Morgraine nods slightly and offers a slight smile. "Indeed. Have you traveled far on your journey? You have probably seen and observed much. What news can you share?"
Nathara squirms around and listens to the conversation, but doesn't dare to engage in it.
"Mmmm." The minstrel thinks for a moment, perhaps thinking of a story to tell. "I've been many places, from Feyfrost to the Verge. Things are the same in most parts of Irrisen these days. Although... I have heard something of a strange tale... tell me, you know what is suppose to happen this year, yes?" She looks around, as if checking to see who's listening. "The Witch Queen's return," she finishes in a hushed whisper. "She's to return to take our queen Elvanna away. But there's been a story going around that her riders have been seen only to disappear again. Some folks are wondering if something has changed her mind. Maybe Elvanna's the first queen that she won't disappear into the night. If only we knew what happened..."
"That's... odd. But maybe the time has not yet fully come. Is there a particular day at which the new queen is supposed to be instated?"
She hushed back, trying to sound flabbergasted. Nathara just hated lying, and she was surprised this one came over her lips relatively smoothly. She even managed to suppress the urge to look at Morgraine in order to find out whether that was plausible.
"Erm, forgive my interference, milady."
"We had not heard this rumor; surely no one can challenge Baba Yaga's power?" adds Eirikr.
Inire stays quiet throughout the entire exchange... she'd have to find someone who knew how to speak Tian, or a way to learn it if she was going to pretend to be a guide from there... or something to that effect. For now, simply acting as though she weren't listening, and instead just reacting to tone, while she watched the fire seemed... ideal.
"What? Impossible! Golarion has its seasons, and Irrisen has its century-long reigns. For Baba Yaga not to make her return... that would be something unheard of in thousands of years... "
"I can't say," the bard says. "It's little more than a rumor now. Perhaps the Black Rider will pass through here any day now. Or perhaps he's already been. Regardless, it's a truly strange time for Irrisen."
"Aye. Indeed, such events are so far beyond the reach and scope of the likes of us, the less time we spend pondering them, the wiser. Safer, too" Tiferet says gruffly. "Regardless, thanks for the warning. We'll be sure to be on the lookout for Riders, be they black or otherwise."
Illarion claimed he was ambushed near the Portal. Elvanna's agents must have been on his tracks. For this Forlarren to be so well-informed about his whereabouts...
"These rumors of sightings may be nothing more than the idle gossip of the peasantry looking for a few moments of self-importance," Morgraine states dismissively. "The year is not yet up. Who knows when or where the three might appear... for real." She raises a skeptical eyebrow and looks at the Forlarren. ”Or are you saying you heard them from sources more… substantial?”
The minstrel shrugs. "I was preforming in an upscale inn in Whitethrone a few weeks ago and there was one of the Winter Witches present along with several of her friends and guards. They seemed most curious about the rider's lack of arrival"
The explicit focus on the Black Rider appearing near here, when the woman was asking about the riders in general lined up too well with their knowledge of the black rider having traveled to them via portal. But while she didn't particularly like the focus being spot-on, she doesn't seem to pick up on any more subtleties. So, she stays quiet.
"Whitethrone? We were headed in that direction," adds Eirikr, detecting nothing wrong with what the woman was saying.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
That single eyebrow remained lifted a moment longer before Morgraine smoothly composes her features to that of mild interest. "Truly?" she asks, with just a hint of surprise in her voice. "Well now, that is more interesting. If one of the witches puts stock in these rumors as you say, perhaps it is worth taking note of after all. Hmm. Does this woman have a name?"
The bard shakes her head. "I'm afraid I didn't get her name. It was just an overheard conversation. I'm fairly certain she was one of the Yadwiga Elvanna though."
The woman was good once she got going, Morgraine would give her that. Almost she would have accepted her word, if not for Kettu's suspicious and silent yiff carried through the bond she had with him.
"I see. That is a pity."
Morgraine shakes her head ruefully as she considers. It was obvious the minstrel was hiding something, perhaps a great deal of somethings, but Morgraine was unsure how far to press her without making her suspicious in turn. Perhaps it would be best to drop it for now until she could consult with her companions. The storm would likely last for hours and the half-fey creature was unlikely to depart before then, surely?
