Iagon looks at Liamae in confusion, then clears his expression and his throat. Oh, well yes...of course. I'm, um...sorry Miss Keening...you'll find that Liamae and her highness here often have a better understanding of these sorts of things than I. He smiles, a bit sheepishly, then puts his head back down and follows Attai.
As the others begin to walk away, Kytes turns to Moira and asks, "Miss, um, Moira was it? Do you mind me asking, but who was it you were talking to over there?" You notice his shield and sword bear the same Iomedaean iconography as the knights from Absalom.
”The Joker. For those unaware, it denotes intellect. And overcoming one’s opponents with trickery. Or perhaps using humor to navigate difficult people.”
Moira beams. "The perfect card for me! I suspect the Harrow's correct: I will deal with you with all my best humors, my difficult fellow traveler. I'm feeling sanguine about our future."
To the others, she nods and says, "I'm usually not hired for longer than an evening, occasionally a week. I go my own way, most of the time--which is to say, I am constantly sidetracked by the little paths that branch from the highway. That said, you seem like pleasant enough folk, and I'd be glad to share the road with you. Let's have an ale and a tale later, if such is available in this backwater post?"
Moria tells Kytes, "Those are crusaders from Absalom. A young officer of their party fell to sickness on the passage. They seem prepared for almost anything, but such a mundane death for a beloved hero has frayed their nerves, and their spirits will need some care. I'll see what I can do. If you know them or if you are countryfolk, we should go to them and I'll introduce you. The captain is Bentham, the fallen young officer was named Rishon."
Kytes, for a moment, seems troubled. At the word ‘crusaders’ his gaze looks beyond Moira to the grief stricken crusaders. Moira can visibly see his heart jump and get lodged in his throat. As soon as he is able to swallow it, he looks over his own shoulder to see his companions walking off toward the naval offices.
The hawk perched on his shoulder screeches, and he turns back to Moira. "Yes, please," he says with a smile and nod, "I would like to meet them."
He bids Moira lead the way with a polite and folksy wave of his hand.
———————
By the time you reach the doors of the naval office building, you realize Kytes has walked off with the funeral bard. With a shrug of agreement, you move on toward where you know Admiral Trudos’ office to be.
On the top floor you turn down the hall and approach the officer stationed outside his door. Upon explaining your names, positions, and business, he blushes, and beads of sweat appear on his brow. The guard raps on the Admiral’s door.
"What! Who is it?" the Admiral shouts from within, his voice rasped and panting.
"Sir! It’s the Marquis’ Men, here about the treaty, Sir!" answers the guard, his voice cracked and then smoothed over.
A commotion is heard inside. Hushed voices, panicked. Furniture suddenly moving. The curse following a stubbed toe. Shh. Shh. Shh. The clearing of a throat.
The door creaks open, and a young maid slips out. Her hair is a mess. Her apron is on inside out. She quickly hides a flushed face behind quivering hand, and runs off passed you down the hall.
The guard, just barely holding his composure, states, "The Admiral will see you now.”
Attai watches the help flee down the corridor, winks to the officer in mock seriousness and walks in.
Iagon nods and heads in, seemingly oblivious to the cause of the wait. He seems filled with the grand purpose of completing their mission...at least this part of it.
Good morning, Admiral. He snaps to attention, probably not doing it right at all. We are, indeed, here about the Treaty of the Wildwood. We come on the behalf of the Marquis, and are tasked with collecting the signed agreements of all associated parties of the Verduran Province...sir.
Túrante likewise enters in a fashion more like a soldier than a princess and waits at attention as Iagon reports.
Liamae follows in Turante’s wake, hiding her smile. She is in full fledged courtier mode, bowing gracefully, her jewelry jangling with the motion.
Moira, reading Kytes' eyes, leads him towards the crusaders (staying on the opposite side from the bird, having known too many birds to proceed without caution on that front).
If introductions are necessary, she makes them. If the men already know each other, she makes herself inconspicuous and listens carefully to their talk.
