As they draw ever closer to their destination, Erevan with a thought activates the magic of his circlet. It does not take long for the illusion to take hold and soon enough straight black hair turns to wavy brown and golden eyes to hazel. His face, now quite unlike his own, and his body fill up a little, though not too much, giving the impression of someone who may do a bit of exercise now and then but is partial to good food and the occasional pastry. And his fair complexion takes on a bit of a healthy tan. As for his attire, it now looks as something befitting a man of his status, certainly more colorful than his actual clothing but nothing too extravagant. And last but not least, the circlet itself turns into a rather fashionable hat. All in all, he appears noble, yes, and a little haughty even, sure, but approachable, even affable. And most of all, harmless.
"May I present Milord Craigh Albercroft, Thane of Caer Dawe," he says with a somewhat theatrical bow and a smile that actually looks warm and friendly. After all, Thane Albercroft is a kind man, polite and gregarious, whose heart aches for the common folk and their misfortune of being born... well, common.
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This would be before Erevan's post:
As the group finally comes out of the forest so that they can see the smoke rising from the chimney's of the village a few miles off in the distance.
So, do we all go in as one? I believe that splitting would be wiser. After all, the "forsaken" being sought who escaped from Branderscar were three men and three women, and they know that one woman died. Tkaara pauses for a moment. May Hecate's death be avenged upon all in this land.
If Erevan and Etna go first as a pair of lesser nobles out touring the land. Perhaps Erevan is studying the great Watch Wall in the hope of aiding in the construction of defenses against the horrors of Belkzen or the Worldwound. Or even the giants of the Icerime mountains.
Etna could be his 5th cousin twice removed or something who has been tasked by her father to show Erevan just how safe this land is, and, thus, why they have no guards.
The Doctor and I can arrive later. I can do most of the talking since we all know that social interaction is not always the Doctor's strong suit. Our cover will be seeking out relics and treasures that have wandered their way her to the far north. Perhaps things found by adventurers brave enough to go beyond the Wall, and actually return. Part of my story will be what an incredulous thought it is that the north is truly as barbaric as people claim. With this, we might even gain meetings with some of the officers of the Fort. After all, who is most likely to have recovered relics than those in the military who may have actually led raids to the north at some point.
She turns to Felrin:
Finally, you, and while I think you two would prefer a bath and dry roof, could spend a night circling around the town so that you arrive from the Farholde side of the road. You would arrive sometime tomorrow morning as a man who wishes to aid in the defenses of the north. Your family was tragically lost when their boat went down in a storm while traveling north from Matharyn, north along the rugged west coast, to Farholde. You have been grieving their loss for the past year, and have now decided to focus your life on protecting others.
If anyone asks, you were formerly an apprentice clockmaker. While not the greatest profession, you have the skills should anyone seek to investigate further. As to how you came by your combat skills, well, as I said, you have been grieving for the past year and have found that the structure and physicality of training with arms has greatly aided you in your grieving.
Felrin emerges from the icy lake, exhilarated by having closed the Frosthamar chapter of their mission. The cold water runs off his scaly hide and he dries quickly, even in the cool morning air, as he prepares for the next stage of their journey. He sheds the lizardman form like a skin, then dons his circlet and considers a moment before altering his appearance to that of an average human man of the north, with wind-weathered skin and a thick mustache, his heavy hands those of a woodsman or other laborer.
As the members of the Ninth Knot make their way towards Aldencross, Felrin thinks on what lies ahead, focusing largely on the pleasure he will feel in unleashing war on the land he despises so. Though he knows he should be planning the infiltration of Balentyne, he has little information with which to do so, and opts instead to savor the thought of what will come after the fortress falls.
As the village comes into view in the distance, with Balentyne standing tall nearby, Felrin lays a hand on his belt pouch, checking to be sure the clay seal given him by the Cardinal is ready to hand. Soon we will remind Talingarde of the might of my Lord, and the Cardinal will know of it.
He pauses in his thoughts as Tkaara begins to propose a plan and disguises for them, listening with interest and approval as she spins out her ideas. When she proposes he present himself as a would-be guardsman, he nods in agreement, but he bristles when she speaks of the profession he should pretend to practice. ”What do you mean, not the greatest profession?” he asks, his tone just the slightest bit sharp at first, then moderating. ”I have had some of my deepest insights into the workings of people and society as I study the inner machinery of a clock, noting the springs where the energy comes from, which gears drive the whole works and which merely ring a bell. What’s more, a clockmaker produces something both beautiful and practical, neither of which can be said of those who practice law.”
With a shrug, he continues, ”But your plan is a good one, and I will follow it for the most part. I’ve no particular wish to spend the night alone in the wilds, and arriving early in the morning would likely attract attention, as folk would wonder how and why I travelled through the night. We have several hours of daylight left. If you all go to Aldencross now, and I come into town at dusk, there is little likelihood of anyone thinking we are together.”
Felrin grins as Erevan transforms himself into the Thane of Caer Dawe, admiring the small details the man has included in his disguise. ”Well done, Erevan,” he comments, ”you’d think you’ve been disguising yourself your whole life.” Felrin then turns his attention to his own disguise, making minor changes from head to toe. He keeps the simple clothes he’s seemed to wear all day, but makes some changes, turning his skin ruddy and giving himself wide shoulders and a touch of brawn, in order to make a good impression on anyone evaluating him as a prospective guardsman.
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Once you hit the Great Western Road, travel becomes much easier and you make good progress. The air is chilly, and the clouds alternately promise and threaten the prospect of snow, but it doesn't materialise. Tkaara, at least, is grateful for the cloud cover. The only drawback is the wind in your faces, which cuts like a knife.
Shortly after midday, Ottakar and Winston both pick up the scent: maybe a dozen humanoids (human and elven(?), mainly men, a couple of women) just ahead of you. They smell of food, warmth, and travel.
Thus alerted, you crest the ridge ahead and see them before they see you: in the windbreak provided by a dip in the road, four wagons have halted for lunch. All are painted colourfully, although not garishly (in contrast to the Varisian wagons that Erevan and Ottakar may have encountered on the mainland); three are in blue and red, with emblazoned on the side, while the lead wagon is resplendent in red and yellow, trailing a scarlet banner which reads .
Lounging on the grass nearby is a large group of colourfully dressed people, led by a hat. That is, there's a man wearing it, but it's the hat that draws your attention. Words cannot really do justice: it's made (mainly) of pink leather, white fur, and silver tassels - in the same way that the greatest painting you've ever seen is made (mainly) of canvas, oil and pigments. The black-and-purple striped ostrich plume (somehow) serves to tone the whole thing down.
