It's the morning of the 15th of Lamashan, and an unseasonably warm one even for sheltered Azurestone. The sun is bright in the sky and on the pavilions taking shape in the town square, and the mood in town is just as bright - for the Harvest Festival is about to begin!
Pykromer Stonehands hummed as he hung the sign in front of his booth. He had just finished lettering it the night before, and the paint was... mostly dry.
He took a step back, his humming rising to a whistle, and scrutinized his handiwork. The letters were a bit crooked in places. And he supposed he ought to have spaced things out better in advance: the alkemikal item listing had been a bit long, and the words crammed together at the end.
Still, it would do the job.
PYKROMER'S PICKS:
Sundry useful items to the adventurer, housewife, exterminator, invalid, or entertainer!
QUALITY and AFFORDABLE
Fine selection of~
- Potions
- Vermin poisons
- Treatises on magical beasts
- Tools for delicate mechnical work
- Rare geologikal specimens
- Samples of hides and fangs from MONSTERS
- Alkemikal necessities such as bottled lightning, dyes, inks, fire inna jar, andflashpowder!
- Teeth pulled, ears cleaned, infections lanced, prophylactics prescribed
- Other services as required. JUST ASK. TAKE YOUR "PICK"!
(All purchases may not be used within 200 feet of this booth. All purchases final.)
He decided he was satisfied. Pick-- a middle-aged dwarf with a comfortable belly, who was leaning on a well-carved cane of a jet-black wood, nodded to himself and ambled behind his booth, sitting down. The table was littered with various things that an uncharitable tongue might call 'junk,' but that was because they didn't understand the value of salesmanship. Why, this rusted scrap of metal here could well be the belt buckle of a terrible goblin lord, for instance. Mightn't be, but it could, and children would listen to the tale, wide-eyed, and their parents might buy a salve after it was done...
He stroked the end of his neatly-braided, white beard. Behind a pair of half-moon glasses, Pykromer's eyes were bright and sharp, and gave a once-over to each new face that was starting to trickle through the town.
He lit his pipe, and settled in with a happy sigh to a festival day, and all that it promised.
Siulor MacBruthe trudged into the town square, a small cart laden with animal carcasses and tanned hides piled inside. At the front of the cart, a large wolfhound sits upright, his bright eyes shining with excitement at all the sights and smells of the festival. The face of his master, on the other hand, is dour and unimpressed. He pauses for a moment and turns his head around, still holding up the front of the cart by the makeshift yoke he is wearing. He sees Huan sitting on the cart and a look of frustrated understanding comes over his face. I was wondering why the cart felt so 'eavy the last few miles, he says. Huan simply looks at his master and tilts his head to the side.
As he turns back to begin pulling the cart again, Siulor notices Pick's booth and decides to take a break for a few minutes to catch up with him. He moves the cart to the side of the square near the booth and sets down the cart's poles, prompting Huan to quickly jump down and give Siulor a reproachful look. Siulor approaches the booth and begins reading the sign. Despite his weariness, he cannot help but smile at the list of goods. He then looks down at the dwarf and says with a grin, I might 'ave some more of those "monster fangs" for you in the cart. As for the rest of these...treasures, good luck getting some fool to buy them. He then leans against the corner of the booth and pulls a small wad of some sweet-smelling herb out of a pouch on his belt. He pinches the leaves into a ball and puts it in his mouth to suck on. He then draws a chunk of dried meat out of another pocket and offers it to the hound sitting at his feet. Huan takes the offered treat enthusiastically, and, within seconds, is looking up at his master expectantly, hoping he might offer more.
Since waking up early in the morning to pray, Torg has been in very high spirits. The sun is shining brightly in the sky and bathes the countryside in its warmth. For the season, the weather is mild and the dwarf knows that it will only get better as he approaches Azurestone. He walks eagerly on the road to the town, whistling dwarven marching tunes.
As he approaches Azurestone, the road gets noticeably more crowded. There are folks from all trades travelling towards the same destination: merchants and their carts full of varied goods, minstrels hoping to make some easy coins, families returning to the city for the winter seasons... Even with his large burden, the dwarf feels inconspicuous among them. "It was a wise idea to depart when I did. My return in town after all those years spent in Highhelm will go largely unnoticed among the festivities and all the visitors. I'll be free to pursue Torag's will, if he wishes to make it clearer to me."
Before noon, Torg enters the city where he spent the first part of his life. Things haven't changed much ; Azurestone still is a quiet and hard-working town, though the Harvest Festival is shaking the daily routine of its inhabitants. Calling to mind old memories, he finds the Lattice Inn where he plans to stay and opens the wooden door. He walks straight up to the counter where one of the Lekaninen's is standing. "Good morning, sir. I sent you a raven two months ago to book a room for an undetermined duration ; I trust that it has delivered its message. The name's Torg Ironheart..." After checking in his ledger, the man takes a key from the panel behind him and walks the traveller to his accommodations. The room is small and sparsely furnished with just a bed and a night table, but it is enough for the rustic dwarf and all he can expect at that price. He thanks his host and starts unpacking his many belongings.
Fifteen minutes later, Torg exits his room, carefully locking the door behind him. He makes his way to the streets, saluting the innkeeper with a nod as he passes through the common room. "Good thing I made a reservation, the place appears to be packed up to the attic. These festivals do wonders for the economy!" Hiding his gear beneath his large cape, the dwarf starts wandering though his home town. His destination is the dwarven temple where he intends to ask for his mother's whereabouts, but he is in no hurry so he casually strolls through the streets as if visiting the city for the first time.
"Well! If it's not the mighty hunter his own self! And of course his accompanying human!" Pick grins at Siulor, clapping his knees and then collecting his cane to stand and amble out from behind the booth.
"Always happy to look at what you've got, lad, always happy. Ready to make a fine profit off the visitors, I see," he says with a wink at the full cart. There's nothing but approval from Pick at that-- if the visitors are willing to pay the prices, then it's hardly fleecing them, now is it? He lives by the same methodology.
"See anything interesting while you were out there? Crumbling ruins, eerie lights in the woods, that sort of thing? Running out of rumors to sell to the eager young bucks, I am," Pick says, puffing placidly on his pipe.
"Hello there, you mutt," he says fondly to the wolfhound. "No, don't you give me that look, I've no meat for you."
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This young woman wanders about the town square, her hands clasped behind her. Her void black hair and matching outfit--a buttoned shirt, pleated skirt, and opaque leggings--would seem to fit someone of a more stand-offish, morose bent, but she almost skips with a girlish amusement. The accessories of her kapenia scarf, silver Desnan holy symbol necklace in the shape of butterfly, and the bits of silver accents in her buttons, cuffs, boot fastenings, and her belt give her tasteful flashes of color, betraying their owner's well-trained eye for style.
A black cat walks next to her with a confidence not typical of such animals in the face of such unfamiliarity. The movements of her lithe body are graceful, almost dainty.
The girl approaches Pick's booth, his sign and eclectic list of products and services sticking out in the crowd. She smiles at him, full of cheer, the matte white of her teeth peeking out.
