Hexa loads the cleaned and preserved warg's head alongside a cartload of goods bound for the trading post. With his official business as treasurer concluded in Horace for the time being, Oleg clambers into the driver's seat and takes Claptrap's reins to return home to Svetlana, who watches over their business in his absence.
With help from your lizardman warden, Vekkel climbs into the back of the cart. The old hunter brings along the new shortbow he's taken to wielding after losing his leg and passing along his old longbow. No longer as mobile as he used to be, Vekkel has begun working as an escort for carts and wagons traveling betwixt Horace and the trading post.
"Good to see you folks ain't been letting yourselves get rusty at this sport," Vekkel laughs, patting the top of the warg's head. "There's certainly enough beasts that need slaying even with this one and old Tuskgutter done in. My buddy Arven keeps complaining about this critter called Old Crackjaw that's muscled him out of his favorite fishing spot down by the Tuskwater."
A scowl crosses the hunter's face, and he looks around before leaning in and speaking in a lower voice.
"Plus I've heard some of them newer hunters claiming they've seen a dragon out in the forest, over to the east. Bright green scales they say it's got. 'course," he says, leaning back and letting his voice rise back to its loud, scratchy tone, "these youngins can't match us seasoned salts for skill, but they sure can for putting away ale, so it might just be a bit of the drink talking. Just thought I should let you know, is all."
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The gnome enjoys engaging with the wily lizardman once more. ”Hexa, you would have truly engaged the strategic positioning required to maximise our advantage against the rampaging wolves. You do remember the Sootscales tribe, correct? It seems that their chief lost an arm to this fell beast!”
At Vekkel’s news, Wonky perks up. ”Truly, is there word of a dragon?”
Wonky shares what she knows of green dragons.
Green dragons dwell in the ancient forests of the world, prowling under towering canopies in search of prey. Thus, the possibility of encountering one in the Narlmarches and surrounding forests propelled Wonky's insatiable curiosity to study the creatures rather recently - using a few of the texts soon to be stored in Horace's new library.
Aside from their emerald colored scales, the green dragon's most distinctive physical feature is the sharp, singular horn that protrudes from their snout. Their ability to breathe plumes of acid is perhaps their most fearsome weapon, although the creatures can also breathe underwater and move effortlessly through the thickest undergrowth.
Of particular interest is the observation that, of all the chromatic dragons, green dragons are perhaps the easiest to deal with diplomatically.
"I can't say I've ever seen a dragon myself," Vekkel replies. "Other than that one whose head you've got mounted at Oleg's. Lots of the boys around these parts like to spin yarns about seeing the beasts winging overhead, or catching sight of a tatzlwyrm's lair in the forest deeps."
"I find it difficult to believe there's an actual dragon, but if there is that's definitely worth checking out. This 'Crackjaw' is concerning as well. Did Arven mention what kind of creature it was?"
Eunomia is quite looking forward to the prospect of another hunt. She's never been much of one for killing even animals unless necessary, but she's not used to being tied to a desk and the chance to get out and stretch her legs is certainly appealing.
"Well, if they are sociable, there is no reason not to talk to them. If we are just now hearing about them there is a good change that they will have not heard of our newfound land. We should introduce ourselves and make sure they are familiar with us. It's important that we make sure that all the long time residents of this land feel welcome in out community."
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"A dragon certainly bears looking into," Ahto says. "Perhaps it can be reasoned with, but if not, it will certainly be at least as dangerous as the wyvern, if not more so." He smirks a moment, then says, "as for 'Old Crackjaw,' it sounds like a cantankerous old beast that has been given the moniker of another grouchy old critter."
"Yeah, Arven made it plain that Crackjaw was a particularly large, particularly angry turtle turtle. Can you believe that?" Vekkel scoffs. "With brutes like Tuskgutter and them tatzlwyrms lurking about, that salt's agitated by a turtle."
Vekkel's grip tightens upon his bow, and he seems to reconsider his ridicule.