It's the hat of someone who simply does not care. About anything. Because he just knows that he's fabulous enough to deal with it. Its wearer stands, just so, fists perched on his hips, his patchwork silk cape flapping artfully in the breeze. (It says a lot about the hat that you only just noticed the cape.)
Looking up, he spots you and waves you over, inviting you to join them with a broad smile.
Tkaara has seen many of his plays, both as a child, accompanied by her parents; and later on, accompanied by... diverse others.
So what in the name of Asmodeus' infernal Hells is the Bard of Barrington doing on the Great Western Road in the back end of beyond?
trained
untrained
untrained
untrained
trained
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Once the plan is decided, Tkaara, now wearing the rather strange armor, albeit cleaned by Etna of the captain's stench, also alters her appearance. While she remains rather thin, it is no longer the gaunt appearance she has taken on over the time of the sea voyage, but rather than of a thin and attractive woman. Her hair, usually white is now dark, and her complexion appears, while still light, to be much more normal than the pale appearance her true form has acquired.
Similarly, her clothes change into a moderately priced traveler's dress with a full dark green blouse which shows little, as would be expected in the less than temperate conditions covering the region at this time of year.
She looks toward the Doctor.
My art and science expert. Are you prepared to investigate what wares the fine folk of this town have to offer? While I may be able to talk the price down, it is one such as yourself who will excel at separating the valuable from the inconsequential. And, more importantly, the truth from a slip of the tongue which might give away our charade.
Finally, she turns to Felrin:
I apologize. My intention was not to demean your profession. Rather, few up here would likely have the wealth to own a fine timepiece. Thus, your former profession, would likely not be viewed in high regard here, and will allow you to more easily explain what you did, and why it is no longer the center of your life. If someone should have a clock, then, you have more than sufficient skills to examine, and if necessary, repair it, should anyone ask. As most of our disguises do comport with our true selves - me the negotiator, the Doctor the intellectual, Felrin the soldier and repairer of clocks, Etna, also a negotiator and investigator, and Erevan, the traveller and inquisitive lesser noble.
So, perhaps the Doctor and I should go first. One cannot expect a foppish noble to rise early enough to make it to town early in the morning. Then, Erevan and Etna can follow in three or four hours. Finally, as he offered, Felrin can arrive, tired and covered in the grit and grime of the trail, shortly after dusk from the western road.
Etna nods at Tkaara's suggestion "Yes, that is reasonable enough. I shall disguise myself at once.". Having said that, the ifrit focuses on the circlet: tying her hair so they don't flutter around by themselves, she shifts her appearance, changing her eyes to blue and her hair to blonde.
"Lady Jenna Arrington, pleased to make your acquaintance." she curtsies to the party like Erevan did, before gesturing to the golden eyed man "Let's go, cousin."
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Seeing what lies before them, Tkaara rolls her eyes.
Oh, great. Of all the buffoons to run into in this desolate wasteland, why does it have to be William Marcus Marlowe, also known as the Bard of Barrington. While his performance are really quite good, he has a tendency to produce works that walk a tight line on the appropriate and the inappropriate as far as Talingardian sensibilities go.
Once more a sparkling smile, or perhaps they are actually stars, creeps into Tkaara's eyes, although not her apparently frozen in a frown lips.
On the other hand, this could perchance be a boon for us. William has a broad following of faithful followers, which is probably why he has never been found guilty of any slight against the church or nation. However, because he chooses to stray from the straight and narrow path the Mitran church dictates, there have been more than a few over the years that have sought to discredit him with rumors of less than honorable actions.
She pauses an coughs. While the day is generally overcast, the light of day still causes the occasional bout of illness.
I do not know what we are going to find in Aldencross, but, if we need a scapegoat for some tragic event that occurs, having a way to direct attention to the Bard of Barrington, and his cronies, would be most opportune.
"Thank you, Felrin. I admit that I may not have had your practice, skill or abilities as far as changing my appearance is concerned, but I have run into the occasional situation where... adjusting the way I presented myself and acted was needed," Erevan, or rather Craigh, replies, all the while making minor adjustments to his illusionary self until he is satisfied with the result. "And I have to say that the Cardinal's gift does make such things quite simpler."
"Now, if you will excuse me, my cousin asks for me," he adds as Etna gestures for him to join her. Then a rather exaggerated roll of his eyes denoting mock exasperation and he says, "I tell you, my good man, she can be such a bother at times. I love her dearly, of course, but she can be a handful and this trip..." He sighs. "This lack of proper servants is certainly starting to take its toll. And then all the dust and dirt. And do not get me started on the sweat..." He appears to keep on muttering to himself for a few more seconds before he stops as he moves to join his... cousin.
"Ah, a scapegoat. My favorite kind of animal," Erevan/Craigh quips, the tone carrying his usual driness. Having the words come from his new affable self somehow makes them more disconcerting.
Seeing the human-shaped combination of hat and cape invite them over with a smile no less, he turns to the others, but not the Forsaken, no. He turns to Lady Jenna Arrington, or Jen as he affectionately calls his cousin, to the pair of relic seekers, the quieter art and science expert and his more talkative negotiator of an associate, and to the hired guard and occasional clockmaker. And he smiles warmly, albeit perhaps a tad condescendingly when his eyes reach the less fortunate bodyguard. "Shall we then, my good fellows? I admit this man's fame has not reached Caer Dawe, but let it not be said that its Thane is not interested in the finer things in life." He actually tsks then. "Finer perhaps, but not too sophisticated, I shall wager, by the looks of them."
As the scene before them comes into view, Felrin considers the possibilities a moment, If that hat could be turned to our purposes, nothing could stop us!
”You’re quite well-informed about the man, Tkaara,” Felrin observes when they’re still some little distance away. ”A theater buff, are you? I’ve heard of him, and know he’s very popular, but don’t know a thing about his relations with the church. But you make an interesting suggestion, about how he might be used.” Replying to Erevan, he continues quietly, ”Another thing to consider is using him as a mouthpiece. If he can be brought to see things our way, he is well suited to spread the word far and wide – and he’s already shown himself to be protected by his popularity. Perhaps he could be proselytizer first, and scapegoat second, when needed. Shall we go say hello?”
As he approaches the travelling troupe, Felrin reminds himself he is posing as a would-be guard, a simple man travelling in the wild north, and presents himself accordingly. ”Hello,” he says, his tone friendly enough, ”who are you? Are you putting on a show out here? There’s no people.”
