”It’s giant. He wants… Sweetcakes. Gods I hope that’s not a euphemism.” Costin shudders a bit.
”At any rate, they said go away. But maybe they can be bribed. If anyone’s got a secret stash of pastries, my money’s on Merlan.”
"Rations and prestidigitation?" Sahar suggests.
”It’s giant. He wants… Sweetcakes. Gods I hope that’s not a euphemism.” Costin shudders a bit.
"Well. THAT'S not terrifying at all."
Merlan echoes Costin's shudder.”At any rate, they said go away. But maybe they can be bribed. If anyone’s got a secret stash of pastries, my money’s on Merlan.”
"Rations and prestidigitation?" Sahar suggests.
Merlan shakes his head, almost dislodging his tiny dino companion from his hat.
"Naw, That would never wor,.... waitaminute,..."
The dino gives the wizard a gimlet glare as the hocus-pocus halfling digs through his backpack for some bread rations.
The wizard produces the rations with a flourish. "Ah-HAH!"
Merlan then squints his eyes in concentration, and casts a brief charm.
The wizard murmurs inaudible phrases as he concentrates on the rations, sprinkling substances over it from fingers that hold nothing. He finishes up by holding one hand over the ration as a low reddish glow emanates from his palm, warming the ration.
Ah-HAH!" Merlan repeats himself.
"Thank goodness I thought of that!"
Squeaks beats his reptilian head into the hat's crown with an audible sigh.
This goes unnoticed by Merlan, as he is busy using his charm to carefully levitate the now sugary, gooey mass of ration into the air, and send it slowly towards the cave mouth.
"Can you speak giant well enough to tell him there's more if he likes it?"
Costin considers the question. ”I don’t trust my skill with the tongue of the giants sufficiently to know that I won’t inadvertently insult his sister. But he spoke a combination of giant and common. Maybe he will understand that well enough.”
He calls out loudly to the cave. ”We have traveled far to see you. I hope this offering will suffice! Sweet and tasty!”
The gooey mess floats into the cave and a moment later comes back at you with the sort of speed you'd normally associate with a projectile.
again." There's a pause, and then, the voice returns in a much calmer tone, "Probably mistake. Come, we talk, maybe you eat first."
You're quite sure you heard a whisper during the pause, as if someone offered advice to the loud voice.
Um... you don't think he actually means that gentle and pleasant invitation into the cave.
Before the halfling can get them into MORE trouble, Sahar shakes her head vehemently at her team.
"Uh, if you didn't like that, we could go get you something better and return with it. Then you can have a nice snack while we chat. And we're very sorry we didn't get the right thing for you the first time."
She backs Sharisa several paces farther from the cave opening.
Eloen backs away as well and whispers, "What did he mean by 'again'? Have the orcs already been here and tried to poison him? Her? It?"
Merlan scratches his chin.
"Geez. It wasn't THAT bad. I mean, I've done better. But I was in a hurry."
"Um, guys? I don't want to sound like the suspicious type. BUT, I'm not,... entirely,... convinced that he meant that gentle and pleasant invitation into the cave. Just sayin'."
Squeaks tilts his reptilian head almost sideways, snaking his neck around the brim to look at his master. The tiny Dino's actions are as clear as any spoken language.
'REEEEEELY? Ya' THINK?!?'
Sahar gives Eloen a commiserating shrug.
"We'll return with something better. The dwarf set a good table; we might be able to get something delicious from him." She turns Sharisa back in the direction of the town, waving for the others to follow.
Merlan sighs, and climbs back into Tiny's saddle.
"I mean, unless the cave gets real deep, real fast, there can't be THAT many giant-kin stuffed in there. I wuz gonna,..."
Squeaks pulls up the oversized brim of the wizard's hat. The better to STARE at him. Merlan looks as if he is going to pout.
"What?!? It coulda worked!"
But despite his muttered protests, the halfling follows Sahar's lead.
The ride back to town passes peacefully... and while the sun shows that you're making good time (knowing the route is helpful), there's still a sense that, somehow, you're not moving quickly enough... though that might be, in part, because of the nature of one of your adversaries.
As you come up over the hill to see the crossroads (as you still think calling it a 'town' is far too generous), you see a small mob of roughly two dozen of the local farmers - men, women, and teenagers that you're more used to seeing at Hamish's -- they seem to be hostile and advancing (with actual polearms, not just pitchforks) on Rickan and a smaller figure behind him -- though it's difficult from the distance, you think it may be Daven.
"No lethal attacks," says Eloen to the team in a clipped voice, "if we can manage it. No preventable deaths."
"OH fertheluvuvmagic,... NOW what?!?"
Fiona tightens her grip on her own polearm and quickens her horse's pace forward. "Ho there!" she calls out, hoping not to startle the mob into doing anything rash. As she (and hopefully the rest of the group) rides up into normal speaking distance, she calls out, "What's happened?"