Iagon enters the office in time to see the Admiral fastening the top button of his pantaloons and buckling his black belt. The man coughs and straightens suddenly as the rest follow in, but his composure is quickly lost in a fit of laughter. His skin is pallid, nose and cheeks blotched and reddened, as he leans on his desk with one hand and beckons you forward with the other. The guard shuts the door behind Liamae.
Admiral Trudos pours himself a brandy. A half-empty glass sits on his desk, which he offers to Iagon.
"Haha, aye, the son’ b+~@* devil bastard did it, did he? Lemme see lemme see," he slurs and motions across his desk.
Before the treaty can be procured, he blinks upward and seems to actually see you all for the first time. "Boy yer all a bloody mess, aren’tcha... Wot kinda hell did ya come across in tha forest?"
Kytes and his hawk, whom he introduces as Eir, follow Moira to the mourning crusaders, gathered round a solemn campfire. Moira assists in making introductions, and Kytes greets each of the soldiers with a respectful clasping of forearms.
The half-Orc seems to stand a full two inches taller among the soldiers. He stands for a beat, smiling goofishly, until a ruffling of Eir’s feathers shocks him into remembering reverence.
"I wish to pay my respects to the fallen, uh, Rishon. I am a warrior of Iomedae, in service to the Marquis Markus Lambert,"[‘b] he bows his head, and Eir seems to do the same.
[b]"It would be an honor to have you join us for the burial, Kytes of Iomedae," replies Bentham. "We are fresh in the field, having trained four years in the monasteries of Absalom. Tell us of your adventures fighting in the name of The Inheritor."
At this, Kytes spills his guts. He tells of the terrible day he received his calling, of his wandering and meeting the Marquis and his companions in Cassomir. He breaks into a smile recalling the barroom brawl at the Golden Barnicle, but his tone grows more solemn as he describes the discovery of murderous goblins along the river. He mentions the trading post up north, and the encounters with wild centaurs there. He describes with pride rescuing some boy from vile gremlins and giant bugs and an imp. Well, the imp got away. His eyes grow wide as he tells of the beautiful dryad Lilacea and quest into the bog cave to clear it of wicked Fey and slaying the vicious troll that nearly took out he and his companions.
Despite his amateurish storytelling, the soldiers seem caught up in his heroic tale. Perhaps it is just enough to lift their hearts from thoughts of the grave and into the light of their own dreams, if for a moment.
And so the time passes around the fire, while in the background, two soldiers dig a plot for the cold Lieutenant Rishon.
Attai smiles a steely smile, that this military rank’d commander evidently has a handle on his member where he needs his members to handle things.
”The same hell is coming for you my lord. A great and pernicious evil grows in the wildlands, unknown, forming, and hungry. The Marquis we serve brings together an alliance - thus we bring you the treaty...” Attai begins in typically Harrow-dramatic cryptical style.
Iagon clears his throat, probably too abruptly, and nods. Indeed; sir, as my friend Attai said, we have been through quite a bit to get here. The darkness growing in the land is troubling, and the Marquis sees the need for us to band together in order to properly keep our people...all people...safe.
Iagon pointedly moves the untouched half-filled glass aside to set down the documents, taking care to wipe away any moisture as he almost reverently handles paperwork.
Sir, I'm sure you can understand the perils we've been through on our way here. We're thoroughly tired; I'm sure we can get this business completed quite quickly so that you can get back to....business.
Iagon tries to keep his opinions out of his voice, but he's certainly not a practiced politician, and doesn't have the musical, pleasing tongue of the Sylvan folk.
Moira soaks in Kytes' stories, ooing and aaahhing with real appreciation while beating a soft rhythm on her drum.
Túrante smoothly intervenes and says, "Of course, out in this edge of the wilderness, everyone can use good neighbors. We've already had to deal with a troll and with other such unsavory predators. Keeping the borderland secure is good for everyone - most especially because it means that trade partners are more likely to show up if the local trade routes are safe; nobody wants to risk losing a wagon-load of wares and vintages to monstrous raiders. Certainly by cementing an allegiance, we can insure that both parties benefit from improved safety and trade possibilities."