”OH HI! You look like you have all kinds of neat things, here.” When smiling with her mouth closed, the sides of her mouth turn up like a cat's.
The cat jumps up onto the counter and begins prowling it, stopping occasionally to sniff and rub its face against items.
The girl absent-mindedly pets the cat, who raises herself up into the stroke.
”Oh WOW. You do SO many things! Are you an adventurer or something?”
"Well hello there, lass!" Pick chuckles, knocking the bowl of his pipe against one of the booth support posts to clear some ash. "No, no, I'm no adventurer-- it's a dangerous life and no mistake, full of rain and hard dungeon floors and things trying to eat you. Personally, I like three square meals a day and a feather mattress, I do. Adventuring's a young man's game. Or," he winks, "a young woman's."
Pick rummages behind his his counter and comes up with a tiny cloth bag. "Now, if you yourself are keen to be adventuring, I can sell you all manner of things for it! A mirror onna stick, to help you peer around corners; a dose of bezoar juice-- to strengthen you against poisons-- a twig that lights into a flame quicker than flint-and-steel ever could. Useful things!"
The dwarf's stubby and much-stained fingers dip into the little pouch and come out with a bit of green plant matter, which he proffers towards the black cat. "Aren't you a little lady. Don't shed on my things now, Blackie."
Is Stella susceptible to catnip?
Preparations continue throughout the morning, and by noon, the festival is in full swing. The town’s main square is crowded, its occupants darting back and forth like the fall leaves that skitter along the cobblestones. Farmers and trappers have brought their wares to trade, and merchants show off fashions and fads from all over the Inner Sea. Every business in town, from Kajsa’s instrument workshop to Tahvo Rahla’s tannery, has doors flung wide open and signs proclaiming their wares. The familiar scents of dwarven stout and fruit pies compete with the heady aromas of Jalmeray spiced wine and spicy roast meats from Garund for supremacy in the crisp air.
As more stalls begin to open, Pick finds himself with a competitor, Virkon Alensis, several carts away. While the Garundi man seems less given over to curiosities, he hawks his tonics, nostrums, and panaceas with fervor, shouting over the crowd. Come and see these wonders from Rahadoum - our medicine is so skillful, we’ve not even any need of the gods anymore! A restorative for whatever may ail you, from firegut to slimy doom - and analeptics for the fit as well, to give you the strength of an ox or the speed of a cat! Come and see, come and see!
And the party isn’t contained to the square - as the town’s closely-packed homes give way to open fields, more boisterous celebrations take over. In one area, several men and women line up to take a run through a line of hurdles, while several hundred yards away a target painted on a hay bale sprouts new crossbow bolts every several moments as competitors take shots from three different marks. Several children line up standing inside burlap bags for a sack race, and a few others cluster around a woman painting a butterfly onto a little girl’s cheek.
The Inclusive Hall is a hive of activity as well. Outside, children giggle with glee at the displays of the traveling storytellers, jugglers, and puppeteers. Several knots of people are clustered on the Hall’s benches inside, and snippets of conversation on everything from theology to politics to economics rise through the still air inside. One debate in particular seems to be growing fairly heated - a discussion on a recent book burning in Edme targeting historical records of imperial Chelish presence in Galt and rolls of Chelish nobility, with what sounds like firm proponents arguing for both the removal of such poisonous drivel and the preservation of what is, after all, history integral to Galt’s formation. A crystal decanter full of an amber liquid sits on the bench between them; it seems there’s a gentlepersons’ agreement that it goes to the most persuasive argument.
Nearby, the Sun’s Rest pub is playing host to a multitude of card games (and bets on the same), with poker being especially popular. At one table, it seems a man from Absalom has even placed his own ornately painted deck as a wager against an ante of only 5 gold coins, seeming quite certain his fortune will continue to hold out. The Lattice Inn has its fair share of activity as well, with guests from all over booking accommodations and the older Lekainen siblings nearly run off their feet fetching drinks and food. Here, it seems the favored gambling implement is dice, with several people crowded around a large table and a fair pile of coins beginning to stack up.
The excitement in the air is so thick, it can be cut with a knife - the Harvest Festival is here, and everyone is excited to join in!
Siulor's grin widens into a full smile, and a rare chuckle escapes his lips at the dwarf's greeting. I try not to think of it as something so crude as profiting off the visitors. I'm simply providing a service of fresh game during the busy festival season. Festivals are expensive events, though, so sometimes prices may be slightly above their usual. He pauses and looks off into the distance, Let me see here, any strange sightings? Hmm... nothing so promising as eerie lights or the like, but parts of the forest have been rather cold. Mind you, parts of the forest simply tend to be a bit cooler than others--might be an effect of the denser canopy or a stream in the area. This is different though. When I say parts are cold, I mean they are wintry cold, such that some of the animals have started avoiding those areas. Might be nothing, but it should fan some interesting conversations.
Siulor continues talking with Pick for a while, trading jibes and telling of how he brought down particularly challenging game. They continue chatting in this way until a young woman approaches, obviously in high spirits, even compared to the usual festival atmosphere. Siulor simply remains standing by the booth as the girl talks with Pick, but when a small cat appears by her feet and jumps up on the booth's countertop, Huan jerks to attention and begins sniffing around the girl, then stands on his hind legs to get a closer look at the cat. As the cat begins prodding around Pick's wares, Huan begins enthusiastically sniffing the cat and lets out a small, friendly bark of greeting. Get down, Huan! Siulor says as he tries to pull the hound away from the girl's cat. Go back to the cart. Huan, go, stay! The dog's ears flatten and his tail drops as he gets down from the table and slinks back towards the cart. Sorry about that. He's a bit...overly friendly at times. Anyway, I should be off. A lot of game to sell before the festival gets into full swing. Enjoy the festival, miss. He then moves off and hauls the cart off toward the Deerstalker's Lodge. Ost is always willing to pay a good price for fresh game, and the festival will mean the meat is in high demand.
Once his job is done, he decides to spend some time relaxing in the Lattice Inn, where he sees the dice game in progress. He figures 5 gp wouldn't break the bank, so he orders a mug of Dwarven stout and takes a seat at the table and gave the game a try.
He kind of hates to admit it, but he is actually enjoying the Harvest Festival this year.
/mega post
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The girl glances about, wondering where this adventuring woman was that Pick hinted at, finally turning back to him, her eyes bright and open as she points to herself.
"Do you mean me?! I'm just a poor traveling performer."
She takes her finely-crafted silversheen starknife off her belt, holding it delicately and in an improper grip.
"I just have a little something to keep myself safe. I picked it because the color accents my outfit well, don't you think?"
She's playing at being far less proficient with her weapon than she really is, and she's definitely lying about being a poor traveling performer.
Her cat sniffs at the catnip, preening at being called a "lady". She gets this strangely upset look on her face as she glances back and forth from the merchandise to the catnip, as though frustrated by an interruption that cannot be ignored. She takes the nip and eagerly tears into it, but she also glares at the dwarven dealer the whole time.
