The rooms, as Reg discovers, are clean-- but spacious, they are not. The building in general seems cramped, called to serve as both tavern, inn, and, apparently, general store as well, to judge by the variety of goods on display behind the counter when Reg negotiates his room. There are only a few rooms to let, Etran's Folly not exactly being a tourist hub, though many in the caravan intend to stay in their own wagons, now that some room is being made what with deliveries, or to sleep in the hayloft above the stable. Still, there are-- conveniently-- four actual rooms for the taking, even if they are small and give the suggestion of having once been someone's child's bedroom, in more prosperous times. Each contains a single narrow bed, a single chair, and a nightstand with a chamber pot tucked below.
But the quilts on the beds are homey and handmade, and someone has tucked a few flowers into a cup on each nightstand, and the rag mattresses beneath the quilts seem soft enough, so-- yes, comfort, especially in comparison to the great outdoors.
Lodging for the rooms runs 4 silver pieces per night-- for those who would prefer the more economical hayloft, a mere 3 coppers will give you the finest hay known to man.
Reg returns to the ground floor and catches up with Lilita, who has managed to get her boots clean(er) at the trough and pump outside and is now hearing the prices of the room from the same woman who he purchased his own from. She is human, perhaps in her thirties, with dark hair and a sweet smile. She introduces herself as Delma Fulst, Mayor Fulst's daughter.
"--so those are the rates," she finishes saying to Lilita, tucking a strand of brown hair behind her ears. "Which will you be wanting? Oh, hang on, let me tell the cook we'll have ten extra for dinner, so she ought start some more turnipta -- maybe two extra pots, given it's Bort... Finnik!"
A door opens that leads to the kitchens, but no person is immediately visible over the height of the counter that blocks a direct view. Delma seems unperturbed by this, but says, "Finnick, dear, will you tell Amora to put on extra soup? Mr. Bort's caravan just arrived."
A small croaking voice answers, "Okay," and the door swings open and shut again.
"Dinner will be at six," Delma says, turning back with a smile. "Please make yourselves comfortable. I imagine you might be wanting baths? I'd suggest you could see the sights, but, well..... once you've seen one turnip field, you've kind of seen them all."
Aside from Delma herself and the invisible (?) Finnik, there's only one other man in the inn just now-- a large, burly human, who would probably stand a good six and a half feet tall if he were standing upright and not hunched at the bar over a stein of something. He eyes the newcomers sourly, and swigs more of his drink, then belches audibly.
"Don't mind Hallod," Delma murmurs with a small throat clearing, determinedly not looking at the big man.
Sparrow and Markon enter at that moment, seeming to be in the middle of a mild argument. "--things that could save a life, though."
"All I'm saying is if you got magic that can get you clean, and you don't use it, maybe you don't get to complain too much about the country towns not having a full laundry service, Spare."
"Don't call me that," Sparrow sniffs, and joins the queue at the bar. Delma smiles at the other travelers; Hallod narrows his eyes and mutters something inaudible.
Lita hesitates. She wants a room to herself, with a real bed. But silvers add up quickly and she has to remind herself she is no longer a rich man's daughter, nor will she have every need provided for.
"If I sleep in the hay loft, can I still get the bath?" she asks, hopefully. She passes over her three coppers.
"Still in the mood to explore?" she asks Reg.
She eyes Sparrow. "You have a laundry spell?" she asks, hopefully.
Sparrow siiiiighs, raking his fingers through his birds'-nest hair. "It's not a laundry spell,, exactly... it's just-- I mean, it could be used for that, but--"
"It's a laundry spell," Markon says blandly.
"--you wouldn't know a spell from a spittoon, so I don't know why you're commenting. Anyway, yes, there is magic that can be used to clean clothes, but I can't currently do that conjuration. In the morning, I suppose I could. At the expense of other, more useful magics."
"If it means you're not complaining all week about dirty clothes, that makes it pretty useful from my perspective."
Sparrow starts to respond, but a deeper voice cuts across before he can. "From where I sit, you all talk too damn much."
A moment's silence fills the common room. The speaker was the big man hunched at the bar, who glowers from bloodshot eyes at the four travelers.
