Relief flashes through Themp's whole body.
"So it is you. Yes, Matthew is in trouble. He has gotten himself in trouble with the wrong kind of people. To spare his family, they made him try to rob a merchant just off the city. A road patrol got him and now he's imprisoned."
"He asked me to find you to ask you and your wife to take his family in shelter here, where they can't reach them, while he serves out his sentence. He said you'll both have to go fetch his family, so you can handle the logistics while your wife keeps his children calm. As you might imagine, they're all quite shaken..."
"Now, the message has been relayed, I'll leave you to your preparations. However, I must warn you not to take your time. They will probably kidnap his family as leverage as soon as they learn of this plan. Given the time I took to get here, it might happen still this week..."
"Anyway, best of luck to all of you. God knows you'll need it"
And with that, Themp scurries along back to the bar.
Mot twirls and spins and bumps into a chair. The collision fails to topple the hulk, but does break his concentration enough for him to notice Nme'ans presence in the bar. By way of greeting the, by now more than familiar, humongous smile takes his face. It only takes a moment before his bright blue eyes light up with a thought. Leaping from the floor to the bar top he roars above, the rather raucous, hubbub of the crowd "Och! Wee preetie lasses, Mah cloose peersonal frend Nmem- Nema- THA PRETTY PALLY, es en dire need oof soome dance partners!"
He points with his pipes at the lone half-elf sitting by himself, before stamping his feet and piping off into the chorus again.
“Not so fast,” the man growls, starting after Themp. The rogue feels a tug on his cloak as the man tries to make a grab to stop him, but the husband is too slow. “How do I know you’re -Hey! Come back here!” he shouts.
His shout draws a few eyes from the crowd, including a few of the guards. The looks shift from the couple to Themp, who is halfway between the couple and the crowded pub.
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Nme’an can feel eyes turn to him, and glancing about, he sees a handful of young women advance on his position. Before he can politely retreat, two ladies flank him with wide, admiring eyes as others surround the table at which he sits.
“Never danced with knight before,” the curvy, dark-haired woman to the right smiles giddily, inching her hand toward his, “Would you do me the honor?”
The slender woman to his left moves her long blonde hair behind a pointed ear, making it plain she is a fellow half-elf. Her dazzling green eyes brighten when they catch his attention. “If you’re inclined to dance, you won’t find a better partner.”
The others standing around his table interject like bidders at an auction, save one, who shyly blushes and looks away when she catches Nme’an’s eye.
“I’m a better dancer than she.”
“You’ve got two left feet! I know my way on the dance floor.”
“Don’t listen to them. One dance, that’s all I ask,” the blonde one adds.
“I jusht need a drankin' buddy,” the last one roughly slurs, “Hell, I’ll let ya touch these!” She gestures lewdly to her chest before taking a swig from her tankard.
All of them seem to lean closer in anticipation of Nme’an’s decision.
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After hearing too many orders for “a beer for the highlander”, the barkeep sets a heavy clay tankard on the bar, with a scribbled note: for the hi-lander. Mot notices a few folks dropping a coppers into the cup before he twirls again and continues his merry-making along with the dozens of drinkers, singers, and dancers.
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Following the shouts and whoops, and a now familiar strain of Urlghain pipes, Beorae guesses that she need only take the next left turn to find Belarandir’s Brewpub, provided that the road takes the direction it ought to. A few passerby shake their heads at the racket, but otherwise the streets are mostly empty. By the level of volume, the druid expects that to change once the tavern is in view.
After noticing he inadvertently drew the guards' attention, Themp sighs in resignation, puffs his chest a bit and turns towards the couple.
"Chap, I have already told you all I know. If you wish to waste your and, most importantly, your brother's time debating whether or not I'm reliable, think of your brother first. How unlikely is it really that he is in trouble right now? If he is in trouble, how likely would it be that his children need help? And above all, what the hell would I gain from lying to you about such matters?!"
"Now, the favor I owed is now returned so, if I may, I have my own personal issues to attend to. Will you allow me to deal with them or shall we waste precious time debating the gender of angels?"
With that, Themp once again assumes his best ultimatum pose, but with a clear stance of annoyance as well.
Meditation Incense can be burned while one meditates on their god for their blessing of magic. While breathing in the fumes for one hour, the mind of the devotee is cleared of distraction, allowing their full magical potential to be realized. The below recipe burns for 1 hour, but it affects spells cast up to twenty-four hours after meditation.