The cat rolls about on the table until Huan barks at her. She jumps, turning around before hitting the table again, her fur sticking up. As the dog is called away by his master, she relaxes and takes up her nip again, her glare now focused on the dog.
The young woman giggles at the display.
"Oh, it's okay, Mister! Stella is a bit under-friendly at times, hehe."
She waves at Siulor as he moves to leave. "I'll be around town performing scenes and telling stories later! My name is Rowena. Hope to see you there!"
She grins holds out her hand, the fingers closed except for her middle and index fingers making a V.
The dwarf makes his way through the crowd slowly. He halts every so often to observe a performer entertaining his audience, an artisan's products or a travelling merchant's exotic wares. On the town square, he even recognizes a a dwarf face he hasn't seen in several years, chatting with a young human woman.
"If it ain't Master Stonehands! The elders sure weren't unhappy when he left. Living isolated in the mountains doesn't make anyone open-minded, I guess." Making a mental note to return salute the older dwarf later, Torg continues his tour of the festival.
Of all the contests held in town, the debate is the most enticing to him, but the discreet dwarf knows better than to participate. Talking too much would surely get him noticed, especially given how political the topic of the discussion is. "What a pity! That bottle of aged whiskey must be delicious. He stands nearby to listen to the arguments being put forth, but is unimpressed by the speakers.
Instead, he decides to enter the shooting contest purely for his enjoyment, as he is very unlikely to win. His first shot, well aimed, hits the bull's eye. However, the second bolt misses the target entirely, striking a hay stack instead and annihilating any chance of victory for the dwarf, despite a solid third shot. Achieving fourth place behind Jan Lekainen on the provisional leaderboards, he is congratulated by several bystanders but leaves empty handed.
Resuming his visit, Torg heads towards the Stone Shrine, intent on talking to the high priestess. As soon as he reaches his destination, he inquires about her location. Time to find out if Ilda remembers me!
Though he had not planned to take part in any public events, Renato feels inexorably drawn to the familiar sounds of a heated debate. After those first notes of impassioned oration have reached his ears, it becomes all but impossible to ignore their siren song. He finds himself spiraling towards the temple, with seemingly every path leading him towards its nexus. There is one debate in particular that calls out to him, and before he knows it, he finds himself standing at the edge of the crowd. Though the scene is far from the grandiose public events of the capital, the ambiance is as intoxicating as the finest country wine.
The writer quietly takes his place in the front row, gently pushing his way through the listeners. He stands there for a good while, listening carefully to the flow of the discourse. His normal resting stance seems to be that of a gentleman posing for a portrait, lazily flipping through a weathered journal. He waits for a lull in the conversation, suddenly and loudly snapping the book shut, and stepping forward into the proverbial limelight. His voice is soft and mournful as he turns back to address the crowd, rather than loud and forceful, but it seems to have effect of immediately making everyone quiet down and listen intently...
"Have we truly sunk so low, that in our desperation to distance ourselves from the cruel despotism of Infernal Cheliax, we have begun to employ their own foul tactics against them? We might as well open our doors to the Hellknights of the Rack and the Inquisitors of Asmodeus, and let them do our work for us! Oh, how the Chelish Devil must laugh at our expense. What do we benefit from forgetting the atrocities that set us on the path towards Revolution? If we forget our beginnings, we will surely lose sight of our goals as well."
"Would you deprive your children of the chance to learn from our mistakes, and to make up their own minds about the injustices of yesteryear? What is there in the past that is so fearsome that it cannot stand up to the light of truth today? I will have you know that I have read these books, and they have done nothing but strengthen my convictions. Or should I burn as well, let my skin char on the fire next to the parchment? Oh, I would gladly go to the flames, if it only meant the preservation of these precious reminders of our past!"
"This is a dangerous precedent to set, my fellow citizens. Censorship of any kind is always inherently undemocratic, and witholding knowledge is the essence of tyranny. History is the memory of the people. As such, it belongs to the people, all of us. Which of us is fit to decide for all the rest what is and is not worth remembering? Someone in Edme, or in the Revolutionary Council in Isarn? Anyone in this room, now? Would you trust your neighbor with that right, or myself, a stranger? Nay, for we all but mortals. As fallible as all the rest."
"If some of you still think that we might benefit from these burnings, I must implore you to consider their practical implications. The Cailean Council sought to bring forth change through the utter eradication of old beliefs, and the forceful imposition of new traditions. All of you remember how well that ended up working. History, as tradition, is a living thing, not something that can be conjured out of thin air. Once it is gone, it is gone forever."
"As Darl Jubannich once wrote: 'Revolution is not about forgetting the past, but changing the future.' We would do well to remember that, and all the other lessons given to us by the Fathers and Mothers of our Revolution. Where they once taught our brightest, where the inimitable Hosetter was born and murdered, they now burn books. Yes, we should remember while we still can, before their works are thrown upon the pyre as well..."
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Rowena glimpses this bedraggled professorial man clothed in inkstains and can't help but leave her attention on him for a moment. She isn't entirely sure why her eye lingers on him until he began speaking, his erudite yet empassioned--and slightly imperious--argument instantly bringing to mind her father on the few times she had seen him in the middle of a public debate. She had never won such games against her father; he was always more logical and precise in his arguments than her. A bit of rhetoric would be all she needed to prod at this too-serious man for her amusement.
She picks up Stella in her arms and pets her, the cat meowing in protest at first, but then resigning herself to her fate as a prop. Rowena steps forward and clears her throat, raising her hand like a schoolgirl.
"I read this one book--by some guy named Gauss, I think--he said something like 'The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.' He said it means you just have to be free from everything. I mean, we all 'get-it' when people want to go out in the world, forget their past, and start over. It's the same with families, communities, even whole countries, he would always say. If that's what people want, if that's what they need to feel better and move on, I don't see why we have to make a big deal out of it, you know? They're just some stupid books with lists of names and dates."
She shrugs, her smile apologizing for her interruption.
"I mean, I'm just a silly girl wandering around with her cat, so what do I know? You seem like a really smart guy, Mister, so maybe I just don't get it well enough. But, I guess, that's just how I see it, you know?"
This whole "I'm just a silly girl" thing is an act. She appears to be much more familiar with this subject, and Gauss's writings specifically, than she is letting on.
Renato turns to the girl and her cat and blinks in confusion, as if he had not expected to be countered. His suprise is soon replaced by intrigue.
"Smart?" he says with a sad smile. "Smarter than some, but hardly the smartest."
"A noble supposition," he adds after a brief pause. "That we might bring about change in the world merely by changing ourselves. True to an extent. However, Gauss fails to account for the fact that a nation is not like a person. Things we set into motion in the present affect things far beyond a single human lifetime, and if the extent of a nation's memory is the same as that of its people, it will take only a few generations until we have forgotten most of what we have learned. Regression instead of progression. Who knows, perhaps then we would be truly free. But is it worth the cost?"
The writer looks wistfully out over the crowd. "It is true that sometimes we have to make compromises for our beliefs, even if it breaks our hearts. If the people want so hard to forget that they would lose themselves, it cannot be helped..."
