Albreane takes you to one of the first stables you come across. On a crude wooden sign out front, it simply says "JOE'S WAGONS" in red paint. Inside, it smells like hay, lizards, and cabbages.
A muscular ifrit, dressed in riding leathers, is standing at a workdesk, mending the long reins that a pogona requires. He nods to Albreane as she comes in. "Afternoon, Albreane. What can I-"
"Hey Joe, umm-" Albreane awkwardly interrupts. "I have extra hands for a task." She pauses, and realizes she needs to say more. She speaks in a rush, "So can I just have my usual wagon and I can drive it myself thanks."
Joe gives you all a quick look, then shrugs. "I'll charge it to your account. Give me a minute to prep the rig, and I'll let you know." He walks out a back exit, behind the workdesk.
Marianne keeps her bow in her lap as they leave city, and watches, but is mostly distracted by the sites.
Wamblee keeps eyes open for danger. He does not trust this Ifrit city.
Samen is too big to hide, so he tries to keep an eye out.
Samoon pretty much hides from everybody, including Albreane. Just some nondescript feller who was...where did he go?
It is strange, being aware you are in the city but also being completely blind to it. The wagon, normally used for equipment, has no windows, so the muted padding of the two large pogonas--another example of a thing you know is there but cannot see--is the only thing you experience (besides the occasional lurch or bump). The smell of unfinished wood is strong, but falls short of nauseating.
There is a long stop, which means you are likely at the city gates. Muted talking. Albreane's voice, then a deeper voice, presumable a guard at the gates. The deep voice gets louder for a moment, perhaps approaching the wagon, then fades.
The pogonas' padding, bum-thum-bum-thum, begins again. You slowly, smoothly accelerate, and somehow feel that you are outside the city again. The wagon picks up speed, and your journey back home begins.
"So, uh... Where are we going? I thought we still needed to get father's stuff."
”I’m guessing that there was a complication, else Samoon would never have gone to Albreane. What happened?”
Wamblee flatly says:
"The claimant is Bree's father."
Uncle grumbles, "So we're kidnapping her to retaliate?" He seems little happier in the wagon than in the city.
"No, Uncle. She has agreed to help us."
"...Why would she side with us against her own father? And how is her assistance relevant?"
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
”Bree loves her justice almost as much as I love Sky,” Marianne says with a faint smile. ”She will help us.”
While outside, Marianne spends the first few hours by catching up with Albreane, before they settle into a conversation whose topics shift like the winds, wandering wherever a fancy might take them.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
"We can't get Dad's stuff until we confront...well, yes, Alb's father. Gods, why you all call her 'Bree', I will never know. She hated that as a kid." Samoon crosses his arms in frustration. "So we need to go investigate this damnable cave-in and rip open all our scabs again, learn some more lovely details about Dad's gruesome death--was he crushed, or just slowly asphyxiated?--and then we confront Ser Rentwyrth--he'll be overjoyed to see me--and then, then, dear family, after fighting off various hired goons, v'Borio assassins, and probably some rabid vampire pogonas, we'll come back to the oh so welcoming town of Forge and possibly retrieve the rest of Dad's stuff. If Erret doesn't kill us before then. Samen! Move over. I need your sulking spot."
Samoon heads to the back of the wagon, his face looking like all of the clouds covering Fallen Sky.
Answering Samen's other question, Mother says, "And Albreane is an official investigator for all the mining communities around Forge, putty. She'll know the things to look for, and figure out how to stop this ridiculous claim against your father. He was a good el, and he doesn't deserve this." She speaks loudly in the closed space, especially passionate when she mentions Father.
Samen smirks at Samoon's tirade. "Come on over, there's plenty of room. Maybe we just need to convince Erret to go after Rentwyrth instead of us. It would solve everything.
No offense to her honor or qualifications, but Bree - ('Alb' is a stupid name Samoon, that's why.) Bree either won't betray her father to us, or she will, and will probably get disowned for her trouble. Was she the only investigator available?"
