"Kalepopolis is still missing?" says Fredo, his eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "I know he wasn't at the execution, but he hasn't been seen since? Are you sure? Think, it could be important." He looks from Thaven to Vencarlo, who had also not attended the Queen's bloody pageant, and who might know where the Seneschal had gone. If he doesn't, that raises whole new questions. Had he fled the city? If so, why? Or had he been disappeared, having made himself an enemy of the Queen?
"Thank you, Raijinn," he says, gesturing at the coffee table and tossing a heavy sack of coins down on it himself. "But I really don't want this to be my personal project. I do want this to be a cooperative."
The three non-adventurers in the room all react very differently to Goffred's pronouncement of resistance to the Queen. Mr. Jalento goes wide-eyed and open-mouthed, silent with shock. Pauli's known about Goffred's anti-oppression tendencies nearly since the beginning of their friendship, so he's unsurprised and contemplative. He certainly has the greatest capacity to aid Goffred directly with the newsletter, but that also means its his head that's at them most risk.
Vencarlo, on the other hand, cocks and then inclines his head, his face impassive. He doesn't look at Raijinn, although the tiefling can feel some of the swordsman's attention shift when Raijinn glances at him. Instead of answering either of the arcanist adventurers, however, he turns to Mr. Jalento. "Sir, surely you see the merit in Mr. Guilianoff's ideas. When there is a danger of a dictatorial situation, the people need a voice, and Mr. Giulianoff is noble indeed to offer his own. You need not be complicit in any of our plans, only to listen to our ideas."
Jalento stutters. "B-but the riots are almost what killed me! And now you want more, riots?"
Burahl sits in a low chair, his quarterstaff resting on one of the arm rests. He looks at each person with a visible interest and his eyes seem to twinkle as Fredo explains his plans and intent.
Arms folded over his lap, he mulls over his own ideas before speaking.
So her enemies are disappearing one by one it seems. At least the greatest threats to her power, it seems Goffred was right and so was I. For now we were just annoyances perhaps, or even helpful to her in some way. That might change if we were to undermine her indirectly and she comes to know of it. We should take precautions with this.
"So our city's voice begins." he says quietly.
"The riots were triggered by people seeing the uneasy truth mr. Jalento. Now they have shut their eyes because of the hard-handed approach of their new Queen. Fredo's intent is to open their eyes yet again, let them see there are people still not buying it. Or would you prefer to keep their eyes closed forever and live as puppets?"
Burahl shifts in his seat, somewhat uneasy in the new company.
"I would concur with this plan and help anybody who comes along in my shop. Though if we do this, we will need to keep this secret as best as we can, if Ileosa keeps arresting or disposing of anyone who tries to speak against her, we must be careful to not end up on her lists. If we can openly do good, she won't mind, but our indirect plans to undermine her authority must never pinpoint to us. Most of my customers can be trusted, though some new ones are too shady for my tastes. Word will get aroudn eventually, but every mind we can change or sow doubts in, will be beneficial to us and the civilians themselves."
"You don't think my eyes are open?" says Jalento, harshly gesturing at his own face. "Wouldn't it follow that a hard-handed approach would be exactly what opens eyes?"
"I have known people to sometimes shut their eyes for the obvious violence or hard-handed approach, just to think those things would go away. I imagine some of our fellow citizens might be the same now. Too scared to fight or don't want to see the facts before them."
Raijinn turns to Jalento, speaking calmly. "I don't think riots are the answer - as you said, they hurt the people more than anything. A heavy-handed approach will warrant the same in response from the crown, and will likely lead to a cycle of violence."
"Many of the citizens may well want to hide, bury their heads in the sand, but I suspect there are many others who simply do not know what is happening. They haven't seen the innocent lives ruined or even snuffed out as we have. They may well stand up when they find what has happened to their city."
