** Earlier **
Brental laughs when Morof turns to Veil and gives a bow. "Both 'V' names, but that's Veil." The druid shrugs and shakes his head. "And Meneas can say better, but I'm sure that she appreciates it, too."
Meanwhile, fresh from munching on Lina's apple, the mastodon has raised his trunk and tapped on Morof's shoulder from behind, sniffing around for a different snack.
For better or worse, the mastodon can't understand the elf unless she has her own access to that specific bit of divination. Brental relays her quip and Vodnykel laughs.
As the party stroll through the Narlmarches Brental comes upon some large bestial tracks and makes to follow them out of curiousity. They appear amphibious in nature and the druid wonders what kind of beast could be so large in such close proximity to the river.
Lina makes an effort to scale on of the taller nearby trees to see if she can get a bead on whatever these beasts are and with alarming haste reaches the top of one of the massive oaks in the vicinity. At the top of the trees she calls out that she believes she has spotted two massive frog-like creaters around a hot-spring near the river.
Morof quickly perks up offering some insight that these hotsprings may have healing qualities and are often incorperated into inns and other such lodgings as a form of attraction that can be quite popular.
The party make their way towards the hotspring and find that the stench is actually not too terribly bad here but they are having to keep their distance from the giant frogs who are swelling up and croaking territorially every time they manage to get close.
Here, Meneas decides to scout around the slow flowing river at this area and see if he can find anything a little safer to rest their weary bones. Despite his heavy armor the man plunges into the Skunk River without hesitation and proves himself a more than competent swimmer. Soon he has managed to make his way safely around the frogs and to a more secluded hotspring hidden away from the world by curiously rounded stones and dense vegetation.
Returning to the party Meneas notes the location as somethibg they may wish to include on their reports as a possible location for the developement of a luxury resort, sure that the nobles of Brevoy would be thrilled at the proposition of a day of pampering.
There is still the matter of the closer hotsprings which could be used to further develop the luxury resort but the giant frogs would have to be dealt with first in one way or the other.
Brental's eyes brighten as Meneas finds springs further from the territorial frogs. With the pace of their travel, he wouldn't mind a dip in those springs...
But the discussion of a spa and resort gives the druid pause.
"I'm happy to include this in our report, but displacing the local fauna for a noble's rest and relaxation seems unnecessary. I'm sure that we can find a way to share if there is demand for this resource."
The druid waves his hands around in the air. "Some in my Order have trained such frogs as these. Given enough time, we could ensure that they are friendly to strangers. If there is even a need..."
He tries to gauge his fellows' feelings about this, worried that he might be making a bigger deal over this than is necessary. This was part of what had drawn him to this mission in the first place: many people had designs on taming this region. Better to push back at least somewhat against the worst impulses.
Lina considers the quieter spring, and especially the odd stones. She pockets a small pebble similarly worn smooth by the waters to remind herself of the place (feeling a twinge of memory of Wisp’s twigs too, since she doesn’t normally carry too many mementos that aren’t considerably more urban(e)), even as she casts her mind back to the glimpse she got of the wider course of the river from the tree she climbed.
She skims another small stone back into the warm pool as she listens to Brental’s thoughts. “That sounds reasonable: leaving the frogs alone, I mean. This spring should be fine.”
Her lips twist up in a canny grin. “A bit less convenient, but all the more exclusive, no? And if all that luxurious privacy helps minimize the impact of encouraging any more visitors at all, so much the better.”
She speaks lightly, but it’s obvious that no matter how much she loves her family, there’s only so much room growing up on a houseboat – and yet, nonetheless, she doesn’t think that just building with willfully expansive abandon is the best solution.
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Morof agrees and says "I'm also unwilling to move the nice frogs out just because there's money involved. If you think they are tamable, that would be great! They could be an added attraction to the springs, instead of a nuisance."
The half-elf proposes they spend a few hours in the springs relaxing before moving on. It'd be nice to have some relaxation for a change.
"I'm honestly not sure how many nobles would willingly leave their own lands to travel into the Greenbelt, even if it is for this..." Meneas gestures at the hot springs, his voice dubious. "Pleasurable activity."
He turns a hooded gaze to Morof. "Especially if the giant frogs are an attraction. Now, setting them up to prank arrogant nobles... if you could make it so that only the worst of the lot see the frogs, then we could let them ruin their own reputations by claiming there are giant frogs where, obviously, there are none." He giggles softly at the thought.