Ingredients:
13 kinnikinnick leaves, dried and crushed
1 thimble of flint dust
3 thimbles of charcoal
1 hill giant tooth, powdered
1 manticore spine, powdered
3 hand-sized crab chitin plates, crushed to fine flakes, or 1 grizzly claw, powdered
1 half-pestle of aged agarwood dust
7 hardened tears of the Sauki tree, granulated
1 thimble of kief powder
7 thistle pedals, dried and crushed
1 cedar wand, unpolished and nonmagical
Combine all dry ingredients until evenly mixed. Bring one pint of water to boil, and slowly add the dry mixture in small increments over 10 minutes. Stir with the cedar wand for 5 minutes, and use magic to remove impurities. Remove the boiling paste from the fire and continue to stir until the cedar stick is evenly coated and very little remains in the pot. Set the cedar wand to dry evenly for three days before igniting.
Note: Regular and frequent use of this incense may lead to addiction. Use caution and discretion when using inhaled spell-aids.
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The man’s hackles raise as he appears to continue to pointlessly argue with Themp when his wife grabs his arm and whispers something. He appears to calm down somewhat, nodding and answering her in a low voice, “Get enough food for five days of travel for four people. Meet me at the stables. We leave tonight.”
He indicates that she try to buy the food from the pub, and he sends an unsure frown at Themp before turning his back and taking long strides toward the southern gate. If the rogue were to guess, the man is on his way to the same stable Daisy is kept.
Marie thanks Themp as she passes, all but running into Belarandir’s Brewpub. Even though she does not make a scene inside, very few patrons miss the worried look on a well-dressed woman as she urgently presses coin into the bartender’s hand for foodstuffs.
Despite his previously foul mood, Nme'an can't help but give a little laugh as the women flock over. He stands gallantly as their initial flurry of requests dies away and says, "I am flattered by the offers, ladies, but I think I would make an ill suited dance partner as I am..." while gesturing to his inflexible heavy armor and his weighty weapons. The more talkative of the girls voice their displeasure audibly, but Nme'an holds up a palm and continues, saying, "... but if you permit me a few short moments to change I will give you each the honor of at least one dance.
Reluctantly, the nearer of the ladies let Nme'an pass. He heads to the back of the pub and finds a small, unoccupied storage room in which to change out of his armor and into his more casual street clothes. On his way back he makes sure to pass the merry Mot and says,"I will get you back for this, Mtu Mkubwa."
Most of the women move to once again surround the handsome Paladin. The curvy brunette and blond haired half-elf of course lead the way, but Nme'an steps past them with a politely spoken, "Excuse me," and reaches his hand out to the shy girl who not only lingered to the rear of the pack, but had also, perhaps unconsciously, stepped around to the far side of the table, placing it between Nme'an and herself.
"May I have this dance, Miss...?" he asks, flashing her his best, most reassuring smile.
Beorae scans the list in the dimming evening light as she and Shark make their way to the tavern. Hmm… this recipe is more complicated than I remembered. Where am I going to find half of this stuff?, she wonders. “Manticore spine… Sauki tree…,” she mutters quietly, trying to remember anything she might know about the bizarre ingredients listed on the paper in front of her.
So deep Beorae is in her thoughts that she almost misses the left turn, but she catches herself and steers toward the hubbub, tucking the recipe securely away for now.
Beet red, the shy girl straightens her arms at her sides, her tight fists steeling herself for a moment of courage. “Ruby, Sir.” She fidgets and smiles prettily, nodding her mousy brown hair out of her hazel eyes. Her smile seems to help her relax, if only slightly, as she looks up into Nme’an’s eyes perhaps a little too long, a little too intensely. A snicker from one of the other young women pulls Ruby back to the present, as red as her name.
“And you may dance with me,” she adds sweetly, resting her delicate hand in Nme’an’s.
“I had a hard time understanding your friend. What is your name?” she asks as they find the tempo.
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The druid knows she can find thistle flowers easy enough, if she keeps a sharp eye the next time she passes through the Greysight Vale. Even if this is not the season for them, an undisturbed thistle might have pedals from the last spring at the base of its stalk.
As for untreated, mundane cedar, Beorae supposes a wand-sized cedar stick would function just as well. She also knows cedar to grow in the Carenthir Forest, and it would be a surprise to not find ample cedar supplies in Axton.
Kief powder is a derivative of a plant most often used by herbalist’s as a strong relaxant. This would be the ingredient that the recipe warned to be addictive. Kief grows in warmer, sunnier climates, and does not grow naturally in Vyren. Beorae might need to speak with a seafaring trader or perhaps an herbalist closer to Port Elam to acquire Kief powder.
Named for their preferred habitat, Sauki trees grow where the wind and sun are in abundance, around the Saukith Sea. The Sauki “tears” must be in reference to the trees’ useful resin.
