantation. Nothing around him changes. Suddenly he stumbles forward, and slowly he uses his aching joints to right himself again. Passersby might notice the old traveler dust himself off, though in truth the dirt of the road remains on his clothes. He adjusts the round grey brim of his pointed hat lower, and pulls the hem of his cloak closer around his thin frame. He sputters at the embarrassment and continues on his way. He keep his head down as he slowly pushes open the door, looking as like an old traveler beaten by a long day of walking. He pretends not to notice how strangely quiet it is in the tavern, but already his mind buzzes with a thousand thoughts. Not all of them are his own.
The old Feraweni weighs his desire to step into the raucous and noisy tavern as he watches the passersby walk one way or another on the road. A portly tradesman unexpectedly ducks behind a low wall, perhaps snatching up a stray coin. But to his fascination, the person who rises is a tall, lanky Thelkon ranger. Thaegrin rolls his eyes as the master of disguise makes a show of throwing open the door and saunter inside. A ragged voice scrapes out bawdy boasts over the din of drinkers before the door bangs shut. He contently watches other people come and go along the road, still indecisive on joining the rough crowd. When the man-beast appears next to him, Thaegrin glances at him and nods casually, as one acknowledges a new business partner. “No matter where we go, we still find ourselves a stew,” the old traveller grins wryly. After a pause, he changes the subject. “Have you happened to find a place our lot can stay in relative discretion? I would prefer to have our visit to this island go unnoticed.”
Thaegrin Variel shuffles to the end of the tunnel until the merchant can see him.
"Cormac. Do not speak your former master's name again. Someone was watching us with a magical eye after we uttered his name. Paranoid indeed, I should say!" The teacher waits an appropriate amount of time before politely dismissing himself from Cormac's preparations. Back above the ground, the wizard unobtrusively makes his way through the market streets. The evening was getting on, and he had to find the Thelkonlanders. With his sharp Feraweni senses, he listens for the loudest, most raucous tavern in the downtown area.
One hundred gears spin inside Thaegrin’s mind, some at a panicking whir and others methodically clinking. He does his best to silence the noise and focus on Cormac’s eyes. This scryer could be anyone; friends or enemies, of Cervantes. Not just Cervantes himself, impossible as that might be... The wizard’s thorough knowledge turns over arcane theories to find an explanation for the rather coincidental spying. He has a hunch, but hunches are not always reliable. Logic and reason, these were the tools of the trade.
His reasoning, however thorough, will not blind the scrying eye. The agent of Rudianos is uncomfortably aware that every moment he spends near the invisible optic, the more that can be learned of him, by a watcher unknown. He forces a small smirk to Cormac and casually shrugs. “He very well could be dead. I suppose it does not matter, for that part of your life was a long time ago. He is just a memory to you.” Even under pressure, Thaegrin must nip the urge to wax philosophical and press on, “My affairs keep me overdue. It was a pleasure doing business with you, Cormac. I will let myself out.” A quick turn and a brisk, hobbled and bent pace takes Thaegrin to the tunnel leading from the storeroom of magical equipment. Passing through the illusion, he reaches the ladder. His thin arms pull himself up to the door, and he holds the hatch up. He pauses a moment, and pushes the hatch up beyond his reach and lets go of the ladder rungs, hoping to drop to the ground at the same time the door slams shut.
The scholar waits, and listens.
"You may call me Tanager," Thaegrin's eye twinkles, "Tanager Hiliver."
He is about to turn again to leave, but hesitates and adds, "You might be relieved to hear that I dabble very little in necromancy -the communication and manipulation of the dead- unlike your previous master. The raw materials disgust me, and I haven't the stomach for it." A visible shudder runs through Thaegrin's shoulders and arms. The wizard wears a thoughtful look. Cormac looks to be in his forties, dating his apprenticeship to be thirty years ago...
