”D..Dunchad, Sir,” Broccan replies, still uncomfortable, but knowing he should respond when his betters asked him a question. He gently waves his hand to decline the cake. ”Thank y’sir, but I’m not ‘ungry.”
Truth be told, the cake smelled delicious, but Broccan had no idea how to eat it without getting crumbs and icing all over the floor and himself. He felt out of place enough as it was in the great wizard’s home. It took everything in him to not simply get up and run to the door.
Edrukk reaches for the funnel cake and shoves it into the miner's hands, brooking no argument. "Yer a 'ero, remember? Ye don' 'ave t' 'pologize t' no one fer who y' 'r."
To the room at large, he offers, "Mayhap th' lad 'n I c'n be fer askin' 'round t'gether. Don' want anyone t' be snoopin' 'round 'bout this group by themselves."
To Broccan, "You are a hero, remember? You don't have to apologize to anyone for who you are."
To everyone, "Maybe Broccan and I can ask around together. I don't want anyone asking around about this cult alone."
Kata nods, a small sign of approval. "Asking around the miners is a good idea. I can grab a spot at The Emporium tonight, sing a ballad about the uknown and mysterious, and times being out of sorts. Then ask around discreetly after the mood is set, as if looking for material. May be another avenue for uncovering rumors?"
"Indeed." Allustan wrinkles his nose as he retrieves the last of the funnelcakes and takes them into the focused kitchen area. "How do you mean to get access to these mines? There is little I can do, but..." His eyes dart towards the ancient grandfather clock. "My brother will be visiting in less than an hour. I could beg him to pull a few strings here and there for you, but I first need to know which strings to pull. Do you intend to confront the six mine managers directly, speak with their employees, enter their mines...?"
Gently, gently, Alaïs thinks, considering the delicacy of the cat’s-cradle of connections and influences the Ebon Triad is exploiting to manipulate their, er, catspaws, to labour the metaphor. As much as she might be amused to drop a convenient owlbear chick into said cradle, as it were, that probably would only make matters more difficult.
She wonders how well Allustan and his brother get on, too. As the baby in her family, Alaïs shamelessly exploits her position to wheedle favours out of her own brothers, but not everyone’s family dynamics allow the playing of the frustratingly adorable brat card.
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to actually pull any strings,” the aristocrat says glibly (and very much stretching the point for politeness’ sake), “but if you and your brother are on gossipy enough terms, might I that you discreetly inquire to see if any strings are particularly worth pulling? If the Triad’s lurking in one of the mines, I suppose business as usual would slow or change as miners have to be kept from whatever shaft the cult is occupying, unless they’ve been pressed into service. So … declining profits, perhaps, or a new vein being explored…? Or just any interesting new developments, I suppose.”
As other ideas starts to pop up around the table, she adds, resignedly, “And I’ll try to talk to that Moonmeadow mite. I doubt it will be very cordial actually, but by the same token perhaps that leaves an opening to tempt his vanity into betraying something useful.”
"A very apt observation, Mr... ah..." Allustan slowly nods to Broccan. He holds up the plate holding the first funnel cake he made, drizzled in pale icing. "Funnel cake?"
Whether it's accepted or not, he quickly returns to the matter at hand. "I shall defer to your expertise on the matter of the mine owners. I think speaking with the miners is a very sensible strategy." He looks around. "Is there anything further you require from me?"
Turning back to Allustan, she asks, “If you have a moment, we’d appreciate it if you could take at the look at this crown, and … hmm, this odd little lorgnette? Or whatever it is. If it once had a lens, it seems to be missing now. I’m sure they’re magical, but they seem to have defeated my ingenuity for the moment. Turning it over in the back of my mind overnight – and with a divination or two into the mix – might help, but I thought, why not ask a more experienced scholar?”
"We can'ave'eh chat wi' th' boys down't th' Feral Dog," Broccan says to Edrukk, focused on the task at hand and momentarily forgetting he was speaking in Allustan's house without his leave to do so.
He suddenly realizes his gaffe, and blushes, lowering his eyes. He turns in Allustan's direction, but does not look up. "My 'pologies, sir. I dinn'eh mean t' presume t' speak out like that. M' thanks for yer time'n fine food....um...."
Broccan appears flummoxed and very uncomfortable for a moment, then reaches back to unfasten the petrified opal wood staff he found down in the cairn. He holds it out to Allustan, giving it a slight shake to indicate that he should take it.
"We can have a chat with the boys down at the Feral Dog."
"My apologies, sir. I did not mean to presume to speak out like that. My thanks for your time and fine food...um..."