"Something has been troubling me since the execution. If the girl who was killed was innocent, as she almost certainly was, it may well be that the Queen is protecting the person actually responsible for the King's death." He quickly shoots a sidelong glance at Thaven, to see if the man will pick up on his meaning before continuing. "I suspect there is something at work here which must not be allowed to continue."
"Violence, at this stage, will solve nothing. We need support, and we need answers."
Fredo nods at Burahl's and Raijinn's able defenses, then quietly adds one more, slightly cynical, point. "I don't want the people to riot, Amin," he says. "But I think a new round of unrest is inevitable eventually, no matter how much repression, mystification, and intimidation the Queen pours on. What I want is to direct people's anger where it belongs, and not let it peter out into petty violence of the kind that was directed at you. Those men called you 'Queen's man.' Imagine how different things would have been if they had known who the Queen's real supporters were. Imagine if they had known you were part of a group like this.
"Besides, as Raijinn points out, we shouldn't be inciting. Apart from any other considerations," he says, nodding at Burahl, "it would be too risky. Our business is gathering and spreading information, building trust and confidence."
Jalento's eyes narrow, but you can tell he's slowly being won over. "I thought that part of the point of this group was not to let people know we're in it. Hardly seems like it'd protect me to be in a secret group."
After several moments of consideration, Vencarlo leans into Goffred's ear.
Ignoring the argument with the nobleman, Pauli takes out a little inkpen and a scroll of paper and begins scribbing notes on it, about the group, the idea of what it's for, and about what preparations to make to allow for producing Goffred's newsletter.
"Kalepopolis has been making excuses since I've been there. They say he took ill from some stomach virus. Not fit to be around, possibly contagious." It just seems to dawn on Thaven that this might be suspicious.
"So our main concerns and goals would be to inform the people of Korvosa that not everything the Queen's men tell us is as has happened. That they bend and have bent the truths. Now besides the infrequent newspaper and flyers and myself telling my customers what I've heard of gossip on the street, what are our next courses of action? Surely we will do more than just talk and write about this no?"
Burahl taps his right hand fingers on the arm rest while waiting for a reply and thinking to himself.
"An investigation would be prudent of course, but then as an independent party with the people's voice, but how would we start that investigation? What do we intend to find? Evidence that someone else than Trinia Sabor killed the king of course, but will we dig deeper? Finding that someone close to Queen Ileosa or perhaps even the Queen herself arranged the death? That would be a grim truth indeed were it true. Whatever we might find, you can count on me to help, but we need more of a plan than I can think of now."
"Which people, and how they learn, matters," says Fredo to Amin, his frown deepening at Vencarlo's and Thaven's news. He's not sure why the swordmaster wants to keep his contribution a secret, but Fredo had promised him confidentiality, and he would respect that. So he keeps talking to Jalento. "Someone who comes into my office and finds a copy of our newsletter in her file, or who comes into the new shop and finds his steak wrapped in a copy would put two and two together. But an agent of the Queen who finds a discarded copy on the street won't see past the pseudonyms. And your exposure will always be at your discretion. You don't want to write or distribute anything, and just keep your ears open? That's fine.
"As for how to begin gathering information," he says, turning to Burahl, "We could see if Kroft needs any more help. It might lead to something, the way the hunt for Trinia did. Getting someone inside Castle Korvosa would be ideal, but the prospect is somewhat...daunting."
"Zellara might also have a lead," says Fredo offhandedly, taking a long draught of water. His throat's gone dry.
Burahl nods at Fredo's remark.
"Best ask her later when we are alone I'd suggest. Asking Kroft would be a good suggestion as well, I suspect we will not soon hear the end of this."
He looks to the guests with interest and a slightly stern gaze. "I'd say our business is concluded for the time being. Like Fredo said, help in any way would be appreciated, but we might need to confer with another of our partners. Perhaps we should meet once a week or two weeks if we have the chance to exchange information and gossip from the streets."
He looks to Fredo with a question mark on his face.
Will you ask them to leave or shall I?
