Liamae gasps as she starts awake, frantically itching at her bare skin. Fortunately, it seems the nightmare is over, as there are no worms for her. "Oh, but it was a marvelous dress!" the elf laments with a sigh.
She lays back down and turns to Turante, greeting her with a soft kiss. "Sorry to disturb you. I had a bad dream, I fear. I hope your slumber was more pleasant."
"I had a... curious dream, myself," the princess says to Liamae, still a little lost in clouded thought. "I feel like... there are portents. Things looming on the horizon. Oh, and yet dreams fade away with the morning light. I feel like I need to remember?
She turns her head to Liamae and says, "I am sorry to hear that your sleep was so troubled. Perhaps I can soothe it with kisses."
"I'm not sure, but you are welcome to try," Liamae replies with a grin.
As Túrante and Liamae engage in pillow talk upstairs, Moira tries unsuccessfully to start up conversation with Iagon. Well, at least she can occupy her mouth with a plate of potatoes and sausage and a mug of frothy ale.
As the two eat in silence, a young man approaches the table. He wears holy robes of white silk with gold trim, although the bottom hem and his simple shoes are muddied. He nervously clears his throat to get your attention, "Blessings of Abadar upon you, travelers. My name’s Banker Braldon, and I apologize for interrupting your meal. You see, we don’t get many travelers in Belhaim of late, and I have to ask you, as a representative of the House of Abadar, what is your business here?"
The common room falls into a hush as the other patrons try to overhear the response.
Moira smiles professionally, warmly, sadly, and says, "My business is death and the long borderlands between it and life. Mourning and night, morning and light. I speak words over the dead that are heard by the living. Little can truly fill the gap left when a soul slips into the next world, but what little there is I try to gather, bear, and offer. Songs, poems, mantras, parables, knacks, and knickknacks. I've heard there is grief in this town, and I want to lift the pall if I can, and carry it a ways (if not away): my name is Moira Keening, dirge bard, pallbearer, and undertaker. These my companions have their own business, but all of us combined are strong enough fighters to have made it through some serious trouble on the road. For now we take the same path for safety and convivial convenience."
She scorns not the ale and sausages, trying to strike a delicate balance between the worldly and the otherworldly.
Iagon takes the cue and nods in greeting. We are here to speak to the Baroness...as soon as is possible. And, our friend here is looking for some of her men who have gone missing; have you heard of any recent reports filed for such? He gestures at Oretego.
"So your business here is with the Baroness... May I?" Braldon motions to an empty chair beside Moira, and before awaiting an answer, takes a seat. He leans in, "Sorry, I’ve no news about any missing men... The, uh, Devy’s were... are... patrons of the House of Abadar, and we’ve agreed to handle all funeral rites for Arnholde. Of course, there’s the matter of the missing body... I can arrange a meeting with the Baroness for you, if you’d like. In the meantime, I’d like to invite you to visit the House of Abadar. We have some assets we’d prefer to liquidate. The town has grown cash poor of late and any stimulus you can provide is most welcome. If you need a guide to other businesses in town, I’m happy to be of service."
Iagon narrows his eyes, but tries to keep an open mind. A guide...I'm assuming that there would be a fee for such a service? As you can see... He motions around the table. ...we're still at breakfast; but, I think we can come by later to have a look.
However, we have to speak with the Baroness before doing anything else. We have urgent business; how quickly could you arrange that?
Moira's eye twitches at the priest's words, but her smile doesn't falter. She thinks to herself, An Abadarian funeral, oh my gods. "In lieu of flowers, please send money to the temple. Please be present for the reading of the will and the distribution of worldly goods. Funeral from 10:00-10:30 AM. Collections taken at 10:00, 10:15, 10:19, and 10:20."
Out loud, she says, "Yes, let us speak to her soon. Maybe we'll be able help search for the deceased."
Banker Braldon clears his throat and shakes his head, "No service fees necessary. What’s good for business is good for the prosperity of the town, which is the sole investment of the House of Abadar. If your concern for the Baroness is immediate, then I see no reason not to escort you to the Devy Manor as soon as you and your party are ready."
Braldon smiles quickly and stands, "I will leave you to your meal."
True to his word, as soon as everyone has gathered, he guides you through town toward the Devy Manor, pointing out various places of business along the way, "We have two smithies in town, and here is Xemne’s Tonics, the apothecary. If you need a tinker, Delbin’s Devices should suffice. Sensina Hides to outfit you with leather goods. Was there anything else you would be interested in?"