Markon doesn't seem intimidated, despite the man having a full head of height on him and being far brawnier. He gives Hallod an assessing once-over. "It's a public house, friend. My talking bothers you that much, we could talk outside."
"Markon," Sparrow mutters out the side of his mouth, at the same time Delma strides over with a falsely-bright smile.
"Let's not have any unpleasantries, please, thank you all! This is a quiet town and we would like to keep it that way! Hallod, why don't I refill your glass-- or have you perhaps had enough for the day?"
Hallod gives first Markon, then Delma, a sullen glare, and for a moment the room is tense-- but then he slides his stein across the bar wordlessly and the moment passes. Delma flashes her smile around briefly, and takes the mug for a refill.
Markon eyes Hallod a moment longer, then turns to Delma with a smile. "Got any rooms still?"
"You'll have to get in line after the miss, here," Delma chuckles. "Anyway-- the bath comes with the private room, or, for another silver, you can get the bath on its own, miss."
"--you wouldn't know a spell from a spittoon, so I don't know why you're commenting. Anyway, yes, there is magic that can be used to clean clothes, but I can't currently do that conjuration. In the morning, I suppose I could. At the expense of other, more useful magics."
"If you decide that it is worth the expense let me know. Lilita says, with a wink.
She watches as Hallod gets irritable, Markon rises to the challenge and Delma intercedes, glancing between the three until the tension clears. She sighs at hearing the price of the bath.
"Perhaps sleeping in the loft and then paying for a bath is false economy. But after the wolves I don't think I dare go without one." she adds a silver to the three coppers.
"I can only agree," Reg sighs. His brain promptly provides him with a playback of what he just said, and a small wince escapes when he realizes how it could be interpreted. "Ah ... I mean for myself, of course." In spite of a washup and clothes change, his nose still insists it can pick up traces of that huge wolf's repulsive ejecta. At least Lilita dodged the worst of it.
He quickly changes the subject. "I'm not planning to go far, just a turn around the town center. A few minutes at most. Although ..." His eyes track to the bandages covering Markon's wounds. "How is your arm doing, Markon? Should I take a look at it before taking a stroll?"
"If you decide that it is worth the expense let me know. Lilita says, with a wink.
"I certainly will, miss Yuzu. Probably I'll cave," he sighs, with another glance down at his own clothing.
"How is your arm doing, Markon? Should I take a look at it before taking a stroll?"
Out of the corner of his eye Markon's still watching the big, surly man, but he looks back to Regariel and offers a rakish grin. "Doesn't even hurt." Yet he is still, clearly, favoring it.
"Have him check it," Sparrow sighs, and Markon rolls his eyes a little.
"Tell you what, Ears, go take your bath 'n then you can poke at me, and then we can all take a walk, huh? I'm not ready to just drop on my rear yet."
"I am," Sparrow mutters. "You three can traipse around the town if you like..."
During all the discussions and negotiations, Delma's been busy leaning over the far end of the counter and talking quietly with someone, perhaps Finnik. After Sparrow announces his intent to stay in a comfortable room while the others traipse, she clears her throat lightly to get the group's attention.
"I'm afraid we just have the one chamber with a big tub for bathing, but Finnik is readying it for you just now. You'll have to take turns, I'm sorry. I'll let you debate amongst yourselves in what order." The innkeep winks.
Sparrow waves a hand a bit to indicate the others, who plan to go see the town, ought to go first, and Markon points out that he didn't catch any wolf vomit.
***
Whether it's Reg or Lita who goes first, they do get to meet Finnik, who turns out to be.... a goblin. Clearly nervous, the short, green-hued creature is overly obsequious, bowing and managing to cram a dozen 'sirs' or 'ma'ams' into the short distance between the common room and a room that adjoins the kitchen. The room itself is barely big enough for a man-sized copper basin that's been freshly filled with steaming water. The goblin flees as quickly as he's led you to the room.
Should you evince any hesitation at following a goblin off .. well... anywhere... Delma is quick to say, with a hasty reassuring smile, "It's quite alright-- Finnik's a harmless sort, and he means well. I promise you he won't cause you any trouble at all."
Hallod makes a rude noise into his cup.