The night is dark , but mostly just long as the group sits inside Zellara's old home at 3 Lancet street, talking of revolution and of dissent and of dissemination. Except for Thaven, who remains fully umcomfortable, the mood is of excited idealism, and very quickly plans are drawn up. Pauli will print, Goffred (and sometimes Vencarlo, and sometimes others) will write, and all will distribute and gather information.
At the mention of getting into the castle, Amin pipes up, ever so reluctantly. "Listen...Mister Giulianoff. Um. You're right, you know. There really is something wrong, and I'd like to help, and well, because of my station, I can get into the castle pretty often..." He looks at Goffred sort of expectantly, and when the wizard accepts his offer (along with a cautionary word of warning about what he's caught doing in the castle, of course) the pair share a smile.
Beyond the fellowship shared by Thaven, Goffred, Raijinn and Burahl, there begins to be forged a new fellowship among a wider circle of friends, a circle with the common goal of the greater good for Korvosa in mind. Contact information is exchanged, and further meeting times are set up, so that should any further issues come up, they'll be ready to disseminate their ideas on the issues.
Eventually, though, even as the night turns into morning, the group must separate, return to their respective homes (or barracks, for Thaven, or guest room, for Raijinn), bags under pairs of sparkling, hope-filled eyes.
Sleeping in is a luxury afforded to a choice few in this world of menial labor and difficult lives, although Goffred, Thaven, Raijinn, and Burahl manage it on the morning after their late-night meeting with the rest of their little journalist-cabal. They have another meeting set for today, with each other and with Zellara, and those with responsibilities (Burahl to his customers, Goffred to his clients, Raijinn to Vencarlo, and Thaven to the Sable Company) have each procured a day off for today.
The morning is peaceful, birds twittering in the beginning of dawn's light, but when each of you steps out onto the street, something...concerning is the talk of the town.
Apparently, a sinister-looking ship, bearing a yellow light on the prow, was sighted in the Jeggare Channel late last night, sailing for the shore and passing North Bridge. The guards at Citadel Volshenyek called for an identification or a declaration of intentions, and when one wasn't given, the ship was destroyed and sunk by the trebuchets on the Citadel.
Still, though, there is business to attend to. Zellara's home, just after the strike of noon, fills once more with the voices of adventurers.
Thaven arrives at the tiny home, the news of the ship still ringing in his ears.
Burahl arrives cloaked several minutes later than Thaven and pulls of his hood.
"There is word on the street of a ghost ship trying to get to port last night. An ill omen according to a few of my elder customers."
He greets Thaven and takes a seat in a low chair.
"So how have your training days been Thaven? I would assume they were very inspiring."
We are passing through an extremely important period in the history of Korvosa. The past few weeks have been marked by an astonishingly rapid spread of free thought and discontent with the monarchy, and meeting this trend in ideas is an independent movement of dockers, sailors, slaves and mechanics, beginning to unite and struggle against their oppressors.
The dungeons are filled to overflowing with captured questioners and future scapegoats. The most potent threats to Ileosa disappear so completely they cannot be found even there. But intensified government persecution, though momentarily successful, will prove powerless to restrain the movement. It will grow, it will spread across the city and its territories, will penetrate more and more deeply into the masses. It will surmount all the obstacles that confront it.
On the other hand, the principal feature of our movement, which has allowed the forces of reaction to momentarily triumph, is its state of disunity and its amateur character. Roving bands lash out indiscriminately at any target, not knowing the true enemy. Traditions of struggle are not established and continuity is not maintained. Old Korvosa's and Midland's sailors, a skiff's ride apart, say nothing to one another.
Such a state of disunity is not in keeping with the demands posed by the movement and creates, in our opinion, a critical moment in its development. Only by developing a real organization can the masses retain and deepen their theoretical acquisitions and prepare to fight back against the latest rounds of repression.
We regard ourselves as members of this organization. Consequently, we present the question of our immediate and direct tasks as follows: What plan of activity must we adopt to revive the movement on the firmest possible basis?