“I wouldn’t dream of asking you to actually pull any strings,” the aristocrat says glibly (and very much stretching the point for politeness’ sake), “but if you and your brother are on gossipy enough terms, might I that you discreetly inquire to see if any strings are particularly worth pulling? If the Triad’s lurking in one of the mines, I suppose business as usual would slow or change as miners have to be kept from whatever shaft the cult is occupying, unless they’ve been pressed into service. So … declining profits, perhaps, or a new vein being explored…? Or just any interesting new developments, I suppose.”
Allustan's brow wrinkles. "Neff can be... challenging, but I am his brother, and he will help if I talk to him. I can certainly ask. How long do we suppose this cult has been in operation?"
He takes the diadem and "lorgnette" and draws a detect magic spell into being. His eyes narrow, then widen in understanding. He touches his tongue to the tip of the tchotchke and smacks his lips. The wizard makes a face as if he has tasted something horribly sour. "Oh, my. Yes, indeed, I am not mistaken."
He holds up the diadem. "This I will explain in a moment, but it is a fascinating trinket that has lain mostly dormant over the last few millennia, and it may take time, or some other great occasion, to come into its full power."
He holds up the device. "This is a talisman of the sphere. They are very rare, and no two look quite alike. The things these talismans control are ancient and... terrible creations of magic. They are mistakes in reality given the simplest of shapes, burnt nerves in the eye of existence. Only creatures of pure oblivion can create them, although it is said that a wizard of great power might delve into the Void and reach the great structures from which they are harvested. No spheres are currently known to be in circulation in our world, thank goodness. But this talisman." He places it delicately on the table. "This talisman is designed to control them. It is worth little now save as a curiosity, although I suppose you never do know when a sphere of annihilation will fall into your lap. So-to-speak."
He looks up at Broccan, and annoyance is clear in his gaze. "Speak up, man. You are clearly an intelligent fellow, and the only things you have said here that are no value to me have been your apologies."
When Broccan offers him the staff, though, his frustrated look vanishes. Allustan Neff takes and regards the curious weapon. He gives it a sniff. "There is no magic on it, but this is nonetheless a remarkable find in its own right. Is this for me to identify, or...?"
Edrukk elbows Broccan and gives me a told you so look and a wink.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
He looks up at Broccan, and annoyance is clear in his gaze. "Speak up, man. You are clearly an intelligent fellow, and the only things you have said here that are no value to me have been your apologies."
When Broccan offers him the staff, though, his frustrated look vanishes. Allustan Neff takes and regards the curious weapon. He gives it a sniff. "There is no magic on it, but this is nonetheless a remarkable find in its own right. Is this for me to identify, or...?"
Broccan looks up and meets Allustan's gaze, an amount of steel infusing both his spine and his gaze.
"It's'eh gift. Fer you. Sir," he replies in an uncharacteristically clipped tone. "'s thanks f'yer 'ssist'nce."
Edrukk is enjoying this. He looks at the mage, one eyebrow raised, grinning. That's me boy!
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Allustan's brow wrinkles. "Neff can be... challenging, but I am his brother, and he will help if I talk to him. I can certainly ask. How long do we suppose this cult has been in operation?"
As Allustan asks about timelines as he turns to examine the adventurers’ finds, Alaïs thinks over what Filge said and what she’s been able to piece together from his notes and morbid treasures, realizing that that was something she forgot to consider. “Smenk’s creature wasn’t particularly talkative about where he came from, but long enough for some correspondence to go to and fro before he was summoned here. He had … aspirations, and seems to have run afoul of Hellknights, so perhaps from Korvosa? Or Magnimar? I would think by way of one of the larger cities in Varisia, at any rate, so … as for the cult, at least a couple of months? Long enough to get comfortable and start causing trouble for their hosts.”
She’s obviously guessing wildly, betraying the attitude to time and space of a lady of leisure whose people have access to a portal network when they need to travel quickly.
“He also seems to have thought they’re in the Dourstone mine, but that could have been misdirection or a misconception on the part of someone who’s about as well-versed in local affairs as I’m,” Alaïs says ruefully, before quieting as Allustan signals his satisfaction with his inspection of the royal treasures. She pales as her friend identifies the talisman of the sphere, blurting out, “So that’s what it was in the reliefs! I had thought it might be some sort of spell, but in that case… I’ve heard of something similar back home, the legacy of a terrible tragedy, but a sphere of annihilation sounds even worse. Thanks be to the Guiding Hand, but there wasn’t any sign of the sphere itself in the Cairn. I can only hope the weight of ages has claimed even such a thing as that.”