The bath water is hot, and towels and a plain but serviceable bar of soap have been piled by the tub.
***
When Reg and Lita have each finished their bath, Markon's waiting in the common room, seated by the fire with his legs spread and enjoying a stein of something heady. The big man, Hallod, seems to have left.
"There you are. Sparrow's already hidin' upstairs, but I'm still game for the walk if you two are."
"I can only agree,"
Lilita's face is suddenly serious. "Are you implying that I smell, Regariel?" She covers her mouth, unable to resist snickering long enough for him to think that she might have seriously been offended. "I understand what you meant, of course. I will let you go first, since you took the worst of it."
Having spent the last five years in a place that was something of a sanctuary, Lilita does her best not to judge beyond a raised eyebrow on seeing Finnik's species. She thanks him as the door closes.
She scrubs out the burned spot on her jacket and, when she has finished her bath she dresses in a change of clothes, combs her hair carefully (though she does not put it up, not while it is wet) and returns to the common room.
"Thank you for your patience. She tells the two men. "I see that your charming drinking companion seems to have moved on. No more trouble, I hope?"
Markon shrugs lazily. "Guess he didn't care for the company. I'm not bothered."
The man rolls to his feet. "C'mon, you can always look at my arm when we get back, Ears. It's not botherin' me right now. Let's see the town? such as it is..."
"There's not so much to see for seasoned travelers such as yourself," Delma calls apologetically. "The buildings are the north side are mostly abandoned, now, and I'd wager they're not still of sound construction, so do be careful of bad floors or crumbling roofs if you want to stick your heads in. The younguns like to dare each other to go in them, but it's silly and risky and there's nothing there to make it worthwhile.
"You could go see Etran's Hill, I suppose-- sad story, that-- or the old shrine.... folk don't use it anymore, since the plague, and I think there's wild animals lairing near it now. Another sad story." Delma frowns. "Appears we're nothing but sad stories. How depressing! Don't get the wrong idea about our little village, please. It's full of good people-- we may be simple folk, but we're honest and hard workers-- and we have a wonderful turnip festival where there's dancing, and singing, and contests-- but that was last month. Anyway, enjoy your walk, and dinner will be at six."
Markon smiles at Delma and gives her a wink-- it makes the innkeep blush-- but once he's outside the inn's door and it's closed behind them he says, "Yeesh. I dunno I could survive in a place where the biggest excitement's the turnip festival. Calistria wept."
Though Reg reddens slightly in embarrassment, he smiles at Lilita's humor. "You're very kind," he murmurs when she offers him first chance at the bath.
Being an elf, Regariel does lift both eyebrows when Finnik's species becomes obvious. But he is also an investigator, trained to reserve judgement until he gathers evidence, so he shows no more overt reaction than that. And a hot bath (oh bliss) is enough to put him in a charitable mood indeed.
Charitable enough that he doesn't press to examine Markon's arm right now, but follows him and Lilita out the door. He smiles again at Markon's assessment of the village's attractions, or lack thereof. "After those wolves, I'm fine with a little dull. But I do take your meaning."
With that he sets off to the left at a casual pace, scanning the town square for spots to check for magic.
"The old shrine?" Lilita asks of Delma.
She follows the gentlemen out. She sighs at Markon's statement.
"It makes you sad, to think what it might have been like. Before. No wonder your drinking companion was in such a bad mood."
She looks over at Reg "Where did you want to go, anyway? I think we can see most of the town from here.
"The old shrine?" Lilita asks of Delma.
"Yes-- there was a shrine to multiple gods, but mostly Gozreh... Father Grist saw to the holy days for all the important gods, and held weddings there, and funerals, and so forth. But the plague took him, twenty years ago." Delma casts her eyes down. "I was just a child, but I remember it well enough. We lost so many. Anyway, these days people say their prayers on their own, those who still feel an urge to do so. I suppose everything that happened, well, it shook people's desire to do much honoring of the gods...
"But anyway, if you wanted to see it, just follow the river downstream, staying on the south side. You can't help but hit it."