Nathara continues to listen and is still quite intrigued by the newcomer, but does not dare to say anything anymore. If that woman is a spy of Elvanna, a single wrong word may be their downfall. She might be not... but there is certainly something to her.
Evelyn sits quietly for a time, her face slightly contorted as she debates with herself about if she should speak or not and about what until one side finally wins over. "In your travels throughout here have you ever heard of a man named Malcolm Weiss?"
She watches the bards face carefully as she askes.
"The Elvannas wouldn't make such claims light-heartedly, not with the time of their judgement otherwise being so close at hand" Tiferet says, staring right into the fire. "Strange times are coming upon Irrisen, but if the balance of power has shifted, better to be on the winning side, right? You rumour seems to claim the Black Rider is still on the run. I'm sure there's coins to be made by helping in the capture of such a powerful creature."
She pokes the fire, stirring the embers. Sparks suddenly erupt, pirouetting against the black of night, and the Skald falls silent for some brief moments, following their dance. "They say a wandering eye sees more things than one fixed in place. Should we stumble into him, on the off-chance we survive the encounter, do you think someone would be interested in knowing?"
While the others converse with the forlarren, Eirikr walks away from the camp, just far enough so he is out of earshot--then he whispers a spell to himself before returning to the fire, looking a little more presentable than he had been moments before.
"And of course a bard as talented as yourself has contacts among the major players of Whitehthrone," adds Eirikr as he sits down beside the fey woman, giving her a crooked smile as he does.
"Malcolm Weiss..." The bard frowns, clearly thinking about the name. "I don't believe I know that name. Is it someone you know?"
She looks over at Tif and Eirikr and nods. "I suppose that's true. Things have most certainly been rather... strange recently. So many things happening." She sighs. "Well, I'm certain Queen Elvanna would be interested in knowing if her mother was coming. Or any of the witches really. Baba Yaga's arrival is always a time of political upheaval."
"More like looking for." Evelyn returns to his silence.
"I'm sorry, but I can't be of much help," Mierul says with a sad shake of her head. "Still, I wish you the best of luck."
From there, the night passes quickly. Despite the blizzard, the valley is sheltered enough to keep the worst of the wind and the snow off the camp and the tents and fur provide enough warmth to make it at least decently comfortable. Soon, morning comes and the caravaneers quickly repack the sleds, clearly used to the quick set-up and tear down of their camps. "Let's get this thing on the road then," Nadya says as the sleds set off again.
In the morning when he awakens, Eirikr looks to see if Mierul was still in the camp. Regardless of whether she was or not, he assists the merchants in dismantling the camp. Once the party sets forth again, Eirikr tries to take a position near the front of the group but still behind Inire, as they have done in the past.
Nathara does not sleep well this night. All the responisbility, the new impression, the difficulty to tell friend and foe apart make her restless. Being crowded with so many strangers, most of the humans and not a single one elf, is not helping either.
In the morning she excuses herself, takes her time to clean herself in the snow and tries to enjoy the clarity of the cold and the clear winter air, like Tiferet always does. Even though Vosi is welcome she cherishes the moment of solitude otherwise. She studies her spell book only briefly, replacing two of the cantrips she has prepared, but leaving the spells in the back of her mind as they are. Whether or not she will find a proper use for a silent image remains to be seen, but between all this deception it cannot hurt.
Finally, she tries a few dancing steps in her little island in the snow. Not sword dances and martial variations, but lyrical ones, dances which belong to characters from romantic epics she likes to enjoy.
She does look a little brighter than the night before when she comes back on the camp and bids everyone a good morning, focusing on Lily, tending her and making sure that the equipment is well arranged on her back. She looks around to see whether Mierul is still around as they depart.
Inire also helps to break down the camp, but is infinitely aware of whether or not she's getting in the way. Should she feel even remotely like she is, she'll move away from the sleds.
She tries out some of the mantis meat for breakfast (which hopefully doesn't smell too bad, cooking). Once the exoskeleton has a small amount of char, she breaks it open to try the meat. "Chewy. Tastes like shrimp and mushrooms." she informs them, using Elven. Which means they might actually be able to get an exotic meal out of the rest of it, if the others were willing to stomach it!