She’s wondering if Allustan would care to visit the Whispering Cairn himself to see the enspelled reliefs, when Broccan shyly produces the staff they found in the lower levels. It’s a generous gift, and the aristocrat’s brow furrows as it occurs to her, not for the first time, that they really need to get the young man to be less bashful, though that’s easy for someone like her to say, and less easy to guide him to it.
Broccan looks up and meets Allustan's gaze, an amount of steel infusing both his spine and his gaze.
"It's'eh gift. Fer you. Sir," he replies in an uncharacteristically clipped tone. "'s thanks f'yer 'ssist'nce."
“Mhm,” she hums with a nod of agreement and encouragement as Broccan finds his confidence, chiming in, “We’d be at quite a loss without your help, and you are so kindly assisting us with freeing the poor elementals bound so long in a place forgotten to boot. I can think of no sage worthier to steward an artifact from the first days of Kho, and only hope that it won’t prove all too useful if we can’t stamp out this infiltration of the Ebon Triad before they can work out we’re coming for them.”
Alaïs sits up a bit more purposefully in her seat at that, the warrior (or at least the sportswoman) in her responding to the thought of quarry.
He looks up at Broccan, and annoyance is clear in his gaze. "Speak up, man. You are clearly an intelligent fellow, and the only things you have said here that are no value to me have been your apologies."
When Broccan offers him the staff, though, his frustrated look vanishes. Allustan Neff takes and regards the curious weapon. He gives it a sniff. "There is no magic on it, but this is nonetheless a remarkable find in its own right. Is this for me to identify, or...?"
Broccan looks up and meets Allustan's gaze, an amount of steel infusing both his spine and his gaze.
"It's'eh gift. Fer you. Sir," he replies in an uncharacteristically clipped tone. "'s thanks f'yer 'ssist'nce."
"Ah." Allustan raises an eyebrow. "Then this gift, I will take, as it is a kind and honorable gesture. As thanks, though, I will not. I do not act for quid pro quo, Mr. Dunchad and Miss Thalanessa." He leans against the wall with a dry chuckle. "I realize this may make me sound rude, but I mean it in good humor: I am not your 'pet wizard', as our local community leaders keep their necromancers and bribed priests on their books.
"My loyalty is not bought with gold or toys or trinkets, but with bonds of shared ideals, friendship, trust, and family. I do as I do because I share your concerns, because I trust those of you I know, and because I find that I like those of you I am getting to know."
He gives a weary sigh. "I say this because I have to, because of the town we live in and the wicked masks this town has learned to wear. So, to be clear, you have not offended me, and you have not angered me, and you have made no fool of yourself. But please, for future reference, do not offer me favors for favors. Do not ever offer me payment in these endeavors."
Edrukk makes a point of drawing forth an imaginary pencil and paper, "Dinnae be offerin' Master Allustan money fer 'is work. Got it."
He looks up at the mage with a grin. "'tis good t' 'ave friends 'n I'm 'appy t' count ye as one. If'n I can aid ye - as a friend - jus' let me know."
Allustan gives a small smile. "Thank you, friend. I shall remember that."
Edrukk makes a point of drawing forth an imaginary pencil and paper, "Dinnae be offerin' Master Allustan money fer 'is work. Got it."
He looks up at the mage with a grin. "'tis good t' 'ave friends 'n I'm 'appy t' count ye as one. If'n I can aid ye - as a friend - jus' let me know."
[dice=Sense Motive]1d20 + 6
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
"My loyalty is not bought with gold or toys or trinkets, but with bonds of shared ideals, friendship, trust, and family. I do as I do because I share your concerns, because I trust those of you I know, and because I find that I like those of you I am getting to know."
He gives a weary sigh. "I say this because I have to, because of the town we live in and the wicked masks this town has learned to wear. So, to be clear, you have not offended me, and you have not angered me, and you have made no fool of yourself. But please, for future reference, do not offer me favors for favors. Do not ever offer me payment in these endeavors."
The colour that left Alaïs’ cheeks at the realization that Kho had a bloody sphere of annihilation to play around with rushes back as she realizes belatedly that the little compliments and effusive niceties that pepper the conversation in some of the circles she knows best might be a bit much for Allustan, especially hard on the heels of a gift.
“Oh, certainly not, perish the thought!” she exclaims. “We wouldn’t dream of it! I’m sorry to have spoken so carelessly as to give rise to any such misapprehension. But –”
If any finger-jab could be described as languid, the gesture the elven poet makes toward her wizard friend with the hand not occupied with a bit of funnel cake can. “– in the interests of avoiding such, if ever you have occasion to visit us in Kyonin - tricky with the passports, I know, but nonetheless - you should be prepared to be showered with little gifties, just because. That’s the way it works, and that applies to all of you.”
