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While waiting for the day of the Ball to arrive, Maja attends to a personal errand, tying up any loose ends with regard to the fallen adherent of her faith.
The way to Karysgoral on foot is a day, but on the back of your freshly groomed and gleaming horse it takes you a mere couple hours to make the hamlet. Akiros' dying words echo in your mind, and the weight of Welden's bow across your back seems unusually noticeable.
"Welden? I killed a bunch of 'em. Every time you'd send 'em, I'd kill 'em. So yeah, probably. heh."
"Tell 'em...I'm sorry... it had to be this way..."
Karysgoral proves to be a village cut from the same cloth as so many other small settlements: Three dozen or so humble houses of wooden walls huddle around a dirt road and a well, smoke-trailing chimneys thrusting through sodden roofs of last year's thatch. A slouching saloon pulls double duty as watering hole and town hall, two nondescript horses tied to a post outside. A chapel to Erastil sits alongside the road on the outskirts of the hamlet, its wooden walls humble and plain, adorned only with a coat of lovingly-tended paint. A modest steeple rises twoscore feet into the sky, and a simple pair of crossed arrows over the door gives the only indication as to the faith of the land. A meticulously-weeded graveyard stands next to the chapel, plain headstones marking the final resting spot of villagers buried a stone's throw away from the church in which they were born and married.
Eyes watch you as you pass through the town, the arrival of a stranger a welcome novelty in a life of routine. None are bold enough to openly address you.
To Aegoth Caerscion, Idris bows and says, "Thank you, sir, for confirming my statement. My name is Idris."
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The interior of the establishment is very much like the exterior: Worn and plain. A bar of polished wood spans one side of the main room, several casks protectively nested behind it. Tables of rough-hewn wood flanked by benches of same are scattered around the room, and a cluster of chairs sit unoccupied around a hearth that crackles and pops as it provides heat. A weathered old lady tends the bar, grey hair meeting a plain white dress at her shoulders. Two similarly aged men sit across from each other at a table gaming at checkers and smoking pipes. The barkeep looks up from a small, black-bound book at your entry and smiles kindly.
"There'll be no charge for you, Sister," she says with a nod towards your holy symbol. The water is cold and tastes faintly of the wooden cup in which it's served. The bread is hearty and crusty, and the barkeep brings you a bowl of vegetable broth in which to dip your meal. When you mention Aldifierri and the Ismorts, her face grows somber.
"Aye, that he did. Didn't tarry long, had a package for Father John. If you sent him to talk to the Ismorts, you sent him on a wasted trip - 'lest he can speak to the spirits. You'll find that a sore subject 'round these parts. That whole affair was a black mark upon us which we'll never quite banish."
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Aegoth touches his brow with his free hand, still offering support to Seraphina. "It would not do to see a Fireblade imperiled - especially one who fought such a good match. Bravo!"
The rest of your journey through the streets to your temporary quarters is refreshingly free from assassination attempts, but is not entirely without incident.
You follow your directions through the twisting streets, soon catching sight of the Liefmoore Arms. Styled in the manner of a rural hunting lodge, its walls are made of thick rough-hewn logs that stand in stark contrast to the urban construction of the surrounding buildings. Light shines through windows of colorful leaded glass, and red brick chimneys rising from a slate roof promise warmth and comfort within. The Arms is set back from the street by a few dozen feet of carefully tended grass, presenting a stout wrought-iron fence broken by a gate to the street. A pair of footmen in colorful livery stand at this gate, engaged in hot words with a shabby-looking fellow clad in tattered rags who waves scrawny arms excitedly at the guards.
"I'm telling you - I MUST see the king! The demonic host perches upon his very threshold! His knights are turned against him, cancer on the realm! If we are to save his daughter, the king MUST be told!"
"Oy, that's enough o' your noise," scowls one of the pair of guards. "You're not getting past us to beg, so you can leave off the crazy act. Take your panhandling elsewhere!"
"You're with them!" exclaims the tattered man. "Curse you for a pack of traitors! The Pit will have your souls!" Turning from the gate, the man spots you approaching and rushes towards you.
"Away! Away! Trust not these foul spawn of devils! They plot against the king! The king, I tell you! You will help me, will you not? We must save the king's daughter! I will have her hand in marriage! Lend me your swords, be my knights!"
The man grabs Pretty by the arm, looking imploringly into her eyes.
"It is as the accused says," interjects the flaming sword-wielding dandy who blocked the assassin's escape, the blade retracting into a dazzling ring on his hand as he speaks. "She is a student of the Fireblades, though I recall not her name. The deceased did not fight with Aldori style, and threatened all with skulduggery and poison."
The captain looks around again. "Does any blade here dispute the account given to me?" Silence answers his question, and he nods curtly. "Very well. I see no need to pursue the matter further. You are free to go, swordling." With that, the captain rounds up his men and returns to his patrol through a hole that opens in the disintegrating crowd.
The dandy duelist moves to Seraphina's side and takes her arm. "M'lady, are you sore hurt? Shall I summon a chirurgeon?"
Seraphina relaxes as the guard turns away, satisfied with their explanation. She turned to the dandy duelist, smiling warmly despite her weakened condition. "I have been better," she allowed, sounding sheepish at the admission. "But Maja usually manages to keep me in one piece. You must forgive me, I'm not usually such a wilting lily... that is the first time I've ever been exposed to poison and I must say, I cannot recommend it!" Her countenance was grave as she said this and then abruptly, she grinned, seeming a little punch-drunk but still as charming and jovial as her usual self.
"Yes, as Idris says, you have our thanks! Fortune smiled on us when she placed you here in our path. She was a slippery creature and we nearly lost her as she fled." She cut her eyes to the deceased assassin, the corners of her mouth pulling down reflexively. "I'm afraid I've not caught your name, sir. To whom do we owe our gratitude?"
Once proper introductions were accomplished, she nodded to the man's strange ring with an admiring look. "That flame-sword is quite something. Are you also a practitioner of the arcane arts, then? Perhaps you can answer a question for me... how quickly can a message arrive at Stoneclimb from here. Are there messenger pigeons or mage services for hire that can send such a missive quickly?" She was thinking of sending word to her mother about the ball, but she doubted that word would get there soon enough to be relevant with the event a mere week away.
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Sera was pleased to see Kivan was well and still keeping watch over their captive. "Well, what do we think, my friends? Should we just interview him here and be done with it before we find our lodgings?"
Upon returning the bound man to consciousness, she smoothed his eyebrows with a jade green claw, her thumb poised over his eye as if she might gouge it out at a whim. "Your fearless leader ran for her life after you fell... not that she made it too far. Now why would Daggermark bother to send so many established death-dealers to track down a wayward wash-out? And why the assumption that we know something about it?"