Unity across industries, districts, creeds, and states of consciousness can not be decreed; it must be worked for. In the first place, it is necessary to work for solid ideological unity which should eliminate discordance and confusion that reigns among us at the present time. Secondly, we must work to achieve an organisation especially for the purpose of establishing and maintaining contact among all the center of the movement, of supplying complete and timely information about the movement, and of delivering our newspapers and periodicals regularly to all districts of the city. Only when such an organisation has been founded will resistance to the monarchy possess a sound foundation and become a mighty political force.
We call upon all who are oppressed by the present political system. We place the columns of our publication at their disposal in order that they may expose all the abominations of the Korvosan autocracy.
The size of the newspaper will range from one to two printed columns.
In view of the conditions under which the underground press has to work, there will be no regular date of publication.
Bakari
Fredo whistles quietly as he enters Zellara's old home, clearly feeling pleased with himself. He'd dropped his first article introducing the new paper off with Pauli earlier that week, and pasted a copy into the inside cover of his spellbook as a memento. According to Pauli, the first issue would come out when he got Vencarlo's first column. Not needing to be in court has also brightened his mood.
"If anyone would know about the ship it'd be Kroft," he says, hanging his cloak on a peg near the door. "I heard it was destroyed by the Cidadel's catapults. If it had been the East Shore batteries I'd be worried, but she probably wasn't trying to cow the sailors."
Raijinn frowns at the mention of the ship. "Ghost ship?" he asks, more than a little discomfort in his voice as he thinks about coming face to face with another necromancer. It also crosses his mind that it may not have been a ghost ship at all, perhaps smugglers or an enemy to the crown. The futility of their endeavours was weighing on his mind. Lamm had been taken care of, but there was always a greater threat. Now it was possibly the Queen. There was no telling where the enemies were these days. It had all been so simple.
Looking at Fredo, Raijinn proposed the last thing he actually wanted to do. "If we were to ask Kroft about needing our services, these events may have opened the appropriate window." The large tiefling shuffled his feet with anxiety. Going back into that castle was not something he was looking forward to, but it had the possibility of being useful, and he was prepared to stomach working for the Queen, however bitter it might taste.
"Don't think it were a ghost, but it didn't respond to hails to stop, so it were sunk. Might have been a derelict, might have been a test of Korvosa's defenses, with the King's death. Someone might be trying to see if we're weak enough for a conquest." Thaven still looks preoccupied.
A voice fills the house as the decor grows...dreamier. A haze fills the room, making everything seem a little softer-edged and more vibrantly colored, as a slightly breeze ripples through the room. Zellara (or rather, the image of her) steps into view from the bedroom, smiling proudly at the heroes.
"Perhaps not a ghost ship," she begins, "But certainly not a living one. Not unlike myself, actually." she chuckles.
Thaven shivers, still never quite getting used to the dead woman's still ghostly state. "Ma'am. Do you know anything about the ship?"
"Perhaps it is as she says, the ship is a ghost ship, abandoned and deserted or all of its crew has died before it sunk."
Burahl looks at Zellara with a look of interest, eyebrows raised.
"Or I might be mistaken entirely and you know more of its origin. I don't know the ways of the spirit."
"How does does a crewless ship make it upcurrent, around Endrin Isle and into the channel?" says Fredo. The words are out of his mouth before he realizes the stupidity of the question, so he turns it rhetorical by answering. "Sea beasts or elementals might have pushed it along underwater, it might have been crewed by the walking dead, the crew might have been slaughtered before the batteries opened fire, or it might have had a mind of its own. It occurs to me," he says, trying to change the subject, "that we could go and look. Vreeg's spellbook contained the formulas for the necessary magic. I'm afraid, however," he says, his cheeks and scalp flushing, "that it remains beyond me to cast it."
