Iagon glances over at Ashilia and listens, then repeats the Sylvan words once, then again, then again. He looks to Turante for interpretation, as he says the phrase again, this time with a questioning inflection?
"Close - um - in Sylvan, how you exhale is important," says Túrante. "Here, a simple example:" She makes an 'aaa' sound, like a long letter A, then a "hhhaaaa" sound, a long A with a breathiness behind it. "It can inflect many of the vowels and a few of the consonants. For now just try to listen for that - try again?"
She smiles encouragingly to Iagon.
She takes the bottle and pours some onto Turante’s back, using her slender fingers to help wipe away the grime. Her hands are warm on the other elf’s back.
"If I may ask a personal question... ? Do you have any children?"
"Obviously at some point I'm expected to have children," she says with a sigh, "After a politically-expedient marriage. Though at least I will have some input into the matter." She glances down to note that there are no scars from the wound - the power of quickly-applied healing magic is a restorative balm that is hard to match. Then she resumes doing her best to scrub her torso, trying to remove particularly sticky bits of clotted blood.
"Thank you again for your help. I know this is rather... beneath you. You aren't a handmaiden or servant, so I am grateful that you are willing to help me with this."
Túrante relaxes a bit as Liamae manages to rub down some of the muscles in her lower back that are taut and carrying the last few days' worth of tension.
”You say you are expected to have children, but is that something you want? Given the freedom to choose for yourself, what would you do with your life?”
"What about you? What are you looking for?
She giggles, and as her hands reach the waistband of Turante’s pants, they slide around the other elf’s waist to gently caress her sides.
"You know, there are ways to experience carnal pleasure with no risk of getting pregnant. There need not be a man involved. If that is something you would be interested in?"
"I had a brief fling with one of the ladies of the court, so I'm no stranger to such expressions of... intimacy," she adds.
Túrante reaches down to push down her trousers and her underthings together; a smear of semi-dried blood still mars one of her legs. She kicks the clothing to one side and washes away the remaining stain.
"I think I might be... it's been many years since I have had a companion," she says casually. Her body is lean and Liamae can feel her movements, the fluid motion of her muscles under the skin, many years of training and wilderness life combined with the smooth, flawless complexion that is the birthright of most elves. She turns around to face Liamae and says, "And you are, of course, very beautiful."
"So long as this is not just me taking advantage of you by dint of my station."
The slender occultist leans forward and gives Turante a gentle kiss.
Seeing Iagon struggle not to peep, and struggling himself, Ashilia clears his throat and continues to help Iagon with his language lesson, his other tutors becoming preoccupied.
"Ehem, as you know Iagon, I was sent to the outpost as an ambassador of the Wildwood, but the Marquis soon tasked me with overseeing his garden and crops, seeing as I have a natural green thumb."
He holds up his thumb, but it is disappointingly flesh colored.
He blushes and averts his eyes from the scene taking place on the edge of the clearing. "I've seen you have a connection to the plant world as well. But your abilities are unlike mine, a little bit more, um violent. How'd you go about learning to do that stuff? You aren't a druid, that I can tell."
"You're a quick study, Iagon. You should have some basic phrases down in just a few days!" says Túrante happily. She appears quite legitimately pleased with Iagon's progress.
A short time after Turante sits down with Iagon, Liamae emerges from the woods. Her clothes and hair slightly disheveled, she gives everybody a grin before moving off to meditate.
Chuckling at Ashilia's joke, Iagon shakes his head a bit at the question. Well...I wish I knew Ashilia, really. When I was younger, I did have an...um, affinity? I think that's the right word - with nature, though nothing like the knowledge that you and these woodland spirits continue to show. It was more like...it just came to me when I needed it. It started small, like, if I was hurt or mad the vines would shudder or snake about. If I was happy, sometimes the trees would...chuckle...dropping nuts and leaves on me. I really didn't think much of it, until...
He swallows hard and looks down at his hands. Well, yeah...I seem to be good at violence. Some day, maybe I can learn to be more like you with the natural world, Ashilia. I could tend it, nurture it...not use it to...