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Seraphina spoke soothingly to the tattered man, hoping to calm him. "There now, what is the matter? You said something about a demonic host? Tell us about these troubles and we'll see what we can do to help."
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Kivan looks at his returning companions.
"So where's the assassin leader?"
Kivan seems interested in the man's ramblings. Mention of the Pit draws Kivan's attention to the book sitting in his backpack and the secrets contained within.
"Dead. Good riddance."
Idris just looks impatient. She doesn't seem to have a lot of compassion for the man.
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The dandy swordsman smiles winningly at Seraphina, showing pearly white teeth.
"Aegoth Caerscion, of the Fireblade Academy, at your service. I do indeed possess some small arcane talent. A mere dabbler - no proper magi. One with magic such as yours easily eclipses me. Yet, I do find it fascinating and it comes in handy from time to time."
Aegoth raises an eyebrow at your mention of Stoneclimb. "May I presume I speak to a Medvyed? There are indeed messenger services. A rider is the cheapest, but will take near two weeks to ride each direction - no straight road connects, and the wilderness is slow going. I do not know of any who keep pigeons; Restov has few friends to the north. There is a mage who may render you the aid you need - Thaalam the Diviner, 5 Dagger Way. He's... eccentric, but has a good heart.
The assassin looks defiantly up at his captors and sets his jaw. The man bites down hard, and you hear the crunch of a tooth breaking.
The tattered man looks wildly from one face to another. "No! No! You're with them too - damnation!" Tearing his hand away from Pretty like he's been burned, the man whirls about and flees pell-mell into the city.
The guards step forward to block your way.
"Apologies, ladies and gentlemen, but this is a very exclusive establishment. Only those who are members of the Lodge or invited by same may enter."
The guard looks you up and down, clearly not impressed by your battle-messed garb.
The dandy swordsman smiles winningly at Seraphina, showing pearly white teeth.
"Aegoth Caerscion, of the Fireblade Academy, at your service. I do indeed possess some small arcane talent. A mere dabbler - no proper magi. One with magic such as yours easily eclipses me. Yet, I do find it fascinating and it comes in handy from time to time."
Aegoth raises an eyebrow at your mention of Stoneclimb. "May I presume I speak to a Medvyed? There are indeed messenger services. A rider is the cheapest, but will take near two weeks to ride each direction - no straight road connects, and the wilderness is slow going. I do not know of any who keep pigeons; Restov has few friends to the north. There is a mage who may render you the aid you need - Thaalam the Diviner, 5 Dagger Way. He's... eccentric, but has a good heart.
"Well met, Master Caerscion. No proper magi, you say? I suspect there are a fair number of folk who would find that a contradiction in terms." She said, making light of how unsettling her magic was to many.
Seraphina smiled and bobbed her head in assent when he inquired as to her house, wondering that he did not hear her announce herself to the guard. But she seemed disappointed at his estimation of how long it would take a rider to make the journey. "Ah well, I suppose if it takes that long to make the trip, it's rather a moot point on how I send my missive. But thank you again for the recommendation, and all your help."
Sera instantly regretted not scanning the man for yet more poisons as she realized what he was likely doing.
Sera stared after the tattered man, wondering what manner of devil had gotten into him, whether it be madness or something more tangible.
Seraphina chuckled lightly at the guard's reaction. "Do we look frightful, dear sirs? You must forgive our appearance, we ran into a bit of trouble on our way here. I believe we have indeed been invited. I am Seraphina of House Medvyed and my companions and I have been instructed to stay here as guests of the Lord Mayor, Ioseph Sellemius himself. But if we are unwelcome, we can seek our lodgings elsewhere, of course." She was not the sort of noble to take umbrage at a simple mistake, but the trying events of the day had left her more prickly than usual. Though her usual polite smile was in place, there was an edge to her voice and a steely glint in her eye that promised that displeasing her further in this moment would not be wise.
Milo adds to Idris' s explanation to Kivan. "Aye, Idris killed her in a duel. She wasn't quite as tough without all her friends around. The city guard got involved, but it was obvious she had a poisoned blade and was posing as a swordling, so we are in the clear. "
He watches the assassin, puzzled at first, then in horror as he realizes what is happening.
"Let's see if he had anything important on him. " Once the man succumbs to the poison, Milo will search him for any evidence or items of interest.
After the business with the remaining assassin is finished, he calls to Nix, tossing her a piece of dried meat. "Good girl. "
-Posted with Wayfinder
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The poison begins its work swiftly, and the captured assassin starts to jerk and twitch. Any intervention will have to be swift!
As the man rushes off, Seraphina gets the impression that he is a disturbed individual, fighting against a demonic conspiracy in his mind. He seems totally convinced of his words, contrary to the assumption of the guards.
At the mention of your names, the guard's attitude changes, and the pair swing the iron gate open before you. "My apologies, Lady. You are of course welcome inside, by invitation of Lord-Mayor Sellemius. There is a side entrance should you wish to freshen up before making an appearance."
The Liefmoore Arms falls short of the opulence of the Mayor's Palace, but only just. The affectation of 'rural hunting lodge' continues on the interior of the inn: both the floor and walls are dark-stained wood, washed to a golden amber by lanterns of wrought-iron and leaded glass. Raw timber joists soar over the lofty rooms and hallways, their rigid ranks guarding the coils of smoke from numerous hearths as they twist into the darkness of the roof. Extravagant rugs pad the floors, and intricate tapestries illustrated with scenes of the hunt insulate the walls. Periodically, the wall is hung with the stuffed and preserved remnants of a prize - a boar's head here, a brace of pheasant there. Closer inspection lays bare the facade of ruralness - the floor and walls have been hand-polished and oiled to a satin smoothness free of the splinters and burrs of timber buildings. No frontiersman would bother with rugs to be trodden by muddy boots, and the lofty heights of the architecture would be a sore waste of lumber better put to use elsewhere. The whole affair is impressive but just a little forced; it lacks the honesty and simplicity of the Levetons' humble abode.
The main room is cavernous, a massive open space that could comfortably fit threescore souls with elbow room. A wilderness of overstuffed leather chairs, plush upholstered couches, and polished wooden tables topped with flickering candles stands between the entrance and the bar. The bar itself rises like a curtain wall guarding a dragon's horde of fine glass and liquor. A fireplace the size of a wagon roars merrily, its mantle decorated by a boar spear of impressive size and heft. The center of the room is dominated by a stuffed bear on display fighting a taxidermied boar. Overlooking the whole affair is a chandelier made of antler.