After taking what seems like the scenic route, you finally arrive at a large and rustic manor at the town’s center, built of limestone, in places overgrown with crawling vines. A marble statue lies out front, depicting a noble looking woman standing atop the severed head of a dragon.
Braldon approaches the guard and exchanges a few words and coin, then ushers you inside. Another exchange with the butler brings you outside a pair of heavyset dark oak doors. After a few moments of waiting, the doors open and you are bid enter.
Inside you find a dimly lit library. Heavy curtains are drawn over tall windows, a smoldering fire crackles in a large marble hearth. A late middle-aged woman with silver hair, dressed in black, face covered in mourning veil, sits in a large leather chair facing the fire. She beckons you with weary voice, "I apologize, but I am not in a state to offer visitors a proper reception. Tragedy has struck my household, and this town. But, Braldon hear informs me you have some business of import. I can guess at your presence in my home, but, why don’t you just say it."
Iagon clears his throat. He finds himself uncomfortable - even more so than is normal for him, given the heavy situation. He bows deeply. Well, ma'am. I apologize for coming here in such a dark time, but I assure you we don't bring or bear any ill will.
We have been sent by the Marquis to seek you; we have this treaty for your signature. He will take out the treaty and hand it over for her perusal. He tries to wait patiently with his hands clasped behind his back, but his foot taps in impatience. Instantly regretting it, he adds.
Is...is there anything we can do? To...well, you know...help?
Moira slips in front of Iagon, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the arm--the man's clearly feeling a little awkward and he's not used to this.
"M'lady, diplomatic relations are perhaps worth violating your privacy in this trying time. If you'll allow me to trespass a second time: my name is Moira Keening, and I am a professional mourner and dirge bard. Please allow me to be of any service I can. I know a lot about grief, and I am more of a specialist in such than the good bankers of the town."
Baroness Devy takes the treaty from Iagon with and barely even skims it. Lowering the treaty to her lap, she looks back at the dwindling fire, tear stained eyes reflecting the glow of the coals. She rests her chin in her hand sighs, "I knew this day would come," she says distantly, "Do you know what this means? My only son his dead. His father, dead. The Marquis has an eye for the barony, and the Devy line is dead. I am all that is left.”
She hands the treaty back to Iagon, without turning to look, "What good is this treaty to me? To this town? An outsider taking the throne. A usurper? Belhaim has ruled on its own, a legacy of those who followed Lady Belhaim herself. Who is this Marquis?"
However, she turns to Moira with a look, then back to Iagon. "I can not move on until Arnholde is properly lain to rest. Do you wish to help? Find his body and bring him home. He is to be buried alongside his father, where I too shall join them one day. Maybe then I will sign this treaty, when my heart is at rest."
Moira follows her gaze into the embers, suddenly moving forward and putting another log on the fire. "Lady, I've seen plague, fire, war, flood, shipwreck, and cancer. I've seen death take rich and poor alike, the brilliant and the dull alike, and I've learned that peace comes from the mourners, not the remains of the dead." She brushes off her hands and warms them by the fire, continuing, "It's hard for a mother, though, and it'd be best to have him here, of course. What happened to Arnholde? How should we start a search, assuming my companions are with me in this?"
But she looks interested in the politics, too: "I don't give a hoot about the marquis, and I don't like the thought of our participating in a shakedown of some kind. What's in that treaty, and what would it change about Belhaim?"
If Moira, or anyone, cares to look at the treaty, it is an amended copy of the Treaty of the Wildwood, first signed in 3841 AR (about 800 yrs ago) which designates the Verduran forest as a prefecture under the crown of Taldor, including the Barony of Belhaim which presides over the Verduran Fork. The original treaty limits logging rights to the gnomes of Wispil, and gives the Wildwood Lodge order of druids oversight of all logging activity in exchange for protection against Fey attacks. The amended version, however, designates the new title of Marquis of Sellen to open up the western portion of the Verduran Forest to foreign prospectors from Andoran, Galt, and the Five Kings Mountains and control trade between those nations. One could conclude that, without an heir, the Barony of Belhaim might fall into the hands of the newly appointed Marquis.
However, the amended treaty needs signatures from Baroness Devy, and the Mayor of Wispil, before it can finally be presented to the Wildwood Lodge for ratification.