Pick ambles out from behind his booth to size up his competitor, Virkon, leaning heavily on his cane as he crosses the distance. He makes a show of turning over the vials for sale in his hands and tsking over how cloudy this one is-- "NOW LAD, DON'T YOU KNOW YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO PURIFY THE DISTILLED SAP" -- or how filled with seeds and pulp. "AH, DO YOU NOT STRAIN THE BEETROOT FIRST? It makes it more POTENT!" in an attempt to discredit, in some minor fashion, the goods of his business rival.
"Now what are you charging the poor people for these things, eh?" he interrogates Virkon with a gimlet eye.
Pick chuckles and nods at the displaying of the little dagger. "Well, perhaps when you're older then, but it's a fine pretty little blade."
He gives Siulor a hearty handshake. "I'll spot you a drink later, Siulor! And some meat for that overgrown mutt of yours. See the sights, sell your wares, and I'll see you at the beers tent later, aye? Get the full details of it all. Eerie cold patches and what-not. Hmm. I bet I can sell some heatstones..."
Pick makes a note of this idea, and of various other plans that branch off it, and returns to selling his wares to the interested crowd.
"YOU THERE, MISS-- COSMETICS? FINEST GROUND MALACHITE, and Osiriani kohl-- Ah, sir, might I interest you in oil to keep your fine blade from rust?"
Pick has a very profitable morning selling things, and ambles to the dice tables after leaving a small "be back soon" sign on his booth. He can overhear yammering coming from those making speeches, but he's more focused for now on the roll of the bones.
Pick groans when he sees his low initial roll, but gamely picks up the dice to try again.
Unable to match the three, Pick grumblingly gives up his ante. He notices Siulor has had better luck, and congratulates the hunter with a clap on the back. "Well done, my friend! Ah, listen to them going at it in the tent, hmn? Should I go lend the dwarven perspective, do you think?"
As a person who does like the sound of his own voice, Pick indeed gravitates that direction, a mug of good dwarven ale in hand. (While he finds many things admirable about human society, and elven, and halfling and gnome and everyone, in one thing he is still a dwarf's dwarf: ale is ale, and there's no replacing it.)
He listens to the exchanges, stroking his white beard.
Pick watches the self-proclaimed 'silly girl' with a shrewd eye as the other human makes his counter, and knocks back some of his ale before adding his voice to the debate.
"Speaking as a dwarf, we're not big supporters of seeing the past destroyed, so I suppose I side with this Master Renato, is it? Tear down the old and you can neither build on it, nor see its flaws. Those who would be smiths must study failed forgings as well as solid ones. And mayhap it doesn't make one happy, but the work of a smith is more than mere happiness- it's to forge good steel, not seek one's pleasure. And the goal of leaders is to forge good nations, with wise citizens."
His bit said, Pick lifts his mug and drains what is left of it.
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Rowena takes the opportunity of the dwarf's interjection to garner some more sympathy, keeping her eyes wide and her movements anxious as she looks about for him, occasionally flashing an awkward smile to a nearby bystander as she tries to angle herself around them.
"Oh, certainly, Mr. Pykromer! (Is it okay if I call you Pick?) All that makes a lot of sense, and you're a pretty smart guy that's good at a lot of things, not to mention older and wiser than me like this other nice man...."
She pauses, letting the anticipation of the "but" build while also rubbing her hand over her mouth, biting her lip, and furrowing her brow to play-up her "contemplation."
"I just don't know. I wouldn't really want to be forged by anybody, you know? When you get people in charge thinking they know better than everyone else, it just leads to more bad stuff, right? Those Chelaxians--House Thrune, right? I never remember--probably think they're forging people, too. Have you ever seen those big spiky black armors they wear? I'd think getting forged into that would hurt." She plays up the innocence in her voice, shooting for making the audience laugh at her "unintentional" humor.
She takes a moment to move a lock of hair away from her face, continuing to pet Stella. For her part, Stella has closed her eyse and begun purring, figuring she might as well enjoy herself if she's going to be stuck like this.
"I mean, why be scared of people being free, you know? I don't know that much about Galt, but it seems like that was kinda the point of this whole revolution thing, right? To be free?"
She definitely knows quite a bit about Galt, and she's definitely playing dumb. it's not even clear how much she actually cares about the matter-at-hand and how much is her just trolling.
Renato purses his lips and rubs his stubbly chin, as if deep in thought. He can see that the audience is more easily led by the girl's simple demagoguery than his fanciful oration, but he still decides to make one last attempt to bring moderation into the debate. He truly cares about the topic, after all. The writer begins by apologetically inclining his head towards Pick.
"With all due respect to our dwarven compatriot, I tend to believe human culture is much more fleeting than that of the People of Stone. Humans are not forged, but moulded. Accordingly, our histories should not serve as a shackle to the past, but as a gentle guide on our own journey through time. We Galtans, particularly, have seen our fair share of those who would have shackled us..."
"Yet, now that we have cast away our bindings, why do we insist on grinding them to dust? With no one holding on to the other end, they are just harmless pieces of metal, ready to be forged anew. Yes, forged. But we are the ones holding the hammer. History in not inherently good or evil, but merely a tool that can be used for either purpose. Why not use it to build a better future? Why insist on being wasteful?"
"There is intrinsic value to freedom, certainly, but pursuing such an ideal without consideration for the practical can be destructive. Just look around you. Galt was born of removing all constraint, even the social norms that keep us from reverting to our basest of natures. That is the reality we have to live with, but will the burning of these books truly lessen that burden, or will it leave us further adrift in the sea of uncertainty?"
"Despite what some radicals might tell you, it is entirely possible to be too free. Liberty comes at a price, and that is responsibility for our own actions. With no one to tell us what to do, we have no one to blame but ourselves. So I must ask you, my fellow citizens, to consider the long-term implications of this action. Momentary relief or satisfaction at the cost of general welfare is a type of tyranny: by taking this matter into your own hands, you would be depriving someone else of their freedom to choose for themselves. So, I must ask you, would you be ready to put yourself above your neighbors? To decide what is right for them?"
Invigorated by his good fortune, and possibly the ale as well, Siulor ventures back out into the festival, Haun at his heels. He checks out the various booths and stops by Pick's booth again to see if he is there, but finds the sign instead.
He then wanders over towards the shooting range and wonders if his luck might hold up in a contest that requires some actual skill. He gets in line to compete and, when his turn comes up, he takes his shots.
Apparently the ale he drank was stronger than he had expected. Taking his poor performance in stride, Siulor makes his way to the Inclusive Hall, where rumors have reported a lively debate going on between an old dwarf and two young humans. So that's where Pick went off to, he thinks. He arrives at the hall just as the young woman he met earlier is concluding a point about Galtan ideals of freedom.
Siulor sits back and wonders why someone so clueless about Galt would engage in such a debate. Just then, a familiar face appears among the debaters. Searching his memory for a moment, Siulor recalls a young boy with whom he often played before the revolution cast aside both of their noble houses. Could that be Jean?! But I thought his whole family was dead! This is becoming an interesting festival indeed. I shall have to meet with him after the debate. Resigning himself, for the moment, to simply hearing out the rest of the arguments, he orders himself another Stout and a strip of roast boar for Huan.