The ferocity of her nod around the table is rather undercut by her smile and the bit of sweet she still has to nibble on.
** spoiler omitted **Edrukk makes a point of drawing forth an imaginary pencil and paper, "Dinnae be offerin' Master Allustan money fer 'is work. Got it."
He looks up at the mage with a grin. "'tis good t' 'ave friends 'n I'm 'appy t' count ye as one. If'n I can aid ye - as a friend - jus' let me know."
[dice=Sense Motive]1d20 + 6
I realized I wrote that spoiler very vaguely, in hindsight--"as he says this" meant his whole shtick about not wanting to handle things as favor-for-favor, money-for-loyalty.
Edrukk catches Allustan's and suspects the thought behind the glance. With a knowing wink, the dwarf happily munches on the treat. "'s very good, thank ye."
Broccan leans the proffered staff against the wall. 's yours'f y' wan'it," he says, matter-of-fact. "Sell'it'f y' don't."
He looks to Edrukk. "We bes' be get'n t' th' Feral Dog. Chat wi' some'eh th' boys'n see what we can findout."
"it's yours if you want it. Sell it if you don't."
"We best be getting to the Feral Dog. Chat with some of the boys and see what we can find out."
"Aye, le's leave 'r stuff somewhere else, go 'n like we jus' need a drink. Not like we be comin' from a delve, y'know."
After saying their goodbyes, the party bids Allustan farewell.
They notice a carriage drawing up to the house on the way out. A tall man in a beige suit, pinstriped black tie, and black bowler hat steps out, flanked by two intimidating-looking officers. He looks at once to be Allustan's spitting image and very little like him at all. With a bland smile, he orders the guards to mind the carriage as he makes his way to Allustan's door. Governor-Mayor Lanod Neff doesn't even look at the party on his way in.
After saying their goodbyes, the party bids Allustan farewell.
They notice a carriage drawing up to the house on the way out. A tall man in a beige suit, pinstriped black tie, and black bowler hat steps out, flanked by two intimidating-looking officers. He looks at once to be Allustan's spitting image and very little like him at all. With a bland smile, he orders the guards to mind the carriage as he makes his way to Allustan's door. He doesn't even look at the party.
After everyone’s had their sweet breakfast and they’ve exchanged their farewells with their host – if Alaïs focuses on these things to not think about what it means that they’ve found a talisman to help control a horrifically destructive device, and possibly been embroiled in a prophecy about the end of the world, she thinks she can hardly be blamed for that – Alaïs braces herself for trying to deal with Ellival Moonmeadow, and starts strategizing for a confrontation that she would enjoy more if he weren’t such a piece of work as he is.
She hardly notices Allustan’s brother as their paths briefly cross outside. Instead, she rejoices in how even Diamond Lake can’t entirely deprive the morning of its glory, and takes her leave of the others to stretch her legs and gather her thoughts until such time as it’s a reasonable hour to see about getting hold of her chosen mine owner.
* * *
In the interval, remembering how much better she would have felt in the battle with the armoured elementals, or if she ever faces skeletons again, with a crushing weapon that fits in one hand, to allow her to keep her shield, Alaïs browses among the offerings of the weaponsmiths in town, and eventually finds a morningstar that meets her requirements in weight, handling, and acceptable aesthetics. She also stops by the general store, where she is pleasantly surprised to find a letter waiting for her, addressed in her youngest brother’s familiar hand. It is an agreeable distraction from overthinking her forthcoming investigation: at least, until, among the expected news from home and priestly prattle, one particularly startling passage leaps out at her:
Don’t look at me (fine, my letter) like that. She’s perfectly charming, by all accounts. Just dabbles a bit in singing, but she’s a fine dancer, and she knows a bit about your profane hocus-pocus. An even better theologian and historian, and by rights by now – but anyway, for reasons of her own, I gather, she has resumed the rank of one of the Courtesans of her House. One of your tribe, and very good at her work, I hear, though, since you know I wouldn’t dream of transgressing into your ladies’ privities, the details escape me. I would say you could ask her, and even better – if you and your Hyalinnea weren’t content to yearn so revoltingly for one another. (For the sake of all our sanities, are you planning on making it official any time soon? The two of you would make a ruddy Shelynite blush, may the Sting come to us gently! I’m glad that I’m only your brother and you’re not in my cure. But I digress.) Anyway, again, I’m sure you’ll get on like a house on fire. Oh! Where have my wits gone? Her name’s Adonara Strixis, and Calanthielle tells me that she’ll be sending her off as soon as…”
There’s an irony that Alaïs is sure Calistria appreciates that the offending brother is the person in her circle best-placed to tell her under what circumstances the goddess would approve of fratricide, as a commensurate act of vengeance. From what the aggravated aristocrat can infer from the rest of the letter’s gossip, Ascyron must have sat on the letter for a while before sending it (admittedly, adding a few more delightful anecdotes), such that, assuming no unexpected delays, this … this Adonara person will be arriving in Diamond Lake any day now, with her trunks in tow and innocently expecting that her colleagues in the church have oh-so-thoughtfully arranged for a contact and welcoming party for her in the depths of Varisia.