Thaegrin chuckles at the merchant's eagerness. "Impressive. We will not be leaving today, though I highly suggest you be ready to depart at sunrise tomorrow. I have some other business to attend tonight, else I would keep your company. In the meantime, here, keep this..." the wizard slides the small scroll toward the merchant. "Read it over a few times. Sit down with new vellum and ink, and try to copy it exactly. When you are finished, copy it again. I want you to pay attention to how the characters in the script relate to one another. I do not expect you to become proficient overnight, so do not stress yourself too much. Repetition is the first method we will use to familiarize your mind to the study of magic. If any magical mishaps take place (they shouldn't) make note of them and decide if you wish to continue copying before speaking to me. Mishaps can happen, and tend to have more dire consequences from experimental incantations of advanced theory." A memory springs unbeckoned to Thaegrin's mind: when he was a slave, training to be a scribe under his long gone master, Cervantes. The old Feraweni blinks. "But as I said, that is not an advanced spell on the parchment. Nary a risk. If you do not have any questions, I must be going..." the court wizard turns to hobble back to the tunnel in the dirt. He pauses. "Hah! How rude of me! Ghastly manners in my old age!" The manipulator looks to the merchant. "What is your name?"
The wizard raises an eyebrow at the wealth of magical items in the room. "I tend to travel. Would you be able to leave this behind? I would understand, if you would prefer not to abandon such a successful and lucrative business..."
The name of the merchant’s second master rings a bell, but Thaegrin holds onto the question for the moment. Timing is everything. “By what you say, it does not sound like you were given a proper opportunity to study the higher mysteries at all. That would embitter me as well.” Thaegrin pauses. “Of the Amerysi I have met abroad, many of them share that dismissive trait…” The manipulator wears a mask of concern, “I hope I did not offend you, by asking you to stop reading over my shoulder. My reason for doing so was the same that you cited when I first entered this room: I prefer not to disclose my abilities. ‘The devil you know is better than the devil you don’t.’ And I would rather be the unknown devil, wouldn’t you?” Thaegrin says with a conspiratorial grin.
After another pause, the wizard begins again. “Still, curiosity is not a skill to be taught or learned...” Without another word, he removes a smaller scroll from the many at his side. Unrolling it, he shows the arcane writing to the merchant. He is quiet a moment longer as the trader takes it in. “Looks like a mess of gibberish, don’t it?” The old Feraweni smiles knowingly. “Spellscript is as much an art as a science. Easy to learn, difficult to master.” He lays the scroll down onto the table for both of them to examine lines together. The instructor points at sigils, squiggles, and signs. “You will find that magical inscriptions such as this are truly a form of communication. Like language, mathematics, or even music -it borrows from all of these concepts to create ...a river, formed with water that flowed before mortals. Or a window, opening to an empty space that was always there.” Thaegrin stops and grins to himself, realizing that he was waxing poetic. He shows a sheepish face that is not difficult to fake, for he truly enjoys the role of teacher.
“Anyway, this scroll contains a spell. The same one I used to heat the teapot. There are innumerable applications of this minor spell. Temporarily change the color of something,” with a wave of his hand, Thaegrin’s grey pointed hat turns night blue, “or cleanse an object of dirt or grime,” the wizard’s leather boots are suddenly free of the dust of the road, “and I have even seen this spell produce crude conjurations.” With a final gesture, a poor-quality clay piece designed like an open rose without a stem, appears in his hand. He lays the shoddy paper-weight down near the opened scroll. “Endlessly versatile, and in time, effortlessly simple,” he concludes reassuringly. “I could be convinced to take you as a pupil,” he states airily. “And rather than dismissed due to a mundane heritage or used as a tolerated housekeeper, you will advance in your learning by the merit of your own study. I will simply facilitate and guide your progress. What say you?”
The wizard dismisses the simple spell when steam begins to shriek from the teapot. He quietly pours his own cup first, then the merchant's. After a long pause, he breaks the silence with a knowing look at the middle-aged man. "What is bothering you, friend?"
From the elongated spout, the last of the pot drips into the merchant’s cup, and the two pause in their talk of politics and injustices. “Shall I brew another?” Thaegrin sets the empty teapot down and takes a sip from his own cup. The writings he finished long ago and his book is neatly stored away, but his fingers are unavoidably stained with the ink. “You may have been to the mainland some decades ago, but that is more times than I have visited. If I planned to journey there, what should I expect, of the land and the people?”