When you arrive at the Stone Shrine, you begin to ask after Ilda's whereabouts - but it turns out hardly to be necessary, as she bustles up almost instantly upon your arrival, hand extended in a friendly, though not necessarily familiar, greeting. Welcome to the Stone Shrine, sir. If you need aid findin' any of the shrines, don't hesitate to - Her opening speech seems well-rehearsed, practiced yet friendly - and quickly cut off when she looks up from your clasped hands to your eyes. Why, that can't be...Torg Ironheart, is that you?
She releases your hand, her eyes crinkled to match her broad smile. Oh, it's been a good long while since I've seen that face. You've grown up a bit - an' out too, as it seems. She punctuates the jest with a good-natured wink. Highhelm looks like it's been good to ya, at least - made you good an' sturdy, like the stones themselves! An' I'm sure they've brought you up in the Father's care nice and proper too, she finishes, nodding to your silver brooch.
Ah, and it's nice to be seein' ya. It's been a few years since I thought of ya, when... Suddenly, her jovial manner seems to deflate a bit. Your ma. I'm bettin' that's at least a part of why you're here - sure and the Harvest Festival's a good time, but not likely to draw you all the way here from Highhelm. She sighs heavily. Well, I'm sorry, but it's not a good word I got about her. She disappeared a few years back.
The Sun's Rest had a bard stayin' for a little while, tellin' stories about some Jarl of the North Wind and his fabulous treasure trove; supposed to be near here, the stories said, only no one who enters returns to tell the tale. But if no one returns, where do the stories come from, I wonder? Anyway, I think your ma'd been missin' your pa something fierce, and you as well. It put her in a strange mood...then one day, she'd just up and left, left a note behind sayin' she needed some time away, time to clear her head. An' she's not been back yet, not in the three years hence. I didn't want to send word to you until we knew somethin' for certain...and then time and memory got away from me.
Pick squints at Rowena some more, puffing on his pipe, and then chuckles and smiles, waving a chemically-stained hand in what may be concession.
"Well, far be it from me to argue with a sweet young lass, it's hardly sporting," he says placidly. "Of course you can call me Pick-- most around here do. Carry on, the two of you, though, this is educational listening."
Pick settles in with his pipe, a little plume of smoke arising ever so often. His interest has been picked piqued.
At Renato's opening remarks, several of the gathered self-proclaimed intellectuals nod and remark under their breath. It seems they find his high-minded, academic arguments rather impressive, and give a fair deal of consideration to Pick's stoic, well-reasoned perspective as well.
And then Rowena steps in. No one can quite place why her arguments reach them so...they certainly weren't flowery or verbose, but she has a charm that is hard to deny. Her smiles make others want to agree with her uncomplicated statements, and though she presents herself as unpretentious and even a little simple-minded, there's something more there...though no one can quite put a finger on what that something is.
One of the debaters, a man of slight build dressed in a well-tailored overcoat, stands and sets a hand on the crystal decanter. His hair has just a touch of grey at the temples, and as he displays a wide, congenial grin, tiny crow's feet crinkle at the corners of his eyes. Well, assembled erudite, it seems we have a victor! So often the simple things of this world confound the wise. He presents the decanter to Rowena with a flourish. But perhaps consider magnanimity with such a gift - I only procure the best, most mature whiskies, only improved by the sharing.
He sits back on the Inclusive Hall's long bench with a dash of carelessness. Perhaps you find it distasteful, sir academic, that what you consider tyranny others consider heroism... He nods to Renato congenially. ...but it seems you're one of few who shares the opinion. Why, every bard I meet seems to carry tales of that Red Raven fellow. I'm sure you've heard the stories - flits about in a mask and a feathered red cloak? Redistributing wealth from the wicked holdouts of the corrupt nobility to the downtrodden and penniless? It seems he's just what you argue against, taking matters into his own hands - and yet in the minds of the destitute of Galt, one of the greatest heroes of our time. That is, if you believe the hype, he finishes with a wink.
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Rowena gasps and glances about, astounded that she, just a simple girl from Nirmathas, was able to win the debate. She finally lets go of her cat, who lands as only a cat can, regally holding her head up as though she had not just been held prisoner and used as a living prop. Rowena's whole being lights up as she is presented with the decanter.
"Thank you so much for this! You are just all so wonderful for being so nice to a simple girl from Nirmathas like little ol' me! I didn't even think I was really competing for anything!"
She's completely unsurprised by this turn of events.
She pauses and muses for a moment, then opens her mouth in an expression of discovery.
"Share it? Hmm...THAT'S A GREAT IDEA. I just think, you know, that since it takes a lot of people to debate something, we should all get rewarded some, right? I wish I could share it with everyone! Maybe I'll grab a few other people from the crowd, too!"
She handles her Desnan holy symbol necklace. "I'll listen to my instincts and pick with Desna's guidance"
She looks to Renato. "Mister Writer!"
Pick. "Mister Pick!"
Siulor and Huan. "Oh! And you, Mister with the Doggie!"
She points out Torg. "You! You like fancy alcohol? Sure you do. Come and have some!"
She scans the crowd rapidly, trying to see if anyone else sticks out as potentially interesting to talk to. She finally points to Donnen. "Hey! You! Mister Strong-Looking Elfy Guy. Come join us!"
As she makes her way towards a quiet place to share drinks with her guests, likely the tavern, she suddenly stops and swivels back around towards the crowd, conveniently right at the point at which she is most visible.
"Oh! Before I go, I should introduce myself! My name is Rowena Sabelia, and this is Stella. I'm an actor and storyteller, so if you'd ever like to see a fun scene or a fearsome story, I'm your girl! I'll be here all week." She winks and hops onto one leg, throwing up another V sign with her hand and giving a cute smile. "See you later!"
Unlike Torg, Ilda hasn't changed much since he last saw her and he recognizes her immediately. He listens to her welcoming speech with amusement and smiles broadly when she mentions his name. "Aye, 'tis me. I sure am glad to see ya, Ilda." He examines her in one glance and adds, "I see the years have treated ya fine too. High priestess of the Stone Shrine, heh!"
He continues, fidgeting absent-mindedly with his silver brooch. "Can't complain about how they treated me in Highhelm. They have some fine teachers there, and some devoted priests too... Much to learn for a younglin' like I was, that's for sure. But I missed the outside world, ya know, after a while. Time moves at its own pace under the earth, and I'm too much like my father to stay there forever." Now, he holds on to the god's symbol tightly with his left hand. "Besides, I think the Stone Father has more use for me in human lands. Dwarves in Highhelm ain't needin' any more protection, but out here I can make a difference."
His cheery mood darkens suddenly when Ilda starts to talk about his mother. "Poor Ma. I haven't been a very good son, I'm afraid. I was so taken up in my studies that I stopped writin' some years ago. Told myself she'd be proud of me next time we met. Loosin' her husband and her only son must have hit her hard..." A hint of regret can be seen in his eyes, but he attempts to hide it as much as he can behind a stoic face. "I'll have to look for her, then. Do ya still have her note somewhere? What's that with the Jarl of the North? Ya think she went after the treasure? Ma was never the adventurin' type, more like an anchor for my father." Realizing that he's bombarding the poor priestess with questions, Torg pauses and catches his breath.