Agarwood, when chopped and left alone for some time, attracts a specific mold. The still-living wood reacts to the mold by secreting a resin that darkens the wood. When burned, the resinous wood gives off a unique and pleasant fragrance. Burning fresh agarwood does not produce these fragrances. The druid remembers from early in her studies that agarwood grew in the Sargentich Forest, and recalling it now, she can see the bright leaves and blotchy grey bark in her mind.
A lion with a vaguely humanoid face, and the wings of a dragon, the roving manticore can launch spines from its spiked tail from a great distance. Where these fearsome beasts live, is unknown to Beorae, but presumably somewhere with open sky.
It is common knowledge that hill giants dwell in the Urthog Hills, occasionally venturing into the Urlghain Highlands to make off with cattle and men alike, as edible playthings.
Beorae approaches a large crowd nearly blocking the entire road. At its center a pair of men brawl, half-wrestling, half-boxing, both showing signs of great fatigue and resolve. The crowd cheers them on and it is clear a some coin was wagered on the victor. A few on the fringe of the crowd make double-takes at Shark, and seem to almost relax when they see that he is leashed.
The inside of the bar is a flurry of dancing, singing, and drinking. Merry-makers laugh and jest and bellow for more ale, all to the unique sound of Mot’s bagpipes. The druid spots the highlander twirling to a stop at a grimacing elder in the corner, taking a mighty breath, and blaring extra loud before hopping back into the chaos of fellow dancers. Everyone inside is moving in time to the lively beat, but Beorae thinks she notices Nme’an among them. The roguish Themp was yet to be seen.
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Wearing the distant look of one lost in thought, the druid passes right by the young scoundrel without even a glance.
"I don't think anyone really understands him, Ruby," Nme'an says, laughing a bit. "...and my name is Ni-Me-An," he says, sounding it out for her above noise of the pub. As he dances with the girl Nme'an realizes that this is the first time in more than a week he is actually having a good time.
Surprised to not find Mot in the midst of the brawl, Beorae gathers Shark's leash and makes her way over to a post near the corner of the tavern. “I'll be back in a bit,” she says to the tiger, scratching between his ears and motioning for him to lie down as she ties off the leather strap.
Taking one last glance at the crowd surrounding the fight, Beorae steps through the door into the raucous tavern where Mot is twirling with reckless abandon. She's surprised to see Nme'an, of all people, out of his armor and dancing with a pretty girl. Good, maybe he'll loosen up a bit.
Catching Mot's eye, the druidess makes her way across the tavern floor and does her clumsy best to pick up her feet to the beat of the music.
After a few minutes of dancing, she peels off and moves over to the bar to grab a pint.
As he approaches the tavern, Themp checks the fight over. Apparently, the two fighters are wrapping it up, since the bets are no longer happening and the shouts are a bit dwindled. Turning towards the door, he pauses in surprise as he sees Shark leashed by it.
Huh, guess Red isn't as stuck-up as I thought.
Careful to disturb the tiger as little possible, Themp nevertheless draws its attention, to which he returns a reassuring smile before quickly scurrying inside.
And that's when the music finally hit him.
The overwhelming frivolity of the scene he takes in, the Urlghain with the pipes and Beorae hopping around, along with the mind-boggling sight of the paladin twirling around with a surprisingly cute girl, jump-starts Themp's joyous side.
The hell with the key. Here is where I want to be now!
Approaching the bar to fetch himself a small cup of ale, merely to wet his almost parched throat, Themp can't help but notice the "funds" towards Mot's drinking.
So much easy money in one place... Well, this is my gift to you, you goofy meat-shield: I'm not taking a single copper piece from this tankard. That's a hell of a gift!
"Now, barkeep, an ale please! I have to be at least a tad drunk to handle that barbarian there tonight!" Themp addresses the barkeep, loudly banging the bar to emphasize his point, but a definitely playful grin on his face.
The four champions continue in their merriment for one, then two hours. The Knight Apprentice dances with each of the women from before, and even twice with Ruby and the bold half-elf, who was not lying about her prowess on the dance floor. Even so, the paladin capably keeps pace with her and many other dancing partners. Beorae’s dancing, perhaps better than she thinks, draws the eyes of several partners. Themp finds the ale to be cheap, and remarkably delicious for the price. Over the course of the evening, many revelers drop coppers into the Mot’s labeled cup, but well after the sun is down, the number of drinkers and dancers begin to ebb away, reluctantly shuffling home in order to rest up for tomorrow’s work. The fight outside ends and the two brawlers come inside for an ale, but most of the crowd disperses down the street. As the mustachioed man slaps the redbeard on the back for a well-matched fight at a table with ale on its way, the rest of the bar appears to be just over halfway full. The reveling is undoubtedly dying down, but many still are reluctant to leave good music, good ale, and good company just yet.