Alaïs carefully gathers herself so she’s not glowering, before she draws herself up to her full height and swoops off to beard Moonmeadow in his den. At least her irritation with her brother has given her the energy to resist any nonsense on the part of the parvenu miner.
"We c'n leave'r gear'n th' cab'n, 'r wi'm'mum," Broccan offers to Edrukk. "The cab'n's likely safer. Thieves'r rife'n th' flop'ouse."
"We can leave or gear in the cabin or with my mum. The cabin's likely safer. Thieves are rife in the flophouse."
”Aye, ‘s fine. Takin’ a pocket blade?”
Broccan nods. "I'll keep Suck'rpunch w' me," he replies, slapping the shortsword on his belt. "Nev'r though'I'd ev'r 'ave anythin' made wi' magic, much less'eh sword. I'm not leav'n it lie'n somewhere where some'n c'n come pick't up."[b]
[b]"I'll keep Suckerpunch with me. I never thought I'd ever have anything made with magic, much less a sword. I'm not leaving it lying somewhere were someone can come pick it up."
Edrukk considers his personal arsenal and opts to keep a throwing axe on his hip. Hopefully all they will need is a bit of deterrent and he’ll not regret leaving his greatsword behind.
Amariss nibbles on a lock of her hair as she thinks hard. "Well, then. If you take advice from me, here's what I think we should do."
She clears her throat. "Mr. Dunchad, Master Thorvirgun, you will be visiting the Feral Dog first. It's quite a bit less risky than infiltrating the mines, and I imagine you shall find a broader range of employees there. Focus on strange disturbances. Perhaps a rash of mysterious disappearances or sudden retirements at one of the mines. A cult could not possibly infiltrate any of the mines with no witnesses."
The Feral Dog is exceptionally quiet this morning, which is to say, Kullen and his gang appear to be taking the day off, and most of the day employees are already laboring in the mines. This is not, however, to say no miners are in attendance. Injuries are common, and many miners work night shifts--or, worse, are trapped working only odd jobs, spending the rest of their time sleeping, looking for work, or drowning their anxieties.
Broccan leans against the bar, and orders an ale. He then approaches one of the injured miners and asks, "Wha' didja' in? A collapse'r sumthin' like? I'd 'eard one o' th' bosses was mak'n bad decisions wi' tunnel rou's...'sat what 'appen'd?"
[b]"What did you in? A collapse, or something like that? I'd hear one of the bosses was making bad decisions with tunnel routes....is that happened?"
"Now, Miss Thalanessa, darling. You know Moonmeadow much better than I, but I daresay you're quite right--I can't imagine him giving us much pillow to fluff if it's anyone but you talking to him."
Instead, though it rankles, she tries to put on a suitably humble face and knocks on Moonmeadow’s door, ready to spin a tale of acknowledging that he knows better and that she could really use his help about certain of her tenants back home, all in the effort to find out what she can about the operations of his mines. If she can palaver her way all the way into a tour, so much the better.
In the meantime, she also makes a note of the faces of Moonmeadow’s staff, and keeps an ear open for any conversation she can overhear among them about where they might spend their time off. If Moonmeadow himself keeps his door closed, maybe she can work her way into the confidence of the poor souls who have to work for him with a sympathetic ear and a glass or two of wine someplace that isn’t the Feral Dog.
Moonmeadow dwells in grim opulence, a towering gothic manor standing in stark contrast to the tasteless manager houses, dingy slums and crumbling flophouses of Diamond Lake. 'The Village', as he describes it, encircles his property, a cluster of cottages built against and into relatively young maples and elms.
The three house servants, all elves, are finely-dressed. The elderly elven man and woman, evidently, a couple, greet Alais with jovial good humor, while the maid, closer to Alais's age, is extremely stiff and seems reluctant to say anything to her. After she makes her explanation, the couple show Alais--and, after some murmuring between one another, Briar--to Moonmeadow's office.