After a moment, he grows serious. "I agree with Morof on taking a rest, though. It's been a bit of a journey getting here. After that, we can continue downstream and explore to the south."
Satisfied that the others are on the same page--about both not exploiting the wilds for the benefit of some noble fancy and about resting--Brental begins removing both Vodnykel's barding and his own leather armor. He is completely unabashed at stripping down completely, only taking care to ensure that his belongings are piled neatly under a net strung with bells. Although part of him wants to make a running start and leap fully into the spring, he thinks better of it and instead eases himself in after checking the temperature with his hand. The mastodon similarly, but with much less elegance, plunges into the spring and immediately begins splashing about.
Once it’s decided that a forced march is not in order today, and that at least one of the group is eager to take the waters, Lina turns demurely to set a screen of stones and bushes behind her, to give the gentlemen some privacy should they all decide that a romp in the spring is desired.
She’ll bathe later, and makes a mental note to observe the arrangement of rocks and pools to see – if they’re going to spread word of this place – how easy it would be to set up separate areas for mixed and segregated bathing.
For now, feeling the stone she’s pocketed, she’s inspired to catch up on her correspondence for when they get back to the trading post. It’s been a while since she’s written, and beyond all the excitement of the past few days, today’s discovery in particular makes her think of her … dearest friend in the world. Yes, that's it. Those are definitely the best words. The most definitely accurate, anyway. Though she’s never visited to know precisely, she does know Alaïs’ family home in Kyonin is up towards the headwaters of the Endowhar, and that she’s seen at least the some of the lower of the Moonpool Causeways. Those aren’t just for bathing, she gathers, but from what Alaïs has said, they are lovely.
She has a letter to write.
Meneas looks dubiously at the hot spring water, sniffing the air. I'm not sure I want the smell of that sticking around on me for the next few hours... With that in mind, he instead takes off his armor to relax a bit away from the other two, stretching and massaging his sore muscles. Even after a lifetime of riding, it's never really comfortable. Long hours on horseback still manages to make me stiff and sore.
After a few hours of lazy relaxation by the hot spring the band decide to gear up again, not only because it was getting on in the day but also because of a certain ominous giggling coming from the woods and ringing inside Brental's head that begins to make the young druid slightly uncomfortable. The waters were very warm and inviting though, soothing the aches and pains out of Brental's muscles and making him feel like a new man.
The break has definitely done some good, and a small smile plays on Lina’s lips as she double-checks her saddlebags before the group gets going again, making sure her newly-folded letter is safely tucked away before swinging herself up onto her steed.
She’s even murmuring a quiet snatch of song, as she gets ready. “I know my love, by her way of walking – I know my love, by her way of talking –”
She stops short abruptly and sits up in her saddle as she realizes she’s actually been singing aloud, however softly. A hint of a blush can even be seen on her cheeks. Clearing her throat unnecessarily, Lina tosses her damp, curled hair over her shoulder studiedly, ignoring how it’s still dripping a bit from her ablutions.
Tugging the reins with her other hand, she encourages her mount after the others’.
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After getting out of the hot waters, Morof uses a cantrip to dry himself and anyone else who wants to get magically dried. He feels relaxed and even dozes off on the horse. It's not a comfortable nap as he is being constantly awoken by bumps and Brental stopping him from falling off the horse. Until he finally does fall off, which is enough to keep him awake.
As they get to some uncharted lands, he begins paying closer attention.
Meneas returns to Veil's back with a sigh before beginning the ride southwards, keeping a careful eye out for anything nasty, but also helping to guide the others around patches of terrain that might be harder for their horses to go through.
Her mood pensive, Lina spends the next stage of travel quietly, watching the woods go by and trying to assess their health as well as anything interesting in them, as the group moves closer to the middle of the Narlmarches as they are now. Things have always changed, sometimes quite drastically, in the Shifting Lands, through the slow spill of centuries, but now with more traffic along the rivers, she keeps an eye out for signs of both old-growth and more recent cultivation.
Brental doesn't ask whether any of the others hear the giggling. For all he knows, it's Tyg keeping an eye on them. If it's something else and they don't hear, that might give some more reason for alarm. But after some fine relaxation, and growing accustomed to the pungent smell, Brental is ready to press along.