Finding a nearby seat Mot finally plops down, indicating he'd like another flagon. With a contented sigh he places aside his pipes and closes his big eyes for a moment. Still humming softly the nights melodies he quaffs the proffered beverage as soon as it arrives.
As the evening settles down, Beorae finishes off her 2nd pint and looks around at the disarray that the thinning crowd left behind. “Sorry about the mess,” she says, flipping a silver to the barkeeper.
Catching Nme'an's eye, the druid nods her head to the side, suggesting that the paladin should come over and talk.
Nme'an politely disengages from the dance floor and makes his way to stand near the bar Beorae is sitting at.
"Bi Sevenstone?" he asks, unsure of what she wants.
The awkwardness between the two is palpable, and Beorae tries, perhaps a little too hard, to ease into the conversation, “Mot can really get the crowd going, can't he?”
“Anyway, my trip to the alchemist proved to be… interesting… in regard to the conversation we had with the Commander.” Deciding that discretion is the best approach, the druid glances around the room to make sure nobody is watching or eavesdropping.
She lowers her voice a little, speaking in Elven now, “Yeye anauza mafuta ambayo inaweza kuwa tu kile sisi haja kama silaha yako ni kwenda na kelele pia kupitia kupita. Haina mwisho kwa muda mrefu, lakini inaweza kufanya tofauti. Tatizo tu ni bei, anataka tisini vipande dhahabu kwa ajili yake.” Just then she realizes that Nem'an's armor is nowhere in sight, “Wait, where is your armor, anyway?”
Nme'an doesn't respond to the druid's opening line, unsure if she is actually being personable, or if she is just attempting a lead in to business. It quickly becomes apparaent that it was the latter as she beings talking about the alchemist. The happy look he carried from the dance floor to the bar settles as the more joyful moment is broken and the knight is forced to remember his duty.
"Some sort of... stealth oil?" Nme'an asks, sure he's heard of something similar before, but...
...he can't quite bring the oil's exact name to mind.
"Still, ninety gold is quite expensive..." he muses. "I'm not sure it is a question of can we afford it, but should we. For ten more gold we could obtain another pair of healing potions which might prove more helpful."
Nme'an's eyes briefly brighten when Beorae mentions his seemingly missing armor.
"Over there in the chair under my pack. It wouldn't do to wear it while dancing," he answers, glancing back over to his table near the door. "Speaking of which, would you care to?" the Paladin asks.
“Yeah, that's pretty much the idea,” she says when Nme'an suggests "stealth oil." “Soft of Foot, he calls it. And I agree about the price. Maybe we should think about a few more healing potions instead.”
The paladin's offer for a dance throws Beorae off for a second, but then a small smile crosses her features and she calls over to the Highlander, “Hey, Mot! Got one more tune in you?”
As Nme'an manages to disengage himself from ladies, Themp decides he had enough drinks and laughs with the barbarian and that the time for... romanticism has come.
Swiftly signaling to the big man his intentions, he sets out for the dance floor and snatches the curvy, dark-haired woman that first asked the paladin for a dance.
"Say, beautiful, care for a dance?"
Opening his eyes from his spot at the table Mot grins good-naturedly. He leaves his pipes where they lay, and indeed doesn't even stand. But he DOES raise two meaty palms up and begins to clap. Eyes closing even as his mouth opens he begins to sing in that brougish-baritone.
"Tiiiiim Finnagen lived on walkin street, a gentleman Urlghain mighty odd..."
The song continues a cappella apace until the final choruses, finally ending with a strong double-time, stomping finish. Eyes closed the entire time Mot takes a deep breath and exhales slowly before a hand starts searching for his flagon yet again.
Nme'an leads Beorae to the pub's small dance floor and the two begin to dance in time to Mot's new tune. The dance starts well enough, but it is clear to anyone who is paying attention that something isn't right between them. The dance the half-elf adventurers share is strangely stilted and disconnected. Gone is the gentle, sweeping lead that Nem'an took with the shy Ruby, or the fiery, intensity of the dances shared between the Paladin and Elsa'a, the bold, green eyed half-elf.
Instead, the two dance just a bit farther apart than is necessary. Their steps, while not clumsy, never quite align to their partner's or to the rhythm provided to them by the highlander. When the music ends the two stand awkwardly for a moment, neither of them quite sure what to do or say. Not wishing to cause either of them any embarrassment, Nme'an gives Beorae a slight bow then moves back towards his table to collect his belonging for his return to the Temple of Erastil.
The dark-haired woman sighs, hesitating to see if anyone else offers her a dance before forcing a gracious acceptance of Themp’s offer, smiling a little too sweetly.
