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Wamblee does his best to feel the stone around and beneath him as the group walks. With one hand and both feet on stone, he extends his senses.
He ignores the sylph scholars whom he does not share blood with, before approaching the book. He seeks quill to write in clear, straight lines and in common.
Wamblee Ituha Firenze. Seeking guide to and information on Ceder Smoke tribe, and information to aid against repeated Darkspawn assaults.
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Samen goes last and takes his time writing into the log book. Just for fun, he decides to take his time and write in Benthic, just to be a pain for the local Oreads who may be less familiar with it.
Samen Vloe Firenze, Zhè dàodǐ shì zěnme huí shì?
Marianne goes after Wamblee, seeing her sylphan brother getting wrapped up in his own thoughts. Wielding the quill as a weapon, she writes,
Marianne Emilia Fletcher-Firenze. We come in search of what we have lost.
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Samoon Elsus Firenze. Seeking information on vulnerabilities of Darkspawn, known spread of Darkspawn, possession by air elementals and Darkspawn-touched elen, and ifriti brass.
The bent librarian bows to each of you. "Enter friends. Any elen who bears the mark of Branch will be happy to assist you." She turns her face to the side, showing white tattoo work that does indeed resemble branches and leaves. She scans your entries. "If you are interested in darkspawn, I would recommend starting on the third floor down."
The arched entrance is large enough for two carts abreast. A gradual downward ramp takes you away from the grand view of southern Forest. Underground now, the ramp becomes a stone tunnel, wide and echoing. A fierce, cold wind blows down the tunnel, howling now and then.
It takes a minute or two of brisk walking to descend. You see a handful of oread warrior-merchants heading up the ramp in carts pulled by earthen donkeys or oxen. The els wear large hoops of gold on their forearms; the eles wear golden torcs around their necks.
At the front of the group is a boulder-bellied oread el, casually prodding his stone donkey with the end of his longspear. He waves to you enthusiastically, his green-brown beard swaying with the motion. "Hello there!" His voice booms jovially in the tunnel. Laughing, he says, "But where did you come from on a down day? Surely a sylph cannot climb with an oread upon their back?"
"So what brings you to Uluru, eh? I hope you are not here to trade - the market is terrible!"
"No sylph carried this oread.", Wamblee says, not in an unfriendly manner.
"We seek knowledge. Of Cedar Branch, and of Darkspawn. The latter have assaulted several locales, including overrunning Root."
"Knowledge aplenty you can find in the archives. Knowledge for several lifetimes, I should say! But what's this about Root? Their monastery on the Olukhulu Canyon, is that the one you speak of? I heard that was ifrits from the south doing that, going mad!"
Samen, one of the eles peers at you intently. Ignoring the conversation between Wamblee and her companion, she walks up to you and says, in Sedime, "Are words a bridge, or a road?"
Marianne does not pay much attention to the el's words. She stands slightly away from the group, her head moving bird-like and slow. Her falcon stare is focused on sheathed weapons and calm hands and clear hallways.
And she is satisfied.
Samen ponders the riddle, stroking his chin as he evaluates how to answer her. He responds in Sedime as well. "I suppose either position could be defended, though I prefer to think of them as the legs ideas use to walk between minds."
"It was Darkspawn," says Samoon. [b]"A Master of Root was...compromised. We aren't sure what happened to the rest of the monks and the students. It's hard to say who the leader was. There's a man named Kothal i Erret who has been very insistent that I speak with him, while he tries to kill us. So insistent that he's come back to life at least twice to do so. He'll no doubt do so again."
Samoon, the merchant shrugs. "From what I heard, the children and elders escaped, with the fighting els and eles covering their flight. I do not doubt the masters of that monastery, whoever they are, have a few tricks in their pack." His brow furrows. "Are you implying you were present when the attack on Root took place? And survived?" He looks over the four of you again, appraising you anew.
Samen, the ele steps a few inches closer. She smells of perspiration and leather. She murmurs, "An el with such 'legs' tattooed all over himself might be interested in the goings-on of the forth level down. They respect writing here, unlike the savages to the east."
"Yes, we were there. We seem to attract Darkspawn and destruction, I should warn you," says Samoon. "...how did you know our names?"
In response to your flat, true statement that you were there at the fall of Root, he says, "I wonder...you seem like elens who know how to survive." He scratches the ears of his earthen donkey with thick sausage fingers. "I do not know what you need from this place, or how urgent your need is." He looks at each of you. "But if you are looking for some coin, I can always use a few extra swords and staves on my side through dangerous terrain."
He opens his arms, as if trying to embrace all of you. "We are heading north - they have announced the location of the Winter Meet!"
Samen nods. "Thanks for the advice, I'll go check that out."
He seeks out directions to the fourth level down to see what's going on there.
"Strength in numbers sounds good," says Samoon. "We may need you as much as you need us."
Samoon, the warrior-merchant nods. "We will be staying at the camps below for a day or two, then we will be on our way. I hope to see there my friend!"