"Nothing certain," says Zellara of the uncrewed, sunken ship, "Only that this is a grim time for all, including you. Much hardship awaits you, although you have already endured quite a bit, and I am proud of you for that."
The mists in the room begin to swirl steadily. "Would you like me to read your fate?"
"Please do," Burahl says to her, "Any pieces of information are welcome in these times."
Raijinn looks at Fredo with surprise as the wizard admits that he cannot cast many of the spells that Vreeg had access to. "Unfortunately, " he frowns, "I don't think any of my magic will help this situation, either."
A look of concentration spread across his face. Remembering how he learned magic from Fredo's spellbook, he thought perhaps he should make a trip into town, before the expedition, and see if there may be more spells to aid this particular goal. Deep in thought, he simply nods solemnly at Zellara's offer.
Zellara nods, and her ghostly form floats, slowly, to the table. She raises her hands and cards begin to float out of them and assemble themselves in a deck on the table.
"We will begin with a choosing. Please, each of you take a card from the deck." She picks the deck up and holds it up to each of the heroes in turn.
For Thaven, she says "Ah, The Teamster. It traditionally represents a strong, external force driving one forward, which I believe refers to your orders and to your duty to the city as a Marine. You will need to protect her from within, but it will be the most traditional duty you may serve in the coming weeks."
For Raijinn, she says "Hmm. The Brass Dwarf. Something will threaten you very soon, but it shall find itself unable to harm you. Use this to your advantage when protecting your friends."
For Burahl, she says "The Mountain Man. As much as it will infuriate you, you will soon face a threat that it outside of your power. There is nothing you can do to fight it, save dying, for it will be far stronger than you are."
For Goffred, she says "The Survivor. This traditionally represents a creature who survives a terrible ordeal, even after he is presumed dead. Normally I would quote tales of suffering and future strife for you, but I do not believe this represents you, exactly. Hmm. We shall see."
She takes the cards back and reshuffles them into the deck. She then takes nine cards off of the top of the deck and lays them out, flat, in a square pattern.
She starts by flipping over the leftmost row of cards (the ones representing the past), revealing The Empty Throne, The Big Sky, and The Dance. When the first of these is revealed, she brings a hand up to cover her mouth.
"A true match, The Empty Throne. I think this cannot mean anything other than the death of King Arabasti. It also traditionally represents the lessons that one can learn from the ghosts of the dead, but I am lost as to what that could have in conjunction with the death of the King. Perhaps the deck is trying to give us rulership advice?"
"And, there, The Big Sky. Momentous change has passed us by, apparently, although I have no doubt that there is more for us to experience."
"The Dance. Misaligned in the Negative Past position is supposed to show that somewhere in the past, we have stayed in lockstep, in conformity, and that it placed us in danger." she nods at Goffred, "Perhaps your inklings of discontent were wise."
Then she flips over the middle three cards, those that are supposed to represent the present, revealing The Locksmith, The Waxworks, and The Cricket.
"The Locksmith represents the tools that one needs to unlock your fate. I believe that this is supposed to represent objects that you must gather that would be important to whatever strife is in store for you."
"There, The Waxworks. It represents a place of pain, torture, paralysis. I do not know of such a place, and I sorely hope that it does not mean Korvosa as this place."
"The Cricket is misaligned and is an opposite match. That represents a very important journey or quest that you must undertake that is destined to go poorly."
Then she flips over the final three cards, those that represent the future, revealing The Theater, The Uprising, and The Desert.
"The Theater represents true prophesy, and the truth, the true prophet, being used as a puppet for powerful forces. I believe this represents the propaganda and the manipulation of the truth that we've seen from the Queen and her servants of late."
"The Uprising. A true match for the unclear future. It represents a powerful force that catches you up in something overwhelming. I believe this can be nothing else than momentous upheaval in store for our beloved city, and, as much as I wish it were untrue, your involvement, whether you want it or not."
"Finally, the desert, misaligned, represents a path that must be traversed, one that there is little hope of reaching the other side of."