"Then again, he's not the only one with stories about Crackjaw," the one-legged hunter admits. "There's plenty of fishers who row out to catch the pike and eels down in the lake, and to hear them tell it, that turtle's killed dozens of their fellows and even sunk a half dozen boats. Even I've gotta admit, this story's got more weight to it than talk about dragons."
Harmond leans over and whispers to Wonky
"Was that a joke? I think Mr. Ulrych just told a joke"
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"I think he was just indicating that he believes that Crackjaw is a more plausible threat than a dragon; rather, that there is more evidence of the existence of a large turtle than a green dragon. Obviously, if there were a choice between a turtle and a dragon as dangerous enemies, the dragon would be the more weighty concern, using the words of Master Ulrych."
Wonky smiles at all of them.
"I would be very keen to head out to investigate both claims after the dedication ceremony to the library cornerstone," Wonky states (as if the dedication ceremony were a well-publicised event). "I would invite all of you to attend the event. It is scheduled for first light tomorrow at the build site."
And with that, Wonky, followed by the wide Sprocket, walk off.
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The Vixen catches up with the group, looking clean and… at peace? Happy? Hard to get a read with the mask, but she definitely is in a good mood.
Catching the tail end of the Old Crackjaw conversation, she wonders what to make of it. “I’m a bit jealous, not having a green monster version o’ meself to take on. The Viridian Vixen, I’d call her.
“Anyway, what’s our social schedule? Library dedication tomorrow, then off to the fey for Horace’s service?”
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Ahto nods.
"Yes. I think a very public and ceremonious dedication of the library would be advantageous. We should encourage our people to be educated. Educated people, capable of debating topics on which they might disagree, are less likely to form mobs of rioting malcontents," he says.
"And of course, we need to pay our respects to Horace, and visit with our faerie friends. Beyond that, we should make plans to investigate the dragon, as well as the angry turtle that shares my nickname."
Eunomia leans forward and whispers in Harmond's ear, "It sounded like a joke to me." There's a grin on her face.
More seriously, (and louder), she says, "Dedication ceremony, memorial service, various rumors of monsters to investigate...it's going to be a busy few days."
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The wind quartet finishes the stately adagio of the motet, and Wonky stands up and holds a funnel to her mouth.
Wonky frowns and references a crumpled piece of parchment, first the front and then the back. She then holds the funnel in front of her mouth again, projecting her voice loudly.
She realises her gaffe a bit too slowly, but tries to make amends.
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Wonky trots over to Ahto and presents the speaking funnel to him. ”You speak through this end,” she offers pedantically.
Addy wonders if the Vixen were here, what would she say in that speaking funnel? Too bad we’ll never know since the Vixen’s likely on patrol. Just mild-mannered seamstress Addison Lane hanging out with Lady Kavinka and a couple of the more prominent businesswomen. Sure is nice to know the Vixen’s out there, keeping those temporarily-closed businesses safe, much as she really wanted to be here, and possibly say a few words.
She applauds Wonky’s and Ahto’s speeches.
Harmond watches in all his noble finery, applauding when appropriate, "ooh"ing and "ahh"ing at all the right times. He truly seems to relish the opportunity to dress up and attend official functions.
Eunomia also stands nearby, wearing the formal outfit that Addy had made for her. She applauds after both Wonky's and Ahto's speeches.
"I'm glad we were able to do this," she comments to Harmond. "It's a good foundation to a nation, building it on knowledge rather than ignorance." She smiles at the stage. "Plus it means a lot to Wonky."
Harmond nods, not taking his eyes off the stage.
"Yes, I can't wait to get my hands on some new books. Also these kind of ceremonies really are good for citizen morale. I had missed them quite a bit.
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Wonky smiles at the crowd and then her comrades and fellow counsellors. She then produces a pair of shears and snips the green ribbon tied across around the handles to the wooden double door entrance to the library. Just inside, a table bears a punch bowl along with a number of cups and a tray of petit-fours.
"Come in! Welcome! Have some punch!"
Wonky then places a small sign by the punch bowl that reads:
Within the airy and naturally well-lit two-story edifice are spacious shelves filled with a few tomes - obviously awaiting more books - that frame a large atrium filled with wooden work tables as well as comfortable-appearing settees. A number of study cubicles line the lower floor of the back wall, just behind a paired set of staircases leading to the second floor.