Vodnykel, for his part, shakes his thick hide mightily before Morof offers some magical drying, sending a cascade of water flying everywhere. Sometimes Brental wonders whether he has actually adopted a tusked dire corgi instead of a mastodon.
The group is quiet on this leg of the journey, which gives Brental some time to focus on trying to get his maps drawn.
The rest must have really done the trick. Even as Brental tries to keep Morof from falling off his horse and breaking his neck, they all come together to point out features of interest along the river.
Proceeding along the path of the river Brental continues his superb mapwork as Lina recounts to the others that she is aware of an ancient encampment that used to be located along the banks of the Skunk. The Taldan colonists had built it during their attempts to occupy the region before native resistance caused them to abandon their plans along with the buildings.
The party decides to keep an eye out for these structures as Meneas expertly guides them through the often harsh terrain around the river banks whether it be mud, cliffs, or fallen debris the cool and collected cavalier guides them all flawlessly past on his steadfast horse.
Not too long after Morof's precise half-elven eyes spy vine-laced brick and mortar through the trees.
From what the party can see from here there are two semi-standing structures remaining. A large building cracked down the center by the inevitable march of time and a smaller building that remains more intact.
How shall the party proceed?
"I don't know what sort of folk might have built these here... anyone have any ideas?" Meneas asks softly, once Morof points out the buildings to the rest of the group. "Whoever they were, it looks like they probably aren't still home."
It would do the mystique of her people no favours to admit that she would probably have ridden right past the ruins, so Lina decides not to mention her imperceptiveness. She peers through the underbrush in the direction Morof indicates. From what she can see at this distance …
“I would guess Taldans, like I was talking about,” Lina says, not entirely sure why she’s keeping her voice quite so low. “We might be able to tell a bit more from closer at hand, but for the details – to tell more precisely how old they are, say – I would have to write home. I’ve never studied architecture and the decorative arts that much.”
She’ll have to add to her letter, and steels herself to inflict her terrible doodles upon Alaïs. Sketching is not among her accomplishments. She is quite proud that she’s shaken off the morning’s sentimentality, more or less. Mainly on the strength of also not mentioning, nor even thinking about what she might mean by writing ‘home’ when what she means is a person not domiciled in Hymbria.
She gently nudges her mount towards the larger building first, thinking to get exploring that one out of the way before turning to the smaller, better-preserved structure – where she imagines it’s likelier that anything of interest has survived, from whatever phase of occupation.
Approaching the smaller building, Lina discovers that the door has caved in with the passage of time and within she spies a multitude of soggy mushrooms growing in a neatly cultivated fashion, clearly done by hand.
Only moments after seeing these odd mushrooms an odd bipedal toad-like creature, about the size of a halfling, lurches forward from the structure and looks eyes with the elf before letting out a bellowing croaking that attracts the attention of another creature which bounds over from the larger building and assumes a defensive pose near its master. This new creature is also quite amphibian-like. It is a lumbering, pale purple frog-like creature with sickly green eyes, a healthy covering of slime, and two huge, walrus-like tusks.
The original creature then holds up its hands, one of which is a ruined mess, and croaks out the words in Common. "Truce, truce!"
Though often hunched over, boggards stand 5 feet tall and weigh close to 200 pounds. These creatures live for 50 years, though the harsh swamps and infighting usually cut these years short.
Slurks are carnivores and have a formidable bite, thanks to their massive tusks. Their true strength, however, lies in their foul-smelling and unnatural secretions. The mucus exuded from the slurk’s back is incredibly sticky and quickly hardens into a powerful resin, a quality the creature turns to its advantage by squirting it at intruders and then waiting for it to harden before closing for the kill. At the same time, the liquid excreted by glands on a slurk’s stomach is incredible slippery, allowing the slurk to keep from being immobilized by its own back slime and also making it extremely hard to grapple or maneuver without its consent. Combined with slurks’ natural ability to climb walls and hang from ceilings with ease, these abilities make the foul-smelling creatures extremely desirable to kobolds, who domesticate and train the frog-beasts as powerful mounts and guardians.
Brental chuckles at the folly of old Taldan expansionary goals. Colonialist ideals collapsing under the simultaneous weight of bloated bureaucracy and a lack of real understanding of the lands and people they sought to subdue. No wonder their Empire had all-but collapsed. Or at least that was the tale the Lebedas told from their halls. Brental hadn't paid enough attention during the lessons of his history tutors who went into histrionics over the nigh-incomprehensible laws around primogeniture mixed with a near-endless gossip-train of supposed assassination attempts, affairs, and family lines rendered illegitimate by the discovery of forged documents. Brental just didn't have a mind for that kind of history.