Moira reads the thing aloud and shrugs, "I've never yet heard of a druid council that would ratify a thing like this. I also don't see much reason why the gnomes would give up their monopoly. Not to mention the fact that the forest is scary as all hells right now--we met some nasty monsters on our way. It'd take an army (and it took the navy already!). You might be able to win a delaying action to maintain your sovereignty by dragging your feet and playing along (for now). Bounce this back and forth between the various parties, find faults with the legal minutiae, ask for legal opinions from faraway lands..."
She repeats a variation of the Baroness' question, hoping her companions will reassure her about the marquis' intentions, but not expecting much: "How well do you know this marquis? Does he seem like a Good Guy?"
When she gets a chance to talk without being overheard (I know this may be a while), she'll tell her friends:
"Of course, there's many a fortune to be made here. If I was one to yell 'praise Abadabbadar!' I would bow politely and spend my money buying up land rights so I could profit from the regime change. And if I was the sort that whispers to Asmodeus on quiet, moonless nights, I'd start hunting down druids and gnomes. If I could. They can usually defend themselves. But it might be worth dropping them a warning, if we don't trust the marquis."
Before anyone can answer, Captain Ortego, having been quiet and withdrawn, chimes in, "It is true Baroness. There is a grave threat of hobgoblins south of here, in the ruins of Dunholme, I believe. I know not the intentions of this threat, but it is enough to scatter the ettercaps nesting there. If it is true that the hobgoblins have taken Dunholme, it stands to reason that Belhaim would be their next target. These folks here saved me after my ship was overrun, and again when we encountered a demon in the woods. If they represent the Marquis, they would be strong allies to have. As a Captain of the Imperial Navy, for what it’s worth, I put my trust in them."
Iagon has no conflict at all, and he snatched the teary back from Moira, a stern look following. I've known the Marquis for quite some time now, and he hired me when I really had no where else to turn. I won't have you speaking I'll of the man.. He looks down at the treaty in his hand, brow furrowing. I'm sure there's a reason for his wording - no doubt he's taking it upon himself to protect this - your land.
He looks up. Look, my lady, I'm sorry this finds you in such dark tiles...I truly am. Can you tell us where Arnholde was last seen, and we will see this through for you? Then perhaps we can move on with this.
"Sorry, Iagon. I've never met the marquis, and I have trust issues. But I'll take your word for him! Family before politics--let's try to find Arnholde."
She sizes up the baroness quietly as she waits for further details, thinking to herself, "I wonder if the marquis is single... the gods might try to spin a comedy out of this tragedy..."
The Baroness adjusts herself in her large velvet chair, "Arnholde, my son, was last seen in the foothills north of town. You see, Belhaim has fallen into an economic downturn as of late. Sure we had something of a boon five years back when a dragon killed our wizard and some dragon slayers took care of that… As I’m sure you’ve heard. Well… anyways, perhaps inspired by those heroics, Arnholde decided to take it upon himself to explore the lands around here for more resources to stimulate our economy. We had a productive quarry once, but an earthquake flooded it. So, my foolish boy took his new girlfriend…" her mouth frowns in disdain, "and went exploring. She was the last to see him. If you wish to speak to her, she’s moved into the wizard’s old residence. Claims to be his long lost niece, but… well, I have my doubts."
We would like to, indeed. It certainly is suspect that she is here...and he is not. He frowns, thinking perhaps he should at some point learn to keep his thoughts to himself.
If there is nothing else, milady, we will be off to speak to this girl...could I ask her name?
Liamae nods in agreement. "We will find Arnholde and return him to you. Do not fear, milady." She offers a curtsey as the group prepares to leave.
"Thank you," Lady Devy sincerely gasps out. She sinks into her chair and anxiously looks back at the fire, "Khari… is the girl’s name. She’s secluded herself in the Hunclay Manor, at the east edge of town. She is… strange. I don’t know what Arnholde ever saw in her."
She turns back, her eyes brimming with tears, on the verge of becoming emotional, "Go then. Be heroes." With a wave of her hand she dismisses you.
With little to say that wouldn't make the situation worse, and the lack of a silver tongue to smooth things over, Iagon offers a deep bow, and departs.
Moira, as someone whose boy- and girlfriends' parents have always considered intensely strange, can't resist asking: "Strange how?"