Guests lounge around the room while wait staff mill about attending to needs. Dressed as footmen of the hunt, waiters circulate with platters of delicacies and flagons of various thirst-quenchers. Similarly dressed but far more buxom young ladies make small talk with patrons, and a heavyset man with impressive jowls and sideburns stands watch behind the bar. You recognize some of the patrons, and others are unfamiliar yet clearly related to your purpose here - their garb and habits peg them as adventurers and sellswords of a swort.
Off to one side near the hearth is Baron Drelev's party. Drelev himself nods off in an armchair, oblivious to the nattering of an obnoxiously overdressed and not very beautiful woman beside him, presumably his wife by the matching rings on their fingers. Quintessa Maray lounges across a couch, again maintaining her manicure with a knife. Her garb is far less formal than most in the room, and her precarious posture threatens a wardrobe malfunction without too much provocation, earning her undue attention from several sets of eyes. She makes note of your entrance and rolls her eyes. Kazimir Surtova sits on a stool at the bar, regaling a waiter with tales of exploits. The waiter is visibly trying to appear interested. Swift, in his Qadiran disguise, pages through a weighty tome with one good arm, the other bound in a sling. Also lost in a book is Terran Bister, missing your entrance in his obsessive studies. Terrion Numesti stands from a table upon seeing you, proceeding straightaway to greet you near the entrance. In his wake trails a young lady.
"We meet again! I trust the trail did you no lasting ill, and Restov welcomed you back into her motherly embrace." Terrion has eschewed his trail armor for a well-tailored but plain doublet of black silk and buckhide trousers. "Sister Weatherseed, may I introduce to you my youngest daughter, Iona - initiate of your faith."
"Hearth and Home, Elder Sister," says the young woman formally and shyly in a slightly chirpy voice. Iona is just blooming into womanhood, long legs and slightly gangly arms and a blush of freckles under her green eyes. Her hair is long and straw-colored, done up in a tight bun. She curtsies towards Maja, grasping handfuls of her plain blue dress. A silver holy symbol on a golden chain nestles against her chest. "My father spoke of your wisdom and fortitude on the trail and told me I could learn much from your example. It should please me greatly to attend a service with you before we part ways, Elder Sister."
A man approaches you as you near the bar. He cuts a dashing and rugged figure, clad in black leathers such as ranger would wear but trimmed with fancy embroidery. A crimson doublet lays open over a fine woolen shirt, and a massive silver belt buckle draws attention to his waist, a device unlikely to be happenstance. His form is muscular, squaring with the pair of sheathed swords swinging from his belt. He sports a neatly trimmed close-cropped beard and shaggy brown hair. Without waiting for invitation, he droops one arm over Seraphina's shoulder and the other around Idris'.
"Well met, ladies, well met! Your day brightens, as you stand before none other than Maegar Varn: Explorer, Knight-Errant, tamer of the wilderness. Able! Fetch these fine ladies something to drink - on my tab."
"I may remind you," drawls the barkeep, "That all refreshments are provided on the Lord-Mayor's gratitude."
"Ah," exclaims Varn, "But with what coin have we purchased this gratitude? Action! Valiant deeds! Derring-do on the orders of our beloved Mayor! I claim my tab nonetheless, paid in a far sweeter coin than gold!"
"Paid fer mostly by fartin' ahround in th' fookin' grasslan's," snorts a red-bearded dwarf from a nearby table. "Donnae let heem fool yeh, lassies, Maegar'd sweet talk th' feathers from a blue-jay."
Acting as soon as she realized what was happening, Sera shoved the tips of her claws between the assassins teeth and tried to wrench his jaws open. "Get ready with healing or something to stop this lunatic from offing himself!"
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Sera huffed at the implication that she was not presentable enough, but then blushed a moment later as she realized she had not really checked her dress for damage from her acid attack earlier. "Fine, yes, the side entrance then." It would probably be helpful for herself and Pretty to freshen their makeup as well.
Sera's smile was polite but reserved and definitely tight as she noticed the Baron and his entourage. But she brightened considerably as Terrion Numesti approached. She waited for Maja to respond first, as she was who the gentleman addressed, but when she had an opportunity, she said, "It is good to see you well, Master Numesti! And this is your daughter, well met Iona. Tell me, what do you think of this room, dear? Would Old Deadeye approve?"
Seraphina's eyebrows arched high on her forehead as the most forward man she had ever met cozied up to herself and Idris. She looked to her friend to with amused look of expectation, doubting that she would endure such familiar handling, especially given her preference.
She laughed brightly at the dwarfs comment, the color coming to her cheeks again. "I'm more of a jackdaw, really, and I aim to keep my plumage." She said with a grin, fiddling with the black feathers of her stole before gently returning the fellows' arm to his side.
Kivan simply watches the progression of the poison through the man's body.
Kivan looks over the decorations finding the place quaint in its rural theme. He looks around seeing so many people that he hadn't and had seen before. Seeing his old friend Terran Kivan almost immediately moves over to talk to him, but decides to wait a bit while taking in the scenery. When Terrion begins to introduce his daughter Kivan does go over.
"Well hello Terran good to see you here. How has it been going? Discover anything interesting?"
While speaking to Terran Kivan does take a quick glance at the book he is reading just to see if it is interesting or not.
"Oof!" Idris exclaims as the meaty arm wraps around her shoulder. She glances over to Seraphina, to see if her friend seemed upset, and decides this is less a threat than an annoyance. Plus he smells funny.
With ease, Idris slips from the man's grasp, and uses the excuse of retrieving a bowl of fresh rolls for herself and Seraphina.
Although Milo is doubtful that the man would talk, even if they save him, he does what he can to help Seraphina. He casts a spell, attempting to heal the damage that the poison is causing.
The ranger hadn't realized how woozy and tired he felt until Maja provided healing. "Thank you Maja, I feel much better now."
At the guard's comment, Milo looks down to see that he is still covered in blood and his clothes are torn from the fighting and chase. He goes to his room to clean off the grime, shave a night's worth of stubble from his face, and change his clothes to make himself presentable.
Milo whistles appreciatively at the decorations, inspecting the tapestries and taxidermied animals with great interest. He isn't sure what to make of the building's guests, however. He holds back a frown at Quintessa Maray's dress and posture, and observes the others in the room for a few minutes, wondering if they were really as horrible as they seemed.
Milo watches Maegar Varn closely, to make sure Idris and Seraphina are okay, but has to remind himself that Idris had just killed a professionally assassin in a duel not even an hour ago, and Seraphina could certainly take care of herself by means of magic. He takes a seat at the table with the dwarf, beckoning for a waiter to bring him a mug of ale. "So your group chartered the grasslands? Did you find anything interesting? I'm Milo Silverbrush, by the way. We were scouting the forest and plains to the south." Milo leaves out the fact that he technically didn't do any of the mapping, and only joined up with the group until just a few days ago.