Zellara pauses for a few moments to let the Harrowing sink in for a few moments while re-shuffling the deck. "Friends, she begins, the future is bleak, but we must -" abruptly, she stops talking, as there's a knock at the door. She vanishes, and the decor in the house loses its dreamlike feel, returning to one of mundanity.
Thaven springs up, his bow out and an arrow nocked and pointed at the door.
Burahl lsitens intently as Zellara foretells them their past, present and future, nodding at some of her interpretations and looking quite alarmed at some others. Especially the Mountain Man card he pulled seems to fluster him.
When the knock on the door comes, Zellara disappears and Thaven jumps up, Burahl looks hazily at the door.
"No need for that Thaven, if someone would come to harm us they wouldn't knock on the door, they'd bust it in." Burahl says as he gets up from the chair.
He walks to the door and opens the door slightly to see who's there.
"Yes? What can I help you with?" He asks whoever stands in front of the house.
Behind the door is a familiar face - it's Grau Soldado, the Varisian Watch-Captain that Thaven intimidated into going back to work and getting clean. He's looking much better now, with revitalized musculature, a clean-shaven face and grey-bag-free eyes, and well-kept hair. His face, however, betrays despair. "Please," he asks, "I need your help. I didn't know who else to go to and Master Orisini told me I could find you here. My niece is sick."
Burahl blinks at the man with a hint of curiosity and surprise in his eyes. He doesn't recognise the man and looks to the others for an explanation or reference.
After he hears the man talk about the trouble with his niece, he nods and opens the door further to let him come in for a few seconds.
He goes back to his chair to grab his pack and then fishes his cloak from the peg he hanged it from. As he does so he replies to the man.
"I'm not a real doctor, but I can take a look at her. I've studied herbalism and know my symptoms and remedies. Let's go see what help this rat can be to you and yours."
Burahl is set and ready to head out the door and follows the man to his niece's house.
Thaven's bow and arrow are gone as soon as Grau is identified. "Grau? Sick? Sick how?"
Grau scratches his head as he goes into the small home. "I've no idea, it's not anything that I've seen before. My sister-in-law, Tayce, she doesn't know either, and that worthless herbalist she's hired can't explain it either. Tayce has been thinking about going to the Bank of Abadar, but we can't afford it...I didn't know what else to do. I just remembered how you guys helped me and I figured that if you couldn't help her already, you'd know someone who could. Help me, please?"
"Of course, Grau" says Fredo, standing and turning to his mental index of contacts, glad for the opportunity to take his mind off Zellara's grim tidings. He can think of two healers who might be able to help. Thousand Bones had left Korvosa and would probably not want to come back. But..."Raijinn, Burahl, do you still talk to your Iomedean friend?" He's a little embarrassed that he doesn't remember the old man's name, and has to remind himself that there had been more pressing concerns at the time. He turns back to Grau. "If he doesn't come through, we might be able to afford the Bank's...fees." From the way he says the last word, it's clear he doesn't approve of the Bank acting like, well, a bank.
Thaven claps Grau on the shoulder. "'S gonna be alright."
Raijinn shakes his head, his face showing concern for the child's welfare. "I'm afraid I haven't seen him since that night. I can try to track him down, though. Never did get a chance to thank him properly." He turns to Burahl. "Perhaps you should go now, in case it's serious you may be able to buy me some time to find the Priest."
To Grau, Raijinn smiles, and says calmly. "Burahl is too modest, I wouldn't be alive if not for his talents. She'll be in good hands either way."
Upon leaving, Grau takes the lead, and leads the pair (walking quickly) through the city. Their destination is actually out of Korvosa's city limits, in a place called "Trail's End", called so as disrespect towards the nomadic Varisians who settle down here. At their pace, it doesn't take long for the trio to exit the city and reach Trail's End.