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Walking a few steps behind Felrin, her armor concealed beneath the appearance of well cared for, but not expensive traveling clothes, Tkaara sighs and shakes her head at Felrin's statement.
Tkaara immediately steps forward.
I apologize for our guards lack of knowledge.
She turns to Felrin.
As a guard, and as, what was your profession before? A tinker? No, oh, thats right, a fixer of broken clocks. I would guess that you never had the opportunity to experience the wondrous performances that the greatest playwright and director of our time, the famed Bard of Barrington, is capable of putting on. He does not stage performances in the middle of nowhere. No, his performances are hosted in the great theaters and opera houses of this land.
With that, she turns back to the man in the hat:
Master Marlowe, it is truly an honor to meet you in the northern part of the land. I would have thought at this time of year you would be in Gastenhall, where I have seen several of your performances including the brilliant Crusader of Calliwydth and your spectacular opera The Night of the Knight. Or, in the warm south of Matharyn where the nobles of the land congregate to enjoy the warm breezes of the southern seas.
Tkaara continues, blushing slightly as an enthralled teen might when meeting the newest pop star.
So, what are you going to perform here in Aldencross? The Day of the Dragon? Or perhaps your latest, The Princess and the Pauper, I hear when you performed that in the south, it almost caused a riot.
Etna smiles to herself as they approach the troupe, adjusting her hat.
Let's get started.
Waiting for not-Tkaara to finish showering the human appendage attached to the hat, Jenna curtsies to the playwright and his troupe "Pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Marlowe. I am Lady Jenna Arrington." the blonde woman smiles. "I too have seen the Crusader of Calliwydth, Master. I'm afraid, though, that I'm not much of a theater follower like my friend here." she adds with a brief laugh.
I actually did watch the Crusader of Calliwydth. I just have to pretend I'm enjoying this conversation like I pretended to enjoy watching that play.
”Hello,” he says, his tone friendly enough, ”who are you? Are you putting on a show out here? There’s no people.”
The man staggers back, both hands clutched to his chest. "No! Really!? But I could have sworn..." He looks around in amazement. "I do declare that we have been swooped upon by the fey - just one moment ago, we were performing to their entire Court; and now -" His exaggerated mannerisms change, and he holds up one hand. Immediately, his companions stop what they are doing; all chatter ceases; one fellow pauses with his hand (holding a cooked leg of chicken) halfway to his mouth. "There's a play in that. Hm, let me see..." Leaning forward, he concentrates, with his index finger pressed to his forehead.
Some moments pass. He shakes his head. "No. But it'll come when it's ready."
Master Marlowe, it is truly an honor to meet you in the northern part of the land. I would have thought at this time of year you would be in Gastenhall, where I have seen several of your performances including the brilliant Crusader of Calliwydth and your spectacular opera The Night of the Knight. Or, in the warm south of Matharyn where the nobles of the land congregate to enjoy the warm breezes of the southern seas.
Marlowe (for it is he) bows low, doffing his fabulous hat and sweeping in an extravagant gesture. "Fair lady, the pleasure is mine, I assure you! And your powers of deduction do you credit: indeed, credit is the word... Alas, that money, in itself so hateful and - frankly - mawkish a thing, should still be necessary in a world such as this! We are but lately from Farholde, where Sir Valin Darian gave a ball in honour of... I forget what, but nothing would do but that he had Talingarde's foremost playwright compose something suitable for the occasion. And if I say that I did it full credit (that word again, it just pops up, does it not?), that I put on my newest play Markadian V - a tribute to our present King's bravery - that I had all those knights weeping in their seats 'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more! Or fill the wall up with our valiant dead!' - I speak only the truth."
He pauses to draw breath. "And now, to pay off yet another debt (although I speak not of money this time), nothing will do but that I and my company journey to Balentyne, not merely to perform but to compose an entirely new play... which is as yet unwritten. A mere detail, however - I have the title, and all else will follow from that."
"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Master Marlowe. I am Lady Jenna Arrington." the blonde woman smiles. "I too have seen the Crusader of Calliwydth, Master. I'm afraid, though, that I'm not much of a theater follower like my friend here." she adds with a brief laugh.
The man smiles. "My dear Lady Arrington, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. Will you and your fellows not join us for lunch? We have cold meat, eggs, wine... Not much, to be sure, but we would share all for a tale or two from yourselves."
After four weeks of nothing but lutefix, the treats he mentions sound like the very bread of the Celestial realms.
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Perception:
Tkaara is rather surprised when the man removes hit hat, something that is almost unknown for he is renown for his extravagant headwear, rarely if ever being seen without some ostentatious creation covering his pate. However, she is more surprised by the minimal pointing of his ears.
Interesting, I did not realize that he had elven blood. Likely several generations back, but clearly elven.
At the offer to join them for the meal, Tkaara looks to her companions.
I would be honored to join you. I and Professor Karentice have made the long journey here to the north for a similar reason as you. We are seeking trinkets and oddities here from the north, particularly anything that might have its origins north of the wall. Our patron, sorry we have vowed to not name him, is keen on such things. Perhaps your new production will have similar bases, what with the horrors that the Wall is designed to keep out, I am sure that it will be spectacular, and draw far greater crowds as did Markadian V.
She then gestures to Etna, Erevan and Felrin.
I cannot speak for my other companions. We have been traveling together for a few days, but only met in Davryn where we realized that all our routes led to Aldencross.
In keeping with his disguise as a common guardsman, Felrin acts a bit of the fool in response to Marlowe's jest - and, sadly, demonstrates the perceptiveness of many a guardsman as well. "There weren't no Court 'round here," he says in a no-nonsense tone, "for there ain't no chairs for 'em. And they'd have churned up the dirt somethin' awful too, which they haven't. So there, no Court, no people a'tall. But I know you're just funnin' me, some folk are like that."
Showing a generally friendly manner, in spite of perhaps a slightly dim light shining behind his eyes, Felrin then introduces himself to the hat and its man, "Marlowe, is it? I'm Dav, Dav Mulson." He extends a broad hand toward the actor in greeting, then responds to the offer of food. "Lunch, you say? That's mighty nice of you, I'd love some, I'd guess the others would say the same."
"We would indeed, dear Dav," Erevan, or rather Craigh, readily replies as he moves to address theBard of Barrington. "Not only would it be discourteous to refuse such a gracious invitation, but food always tastes better when shared with people as friendly and interesting as you."
Smiling broadly and warmly, he introduces himself with a bow. "I am Craigh Albercroft. Perhaps you have heard of me? Thane of Caer Dawe?" There is a glimmer of hope in his eyes, as if having his name recognized would certainly lift his spirits, or at least lift them even further than where they seem to be already. "Worry not if you have not, my good man." Realizing that his words rhyme somewhat, he chuckles heartily. "Ah, perhaps there is a bit of a poet in me as well."