He looks almost relieved to see Turante again, and beams at the praise. Thank you, your highness, you're an excellent teacher! He then sees Liamae's state, and clears his throat as he turns back to Ashilia.
So, Ashilia...you - you deal with the Druids of the Wildwood pretty regularly?
Ashilia shakes his head, "This'll be the first time I return to the lodge since being given this post. It's been about a year I'd say. I was pretty much raised in the Lodge, you can say, so I was excited to get out of there." He scratches his neck, uncomfortably.
"Who knew SHE would be the reason I go back. Ugh, she's gonna be so happy to see me..." he frowns.
Túrante's gaze flickers from Iagon to Ashilia, and her ears perk up slightly. There's a story to be told here, and she remains quiet to hear it.
Iagon raises an eyebrow. She?
You're among friends Ashilia; what do you expect when you go back?
"She?" Ashilia's face flushes red, "Violet!" he explodes, then quickly looks around and tempers himself. "Or have you forgotten?"
"Oh well, it doesn't matter. I'm doomed. Doomed doomed doomed."
"Why so glum?" Túrante asks Ashilia. "Have you met Violet before? Or just heard about her?"
Ashilia sinks, "Oh I know her all too well. And I'm sure you all will just love her. Everyone just loves her." He sighs, "I guess it's just my fate... She'll surely see it that way." Then, in a high pitched voice, he mocks, "Oh isn't it wonderful Ashy? We're destined to be together!" He sticks a finger in his mouth and gags, then looks around hopelessly, "I'm doomed."
Túrante cocks her head. "Then why do you seem to dislike her so?"
"Ugh, I thought I could get away. Does the word overwhelming mean anything to you? Do you know how hard it is for a gnome to feel overwhelmed? I can’t believe the Marquis is gonna make us bunk together. She’s gonna act like we’re married. She’s gonna insist we get married. Oh gods...” he gulps and turns pale.
Chapter Three: The Backwaters
The conversation carries into the night. And, although the merriment of the fair folk fails to cease, you eventually find rest, and deep slumber takes you in.
As you step from void to vapor, the mist coalesces around you, the dream figures take form. You are back in Cassomir, where your journey began, standing on the ancient Taldoran walls, eyes gazed out toward the Inner Sea at the south of your vision.
A ship appears on the horizon, a dark ship with black sails. It has come from the southern continent, its hulls loaded with that most unpleasant of cargo, people in chains.
Shadows move along the docks in the night. Purses of silver pass from hand to hand beneath long cloaks. The enslaved are silently ushered into empty warehouses, as policies of deaf ears and blind eyes are purchased on the streets outside.
Something else moves along with the slaves. Something else terrible, something created from the oceans of blood spilt in some distant war. In hidden bundles it moves.
The darkness deepens and the air stills. Muffled whimpers, feet stumbling in long chains rattle in the dark. The mists smell of fear. The slaves disappear into a maw of darkness wherein resounds the screams of madness.
You are left alone in the void. You look down at your hands, once light and fair, as the air itself, now blackened. The dark malady courses through veins and arteries up your arms toward your heart. In moments of dream time, you are consumed from within.
The scrapes and cuts of snagging branches do not deter your speed, although you run blindly, aimlessly, with no goal in mind other than 'away.'
Your flight is arrested by a sudden firelight as you break into a small clearing. Horned goat-men stop in their dance around a bonfire to stare back in likewise fascination. Hooved feet shuffle in anxious anticipation, quickly picking up the tempo set by your beating heart.
One extends a hand and beckons with words up until now unfamiliar, "Join us. Life calls."
Your young heart pounding, you take the ram-headed creatures mud-caked hand.
From a hole in the earth, a grey sky is framed. Your father stands, leaning heavily on a shovel to support his inebriation. He wipes the sweat of exertion from his brow, and spits into the grave. With a curse and a grunt, he begins filling the grave.