Although he claims his door is always open to 'family', Ellival Moonmeadow is not a pleasant person to share a room with.
The elf is drawn like someone spilled water on ink. He has a pale, stretched look, in the way very old elves sometimes get, standing easily eight feet tall in dark, austere clothes. If Diamond Lake is a town clinging to life with all its might, time has pulled Ellival thin as taffy.
Alais sits before him, dwarfed by Moonmeadow and his desk--a great construction, said to be hewn from one of the great trees of the old world. It has large hinges that suggest the whole thing could be opened, but nobody’s ever seen him do so. There’s all kinds of rumors about what’s inside.
He taps the desk rapidly with double-jointed fingers, an uneasy drumbeat, as he listens to Alais's wheedling.
= = = =
The miner, a sharp-looking older woman the other miners call Widow Tam, spits on the ground and gestures to her leg in a splint. "Agh, I'm one o' th' lucky ones, lad. This weren't even any gift from Gozreh. Tha' great bas'lisk Smenk, 'e's cut our packs again, an' upped with the store price. We bin eatin' half as what we used to. An' that's before two other cuts o'er the last few years. This's a gift from old Toddle for makin' t' much noise ab't it."
"A gift from Droskar, then!" calls a dwarven miner from across the room, earning jeering laughs and a rueful grimace from Widow Tam.
Walking into Moonmeadow’s domain feels rather like stepping into a trap, knowing that, for all her scorn, he is an influential figure about town, while Alaïs – isn’t. As such she keeps her brows leveled and her nose unwrinkled – despite her Findeladlaran sensibilities – at what can generously be described as an … ambitious attempt at emulating the architecture of her homeland.
Both the gothic pile itself and the creeping claustrophobia match his name, at least, unless it’s the other way around: certainly, if anyone she’s met could live up to the slanderous stories other people tell of elves hunting outsiders through the fields of nights, it’s the unnerving wraith she gets ushered to.
Taking him in her last opportunity for choosing her words, it’s brought home to Alaïs that even people as long-lived as theirs eventually need to move on from this world: whether to Sovyrian, or elsewhere in the planes, or, if they’re seekers after the Brightness, rebirth. If she clings too long herself, what will she look like? Like the sparkle on wine and of laughter, as evanescent and immaterial as both, in contrast to Moonmeadow’s sombre adornments?
Edrukk shakes his head, "Ye cannae dig n' tunnel 'r mine n' ore wit' no folk t' swing th' pick. What're they think 's gonna 'appen if'n they starve th' lot o' ye t' death. Who's gonna work their cursed mine when 't gets out they be killin' th' workers? Fools, th' lot o' them."
"Any'yof'th' other mine-bosses act'n 'ornery of late?" Broccan asks. "I mean, if you 'ad yer pick, who'd y' dig for these days?"
"Any of the other mine-bosses acting ornery of late? I mean, if you had your pick, who would you dig for these days?"
"Now, my sweet Kata. I think you had better head to the Emporium. As you say, all manner of miner pokes his head into the Veiled Corridor, and the people there trust you. Keep your ears as peeled as Urgathoa's grapes, but do be careful. Not everyone in there will respect Zalamandra's rules, and if we take it as given that someone has seen what happened, likewise it stands dollars to donuts that someone, has up til now, found ways to keep those prying eyes' mouths shut."
Kata winds her way back to town, finding herself lingering at her sometimes night haunt, The Emporium. Now, however, it is the middle of the day; the crowd is different, less celebratory, sparser, more destitute. But there was no music, so Kata sets up at a table and using her hand drums, spends some time singing miner's shanties, the repetitive, mournful, and sometimes profane songs that the mining folk use to celebrate their success and express their anger, and of course, to pass the time in the dark, doing their backbreaking, monotonous work.
Afterwards, she lingers and speaks to the patrons wiling away their day, trying to suss out of any of the suspect mine managers' operations have recently been closed off, or if other circumspect activities have made the gossip rounds.
Kata and Venelle arrive at the Emporium, and it is, indeed, a quiet afternoon at the establishment--quiet enough that Kata can feel Zalamandra's eyes on her. The customers are friendly to Kata and Venelle, who are, after all familiar to them, even though Venelle clearly rarely comes to pubs and mostly stays back and plays lookout for Kata. Miners applaud Kata's shanties, charmed by the way she adapts something they know into a new atmosphere.
There are rumblings that Balabar Smenk is thinking of reopening 'the Pit', the infamous mine that earned him his status in Diamond Lake. Surely the deathtrap is bled dry. Certainly it bled the miners enough when it was open.