The man smiles brilliantly at Felrin as his companions chuckle at the (apparent) guard's buffoonery. "Darling boy, call me Billy - as should you all, please. I am always seeking new material, and I rather think I have been gifted with some."
He arches an eyebrow at Erevan "Thane of Caer Dawe? Delighted, my dear chap." His flagrant non-use of any title is, well, flagrant.
Over lunch, he introduces the rest of his travelling company. Most of the names go straight in one ear and out the other; there are ten men and (unusually for a theatrical company) two women. Billy the Bard smiles as he introduces them: "This is Alyssa, full of eye and gorgeous of lip, clearly designed by Nature to be a trollop - she plays all my heroines. This is Joanna, slim, boyish and brimming with Virtue - she plays my villainesses. You mentioned the Princess and the Pauper? Joanna here played both - and that led to some niceties with the Inquisition, I don't mind telling you! 'Darlings,' I said to them, 'Darlings, I honestly don't care who rules, male, female, who they worship: people are people! They'll remain people whoever is in charge.' That's what I said, for all the good it did." He sighs, theatrically (there really is no other word for it). "Thankfully Father Donnagin was there to put in a good word for me. Lovely man, so good, so pious - makes one almost wonder whether there isn't something out there, after all. Friend of Peggy's, you know, but he doesn't go to visit her. Believe me, darlings, I'd be the first to know..."
"So where was I? You mustn't let me interrupt myself like that, darlings, I'll never get a word in edgeways. Oh yes, Father Donnagin got me off the hook - and then plonked me on another great enormous one by insisting - insisting! to me! The Bard of Barrington, no less! that I traipse all the way out here and put on a play to cheer up his lordship! So here I am, who should be tucked up and warm in Matharyn, out here in the freezing cold and driving snow -" he gestures to the open, un-snowy, wilderness - "and, as if that weren't enough, to write an entirely new play to amuse some complete philistine of an Alerion Knight! Life, darlings, is just too, too monstrous on occasion, don't you think?"
”Billy, huh?” Dav says, adding an astute observation, ”Good to know ya. A pretty plain name for such a fancy fellow.” He listens as Marlowe launches into his monologue, through asides and self-interruptions, paying close attention to names and natures, filing away as much information as he can in the process.
He nods along at the flamboyant fellow’s statement that ‘people are people,’ agreeing with the sentiment but wondering how much of it the man truly believes, how much he’d stand by that notion in the face of death, or worse. Felrin smiles and suppresses a chuckle at the notion that life is ‘too monstrous’, and concurs, ”Sure can be monstrous, lots of occasions like that, Billy. Say, this lordship you’re looking to cheer up, who is he? The man in charge of Aldencross? Why’s he need cheering up, bein’ in charge and all? And do you think he needs a guardsman? That’s why I’m here, lookin’ for work. I’m strong, and can follow orders.”
The man raises an amused eyebrow at Dav. "Dear boy, the Lord of Balentyne is none other than Lord Thomas Havelyn; he has an entire army at his disposal, but if you've a taste for military life, you can always enlist, I suppose..."
"As to why he is unhappy? I understand there was a very happy marriage, tragically cut short. Dear Father Donnagin, such a sweetie, he does his best to cheer his Lord up; but I've no doubt this will go as well as the other efforts. I've no doubt either that he'll just keep trying - that's who he is. Such a poppet."
The elderly Varisian man known to his fellows simply as the Doctor leans heavily on his staff as he makes his way to a free seat. He eyes the Bard briefly, dismisses the man as a fool, and busies himself scratching notes into a book of alchemical formulae that he pulls from an inner pocket.
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Tkaara listens to the Bard of Barrington as he describes his most recent performance and how he came to be in Aldencross at this dark and cold time of the year.
Did I understand you correctly? Did this Father Donnagin travel all the way to Farholde to see your performance? That is quite the trip. I visited Farholde once several years ago. A cold wet place if I recall correctly. The wind blows incessantly off the sea bringing with it damp conditions and the smell of fish. Or, is Father Donnigan from Farholde, and has now travelled here to Aldencross to cheer up the Lord of Balentyne.
She pauses, blushing, as though realizing that she is talking to one of the great performance artists of modern Talingarde.
I'm sorry. I did not mean to pry. It just seems that this Father must be very dedicated to the arts, and very convincing to have caused you and your renown troupe, including the lovely ladies, to come here to the far north in the dead of winter.
Knowledge(Local): <-- oh well, would have been nice
Sense Motive:
Diplomacy:
"We would be honored to join you for lunch, Sir." Jenna says cordially, taking seat next to her cousin.
_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_
"Oh My! The inquisition? I'm not familiar with The Princess and the Pauper: was it really that grave? They follow the word of our Shining Lord, they must have had a good reason." the noblewoman says with conviction to the dramaturge, before recoiling back a little "I-I'm sorry. I meant that surely there was a misunderstanding of your work. I am sure that the hearts of both of you were in the right place."
I can't leave Felrin alone to play the role of the dimwitted guard: a religious, bigoted noble from the countryside will fit in nicely.
_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_
The woman that definitely isn't an ifrit puts an hand over her mouth in horror as the bard mentions Lady Havelyn death. "Heavens, I did not know it. What happened to Lord Havelyn's wife?"
"And I have told you before, Dav," Craigh turns to the guard with a sigh, "if it is a matter of coin, I am more than willing to raise your wage. You are a fine guard and fine company and I would hate to lose you. After all, we will have need of your services on the way back as well." He shrugs then in resignation. " But if you are indeed set on enlisting, then by all means. I would hate to keep you from doing what you really want to do."
As he listens to the Bard, his expression turns from fascinated at the man's stories and the unique way he has to tell them to sadened when there is talk of Lord Havelyn's marriage and its abrupt end. Sharing his "cousin"'s concern and curiosity, he waits to see if Marlowe cares to elaborate. "Hopefully nothing too... dire. An accident, I am sure? Certainly not foul play, that would have been terrible."
Did I understand you correctly? Did this Father Donnagin travel all the way to Farholde to see your performance? That is quite the trip. I visited Farholde once several years ago. A cold wet place if I recall correctly. The wind blows incessantly off the sea bringing with it damp conditions and the smell of fish. Or, is Father Donnigan from Farholde, and has now travelled here to Aldencross to cheer up the Lord of Balentyne.
She pauses, blushing, as though realizing that she is talking to one of the great performance artists of modern Talingarde.