A promise lifts you from the primordial soil. The promise is kept as sapling leaves unfurl in the first light of morning. Diminutive pixies sing your arrival and bring you nourishment. Over the course of a day, you grow to your human height. Pixies are replaced by Lilacea in your dreams, she and her supple sisters feed you with their extasies.
But as the shadows grow long and the night approaches, the dryads' caress turns rough. Their skin begins to rot, their eyes black with disease. Their screams echo those of your mother, and to your horror, they consume you as you stand, a young oak.
As you drift casually through the floral field, a spot of movement catches your attention. Drifting after it, you catch sight of Túrante, laughing and dancing in the meadow. You call out, heart full of joy, but she does not seem to respond. She dances again out of your flower field of vision, and again you pursue.
You move with ease and grace, but still you are not able to catch up with the elusive princess. Again and again you lose sight, and as she draws you deeper, the dreamscape changes. The light becomes drowned out as the vines tangle overhead, the flowers wither on the vine, replaced with hooking thorns. Still, her laughter draws you forth.
You spin in bewildered confusion, lost in the tangle of your dreams, until suddenly you emerge into a different, but familiar scene.
You stand in a large and opulent ballroom. Other courtiers and courtesans walk, perfectly poised, arm in arm, past. None seem to notice you, but isn’t that the way it was? You were always able to float freely through these things. The echoes of mirthful laughter in the grand hall coalesce into Túrante’s, and you remember your quarry. Again you chase, up a stairway and emerge in a study.
You emerge into a study, and there you find, not your princess, but The Marquis and Marquess, younger (humans age so quickly), in a lovers’ embrace. Something lands on your cheek. As you brush it away, you realize the room is swarming with flies.
Now you are met with the dark woods, and it’s their visage what holds you awake. Of course, you nearly died earlier, what was it, today? The elven sense of time doesn’t translate well into common tongue. Well, too close for comfort, as they say.
When you close your eyes, you see Rujabu. You feel his claws, his bite. So you keep your eyes open.
For as long as you can. Just as you lull yourself to sleep, and your eyes flutter shut, your ears startle you awake again. You are up in a start and moving into the woods, blade in hand.
The smallest notions of movement pull you away from the golden light of Lilacea’s Court into darkness. The sudden absence of light shakes you into awareness of your solitude. Realising you are without companions, you turn to find the court missing. Quickly moving back where from you came, you become lost.
Your panic heightens when a sound approaches from behind. Spinning with your dueling blade, you are disarmed by the sight of a resplendent Kyonin hunting hound, this one with hair of quicksilver, prances through the wood toward you.
Dropping to a knee, holding out a hand, you signal friendship, and with a polite nuzzle against your hand, the hound reciprocates. “Princess Poicelle,” they bow their head, “Know you are on the right path. Do not worry for your friends, their dreams guide them as well. The forest is speaking to you, listen.”
You direct your ears, but the dark woods fall silent.
The hunting hound turns, ears perked. “We are not alone in your dreams, Princess. Remember, the hunter also is hunted. I will watch you as I can. Until we meet again.”
They begin to trot back off into the dark, then turn, “My Lord sends a gift.”
——————
Everyone startles awake to the sound of the donkey braying. Ashilia pulls the resistant beast back into camp as she struggles against her lead. “I found her half a mile off, wandering like a drunk through the woods! Can you believe it? Nearly walked off with all the stuff we pulled out of the caves! That’s YOUR paycheck, imagine how sore you would’ve been. Haha!”
Something seems off, and as you look around, it’s clear to see that you no longer are in Lilacea’s court, but in the middle of the woods, sleeping in dirt and fallen leaves. Ashilia shrugs and points, “Sun is coming up that way, East. We gotta head west if we want to catch up to the road again.”
As you shake off the remnants of sleep and gather yourselves together, you eventually starting trekking through the woods back to the road. A couple of hours later, and you are heading south again.
At noon you break for lunch, finding shade under the heavy, twisting boughs of the dark oaks. Calories regained, you push into the final leg before The Isle of Arenway.
Again you find yourselves walking the banks of the wide Sellen. Near evening, the Isle in the middle of the river, at it’s confluence with the Verduran Fork, comes into view.