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Seraphina acts swiftly, hooking her fingers inside the assassin's clamped mouth and prying his jaws apart. Tooth fragments, wet with blood and tarred with poison, come tumbling out in a gout of spittle and blood.
Maja recognizes the symptoms of this poison. It works by paralyzing the muscles of the body - most importantly the tongue and throat to prevent speaking, the lungs to choke off air, and the heart to still the blood. By compressing the man's chest to circulate blood, it's possible to keep his circulation going until the toxin wears off.
Fifteen minutes of sweaty exertion later, the man's chest heaves abruptly and fills his lungs with life-giving air as his pulse restarts. The assassin is still unconscious, but not in danger of immediate death. Between the wounds from the fight and his near brush with self-inflicted poison, he's not exactly the picture of good health.
"There are," says Iona. "Erastil's is not the largest flock here in Restov but we have a sizable chapter nonetheless."
In response to Seraphina, Iona starts to frown slightly before quashing her expression and replying in a neutral tone. "It is a fine place that the Lord-Mayor has provided for us, and I shan't speak ill of his hospitality." The young woman turns her head slightly and meets her father's gaze. Terrion nods and smiles gently, and Iona continues. "I do think such wealth might better be spent in other ways, though. The Old Soldier's Home is always in want of gold, and certain streets could stand new cobbles. If nothing else, a holiday on taxation, so the merchants could sell their wares less dearly." Embarrassed by her boldness, Iona flushes slightly and casts her gaze downward. Terrion lays a heavy hand on her shoulder and squeezes.
"Well said, little lady. In time you'll learn how your station carries the authority of the Old Hunter and speak less timidly. Last I heard, good souls, you were venturing to the south to drive out a pack of bandits. A tale I'd like told, if you'll indulge. The chairs are more comfortable and the fire most warm over yonder." Terrion points to a table out of earshot from the rest of his group.
Varn takes his rebuffing in stride, not losing his immaculate smile. He slaps the dwarf on the shoulder, taking care to pick the arm not holding a mug. "Ladies, Gentlemen, I present Anvar Brunthane, late of the Five Kings Mountains and my strong right arm. That over there is Master Magus Rex Hilfsson, and Qu'illaelosa." Varn stumbles over the complex elven name as he points to a muscular man in elaborate blue robes and a slender elven woman in the simple garb and holy symbol of a cleric of Desna. "Together, they are the Varnling Host. I, of course, being the aforementioned Maegar Varn. Soon to be Lord Varn, indeed!"
"Waer not suppose'ta fookin' talk aboot that, Maegar," says Anvar with a sigh. "Tho' keepin' ya from boastin's a-like yellin' t' th' tide. Aye, ranger, we waer sint t' th' grasslan's t' th' sou'-east t' scoot them aut. Good lan' that-a-ways, claer water an' fine soil. I reckon ye've 'ad th' saem talkin' wit th' Mayor as we, so no use concealin'. Waer t'set up shop yonner an' make a stay o' it. Reckon that'll maek th' lot o' us neigbors."
Terran looks up, annoyed at the interruption. His annoyance grows when he sees who has disturbed his reading. Terran slams the book shut - you get a glimpse of a drawing of a cyclops and stones with runes carved on them before the book vanishes under Terran's sleeve.
"Kivan. It seems you've eluded the beasts of the forest for now. Thank the fates you've been spared from harm. I trust your studies proceed apace? I recently acquired a scroll of Mending, should you wish to consult it for your own ends."
"Lord Varn? Hmm. Should I curtsey?" Idris snarks, but with a friendly grin on her face. "Where are you setting up this hold of yours? If you're Varn, and they're the Varnlings, will you style it 'Varnhold'?"
"Pretty and Milo could certainly benefit from some healing. I don't know if it will even wake this fellow up, though. Perhaps we could bring him to the gendarmes for interrogation? He probably knows very little of the mission, however. The only one who would was the b#@&$ I killed, and she surely wouldn't have talked."
Seraphina also looked a bit nonplussed over what to do with the suicidal assassin. "He certainly didn't seem too confident in his ability to avoid telling us what we want to know. I still think it's worth a try. I suppose we must deliver him somewhere, I doubt holding prisoners is citizen's right here, let alone a visitor's. Perhaps we can find a means of compelling him to speak while he recovers. I believe such magics exist."
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Sera was instantly taken with the young lady, Iona. "Very well spoken, indeed. Respect is important, but never turn a blind eye to the ills around you. It's modest, rational voices like yours that will be heard and heeded even when hands are clapped to ears to block out those around you who screech their discontent."
Terrion's proud smile at his daughter reminded her so much of her own father that a lump arose in her throat. She swallowed around it and took to scrutinizing the antlered chandeliers as she blinked back the tears that stung her eyes. She followed Maja to the table and tried to muster up some enthusiasm for telling the tale of the end of the Stag Lord.
Seraphina nodded her greeting to each of his party as Maegar introduced them. She spoke an old traditional greeting in Sylvan, and then rose to introduce herself. "Well, I do believe in being good neighbors. Well met, my name is Seraphina Medvyed. Your story does indeed sound much like ours. We'll be setting down new roots ourselves in the Greenbelt. I suppose we're neighbors here as well, while we wind away the time before the Lord-Governor's Ball."
"If you wake him up I might be able to use a spell to make him more talkative."
Kivan shakes his head politely, and sits across from Terran without asking.
"No need for that scroll I just had to deal with some assassins recently, but my studies have been increasing rapidly. I have gained several tomes of knowledge and not only that but I have already learned how to make even hound archons serve me for a while. Have you learned anything like that? Also, how have your studies been going?"
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As Maja channels Erastil's healing power into the assassin, his breathing strengthens and his eyelids flutter. His eyes snap open as he sits up sharply, chest heaving with sudden breath. Looking about wildly, the man struggles briefly with his bonds before you restrain him. He probes his shattered tooth with his tongue, visibly incredulous to find himself in these circumstances.
Terrion and his daughter listen attentively to your tale. It's quite some time in the telling, and waiters bring several rounds of refreshments before the saga reaches its conclusion.
"A considerably cleaner tale than ours," comments Terrion. "I daresay my other daughter, Kisandra, will enjoy its retelling. She takes a more martial bent, like her father. Our expedition, sadly, lacks any fine heroics such as yours. The are we were chartered to explore is comprised mostly of swamp and morass. We were forced early to proceed on foot: The horses fared badly in such terrain and we lost half of them to injuries suffered from poor footing. We encountered no bandits or river pirates in our travels, but fought a few skirmishes against a froglike race that Drelev names "Boggards". A nasty lot, they live in slime and meet parlay with spears. We drove a cluster of them from the river crossing where they'd been ambushing traders, and the way is more clear. A large lake lies in our area, and the boat-men speak of an enormous hook-tongued worm which lives in its depths and rises on occasion to feed. No trace of the beast was to be found, so we staked our assigned land and made our return. We've broken ground for a camp here, on the west bank of the lake - a defensible spot from which we can guard the lake from predators and offer safe harbor to boatmen."