You come to the end of the wide ramp, the black, broken sky no longer visible behind you. To the right, the way suddenly opens up-
You find yourself in a tall, airy space, a rock-cobbled dome arching overhead. There are many small holes in the dome, allowing ambient peaklight to sneak in. To your immediate left is a large series of pens and corrals for beasts of burden: earthen beasts as well as the occasional pogona. The smell of pogona mash emanates from the far corner.
The copper tree--the top of which you saw outside--dominates the middle of the area, but there is ample room for dozens of merchants sitting upon rugs. Suspended from the bright copper branches are four large nets made of woven reeds. Each net contains, free for all, a staple food for one of the four races: acorns, ashbread, dried fish, and rocks. Crowds are gathered on stools here, eating and talking, their words but distant murmurs.
There must be some tradition here that insists upon the rugs, as every elen you see--and you can see quite far with nearly everyone sitting--is adhering to it. The grid structure makes it easy to walk between rows and columns. You see ordinary trade goods, such as spices, pelts, and leather, but you also get the occasional glimpse of what could be magical items (but could just as easily be charlatanry). Every merchant you see is an oread.
The buyers are mostly oread as well--smiling and laughing, haggling and bickering--but you see a spark of ifrits browsing a weapons stall, and two small flocks of sylphs on a purple rug, arguing over some kind of staff.
"The library for now. We may find useful words there. Or is it legs now?"
"Oh come on, you can't tell me those masters of yours never spoke in riddles and expected you to return in kind. She wasn't actively trying to kill me, so humoring her seemed reasonable.
Samen collects himself somewhat. "But... yeah, library first."
You make your way through the rows of rugs. In contrast to the dull greens and browns of the merchants, the rugs and carpets are bold in color and design. Red wines sold upon an azure blue rug ; one rug all green and yellow triangles, each given a fresh banana or lime ; the staff being dickered over appears to be resting on an over-sized tapestry, complete with archaic arabesques in golds and greens upon pale, misty blue.
Samoon is momentarily distracted - did he recognize one of the sylphs? He turns around and- no, none of your friends are here. Marianne pushes you onward with a sisterly roughness.
Down another interminable ramp--very little traffic now--you come to the second level. It is another huge, airy space. You see that each storey is much taller than it would be in a traditional ifrit building. It is a cavernous library, shelves upon shelves made of the very living rock, holding paper-made books, the kind you would associate with ifrits and sylphs.
Unlike the marketplace above, the acoustics are well-managed here. All the shelves are lightly covered in fuzzy moss that glows soothing blue or purple. It lights the space nicely, and Samoon recognizes it has sound-dampening properties as well. The tall shelves are organized into rows: you can see quite far in one or two directions, but most of the area is hidden from view. You see a sylph here and an oread there crossing among the stacks.
Wamblee walks right past this literature. It is not what they were recommended, or anything that he is curious about.
As you pass row after row of shelves, some of you notice a subtle pattern to the order of the green, blue, and purple mosses - it could be the way the shelves are organized and labeled. Upon the smooth, magic-wrought stone shelves, there are tomes, dictionaries, atlases, loosely-bound papers, scrolls, oilskin journals, more scrolls, maps, broadsheets, piles of tiny bird-flown missives, picture books, paintings, a mountain of scrolls heaped atop one short shelf, and much, much more. Everything that could be put to paper and given form is here.
On your way through the stacks, Marianne goes ahead and has a brief conversation with a sylph, towering and skinny, who also bears the branches-and-leaves tattoo, this time green ink upon pale skin.
Coming back to the group, she says, "Sounds like the fourth level might be a little tougher to get into. One thing that will help us below - that sylph told me most of the material on the Dark will be in the arcane section on the third floor. Guess Branch doctrine doesn't allow the idea that the Dark could be divine like the gods." She mutters, "Guess you can find people lying to themselves about the goodness of the gods everywhere."
"Is the 4th level restricted or something? Why would that lady send me there if she knew I wouldn't be allowed in?"
"Well despite your earlier comment, elens who speak in riddles for no reason might not always know what they are talking about." She shrugs, smiling a bit. "Or maybe it's a librarian's trap. That book is still due, isn't it?"
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"Ugh, don't remind me. My only solace is that Forge has probably burned down by now."
You leave the library of paper and vellum behind you. Another ramp down, this one narrower than the others. The air is very dry here, leaving you thirsty. The walls are completely free of adornment, unlike the colorful murals of Root. Occasionally there are arched doorways in the stone - living areas or study areas carved from the thick walls. You hear murmured conversations in oread and sedime coming from these.
You see many more tattooed elens, mostly oreads. Some nod, friendly enough, but most are absorbed in their work. Some even read as they walk, nearly stumbling into walls. Their arms and packs are full of food, books, and notes. A curious amount of them are carrying neat bundles of sticks.