Nearly every drinker in the brewpub takes up the song, and ends with a mighty cheer so jubilant the awkwardness of the two half-elves is almost completely missed. At the song’s end, Elsa’a toasts to the gentleman knight and his Urlghain friend, and all the patrons drink deeply before calling it a night. The dark-haired one, Rebekah, as Themp had to coax the name from her, leaves without a word to the mischief-maker, along with a handful of other women.
Within ten minutes after the toast, only about a dozen regulars remain, seated closely around the bar and murmuring to one another.
The four find their way back the Erastil temple, and as the elderly priest promised, the door is unlocked. The lights inside are dimmed, though one candle flickers on the corner of the Feasting table nearest to the door, with a note and a key beside it. The note reads:
Welcome back. Please lock the door behind you. Thank you, rest well. ~Donovan
The night is fairly quiet in the quiet town, and the four sleep in clean, soft warm beds.
The sun comes too early the next morning, and with it, the bustle of a new day. Shops open and tradesmen and merchants conduct their business, though the noise is nothing compared to the markets of Thaleniel. The four rise to find a hearty breakfast prepared by Donovan and a helper, likely the man who also stayed the night in the temple. Seared sausages, roasted tomatoes, and potatoes o’brien steam up from the Feasting table, with smiling Donovan carrying in pitchers of tea and spiced cider. Bringing in a small platter of cheese, his helper is quiet and keeps to himself, answering any question with a monosyllabically and with a thick slur. Soon, the priest sits after a brief prayer, and joins in the breakfast of champions.
As always, Beorae awakens at the break of dawn, but it's another hour for meditation before she emerges from her room. The druid finds that the adventures of the last few weeks and a good night's rest have expanded her senses, and she is surprised in her ablity to focus on a greater number of spells than usual.
The smell of breakfast eventually draws her out of her room. “Good morning, Donovan,” she says as the priest carries in the pitchers. “Breakfast smells delicious!”
As the meal commences, Beorae inquires about the plan for the day. “So, what's the morning look like for everyone? I imagine we'll want to be on the road before long.” Leaning over to Nme'an, she quietly asks, “Give any more thought to those potions or oils that we discussed?”
Nme'an wakes feeling strangely refreshed, the dancing the night before helping to brighten his mood even into the morning. He says his own short set of prayers then joins the others at the .
"I did, Bi Sevenstone" Nme'an answers Beorae in a normal voice, completely missing that she is trying to avoid the animosity between Donovan and Ronn. "I suspect the better value would be the healing potions. If we need to be silent I can simply stop moving, for free, but healing is not something I can readily do..."
Nme'an stops to take a few more bites of his tasty, nutritious then says, "Once I have sold the ring I found I should be able to help you with the purchase."
Turning to Donovan, Nme'an hold up the ring and asks, "Is there anyone in particular you think might give me a better price for this?"
The old priest peers at the ring. “There is a jeweler next door to Walter’s smithy on the east side of town. She will give you the fairest price. If I remember right, her name is Beatrice.”
He eats for a few more moments before absently asking, “How far north do you intend to travel? To Axton?”
“Axton, yes. At least for now. We're to join some knights out of Thaleniel, but it's unclear how far north they've ridden thus far,” Beorae says, not quite sure how much she should be saying in the company of strangers. Sticking mostly to the truth seems like the best way to keep their story straight, at least. “Have you heard any news from up that way?”
Mot cures his hunger on the generous spread before them. Half-listening to the talk of the table he softly hums a melody from last nights merry-making. He finishes quickly and begins to look to the door as talk turns to their travel plans.
Dragging himself out of the very comfortable bed (well, a damn lot more comfortable than those roof tiles), Themp makes his way to the table, where he gobbles down breakfast in no time, mentally preparing himself for the long haul up north.
At the sight of jewelry, however, his mind wanders back to the key and the misfortunate couple he sent on a not-so-wild goose chase.
Sure, the loot must nice, but did I have to send them through such a hassle? *sigh* I suppose there's not much I can do now... Might as well check it out. Maybe leave a note of apology? Hmmmm. Yeah, I should do that.
Donovan shrugs. “Little of importance. As I said last night, there is still much worry about this werewolf abroad, and strong magic needed to lift the curse from anyone who is bitten.” He sits back and strokes his beard, until he decides to speak his mind. “I hope Ronn Feddick is well. You may want to ask him if he has a salve or tonic that would help resist lycanthropy.”
He gestures apologetically, “Sorry, such nastiness is not very good table conversation.”
The head priest digs into his food once more, steering to lighter topics of conversation until it is time for the four to leave. Nme’an and Mot find themselves on the same path, to the neighboring establishments.
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Mot opens the door to the smithy’s shop, to find the blacksmith Walter reclined in a chair behind his counter, snoring loudly. Draped over the counter is the over-sized chain shirt, completed as promised. Walter does not wake when the highlanders steps inside.