The mob shifts at your approach, but when you don't draw weapons, their attention returns to Rickan and the boy behind him. However, even with their attention fixed forward, the mob responds -- at least, some of them do.
"That one spoilt and kilt Yacob's girl."
"Found 'is broken arrows and 'er blood where he first attacked 'er."
"And a bloody trophy in his satchel."
"--gonna string him up--"
"--don't deserve a quick death--"
Daven looks scared, to put it mildly, and continues to stammer his innocence, "--I didn't -- I couldn't -- never raise a finger against Primrose--"
Rickan is doing his best to calm and defuse the mob, urging peace and justice instead of vengeance.
Eloen frowns and says to her colleagues, "This has all the makings of a set-up. As if... say... someone had something to gain by setting the villagers against each other, to make them easier to conquer."
Merlan has had many faces and emotions in the time the others have known him.
They realize that they have never seen the Halfling angry before.
I mean REALLY angry.
Until now.
"Yeah. Three guesses who it was. I'm gonna string that little <Mutters something in a language no one recognizes> up by his own entrails. See if he thinks THAT'S funny." Merlan murmurs softly and calmly.
Costin says quietly, ”Do any of you have rapport with these villagers? I’m new here and probably not the best one to talk them down…”
Sahar sits bolt upright in the saddle. "Ya Hamaji"! she exclaims, spurring her horse until they are bodily between the villagers and the two beleaguered figures.
Without drawing a weapon, she shouts at the armoed mob, "What is this? When Lord Kalthun sent us to help you against the lawless orc tribes, he did not count on you turning into a lawless band yourselves! Whatever has happened, a lynching is not justice! For shame. Put those weapons away and use your words. Justice will be done, whatever has happened, but not if you act in hot blood."
Fiona rides up as well (not quite as gracefully), but her hand is very much on her weapon, and her expression is hard as she stares into the villagers' faces.
The crowd stops and recoils slightly from the two women on horseback who interpose themselves between the mob and the two men... or, man and a boy, really. You hear some grumbling and muttering in the crowd about "wallers" and "wanting to take the boy for tea", but even with that, you can feel that the shock of being pushed back has broken - or at least dulled - the mob's hostility. After a second of murmuring, just as it seems that the farmers are starting to tighten their grips on their weapons, a voice that could only be described as broken calls out tentatively, "Mistress, will you swear by the Dawnflower that justice will be done for my little girl? And that when that one's found guilty, he pay with his life? Need to be there to see that, I think."
Rickan steps forward, "Of course, Yaco--"
The man in the crowd cuts off the ranger, "No offense, Rickan, but I weren't talking to you. You love the boy as your own, and while I'm not sayin' you'd break with us to protect him.. love can blind a body from seein' what they don't wanna see. The outsiders ain't got the same problem... and if that one swears by her goddess..." He shrugs, then turns to look at Sahar and Fiona again, "If you can promise me that -- and deliver on it -- then we'll all back off to let you do it all the right way..."
Sahar slides from Sharisa's back, giving her horse the little whistle that means heel. "Who calls for my oath?" she says to the crowd, winding her way through the people to the bereaved father, Sharisa's nose almost touching her left shoulder the entire way.
Standing before the man, she looks into his bloodshot eyes and removes her holy symbol, holding it in her hand as she reaches to clasp his. With the symbol of her goddess between then, she grips his hand gently. "I swear to you that I will find the truth behind your daughter's slaying and see justice done for her. I swear this upon my calling and service to the Dawnflower, no matter where the trail leads. Will this satisfy?"
If he agrees, she hangs her token of Sarenrae around her neck again and takes his arm, walking away from Rickan and Daven and her own party without a backwards glance. She leans her head close to his in confidential conversation "Now, tell me what has happened, my friend. Tell me about your daughter and what you have seen and heard. Show me."
She follows wherever he cares to lead, Sharisa always one pace behind.
The crowd resists Sahar's attempt to pass through it, but only for a moment -- and her passage has the same effect as a puff of wind on a mass of dandelion seeds - the locals making room, and many on the edges simply leaving, their weapons hanging low in their hands.
The man before Sahar looks weathered, and recent events have not helped, making it hard to estimate his age - but likely not much more than thirty winters. His skin is tan, like soft unoiled leather, with a double-handful of freckles thrown recklessly across his face and neck, each ruddy-brown mark not much larger than a grain of sand on their own - though more than a few have clustered, like the ones under his left eye. His hair is honey brown, with streaks of white shot through, revealing a few pale strawberry highlights. He nods, then nods again, "Aye, lady, that will do." He pulls a small, well-worn wooden symbol from under his tunic, most of the detail has been worn away by time, but the shape of the ankh is still clear. "The Dawnflower smiles on farmers," he says quietly, with a reverence that borders on a prayer.