As Terrion talks, he scratches a crude map on a piece of parchment to illustrate relative directions and distances. Without breaking from his narrative, he pens "q.m. not as seems / use caution / do not trust her" on his map and flicks his eyes from yours to the words to direct your gaze. After you've read the note, he obliterates it with a flick of ink from his quillpen.
"I had not considered that as a name, in truth," muses Varn. "It does seem fitting, though! Why should those hallowed halls not bear the name of their founder?"
"Waer scratchin' ah holdout at th' base o' th' mountains," says Anvar. "Th' hills 'ave th' scent o' good mahrble fer a quahrry t' maek stout walls. Th' plains'll grow fine crohps, an' we caen shelter from th' winds in th' lee o' th' hills. Ahnd you'll be werkin' similar, by me thinkin'. Let's not be strahngers, A friendly hold's a waelcome sight inna lonely land."
"I don't think we've surveyed for building materials. Stone would be the kind of thing a dwarf would notice, I suppose? We'll probably need to get someone to do a mineral survey... Perhaps one of the ko... err... forgive me, my mind's drifting off."
Pulling a waterskin from under his cloak, Milo offers the captured assassin a drink of water to rinse the poison and bits of broken tooth from his mouth. Since Kivan seems to have a plan of what to do with the man, Milo steps back and watches the rescued assassin carefully in case he tries to escape or attack his companions.
Milo listens to the recounting of the group's adventure while enjoying a mug of ale. Hearing it for the third time, he is getting to know it well. He leans in to take note of Numesti's map, using it to add some details to the western edge of his own maps. When Numesti scribbles the secretive note, he fights back the urge to turn and glance at Quintessa. "That sounds like a good place for a trading post that could grow into something bigger."
"Here's to neighbors! " Milo agrees, raising his mug at Angmar's statement.
Before they revived him, Sera cast detect poison and scanned the man for anymore deadly surprises. Once he was secured, she assumed her usual studious manner as she observed Kivan casting his spell. She was anxious to learn how the assassins suspected that Bara had fallen in with their company. She also hoped the man might have some input on how they could get the Daggermark dogs off her trail.
Seraphina was already nursing a paranoid streak with the assassin's threats still fresh in her mind. She merely blinked at the scribbled message and made sure to cast her cantrip for detecting poison before any food or drink passed her lips, or anyone's who was near her.
"Oh yes! We came across those Boggards on the eastern border of our chartered territory. Perhaps they fled there from your own?"
"You should also know we encountered a dark and vile cult on our journey here. They honor a terrible ancient red wyrm called Ashardalon and prey upon the plane-touched. I hope you will not encounter them, but we found distressing signs that they might be quite widespread. They operate in secrecy by hiding in plain sight under one guise or another. Some fell outsider escaped us, and may still be prowling the countryside. You'll be able to recognize them by the scarred flesh on their breast where they have been implanted with the stolen hearts of their victims."
Seraphina joined Milo's toast quickly, hoping to cover Idris' comment. "Here here! When we love our neighbors as we do ourselves, we make our neighborhoods truly wonderful lands of peace and prosperity. We wish you well in your endeavors and hope you will remember us when you have need."
Kivan doesn't waste any time and casts a spell trying to make the assassin think Kivan was a friend at least.
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Seraphina's magical investigation turns up no immediate threats, though the shards of the assassin's teeth, his confiscated weapons, and several vials among his belongings glow with her spell's sickly green warning.
"If you think I'd die to protect the Guild, you're a fool," says the assassin, hoarsely. He looks like he has something else to say, but his attention is drawn by Kivan's spellcasting. The assassin's eyes widen slightly as he realizes what is happening, but the look fades as Kivan's enchantment smoothes over any objections he has.
Seraphina's detection spell reveals no traces of poisons anywhere she cares to check.
Terrion winces at your description of the cultists who so bedeviled you. "I trust you put them to the sword, then. I shall be on the lookout for such marks - an evil like that cannot be allowed to take root."
Varn and Anvar join you in the toast. "I shan't," agrees Varn to Seraphina. "Yet I doubt we'll need aid with such a stout company! Likewise, we stand poised to ride to your aid in times of strife! Let none say that Varn stands idly by as innocents suffer nearby!"
Pretty recognizes the tale man, but wants nothing with him, so she lets the scene develops as they wish. When Idris finishes the woman for good Pretty approaches her and searches for tatoos or marks that could mean some identification, cause they don't even know the assassin's name, but she knows the minion would prove a better source of information.
Better, but still useless, as she could bet they would not extort a word from the trained hand's lips. After all, he was sent on a mission to kill a traitor, and he knew all too well the guild would send men for himself too, if by chance he did that.
Pretty was checking the fallen mercenaries for items, clues and equipment, and was about to try a different approach on the live assassin when Kivan's spell took effect, so it was just a matter of time to get whatever they wanted. She started it. "Hello fellow, what's your name please?"
"Away! Away! Trust not these foul spawn of devils! They plot against the king! The king, I tell you! You will help me, will you not? We must save the king's daughter! I will have her hand in marriage!...
The man grabs Pretty by the arm, looking imploringly into her eyes.
Pretty raises an eyebrow at the man, and was about to question who in seven hells were him, but he went away before she could do that. She keeps an eye on the lunatic, watching what direction he took, and after a few seconds she put her hands over her pockets, as if looking for something. She starts getting impatient about it and moves closer to Idris, whispering to her before moving in the direction they came. "I'll meet you inside."
Of course, that was just a show for the guards, in case they were really evil as the man was saying. These last days she learned that the word crazy was no longer mainstream. She would hear from him, and now rather than later.
Pretty will try to follow the man, being careful not to be noticed now, since the paranoid man could think she is trying to kill him. When she turns around the corner she puts the assassin's hat and changes her appearance to that of Bill, for the lack of anything more familiar, and then follows him without much to worry about. If the man goes to a public place, she will approach him and try to obtain some information, but if arrives at what looks like his house she will come back later, in the dead of night.
As the man falls under the effects of Kivan's spell the elf's lips curl up in a faint smile.
"Well, seeing as you don't want to die for the guild I assume that you wanted to die so that they couldn't get their hands on you. Don't worry we can help you out there, but let's talk a bit first. What's your name, and how did you know about us?"