Admiral Trudos sways back from Attai, unable to discern whether there’s a threat veiled somewhere in his words. Then, he leans heavily against his desk toward, squinting an eye at the Sylph, "Aye, yer a real creepy one, aren’cha?"
As Iagon moves in and places the treaty between them, the Admiral catches himself on the desk and props his inebriated weight up on his arms. He stares down at the parchment, obviously unable to comprehend the well penned words through the fog of alcohol. "Heh, I’d appreciate dat, lad." He belches, and Iagon can smell the booze on his breath.
She Túrante speaks, Trudos suddenly straightens, remembering for an instant the proper poise for such a meeting. He seems to lag behind her words, but he gives her the best of his attention. When she is finished, and he is caught up, he takes a lurching step toward her, "I’m gonna sign yer document, miss. As tha highest rankin’ soldier in these lands, ma name on tha’ treaty is directly bound to tha Crown. An’ besides, is already ratified by tha Senate. If Oppara wans ta sign our death certificate, I will follow ma orders. But... tha waters up north will thaw out, an’ tha river will rise, an’ wid it will come all the wealth of tha Inner Sea, as it does every year. But tha Crown wans war wit’ Qaddira, an everything I got will be taken away from me. ‘S what I get fer all my years of loyal service. An when tha rest o’ tha world sees how weak we are back here, chaos will come rollin’ in. This forest has a mind of is own."
He points to his own mind, sloshing around in his skull, the turns to look at the company in his office. He seems to sober up a tad. "But ye look like a capable lot. I heard what he did to them goblins. Trolls ye say. Don’ say I don’ feel the darkness creeping in from all around. If I lose me ships, yer all we have left.
He sits heavily in his chair and breathes for a moment, then reaches for his quill and inkwell to sign the treaty.
"Yer goin’ have a much harder time in Belhaim and Wispil," he smirks and signs his name with a quick a crooked flourish. "Patrol from Belhaim is runnin’ late. See if ye spot a missin’ frigate along tha way."
Attai’s eyes shrink but the merest fraction, his steely smile wavers not. He resists the urge, there and then to dramatically drop a card onto the table for the inebriate to see - sometimes, fate is as does without aid from the eyes of mortals.
”A...missing frigate. By that you mean a large boat, mann’d that is perhaps waylaid with crew possibly dead?” Attai asks.
”My first venture with Iagon and Liamae here comprised of a similar event. Are there no troops or militia you can send, regular protocol and procedure notwithstanding...in these...uncertain times?”
"Well, if not, surely our group would be more than up to the task!" Liamae declares cheerfully.
Moria finds her mind wandering to sea shanties...
Iagon simply seems quite happy that the man is signing the treaty, and he looks more than ready to remove himself and his friends from this awkward situation into which they'd been thrust. He waits for an answer to Attai as he also waits to be given back the treaty so that he can seal it back up for travel.
The Rear Admiral shakes his head and takes a long sip of brandy, "Only got one ship an' crew in harbor, foot soldiers on tha walls. Rodrigue is on patrol up north, near Galt by now. Captain Ortego took tha Coriandor up tha Verduran Fork on patrol, shoulda been back three days ago. 'S probably nothin', but what wit' Belhaim ina mess. Latest news is tha Baroness has lost 'er son ta some huntin' accident er other. Just check it out, will ya?"
After signing the treaty, Rear Admiral Trudos leans back in his chair and dismisses you, letting you know there should be plenty of empty bunks in the barracks should you need them. Before you've left his office he's already poured himself another brandy.
1x Scroll, Chill Touch (25gp)
1x Scroll, Detect Poison (25gp)
1x Scroll, Summon Monster I (25gp)
1x Potion, Protection from Evil (50gp)
1x Potion, Protection from Chaos (50gp)
1x Elixir of Hiding (250gp)
Iagon tastes the two vials found hidden in the Chaneque lair. The oily brown one reminds him of the taste of his own blood when, once as a child, he stepped on a rake when chasing the cat around the barn, and got whacked in the face and busted his lip. He recognizes this as an Oil of Shillelagh. After wafting the wispy blue vail, he feels like he’s gained a little spring to his step, a bounce to his walk. He recognizes this as a Potion or Jump.