Here, Ashilia parts ways. “I can’t say it hasn’t been fun, but where I’m going… you can’t follow. Besides, you got your orders, I got mine.” After standing there awkwardly for a moment, maybe longer, pulling at his hair, he takes a deep sigh and says “Well, wish me luck!”
With that, Ashilia walks off, donkey in tow, toward the river. As he approaches the lapping shore, a bank of fog appears off the water and envelopes him. As the vapors disperse in the evening air, Ashilia is gone.
"Good luck!" Liamae calls cheerfully, waving as Ashilia departs. She has been rather pensive most of the day, wondering what the strange dream she experienced might mean. But now that they are almost back to the trading post, her usual spunk seems to have returned.
"Well, let's press on! A warm meal and a soft bed await us!"
Iagon groggily wakes up, his eyes darting about nervously. He groans and shakes his head, but keeps the nature of his dreams to himself. A darkness falls over him for a good part of the day, but he plods along.
When Ashilia is taking his leave, Iagon heaves a sigh, knowing his friend's trepidation. He clasps forearms with him and tries to keep on a reassuring smile. Take care, my friend. Remain strong and single. He grins. But most of all, be safe.
He turns from his friend's departure and looks to the ferry. Well said Liamae...I know we could all use a good....rest. He puts his head down again, thoughts distant as he moves on towards the Ferry.
Attai wakes in a dour and pensive mood. Throughout the day he can be found discreetly checking his hands, front and back, as if looking for some stain or mark. His mood worsens as the day wears on, and his usual unflappable demeanour is noticeably absent. He desn't even consult his beloved Harrow deck...
At the mention of a warm bed and food he perks up somewhat.
"Yes, a rest not on rock or stone or fen or marsh or in fear of ambush might be a refreshing change..."
Seeking, perhaps, a change in tempo, your travels lead toward Oppara, capital of Taldor. There, you hear, is a renowned bardic university. Perhaps there is more money to be made in teaching. Or, perhaps you have more to learn. Again, at the least, a dying empire should hold extravagant funerals.
Getting there, you pass through the port of Cassomir, on the River Sellen. A night at the Golden Barnicle, and you hear the Baroness Origena Devy has lost her son, Arnholde, to a tragic accident. The funeral should be in a few days. What’s more, Belhaim is only a few days away by river. A few more shots of whiskey help you make up your mind.
In the morning, you book passage on a naval river frigate up the river to the Isle of Arenway. The busy port gives way to bleak swamp, which gives way to golden hills. Near evening, the ship passes an interesting sight. The wreckage of a barge lies ashore. There is evidence of a grassfire about, and a few carrion picked bodies of small humanoids among the wreckage. A few sailors row ashore to check it out, but report back little.
“Goblins been real active late,” you overhear, “Som’n took care o’ these.”
With nightfall you enter into the Verduran Forest. “Don’ lose herself starin’ off into them woods,” you are warned.
At some point you doze off, and are awakened by the activity aboard a naval ship docking. In the early morning fog, you step off the gangplank and orient yourself to the waterlogged naval base at the Isle of Arenway. Your stomach wonders what they serve for breakfast.
After a less than ideal hard biscuit and actually decent cup of coffee. You stroll the grounds. Trying to avoid the leering sailors, you step outside the barricade walls and are met with an interesting site. Another military ship is at dock, but this one flying the flag of Absalom. A detail of ceremoniously armored soldiers disembark carrying a stretcher between them, their heads hanging low. On that stretcher, a body wrapped in linen.
It’s always a bad sign when you step off a boat and into the mud. This place doesn’t seem to have a lot going for it, but where there are Navy folk, there are dead folk, so maybe business will be alright. Moira pulls a well-worn leather boot out of the muck and points her finger at it, pistol style. She chants a verbal component, pulls the invisible trigger, whispers “BANG!” and blasts off the offending gunk with Prestidigitation. The clean lines of her sturdy, practical footwear always please her. It pays to have access to that particular spell in her line of work, and it allows her to maintain a clean-cut image—something that holds its own value when you spend your days around folk in their Church-day best.