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"You've the right of it, friend. The Guild ties up loose ends without fail - and in a way that'd make your skin crawl off. Name's Anders, of Hawk's Nest. I don't know how the Guild came by your identities, but we were sent to do just what you're saving me from - tying up a loose end. Word was a runaway Assassin candidate had surfaced in the wilderness, and a bunch of sword-selling merc types - that'd be you, were keeping her company. Information's not as hard as you'd think to come by, people talk freely. We came through a liddle trading post way out on the road looking for you. Nice couple running the place, good grub for sure. Elynne - that'd be our team's leader - asked about the orc, they didn't cop to anything. Did a little bit of sneakin' after lights out, overheard 'em whispering to each other about warning you when you're back from Restov. So here we are, didn't take too much diggin' to find out who to look for. Sat on some rooftops, made you coming out of the mayor's place, dropped a couple copper to have some kids make a mess to divert you, and you know the rest. Sorry about that, by the way, was just business. I'm kinda glad you shook us off, y'know? You seem alright."
Pretty is able to tail the man with very little effort. He periodically stops and spins around, looking all around him warily, but he doesn't seem to be completely in this reality. A dauntingly large plains barbarian staring hard at the too-close crazy man and fingering a bone-hafted war axe provokes no reaction from your mark, but a fool begging coppers with a tumbling routine sends him into a shrieking panic where he dashes pell-mell through an alley in utter terror. After calming, he makes his way to a small chapel of Desna where he begs, and is provided with a wooden bowl of hearty soup and a chunk of bread. He wanders for a few more hours after that before bedding down for the night. The man apparently has no home, for he shelters against the darkness under cover of a roof overhang in a less fortunate part of town. A pile of tattered cloth serves as his bed, and he pulls a filthy blanket of linen over himself as he retires.
The ale and entertainment stretch late into the night. A sumptuous five-course meal featuring a whole-roasted honey-glazed suckling pig is served at the appropriate time, followed by a succession of performers by the fire - a harpist fills the room with sweet melodies for an hour, followed by a duo playing large, stringed instruments of unfamiliar make, followed by a young bard who drums deftly on a wide-bodied wood and skin drum and sings folk songs.
After having your fill of luxury and saying your goodbyes for the evening, you make your way to the guest rooms, which prove to be as lavishly furnished and comfortable as the main room. The beds are down-stuffed and comfortable, and small hearths keep each room as warm as the occupant desires. A sturdy lock on each door is complimented by a bar lowered from the inside to provide an assurance of security.
"That's a story better told by the Father, as I said," says the old barkeep, shaking her head. "There's a lot of pain here from those days."
You find Father John hard at work behind the chapel. The man and the building are two of a kind, as similar as any man and wooden structure can be. The Father was once a rather tall man, but age has stooped him as surely as it warped the beams and joists of the humble chapel. He has a bald head, but his face is wrapped in a shock of neatly-kept white beard. Despite the man's age, he remains physically formidable; his shoulders are broad and ripple underneath his plain woolen shirt, and thick forearms ending in calloused and broad-fingered hands emerge from his sleeves. Father John is hard at work straightening and sharpening a plow that has seen much better days. With one hand he clutches a blacksmith's hammer, and the other glows with a magical heat with which he prepares the metal for working. His body is protected by a leather apron, but his arms are bare and show the scars and scrapes of a lifetime of hard manual labor. The priest's face shows concentration as he works, bright blue eyes nestled within a spiderweb of wrinkles and laugh lines. A holy symbol hangs from an iron chain around his neck, but it is not a standard symbol of Erastil. A fearsome rampant stag dominates the medallion, flanked with a plow on one side and a scythe on the other, and below the stag are a crossed hammer and mason's trowel. You recognize the man as belonging to the St. Wyatcoman's Adherents, a sect of Erastil's faith. Members are not considered a separatist or heretical sect, but strive to obey the Admonishments of Wyatcoman, an exhalation of labor and work by a notably industrious elder priest of the faith who lived a century ago. Adherents are sworn to a life of labor, and work unceasingly from sunrise to sunset until their bodies give out near the end of their lives, whereupon they are permitted to retire with great honor. Pledged to poverty, they give away the fruits of their labors to their community, pausing in their toil only to take meals and perform devotions to Erastil. Unsurprisingly, such an extremist sect is few in number, and critics of the Adherents frown upon the level of self-sacrifice they exhibit. After all, a community is supposed to build up all its members, not sacrifice a few in the service of the rest.
When you make your presence known, the Father ceases his labor and looks up, regarding you kindly. "Hearth and Home, young Sister. If you are who I believe you to be, you have traveled a considerable way to be here today. Please be welcome, everything I have is yours. I am Senior Adherent Allistaniunus Evellianisinth. The name is long and hard on the tongue, so I am locally known as Father John. Have you eaten? I presume we have much to discuss."
"You went to the trading post? Shit, the evil assassin city knows where we live. But, wait, Bara wasn't there when you were there? You... you didn't kill anyone there did you?"
Idris looks quite worried.
Kivan sighs that it is too late to do anything if the assassins decided to kill anybody, but he feels the need to ask.
"Did you tie up any loose ends in the tavern?"
Milo enjoys the evening of tales and entertainment. He makes sure to introduce himself to everyone, even the infamous Quintessa Moray. As the night is winding to a close, he realizes just how tired he is. Locking the door and securing the bar of his room, he has a pang of guilt, realizing that Nix isn't there with him. She is alone, sleeping in a pile of hay at the Mayor's estate. It was strange being without her, after so many nights in the forest keeping watch while the other slept. Milo decides that tomorrow, he will visit Nix at the Mayor's stable, get to know the stable hand there, and assist the man with caring for the party's horses.
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Anders, of Hawk's Nest, looks offended at your question. "No, of course we didn't kill anyone there. We're assassins, not murderers. There's two reasons you'd find yourselves our target: You've crossed the Guild, or someone else crossed the Guild's palms with gold. If the orc had been at the post, we wouldn't have needed to come find you, would we?"
As you tell your tale, Father John steers you to a bench that shelters in the lee of the chapel's walls, where he listens attentively.
"No, Sister, I did not know your Welden. My condolences for your loss - I know that the pain will never be truly over, but I pray time and our Master blunt the sting and allow healing. He perished in defense of civilization, striving against the human flotsam which lurks in the wild and builds not, but only tears down. Erastil surely gathered him unto his Hearth, where you shall be reunited in time."
"Akiros... Akiros. Even now, my tongue burns with the name. Akiros should have been the pride of our humble town. I delivered him unto this world not twenty paces from where we now sit - a strong, healthy boy. His parents were farmers, their plot just to the east of town. Akiros grew up honestly, and labored well. He did not care for the prospects of being a farmer, however, and desired to take the mantle of Paladinhood upon himself; to pledge himself to our town and our god as protector and friend to all. I counseled him as to the hardships of that oath, and confided in him my pains at so harsh a way. He was determined, and undeterred. We raised the coin to provide the young man with a sword, shield, and jerkin of leather, and to secure his apprenticeship to a knight-errant then of Restov. I myself tutored him in the Parables, and tested his soul with questions of philosophy and morals."