Does he speak of the Grok'Toh? No one can resist correcting misinformation... "Cannibals? Fear? I thought the Thelkons were incapable of fear..." Thaegrin muses aloud. "Uppity." He repeats, pausing for a few moments. "'Those who cannot control their own emotions seek to control the actions of others.' I am glad to hear that you do not sup on their lies about 'freedom'. We both prefer our autonomy, and anonymity, hm?" The manipulator chuckles good-naturedly to the merchant. He gestures to the desk covered in parchment. "I am not yet finished. But I think I will be finished by the time the tea will be done steeping." He sets the teapot on the desk, the one he accidentally brought with him from the tent. Taking a few minutes to fill it with water and lower the dried tea leaves, he sets the ornate teapot aside. At length, the wizard is quiet as he finishes copying the spells into his spellbook.
The old wizard pauses and offers a smile just before his quill touches the inkwell. "I have spent several years as an educator, and I am more than willing to offer lessons, but not that this moment. If you would please," he inclines his head to suggest that the merchant step back a bit, "I would like to focus without a distraction. Thank you."
Only the sound of scratching on the pages of Thaegrin's spellbook can be heard from the desk on which he writes. Occasionally the scholar pauses to study the written spell that he copies, and the scratches resume again.
Pausing to sharpen his quill in between copies, the Man of Long Lives asks conversationally, "Have you ever visited the country of Amerys? I have a brother there who recently relocated to Port Maverick and his letters glow with the praise of the Amerysi ships. Nothing like the skiffs and catamarans of Isteroth, he says..."
The wizard angles his head with a far-off calculating stare. "Somewhat. I'll accept your price if I may copy these easier spells for free." He gestures to the books that already lay open ready to copy.
He shrugs as one who cannot help but haggle and with a good-natured smile holds out a hand to shake in bargain struck.
DSP:
Tension visibly lowers from Thaegrin's neck and shoulders, clearly relieved to be in the presence of a fellow mage. "And yet," he smiles wryly to the merchant as he gestures to the magical items for sale. With playful a hint of incredulity, he adds, "You think that I am not simply an old man in the market for teapots?" The court wizard turns his eyes back to the walls of books, and the tables covered in all manner of magical things. Wearing a thoughtful look he pauses long enough to try to make the merchant sweat a bit. “I have a handful of scrolls that I wish to exchange first.” Reaching into his bag, the scholar selects eleven scrolls that he had not considered using once since he inscribed them. These are scrolls he has carried a long time, for he would be loathe to sell a scroll that might indicate the limit of his capabilities.
bookkeeping:
“I must confess, my needs are rather trivial. Is there a spellbook from which I might peruse and copy?”
Professional. I can appreciate that. Thaegrin nods to show his thanks at the warning, and intones the simplest of spells to see what magical auras lie in the scrolls, books, and other items. He slowly sweeps his scrutiny to inspect everything in the room from where he stands.
no sure how many rolls to make:
"Impressive. Do you practice the craft, or do you only trade on their behalf?"
"Well, does it tickle you?" Thaegrin mumbles. He continues forward, passing the flickering torch. His thin, wrinkled digits idly brush the earthen wall. When he passes the iron gate, the fingertips thrum gently over the metal bars. Without a word he passes through the false doorway. His senses stretch out and find all creatures capable of emotion around him; invisible strings in search of a puppetmaster.
Quite literally underground. Hm.
"This isn't a matter of trust. We are both shrewd businessmen," Thaegrin remarks, extending a hand over the poorly lit hole in the ground. He eyes the ladder dubiously. "I think we both can agree on protecting our most valuable assets..."
Satisfied, he hobbles into position over the wooden rungs and descends. When his feet touch the floor, he turns and blinks into the dark, mindful to step away from the ladder in consideration of his host. His ears, nose, and eyes strain to pick up as much as possible. The back of his neck prickles as he tries to prepare his old body to avoid a hidden blade at the last moment.