She's intrigued and won't linger much longer.
Quitting the Baroness’ chambers you find Brother Braldon who eagerly asks, "What happened?"
He agrees to take you to the Hunclay Manor to find Khari. Again, he happens to bring you by other landmark businesses across town. He fails to point out the Shrine of the Seven Roses, but does bring you by the House of Abadar, a rectangular building of golden proportions. Built of white marble, the facade is a colonnade with golden trim. There’s a crack in the foundation, and vines from the surrounding forest have tried to climb the white stone walls.
Finally, at the eastern edge of town, at the top of a hill, lies the Hunclay Manor. It is a two story building topped with an observatory, and it is starting to fall into dilapidation. The windows are boarded up, and shutters hang off their hinges. Shingles are missing from the roof. The front door bears marks of scorching.
"Well… here we are," Braldon frowns at the site. "I can’t say I’ve seen miss Khari around much of late. Hmph." he shrugs.
"Thanks, Bral. We'll take it from here."
Moira knocks on the door and hollers in her big bard voice, "HALOO Khari? Friendly visit from Search and Rescue."
"These star-crossed romances rarely seem to end well," says Túrante, glancing at Liamae. "I do hope that the poor boy hasn't fallen into something... dangerous."
"Fingers crossed," Liamae agrees, awaiting a response to Moira's call.
And wait you do. Several uncomfortable beats pass until you hear the sound of soft shuffling within. A locking mechanism clicks and the door creaks ajar. A young woman’s face, veiled, peeks out, "Yes? Who did you s-s-say you were?"
"Um Khari!" Braldon shouts out, "These fine people have come from seeing the Baroness. They want to ask about what happened to Arnholde."
Khari opens the door slightly more to allow herself to lean out, "I’m s-s-sorry. I don’t know what more to s-s-say."
"Why don't you start from the beginning of the story," says Túrante softly. "We only know the accounts we've heard second-hand. Tell us what you can remember about Arnholde, where he was, and what you can recall of the last time you saw him, please."
Moira nods encouragement.
Iagon keeps his mouth shut, fairly certain he'd do more harm than good.
Khari pokes her head out further and looks about. She slips out the door and closes it softly behind her. "You all s-s-seem genuine enough. Arnholde was a genuine person, kind. I’m afraid I was distracted by him, and encouraged him. He s-s-seemed s-s-so s-s-sure of himself. He talked me into joining him on his quest. We went north, to the foothills. He was s-s-sure we’d find riches there. But we only found death. We were ambushed. An arrow s-s-struck Arnholde and he fell." She pauses.
"I ran. Nothing chased me. I heard their cries as they closed in on him. I made my way back to the village."
Braldon adds, "She didn’t tell anyone. It’s after days of Arnholde missing we found her hiding away in this worthless, old house. The town sent our best trackers out looking but they came up empty handed."
"I'm very sorry for your loss," says Túrante with genuine emotion. "If they used arrows, then they use tools, which means they can think... so there's a chance that they took him alive. Perhaps we can find something where the town's trackers could not."
"Do you have anything of Arnholde's?" Liamae asks. "I may be able to read the psychic impressions of the object to try to get some insight that could help."
Khari tilts her head and looks at Liamae with curious interest. She pulls a silver chain from out under her silken blouse. By the way, now that she has stepped out from behind the door, Liamae especially will notice she is dressed in the finest emerald green silks. A ring hangs from the chain and Khari says "He gave me this. He s-s-said it belonged to his father. I thought him foolish, but I took it."
She steps off the derelict porch and hands the ring to Liamae.
As Liamae opens her eyes, she sees the veiled face of Khari, staring almost hungrily at her. "Were you able to read anything? How are you able to do that?"
A tall, muscular woman approaches the hill and stops at the beginning of the path up to the dilapidated manor. Heavily armed and armored, she is cloaked in uninspired, functional furs and sports the ubiquitous grime of someone who prefers sleeping under the night sky.
To anyone who notices her, she nods and gestures to take their time.
Fortunate thing The Green Faith is relatively popular in Belhaim, or I might not have found someone willing to point me in the direction the Marquis' Men had headed.
"Just a bit of magic, darling," Liamae says to Khari as she returns the ring to her. "I glimpsed a bit of the ambush that took Arnholde from you. There was a spider hiding in a veil of webs. I wonder if it might be related to the ettercaps we fought before?"