Father John sighs, rising from the bench and beckoning you to follow. "The day Akiros stood at our altar, garbed in white and lean from a week of fasting and prayer, and received Erastil's blessing, was our proudest moment. Yet I could not imagine the darkness that lurked in his heart. The lad had began to fancy a married woman - Rosilla, the wife of Rollo the merchant. They had an affair, and were found out by Rollo. This I know because Rollo came to me distraught and needing advice. I counseled him to bring Rosilla before me at the chapel, and with the aid of Erastil's wisdom and healing we would find resolution."
The priest leads you around the corner of the church and into the cemetery. "Rollo's anger would not be quelled, and Rosilla despaired of losing her comfortable life - Rollo's business was quite profitable. Rosilla dragged Akiros into the chapel and denounced him as a rapist. She spat upon the lad, accused him of violating her, and denied her infidelity. A change spread across Akiros at this event. The proud and studious lad I knew was consumed by rage, a great rage that rent his soul in twain and damned him. He drew his sword, and slew Rosilla with a single blow. Before we could react, he had also slain Rollo, and knocked me upon the head to daze me without taking my life. He then fled, the ruins of his life behind him. The Ismorts were horrified at what Akiros had wrought, and his father and brother set out to bring him to justice. They were returned on a wagon. A succession of townsfolk formed posses to take revenge, yet all who left found their end, not his."
Father John points to a series of graves:
ROLLO THE MERCHANT
2 ROVA 4707 ABSALOM RECKONING
DEVOTED HUSBAND
REST EASY AT JOURNEY'S END
ROSILLA
2 ROVA 4707 ABSALOM RECKONING
LOVING WIFE
TAKEN TOO SOON TO ERASTIL'S HEARTH
RIDESTRO ISMORT
28 ROVA 4707 ABSALOM RECKONING
LET NOT THE FATHER BE JUDGED BY THE SON
ELANNUS ISMORT
28 ROVA 4707 ABSALOM RECKONING
LET NONE RAISE SWORD AGAINST THEIR BROTHER
ALLHENDRA ISMORT
4 LAMASHAN 4707 ABSALOM RECKONING
DIED OF A BROKEN HEART
OBANIC THRYSON
16 NETH 4707 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
ERANIN EDELLIC
16 NETH 4707 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
GABERAS EDELLIC
16 NETH 4707 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
MARRA DECLENI
2 ABADIUS 4708 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
PALLAS FLEURGAR
2 ABADIUS 4708 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
IOLI PADANN
2 ABADIUS 4708 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
ALDAN PADANN
2 ABADIUS 4708 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
ENTIRO CALLSAN
22 ARODUS 4708 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
EGDER ANTINNIS
22 ARODUS 4708 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
PALAMINI SHOALSON
18 PHARAST 4709 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
SELESTRO SHOALSON
18 PHARAST 4709 ABSALOM RECKONING
FELL IN PURSUIT OF JUSTICE
The graves are obviously well cared-for and tended lovingly. Father John looks grim. "You begin to see why those left in our town are the very young or the very old. Akiros was the hope and trust of us all, and his fall blackened the town as surely as it damned his soul. It is a miracle of Erastil's doing that we've held together at all."
Father John fishes in a belt pouch and produces Akiros' holy symbol. "This has no place here. I cannot say where best to lay this to rest, but I will not allow such a dark reminder to stay and poison our minds with grief and tragedies long past. Take it - perhaps you can find a way to redeem the symbol, or at the very least plant it far away from here."
Pretty doesn't wait long before returning to her regular appearance in a dark alley and sitting 7 feet away from the man, with her back to the wall and her hands in the open. She calls him trying to hear his story without startling the crazy fool, as that was too much to just ignore it. "Well, I'm the best help you're gonna get fellow, so why don't you sit down and tell me the story you wanted to?"
Seraphina exhaled a long breath she had not even been aware she was holding when the assassin revealed that they had harmed no one at the Trading Post.
"And is there anyway to make amends when one has crossed the guild? Anyway to call them off? Is there no manner of anti-writ or somesuch? Some manner of leverage that can be obtained?" A hint of desperation had edged into her voice, a sense of dread for Idris and their mutual friend had begun to creep over her. Not knowing Bara's location was her best defense, now it seemed only a matter of time.
At some point during the evening, Sera began to feel a bit pekid again. Probably unused to the heavy meal and with her system still suffering the effects of the poison. She excused herself to speak to Milo. "I don't suppose you can cast that restorative spell again today? I think I've decided I'm done toughing it out..." She gave a weak smile and hoped the ranger could help her out.
Once she was feeling better, she took it upon herself to speak with some of the entertainers. She clapped enthusiastically and complimented their performance with coin if that seemed the custom here. "Wonderful! I have sorely missed seeing such skilled performers at their craft. I wonder, are you acquainted with an actor called Guy de Aldifierri? I don't suppose he is in Restov now, by chance?" She asked brightly.
Sera asked for fresh stationary supplies, expecting her mother would be pleased to see the Leifmoore Arms letterhead and worked from her previously written letter, leaving out those parts that seemed written in the rashness of her upset and better left out now that she read it with cooler eyes.
Dear Mother,
Thank you for the swift letter, I pray my reply will reach you quickly as well. I was glad to hear from you, but I wish you did not seem so sorrowful, Mama. I hope my news will bring you some happiness, at least. I am well and will come and visit you and everyone in Stoneclimb as soon as I am free, but I am afraid I will be busy with my own holdings for a bit! The Lord-Mayor of Restov has honored us by granting the land we were chartered to explore and pacify and he will announce this a week hence at a grand Ball in Restov. I do wish you could make it in time, but I know no magic that can bring you the distance before the deadline. We have some building to do in our new home, but I think you will see the beauty of this land when we have made it more comfortable.
It is a cold comfort I must offer you now. I know you were worried and confused when I decided to join this endeavor and I apologize that I left you in such a state with so little explanation. But I knew the truth would only serve to frighten you further, so I withheld my reasons. I followed the trail of whispered rumor and hunted down that horror of your dreams and mine. I found him, Mama. I found the stag-headed monster who drenched his hands in Medvyed blood. We used his own weaknesses against him and destroyed his evil with sword and spell. My own hands helped deliver the tyrant to his end, my father and brothers are avenged! I know it can do little to soothe the ache of their loss, but I pray their spirits rest easier now. I have honored them the only way I knew how.