Leaving he naval offices, the ratified treaty with Rear Admiral Trudos’ drunken signature in hand, the Marquis’ Men follow the sound of slow and steady drumming to behind the barracks, where a funeral ceremony is taking place.
A white haired elve, in the clerical garb of a priest of Erastil, says a final blessing over a freshly dug grave. Moira accompanies him with a tapping of the drum, in time with the soldiers shoveling dirt over the young dead Rishon.
Kytes stands solemnly by, chest held proud, with the rest of the crusaders. As the ceremony closes, he approaches the group.
Kytes addresses Túrante, but in front of everyone, "Your highness... as, far as I can tell, the highest ranking person here, I feel that I should inform you. I will no longer join you in service of the Marquis. I’m gonna join these soldiers, in service of The Inheritor, in the Crusades up north. I’ve seen the savagery of this place first hand, with you all by my side. I don’t want to leave you empty handed. Here, take this.”
Alchemists Fire (3)
Holy Water (4)
Oil of Bless Weapon
Potion, Cure Light Wounds (1)
Potion, Protection from Evil
Sunrod (3)
He also hands over the Letter to Eleanor he took from the dead river merchant, "If you ever make it back to Cassomir..."
"One more thing. That lady over there with the drum? Her name’s Moira. She’s on her way to Belhaim too. Maybe you can travel together?"
Attai nods solemnly.
”I may not have travelled with you as far or as long as Iagon, or Liamae, but know that every moment with you has been a blessing. I will miss you - (here looks at the eagle) and Eir - as fine companions, worthy allies, reliable advisors, and most importantly, as friends.” The sylph embraces the half-orc warmly.
”May the Harrow unfold for you as it should.”
Attai draws forth a card for Kytes.
The harrower frowns, then smiles a crooked, wry smile.
”Looks like you are headed for trouble.” Attai reaches up, and strokes Eir’s feathers. ”Scout the ground Eir, you keep him safe.”
Iagon watches the solemn procession with mixed emotions. As usual, he finds it hard to focus his wandering mind, and he can't help but bask in the success of having one signature done. After the funeral, he also embraces the mighty Kytes, and nods in agreement with Attai's fine words. We will miss you Kytes, and we will most certainly be a lesser team without you. But, we all have our own missions, and I respect your choice. Good luck, my friend.
He leaves his friend and moves over to Moira. Moira, is it? I hear form Kytes that you're making your way to Belhaim. We are as well, care to travel together? Safety in numbers, of course.
After seeing the young soldier of on his journey, Moira finds herself invited on a journey.
She smiles warmly. "Thank you kindly! I'll pack my share of the numbers and safety, and will bring conversation and music to share. I'm ready when you are--my legs could sure use a stretch after being cooped up on that boat!"
Iagon smiles, though he seems a bit wary. Sure. Just let me make sure the others were ready, and we will get moving.. He heads over to his companions.
Guys, Moira there is going to come along - she's headed in our direction. If you're ready, I think we should get moving. I'm sure we'd all like to get back to our new home as soon as possible.
”Yes, Iagon. I am ready.” Attai is inscrutable, in sharp contrast to the emotion so recently displayed. His head shifts momentarily and minutely to the side. He falls into step beside Moira.
”Miss Keening. “Numbers and safety”. I am wholly unfamiliar with this saying, and admit to understanding but half of it. Could you explain?”
Moira looks down at the path in front of her, but she's still smiling as she explains: "Now that I think about it, it's actually pretty morbid... when I first heard 'safety in numbers' my dad told me it comes from schools of fish and flocks of birds. No single dove would have a chance of avoiding a determined hawk, but if you get enough in a single ball, it'll confuse the raptor at best, and at worst, every single bird's chances of survival are multiplied by the total number of birds in the flock. So there's safety in shared vulnerability of large numbers of weak entities. Granted, you could make a case that there are other kinds of safety in numbers, like a phalanx of spearmen or a caravan of merchants or a fleet-in-being, and hopefully that's the kind of safety in numbers we'll have... but I always think of the doves suddenly taking to the sky and the lean dark bolt of the hawk or falcon descending into them, death on the wing... but hey, we all gotta eat. And, if you'd like, you can call me Moira."