Thaegrin makes an exaggerated gesture with his hands, a show of mild frustration. "Someone else has claimed my company this evening, or else it would be yours." He offers a flattering smile. "But if you have not taken tea yet..." Thin, ink-stained fingertips tap the ornate copper teapot. "Perhaps I could see firsthand the quality of your wares?"
The old wizard shows a mock scoff at the merchant's insistence, although he inwardly curses his old ears for failing him at a critical moment. And he couldn't just turn to the Man-Beast and ask him to eavesdrop, the other eavesdroppers would hear. Again, he regrets that he was unable to persuade Iskandarr's brother to teach him their secret language when he had the chance. Nevertheless, he turns to the Man of the Forest anyway. "I've been meaning to try a new recipe, which specifically calls for old onions, soggy ginger, and really bad eggs." He nods to the fine salesman across the table. "This is going to take awhile. Would you mind grabbing those things for me? I will compensate. Just be careful in this place -keep an open eye and a sharp ear."
Secret Message! Through The Mountain!:
"I'm curious about the onions and the 'bad eggs' around them. Please pay attention to what you see and hear when you go get those ingredients. Be careful." Turning back to the tent, watching the merchant's eyes carefully for any clue, after asking his companion to approach the onion cart.
But the scrutiny lasts just a moment as Thaegrin makes a sweeping gesture over the table of wares, including the ornate teapot, the exquisite hookah stand, several delicate teacups, and fine cutlery. He laments that all could be bought for the trader's outlandish price for the teapot. Surely, he implores, the little man must have a better teapot or lamp befitting of that price?
The old Feraweni takes an interest in the wares under a merchant's tent near the onion cart. He pokes idly at the Isterothi tea and hookah accouterments, pretending to be unfamiliar with their foreign design and function. He humbly asks the vendor to explain how they work, but pays barest attention to nod at appropriate times. In truth, Thaegrin's peripheral focus is on the street cart, the onion woman, and the surrounding area. He casually scans the buyers and sellers on this part of the street to see if this woman is being watched by anyone else, such as friendly muscle or incognito guards.
As people approach her, he turns over the ornate copper teapot in his hands and listens for any key words or phrases in the exchanges at the half-bad onion cart.
At length, he shakes his head at the merchant's asking price for the teapot. His counteroffer starts at one-quarter of the asking price, but the court wizard is careful to deliver the offer in a friendly and casual manner. He wears a smile of one who enjoys a good haggle.
Thaegrin flinches, wishing for a more covert entry to the Material Plane. Perhaps the Halfblood does not have such minute control over where we arrive... Still, there is much to do. He says to the Thelkonlanders, "Sell the spoils from the island; the fighting kit we no longer need. I will find you this evening." He turns to issue an order to the spymaster, but thinks better of it. The Halfblood will show himself when he is ready. "Do not leave town," he adds to the hairy brothers, "I have my own business to attend to. Tonight I will look for you in the loudest tavern." He takes a step to leave, and nearly bumps into the man-beast. For one so big, he is surprisingly quiet. "Follow them, or come with me," he mutters to Iskandarr. "I care not." Pausing to hear any objections from his companions, Thaegrin Variel takes hobbled steps away from the group, keeping a slightly stooped posture as he goes. He is eager to blend into the marketplace crowds, an old man about his old business. He peruses the shops of fine garments, the hawkers of spell components, and vendors selling parchment and ink. All the while, the old Feraweni makes pleasant conversation and listens closely to those around him.
The wizard harrumphs in disapproval. "Our next endeavor will require some measure of subterfuge. Subtlety. We will need to designate a time and place for your destructive talents. Our first stop will be the Iched Island, where I hope our stay will go unnoticed." He looks around, unable to see the Halfblood but hopeful that he was there in the office, somewhere. "I believe it was the spymaster who requested this meeting..."
Damn this character, 'R.R.'... The first thing one needs to manipulate another is to understand their values, and here I know nothing. Save that he or she or they consider my confoundment worth their effort. Thaegrin's frown deepens, probing further. What if their plaything was taken away from them?