He sits back on the Inclusive Hall's long bench with a dash of carelessness. Perhaps you find it distasteful, sir academic, that what you consider tyranny others consider heroism... He nods to Renato congenially. ...but it seems you're one of few who shares the opinion. Why, every bard I meet seems to carry tales of that Red Raven fellow. I'm sure you've heard the stories - flits about in a mask and a feathered red cloak? Redistributing wealth from the wicked holdouts of the corrupt nobility to the downtrodden and penniless? It seems he's just what you argue against, taking matters into his own hands - and yet in the minds of the destitute of Galt, one of the greatest heroes of our time. That is, if you believe the hype, he finishes with a wink.
Renato nods along absently, trying to place the man's face in the tapestry of the town's inhabitants...
"We all wear masks," he muses. "But every façade falls away in the end. When midnight hour comes, we all have to unmask."
The writer turns away with a troubled look on his face. "The question is this: is the truth what you wear, or what you are underneath?"
She pauses and muses for a moment, then opens her mouth in an expression of discovery.
"Share it? Hmm...THAT'S A GREAT IDEA. I just think, you know, that since it takes a lot of people to debate something, we should all get rewarded some, right? I wish I could share it with everyone! Maybe I'll grab a few other people from the crowd, too!"
She handles her Desnan holy symbol necklace. "I'll listen to my instincts and pick with Desna's guidance"
She looks to Renato. "Mister Writer!"
"Who am I to oppose the will of the gods?" he answers with a shrug.
If losing the debate bothers him in any way, Renato does not show it. Indeed, he looks at the prize like he had only now noticed there was one at all.
Siulor and Huan. "Oh! And you, Mister with the Doggie!"
His attention drawn towards Siulor, Renato's eyes widen slightly in surprise. He quickly composes himself and seems to pointedly ignore the hunter.
As she makes her way towards a quiet place to share drinks with her guests, likely the tavern, she suddenly stops and swivels back around towards the crowd, conveniently right at the point at which she is most visible.
"Oh! Before I go, I should introduce myself! My name is Rowena Sabelia, and this is Stella. I'm an actor and storyteller, so if you'd ever like to see a fun scene or a fearsome story, I'm your girl! I'll be here all week." She winks and hops onto one leg, throwing up another V sign with her hand and giving a cute smile. "See you later!"
After the group exits the temple, Renato turns to Rowena. The writer reaches over to shake her hand as they walk, glancing surreptitiously at Siulor.
"You are an an actor?" he asks. "No wonder you excel at the spoken word. My name is Renato Vitrotti, as you might have gathered. A pleasure to make your acquiantance..."
"We will speak more of this later in private. For now, please play along."
Donnen is just sitting in a far corner, oblivious to the conversations taking place. It was getting colder and colder, he was thinking, and this could mean a strange omen. The time has passed, over those good years, and yet he couldn't help but being worried. He quickly squeezed his hands in the gloves again each other and took a deep breath, looking around.
The guide would need a contract, and quick, to keep the nice lodging and hot soups coming. Yet, the hunters lodge has been crowding with competitors this year, and he feared very few people would trust his services - especially if they recognized his full, true heritage. Yet, moments later, he heard the Varisian woman calling for him. A contract, maybe?, he thought, With luck, maybe an old client recommended me...
The Druid stood up smiling and approached, quickly greeting the present with his left hand.
Nice to make your acquaintance. I'm Donnen Phelps - are you in need of a guide? - he asked, directly.
Siulor chuckles lightly as the girl expresses her glee at having won the debate, and he laughs aloud as she invites him and his "doggie" to join her and the debaters in drinking the whiskey. He follows along with her steadily growing party of drinking companions and replies, Who am I to refuse such a generous offer! Many thanks, Miss Sabelia. He then eyes Pick as he jibes, Besides, I need something to wash down this Dwarven stuff.
As the group finds its way to a booth where they will enjoy their drinks, Siulor notices the glance coming from "Master Vitrotti." He looks away, reaches down and pats Huan's head as he says, Hey there, buddy!
Siulor sees the half-elf approach and recognizes his face as one of the guides who frequently camps out in the lodge, looking for guide contracts to travel through the Boarwood and surrounding wilds. He doesn't know the half-elf personally, but vaguely remembers hearing that he was quite good. He takes the initiative to reply to the question he posed, It's a gut we need, friend, not a guide, and if your worth in drinking is half what I've heard of your guiding, we should count ourselves fortunate. Not sure if we've met. The name's Siulor. I hunt the Boarwood. You might've seen me 'round the lodge a time or two. He offers his hand to shake with him.
I'm sorry, son...that note fell out of my hands a good long while back. Truth be told, after thirty-somethin' years I'd not counted on seein' you back here. When the letters stopped, we had no way of knowin' just what had happened...but I can tell ya this. She looks you over again with a soft smile. I've known ya again for all o' five minutes, and I can already tell ya she'd be proud.
She reaches for a necklace bearing charms for all the dwarven deities - this time, it's a bejeweled ring she reaches for, the symbol of Bolka. Maybe it was your father's influence that set her off, got a wild hair in her. When your letters stopped, I believe she was feelin' a mite lonely, like she needed somethin' to look forward to.
I know the stories of the Jarl had been fascinatin' her just before...maybe that's what she set off for. Her note didn't much say where she was headed, though; she could have been off to Jalmeray to shake hands with a djinn for all I know. Or could have just gone for a ramble through the Boarwood and met some kind o' trouble, though no one brought anything up, and that forest is traveled enough.
With a wistful expression, she extends her hand again. I wish it'd been better news for ya...but I do hope ya can still find it in ya to enjoy some time here, even just a day. Ya picked a fine time for it. Best to you, son - and don't be afraid to stop by again if there's anythin' else ya need.
The day's amusements have whiled away the hours, and afternoon has faded into evening, with a slight but not unpleasant chill on the air. Several of the stalls in the square have packed in for the night, but the inns are still open, their dining rooms bustling with activity. The Lattice Inn seems to be the more crowded, mostly filled with visitors from further off taking supper before resting in the accommodations above the great room. Meanwhile, the Sun's Rest looks to have a couple of quieter alcoves - but from the way the patrons speak to each other, it's clear this is the kind of place where everyone is familiar, and newcomers are likely to stick out like sore thumbs.
Ilda's answer wasn't particularly surprising, though Torg had hoped otherwise. "That ain't much to go on..." He claps Ilda's hand tightly for a moment. "I wish that ya wouldn't have needed to share such dire news, but I thank ya all the more for it. I'm goin' to pray the Stone Father ; I wish I knew what he expects me."
Calling to mind his memories of the chapel, the young dwarf walks up to the small shrine dedicated to Torag and there he kneels down on stone floor, closing his eyes as he does so. For about an hour, he stays there immobile as a rock, lost in his prayers. Only a barely audible humming of ancient dwarven hymns proves that he still breathes.