Inire nods, before heading off to skirt the edge of the road, roughly level with the front of the caravan. She'll stay in cover as much as she can... and if the Forlarren isn't between her and those linked by whisper, she'll use that to converse. She chooses to speak in Elven as she does; it was significantly less likely the Forlarren would understand it, given the attitude of the northern elves towards outsiders of all kinds - even their own half-elves and diplomats. She keeps Scribe unsheathed during her movements, just in case something catches her unaware.
Elven, Message, Mierul-not-between: [b][Smaller]"I don't like her focus on only the rider the Jadwiga would not know the location of. But... I'm no good at reading people, so... I don't know whether to distrust her beyond that or not.
Nathara is marching close to caravan as she hears Inire's voice. She looks over her shoulder and pushes the hood a bit to the side in oder to see the graceful half-human. "It was indeed an interesting remark and I agree, she's quite an intriguing character." She puts her whispered elven words carefully and and makes sure that her mouth cover is well placed as she whispers. "In the stories the bards are often the spy's and she certainly took notice of us. We are quite a colourful troup ourselves."
A sly grind runs across the tiefling's face. "I do like her singing." She did not really want to talk about the rider, that she did not give a direct answer; everything might be risky.
She has carried her bow often in enough in the past few days, if she does that too often she will only damage the bow and the string needlessly. She keeps a hand close to the hilt of her sword, but she does not want to unsettle the traders by pulling.
Like Nathara, Tiferet has chosen a secluded spot rather distant from the campfire to perform her devotions and immerse in meditation. There might be safety in numbers, but also the lack of intimacy she had come to enjoy when it was just the six of them in camp – that kind of intimacy only having trusted another person with one's own life can give. So, as the heated water from the bowls slowly evaporates and the storm rages all around her, there she stands, hands raised, kneeling in snow, offering prayers that hadn't been whispered in Irrisen since time immemorial.
Her first night in the land of her ancestors. She has longed the whole day for this moment. She had hoped the North would reawaken her connection to her core, but she hadn't taken into account that this land hadn't belonged to the Ulfen for a long time. This was the Witches' land, and even though she feels Tolc's influence growing stronger, so was Baba Yaga's. Which means her soul is still a battlefield.
***********************************************************************
"Naming the Rider might have been a coincidence... but getting the time and place right?" Tiferet whispers back in Elven. "I do second the sentiment about her singing, though. She could teach me a thing or two." Beautiful art can only stem from a beautiful soul, I heard someone say. Would that it were so simple.
If allowed Evelyn would help cook the parties meal but being a meat she'd never used it wouldn't be a very large improvement in taste.
During the night Evelyn would set up a little further from the group than normal being set on edge by all the strangers which was likely the reason she was awake and packing sooner than normal for her as well.
Eirikr stares blankly as Inire speaks, uncomprehending. He blanches a little as she eats the mantis--he can't imagine just cooking it would make it taste any better, he preferred his food as raw as possible anyways. Still, if Inire wanted to eat it, he wasn't going to stop her. He kind of wished he knew what she was saying, or what she and Tiferet and Nathara were talking about--the way they looked at each other while they were talking made him figure it was something important.
"Do you speak elf, Ashen," he asked, looking down at the wolf, who responded by shaking the snow off of his fur. "Me either. One day we're going to have to teach one of them to talk wolf."
While he waits for the group to move on, Eirikr idly practices his flute--as much out of earshot of the others as he can manage. Mierul's laughter had stung more than he cared to admit--among the wolves, the music had been mostly song, the song of the pack as it hunted together and feasted together--not the sort of audience that prepares one for any sort of performance among civilized folks. He had long since forgotten the proper name of the notes--he had replaced them in his mind with the names of the birds that sang most closely to the sound of the note on the flute. Sparrow, robin, robin, jay--or was it robin, jay, robin? He cursed to himself as his fingers fumbled on the flute, and for a moment he considered snapping it between his hands--but he could not bring himself to do that--at least, not yet.
