You make good progress on the now-familiar road out of Forge. The wind picks up, making you wish you still had a covered wagon to take shelter in. An hour or so after dim, you approach the Motherload, the fortified inn located between Forge and the western mining towns.
You close the door behind you, simply enjoying being out of the wind for a moment. One of the innkeep's burly sons stands watch this night. Slightly friendlier than his father, he nods and gives a tight-lipped smile as he takes your half-silver each.
In the adjoining common room, you hear a loud ruckus and laughter - sounds like gaming and gambling, if you had to guess. The smells of beer, chicken, and woodsmoke fill the air.
Wamblee says:
"I would eat. It may be a while before we get to eat in any sort of peace. I can bring some to the rooms, should ye wish it."
Samen trudges toward their room, still carrying the heavy load.
"Please do, Wamblee. I need to eat something, though I still have no appetite."
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D'you suppose there's a bounty out on us, via the Watch, the v'Borios, agents of Rentwyrth, or the Dark?" says Samoon.
"...in other words, to flaming Hells with it and I'm going to go have a mug and some food. Bree? Mar? Maybe they have a dart board," says Samoon.
He turns to Samen and gives him a brotherly embrace. "Samen. A mug will help remove that sorrow."
"C'mon," he says to Albreane. He conjures up not one, but five gold pieces from behind one of her shapely ears.
Samoon looks like he's in the mood to imbibe several mugs--the last day has made him feel reckless, brittle, unmoored, and he needs something for that. Alchemists are always tossing back some form of chemical cure...
Samoon, Bree takes you arm and follows you. There is indeed a dart board in the far corner of the spacious common room. A short ifrit with a curly red beard is shouting playful insults at his companion as he throws his final dart and wins the game. "Ha! I wish I had someone more fun to swindle than you, but for now I'll let you pay for the next round, loser!"
There are two tables of ifrits and oreads playing cards, grumbling, laughing, and singing poorly. Judging from their clothing, there is a mix of mercenaries, merchants, and farmers, likely a caravan traveling together for mutual protection.
Opposite the dart board, a trio of young ifrits sit sullenly, drinking whiskey from a shared bottle.
Samen, on your way upstairs, a little ifrit boy stares at you from behind the bars of the balcony. He scampers over to you as you reach the top. He is dressed in fine clothes, though the knees of his pants have fresh mud stains. He looks at your with the rude boldness of childhood. "Are you a fortuneteller or something? When am I going to do something fun?"
Wamblee grabs a big plateful of food, eats a few pieces, and then begin to walk towards the stairs.
I would not have Samen go hungry for my indulgence.
"No. But he is in need of dinner.", says Wamblee flatly, as he keeps walking upstairs.
The same ifrit boy turns to Wamblee, still ascending the stairs. His words tumble out like a babbling brook. "Your friend has weird tattoos he's not answering my questions is he a fortune teller?"
Samen looks down at the child with a smile. While the kid no doubt has issues of his own, they are completely foreign to Samen, and therefore light.
"Anyone can be a fortune teller, kid. The trick is to either be right, or to be far enough away before anyone notices. Guess which I am."
He purses his lips in thought. "You...don't seem very fast." Raising his eyebrows hopefully, he adds, "Does that mean you're right?"
He tousles the kids hair and winks at him. "I knew you'd figure it out."
Wamblee smiles just a little at Samen's way of handling the child.
"Cool! I'll have more questions for you tomorrow." He runs down the hall and out of sight.
Wamblee passes the near-full plate over to Samen.
"In case you do get hungry, Samen."
"Thanks, Wamblee. One trial at a time, I suppose. Might as well face them on a full stomach."
"Good attitude. How are you holding up?"
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Marianne eats contemplatively, simply watching and not speaking much. Her gaze rests on Albreane most of all, but just as often she is staring without seeing, lost in her own thoughts. Mother is dead, we’re hunting a dragon, and I’m carrying the holiest relic to be seen since Sky’s Fall. I know I should be upset about her death, but... I am too excited about Dead Sky. What was it Old Bertrude said one time? “Zeal and devotion are all well and good girly. Just remember that you’re an elen, and that at the end of the day, the best priests belonged to their people first. It’s through devotion to the gods that we serve our people. The people. Come. First.” Marianne absently rubs at her chest at the thought, remembering the bony jabs that had served to emphasize that particular lesson, as her mind continues to drift down long, twisting paths into the future.