"Why call me back here, Father? Is it to punish me for my lack of care? Should I go and search for here wherever she may be? Or did you have another purpose that I cannot fathom when you called me back to Azurestone? ..." Torg's thoughts and prayers mingle, leaving him all the more confused. "Gone off to find some legendary jarl's treasure hoard... I hope Ma hasn't gone totally bonkers. And that she's alive. You'll see to it, won't you Father?"
Donnen shakes his head up and down, smiling to Siulor.
Very well, a gut then I can provide. - he starts - And, in advance, I apologize for being terrible with faces. You know, those halls are fairly crowded sometimes!
And he shakes his hand.
No trouble at all, friend, he says, then turns to the rest of the group as he says, Now let's tuck int' that whiskey, eh?
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Rowena grabs a table for everyone and sits them down. She skips over to grab some glasses from the waitress, giving her a few coins for the trouble, then returns and begins dishing out the whiskey.
"Thanks again for coming, everyone! How are all of you? Why don't we, like, all introduce ourselves! I'm Rowena." She winks and throws up a V sign. "I'm kinda new around here, and, you know, I'm just a poor girl traveling with her cat, so I was wondering if any of you could let me know anything about the area. Especially, you know, if there's anything dangerous, or like any mean criminals I should watch out for, you know! You guys all seem really smart and wise about stuff, so I figured you'd be good to ask!"
She seems to have other ulterior motives for wanting to know about crime in the area.
Pick had followed along to the Lattice, having nothing much else he needed to be doing right at the moment and intrigued by the bit of something a little off about the talkative lass that he picked up earlier.
He settles in on one of the worn and comfortable benches with the old cushions, and busies himself stuffing a bit of fresh tobacco into the bowl of his pipe.
"Well, as I believe every mother's son within a mile heard you say in the debate, I am Pykromer. Pykromer Stonehands. Most folk about here call me Pick," he says sedately. "I am a natural philosopher and a student of the cogwheels of the cosmos, you might say. I provide my services to the good people of town in whatever capacity they might require, whether that's a packet of ground herbs to be mixed in with hot milk to ease a hangover, or translation of a found map, or a lens ground for a spyglass, or what-not. I deal in quite a lot of what-not."
Pick takes a thoughtful puff on his pipe, and then blows smoke pointedly at Siulor.
"Speaking of what-not, you wash your mouth out of what you said about good dwarven ale, young man.
"As for crime...? Not that much. We are a small and close community. Folk are friendly. Biggest trouble you're likely to see in the town itself might be some ne'er-do-well gets the notion to filch a purse from one of the visitors-- visitors like yourself.
"Out in the hills and such there's the usual dangers, but I don't know as I'd call that crime exactly. Anyway, stay to the roads, keep a hand on your purse, and travel with a group, and you'll be alright, lass."
The Lattice Inn is bustling with activity; a young woman and teenage boy seem primarily responsible for taking and filling orders, while a younger boy scurries around with a broom and tray, bussing tables and brushing up crumbs from the floor. Most of the tables are full - one has dice games still continuing, and some of the same gamblers Siulor and Pick had played with watch, occasionally throwing the dice themselves. At a small round table, a group of halflings have a map out, arguing over the best route to take home; at a longer table in the room's center, what looks to be the members of a Varisian caravan have taken up a lilting, happy tune, though some of them scowl at the trio playing Towers near the back wall.
There is one table left, a fairly small one under the stairs leading to the second floor; a human would be cramped in the seat on the inside edge, but the dwarves find it quite cozy. Grabbing a couple of chairs from nearby tables, there's just about enough room for everyone to sit comfortably, though elbows are bumping from time to time. As Rowena grabs the glasses, the waitress is about to protest until Rowena's coins drop into her hand. After she returns to the kitchen to drop off a couple of slips of paper with scribbled orders, her next stop is the table beneath the stairs.
It seems you're already set for something to drink - anything else I can get for you? Some food perhaps, or a pitcher of water?
Renato leans back in his chair, humming the Battle Song of the People's Revolt at the pace of a funeral march. His dull eyes wander lazily admidst the crowd, focusing on nothing but slowly taking in the wealth of human experience on display. The writer orders some light supper.
"Thanks again for coming, everyone! How are all of you? Why don't we, like, all introduce ourselves! I'm Rowena." She winks and throws up a V sign.
Renato nods to the others. "As I said earlier, my name is Renato. I usually write under the name 'Tiras,' which more people tend to recognise."
"Well, as I believe every mother's son within a mile heard you say in the debate, I am Pykromer. Pykromer Stonehands. Most folk about here call me Pick," he says sedately.
"Pick," Renato repeats to himself. "Good. Hm. Yes, short and memorable..."
The writer quickly jots something down in his journal.
"As for crime...? Not that much. We are a small and close community. Folk are friendly. Biggest trouble you're likely to see in the town itself might be some ne'er-do-well gets the notion to filch a purse from one of the visitors-- visitors like yourself.
"Out in the hills and such there's the usual dangers, but I don't know as I'd call that crime exactly. Anyway, stay to the roads, keep a hand on your purse, and travel with a group, and you'll be alright, lass."
"I have had no such trouble," muses Renato. "But I suppose it never hurts to be careful..."
Frowning slightly in contemplation, he turns back to Rowena. "Now that I think of it, the man who gave you that whiskey did seem familiar. He might be a fugitive."
Aye, it's just as Pick told ya, Siulor chimes in. Not much in the way of crime about the town, but we do get the odd pickpocket or such. The woods and hills are where you'll find the most danger, but the roads are safe enough by comparison. Mind you, the current state of things doesn't see to the roads getting too much maintenance, but I suppose you might find freedom to be a more lofty goal to aim for than maintained roads.
He orders a pitcher of water for the table and a flank steak for him and Huan to share, then turns back to his table-mates and continues, The name's Siulor for those o' you what haven't heard it yet. And this here's my trusty hound, Huan. He's a good dog, but mind your fingers if he's in the middle of eating. He smirks at his own empty threat.
Renato nods to the others. "As I said earlier, my name is Renato. I usually write under the name 'Tiras,' which more people tend to recognize."
Tiras, eh? Hm..Sounds familiar. I think my da has read some books o' yours. I think he spent half o' dinner spittin' rather than eatin' it his food yellin' 'bout that book. He smiles at Renato, sure that his this man must be the long-lost friend of his youth. If only they could get a moment to talk it over.
After a few moments of enjoying the conversation (and the whiskey), Siulor raises his glass to Rowena and toasts her, To our hostess, the finest actress and champion debat'r of the Harvest Festival!
Slowly, Torg's mind found solace in the silent communion with his patron deity. His questions were not answered, but he accepted that fact with resignation. Mysteries were part of Faith, he figured, and challenges allowed the faithfull to prove their worthiness. The Stone Father wouldn't have bid him return to Azurestone without a purpose, however unclear it was. Thus, instead of falling prey to despair, the dwarf's resolve grew as he accepted the endeavor that was laid out before him.