Eirikr's song picks up and, despite the rather rough beginning, actually comes across as a decent tune. The caravan picks up speed and they're soon on their way across the frozen earth. As they move back toward the road, they find the snow more heavily packed down, even after last night's storm, and they're able to pick up the pace again. By the time the sun is rising high in the sky, they find themselves making their way into the village itself. The sleds come to a halt in the town square and the hunters begin unloading some of the goods to the general store while the rest remain carefully packaged up.
Inire pauses as they approach the town... she looks from place to place, gazing back over her shoulder, off the road. She tilts her head slightly, then freezes. Her eyes dart from building to building as her pulse quickens.
She looks back towards the others, wide-eyed - realization confirmed - wondering if this was some sort of trick of her imagination.
Morgraine notices Inire's strange demeanor and peers about confusedly, unable to figure out what was wrong. "What?" She finally asks.
When they first arrive in the town, it looks just like any other, nothing remarkable to Eirikr's eyes--in fact, it looks just like Heldren. Almost exactly like Heldren, in fact. Inn at the southeast, general store to the north--one building after the other in exactly the same place with exactly the same purpose. Eirikr hadn't seen many towns but this seemed--strange, that the first settlement they'd come to in Irrisen would be so similar to the place they had just left in Taldor.
"It's all the same," he says, standing at the edge of town, not crossing deeper. "Everything's in the same place. Just like Heldren but-- a mirror frosted over with ice, a cold reflection."
Tiferet tries some of the leftover mantis before the caravan departs – she has to admit it tastes far better than she thought (low expectations being often the stuff pleasant surprises are made of, after all), though it tastes even better if she doesn't think too hard about its source. She wishes she could share Inire's innate curiosity for everything that surrounds her, seeing the world as a book waiting to be browsed rather than a cause to fight for or against, as the occasion comes.
She walks besides the sleighs trying her best to keep up with their brisk pace, but she finds the chilly morning air invigorating as she inhales it as deeply as she can. Few things she would like more than to feel its caress on her bare skin, yet, to her growing impatience, the heavy furs she's wearing form a cocoon that feels more and more like a prison. Still, no matter how much she'd like to parade through Irrisen in her breastplate and double-slit linen gown, the closer they get to the village the more she comes to grip with the notion that the secrecy of their mission is worth a little silent suffering.
Entering Waldsby, she's quick to offer her help unloading the goods, when Morgraine's interrogative draws her attention towards Inire perplexed look. Eirikr's remark, however, catches her completely by surprise – and yet, a careful examination of the surrounding square is enough to realize how right he is. For an instant, an absurd thought enters her mind. It's like we never crossed the Portal, but simply traced our way back to Heldren – only to find it already engulfed in the icy bubble.
A simple village. Unfortunately they won't be able to replace all their valuables and superfluous equipment with actually meaningful equipment in a nest like this.
"You're right... those small villages are all the same. Even though I think each a particular ch...." Nathara halts there as she begins to grasp what Eirikr means. Her feelings are mixed. So even all this ice there is some life and some joy.
It's almost a trained reflex that she casts a Detect Magic spell as she believes her mundane eyes fool her.
She steps closer to Tiferet and tries to encourage the others with more or less subtle hand signs to come closer as well. "So... what does that mean? That Heldren was a mock city modelled after this one... but the people there seemed to be pretty real to me." She speaks elven but tries Sylvan and then Gnome when she notices that Eirikr doesn't understand.
"I am... curious what we might find in the temple, though, how far the reflection goes." Nathara does not sound particularly excited though, rather unsettled.
"I'll check." Inire responds in elven. She'd seen Eirikr's confused look, but as long as the fey woman was with them, she couldn't readily speak, especially on the subject of traveling from across the world.
She quickly moves off ahead, to investigate the building that had been the church. Not being particularly religious would likely help with the 'culture shock'. Hopefully at least.
Inire makes her way toward the village church. It's a small stone building, looking somber and a bit lonely. A round, bluish glass window marked with a spiral sits over the door.
"Bark bark bark, woof growl bark?" says Eirikr to Ashen as the others converse in Elf, Sylvan, and other languages that Eirikr doesn't understand.