This place has a much greater feel of "small town" than anywhere else in Korvosa. A few dozen homes, a couple of shops, and a little chapel to Desna fill up the bounds of Trail's End. As much as they leave you alone, it's difficult to ignore the many sap-wielding thugs around nearly every corner here - the criminal element of Trail's End is obvious. Still, though, you're unaccosted as you reach the home of Tayce Soldado, Grau's sister-in-law.
The home is quiet as you enter. To the left is a common room. Inside play a pair of small children. Neither of them can be older than ten years old, and both have the scraggly black hair, olive skin, and hearty builds of Varisians.
To the right is a simple kitchen. Inside, standing in front of an acridly burning pot on the stove, stands a Vudran man clad in the garb of an Abadarian priest - white and gold robes that hand loosely all the way to the ground. At the sight of him, Grau's face scrunches up. "I'll be right back, stay down here." he says, as he heads upstairs.
After Burahl and Thaven leave with Grau to check in on Grau's niece, the pair of you leave to go find a potential healer. Since Raijinn already knows where it is, finding the temple of Iomedae that Raijinn and Burahl had visited already is simple enough - it remains just the same as he had left it. A simple, stone barracks with a longsword, pointed down, above the arch-like doorway.
Entering the place, the pair of you ask around about the old man that had helped you before. He's currently out, helping somebody else, but he'll be back soon.
You decide to wait, and it isn't long before the familiar face of the Iomedaen high priest walks in through the arches of the temple's door. He hails Raijinn as he enters. "You haven't been getting up to any demonic business since the last time I saw you, eh?" he jokes. "How can I help you two?"
Upon hearing that their contact is out, Fredo, anticipating a long wait, offers to let Raijinn borrow his spellbook again. He nestles into a corner next to Cat, bunching up his robe in the back to cushion his body against the bare stone, and looks through his accumulated papers to find someone to pass the time. He'd been over Lamm's files half a dozen times already and found nothing new about his mysterious backer. Vreeg's spellbook still contained untapped secrets, but Fredo knows how hauling it out in a temple of the Inheritor would look. He pulls out a piece of scratch paper to try brainstorming names for the newspaper, but it doesn't take him long to come up with a list for Pauli. "Standard," to rally around, "Forward," a line of march, and "Saber," the weapon of the folk hero Blackjack are among his favorites. Then again, Vencarlo and Pauli might come up with something themselves.
Lacking anything else to do, Fredo pulls out Zellara's harrow deck and begins looking through the beautifully painted cards. He thinks back to her most recent reading, and wonders who might reappear after seeming to die. They might see Trinia again, but why would his Chosen, rather than Thaven's, foretell that? He harbors no illusions that Aless would turn out to be alive after all this time. It strikes him how seriously he is taking this. He thinks about how much he'd come to rely on Zellara, for her advice, for her support, for her old home. It seems to him that he owes her something in return besides his heed. Perhaps, Chelaxian respectability be damned, he might learn to read the cards for others besides the circle of friends to whom Zellara deigned to appear. If nothing else, he thinks cynically, learning this little bit of Varisian culture might help win Varisian support against the Queen.
Suddenly, Fredo feels a sharp nudge in his side. He looks away from the cards - The Rakshasa is on top - to see Cat bumping her head against him, then looks up to see the priest he and Raijinn were waiting for coming into the room. Quickly, he shoves the deck back into its pouch and rises to his feet, straightening his robe as he does so. "Demonic? No," he says lightly, smiling at the priest's levity. "We did put a stop to a necromancer raising skeletons in the Gray District. Fortunately, we're not here for adventure. A friend of ours has a niece in the Varisian quarter, in Trail's End." His ingrained habit of confidentiality keeps him from giving Grau's name. "She's taken ill, and her mother's desperate. Naturally, when they asked for our help, we thought of you." He clasps his hands behind his back, and rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. "On top of that, I ought to apologize for my shortness at our last meeting." He offers his hand to shake. "It was a tense situation, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you..." he trails off, leaving the priest to fill in his name.