"Samen, we are not exactly awash with suitable contacts in Forge." Wamblee adds dryly.
"She's fair, and she knows her business," says Samoon.
"Fair enough. I'm just saying, you put her in an impossible situation. Maybe you should get her flowers? Or something?"
Uncle laughs at this. "Not a bad idea, really. Take her out to her favorite restaurant while you're at it, Samoon. That will smooth things over."
Samoon, the night is cold. There is no wind, but the temperature is so low that it is uncomfortable to breathe. The north always feels the sting of winter first; a chill such as this is not unheard of at this time of year, but still.
Albreane is dressed in a more functional riding outfit, wrapped up in a thick wool coat against the cold. Her thick red scarf covers her mouth and nose, making it difficult to gauge her expression. She is content to sit in silence, and does not initiate conversation.
| 3 people marked this as a favorite. |
Samoon grumbles to himself. "Samoon, take her out. Samoon, buy her flowers. Samoon, we're on the run from agents of the Dark you killed twice, but take some time to woo the woman whose heart you broke on the way to indicting her father for foul play. Yes, capital plan, family." He doesn't brood long, chuckling at the image of Samen. "At least that little boulder head isn't so wrapped up inside himself now." He sighs and then gets quiet when he notices that Albreane may have been listening.
Curious about the cold, he stretches his lean frame up to a half-crouch, half-stand, bracing against the wagon, and looks around.
Samoon, Albreane is quiet for a few more minutes, staring at the road ahead. Finally she says, "No flowers, no dinners. Just answer me one question - going back to that moment, would you still have left?"
Wamblee focuses his eyes and ears on the road, trying his best to ignore the conversation.
| 2 people marked this as a favorite. |
"..."
Samoon is quiet.
"I wanted you to come with me, Albreane," he says quietly. "It's ridiculous for me to disparage Samen for being such a hothead--you know I was the same, back then. I had to leave."
He bites his lip. "I'd like to say something heartfelt, Alb, like, 'knowing what I know now, I would have stayed.' But--had I stayed, something in my soul would have died. You would have been with a diminished el, one who put aside his dreams. I don't--" he glances at his younger siblings and his mother and uncle "--I don't know how they stayed at home without going completely mad," he continues in a lower whisper. "There's something wrong at the core of this family, something hidden, and...maybe it's in your family as well. The whole town. The whole blasted land, perhaps. Sometimes I think the Dark has seeped into all of us."
He lets out another breath. "Going back to that moment--I would have asked you to come to Light with me, more...passionately. But I knew your dreams were here."
His words are choked and his eyes well up. "I'm sorry." Then he chuckles. "Well. That was the longest non-answer, wasn't it?"
You can see there are a few tears in Albreane's eyes as well, but she does not let them fall. Her voice is clear as she says, with a hint of laughter, "Yes, it was. But it was a heartfelt one." She looks at you, and gives a small smile. "Well, there it is. Maybe tomorrow will look a little better."
Up ahead on the right is the Motherlode, a traveler's inn that is located between Forge and several smaller towns to the west and the north. It is solidly built, two stories tall, and decorated with old swords and shields. Most of the windows are dark, but under the entrance you see the light of a lit hearth, warm and inviting.
Wamblee is in no mood to eat after that journey. He will pay his coins and go straight to bed.
Marianne is lost in her own thoughts for most of the ride, at least, before and after her turn at watch with Albreane, contemplating the dream she had the night before. When they reach the inn, she finally stirs, yawning and stretching. "Well, I am for bed, good night everybody," she declares, handing over the pay for her room and marching up the stairs without another word.
The innkeep is a steel-eyed ifrit, strong and wide, but middle-aged. He looks all of you over from his high-perched chair, casually cradling a crossbow in the crook of his left arm. After a moment, he wordlessly points a thick finger. You see a sign of the prices, painted in peeling red letters.
He nods and puts the keys on the wooden counter. Each key has a white tag around it, most the white fading with age into a light, papery brown.