Nme’an finds Bea’s Baubles already open, and the old woman stooped over quietly working on delicate jewelry when he enters. She greets him amiably and readily inspects the ring before calculating the price.
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Beorae sees from down the street Ronn Feddick reopening his shop for the day. He whistles merrily to himself.
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Walking the cool morning streets near the castle, Themp is able to spot the manor build in redstone and oak. Thick and bushy waist-high hedges line the straight, centered walkway to the tall darkwood front door, and leafless dark trees border the property. The gardener kneels at a bed of low-growing vines, with their back to the rogue.
The building itself stands two-stories high, with great windows curtained by white, lacy drapes. Two great oak bears flank the doorway, on their hind legs and front paws at their sides and towering to twelve feet tall. An overhanging roof rests on their heads as they stoically stand guard over the estate. The walls, windows, walking path, and garden area are in pristine condition. Studying the door lock from the road, Themp is not quite sure if the key he has is to that particular door.
“Thank you, again, for your generous hospitality and healing, Donovan,”, Beorae says as she gathers her things. During all the clang and clatter of the others getting ready, the druidess quietly moves to the donation box and slips 10 gold pieces into the wooden receptacle. Not much, but hopefully it will help a little.
Once everyone is ready, Beorae is the last one out and waits a moment at the door before saying, “Good hunting.” Closing the door behind her, the young druid steps into the fresh morning air and sunlight.
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“Ahoy, good morning, Ronn!” Beorae calls as she sees the younger Feddick opening shop. Closing the distance quickly on her long legs, she loops Shark's leash around a post and steps into the open-air store.
“So, I know we discussed that Soft of Foot oil last night, but after discussing it with my companions, I'm wondering if we might not be better off with something else…. There's a bit of a werewolf problem on our road north, and I wonder if you might have an ointment or tonic to resist lycanthropy. I've got a feeling that our Barbarian may need it,” she adds, biting her lip in uncertainty. “I only have eighty gold pieces on me at the moment, and I'd prefer to not spend all of it just yet, if that's a possibility,” she says, smiling at the halfling.
Donovan’s eyes twinkle as Beorae bids a farewell. “Thank you. Likewise.”
With the amount of enthusiasm in his thanks, the druid has a feeling that her donation was not missed by his old and wisened eyes.
The whistling stops short as Ronn whirls around with a grin almost too big for his halfling face. “She returns!”
He is quiet as she speaks, nodding in understanding. His face falls somewhat at the mention of the werewolf, but he brightens when she makes clear that she asks for his help. “You worry me! Such beauty should not be exposed to the dangers of were-creatures and the thick-headed rednecks of Axton!” He grins easily as his joke as he continues, “My elixir of Competency would help, but he would need to drink it within a minute before the bite, which would be difficult to predict…”
He opens his mouth and then suddenly closes it, glancing down the street before turning to continue opening his shop. “Sorry. I don’t have anything like that here. Talk to Father Donovan.” His tone is uncharacteristically flat and disengaged.
Ronn Feddick is lying. He has something to help against lycanthrope, but he wants to keep it a secret.
"I retrieved it from the belly of a wolf that attacked my party along the road from Thaleniel," Nme'an says idly as the elderly woman turns the silver band over and over beneath her gaze. "I only hope I might put it to good use, for the good of Vyren and for the departed soul it once belonged to," he says, more to himself than to Beatrice.
Themp cautiously hide himself while disguising as the owner of the manor.
Now disguised as someone a common citizen wouldn't mind seeing strolling about the property, Themp, still stealthly, moves along the bushes, towards the backside of the manor.
Picking up a vial that used to be marked Hair Growth Test No. 42 but is now crossed-out with DO NOT USE scrawled on it, Beorae remains quiet a moment before putting the glass bottle back on its shelf. “Look, if you don't want to sell whatever it is you have, that's fine. But don't lie to me. At least not so obviously, it's insulting. I'm curious, though, what motivation you'd have to hide such a thing.”
Turning to face the halfling, Beorae looks Ronn directly in the eye, “What should I know about this werewolf that I don't? It would seem that there's more here than you or Father Donovan are letting on, and it makes me uncomfortable.”
“How good of you, to bring it here,” she comments, distracted. At length, she looks up over her jeweler’s lenses.
“In perfect condition, this would fetch more. But with a few minor scratches and in need of a thorough cleaning, I’ll offer you seventy gold pieces.”
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The scoundrel is able to stalk through the trees and neatly trimmed grass without drawing a single eye. The back of the large house has a single window to the kitchen. Themp sees a thin, middle-aged woman working in the kitchen over a tub of water, washing dishes setting them on the counter to dry. She does not notice him.