I'm sorry. I did not mean to pry. It just seems that this Father must be very dedicated to the arts, and very convincing to have caused you and your renown troupe, including the lovely ladies, to come here to the far north in the dead of winter.
The half-elf shakes his head, with a smile. "No indeed, no one would visit Farholde unless they had to! Father Donnagin, when he perfomed that most estimable service for me, was then a chaplain in the Knights of the Alerion and was in Matharyn. Following some really deeply vexatious bother that I shan't bore you with, he left the Knights and volunteered to serve as chaplain on the Watch Wall. He has been in Balentyne for... hm.. maybe five years now? He has been twisting my arm to come and visit, but I've just been too, too monstrously busy until now. And yes, he can be very persuasive when he wants to be!"
He pauses. "As for Lord Havelyn's wife, so sad - tragic, really; I gather she died in childbirth. I'd love, darlings, to present you with some sordid tale of darkness and woe; but sometimes the truth is just prosaic. No wonder people prefer my plays! I'd never let something like that pass without an evil wizard in the background, cursing the family..."
Finally, once lunch is over, he sighs regretfully. "Time to be moving on, I suppose." His team hitch the oxen back on to the wagons and start moving. "You are welcome to accompany us, but you look as though you travel in haste; it will take us many hours yet to reach Balentyne."
This is true: wagons travel far slower than a group of marching people, just rather more comfortably.
"There is only one inn at Aldencross, the Lord's Dalliance. They say it used to be a brothel, but - alas - such days are long past. If you arrive in time for supper, the only place to go is Mama Rosie's. Trust me darlings, you won't regret eating there. And now, farewell until we meet again!"
The hat bows extravagantly once more, kisses both the ladies shamelessly, winks at Felrin and Erevan and waves you off.
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Tkaara looks to the Doctor (Professor):
Shall we join the maestro for the rest of our journey? I doubt we would be able to find anyone with items of interest this late in the day anyway.
She looks up longingly at the wagon that the bard is sitting on.
I would love to hear more about the next masterpiece that he plans on performing. Getting the scoop on a new show by the Bard of Barrington can give one a big leg up in many social circles.
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Conditional continuation:
If the bard, or the Doctor, do not object, she will climb up next to the Bard and begin to, politely, pepper him with all sorts of questions about his new and old performances. What real life people were the basis for the shows, how often he has been arrested based upon indecency claims of the church, where he is headed after Aldencross, in case their paths might be going in the same direction, and other questions that one with a devoted interest in a performer would ask, but which are probably mostly meaningless for the campaign except as fluff.
She will then turn and look down to Erevan, Etna and Felrin.
It has been nice traveling with you. We shall have to get together in Aldencross to see the sights. I would love to hear more about Caer Dawe once we all are washed up and get the chance to sleep in a comfortable bed.
A shrewd light comes into Felrin’s eye as the Bard of Barrington answers his innocent questions. Interesting…he really means it! He doesn’t care who’s in charge, as long as he can write his plays and live his life. That could be most useful indeed. And his tattling on like this, playing the fool as much as I am, in a way – it serves to set others at ease, get them to open up, so he can read them. He could be a most useful tool indeed, but one to be used with care.
”A whole army, huh?” Dav replies musingly. ”Well, I’m not really a soldier, was thinking a household guard, maybe city watch or something. Or maybe I’ll stay on with Craigh here, like he says. Life’s full of choices we have to make, eh, Billy?”
Listening to Marlowe’s account of the miseries visited upon Lord Havelyn, Dav continues his impression of a simple man, ”Wow, that’s a terrible story! You should make a play about that! Who knows, maybe there was an evil wizard hiding somewhere and cursing the family!”
”Hey, Billy, it was sure nice of you to share your food,” Dav says genuinely. ”I’m with Diene, er, Ms. Malark, it’d be a fine thing to head to town with you. I don’t usually get to travel in such company, might make a good impression on the lord, right?”
Travelling with the wagons, you make slow but easy progress toward Aldencross. Tkaara learns that the Bard has never been arrested as such, due to the process of law; but that he has been questioned a number of times upon possible interpretations of his plays. The only time his licence was truly in jeopardy was following the unrest of The Princess and the Pauper, and that was more of a public order matter. It was this that Donnagin smoothed over for him; "Which is why I'm now traipsing through the frozen North instead of being tucked up nice and warm in Matharyn for the Winter, darling. That is certainly where I shall be going after this!"
Finally, well after nightfall, you arrive at the market town of Aldencross. The town has no walls: the Watch Wall nearby is all the security it needs. Coming along the Western road, you pass a row of quiet houses, pleasantly lit and warm; to your left as you continue to the town centre, you pass Master Caldwyn's Cauldron, the local alchemist shop (closed for the night).
To your left as you approach the town centre is a fine manor house, although nothing like on the scale of Thorn House. To your right is the Town Hall, again closed for the night. At the town centre, you have reached the crossroads between the Great Western Road and the Great Southern Road. The Bard looks longingly South, but the wagons continue East through the town.
In the center of the crossroads is a great statue of a knight on a horse. This is a statue of Markadian I called the Victor. Such statues usually depict the Victor in armor, perhaps even charging into battle. Here, instead, the Victor is depicted out of his armor, in fine garb, riding his horse and looking dreamingly to the North. There is an inscription: “Till all Talingarde is Free”.
Just past the town centre, continuing East, you pass a house with a sign saying Mama Rosie's. It too is closed. The Bard sighs. "The finest cooking you will find in the North! Alas that we arrive too late!"
Finally, you reach the Lord's Dalliance, a large multi-storied building with a weathered sign swinging in the breeze. The sign is old and pretty much illegible, but appears to show a lord 'dallying' with two women. Time and rain have eroded enough detail that it meets (just about) the standards of decency, if you don't look too closely. Just beyond the inn is a large stone watchtower.
Here you say your farewells to the Bard and his troupe, who will be lodging at Balentyne itself. He doffs his spectacular hat once more and kisses Tkaara's and Etna's hand, bows outrageously and bids you all a fond farewell. "I shall send you tickets, darlings, once I've written it you know..."
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As the caravan enters the building, Tkaara looks longingly at the buildings with their flickering lights and the shadows of families within. Behind one, it appears a family of four is just sitting down to dinner. In another, two people seem to be in an argument of some sort. The dark alchemists shop does not really interest Tkaara, although she does look at the Doctor to see whether he shows any sign of live behind his academic yet animalistic eyes.