Khari looks astonished, intrigued, "You s-s-saw a s-s-spider? Amazing!” She claps her hands together, leans toward Liamae and whispers, "Can I s-s-study you?"
She then turns towards the others, "Do you intend to find Arnholde? I would love to join you and s-s-see what else you can do.”
Liamae giggles and whispers back to Khari. "If that is what you desire, darling. I must inform you, and I am entangled with my princess Turante at the moment, though she may be amenable to an... open arrangement." The elf trails her fingers down Khari's arm.
Iagon, trying to keep away from the conversation while still listening, notices the tall woman watching them. Why, hello...can we help you? He's on edge...this town is strange.
Moira raises an eyebrow at Liamae's advances... "That's one way to console the bereaved, I guess I know well enough..." She clears her throat and asks Liamae, "Any hints on which direction we should take?"
Hearing Iagon's greeting, she turns, pushes up her trademark broad-brimmed black hat, and gives the newcomer a professional smile.
Fenchurch sees a woman-warrior, and her first impression might be of someone traveling to a distant funeral. Moira stands tall and broad (if not as tall or broad as Fenchurch) at the brink of youth and middle-age (that stage when the older call her young and the young think she's old). She wears spotless black clothes layered neatly around a no-nonsense chain shirt and crisscrossed black leather bandoliers. She's shod in practical long-distance walking boots and has a full pack on her back. Her dark hair is cut short and matches her eyes; they are, like some cats, brown or black depending on the angle of the light. At her left hip, she carries a fine sword in an incongruously ornate scabbard with a glowing, icy-blue gem in its hilt. On her right, a black drum and a buckler hang from her harness.
Her rich and booming bard's voice rings out, "Howd'yedo, stranger? Seen any spiders in the woods?"
Fenchurch responds with a frank and pragmatic tone: "I ran into some ettercaps on the road, but no proper spiders."
She then blinks, shakes her head slightly, and returns to the matter at hand.
"Are you the group working for the Marquis? I am Fenchurch Marsh, knight of the woods, and I am here to see you safely through your task."
She is far from ill-spoken or without confidence, but to the observant the tone and texture of her speech reflects someone navigating unfamiliar social waters.
For those who've approached her and gotten a closer look, you notice sharp blue eyes and a wary demeanor. The huge labrys axe strapped to her back is made of what appears to be a verdant green metal of some kind, glossy and reflective. The haft is stylized to the texture of wood, an impressive feat of metallurgy. A fine pack laden with a shortbow and everything one would need for rudimentary camping accommodations lies at her feet.
Iagon raises an eyebrow. Reinforcements? We're we taking too long on our mission then?. He puts the musings aside and confirms. That's us, yes. Nice axe...I'd imagine you can use that pretty well?
The shattered remnants of what was once hometown pride find their way to the surface at Iagon's unexpected inquiry: "I'm a Bellisian, so I should hope so." She responds curtly, before her face softens into a rough approximation of embarrassment.
"Reinforcements implies I work for the Marquis, so no." she continues after a brief pause.
"I am here of my own volition, and my volition serves the interests of the Verduran. At the moment, that means ensuring the Treaty of The Wildwood remains stable and the Balance maintained."
Narrowing his eyes, Iagon weighs what that allegiance may mean, but he quickly realizes that he's nowhere near practiced enough if such things to even guess. He nods, and shrugs. Well...I guess the more the merrier, especially given the dangers we've seen. Khari, as for you, yes you can come along, but we must require that you stay back from the front...I don't know what dangers we're walking into. You do what we say, when we say, understand?
To Fenchurch, Moira says "I don't work for the Marquis either. My name's Moira Keening. I perform funerals. We're looking for a lost boy. If we find him alive, great. If not, well, I'll be useful then, too."
To Khari, Moira says, "Don't mind Iagon, Khari--his bark is worse than his bite. No, really, he shoots things with wood. Get it? Bark? There's the best reason to stay in the back. Fewer splinters. Let's get going. If you'd like, I'll help you pack your things."
She tries to follow Khari into the house, keeping her eyes peeled for any glimpses she can get of the interior.
"A lost boy? Why?" Fenchurch's face kaleidoscopes through a series of expressions in response to Moira's information: perplexed, impatient, curious and... compassionate.
She shifts her weight to her left foot, taking a somewhat more relaxed stance.