One very tired-looking porter lets slip to Kata that her team's been handling bigger and bigger shipments between the mine managers over the last few years. She's proud of her team's reputation for neutrality (which is why she won't say who's been shipping goods), but also clearly a little puzzled. Lately two managers in particular have been buying and trading an awful lot of provisions in bulk--and often between one another. It just seems inefficient to her, but what does she know?
Word is that Luzane Parrin's people have been stockpiling arms lately, and possibly even looking for allies. Most people brush this off--Smenk's too entrenched for the old money widow to stand a chance--but nobody laughs at the toll a war between the mine managers could take on everyone else.
Widow Tam nods furiously at Edrukk's remark, and several other miners strike the sides of the bar with their knuckles, a local gesture of agreement.
"Well," a younger miner pipes up, his accent tinged with the more urbane trill of Magnimar, "everyone knows Smenk's been losing his mind lately. Apparently that Goshawk's gone and set himself missing, or something. No one knows who did it."
An older miner chortles. "That Goshawk never could keep his mouth shut. Probably went an' pissed off those mad flower-eatin' gravediggerss 'cross th' lake."
Goshawk is Smenk's right-hand man, an erudite mercenary who speaks loudly, laughs with gusto, and smiles when he's about to start hurting people. Even Kullen doesn't talk back to Goshawk.
Smenk, Smenk, and Smenk again. It all keeps coming back to Smenk! Broccan thinks to himself, sighing in frustration.
He makes his way over to Edrukk, knocks mugs with him, leans-in and whispers, "I hate t' think'f't, bu' we're gonn'eh have't talk t' Smenk."
"I hate to think of it, but we're going to have to talk to Smenk."
An elf's solid amber-brown eyes always do make it a little difficult to tell where her eyes have settled, but she is definitely watching you. She doesn't seem to have noticed you've noticed.
"Stay out of my affairs in Kyonin," Moonmeadow says sharply. "I promise you that they are well beyond your station, Thalanessa, and you would only make a fool of yourself." His long fingers steeple on the desk, and his lips curl in a smile. "As for running a mine... that is a simple enough matter. I won't go on long about it, save for a short, simple piece of advice.
"The greatest mistake any mine owner makes is in undervaluing their employees. The managers of Diamond Lake treat their miners like the gravel beneath their cheap shoes. They are little more than kings of the dung heap, and what they gather from their employees is more dung. They send their workers into the ground already treating them like corpses. And for what? To harvest something dead. Something so soundly dead that it is only fit to burn. Death is not an industry that grows, and for all the fire coal provides, it brings no light. Their employees will betray them the first chance they get. See how they are always on their guard! The last time Balabar Smenk came to visit me, that fat, stupid man stared like a dead fish to see me wander among my workers with no bodyguards. And don't get me started on the tasteless, repulsive 'trade' of the Emporium. A commoner perversion of higher arts." He isn't looking at Briar when he says this, but his refusal to look at her may speak for itself.
"But here at the Moonmeadow Silver Mine? Here, we follow the values of a common good. We are less a business so much as a community. We gather not for wealth, but for family. I know you, for all your shortsightedness, understand the value of class and distinction." He straightens in his seat. "Well, I myself consider it the obligation of those with distinction to uplift those without. You have seen the little village outside, yes? A little 'home-away-from-home', as they say here. Heh.
"Of course, it is a balance. Overpay a worker and they forget the lessons you are trying to teach. They try to save up so they may return in wealth to their squalor. They become spoiled and spread gossip to anyone who will listen. People like that begin to see weakness--any apology, any mistake, any secret--like kindling, Thalanessa, and money like a match." His nails tap the desk. "It's about the little things, Thalanessa. Hold feasts for Reclamation. Show up in person. Make sure everyone always has enough to eat, and make yourself close to them. That is how you uplift people."
The door swings open, and a delicate hush enters the chamber, just briefly, before chatter returns even louder as if to hide that there was ever silence at all. Kata looks to see a new arrival--a woman with long, wispy black hair, a long black dress, and jade jewelry that clinks with every motion. She walks with a distinct forward lean, reminiscent of a nearsighted animal probing for a safe path, but her green eyes look bright and alert.
Kata recognizes this woman instantly. It would be more accurate to say she recognizes the negative space the woman creates around her, the slight air of unease that causes passersby to hurry out of her way. That tells Kata all she needs to know.