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Ronn blushes when Beorae ousts his falsehood, though it melts into a stifled snicker as the druid continues. He raises a hand in defense. “Listen, beautiful. The last thing I have is a kahootz with Father Donovan. I grew up here. I remember when his beard was grey. Even if we don’t see eye to eye, the old coot is always honest, and I trust him to be just that.”
He motions the druid closer, and begins to whisper into her ear. “It’s not that I lied to harm you, red. I was lying to protect myself. There is something that I discovered, sort of as a desperate, last resort method of curing lycanthrope -after the curse has already taken hold.”
He glances about nervously before continuing, resting a small hand on the druid’s shoulder, “You see, a man approached me, just under a year ago by now. Well, a shadow of a man, really. He confided in me his bite from a werewolf, two weeks old and incurable by religious magic, and begged that I cure him before the other townsfolk found him out, before he hurt someone. Nothing I tried worked, all the herblore at my command could not lift the curse. I was at my wit’s end, blaming myself as the sun began to set on the night of the full moon. In a moment of weakness and desperation, I thought: I should poison this man, and keep the good folk of this town safe. So I grabbed a dose of wolfsbane poison and offered it to the man, telling him it was the potion sure to work.” He laughs bitterly.
“He drank it. And his body twisted and convulsed as he doubled over to the ground. But he did not die. No, he ran a fever overnight, but by the next morning, he was well again. I kept him under my employ, citing that he needed to work off his debt, although it was really to keep an eye on him until the next full moon. When that moon came, I vigilantly watched him all night -but the man rested as soundly as any other. He was cured!”
“When I brought my findings to the mayor, and Father Donovan, but neither would hear of poisoning patients, especially in a land where poison is illegal. When threatened with imprisonment, I decided to keep mum on the whole thing.”
He shrugs and forces a smile, but the bitterness does not leave his voice. “The cost of genius, I tell you. Heh. So in honest answer to your question, yes, I have something that gives the infected a second chance to rid the body of the curse. But, it is a poison, and one of the nasty ones at that. If you are caught with it, you will be imprisoned. Moreover, can I trust you to use the poison for good? To cure a lycanthropic infection? Is someone dies from this, it is on me as much as you.”
The hobbit’s fiery gaze bores into Beorae’s eyes, searching for a split-second of hesitation or dishonesty.
Nme'an nods, pleased that he will have some monetary buffer for the rest of the journey.
"Thank you," he says earnestly as he accepts payment for the ring.
The Paladin ponders two things as he exits the shop. First is the fact that he does not know where any of his companions but Mot have gone, or when and where they plan to meet up before exiting the town. The second is his unease at the party accepting so much from Priest Donovan without offering more than kind words in return.
'Fortunately, both my troubles lay upon the same road,' he thinks to himself, intending to first stop at the Temple of Erastil in order to leave a gift large enough to compensate the priest for all his troubles on behalf of the four champions, and then to continue on to the stables to await the eventual arrival of the others. 'They'll need their horses eventually,' he concludes.
Stepping outside, Nme'an looks around as heads back to the temple.
Beorae leans back as she listens to Ronn's story, nodding along with his reasoning. “I don't envy you that decision. My mother always said that the best cures are the ones discovered by accident. This one, though…”, she lets out a soft whistle and, after a moment of contemplation, looks around to make sure nobody is within earshot.
“Well, that explains Donovan's suggestion that I come to you. And yes, you have my word as a druid of the wood that the… tonic… would only be used for the express purpose of curing lycanthropy. So, how much are we talking?”
Nme’an finds Donovan quietly reading at the far corner of the Feasting table. By the sounds in the kitchen, someone is cleaning dishes.
The head priest looks up and greets the half-elf amiably. “Yes?”
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Beorae finds no one nearby to eavesdrop. Ronn Feddick nods at her promise, and thinks for a moment before answering. “Criminals expect a price of five hundred gold coins, no less.”
A mischievous smile rapidly takes over his face again as he quickly adds, “But from the clever beauty? Three things,” he holds up three fingers, “First, fifty gold coins,” two of his fingers are raised, “Second, a promise that you will share this discovery with another alchemist -without getting yourself into trouble, of course,” he uses his remaining finger to point at his cheek. “And lastly, a kiss.”
His roguish grin widens as he leans the side of his face a little closer.
Beorae's eyes widen at the mention of 500 gold pieces, thinking back to what her treasure chest looked like a few days ago and wondering who could spend so much on one vial of poison, but Ronn's smile keeps her from interrupting. She nods along with the first two requests, and can't help but blush and laugh a friendly chuckle when the halfling gets to the final requirement. “You, sir, drive a hard bargain. Fair enough,” she says, and with a smile, leans down and gives the young Feddick a soft kiss on the cheek.