Liamae gives Kytes a farewell kiss on the cheek. "Be safe, noble warrior! May the Inheritor bless you on your quest!"
She curtsies to the new addition to their group. "Welceome, Moira! I trust you know several lively tunes to help make the journey pass more swiftly!"
”Moira.” the sylph nods.
”Numbers. Safety. Interesting. Should you have kept apart from us, you might be safe. Or then again, you may be safer joining with us, rather than striking out on your own. ” Attai favours Moira with a sidelong glance as they tramp along.
”Though it us apparent that you can look after yourself.”
”Thinking further, Moira. The Harrow is, in part, numeric. If you would care to draw three cards I could attempt a reading.” Attai produces his well worn leather card case, and thumbs the deck toward Moira.
Moira brightens at Liamae's suggestion, offering "I know a great song for the moment--it's about travel, it's uplifting, and it's even about death! 'Well we know where we're going...'" Moira starts tapping out a galloping rhythm on her drum and launches into her vocals-and-drums version of...
Youtube for Talking Heads "Road to Nowhere"
Well we know where we're going
But we don't know where we've been
And we know what we're knowing
But we can't say what we've seen
And we're not little children
And we know what we want
And the future is certain
Give us time to work it out
Yeah
We're on a road to nowhere
Come on inside
Taking that ride to nowhere
We'll take that ride
I'm feeling okay this morning
And you know
We're on the road to paradise
Here we go, here we go
We're on a ride to nowhere
Come on inside
Taking that ride to nowhere
We'll take that ride
Maybe you wonder where you are
I don't care
Here is where time is on our side
Take you there, take you there
We're on a road to nowhere
We're on a road to nowhere
We're on a road to nowhere
There's a city in my mind
Come along and take that ride
And it's alright, baby, it's all right
And it's very far away
But it's growing day by day and it's all right
Baby, it's all right
Would you like to come along
You can help me sing the song
And it's all right, baby, it's all right
They can tell you what to do
But they'll make a fool of you
And it's all right, baby, it's all right
There's a city in my mind
Come along and take that ride
And it's alright, baby, it's all right
And it's very far away
But it's growing day by day and it's all right
Baby, it's all right, yeah
Would you like to come along
You can help me sing the song
And it's all right, baby, it's all right
They can tell you what to do
But they'll make a fool of you and it's all right
Baby, it's all right
We're on a road to nowhere
We're on a road to nowhere
We're on a road to nowhere
We're on a road to nowhere
...and yes, when she gets to the part about "you can help me sing the song" she tries to rally the party for the outgoing "we're on a road to nowhere" chorus...
Her voice is decent, her drumming is inspiring, and she manages to only stumble a few times as she dance-marches along the road, weaving among the party members...
Afterwards, she eagerly accepts Attai's offer! She takes twice as long to pick her cards as the average customer, chewing her lip and moving from one to another as if her entire fate hinged on the result, muttering "This one feels powerful, but thas one is calling me in a friendlier way... hmmm... that one seems alright, but maybe I can do better..."
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Attai turns the cards and looks at them. He takes a few moments, looks at Moira. Looks at the cards again. His eyes thin. Then close. He seems to listen, or think, before grimacing with some esoteric effort.
”Well. The Harrow does not disappoint. Now...normally, if such can be said of the Harrow, a three card spread can be used to infer past/present/future events, times and intents. And this might be so here. Your past [here holds up a card showing a person struck with a lightning bolt from a giant blue hand in the sky]. Your present [here holds up a card showing two people in similar attitude and clothing, but all colors are diametrically opposed, and one holds a dagger behind their back]. Your future [here holds up a card that depicts a castle raised from the ground, made mobile by a giant set of mechanical arms and legs. Below, a horde of enemies and invaders shake their fists in frustration at their target, now safely out of their reach.] But the interesting thing here is that your fate and your arrival, with this band, is now woven tight. And the Harrow is reflecting this. So while this is your reading, it is our entwined fate.” Attai smiles before continuing.