***
Indeed you can see most of the immediate town. There's precious little in the way of shops-- the Feedmill seems to serve the purpose of a general store. The town is in a valley, and a small river, or large stream, bisects the northern and southern halves more or less cleanly through the middle. Most of the village is flat, and squared with turnip fields, but it's easy enough to see the hill Delma spoke of, since it's the only immediate hill in the area, and no more than a ten minutes' walk away. The ruins of a structure seem visible atop it.
Regariel has no trouble doing a quick invocation to detect magic... but the square seems empty of such forces.
Markon eyes the elf curiously. "What're you doing, then?"
Reg glances up from his blank-faced preoccupation. "Not much," he replies. "Just a small cantrip to check the area for magic. Given that something uncanny just about had to have happened to that big wolf, it seems a wise precaution.
"I'm rather interested in the shrine, myself," he adds in response to Lilita's question. "But I can check it out later if you'd rather see something else."
Lilita rubs the bridge of her nose at the explanation of the spell. "I am confused. Do you think the problem with the wolves might have come
from here? It couldn't be. Because you are also saying you intend to go exploring on your own. And only a fool would go exploring on their own if they thought someone was enchanting wolves. She glances towards Markon, curious about his take on the matter.
"I suppose you would like to uncover all of the lairing animals." she says with a sigh. "Well. Lead on. But if I get vomited on again you are paying for my second bath."
Even as she speaks she is moving in the direction of the old shrine, however.
Markon snickers at Lita's commentary, not seeming to have a problem with it. "Sure, we can go poke around this old shrine or whatever. Doesn't matter to me. I'm just glad to see something that isn't the back of a wagon."
He takes the lead in walking without asking, thumbs hooked in his belt loops and whistling off-key.
The springtime sun is still pleasant, though the riverside path you follow is often in the shadow of the trees that line its banks, and in the shadowed spots, the air is cool. When the sun sinks lower still the evening might actually become cold-- but in late afternoon it's not bad at all, especially if you're moving.
A few minutes of walking is sufficient to leave what passes as 'the village center' behind. With the water on one side, a cluster of trees overhead, and fields and a distant farmhouse visible through those trees, it's only a little further walking until you can see what must be the old shrine.
The stream diverges with a tiny island in the middle of it, and on the islet is the remains of the community's sometime temple. Though it is in obvious disrepair and nature has aggressively started reclaiming it, it's plain to see why this site was chosen for the shrine-- the location is beautiful. The later afternoon sun shines through the tree branches and dances golden motes across the dark, murmuring water and the shrine's moss-covered stones. A low stone wall, no more than three feet high, is piled around the edge of the tiny island, less barrier than demarcation-- the stones are covered now with thick moss and algae, and tendrils of climbing honeysuckle, fragrant and sweet.
In the center of the islet, an altar of piled river-stones stands waist-high, also covered in nature's reclamation-- moss and branches and dead leaves. A pair of deer antlers still jut from the stones, likely an homage to Erastil, a god of the forest and of hunters. The delicate filigree of cobwebs hangs between the antler tines now.
Perhaps symbols to other gods might have been visible once here, but if so the crumbling stones and the detritus of nature now hide them.
On your side of the creek, there is a cleared area about twenty by thirty feet-- or an area that was once cleared, better to say. Log benches still fill this area. In better days, no doubt the townsfolk sat on the benches to receive the words of the priest who could stand on the islet and address them. Stepping stones planted in the stream provide a slick footbridge out to the islet.
Despite the general air of neglect and disrepair, the shrine still has a deep beauty around it, a sense of this being a special and sacred place. The forest seems alive here, the leaves of the trees a more vivid green, the water's burble especially musical.
It's peaceful.
Markon, city boy that he is, is not put at his ease by the charms of the shrine. He continues to look around uneasily as the trio enter the area with the benches, his hand resting absently on his sword's hilt.
"--hey," he mutters, and bends to squint at something against one of the log benches. He uses his boot's toe to nudge a small object out to be better seen.
It appears to be... a squirrel, clearly dead, though it looks decidedly-- weird. Shrunken, twisted, practically mummified for lack of a better word.
"...what the *@%&?" Markon mutters uneasily.
Lilita sighs, smiling slightly at the lovely vision of disaray around them.
"I am sure that it was beautiful in it's heyday." she murmurs.