Honestly, Brental had found his sojourns to Taldor pleasant between Cassomir and the Isle of Arenway, not dealing with much of the nobility or military: just the common people. So he couldn't really say too much ill towards Taldor, however odd the toothless old Lion was.
* * *
He almost suggests calling out to see if there are any inhabitants before they approach, but the idea is rendered moot shortly into their exploration. As the two amphibious creatures take up a defensive position, Brental draws his scimitar and braces it against his shield. He has no concept of what these might be--an unfortunate hole in druidic education--but being able to manage to offer a truce is at least enough to get the druid's attention.
It's only after the creature adopts a defensive position that Brental notices his injuries. He lowers his sword, but stays where he is with his shield raised.
"We did not come to fight. We did not even know anyone was here. Who are you?"
The original creature then holds up its hands, one of which is a ruined mess, and croaks out the words in Common. "Truce, truce!"
“Of course,” Lina says graciously. At least, as graciously as she can while holding a spear (which she is careful not to hold with the pointy end sticking in any threatening direction) and being obviously surprised at the creatures’ unexpected appearance.
"Like my friend said, we're explorers, just trying to get to know the Narlmarches better. You have a ... lovely ... slurk," she says, with as much conviction as she can muster. What the smaller toad is, she has no idea, but he seems frightened, and harmless so far. But also - as she belatedly notices his hand and Brental's frown - injured. "But you're wounded! What happened? Can we help?"
Hearing the word 'slurk' the toad-like man ribbits and nods slowly pointing at the four legged creature beside him.
"Slurk."
He then points to himself and croaks out. "Me boggard... Garuum."
Then turning his back on the party temporarily he opens his arms wide and indicates to the whole surrounding area. "Boooooggard." He croaks again and returns his attention to the party, one eye wider than the other as though questioning whether they understand.
He then attempts to make a shooing motion with his useless hand. "You go." He nods.
"You..." he pauses for a moment as if thinking really hard then he turns and waddles exaggeratedly towards the buildings then spins around and draws his club. "You die."
More broken communication. But had this creature, Garuum, called himself a Boggard?
If they were like many creatures, they might speak a language loosely named after themselves.
Brental sheaths his blade and lowers his shield to the ground.
"Brental," he says, pointing to himself. He then tries to make a motion to indicate a request for time. He reaches into his bag for his linguist's codex, and starts to thumb through for entries on Boggard. Translation is painstakingly slow, so he tries to keep it simple. Before he speaks, he casts a quick orison to guide his words.
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Morof looks baffled at the exchange. He has no idea how to react to these frog-men and wonders what they mean by "you die". Does he mean that this is their territory and they are preparing to fight to defend it from us?
He says quietly to the others "Yes, that's a boggard, all right. The other is a slurk, a creature with a mean bite and some gooey fighting tricks. Probably a pet. I wonder if they're just defending their territory."
The toad-man croaks in surprise at Brental's words.
The creature speaks in loooong slooooow drawn out croaks getting across the very basics of what he is trying to say without embellishment.
Brental looks for some word in Boggard that might translate to "linguist" or "translator" or something that explains his polyglotic tendencies, but at least according to this basic codex he can't find a good explanation for why he can manage to communicate at least simple concepts. He isn't used to croaking or belching on command, and certainly doesn't have the anatomy to make whatever that popping sound is, but he manages.
In response to Morof's query, Brental takes a moment to look in his book.
"Yes, he's defending his territory, or kingdom as he calls it. He wants to be left alone. He was exiled from his tribe, but he doesn't say why. The exile may be part of the injury. At least that's what I can gather."
Brental croaks, and then gives a loud belch that he modulates through a simple phrase.
He turns to the others. "I don't want to trouble this creature. We can go, but should we ask him anything while we are here? Do any of you know anything but his kind to know if there is something he might want, any way to befriend him?"
The druid has no sense for how safe or dangerous the situation truly is, but he is determined to be the best linguist he can be.
He then points to himself and croaks out. "Me boggard... Garuum."