I believe I know now why great-aunt Illyna did not pursue her spellcraft. I have determined that our house has a powerful magical being somewhere in our ancestry. I do not want to write too openly of this lest the letter fall into unfriendly hands, but I will explain further when I see you next. The aspect grants an inborn skill with magic, and I feel the power of my blood grows with the experience of it's use. I do not regret this, I feel proud and blessed as the inheritor of our family's rare gift and I hope your view will be as mine. But my looks have changed some as my magic has grown and Kol may not find me as attractive as he once did.
If you and Uncle Gurev still wish it, I will entertain Kol's intentions once matters here are more settled. I will give him a fair chance but I must be true to myself in this. I did not grow strong in the shadow of the great and abiding love you shared with my father to abandon all hope of the same so easily. You should see me before he does and I hope we will then decide together how to proceed. I do miss you so, and I pray the days hasten until I can hold you in my arms and kiss the tears from your cheeks. Give my love to the family and seek some happiness to buoy you up until my visit.
Your loving daughter,
~Sera
She read over it again, satisfied with the changes and then burned the old letter in the fireplace and sealed the new one with her signet ring. She sent it by rider the next morning, supposing that was fast enough.
"Of course!" Milo says, glad to help his new friend. It takes him a moment to block out the noise of the party and concentrate on the warmth of sunlight. He places a hand on Seraphina's shoulder, willing the warm glow to combat the effects of the poison.
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"No, I'm afraid there isn't," says Anders, shaking his head. "It's how the Guild guarantees loyalty. Nothing an Assassin can be threatened with is worse than what the Guild does to traitors. A trainee can leave, but once you're a blooded member that's your lot for life. Your best bet is to convincingly fake your friend's death in a way the Guild will hear about. Say, I'm feeling much better now and these stones are getting uncomfortable. How's about you let a fellow up? "
The harpist is indeed familiar with Aldifierri. "Aye, I know Guy," she says. "Nice enough fellow for a Mivonese, but I'm afraid he'd be a better strongman than actor. He's been in town for a few weeks. If you're looking for him you should try Porter's Taphouse by the river - it's his favorite watering hole. "
The rooms are intended for single occupancy, but are certainly large enough to house multiple guests.
Iona laughs a little at Maja's question. "I've loosed a few arrows and am not tragically bad at it, but I am not strong enough to use a full bow. My sister, Kisandra, is but eighteen years of age and can draw back a full-weight bow to her ear and run while holding an arrow at nock. I'm no warrior - I'm going to wed a strong and brave knight and have lots of babies, and he will protect me! "
The beggar looks up when you address him, startled. His alarm gives way quickly to elation as he realizes who you are.
"Aha! I knew my trust in you was not misplaced. You have the look of a hero! A true-blue loyal daughter of Brevoy. A terrible thing has befallen the royal family! The King has dabbled in dark magics, and polluted his own bloodline with the taint of the nine hells. His goals are even more foul, if that can be conceived - he aims to overrun the land with demon spawn! He's slowly filing the ranks of his armies with demonic traitors, and when the time is right they will rise up and slaughter the innocent, triggering another worldwound! His prize: immortality and prestige among the demonic throng. Tell me, does your heart quail at this notion? You know my words to be true - have you not seen the dark men with demon hearts spreading fear across the land? Do you have the fortitude to stand with me against the king and his dark army? "
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After spending the night in the luxury and security of the Leifmoore Arms, you return as requested to the Mayor’s Palace for an introduction to statecraft from Sellemius’ squire.
You arrive bright and early in the morning after breaking your fast. You are expected at the gate, and a different officer than yesterday escorts you in without identifying himself.
Milo takes a side trip to the stables, where he finds Nix comfortably bedded in a stall meant for a far larger horse. A fresh, well-gnawed corpse of a large hare attests that your wolf has been recently fed, and though Nix rises from the straw to greet you, she seems complacent and unworried. ”Ye’ve a lively one there,” remarks a stable hand. ”Cor, but I’d hate t’see such a beast bearing down upon me in the woods at dusk. Well behaved, though – I cain’t get my puppies at home t’set still, hardly, yet yer great beast’s settled fain t’be a kitten!”
You find Sellemius in the courtyard, stripped down to woolen hose and white blouse, his ever-present sword swinging at his side. ”Top of the morning, folks. I can’t tarry long – the early morning hours are my sole sanctuary for training and exercise before the tedium of my station crashes down and sits me in my office. This,” he says, gesturing to a teenage boy by his side, ”is Arvin Jantle, my squire. Step forward, lad. Not the horseman he should be yet, and I hope to someday make a proper swordsman of him, but by the gods the lad’s got a head for numbers and figures. He’ll walk you through the things you’ll need to think about while running your new holdings. There’s more to this devilish business than meets the eye – as we discussed yesterday. Carry on, lad, do me proud!”
With that, Sellemius is off to his exercise. Arvin blushes slightly at the Mayor’s description, clears his throat, and bows from the waist. Arvin looks to be about fifteen years of age, the muscles and stubble of emerging manhood still fighting off the softness of boyhood. His neatly-trimmed brown hair is corralled by a silver circlet, and he is clad in a well-tooled leather riding outfit. ”Lord-Mayor Sellemius overpraises me. I am merely focused in my studies – anyone could learn as I have. If you would please follow me, goodfolk.”
Arvin leads you a short distance into a room well-furnished with desks and bookshelves. A map of Brevoy hangs on one wall, and a map of the Inner Sea region hangs on another. This is evidently a classroom, and Arvin settles into his role as lecturer with a natural ease. After several hours of dissertation on the edicts, protocols, duties, and pitfalls of rulership, as well as a study of the nobility of Brevoy, the squire pauses.
”Unless I’ve failed to recall some detail, that should be sufficient. Have you any questions?”
Idris looks worried and pensive as she leaves the alley, the assassin's words clearly weighing on her mind.
Idris does her best through the lesson, though some of the higher-level politics goes over her head.
"I want to understand a few things. It sounds like we're setting up, well, like a baronry or something. So we'd actually have, well, subjects and vassals and things? And we're actually going to be given titles and so forth?" It seems like the gravity of what's been offered has just fully sunk in for her.
Kivan nods.
"Sure friend."
Kivan then helps then man up and takes off his rope bonds.
"Have a good day and thanks for talking with us. If you are ever in the neighborhood feel free to come over and talk."
Kivan simply sighs at the review of controlling kingdoms, and their peoples by a nearly beardless youth though the review is helpful in the fact that he can remember some of the finer points of making sure a kingdom survives.
Kivan heads out to purchase some crafting goods, and while he is out he makes sure to check up on anything related to a cyclops that owned any sort of mystical or magical stone.