Suddenly, after passing the main square, and having the Bard point to Mama Rosie's. Tkaara suddenly realizes that it has been months since she was last in a town of any sort. The last time she recalled being in a town was while in the prison wagon being taken to the mock trial in Matharyn. Since then, she had been in a prison, spent quite some time in the Thorn manor, and then the time aboard the ship heading north where they could see the lights of villages from the water.
When the caravan passes Mama Rosie's, Tkaara can still smell the scent of bread that was cooked that morning. This stirs a recollection of enjoying fine food and bread in the past, however, the feeling is fleeting and disappears as quickly as it came.
When the caravan arrives at the Lord's Dalliance, Tkaara looks at the sign with interest.
So, obviously this inn predates many of the edicts of the Mitrans. I wonder what other strict requirements of the south are allowed to be followed in name only here in the frigid north.
With that, Tkaara steps down. Once more on the solid ground, she looks up at the Bard, glad that the sun is down and her near continuous illness experienced during daylight has subsided.
It would be an honor to attend your performance. When do you expect the show to take place? I mean, do you expect to have it completed in a few days? Or will it be a long drawn out process that might take this town into the mud of spring?
Once the Bard has answered, Tkaara will thank him once more for his hospitality, and then head into the inn with the Doctor(Professor), waiting with the caravan to allow Etna, Erevan and Felrin to go in first and negotiate their own accommodations separately.
Etna sighs to herself when the Bard mentions Matharyn.
Matharyn...It's been months since I've been home. Though, after all that happened, I'm not really sure it's my "home" anymore: there's definitely no one waiting for me there. Not that it matters, honestly: if mother isn't expecting me to come back, the easier it will be for me to have my revenge.
For a moment, Lady Jenna clenches her first for apparently no reason, before going back to look out of the carriage windows, spotting the first lights of Aldencross.
_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_/\_
The noblewoman looks with disgust at the inn's sign. "Off to a bad start, I see." she mutters under her breath "Let's go book a room, cousin. I really need a bath." she gestures to Craigh, moving toward the building.
"Well... cousin," Erevan says as he too glances at the sign, a look of amusement, or at least close enough to it, on his face, "there is a bit of irony here. The good and just powers-that-be, most probably Mitran, do not find this depiction insults their lord or their beliefs and morals. Well, at least as long as it is... decent enough, courtesy of weather and time." He chuckles softly then, the sound best described as hollow. There is no true mirth there.
And then, just like that, he is Craigh again. "Ah, yes! A bath! One does miss the simple pleasures when devoid of them for too long. Hopefully it will have hot water too..."
As they prepare to enter, his mind goes back to Marlowe. "Say, Jen," he says then, "the man in the hat winked at me as he was about to leave. Do you think he... likes me?" He pats his illusionary extra weight down. "I should think not. I blame the pastries."
"Well, yes, but it still isn't a proper thing to display on an-Is that a..." Etna/Jenna turns red while replying to Erevan, having unfortunately focused too much on the sign and noticed what the forces of nature had censored.
Coughing to re-acquire her composure, Jenna shrugs at Craigh's second question "Considering how he acted toward me and Diene, I suppose he just does that with everyone. And the pastries are to blame in any case. You are eating really too much of the stuff, lately."
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Winston trots obediently Bbehind Lady Jenna and Lord Craigh.
He really was proud of his impression of a normal dog, that day: he stared right trough people, tilted his head if someone asked something more elaborate than "catch the piece of bacon", and even pretended to chase his own tail a couple of times.
It was kind of degrading, but normal mutts used to do things like that, so he had to adapt like Mistress Etna and her companions did.
The Lord's Dalliance is a haven of warmth and comfort, with the aroma of roast meat (venison, Ottakar and Winston note) and alcohol. Walking through the front door, you enter a large common room (around 60 feet by 100 feet) with 10 or so tables placed at intervals. Only a few of the tables are occupied: it is clear that the inn is not catering to its full capacity at present.
At the bar, half a dozen off-duty (but still spotlessly uniformed) soldiers are buying drinks for about twice that number of women; the conversation is indistinct, but clearly of a somewhat bawdy nature, judging by their dress and the occasional shrieks of laughter.
A large fireplace crackles in the wall on your right; directly ahead of you is the bar. Off to one side of the bar, on a set of lower chairs and tables, a group of maybe half a dozen dwarves are getting into the serious business of drinking and arguing.
"An' an' I'm telling you, yeah, them foundations - they don't need anything doin' to 'em! Dwarf made, they're good for another 200 years"
" are drunk! An' when you're, you're, you're... drunk, you forget that am in charge! An' I say that, that - yeah, them foundations don't need no work on them."
"See, Barnabas-"
"That's Engineer-in-Chief Captain Eisenbauch to you, Grundfist!"
"Fine. Be like, like that. See, Engineer-in-Chief Captain Eisenbauch, if you hadn't, hadn't, hadn't gone and pissed off Thane Brightmetal, right, we, we wouldn't be stuck here in the North end of nowhere messing around with siege engines when we could be getting rich doing stonework for them noblemen down South!"
"Look, lads, I know that this really isn't our thing, yeah? But we're gettin' well paid to put together a half-dozen siege engines and look over the foundations. Tell you what, I've got a map of the fortress in my room - we'll take a look over it and see if we can make an argument that any of the foundations need work, yeah? Proper stonemasoning, I mean, none of this pansy woodworkin'! You stick with, with, me, lads an' I'll get us all rich... Some day.""
Seeing Erevan and Etna dressed with an obvious air of gentility - and money - the innkeeper (a portly man with a shock of curly ginger hair) rushes over to them, bowing obsequiously. "Welcome, my Lord, my Lady - and their little doggy, too!" He kneels down and gives Winston a quick pet, before quickly wiping his hands on a towel at his belt.
He politely steers Etna and Erevan to a table in a room beyond the bar (a sign on the door says 'reserved for officers' - Felrin is politely shown to one of the tables in the common room by a servant girl), where you find yourselves in a much grander - and smaller - environment: several booths with tables, none of which are presently occupied. "This is where the officers dine, when they're in town," he explains. His wife, a small, simpering lady, takes your orders for drinks and food, before departing, leaving the three of you alone. The ginger-haired inkeep clears his throat, before offering his sales pitch.
"You seek lodgings for the night, my Lord, my Lady? Course you do, with it being dark outside, you'll get no further tonight on your journey! Welcome to my inn, Bellam Barhold is my name... We have a suite upstairs that's ready and waiting and I can offer my daughter Eponine's services as maid-" he points to a rather shy-looking young girl of no more than ten or so, who's currently cleaning glasses behind the bar - "and there's a bath which I can have filled. Perfect privacy, whole of the top floor, room for the two of you and your servants, separate entrance down a stairway at the back..." He reels off the advantages with a trained sales patter and looks at you appraisingly. "Normally 15 gold a night, but since it's Fireday and we're low on numbers, I'd be happy to offer it to you for 12 gold a night, all services included." He looks at you expectantly.