Then turning his back on the party temporarily he opens his arms wide and indicates to the whole surrounding area. "Boooooggard." He croaks again and returns his attention to the party, one eye wider than the other as though questioning whether they understand.
He then attempts to make a shooing motion with his useless hand. "You go." He nods.
"You..." he pauses for a moment as if thinking really hard then he turns and waddles exaggeratedly towards the buildings then spins around and draws his club. "You die."
“I don’t think so,” Lina says. She’s getting rather tired of being threatened so constantly. Indignantly accused of trespassing, fine, but escalating directly to death threats pushes some of her worst buttons. Nonetheless, she holds up a placating hand and steps back, though only so far that if the boggard goes for Brental she has a good chance of intercepting him with her unusually pointy broom.
She’s also sure that she never stood a chance of making the deep, bellowing noises the druid and the toad start exchanging. Maybe something like the sounds spring peepers make, but Lina can tell her accent in Boggard would never be more than atrocious.
"I don't want to trouble this creature. We can go, but should we ask him anything while we are here? Do any of you know anything but his kind to know if there is something he might want, any way to befriend him?"
The druid has no sense for how safe or dangerous the situation truly is, but he is determined to be the best linguist he can be.
She shakes her head. “As far as I knew, slurks are most famously kobold things, despite their appearance. I’ve never met a boggard before.”
“Unless he wants to tell us why he was exiled, I have no idea. Or could we get it across that we’re also hunting bandits, but while we don’t want to impose on the locals, there are other folk around who have no such qualms?”
It’s a long shot, but the best she can do for the moment, short of a rather more cruel shakedown that she’s hardly keen to inflict. If this is a king, where is his court? Such are the hardships of exile, I guess. He'll have better luck with us than most anyone else passing through, let alone settling nearby.
Brental has questions to ask about slurks later, but now doesn't quite seem like the time. At least, if they can prevent an unnecessary fight.
To that end...
"I'm guessing the story of his exile is an old wound best unopened by strangers. We may be able to ask him later, if we can establish friendly terms. But I'll mention the other."
Mustering his best frog sounds, Brental turns back to the boggard.
Then Brental adds his own question.
As his slurk starts nosing around the adventurer's feet, leaving an extremely viscous gooey trail over everything it touches, Garuum grumbles contemplating how to simply answer the druid's questions.
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Upon hearing of the exile, Morof makes some faces as though trying to remember something. Then he says "Oh, I remember now. boggard go through some sort of initiation.. They need to kill a sentient humanoid to be accepted into their clan. If they fail, they're exiled."
He smiles for a bit at his own success remembering these facts when the realization hits him, and this particular boggard must have the scars from this fight. He isn't sure how to deal with this situation, and says "Well, if we can offer him a tribe where he doesn't have to kill anyone... maybe he'll be more accepting. And maybe he could help us herd the frog creatures from the hot stinky waters."
"We may be able to offer him a tribe in the future, but that will take time. I like the idea of befriending him further, though, if he's amenable."
Exiled because he could not--or perhaps rather would not--kill another being. So murder was necessary for Garuum's people. And yet he seems reticent compared to what he could be like, not necessarily unwilling to kill (given the admitted killing of other humans), but not leaping at the opportunity either. It puts some helpful perspective on the interaction they've had so far.
"Garuum is well aware of the bandits and has killed some of his own. Or perhaps that's a translation error. He 'got rid of them', which is either a euphemism I wouldn't expect, or perhaps collapsing both scaring off and killing into a single convenient phrase. More importantly, though, he has given us directions."
Brental nods to Garuum and croaks.
The druid steps back, puts away his back, picks up his shield, and motions for the others to join him away from the structures. Once they have gotten a few enough distance away, he shares what else he has learned. "Tuskgutter is to the east, the tatzlwyrms southwest, and a religious statue further to the west. The latter is a bit further out of the way of our commission, as I understand it, but there's no reason not to extend our search beyond. It's only the afternoon, and we may be able to seek either of our other quarries shortly."
Garuum nods slowly and simply watches carefully as the party disappear into the woods, seemingly assuring they do not attempt a double-cross.
Meneas watches as the druid communicates with the strange toad-like creature. What wonders we have in Golarion, let alone the First World... Finally, after they've left, he speaks. "I think we can afford to learn more about these... Boggards, did you call them, Lina?"