Seeing that Markon is not charmed her eyes travel over to him and what he seems to be doing. She watches him uncover the squirrel carcass and comes over to join him.
She bends to look at the tiny dead creature.
She turns it over and backs up a step.
"Stirge." She says.
The soft serene quiet of the streamside seems somehow more ominous following Lilita's terse warning.
A den of stirges is called a clot, disgustingly enough. They're known most for their ability to detect blood even over a distance, and a clot working together can bring down even a large animal, through blood loss.
They are also crepuscular, and tend to be most active at dusk and at dawn. Right now you don't see any.....
Markon slides his sword from its scabbard with a soft hiss of steel against leather.
When Lilita questions his intelligence, Regariel responds with only a mild smile and a murmur of, "I never said I intended to go alone."
When they reach the shrine, Reg circles the benches, looking around at a verdant scene that would not be out of place in his homeland. Markon's discovery of the squirrel, however, redirects his attention instantly. As he approaches his companions, Lilita's single-word assessment has him pressing his lips into a thin line. He turns in place, looking and listening for any sign of the literally bloodthirsty vermin.
Nothing. But the riparian beauty of the place is suddenly far less alluring. Regariel draws his own sword. "Stirges favor habitats with still standing water in which they can lay their eggs, and we likely have that around here somewhere. I don't see any right now, but there could be an entire clot not far away, and the closer it gets to dusk, the more likely they are to emerge. Time to head back, I think."
Markon scrunches his nose at the shriveled squirrel. "I don't mind cleanin' out some bugs or whatever, but maybe not while m'arm's still mending. Ears has the right idea, let's scram."
Lilita offers no dissent, and the trio turn back, leaving the shrine undisturbed. The creek burbles softly away to itself.
A few minutes later, back on the path towards the 'center' of town, a farmer working in his field raises his hoe to you and starts toward you at an unhurried pace. It takes him a bit to finally reach you. What you took for a rather short and burly man at a distance is revealed to be a dwarf, once he's close enough to see clearly.
"Afternoon, strangers," he calls from about thirty feet away, resting his hoe over his shoulders. A broad-brimmed hat shades his face from the sun. "I 'magine you folk came in with the caravan? Went on down to the ol' temple, did ya?"
Lilita takes a deep breath as the man comes in their direction. She forces a smile as he stops and calls out to them.
"That's right. It's a lovely spot. I can see why you built there."
She glances at the other two. "I can see why people don't go up there anymore though."
The dwarf nods unhurriedly, his non-hoe hand hooked into his belt. "Was a nice place, in better times. I'm old enough to remember those better times quite well. It's your human gods were worshiped there, myself and my people keep to our own ways-- but it was a good place, good bones. Wouldn't mind seeing prayers held there again, rather enjoyed the hymns and such of a mornin'.'
"What I'd really like is for my goats to stop bein' sucked dry. Come dusk you'll see those buggerin'-- ah, pardon my speech-- those-- nasty little bloodseekers in the sky round here. Their nest must be somewhere close, for it's none of the other farmers get as bothered, just myself. My boy and I, we bring in the chickens and the goats now before sunset, and don't let 'em out til after it's well up, which suits neither them nor us very well. My boy's keen to walk the river and see if he can't find the nest but I've made him promise his old da that he won't. It's just bloodseekers, maybe, but I've no ken how big that nest is, and too many of them workin' together could be dangerous for a fool boy. He means well though.
"Now three folk armed as you are-- why, I imagine you shouldn't be in any danger. Don't suppose you're looking for somethin' to do, eh?" he asks, quite hopefully.
Before you can answer, you see the figure of... Sparrow, limping hurriedly your way, coming down the path from town and waving his hand urgently, shouting something you can't make out at this distance.
"Now what... hold that thought, farmer," Markon says with a shake of his head, and starts toward Sparrow.
Regariel's initial pondering on how to estimate the number of stirges in the area gets interrupted by Sparrow's unexpected appearance. While Markon walks toward his traveling companion, Reg sifts through his memory in search of any knowledge of stirge vulnerabilities.
"I think...We might be able to help? But first we might need to see what the fuss is about." Lilita says.