He follows Sahar, his hands shooing away the mob as if they were flies, but says nothing until its clear that the two are alone. Then, he takes a deep breath, and begins, "That one, the boy, Prim's had a crush on him since she was ten. Now, six winters later, his mixed blood's kept 'im looking like he ain't half'gain as old as her. Caught 'em kissing up in the loft a few times in the spring, when Prim was s'posed to be out gatherin' herbs and grouseberries. The last time, told him no pointy-eared halfblood was good enough for Primm."
He sighs, "Thought he listened. Was so respectful I almost fell bad and changed my mind on the spot. Maybe I shoulda... she'd still..."
He trails off, then starts shaking his head, as if willing away dark thoughts, or pain, or tears, "Sorry. This morning, Prim din't get up to do her chores. Ain't like her, so her ma went up to get her -- but she wasn't in her bed. Might not'a worried, but there was blood on her pillow - not a lot, 'could cover the thing with my palm. One of the shutters was ripped a bit - figure he went in and out the window, which makes sense, so we wouldn't see 'im. Still, he musta been quiet, we ain't heard a struggle at all."
His jaw tenses and his face flushes before he continues, "Found a piece of her nightgown wedged in the hinge. Probably wot ripped the shutter. Ran outside, kid covered his own tracks, but not good enough - saw a few drag marks -- couldn't even be bothered to carry her. Trail led about a mile to old Greymilk's burned barn..." He takes another deep breath, then says, "Found her in a stall, on toppa mouldy burnt hay. Nightgown cut open, smallclothes torn off and tossed in a corner, arrows drove through her hands to pin her down, face twisted in horror but nothing in the eyes. Bowstring around her neck s'what kilt her - but, shallow cuts all over, looked like they was made by a broadhead arrow -- and there were a bloody broken one in the corner with her smallclothes."
His face clenches again, though he does manage to get out, "Matched the ones pinning her hands....", and then a growl, "Bastard used the arrows he'd made with the grousefeathers Prim gave him."
Eloen absorbs the whole story impassively. The disapproving father, the racial undertones, the sexualized violence. One does not become a century old without having some exposure to it. It still does not lessen the sting. It simply makes the mask more impassive.
She lowers her head slightly and says to Sahar and a low tone meant specifically for the priestess, "We need to investigate the tracks and the scene of the murder for information. All of this is speculative. Prim had no motivation to commit the crime, and the arrows and bowstring are circumstantial: They could be stolen and used by another attacker. We should ask Prim what he was doing last night, if anyone can account for his whereabouts, and where his bow and arrows are, and who could get to them."
"This should not come from me, given this man's remarks about pointy ears."
Merlan observes the goings on with unusual silence.
The tiny wizard sits atop his furry mount (Gives him a better view) and aims for a 'Glower of Disapproval', made famous by centuries of wizards before him.
(He doesn't do too bad, actually. Considering his usual cheerful demeanor.)
He waits (relatively) patiently for Sahar to return and tell them what in the Bullette Dung is supposedly going on here.
Sahar nods slightly in response to Eloen, then leans in to speak confidentially with the bereaved father.
"I must confer with my friends, then we will go see Primrose together and perform the rites if they have not yet been done. Please wait one monent."
She returns to the group and speaks quietly. "The girl was killed and left with evidence pointing heavily at Davben... a perfect way to remove the nighttime guardian of the village. Nonetheless, we need to take custody of the boy as much to protect him as to confine him. Perhaps in Rickan's store cellar, now that is cleansed? I think we should keep watch in Davben's place tonight, trusting the sharp eyes of our elf, perhaps. In the meantime, I will go with the father. Someone needs to investigate the murder site." She glances around at her friends. "Unless you need something from me, I must attend the family."
Eloen says in a louder tone so that she's no longer whispering, "I defer to your judgment," and inclines her head toward Sahar.
"I will investigate the location where the crime took place." Merlan offers solemnly.
"I welcome aid and ideas from others. My Imagination does, sometimes, run away with me."
This last part was delivered straight-faced. Almost as if the thought had not occurred to him before.
At a sigh from Squeaks, Merlan smiles and looks up (tilting his hat and the Dino's perch precariously).
"I meant I welcome MORE aid and ideas. Your help is always invaluable."
As Sahar returns to the group to plan, Yacob returns to the mob and says, "The Lady swore that she'd see justice done. Give her the chance."
Rickan holds up his hands, trying to appease the crowd, and looks like he's about to speak when Taran calls out, "I'll lock the boy up in one of the old rooms, and have Norfin make sure he doesn't try to run." She turns to face the party as they're discussing their next steps, "I'll make sure you get a day to do what you need to do, because tempers are hot right now and I don't want anyone to do something they might regret -- but if the mob comes back tomorrow after dark, I won't be raising a skillet to stop them."
"Good idea!" Merlan smiles and gives Taran a thumbs up.
Out of Taran's earshot, Merlan murmurs to his companions.
"Too bad though. I was chased by a lass with a skillet once. A skilled skillet-weilder is a fearsome foe!"