Tkaara and Ottakar enter some minutes later, while Barhold is still chatting with Etna and Erevan somewhere out of sight. Felrin is being served by one of the serving wenches at a table by the fire.
Tkaara and Ottakar are shown to a separate table, and the innkeeper's wife, a small, simpering lady, approaches you. "Good evening, sir, madam, welcome to the Lord's Dalliance. Do you require lodging for the night? You can have your own room for 3 gold a night per room; they're clean and well-kept. Can I get you a drink? Something to eat?" She looks at you anxiously.
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As Tkaara and the Doctor, now Professor, duck into the inn, she immediately notes the soldiers and their interest in the local ladies.
I wonder whether they are simply local trollops or purveyors of a more professional nature.
When the innkeeper's wife arrives, Tkaara gives her a most pleasant smile, speaking with a most southern (for Talingarde) accent, using the appropriate inflections of one not born into the higher class, but who wishes to be perceived as such.
Why thank you. We could definitely use a room. Considering the lack of . . . proper accommodations in the towns between here and the coast, your lovely establishment should do excellent.
You mentioned a private room for three gold a night. Would you perchance have anything better, a suite perhaps? She leans in closer and whispers using her hand to hide what is being said from the Doctor, although he undoubtedly can still hear. The Professor snores something terrible.
Leaning back after whispering to the innkeeper's wife. We actually may be here for some time and I was wondering if you might have a weakly or monthly rate. Tkaara gets a looks showing more than a little displeasure with this idea. Our benefactor has taken an interest in the botany of the north, as well as in historic artifacts and stories of the north. I don't rightly know why anyone would show such interest in this area, but he has sent the Professor here to do his research and I am to assist him. Once more Tkaara leans in whispering. And to make sure that the Professor does not get sidetracked and lost in some minutia of unimaginable boringness, like military history and which inbred noble begot which, all of which is irrelevant to our benefactor.
Diplomacy:
Profession(Barrister): <-- to negotiate since this seems to be one of the rare chances to use this skill.
Knowledge(Local):
Etna sighs with relief after they enter the inn: it wasn't as bad as she thought it would be.
Well, except for those women "dallying" over there. Tsk.
Glancing in direction of the fireplace, the ifrit overhears the dwarves' conversation. Smiling to herself, she points Erevan's attention to them with a sign of her head.
Quite lucky to find by chance someone that knows about what Jenna and Craigh came here for. Maybe Erevan ought to have a talk with them, later...
Jenna smiles warmly as the innkeeper greets them, and she follows him to the table behind the counter. She listens to the man's sales pitch attentively, nodding, before smiling broadly.
"Oh, we would like it very much: this place is quite lovely! You had me a 'bath'!" the noblewoman continues, giving a brief laugh. "Though, we were actually planning to stay here a little longer than a night: could we agree on a weekly fee? Maybe 70 gold? The original plan was to stay here for a week, but I have to say that I do love the countryside." Jenna concludes, still smiling.
"Also, if I'm not inopportune" the woman adds with a gossipy tone "Have you said officers? Do they come here frequently, from the Watch Wall?"
The Professor grunts noncommittally at Tkaara's words. Once she has negotiated for rooms, he speaks to the serving girl. "Venison. Rye bread." He sniffs the air appreciatively. "Buttered beets. And red wine."
He frowns at Tkaara's signaling. What possible care would have have for the blabbering of... wait, a map? That could be quite useful indeed...
The small woman's eyes light up in interest at Tkaara's comments. "A professor - to study here?! Well, that is a turn-up, I'm sure we'd be delighted to have you both. Here, let's see, now... Yes, there's a suite on the second floor, next to our room - don't normally let it a weekend, so it's free. A month, you say? Well, let me see, why don't we say 50 gold, or 40 if you can pay in advance?" She looks at you to see if that is acceptable.
Assuming you agree, she looks around anxiously and lowers her voice. "Just so you know, my husband occasionally wanders around of a night - sleepwalking, I think they call it. So if you hear anything, don't be alarmed." She looks worried, as though she's said too much.
Bellam's eyes light up at the thought of letting the floor for an entire week. "70 gold will be quite adequate, my Lady; uh - might I be so bold as to request half now? I've had some troubles lately, you see..."
He nods. "Oh yes, often see the officers here! Best place in town, and the room here means they don't have to mix with the enlisted men - not that there's anything wrong at all with the rank and file, finest group of men you could ever hope to meet," he adds hastily, lest he give the wrong impression. "It's just that my brother's one of the officers - Sam Barhold. Heh, 'Iron Sam' they call him, he's that respected!" He puffs his chest out in borrowed pride. "He doesn't come here much, mind, but the others - that Zack Eddarly, he's a handsome devil, have to watch him with the ladies occasionally, but he's a good sort. Franz Mott, he comes here too, with his lovely wife... Oh, and Captain Varning, when he isn't out horsing around on patrol, and admiring the scenery. Only one who never comes here's the Commander of the Tower, Lord Havelyn. Oh, but he's a grim sort! Some tragedy in his past, they say, but I dunno what."
Being quite fluent in the dwarven tongue, Erevan nods as Etna shows him the dwarves arguing, though the clamor they make is enough for him to look their way and catch what it is they are arguing about. Admittedly, to him most conversations between the stout folk in their native tongue sound like arguments, but this one seems more than a little interesting. Nodding to his "cousin" with a smile, he then moves to the table along with the portly innkeeper. The man seems all too eager to please, which is quite understandable considering their current guise.
He may as well get to know a thing or two about the man. It could prove useful or provide leverage, as problems often do when someone else can provide a solution. Besides, Etna -or Jenna- is already asking about the officers.
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Tkaara looks down at her purse with a rather worried look and then back up at the innkeeper's wife. As she does so, slight lines appear upon her forehead as she concentrates, as though doing math or trying to determine something.
She looks over to Ottakar/the Professor, hoping for some confirmation, but the Professor is clearly off in his own world of thoughts and not paying any attention to the negotiation. Probably because he is keenly listening to the dwarves.
Not getting a response, Tkaara turns back to the innkeeper's wife.
Well, um . . . we are on limited funds, but . . . a warm bath would be nice and . . . and putting a wall between me and the snoring Professor would be good.