"I'll be right back." she tells Reg She follows Markon to hear what Sparrow has to say.
Reg can think of nothing more regarding stirges, though he wracks his brain.
Markon and Lilita make their way to Sparrow, who is clearly out of breath from his attempted hurrying, and it takes him a good half-minute of bent-over wheezing before he can get out the words.
"Came to... tell... you--" (pant pant) "--drinkers... of blood... when... shadows... lengthen!"
"Oh. 'Zat all?" Markon says, a hand on the slight wizard's shoulder. "Yeah, there's a stirge nest somewhere down stream."
"...." Sparrow looks up, all red-faced from his exertion, with a long stare at Markon.
"--I-- I can't believe I ran for that," he says eventually.
"Well, I'm not sure you could call it running."
Sparrow straightens up and irritably shakes off Markon's hand. "I thought you three were going to run into a damned vampire or something, gods."
Markon looks wry, and hooks his thumbs back into his belt. By way of explanation, he says to Lilita, "Sparrow here gets tiny little flashes of the future, sometimes. Kinda cryptic. Easy to misunderstand and get all worked up about."
Sparrow sniffs, still a bit red-faced and wheezy. "Anyway.... are you intending to go mess with those wretched stirges, or return to the inn?"
"Or there's that hill," Markon says with a shrug, and a glance at Lilita, and at Reg as well, as they walk to rejoin the elf.
"Visions of the future?" Lilita sounds a bit surprised. "That must be disconcerting. Particularly if you don't know what they mean.
"I don't want to take them on by myself, but if they are causing people trouble it seems as if we should at least try?" Lilita says, softly.
"Hasn't this town been through enough without them too?"
She frowns "Of course Ms. Delma did mention wild beasts as well.
"Speaking for myself, I'd be willing to try," Reg says to both the farmer and his companions. "But we should take Markon's injury into account, not to mention make a plan."
He looks up at the westering sun. "Hunting stirges at the time of day when they're most active and hungry doesn't strike me as a wise idea. Perhaps mid-day?"
Sparrow shades his eyes with his hands, looking towards the treeline and the stream beyond. "I don't know very much about them beyond the basics, but that seems sound to me. They might be harder to find, though, during the day, I assume they sleep or something. But maybe more sluggish. We can hope, anyway.
"The caravan's not supposed to move on til the day after tomorrow. I suppose if you want to go on a mid-day stirge hunt, then we can." The older man shrugs.
"But not now," Markon muses.
The dwarf has given you a polite distance as you discussed, and tips his hat now. "I'll need to be getting back to my work, and get those animals in. The name's Metmon, should you do the deed-- I can't promise any coin as a reward, but I'd send ya on your way with good turnipcakes and a jug of shalgam, as it please ye."
Markon nods to the farmer. "So, where to?"
After some discussion amongst the four, during which Reg evinces a wish to see the town from the top of the old hill, that's where the group turns their steps.
Sparrow declines to climb the hill, waving you on ahead, but within the space of a minute you're at the top of the only real high ground in the immediate vicinity. The burnt timbers of what must have once been a decently large house still stand here, but they jut up from a carpet of wildflowers, grass, and weeds that have largely reclaimed the hilltop, nurtured in their attempt by all the soot and charcoal. Here and there, you can make out things that partially survived the blaze-- a large copper basin, blackened and half-melted, that might have once served the same purpose as the tub at the inn; some jutting pieces of pipe; an iron grill for a fireplace that sticks up like an accusation from a pile of blackened rocks. There are no signs that anyone has been up here lately-- the grass is untrampled, and nature's reclamation of the old bones of the house seems to be undisturbed. If anyone ever searched through the burnt wreckage for things of value, it must have been years ago.
It's easy to see why it was chosen as the site of a house, however-- the view is lovely. You can see the entire village well from here, and in the late afternoon light, it's a pretty place. The empty windows and gaping doorframes of the buildings on the northern side of town are glossed by the red-gold rays of the setting sun, and the slanting light gentles and beautifies the entire settlement, softening the uglier parts and turning the fields green-gold. The river shines golden too. While there's disadvantages to living on a hill, far from the water that a household would need daily, for a few moments the beauty seems to make it worthwhile.