While her clothes might be a bit worn out, nobody could imprecate them for filthiness. Nothing ruins the visual impact of wearing all black quite like dirt, grime, dandruff. And so she stands out among the begrimed sailors like a raven among seagulls. Dirty seagulls. Or so she hopes. She knows she's a striking figure, that she’s broad-shouldered for her size and decked out in black leather and a broad-brimmed hat (perfectly proportional to her shoulders) that people of our plane would consider a triangulation of witch, pilgrim, and bad-guy cowboy.
On seeing the men from Absalom and their grievous burden, Moira decides that an indirect approach will be safest. No sense surprising someone in mourning, certainly not an armed party of someones. Judging by the downcast look of these men, whoever is under that linen sheet had the respect of these soldiers.
Instead of heading straight to her mark, she heads to the town square. Tapping out a rhythm on a hand drum slung on a black leather (what else?) bandolier, she starts to sing a dirge she learned back in the country, back when her father was an undertaker in a village not much bigger than this forsaken naval station:
Youtube of I Am Weary, Let Me Rest
...not her finest performance, but hopefully good enough for a river fort.
As the people gather around, she knows that the sailors will do her publicity work for her--the newcomers off her ship have all been given business cards already, and, as necessary, have had the cards read aloud to them. They’ve had time for the idea of a professional mourner to feel natural, and everyone likes to be the one in the know. As a dusty quartermaster asks “What’s her damage, that singin’ lass?” she hears a sailor respond, “That un’ sings the dead to their passing for coin. Them what can’t afford priests, mostly, or just because sometimes songs are better n’ prayers at easing pain.”
Moria grins through her singing and nods in his direction. At the closing of her song, she announces to the small crowd, “I hope you liked that one, even though it’s sad--that’s life and death, though! I’m Moria Keening, moirologist and professional mourner. Death comes but once for each of us, but each death leaves tatters in the people who remain. I’ll stitch the seams of your grief as best I can with song, talk, or whatever you want--I’ve seen enough to know how to ease the pain of the passing for those who are left behind. Thanks, and here’s my card!”
She passes homemade calligraphy business cards to every member of the crowd, her professional smile resting comfortably on her face: a smile that can’t be called happy, exactly, but one that tries to convey the best sort of irony--that inside-joke feeling that comes when things get really bad, or when someone looks deeply at what it means to live well, to die well, and learns that at the end of things, inside jokes are as likely to matter as anything else. Maybe more. Chances are high that most of the black-bordered scraps of fine paper will serve to light tonight's cookfires, but that’s business.
Hoping that her identity is now established, she will approach a pallbearer with her best professional compassion. She asks who died and whether the men could use any song or talk to help them carry their gravely heavy load… [b]
The pall bearers exits out of a small cabin, it’s door adorned with elk antlers. As you approach, you noticed his spaulders are adorned with the sword and sun iconography of Iomedae. The knight stiffens as you approach, but sinks in his composure as you ask about the deceased.
“He was Lieutenant Rishon, on his way to Mendev as part of the crusade, as we all are, ma’am. I apologize, I should introduce myself as well. Captain Bertram.” He bows politely and continues, “It’s hard for me to say. We set sail from Absalom and arrived in Cassomir, our first stop on our way to Kanabres. It must have been something he ate, shellfish, that didn’t sit right. He grew ill and we had hoped to reach this station for some restoration, but…” he chokes, “He died in the night.” A tear runs down his cheek, “It shouldn’t be this way. He should have died fighting the demon incursion, a hero. Not like this…”
“I apologize. I should be stronger. We’ve given him over to the cleric of Erastil. We’ll bury him here at sunset, and then be on our way. A song? I suppose that should help the men gather their strength, yes. If it can help guide his soul to Iomedae’s Realm, that should be fine indeed.”