The western wing of the second floor contains a large room with four flat waist-high tables, two of which have large maps unfurled upon them. A few easels and display boards line the cartography room as well. The most notable feature of the second floor is the large circular window frame currently covered with a cotton sheet. Wonky leads you all on a tour of the library, and as you note the un-glassed feature window on the main external wall of the second floor, Wonky gives you all a grin.
"I have been experimenting with glass art, and I am currently crafting a memorial stained-glass piece for Horace that I would like to install in this window once it has been completed. Of course, it may be some time yet if we are particularly busy, and also if it does not turn out to my standards, but that is what I am currently intending to do."
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When wonky mentions where the stained glass window will be, Addy squints at the cotton sheet, tilts her head, and looks pettily peeved. “It’d be nice if that winged pig, and the harpsichord it rode in on, would get the f!#$ out o’ me way.” She takes another sip of punch.
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Ahto looks around admiringly at the interior of the building, nodding his appreciation of the architecture and appointments.
When passing the punch table, he reaches for a cup, only to draw his hand up short when he reads the accompanying sign. Sounds like a circumspect way to say 'will cause intoxication', best pass as long as this is an official function, he thinks to himself.
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Harmond heads strait to the punch bowl and pours himself two glasses. The first one gets downed rather quickly, as he heads towards the stacks. He nurses the second one as he browses the collection occasionally pulling out a book to flip through it. Eventually he finds one that pulls him in and he spends the rest of the evening reading, pausing to engage in polite conversation whenever approached. When he runs out of drink he makes sure to refill his cup. By the end of the night he is well and truly wasted.
At the start of the ceremony, the crowd that assembles outside the library represents the strata of Horace and Tamlyn. In addition to notables such as Svetlana, Kavken, and Paval, the crowd is largely made up of hunters, loggers, farmers, and herders. Then there are also a handful of more skilled tradespeople, like Tanith the baker, Jocelyn the tanner, Taured the smith, and the millhands. Oddly enough, a large brown cow also stands among the crowd, alongside its presumed owner.
A blend of applause punctuates each speech and the ribbon cutting itself, with some souls clearly enthusiastic about the occasion, while others remain impassive. Nevertheless, once the doors are open, they crowd inside.
The hunters and loggers practically stampede for Wonky's punch, the warning sign only seeming to encourage them to take deeper quaffs. They leave little behind for those who follow in their wake.
Within an hour, you find a pair of loggers attempting to "chop down" one of the bookcases with thick books rather than axes. Jocelyn and a random farmer are engaged in a duel, wielding rolled up scrolls in lieu of swords against unseen foes.
The cow was not admitted to the library but curiously sticks its head through the cotton sheet where the stained glass will eventually be installed. This sudden appearance spooks Addy, leaving her to wonder which of its three fire-breathing heads is real.
“Either breathe fire or moo. Not both. Just ’cause ye’ve multiple heads don’t mean ye get the characteristics o’ multiple animals.”
Addy crosses her arms, then after a few seconds she nods at the cow.
“Well, ye’re not a chimera, but ye’ve a fair point nonetheless. Carry on, but don’t burn the place.”
She walks away from the cow-mera, and watches the men act like fools who can’t hold their liquor.
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Wonky moves swiftly about the scene, administering further cups of punch to those most affected by the frivolity. Within a few minutes of drinking Wonky's new cups of punch, Joanne, the loggers, and the farmer are all studiously discussing ecological concerns.
She then comes up to Ahto and offers the inquisitor a cup of punch.
"This beverage contains none of the hallucinatory properties present in my welcome bowl," Wonky says to Ahto. "I believe you would find the effects of this drink quite in keeping with your ethos, Head Councillor."
She does offer a wink.
Eunomia avoids drinking the punch herself, a bit worried about how rowdy a large number of hunters and farmers would end up being while intoxicated. Her concern proves to be well-founded when she has to pull some lumberjacks away from the shelves before they can climb them, (and likely break them). She lures a few of the worst offenders outside with distracting displays of prestidigitation combined with ghost sound.