Albreane sits down next to Marianne. Reaching over, she squeezes your hand, which you notice has been balled in a fist while your thoughts have run rampant. The hours spent in the cold afternoon air have given Bree's fingers a lingering chill. "See? I'm still flesh and blood. I'm still me, just like you're still you, even though you're reading scrolls no one can understand and you practically have an air elemental at your shoulder." She smiles, searching your face to see if you would rather talk or be alone.
Marianne can't help but chuckle at her friend's words. "Come now Bree, you've known me this long. You think I was worried about you? When an air elemental was involved? It is simply... we have stumbled across more information about Sky in a week than has been known since He fell. It is... more than exhilarating. But I cannot help but feel that I might miss something, that some vital piece of knowledge might slip right past me in the deluge. That is why I was so desperate to know what was going on with you. It was never about you, I know you, I trust you. But hidden somewhere within you is a piece of the puzzle, and I am terrified that I might fail to finish this puzzle in time," she ends with a sigh, lacing her fingers through Bree's and resting her head on the ele's shoulder. "I am sorry to have worried you."
Samoon gets a beer, produces a small grey-green vial he has secreted in some bandolier, and pour it in his drink. "Ayyyy, watch this!" he says. He quaffs the beer in several long gulps, and suddenly appears more nimble...and perhaps less inhibited. Is it the beer? "WHO'S FOR A ROUND OF DARTS?" he says, a little too loudly.
He strolls over towards the red-bearded ifrit. "I'll have a round, my good el!" He pauses to think. "Of darts! Of darts. Marianne! Come join!" He looks momentarily stricken for interrupting the heart to heart with Albreane, then gives a jaunty grin and continues toward the ifrit.
The ifrit rubs his hands together. "Now we're talkin'! Loser buys the next round!"
Marianne, Bree brow wrinkles as she considers your words. "What do you mean, 'finish it in time'? I know there's all these crazy idiots running around getting in our way, but Sky's been dead for thousands of years - why rush? Running head long at a problem is a good way to miss something important along the way."
Her slow sigh reflects your own. "Anyway, I promise if a whispery wind voice starts talking in my head, you'll be the first to know."
Samoon winks at the ifrit and bows to him. "Higher stakes after this round?"
The ifrit takes his defeat in stride, smiling as he hands you a beer and keeps one for himself. "What did you have in mind? Gold? Rumors? Favors?" The prospect of gambling puts a gleam in his eye. He holds out his hand. "Name's Gabe, by the way."
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Marianne blinks eyeing her brother’s impressive winning round skeptically. ”I think I’ll pass,” she says simply, returning to her reverie.
Marianne shakes her head as Albreane finishes. ”Thank you, I truly appreciate it,” she says emphatically. ”But I think you are wrong about there being time. I don’t blame you, I’m probably the only person who pays this much attention to the winds,” the zealot admits with a wry smile. ”They’re stirring, especially the Sylph-Winds. Not really restless, it’s too faint, but things are starting to move that haven’t in millenia. When they rest again... who knows what the world will look like?” Marianne lapses back into silence once more, staring at a stray leaf on the floor dancing in her winds.
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Bree nods, catching the direction of your gaze. "I guess we'll just keep doing our best, and try to avoid any tornadoes along the way." The leaf is crunched under the heavy boot of a passing patron. One half of it still flutters in Marianne's breeze, while the other half is stuck in a muddy footprint.
She stands up, stretching her back. "Just remember, family comes first, right?" Unconscious of her words echoing your earlier thoughts about Bertrude, she continues, "I think I'm about ready for sleep. Coming with, or are you staying up?"
"Oh, that's a good one. Loser has to tell two solid rumors. We've got a few. ...and five gold." He quaffs at the mug. "Samoon."