And now you come to the opening, and wander into a field of stone trees: limestone maples, granite oaks, slate elms and marble birches. No two trees seems to share the same rock or tree type. From each branch of each tree hang bundles of sticks, again bewildering in their variety of shapes and sizes. If you look closely, you see each stick is covered with fine lettering - the bundle has oread words and phrases sprawling and twisting about its surface.
Samen, a fan of curious writing on sticks, moves to investigate closer. He moves from tree to tree inspecting the words, attempting to discern their intent.
He'll turn on detect magic too, to see if perhaps any of these edifices are playing host to elementals.
"I will seek lore on Cedar Smoke."
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Satisfied that the seemingly exotic is instead the mundane, Samen begins searching out information on elementals. Specifically, elementals that don't necessarily align to the traditional four elements. That woodcut is something, and Samen would like to find out what it is.
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"We'll meet back here in an hour. For all this information, you'd think these elens would have some news about the burning down of the entire volcing land," says Samoon with a barely suppressed snarl, and stalks off. "Trees. Let's organize books in the least logical way possible. Hello, tree. I'd like to find the volcing Darkspawn forest area, with the How To Kill Them branch, and the Specific Instructions twig with the List of Ingredients and Formulae bud." He continues muttering as he weaves through the rows of trees.
"One hour!" he shouts, without turning around or even stepping aside for any other tree-perusers. Whether he said that they should stick together previously or not, he's off now.
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You find quite a lot of literature. Skimming until you find the rarer information, you see a trend where over the last few centuries that spawn in general are becoming ever-so-slightly resistant to Volcano's light, lasting longer, which in turn led to fire resistance more often than not. You are distraught that you could find this information relatively easily, but no one seems to be acting upon it. If you ask around even a few elens in the area, everyone will pretty uniformly say they will either leave it to the ifrits on the Fronts or they don't believe the books you are citing. [/ooc]
Wamblee cannot help but look about, and when no one is looking, remove his crystal to examine it for anything that might look like a handprint.
I know it's been a while, but Wamblee would definitely remember one other item that came in Hotah's strong box - a lapis luzuli that bears just such a hand print. I think it is in Wamblee's possession currently.
Despite Samoon's bluster, you all spend more than a single candle researching your various topics. Eventually, you all meet back at the granite oak at the third level entrance (or perhaps in Samen's case, you have to go looking for him).
Marianne says, "It's past lunch time. How about we head back up to those big nets of food and share what we've found?"
Samoon pokes at his shrunken belly. "Best idea all day, Marianne. I am getting a headache, and the cure is bread, cheese, ale, crispy things, dried mushrooms, sour plum preserves, carrots..." He continues to list things as they walk.
Up the long ramp yet again, and your legs are starting to feel tired. You hear more noise from the living quarters this time - apparently many of the locals needed a lunch break as well. The crunching of rocks by oread teeth echoes in the tunnel.
On the second level, you traverse the stretching stone shelves of parchment and book. The spines and titles of countless books are lit softly by the purple and blue mossglow. The sylph librarians are certainly more common on this level - you catch sight of two or three sylphan els and eles, all wearing somber beige garb and bearing tattooed leaves in verdant green ink. You hear low-toned arguing from one row over - it sounds like the same sylphs that were going back and forth at the marketplace.
One more ramp. You see an old oread el walking down on your left, reaching into a large sack and scattering large handfuls of some kind of white salt onto the edges of the tunnel. He walks a slow pace, keeping time with orean mouth drumming--called dumol-- softly clicking and clacking his tongue. He passes by, smiling at all of you, and the complex rhythms fade.
At the top of the final ramp, Marianne, slightly out of breath, says, "No wonder they're all so...fit. They're librarians, but they walk a mile uphill just to get to...food." She continues walking, too hungry and too stubborn to pause or rest.
Samoon, in the marketplace you come across a place that fulfills most of your culinary desires. On the far edge of the marketplace--opposite and far removed from the stables and pens near the main entrance--there is a long line of merchants and chefs selling hot food, cooked food, of all varieties. An undine selling traditional puddings and soups; a married fritan couple baking hot ashbread with sweet butters melted on top ; and a sylph ele making a brisk business serving spicy sylphan dishes to the librarians of the second level.
Your attention is drawn to a spot where an oread ele has brought her entire cart to the food corner, minus whatever beast of burden normally pulls it. From an open panel in the side of the cart, smells waft out, reminiscent of a kitchen at lunchtime - eggs, bread (none of that damn ashbread), hard cheeses, apples, and carrots. There is something smoky and savory cooking in the back.
There are several empty wooden chairs by the opening, with the folded-down side panel acting as a counter. The chef is a broad, strong ele, perhaps in her early forties. She notices you, and waves you over with an open smile. In lightly accented Common, she says, "And what're you thinking? Anything smell good to you today?" Behind her, you see a large cask near the front of the cart.
She laughs loudly, too genuine a laugh to be offensive. "Only a Lightee would think you can gets plums anywhere in Forest - am I right? Is that where you hail from?"