He turns his hooded gaze to Morolf and Brental. "I don't object to offering him a tribe - it'd be amusing to see travelers react to him... assuming, of course, he doesn't have a tribe he wants to return to." He hesitates before adding. And that any such travelers don't just kill him outright."
The witch wonders what suitable diplomatic overtures are to violent bipedal toads, though she’s glad to put that aside for a while as the group withdraws. Maybe, like Brental suggested, they’ll be able to win Garuum over later.
Meneas watches as the druid communicates with the strange toad-like creature. What wonders we have in Golarion, let alone the First World... Finally, after they've left, he speaks. "I think we can afford to learn more about these... Boggards, did you call them, Lina?"
He turns his hooded gaze to Morolf and Brental. "I don't object to offering him a tribe - it'd be amusing to see travelers react to him... assuming, of course, he doesn't have a tribe he wants to return to." He hesitates before adding. And that any such travelers don't just kill him outright."
“Oh, Morof would know better than I would,” she says, looking over to the wizard. “I only recognized our reluctant host’s pet, and that by hearsay. I’m not a caver, but some of the stories more adventurous folk tell about where some of the holes in some riverbanks lead to seem to be true.”
Giant, sticky-slimy frogs. With huge fangs. Charming. She decides not to dwell on it. “He did get there first, but hopefully if everyone stays reasonable – if anyone decides to follow us out to the aptly-named Skunk – we can avoid having to clean up another mess like the one between the mites and kobolds. This statue seems interesting, unless we’d prefer to see if those really are the beasts we’re looking for right away.”
Following the toad-man's directions, it isn't long before the party stumble across a 15-foot-tall statue of Erastil that stands near the edge of the Narlmarches, partially overgrown at the base but towering above the surrounding shrubbery.
It is difficult to recognize at first because of how absolutely filthy and covered in growth it is but there is a strange sense of calm in the shadow of the elk-headed god.
Piecing together directions from Garuum makes both the trip and the tracking of it all the easier. Once they arrive where the boggard directed them to go, Brental is a bit surprised to see another representation of Erastil.
Old Deadeye has been busy here.
"Do you suppose Kavken knows about this as well?" he voices as they stand around the statue. "Why would there be two abandoned holy sites this close together?"
The druid casts an orison to open his vision to magical auras and begins examining the area surrounding the statue for any signs of beings other than them who may have visited this place recently.
"Well, these are wild areas. Most folk would want to pay their respects to a wild god like Erastil, especially in small communities." Meneas reasons, eyeing the statue himself. I really hope he's not watching us with any more interest than he already has...
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Morof attempts a curtsy at Garuum before they leave. He is intrigued by Brental's implication that this is a different boggard and less murderous than usual.
Walking to the statue, Morof also takes a look around and, seeing that Brental is already checking for magical auras, tries to identify the religious, historical or topological significance of this place.
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Morof walks over behind the statue and pokes at some stuff. Eventually he says "It looks like there was a building here." Taking a look around he comments "The most sense is that there was a hunter's lodge here and the statue was preserved by Erastil's will?" He looks at Brental expecting confirmation about some magical protection about the statue.
As Morof looks expectantly at Brental for magical analysis, Brental shrugs. "The statue is certainly magical, but you would know far more about exactly what kind of magic, but let me look a bit more closely."
I mostly know whether it is or it isn't, to be honest...
"I see the remains of the building as well. A hunting lodge makes sense, I suppose. But look here: there's something odd. Further out, see how there are tracks going around the edge, but nothing nearby? It seems like the statue is warding off wild creatures. Hard to say whether it's intended to do that or some sort of curse effect."
Brental studies the statue a bit longer to see if he can get more of a sense of what is going on and why, or whether he ought to pass the responsibility off to the arcanists with more of a sense for this kind of thing. What would Erastil want here? Is this something that needs to be sanctified by a priest to end the warding effect? Or would a bit of water and elbow grease do the trick? Was there even a need to end the wards?
Meneas looks at his magically inclined companions, bemused. "Well, it rather depends on how the local hunters wanted to handle things, no? Though I can't imagine that Erastil would want them having animals freely come to them, blocking animals from coming close to the statue seems... off, to me, too."
"I wonder... does it only affect wild animals?" He nudges Veil a little closer, though he's willing to let her make the decision.
Curious, Brental tries to encourage Vodnykel to do the same. He appreciates the practicality with which non-magic wielders approach the bespelled.