”You are a force of creativity - this has been your journey. Touched by the divine spark of creativity you are a channel to build and bring into being. Joy. Sadness. Fear. Death. Love. Hope. Rebirth. As endless as the ululations of the wind, the soughing of the waves or the ouroubouratic meanderings of spiral serpents of Creation. And this journey has brought you these emotions. Until now.” Attai replaces the first card inside the deck, and turns to the next.
”Whatever you once were, at each moment you are also the next iteration of yourself. Time is Nature’s way of stopping everything happening at once, to be sure, but causality is fed by choice and luck and fate. And so here you are. At a turning point. And at a crossroads are we too. We now take your fate on board with us, but what will that bring? Are you a firm ally, and good friend, as Kytes, who we have now seen depart. Or are you a force of inimical impact, intent on harm? Conversely, who are we to you? Are we a positive impact, or a devolutionary path away from your destiny? Most interesting to me is the point at which this card appears - second of three, right in the middle of the spread, indicating a mid point. And three cards of the Neutral axis, which itself sits in the middle of Law and Chaos. A crux of fate or peak of destiny. That the card itself evokes. For us. For you. ” Here Attai’s smile sharpens, almost wistfully as he places this card too inside the deck.
The sylph looks forward into the middle distance, whether musing, cogitating heavily or merely taking his time in the time-honoured tradition of theatrical oracular presentation.
”Which brings us to the Keep. In some ways it is a juxtaposition - a fortification, but that is mobile. That which is stolid is yet also flexible. For you, I feel the Harrow is telling you that you are embarking on a journey in strength. But that is opposed to how you may have seen strength and flexibility heretofore. There is also danger here, for as the fortress moves it risks crushing those below it - and that is both a warning to you as for us, for we serve the castle, the Marquis is the fortress, and we his mobility, travelling to build strength for the sake of the people. And one more note appears - the Keep belches forth smoke as it moves - the sign of technology and industry, that which we have seen the tension of in our dealings with the fey and forest folk. So, as you travel with us, you are a part of this Keep, and we entrust you to defend it.” Attai swallows hard as he puts the final card back in its place amongst its fellows. He wipes his brow.
”My apologies Moira. This reading blurs and blends our fates. As I said, it is as much about you as it is us. Perhaps at some future juncture we can revisit the Harrow and attempt a more personal reading. This was what I call a “cold reading” without context. As we are your current context, it is not unsurprising that the Harrow wends thus.” Attai makes a small smile.
”At least as far as I interpret it. As ever, the cards might have deeper or even reversed meanings for you - I am but a biased, mortal foil by which you can interpret other skeins and snatches of your own perceived fate...
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Moira's interest grows as she listens, as her reader's skill dawns on her, as the cards pick apart her fears and hopes. "You say this reading is about all of us, but I definitely see myself..."
"The Vision... I don't know how magick comes to affect most people, but for me, it was a surprise. I was walking in a dark wood, heading to a wise woman for herbs. My family was sick, so I went out even though I was too young to be out in the forest alone. I wanted a light so badly that I started chanting to myself, singing to myself, moving my body in rhythms to call light into the darkness, when suddenly--there it was." Moira casts Light, then snuffs it again. "I thought it was a Will-o'-the-Wisp or Yan-Gant-y-Tan, and I ran, with the light hot on my heels. The old woman was so gentle. She taught me how to control it. A bard had moved to our village, a retainer of lord who had lost his realm. He taught me how to blend my magic with my music, and I was happy for a while. Then the plague came, and one way or another..." Moira's face slips from happy engagement in her favorite activity (storytelling) into restrained grief. "...they all died. All but me. Not that the story is all that unique, it seems that most of the people you meet out here are orphans or otherwise fleeing their families. Like the ouroboros, the end is in the beginning.""