This suite. It is on the second floor, right? Far enough away from the noise of the common room that the Professor will be able to study uninterrupted?
After a little more internal turmoil, Tkaara looks back at the innkeeper's wife, and assuming that there is no more negotiation.
Ok, I think that I can afford 40 for the month. I am going to get a serious yelling when we get back to the south, but I cannot imagine sleeping with that snoring in the same room for the next month.
With that, Tkaara takes out her pouch and carefully counts out 40 gold, using silver, and even a few copper, in the process. Most of her real coinage is in the bottom of her handy haversack/briefcase.
When she finishes, she takes a deep breath and then looks to the doctor.
Perhaps we should go take our things to the suite. We only have a month, and you have much to learn about this area and its animals and plants.
She turns to the innkeeper's wife and mouthes silently.
I will be back. I need some non-intellectual company if you know what I mean.
Felrin casts a quick eye about the barroom, then moves to take a seat not far from where the soldiers are enjoying female company. He gestures to one of the serving girls, ordering ale and a simple meal. As he eats, he catches the eye of one of the nearby soldiers and lifts his glass to him, saying, ”Hey friend, looks like life as a soldier here is pretty fine, and those uniforms sure look good. Who do I talk to about signing up?”
He waves to the serving girl again and gestures toward the soldiers, saying, ”I think my friends’ drinks are getting low, better bring ‘em another round, on me.”
"But of course, my good man." she smiles to the innkeeper, handing him the money. "By the way, we have heard about Lord Havelyn on the way: apparently, his wife died, but we don't know much else." the noblewoman gossips.
Bellam looks around uneasily before replying, in a low voice. "It's them dwarves, my Lord. I've nothing against them meself, of course, but... you hear things. I've had complaints about their noise, about their drinking, about stealing - I don't believe that one, but I have to live here after all, so sometimes I offer money back to anyone who's really complaining. Got to keep people on side, when you run somewhere like this."
He sighs. "To be honest, I'd rather they was up at the castle, but the Lord there asked me to have 'em here. He doesn't drink you see - doesn't like to have it in the place, so he thought they'd prefer it here. You can see - heh, you can hear - that they like it well enough."
He pauses. "Well, I've said my piece, my Lord, and I hope I haven't spoke out of turn or anything. But them dwarves isn't so popular right now. We're a quiet town, see. Yes, we have the market, and that's what we depend on, but it's all orderly. Nothing too much, nothing too loud. Folk know how to behave round here."
Shuffling off to bring your food, he returns some moments later with platters and glasses. "I'll leave you to it, my Lord, my Lady." Bowing, he takes his leave.
Seeing a newcomer - a man - splashing money around, two of the women approach him, followed by a number of the soldiers. They're not particularly pleased by what looks like a possible rival for the ladies, but they're grudgingly grateful for having drinks bought. One of them speaks up. "I'm corporal Grant, 23rd Regiment of Foot, Lord Havelyn's. Signing up depends on the regiment you wanna join, an' how desperate they are. We're a bit low at present, but Lord Havelyn likes to interview people hisself, see? Best you turn up at the castle, ask for one of the sergeants on duty, he'll tell you what to do." He seems a bit surprised by your request. "I've always heard that them in private employ has nice perks, not much action - surprised you'd wanna leave that for army life! Been sacked, 'ave ya? Could be a problem, the Lord likes references for them he doesn't know."
Out of the corner of his eye, Felrin sees two of the soldiers whispering with a couple of the - more attractive - women; there's the surreptitious clink of coin, and then the 4 of them ascend the staircase up to the next floor.
Barhold's wife nods. "Quite right, miss, second floor's far above here, you won't hear a thing. Oh, and if you're worried about them dwarves, we've put 'em in the cellar. Everyone's happier that way. Now, here's your keys - and that's for the front door, we lock up 10 p.m. sharp. Feel free to come and go as you please."
Eventually, the tavern settles. The bar empties, with its denizens either returning home, or to their respective rooms. The soldiers are - politely - shown the door, as are the various women they've been socialising with.
Etna and Erevan find that the top floor is everything that was promised: private, exclusive, lushly furnished; and Eponine, the Barholds' daughter, is quiet, well-mannered and does as she is asked.
The dwarves carouse for a while longer, before they too make their way down to the cellar.
Sleep comes easily to all, after a long day.
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Being used to staying awake through the night, Tkaara quickly gathers her bearings. She moves into the Doctor's room and shakes him awake. Putting her finger to her lips, she whispers.
Someone just left the innkeeper's room. They are trying to be quiet in the hallway. Sounds like they are moving to the stairs.
Well, I admit the shouting and drinking is insufferable, but I thought that backwater boors thought that halflings were the ones that stole.
Not that I expected anything different from people around here.
After Jenna and her cousin are escorted to their suite, the noblewoman waits for Eponine to fill the bathtub with hot water.
After the girl has left, Etna turns to Erevan and smiles. "Now, cousin..." the ifrit says, pushing him out of whatever room the bathtub is "I have to take a bath. If you won't disturb me, if you please...". Her push is gentle enough to not be rude, but it's clear that whoever will get between Etna and the hot bathtub will be summarily scorched to death.
After the ifrit closes the door behind herself, only a few, faint sounds can be heard: the shuffling of clothes, a brief sound of someone entering a bathtub, a long, happy sigh, and the satisfied silence of someone that has gone trough water, hail, filthy ships, disgusting paste passed as food, goblinoids' banquets, and is now finally back in civilization.
Cozy, warm, clean civilization.
Ottakar, as usual having trouble sleeping at night, instantly awakens to Tkaara's shake. He slips on his eyeglasses, slips out of bed, and raises an eyebrow at his companion as if to silently ask her "How did you wish to proceed?"
”Nope, not sacked,” Dav says simply, ”just looking for a change. Perks are decent, like you say, but you get a little tired of workin’ for a snooty lordling, you know? Thanks for the advice on where to go and who to talk to, I’ll give it a shot. And you say you’re with the 23rd Regiment of Foot? What regiments are there? It’d be helpful to know a little when I go to talk to the sergeant, or even Lord Havelyn.”
He takes a sip of his ale and pushes away his empty plate, then continues, ”Tell you the truth, I think it’d be great to serve in the castle. Who has that duty? Any idea what the duty is like?” He waves the serving girl over, then says, ”Corporal Grant was it? I’m Dav. I know I’m taking a lot of your time, maybe I can buy you dinner for your trouble? Or throw in a little coin for your, uh, evening’s entertainment? I’m not a rich man, but you’re helping me, I’d like to help you.”