"I'll have to ask around town for clues about her destination and that Jarl legend. If that fails, I can always go asking around the roads and near the forest... For now, though, I should probably head to the inn, eat something and go to sleep." With that, the sturdy dwarf rises and heads out of the Stone Shrine towards the Lattice Inn, saluting Ilda if he encounters her while exiting.
As Torg enters the inn, the vacarm of the crowded room staggers him for an instant. He intercepts the serving boy, who is frantically trying to serve the numerous and patrons, to order some dry sausages and an ale. He glances around, looking for a place to sit down, notices Pick for the second time today and decides to go greet him.
Turning to the humans sitting at the table, he smiles beneath his braided beard and adds in Common. "I'm sorry about that, but a proper dwarf greetin' has to be spoken in Dwarven! I'm Torg Ironheart, at yar service." Torg bows slightly.
"Do y'all mind if I sit at yar table? There ain't much room left in here..." After being allowed to join the group, he finds a seat beneath the stairs near Pick, where there still is a little bit of space.
Tiras, eh? Hm..Sounds familiar. I think my da has read some books o' yours. I think he spent half o' dinner spittin' rather than eatin' it his food yellin' 'bout that book. He smiles at Renato, sure that his this man must be the long-lost friend of his youth. If only they could get a moment to talk it over.
Renato nods along, quite solemnly. "I do aspire to elicit emotion in my readers..."
After a few moments of enjoying the conversation (and the whiskey), Siulor raises his glass to Rowena and toasts her, To our hostess, the finest actress and champion debat'r of the Harvest Festival!
The writer lifts his glass with a mournful sigh. "Toast to youth, ever so fleeting..."
Turning to the humans sitting at the table, he smiles beneath his braided beard and adds in Common. "I'm sorry about that, but a proper dwarf greetin' has to be spoken in Dwarven! I'm Torg Ironheart, at yar service." Torg bows slightly.
Renato nods understandingly, repeating an old Dwarven maxim:
Torg bows his head again appreciatively towards the city-dweller that just spoke Dwarven. Out of politeness, he responds in Common so that all can understand. "I must commend ya for yar knowledge of Dwarven-speak and culture. It ain't usual around these parts. I wonder if ya also learnt to write the runic alphabet..."
"I did not mean to interrupt the merriment ya were all makin', just to say "Hello" to an old and remote acquaintance. Please continue celebratin' whatever ya were celebratin'."
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Rowena's expression falls as she hears all this talk about how safe the town is. She wanted dirt on what's up. Renato's mention if a fugitive manages to catch her attention, and she is about to respond to the others when Torg approaches.
"Oh HI there! You should join us, Mister! I just won this bottle of whiskey here and thought, you know, I should share it with some people since I'm kinda young to be drinking, you know?"
She winks again, smiling and placing her index finger daintily on her chin. "My name is Rowena, amateur actress, storyteller, and performer. Pleased to meet you!"
She quickly turns back to Renato.
"A fugitive?! WOW. Why'd you say that, Mister Ren (is it okay if I call you Ren?)?"
"ומי יתן סטון האב לראות אותך בתורו. ובכן נפגשו, איש צעיר. אני זוכר שאתם זקנך היה קצר."
Pick chuckles a little when one of the new acquaintances speaks the dwarf-tongue as well, giving Renato an arched brow.
"Have a seat, Torg."
Pick scoots over as best he can to make room, and orders a dinner of roasted rabbit with sauteed onions and cooked carrots, to go with the whiskey. He sedately smokes on his pipe, gray eyes flickering around the little group here and there.
"And what brings you back out of the clancave, brother?" he asks Torg.
Torg bows his head again appreciatively towards the city-dweller that just spoke Dwarven. Out of politeness, he responds in Common so that all can understand. "I must commend ya for yar knowledge of Dwarven-speak and culture. It ain't usual around these parts. I wonder if ya also learnt to write the runic alphabet..."
"Writing comes from reading," Renato says with a nod. "Of course, it will undoubtedly take me the rest of my life to truly master the runes. We humans have so precious few years to spend learning..."
She quickly turns back to Renato.
"A fugitive?! WOW. Why'd you say that, Mister Ren (is it okay if I call you Ren?)?"
"Certainly. Ren is fine," he responds embarrassedly. "But please, I am not a Mister or a Master. I do not think I am that much older than you are, and I am certainly not anyone's better..."
The writer rubs his chin and leafs through his journal. There was no relevant information to be found there, but the rustle of parchment helped him think.
"This might merely be a trick of the mind—mine tends to wander—but that fellow did seem familiar. I recall hearing about a demagogue with his description—Aric, Aran, Armin, or somesuch—who was being accused of treason. However, somehow he never met Madame Margaery. That is, a guillotine. Why most of them are named after women, I do not know. Regardless, he somehow avoided that fate, it seems. If it is indeed him."
Pick glances over at this talk of "the fugitive."
"What's all this now?" he asks with his brows arching.
"And what brings you back out of the clancave, brother?" he asks Torg.
"Well, I was born here and hadn't come back in years. Figured I would take advantage of the Harvest Festival to visit." The answer, though truthful, is obviously incomplete and Torg fails miserably to hide that fact. It is clear to everyone at the table that his presence here has a stronger purpose than simply visiting his birth town, though the dwarf is obviously unwilling to acknowledge it. He chuckles nervously. "My performance in the archery contest was mediocre, but I hope to redeem myself during the week."
Luckily, Rowena starts to inquire about the so-called "fugitive" and Torg turns his ears towards her and Renato.
Siulor listens to the Dwarven conversation, but decides not to speak himself. Better not to show how poor my accent is, he thinks, but notes that Renato/Jean has also picked up Dwarven in the intervening years. Seems there's plenty for us to catch up on with each other.
The new dwarf, Torg, is unfamiliar, but seems to know Pick, so Siulor figures he must be a decent fellow. Well met, sir, he says to the newcomer, I'm Siulor. I'm a hunter in these parts. If you're in the mood for any particular game while you're here, let me know. With Huan here, I can find most anything in the Boarwood.
As the conversation turns to discussion of the fugitive, Siulor can't help but add his voice. S'pose it's hard t' say there's just one fugitive in town. Seems like some might call most of the bloody country fugitives. Jus' depends on whose laws yer goin' by. He mumbles a few more unintelligible words, then buries his face back in his tankard.
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Rowena scratches her chin, trying to remember something, anything at all about this fugitive guy with an "A" name.
Trying to keep the others engaged in conversation, Rowena shuffles away the conundrum for another time, and smiles and nods to Ren.
"Sorry, Ren! I'm just used to calling people 'Mister' if I don't know them. My mom told me it was polite."
She waves at Torg and grins.
"Nice to meet you, Torg! Sorry to hear about your archery not going so well. Dad tried to teach me, but it never really took."
She sniffs at the whiskey bottle, recoiling at the unexpected strength of it. The surprise jostles her mind enough that another subject she had been meaning to broach popped up.
"OH. Wasn't that guy talking about the Red Raven? That famous vigilante? I've always thought vigilantes were pretty cool, but also a bit scary. What do you guys think?"