Standing back up, she fishes out her coin purse and begins counting off fifty gold coins, stacking them neatly in columns of ten. “Now, we can't exactly have this vial labeled for what it is, but I'll need to mark it somehow.” Looking at all of Ronn's alchemical ingredients reminds her of the complicated recipe that she received the night before. “Oh, and would you happen to have a mortar and pestle for sale, by any chance? And perhaps a pouch to store ingredients? I'm going to need them for that meditation incense; there are quite a few components in there and it may be some time before I'm able to complete the recipe.”
"I just wanted to return one last time and thank you on behalf of myself and my companions. For the meals, and lodging, and healing of our injured, and for your gracious hospitality," Nme'an says humbly. Without any show or fanfare he walks over and gently places 7 gold coins into the offering box then gives the priest one last bow before turning to the door.
Noticing the lady in the kitchen, Themp decides keep going around the house, careful not to be noticed while crawling under the kitchen window.
“Thank you, Sir, for your generosity. Farewell,” the priest says smiling.
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Ronn Feddick glides to the back of his shop and unlocks an unseen small chest. He makes an effort of solemnly handing over the vial of dark purple liquid, but a glowing smile has been stuck on his face since the kiss. The poison is so dark, light does not pass through it. He produces her other requests without fuss, laying out six small leather drawstring pouches, and a well-used mortar and pestle.
“The leather bags are free, but I’ll need at least a couple silvers for the stoneware.”
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Themp sees that the windows can be forced open from the outside, but such an endeavor is likely to be noisy. He also spots a simple lock on the back door.
Themp, after making sure he couldn't detect anyone looking at him nor inside the door, proceeds to pick it.
Stepping inside, Themp silently closes the door behind him, keeping it unlocked, and surveys his surroundings.
Happy that a simple kiss could bring someone so much apparent happiness, Beorae carefully takes the small vial and looks at it in wonder. Finding a pen and inking it, she delicately letters out Essence of Serpent Blood – For Werewolf Bites ONLY onto the blank label, deciding that would probably be good enough to prevent someone from drinking it by accident, while still being useful to the others should something happen to her. Next to the Common text, though, the druid makes some additional markings in the secretive Druidic language:
With pen in hand, Beorae then pulls out the Meditation Incense recipe and marks a few notes on it to help remind her where the ingredients may be found.
“Perfect!” Beorae exclaims as Ronn lays out the mortar and pestle and the leather pouches. At the mention of “a couple silvers,” she places three more silver coins on the table next to the small mountain of gold. She puts the wolfsbane vial in one of the leather pouches before securing everything neatly in her pack. “Thank you again, Master Feddick. Best of luck with everything, I hope we meet again before long.” With a smile and curtsey, the tall redhead picks up Shark's leash and heads back toward the stables.
Nme'an gets back on the road and heads towards the stables.
Mot draws his heavy coin purse as he tries to lighten his normally quite heavy footfalls.
Themp sneaks into the small room to find the walls covered with large stacked barrels. One of the corners is a wooden wheelbarrow of gardening implements, and beside that is a mess of tools for carpentry and other indoor repairs. Themp sees that these enormous barrels are labeled to hold water, and others, ale. However, one does not even budge if he tries to move it quietly, and the rogue guesses each one to weigh between 250-300 pounds.
Part of the roof is jaggedly lowers at an angle, suggesting a stairway to the second level to begin just on the other side of the door to Themp’s left. Sounds of dishwashing continue from the door in front of the quiet man, in fact, he even hears soft, aimless humming. If his sense of the house is correct, the door to his left will lead him closer to the front door, but it might also expose him to the windows. Neither of the doors before Themp have locks.
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The snoozing blacksmith stirs, smacks his lips, and continues snoring.
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Nme’an reaches the stables to see the druid already there with Shark, just finishing saddling One Sock. Both Rexel and Drexel nudge their stall gates with muscular chests when they see the paladin, eager to be out of the pen and back on the road.
Beorae hears Nme’an before she sees him, and when she looks up to greet him, her eyes catch on the gait of a stalker. A smaller man, perhaps about five feet tall, quietly walks along the road about one block away from Nme’an, but at the same pace. He only looks away from the paladin occasionally, to avoid suspicion, but it is plain to Beorae that someone is watching her companion. The watcher wears simple traveler’s clothes and stops about two hundred feet away when the knight stops at the stables, suddenly deciding now to be a good time to stoop and recheck his boot laces.
Making sure the dishwashing continues on the kitchen, Themp moves over to the door closer to the stairs. Pressing his head against it, he listens intently, trying to gauge the activity within the room.
Themp hears no sign of activity on the other side of the door.