”I’m coming,” Marianne says, standing and stretching similarly to Albreane, although it’s more accurate to say that Bree stretched like Marianne a moment ago. It always did amuse everyone that the two never understood why people who met them for the first time thought they were sisters. ”Thanks,” she adds as they walk up the stairs together.
"I like it! Just a second though." He drains the beer in large, gasping gulps, his throat moving up and down as he does so. "Ahhhh! Much better. Gotta have just the righ' balance of beer and alcohol to play yer bes'."
"Argh." Samoon turns to the ifrit. "Five gold, then?"
He claps you on the shoulder in a friendly way, though harder than is strictly polite. "Yep! And what kinda fun rumors you got for me?"
Wamblee, just as you and Samen are drifting off to sleep (Samoon must still be playing at darts) you hear a faint click. The door opens slowly, and small footsteps creep across the floor. You crack open one eye, and see the ifrit boy from before rummaging through Samen's pack.
"Well...the v'Borio gang killed a banker in Forge. Attempted heist; they caught a few of them. We had great trouble getting out of the city due to inspections. And there's a deathless agent of the Dark running around on the roads, I hear. That one wasn't an ifrit, though, ha!" Samoon tips back his beer.
The ifrit rubs his bearded chin thoughtfully. "Huh. Little bit of trouble in Forge, eh? Sounds like an opportunity..." He shakes his head, returning to the present conversation. "You're a solid one, friend! Most wouldn't take so kindly to losing after we upped the stakes. Here's one for free - sounds like you're heading away from Forge, back to the mineys. If that's so, make sure you avoid this one in particular. Folks actin' strange, closing shops, running outsiders out of town, like they got somethin' to hide...it's called, uh," he snaps his fingers, trying to recall, "Umm, Rock...Edge? Ledge? Rock Edge, something like that."
He claps you on the shoulder once more, standing up. "It's been fun, but I have to go make a deposit in the washroom, then get a headstart on tomorrow morning's hangover. Good dim to you, Samoon."
Wamblee quietly gets up, aiming to place himself between the boy and the door.
Once he is in place, he coughs. Loudly.
"Young el, cease rummaging through my brothers' bag and turn to face me."
The boy yells in surprise, tries to jump up, and falls down on his rear, looking up at your tall form. "I just wanted to take a look at his crystal ball or whatever! I need to know!"
Samoon waves after the ifrit and keeps his smile on as he heads to his room.
Once out of sight, his face turns to a thin lipped indeterminate frown. He then hears shouting in the shared room and pauses at the door.
Samen wakes up with a start and reflexively grabs his staff. "What in Sky's reaches?"
He notices the terrified kid and assesses the situation. With a smirk, he dives deeper into the child's fantasy. "Only those in great need would do something so desperate as trying to sneak up on one such as me, son. I can grant you the mystical sign of the ancients, but this is cursed power. It might give you the answers you seek, but it will come with a price that not even I can estimate. Are you willing?"
The boy stands up, brushes himself off--succeeding only in spreading the dirt on his pants--and raises his chin. "I. Am. Willing." His look is one of unselfconscious seriousness that only the young and the insane possess.
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Samen nods soberly, trying his best to mirror the child's seriousness. "Then this gift I grant you. Turn around and take your shirt off."
He makes a big show of solemnly chanting in High Ifrit for a bit, then casts arcane mark on the boy's back. "The deed is done. The magic will seep into you over the next month, and you will possess power that you cannot imagine. But you will also face trials beyond your reckoning. Good luck, young one!"
Samoon, a shirtless boy runs out of the door. You watch him exultantly sprint down the hall, shouting with his arms above his head.
Marianne is about to jump out of bed at the commotion in the next room, but once she hears the exultant cries passing her room, she snorts in disgust and rolls over instead.
Wamblee steps aside, with a grave look on his face.
And as soon as he is sure the boy is out of earshot, covers his mouth to stifle the laughter rumbling out.
Once he composes himself, Wamblee smiles at Samen.
"Nicely done, Samen. Nicely done."
Samen winks at Wamblee. "Lets hope he doesn't start floating away. Then I'd feel real bad. I don't know what's funnier, the reaction his parents will have, or his own disappointment when he doesn't develop super powers."