As you fetch the ferryman's fee, he seems quite impressed with the weight of your coin purses, but makes no mention of it on the trip to the island. The river is still running low and slow, but the currents pick up around the island at the confluence with the Verduran Fork coming in from the east. The experienced ferryman poles along the suspended guide rope, and gets you there in half an hour.
Pulling into the small harbor, you dock among a few other rafts, barges, and keelboats, shipping craft. Two naval clippers dominate the docks, one Taldan, one flying the colors of Absalom.
Trudging through the sodden harbor, you make your way to the barricades of the naval fort. As much as a bath and hot meal sound appealing, you first official order of business is to meet with Rear Admiral Trudos, to get him to sign the treaty. Through the gates, naval offices lie to the right, the cafeteria and barracks across the open quad.
Attai, you spot Brother Ayred’s cabin across the way. Two figures seem to be standing, conversing out front.
Attai hangs back, clearly wanting to see just who Brother Ayred is talking to outside the priest's cabin. Still watching, he speaks generally to the group.
"Should we make ourselves somewhat more...presentable? Or is the present state of our deportment a surer sign of our...capacity for... the job at hand?
Liamae lifts an arm to give her armpit a sniff. She grimaces. ”Ugh, yeah, maybe we should wash the grime of the journey offf of us first before we meet with the admiral.”
Iagon shrugs. I dunno...it's kind of the honest approach, right? I mean, we did risk life and limb to get here. Our state could put a certain emphasis on the importance of the treaty, right? Besides... He sniffs as well, then grins at Liamae. I smell just fine.
Let's just get this over with.
Attai, as you peer across the way, you realize it is not Brother Ayred you see, but two strangers. One, a knight by the looks of his armor, although with a wearied posture, speaks with a dark haired woman in black travelling garments. A hand drum hangs at her side. You realize a few other knights gathered about, clustered in small groups. Kytes seems to notice them as well, as he suddenly straightens in an attempt to cover up his road-weariness. "I think a bath and hot meal sounds nice," he says with a tusky smile. "We should be as presentable as possible, right your Highness?"
Attai frowns, unsure why Brother Ayred visited his own weary vision.
”Hey - do any of you recognise the shadow-clad woman talking to the knight? She seems...musical. I don’t recollect any bards hereabouts...” he muses.
Moria dips into her deep store of poetry to find the right one for the Crusader: "I have some lines for you, Captain Bertram, lines written by a soldier-poet who was dying of illness on a ship on his way to his first battle. He talks about the beauty of the strength of his comrades and the ephemeral nature of life and death:
I would have thought of them
—Heedless, within a week of battle—in pity,
Pride in their strength and in the weight and firmness
And link'd beauty of bodies, and pity that
This gay machine of splendour 'ld soon be broken,
Thought little of, pashed, scattered, . . .
Only, always,
I could but see them—against the lamplight—pass
Like coloured shadows, thinner than filmy glass,
Slight bubbles, fainter than the wave's faint light,
That broke to phosphorus out in the night,
Perishing things and strange ghosts—soon to die
To other ghosts—this one, or that or I.
[b] You can feel how much he loves the men, even as he feels the oncoming of his own death. It might not be much of a comfort to know that these things have happened before, but maybe it's a comfort to know that they've been well-told.
She's also available for weddings! funerals are her specialty, so she'll gladly sing a song at the graveside...
When the newcomers arrive (and when she's finished talking with Bertram), Moira will sweep off her broad-brimmed hat, presenting them with one of her business cards and her professional smile. "Hello, travelers! How fares your party? Are you all here? If someone's died, don't hesitate to call."
Attai is slightly taken aback by the forwardness of the bard, weary and bespattered by grime and trail-muck as he is and to be greeted so warmly. He retreats to the Harrow, surreptitiously and carefully drawing a card...
This is the chaotic good card of intelligence. It represents a monster that can only be defeated through trickery, or the value of humor in circumventing difficult people
The sylph smiles ruefully, unsure as ever as yet as to who or what is identified by the card.
Typical.
”Well met friend. Attai Kah I am called. This group before you is indeed a travelling one, on official business.” Attai finishes, leaving anything of any actual import beyond that to Liamae, Kytes, Iagon or Princess Turante to provide.