The court wizard broods over the politics of Erenon. In his last visit to Veir, in Jathus' company, he had hoped for an opportunity to display his wisdom to the new king, solely to be recruited into His Majesty's direct service. Though I doubt I would feel any more powerful than I do now, nor given so long a leash...
His mouth twists unpleasantly. The Drolleye's impatience for parley cut Thaegrin's negotiations short with the Umbral Dragon, but affixing blame solves little in this case. He still felt the pang of lost resources, having to give up a fortune in arcane writings to avoid becoming a forgotten afterthought in some far-flung edge of the jungle. What could it mean? Why did it choose to arrive in that place and time? What does the dragon's goals have to do with our own?
It occurs to the scholar that he intends to follow the elusive Halfblood through the Shadow Plane for a brief time.
"This is an island. Are you certain he is not hiding somewhere, shirking his duties? Was all manner of watercraft was counted and recorded? I hope we do not find ourselves one short." The court wizard indicates to the colleagues approaching his abode. "I have guests. Find a suitable replacement for the overseer. Appoint yourself, if you believe yourself up to the task. If the original overseer is discovered, clasp him in irons and use the replacement anyway. I am sorry I cannot be more helpful, but there is much to do today." "Now go, please," he commands flatly. "There are many preparations for our respective roles. Do not disturb our meeting until the following day." Now free of the simple distraction, Thaegrin is silent as the others enter his chamber. He trusts that they will take seating if it is desired. The wizard offers nothing to them, indeed, he is scarcely in the room. Event after event replays in his mind, recalling exact wordings of conversations past, as motes of light in space. His concentration splits and scours his library of knowledge for any connection, no matter how bizarre. Each connection draws a line, in his mind, to a memory, until a tangled web of information slowly forms. With a practiced breath to relax the tension building his neck, the scholar releases the third concentrator, into the scholastic arms of philosophy and logic. Thaegrin tasks the effort with charting the points and lines. The Inevitable Cartographer. A sequence is sought in the mapping, a formula by which to predict which cog will turn next, in the world that loosely follows the orders of nature and man.
Ignorant to those that enter the room, the old Feraweni stands stock still, staring fiercely at a plain wall. The back of a nearby chair is under a white-knuckled grip. The intensity of his facial expression toward a mundane wall seems a little odd, but then again, wizards are an odd folk.
Thaegrin rises from his bed. His body felt rested, and his mind seemed somewhat clear. The events of the night before turn over in his head as he dresses and packs for the day. It reminds him of another nocturnal visitor -one he tasked to begin a drug trade in a port city to the south. A known resistance to the Emperor’s seizure of power. He idly wonders whatever happened to that pawn of the Silver Tabby. His wonderings are short-lived as he sits down and pulls open his spellbook. It was imperative that he record the discovery he made last night. Long narrow fingers stop at a chapter with simpler incantations, and the arcane scholar jots down in his personal shorthand, along the margins of the chapter heading, just how exactly he was able to quicken the casting time of these easily-learned spells. Easily-learned, slowly mastered. He pauses when he is done, and contemplates the day ahead. Hopefully, a peaceful one. A day of travel, trade, and gathering of information. I would like to pass through the Ached Isles unnoticed… Afterwards, he spends the next hour reviewing the incantations for which he anticipates a need.
After the others leave, Thaegrin makes no move for his writing equipment. His nod indicates that the Man of the Lake may speak. When he is finished, the old Feraweni frowns.
Draconic:
"Fascinating. Thank you. I will meditate on this, and speak with you tomorrow. Good night."
Thaegrin mutters something in his native tongue to the Halfblood.
Feraweni:
"When Eonan sailed into port, I told this impostor-slave to make preparations for the five of us to set sail for Amerys in seven days. In truth, I intended us to depart tomorrow, and not by ship, but by cover of night."
Indicating that the spymaster may go, Thaegrin nods to the Beast-Man and lowers himself into the chair at his desk. He listens. |
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