Thaven looks around the small house for a moment, unable to find a place where he can sit without looking out of place. Instead he stands awkwardly, then nods at the Vudrani man. "Priest. How fares the temple?"
Raijinn chuckles at the priest's joke and bows deeply, saying "I did not get a chance to thank you properly before - especially after having put you in danger." He lets Fredo fill in the rest, preferring to remain quiet and observe the old man's reaction. "I hate to ask," he added, when Fredo had finished. "But I'm afraid we know not where else to turn."
Burahl looks about the place, searching for the sick bed of Grau's niece.
If he doesn't find it straight away he'll ask one of the children.
"Excuse me, little ones. I heard your sister was sick, I came here as a healer to see what I can do for her at your uncle Grau's request. Could you point me to her room?"
He asks with a soft voice and friendly voice as to not scare them with his ratface.
The priest looks up at Thaven, somewhat awkwardly as he tries to keep paying attention to the brew in front of him. "Um. The temple fares well enough, I suppose. Making and keeping gold as usual. Who and how are you?"
The kids that Burahl asks are nearly his height, although it's still conceivable that they'd be scared of him. To their credit, they aren't, merely inquisitive. The boy speaks up, "She's upstairs coughing. Mom told us we shouldn't go up there or we'd get sick too. Are you going to fix her?"
The priest gladly shakes Goffred and Raijinn's hand, smiling at their honesty and their generosity. "Ah yes, I'd forgotten as well. Call me Father Garm. And your names are..Goffred and Raijinn?" he asks, furrowing his brow. "A sick friend of yours, you say? It's not an errand that'll take a great amount of my time, just a trip to Trail's End, and it'll be a boon to someone, at least. Sure, why not!" The old priest smiles broadly and flicks his cloak back onto his shoulders.
Burahl nods to the children.
"I'll try my best, thank you very much."
Burahl bows lsightly to the children and goes upstairs to the room with the coughing sounds, knocks, then enters the room quietly.
"Hello, little girl, I'm here to see you at your uncle Grau's behest. Is it okay if I examine you? How do you feel? Any specific pains or complaints?"
Burahl knows he asks perhaps difficult questions, but it will make his diagnose the easier. He will grab the book about diseases just to be sure in case the symptoms are peculiar or he finds anything strange on the girl.
Thaven clears his throat. "Thaven Jack. Marine and comrade of Grau's. Friend of the family, I guess. Why aren't you healing the girl with yer miracles?"
The Vudran priest shakes his head at Thaven and says, "I was unfortunately required to entreat my Master's Vault earlier this day for similar miracles as would be required here. Not only that, but I would be divinely obligated to ask these people for a...a donation to the Vault, which I don't believe these poor folk would be able to afford."
Upstairs, Burahl knocks on the child's bedroom to find it opened by a middle-aged Varisian woman, possessing thick black hair, simple but fashionable maroon clothing and a simple beauty. Behind her stands Grau, an irratated look on his face. Behind them sits a large, four-poster bed festooned with what looks like all the pillows and blankets that this little house can spare. Practically swallowed by all of the bedding is a small blonde girl in a nightie. Grau and Tayce (for this must be the girl's mother) allow Burahl in, after a small bit of explanation, to examine her.
The little girl is unconscious. Splotches of an angry red rash cover her face and arms, appearing in irregular patterns, shapes, and sizes. Her breath comes in ragged bursts, labored and difficult. Suddenly, her body jerks with a fit of coughing, raising her entire frame off of the pillows. Tayce and Grau flinch, and the little girl's body falls back to the pillows, her breathing hardly having been helped.
Alarmingly, despite his medical prowess and the consultation of his book on diseases, Burahl doesn't think he knows what the girl is afflicted with. He's never seen a disease matching her symptoms exactly, and the book has no reference to it.
Thaven stares at the priest with no discernible emotions on his face. "Wait, there are more sick people like Grau's niece?"