You head upstairs on the solid steps. The wood is an odd dark purple color, but otherwise unremarkable. On your way to your rooms, you see two more red ifrits, obviously sons of the innkeeper. They are keeping watch around the halls. Like their father, they also say nothing.
Samen pays for himself and heads to his room. Everything that must be said has already been said, and anything else would just get someone mad. Maybe tomorrow would be better.
Samoon looks after the receding Albreane and slumps his shoulders. "Tomorrow," he says to himself. He follows Samen.
Samoon, Wamblee, and Samen, Uncle follows you up to the men's room. He uncorks a wineskin, takes a drink, and offers it to Samoon. "Balm for your troubles, nephew?"
Marianne, Mother goes to sleep quickly, her breathing soft and regular. Albreane is silent, but does not go to sleep. After a time, she quietly says, "Your brother, he never changes, does he Mar?"
"Thanks, Uncle, but sleep is best right now, minus the headache," says Samoon, collapsing on a bed and kicking his boots to who knows where.
Marianne chuckles softly, keeping quiet to avoid waking Mother. ”None of them do, although I assume you meant Samoon. Wamblee is still chasing his perfect path, Samen his originator race, and Samoon, whatever drove him to the Academy, you know there was something. We all have our crusades, Samoon just keeps his closer to the vest. But I doubt that’s what you meant. Did he give you some brutally honest answer when you confronted him about leaving?”
Albreane smiles wanly. "It wasn't brutal - he tried to soften it, in his way. No, it was like a machine, with only one outcome. Turn a screw, it tightens. Squeeze the bellows, air comes out. Ask Samoon about Rokerenge, he says 'leave'." She gives a bad impression of Samoon's earnest voice.
She walks over and gives you a hug. "Thanks for being here to talk."
”Of course,” Marianne says, returning the hug fiercely. ”I missed you,”
Your rooms are clean, and as devoid of personality as the dour innkeeper you met last night. The hallways are swept, save a few dusty bootprints here and there. A slight draft runs through the large inn, making a cool morning cold.
You hear the general noise of a small crowd downstairs. Coming to the top of the stairs, you see there is already food on several of the tables in the mainroom. A fireplace glow warmly from the far corner, but the closest tables are already taken. One of the innkeeper's sons walks around the balcony that runs the perimeter of the mainroom.
You see groups of elen already seated: three burly oreads grumble about the weather, their palms covered in dirt and callouses; five ifrits in army leathers exchange crude jokes, hands habitually near their swords; and two sylphs in scholars robes, soft fingers gesturing as they quietly debate.
Samoon is up early--for a slender fellow, he enjoys breakfast immensely. He has already recited some formulae, limbered up his shoulders and hips, and is picking at some fruit while waiting for the rest of the family to appear. He nods to the sylphs with a small smile.
Samen wakes up and performs his normal morning rituals before heading down for breakfast. He attempts to sit quietly on his own.
Before sleep, Wamblee will accept a glass of wine from uncle. There is little enthusiasm but some effort.
Wamblee awakens and stretches.
Then finds the nearest seat downstairs to enjoy breakfast.
Marianne rises early, performing her daily prayers with silent words, before preparing and slipping out without waking her roommates. She enters the common room shortly after Samoon, greeting her brother cheerily. ”Morning Samoon. Any more strange dreams of our demonic maybe-uncle?”
"I sincerely hope you were not dreaming of me, the Maybe-Demonic Uncle," Uncle jokes. He seems in brighter spirits this morning, away from the city. He takes two ball-shaped ashbread rolls, and takes a cautious bite with his back teeth. The ashbread, a staple of Temple agriculture in Hearth, is made by mixing ash from Volcano and other trace sediments, making the bread nutritious for oreads as well. Uncle nods in satisfaction - the roll is stale, but not hard.
Wamblee is a little surprised when his teeth tear through the roll more easily than usual. As if his teeth have grown even harder...
Samoon groans. "No dreams at all that I can recall, thankfully." He ambles over to the sylphs, waving slightly. "I hope I'm not interrupting. My name is Samoon, a scholar of alchemy out of Light, here with family."