So it's basically like every other party she's ever attended.
As soon as Wonky appears with her sobering potion she grabs several cups and starts all but forcing them down people's throats. "Thanks Wonky, glad you planned ahead."
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Addy drinks one more because, hey what the hell, why not.
After a few moments, the cow stops breathing fire. Not cow-mera. The regular, one-headed cow.
She whispers to Eunomia, “I’m a sweary drunk.”
It turns out she’s also a loud whisperer.
The second round of punch proves less favorable, yet it is downed no less quickly. Its effects serve to calm the rest of the dedication festivities. Those who became too rambunctious seem to excuse themselves, at least for the most part. Jocelyn the tanner sticks around to actually peruse the scroll she once wielded as an imagined weapon, although she does so in a quiet corner, keeping to herself.
Perhaps to the consternation of the more erudite council members, few others remain to enjoy the library for its own merits once the ceremony concludes and the punchbowl runs dry. On the whole, the stout souls who have come to Tamlyn, willing to brave and tame the frontier, are not the most well read. Worse still, you strongly suspect that many of the hunters, trappers, and farmers that make up the backbone of your citizenry may actually be illiterate.
As the dedication celebration winds down and the day comes to an end, the library settles in as part of Horace. It does not see as much activity as the mill, smithy, or tannery, but it does earn a few regular visitors such as Taured, Jocelyn, and even Asham.
Two days later, you ride westward towards the unicorn's cairn. Being a two-day trek, you make camp in a safe clearing just within the forest's embrace. As you awake the next day, the morning of the new moon, you find the forest around you to be still and quiet, as though nature itself offers its solemnity on this occasion. Thus, you ride the rest of the way to Horace's resting place.
You are not the first ones there.
A lean man with the furry legs of a goat, accompanied by curved horns upon his brow, is the first to catch your attention. The other is a small woman, barely taller than Wonky, possessing a tangle of sea-green hair. Her body is slick with water as though she just emerged from a river, and her fingers appear to be webbed.
They do not speak yet, but merely watch you warily as you enter the clearing around the cairn.
Harmonds eyes widen slightly at the sight of the two creatures. He has a fairly robust theoretical knowledge of the fey, but until journeying out into the river kingdoms he hadn't had the opportunity to see them in person. Especially not ones as big as normal people. He leans over and speaks softly to Wonky so as not to be overheard by them.
"Look! What do you think they are? I bet the big one is a satyr, but what about the lady? A dryad? A nymph? Maybe a siren?"
The Vixen approaches the lovely creatures with Ash at her side. She gives Ash’s hand a gentle squeeze.
She trusts Ahto can handle diplomacy with his tone, but not necessarily his language.
“If ye need a translation, I speak the tongue o’ the fey.”
If the satyr and nixie (?) require translation, VV lets Ahto and Ash know that she is happy to relay their words in Sylvan, unless another would prefer to do the honor.
"Good dusk to you, Ahto my lad," the satyr calls out in a hearty voice. "And worry not, my lovely Vixen, we can speak your language just fine, he says, punctuating his words with an exaggerated wink.
A derisive snort, sounding like a stone dropping into a pond, rises from the woman behind the goat man. He casts a nervous glance over his shoulder and, stroking his scraggly beard, forces a more demure expression upon his face.
"You may call me Falchos," he states in a subdued, matter-of-factly manner. "And this is Melianse. Our mutual friends have likewise invited us here to honor Horace. I will truly miss him. I just can't believe...he's gone."
Falchos abruptly launches into a paroxysm of mourning, with deep boo-hooing and suddenly losing himself in grief.
"No need to overdo it," Melianse chides her companion, plainly unamused by his histrionics. "You loved him not. You only loved his mead."
"But it's a love that shall never die!" Falchos declares before again wildly mourning his mead supplier, practically rolling about on the forest floor.
Harmond says what comes to his mind, the thought being so preposterous that he can't help himself.