The town's been making you nervous lately. You've heard tell of a strange pale-skinned sorceress with jet-black hair who's been clinging to Balabar Smenk like a lamprey. Ilthane the Black.
| 1 person marked this as a favorite. |
Edrukk whispers back, "Aye, but first, we 'ave a watcher. Lassie 't th' knife-board seems t' be keepin' 'er eye 'n ye."
He nods solemnly in that way that drunks do when they've imparted the most important thought they've had all day to the unfortunate listener before leaning back and taking another swallow from his mug.
Broccan turns his head away from the knife-thrower, and whispers to Edrukk, "Shou' we walkou't'n see'f she'll follow'r jus' walkup t'er'n see what 'app'ns?"
"Should we walk out, and see if she'll follow, or just walk up to her and see what happens?"
The dwarf grins and points a stubby finger at the miner, making a funny observation between friends, he says in a low voice, "'r a third thin'. Ye keep talkin' 'ere while Ah 'ead out 'n we see if'n she chooses one 'r th' other. Ah'll wait outside fer ye - mebbe go fi'teen minutes 'n follow me. 'f she follows me, follow 'er. If'n she causes trouble, give a 'oller - she's good wit' those blades. Don' mess wit' 'er."
Broccan nods, clinks his mug with Edrukk's and returns back towards the bar. He begins talking, though not to any one in particular.
"M' old Pa used t' say't th' world wen't'th'byss when Aroden died. E' said th' other gods jus' couldn' keep th' evil down like e' did. I'm no priest, but'e migh'ta had'eh point."
"My old Pa used to say that the world went to the Abyss when Aroden died. He said the other gods just couldn't keep the evil down like he did. I'm no priest, but he might have had a point."
“Hmm. I think see what you mean,” Alaïs says equably. It sounds pretty good to her, though she’s not sure whether he actually believes it, even if it outmaneuvering all the other mine owners must be a very sensitive, long-term project. Maybe she was wrong about him? She can extend the benefit of the doubt. Still. “ – though I think we’ll have to cordially disagree about the Emporium. Not quite to our tastes, to be sure, but not every vintage can be exceptional, and I suppose there must be some place even for small beer in this world, as it were, goddesses help us.”
The oenophile tries to sketch her metaphor delicately, feeling she ought to say something, but not wanting to offend Briar either by being too snobby or by mouthing off like a would-be champion of a world she knows nothing about, really. A wicked part of her wonders if she could introduce her brother’s friend’s colleague to the question, and see what a nest of Calistrians putting their heads together might do to disabuse Moonmeadow of his misapprehensions.
This Miss Strixis sounds like a handful in all the best ways, she thinks, before refocusing on matters at hand with a smile. “But as I said, the thrust of your argument is well taken. Family, as you say, and I’ll do my best to remember that. I’m the youngest, you see, so my experiences, as far as extending the idea to keeping everyone happy in other contexts… So on that note, how do you defuse disagreements so resentment and gossip don’t … turn sour?”
Inwardly, she’s rather pleased with herself for finding a word that she thinks fits both wining and mining, though even Alaïs would admit that poisonous air down a shaft is much worse than drinks gone off.
Edrukk nods, downs the remains of his mug, and slams the vessel onto the bar. ”Be seein’ ye, lad.” Raising a hand to acknowledge the others in the bar, he heads for the door, taking up a position nearby to listen for any commotion within.
The elven woman watches Edrukk leave. She looks toward the door, then towards the bar.
Broccan feels the impact on the wooden counter as she takes Broccan's seat and strikes the bar with a tankard. "Fill it up with my regular, doc." To Broccan, she says, "Say, that's a good point. Clever blood, your pa. I've been in this town for just two weeks, and lemme tell you, Broccan, it ain't anything like my own da used to tell of. It's like the whole continent is splittin' open without old Last of the First holding it all together, eh?"
She gets her drink and takes a hefty drought. From the smell of it, she's drinking from the old expensive barrel of Kaer Stout that the bartender keeps behind the bar for show. Nobody ever really orders it to Broccan's knowledge--it's bitter, strong, and widely believed to be a bad batch. "Now, mind you, my da took his turn at farming back then. And you know what I learned? Cracks in the earth can reveal some glittering potatoes down in the dirt. 'Specially in these hills, eh, Broccan?"
"What'r y'ask'n, Miss? Cou' ye speak more plainly? I'm jus'eh miner, not'eh man'eh fancy school'n," Broccan replies. Remembering the reproach he received from Allustan, he makes a point not to look down or away from her gaze, but he likely can't do much about the involuntary flush of embarrassment at being addressed so directly...by an elf-maid, no less!
"What are you asking, Miss? Could you speak more plainly? I'm just a miner, not a man of fancy schooling."