Túrante did manage to clean up a bit beforehand, and of course with prestidigitation it's a simple matter to remove stains and smells. Since she had packed her jewelry and her decor, she waffles a bit about whether to wear her gown or her traveling gear - she finally settles on the traveling gear with a few pieces of the jewelry as accents, thinking that perhaps a court gown is just ridiculously out of place on the wild frontier.
Despite this, she seems a bit distracted during the journey, sometimes even to the point of making small mistakes while making the way out of the wilderness.
"We'll make ourselves presentable by means of our good character and our good morale," says Túrante to the knight. "Liamae and I can use our magic spells to help clean up the worst excesses of the road. I know that Liamae wants the comfort of a luxurious bath, as do I, but we can at least maintain a basic level of civil decorum, deal with the business with the Admiral, and then to see our creature comforts."
~~~~~
When Moira makes her introduction, Túrante perks her head slightly to one side. "We are here on business," she says, though she accepts the card and scrutinizes it. "And you are... ?"
Moira gives the newcomers a quick cold-reading.
She spots Attai's glance at the deck and beams, asking him, "Are you a cartomancer, then? What sorts of sortilege do you practice? Did you pick that card for... me?! Can I ask what you drew? Do you do long-form readings? I love the harrowing experience of a fortune forecast! Would you take a bard's wares as a trade in kind, or will I have to cross your silver sylphan hand with silver?"
...clearly she's a fan of card divination.
She notes Túrante's bling and remembers an old song about elven jewels and the nobles who wear them. But she doesn't change how she's acting, for now, as a proud proletarian: If an elven noblewoman is traveling out here with these folks, she might not be all bad...
"I'm Moira Keening--funeral director, tear-wiper, strong shoulder to cry on... I sing wakes for the never-to-wake. I know that the words for blessing and blood come from the same etymological root, and a bleeding heart can yet be a blessing in these troubled times. And if someone you love is overtaken by death , I'll undertake the task of laying them to rest. I'm also capable with sword, buckler, and drum. At your service."
"Well, we've no need for a funeral director at the moment, and grateful for it!" Liamae declares, eyeing the peculiar woman up and down. "But a bard is always welcome to lift the spirits! We are on our way to speak with Rear Admiral Trudos to report the success of our latest mission."
Iagon shakes his head. Well, I don't know Liamae...we're not really charged with hiring new help, are we?
He looks to Moira apologetically. I'm sorry, Miss Keening, but we're under the employ of the Marquis, and he's tasked us with a very specific mission. He had not allowed us the responsibility of taking on new hires. So, while you're certainly free to go as you please, I fear we cannot promise you any gainful employment or even a wage at all.
He thinks for a moment, then adds with a wink. That is...till we die, I guess.
Liamae pokes Iagon's side. "Well, I wasn't hiring her, silly! I meant she was welcome around the outpost."
If Attai is at all surprised by the lengthy language legerdemain presented by Moria he betrays nothing. At least beyond a slight widening of his iris followed by a noticeable hooded droop to his eyelids. Side-eye with extreme prejudice.
Then he beams a genuine smile and flips the card so Moria can see it.
”The Joker. For those unaware, it denotes intellect. And overcoming one’s opponents with trickery. Or perhaps using humor to navigate difficult people.” His smile freezes, and his cheeks pinch. Before he grins.
”Chosen for you, yes. And, on this occasion, the Harrow is clear. I am sure you have trickery in...spades, and levity for a legion. I for one am decidedly difficult.” Attai indicates his companions.
”Iagon, Kytes, Liamae and Túrante. From my experience, it is their opponents in battle that find them difficult.”
Attai then nods.
”I do short and long-form readings, but am largely self-taught. I am sure if the Harrow is in your future it will appear, but as to whether it is I, you or another who draws the cards remains to be seen.” Attai smiles again.
”But I digress - we are, as Liamae says, en route to an official interview. We have your card. For once I drew mine second. Good day Miss Keening.”
With that, Attai turns to go.