"I am suddenly deeply curious as to how a unicorn, with no hands, manages to brew mead." He catches himself as soon as the words escape his mouth. "Apologies for my outburst. I am Harmond Orlovsky" he says with a deep bow, "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.
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Wonky nods at Harmond. ”Yes, the bearded one walking on hooves is a satyr and the green-skinned lady is a nixie.” She then turns to the two. ”Hello, friends of Horace. I am Wonky Stenolamellaralessa Prong, Jr. My companions and I had not the good fortune of knowing Horace, though we do know Tyg and Pervilash. We have attempted in our ways to honour his memory by naming our town after the unicorn. You would all be welcome there, especially at the People’s Library, which we just dedicated a few days ago.”
The satyr leaps to his hooves and shakes Wonky's hand, his grieving now nothing but a ghost as he greets the gnome.
"It is a profound pleasure to meet you, Miss Wonky," Falchos says, practically bleeding mirth. "You are quite astute and erudite. I should like to take you up on your offer of invitation. Pray tell, do you have many taverns?"
With a loud rolling of her eyes, the nixie finally steps forth to respond to Ahto's question.
"It would be a great surprise if those two were on time," Melianse says. "Organizing this memorial proves the rightness of their heart, but their punctuality remains..."
The nixie is cut off by a shrill voice ringing through the branches.
"We're here! We're here! Sorry we're late!" Tyg calls as she and Perlivash frantically flutter down from the forest canopy. The grig alights upon the Vixen's shoulder, while the faerie dragon lands atop the satyr's horns. They both breathe heavily, pausing to give their wings a rest.
"We were collecting...flowers for Horace," Tyg wheezes between panting breathes, "But we got...distracted."
The Vixen’s mind was already in a relatively stable and happy place just having Ash alongside, but a grin on her shoulder actually has her making an effort not to be overly giddy.
“Oh! We just arrived ourselves—no worries. Hey, remember I told ye about the love o’ me life? This is Lady Kavinka. I probably referred to her as Ash last time we talked.
“Ash, this is Tyg—the one I cut up me lingerie for.”
Ash understands the grin on VV’s face to mean, ain’t she just the most adorable thing ever!
"Well, you certainly have good taste, my dear Vixen," Perlivash purrs from atop the satyr's horns. "I am delighted to meet you, Miss Ash."
Tyg giggles like a child, right in the Vixen's ear.
"You better watch out," the grig chides her, "Or you may have a dragon as a romantic rival."
Tyg's train of thought is interrupted, and with her insect legs she does a little hop upon the Vixen's shoulder.
"Wait a minute!" she exclaims. "Where's everyone else? Falchos, why didn't Tiressia accompany you?"
"It was too far for her to travel," the satyr replies. "This place is nearly twelve miles from her tree."
"We've explained this to you before, Tyg," the nixie adds, sensing that the grig is not convinced. "If Tiressia strays too far from her tree, she will get sick and could possibly die."
"Well, that doesn't seem like much of an excuse," Tyg responds, seemingly obliviously.
Eunomia raises an eyebrow at the satyr's antics. Admittedly, she's never met a satyr herself, but there are rumors of their proclivities. However Wonky and the Vixen are both grown adults who can handle themselves, (and they no doubt no more about satyrs than she does), so she remains silent. For now.
She smiles at Tyg and Perlivash as they enter the clearing. "It's good to see you both again." She offers a likely-too-formal bow. "How have you been? I know the increased foot traffic ever since Tamlyn was formally created must have been a change for you."
The Vixen says to Tyg, “It’s actually the best excuse ever. I ain’t heard of a creature who can’t stray far from a specific tree, but I believe it.
“Tiressia don’t happen to live near an incredibly huge sycamore, by any chance, does she?”
"Oh, that big old, ugly sycamore?" Falchos laughs. "Certainly not. Even if she could go near it, she wouldn't not with those terrible mites that infest it. My Tiressia's tree is a big, beautiful oak with a lovely pond at its feet."
Melianse utters another snort.