"The Twin... that one makes perfect sense, but I'm not sure how to talk about it. I'm a carrion crow, and I bring solace. I sing, but I often sing dirges. I joke, but in the end, it's all gallows humor. I have a strange bond with... with the living dead. And I try to lay people to rest. There's an old prayer to an old goddess that I like, even though I'm not a faithful person... 'I am called life/ and you have called me death. I am called law/ and you have called me lawlessness. You pursue me/ and I tie you up. What you scatter is me/ and what you collect...' It's a long prayer, that's just a bit from the middle. She half-draws her sword, a beautiful work of art with a misty blue-black gem set in the hilt. "This blade belonged to my mentor, the bard I mentioned. I have it loaded with a spell powered by negative energy, a spell potent against the living and anathema to the walking dead."
"The Keep... if your strength is in the service of the people, as you say, then I'm with you. But I don't think highly of lords and their castles. Too often, when danger comes, the drawbridge is up long before the common folk are inside the walls, and the strength that was built on their backs turns its back on them. Not that the common folk are angels. I've seen mobs before... witch hunts. But most are good folk, in their way. There are a few good lords and ladies, I know... I hope your Marquis is one of them. As for the fey, I've always thought I'd get along fine with them."
"Thank you, Attai. The cards make it easier to talk. You know, people say I'm hard to get close to, and I know they are right, but I've never understood why they can't seem to ask the right questions or tell the right stories. This was close. A... harrowing experience." She lets the joke draw a smile over her face. A smile broad enough to hide behind.
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Attai frowns, much as he is wont to do when thinking.
”I am not known for my social etiquette. Too removed, too rapt by my own thoughts and the interstices of warp and weft of fate. But I have no trouble asking questions. Of which the simplest is “How are you?”. Which is in itself a story, and one with serious social currency. It not only proffers caring, but it enquires as to state and , thus, can be self-serving - an allay to possible violence or ill intent.” The sylph snorts, clearing his nose.
”Enough philosophy, dark skald. Play us a tune and dispel our melancholic meanderings.” he finishes with a wry smile.
”Iagon. How far is it to Belhaim? And do we go by land or water? I...somewhat miss travel by boat...”
Though he grew up in the relative area, Iagon had more than often been out in the wilderness, and knew little of the overland travel between locales. He mildly shrugs, then looks at the documents he'd been given. He flips them upside down in case he had it wrong...then puts them back.
In the morning there is found a single barge with cargo bound for Belhaim. The captain, a slovenly man by the name of Miro, says, "Ye can pay yer way with sword an’ sorcery. Lots o’ buggers out there ta make the journey risky. Not ta mention the Rusalka who haunts these waters. Pray to the Gods we don’t disturb ‘er peace."
Iagon looks a bit surprised, then shrugs. How bad could it be...sounds like a deal!
Thank you, good sir...quite the find...err, boat you have here. This Rusalka...big fish maybe?
Attai frowns, much as he is wont to do when thinking.
”I am not known for my social etiquette. Too removed, too rapt by my own thoughts and the interstices of warp and weft of fate. But I have no trouble asking questions. Of which the simplest is “How are you?”. Which is in itself a story, and one with serious social currency. It not only proffers caring, but it enquires as to state and , thus, can be self-serving - an allay to possible violence or ill intent.” The sylph snorts, clearing his nose.
”Enough philosophy, dark skald. Play us a tune and dispel our melancholic meanderings.” he finishes with a wry smile.
"We can never have enough philosophy, bright cartomancer... but it's rude of me to contradict you. For what it's worth, I think you're very polite, whatever your knowledge of etiquette. I read once: 'gentlemen are those that make those around them comfortable, not those who hold titles.' Idealistic of the author to confuse gentility and gentleness (and naive to speak only of men), but there's a grain of truth in it." She taps at her drum, deciding what to play to lift the spirits of the party. Lost in thought, she forgets to sing... but the beat is, um, upbeat, as she strikes the skin with palm, thumb, and fingertips.
As for sailing or walking, Moira looks a bit crestfallen at the thought of going back aboard a boat. But she doesn't complain.
”Well friends, what is is to be. A slog afoot, or a dread boatride?” Attai asks the group.