Inire nods, before crossing the distance to being able to whisper once more. "Pharasma. I like Pharasma."
While the others converse in languages he does not understand, Eirikr decides to try to explore the town, to see if he can guess as why it is a frozen mirror of Heldren or find any hints of the location of the source of the portal. He considers accompanying Inire to the temple of Pharasma--but he feels a strange twinge of guilt and sorrow--his mother had been devoted to the Lady of Graves and seeing the swirling symbol of the temple feels to painful; he decides to go elsewhere.
Eirikr can tell how uncomfortable Tiferet is, though he cannot tell whether she is feeling too warm or too cold, rather strangely. With the protections of Rokhar's cloak, Eirikr feels rather comfortable. He had not, for the most part, changed his outfit before their arrival. Switching his furs had seemed to fool Mierul and he preferred to wear less whenever possible--he had worn little back in the Shudderwood, of course, preferring to rely on his own fur to keep him warm, but Rokhar's close allowed him a close approximation.
Irrisen was strange but--perhaps no stranger than Taldor had been. The way people talked here--it was familiar, somehow--it reminded him of home, not of the other villagers but of--of his father, the way he spoke. His father had been from the Land of the Linnorn Kings, which was close to Irrisen, he supposed, but the way the people here talked--it was closer to Svarig's accent than he had expected.
He remembered something his father had told him--it had seen so strange at the time--that should he find himself in the north--he should look for folks with white hair, whose breathe was cold even when the air was warm. Such a strange thing to say--but perhaps it would make sense soon. Regardless, he keeps that thought to himself as he wanders through the town.
Inire quietly returns to the majority of the group, now more aware that a scout isn't really necessitated. And if one was needed, it would likely be someone with a different skillset than herself.
"They both look real enough to me" Tiferet whispers back. "And Heldren has always been there, as far as I know. Perhaps we're getting causality backwards..." she adds cryptically, almost to herself.
As Inire goes reconnoitring ahead, she waits with the caravan. Pharasma instead of Erastil. Seems fitting she muses as the nimble half-elf reports her findings. Unlike Inire, the Lady of the Graves has never really spoken to Tiferet. As a Skald, she has always seen life as a story to be told, as a riddle to be unravelled, as a battle to be fought. The inevitability of the cycle of birth and death was the frame lingering at the very edge of it, a lens through which everything seems distant and meaningless – and an unsubtle reminder that in the end, every story ends the same. A cruel form of cosmic justice, if it weren't for the fact that some are over before they can even begin she gloomily considers, thinking of Thora. This time, it's not rage that threatens to overwhelm her – only a vast, profound sense of sadness.
She looks around, looking for Nadya. There are no words kind enough to approach a mother who has just lost her child, so she just opts for the oldest and tritest in the book. "How are you today?" she gently asks of the Ulfen woman, in her eye an implicit offer for any kind of help.
As Eirikr explores the town a bit, he finds it remarkably unwelcoming. Most of the villagers are less than thrilled to see an outsider, at least the few that are out in the snowy streets, and hardly anyone is willing to give him so much as the time of day. However, as he's walking by a small shop just past the inn, he hears a surprisingly cheerful voice call out. "Morning!" He turns to see a short, even for her kind, dwarven woman clearing the front step of snow.
Nadya had been utterly silent all morning. As Tiferet approaches her, she shakes her head. "Not better really. I'm not sure I'll be better for a long time." She looks around. "If you and your friends would like to get acquainted with the village, I won't keep you, but if you accompany me home once you're done, I'd like to help you in whatever way I can. I believe I have a few things that will be useful to you."
Eirikr was just about to give up and return to the others when he heard the dwarf calling out. "Oh, hello," he says to her, still a little shocked that someone was talking to him.
Inire watches as everyone begins to separate in one way or another, Tiferet with the mother, Eirikr with a shopkeeper. Nathara seemed to be doing well, Morgraine was... kind of in her element? Evelyn had seemed off for the greater part of the last day, though, so she moved to stick nearby, but wouldn't talk much until Mierul wasn't obviously nearby.