"You'd just better hope no woodcutters come around her oak with their axes and saws," the nixie says, crossing her greenish arms and clasping her webbed hands upon her elbows. "I swear, if any of them come after the trees in my glade, I'll put a spell on them that'll make them rue the day they ever picked up an axe."
While Melianse offers her ruminations, the satyr trots beside the Vixen in order to talk to Tyg.
"Say, um...you didn't invite Gargadilly or his crowd, did you?" Falchos asks nervously.
"Of course not!" Tyg exclaims. "I wouldn't do something so foolish."
"She was going to, but I convinced her not to," Perlivash interjects.
When the Nixie speaks about her concern over the trees Harmond gets concerned. With a moments thought he speaks to Ahto.
"That is a very good point our nixie friend brings up. With the expansion we are undergoing, our woodcutters will be cutting down trees. How do we ensure that they do not trespass on trees already owned by the various fae denizens of the realm? I think it is in everyone's best interest that harmony between both fae and mortal be maintained. Surely we can enact a robust set of protections for them that still allow the woodcutters to make a living."
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Ahto nods in acknowledgement of Harmond's statement. "I believe we need to set the precedent that the fae-folk are our friends, and will be considered citizens just like the mortal folk. Property rights for their glens, glades, and grottoes should be established as soon as possible."
He glances toward the gathering. "Let us broach the subject with them after the ceremony."
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”With respect, Ahto, knowing what I do of the First World, it would hardly be seen to matter that citizenship and property rights would be extended to fey denizens. They tend to follow the beat of their own bodhrán, to modify a phrase with a Sylvan shade. It would likely be better to enforce the law with the non-fey residents of Tamlyn.”
She smiles at Tyg and Perlivash. ”They will be subject to strict lending limits and return timeframes from the People’s Library, of course.”
“I’m thinking the same—’specially for Tiressia’s sake.”
Facing the nixie, she explains, “A lot o’ people, humans anyway, don’t really know o’ so many fey aside from gnomes. I think ye’re lovely, and I actually learned Sylvan—”
The Vixen catches herself. I. She is using the pronoun I to speak of the Child’s past. Perhaps the combination of Ash’s hand, a grig on her shoulder, eyes feasting upon a glistening nixie…
“—’cause me teacher…” Mother. “…told me it’s the tongue o’ the fey.” Addi—no—the Vixen’s hand gives Ash’s a gentle squeeze. She keeps her s!#@ together and gets to the point. Because ain’t that the purpose o’ being the f$$$ing Vixen? To make sure horrid things don’t happen to the innocent? Well?! Ain’t it?!!
“But not all humans’re like that. I’m sure Tiressia’s an amazing beauty unseen by few human eyes. And me fear’s that the first to see her will be too stone-hearted to be moved by her beauty, her innocence or her vulnerability. A piece o’ paper full o’ legal mumbo jumbo’ll do the trick.
“Lumberjacks typically follow the laws. Not to mention, there ain’t profit in felling a tree too big to safely cut into, but… best to keep hunters and woodsmen on the job off o’ fey land, just to play it safe.”
Having rested her wings, Tyg flies from the Vixen's shoulder and alights upon Horace's cairn.
"Thank you for coming," she squeaks in Common. "I know we don't do things like this very often...or at all...but I've never heard of something like this happening, either, so it seemed like a good idea.
"Horace was a good man. Er, horse. Um, unicorn. He didn't deserve this. Even when that awful biggins was setting nasty traps everywhere, I don't think I ever felt so angry. I know we're supposed to be honoring his memory, but all I can think about is finding whomever is responsible and..."
Tyg continues to fume about whomever killed Horace, her wings and insect legs twitching in agitation. Nearby, you notice Melianse making subtle gestures towards the grig. They're subtle at first, but soon grow to be unmistakable hand signs that Tyg needs to rein in her venom and be quiet.
"Bite your tongue now," Melianse interrupts the ambling eulogy. Although she does not raise her voice, the nixie's words land like a dart to cut off Tyg's tirade. She marches over to the cairn and whispers to Tyg, but sharp eared listeners can hear what the troubled nixie says.