Markon doesn't have much poetry in his soul, however. He lightly kicks a chunk of charred wood down the hill. "Bet this place cost a nice bit of coin at one point. Now it's all just burnt-down junk. Least we worked up an appetite with all that walkin,' huh?"
With a last shrug, he sets off back down the hill to rejoin Sparrow. They don't seem to be the only ones headed for the Feedmill-- as the day draws toward dusk, it seems more than a few townsfolk are trudging for what amounts to the only real public gathering place left in the small village.
Regariel gives the burnt-out house a cursory once-over, then circles the wreckage, taking in the hilltop view from all sides. He soon fetches up once more on the side facing the village, where he stands for a time, taking in those portions of Etran's Folly he couldn't see from ground level. It doesn't take long before his gaze returns to the town's center and the stone that rests there.
Where the monument to malady lies...
Well, whatever answers he's supposed to find, he won't gather any more evidence at a distance. He turns to Lilita and angles his head toward Markon's retreating back. "Shall we?"
Lilita stands in one place, watching Reg circle the ruins, hands on her hips.
"Perhaps you will have more luck with finding whatever you are looking for at dinner. It looks like it might be what passes for an event around here." Lilita says. She follows Markon as well.
"What is it you ARE looking for, anyway?"
"I wonder if we will see our acquaintance from this afternoon."
Whether Reg answers or not remains to be seen, but the quartet make their way through the lengthening shadows of dusk, towards the Feedmill.
Some of the farmers and townsfolk who are headed inside throw you curious glances at you join the inward-bound foot traffic-- one or two offer respectful if awkward nods at Lilita, or rather at her tabard-- and others look with open curiosity at Regariel's slender frame and conspicuously pointed ears-- but none of them say anything. The Feedmill's main doors are propped open now, and the low sounds of conversation and the sounds of .. music? ... emanate forth.
The previously nigh-empty main room is now filled with a dozen and a half souls, a change from its sleepy character when you entered earlier. Most of the caravaneers, save only Glunda, are present. Bort's at the end of a long table, looking more cheerful than ever with the anticipation of his turnip stew; Cooky's in the seat next to him, gazing around at the taproom with wry amusement. The twins have gotten into a local dice game from the looks of things, and are matching a few stout farmers drink for drink and coin for coin (though they're only playing with coppers). Tamri's engaged in a frowning conversation with Delma; everyone else appears to be one of the local townsfolk.
Including the live entertainment: a skinny, weedy-looking man with stringy hair is plucking away at a lute, in one corner of the room. His clothes are a motley of second-hand silks, put together in what seems to be an attempt at finery but gives him an unfortunate ragamuffin air. His playing is.... not the best. Here and there he clears his throat, and strums with more vigor, as if hoping to draw the attention of the room's dozen farmers and quiet them, but the crowd in turn seems to ramp up the noise a bit, to drown him out. Still, he persists.
Finnik is occasionally visible darting through the room, placing dishes or refilled mugs on people's tables and then withdrawing without a word, clearly trying to perfect the art of not being noticed at all. The townsfolk mostly seem to ignore him.
Most of them are drinking and eating together with some joviality-- these are plain men and women, dressed in simple homespun, with broad faces and broad hands and the general air of people for whom daily life consists mostly of backbreaking labor. The arrival of the caravan is probably the most entertainment they've had since the turnip festival of last month-- some are already pressing Bort for stories of his exploits, or eagerly examining a bolt of dyed cloth that the caravan brought in, or pressing the twins for news of the last town you visited. Bort is regaling three or four farmers with an account of the wolf fight from the afternoon-- already heavily embellished, with Bort's own role in it rather, uh, magnified from what you remember. (It's true you didn't see what he did in the fight, but you somehow doubt he actually, as he claims now, jumped on the back of an alpha wolf and rode it around until it submitted to a bridle....)
One man is drinking alone in a far corner, who seems a different sort of breed than the laboring men-- he's tall and lean, with clothes that aren't fancy exactly, but are certainly of better make than what everyone else is wearing. His hair is neatly trimmed and his mustache the same, definitely not the style of the rest of the locals. He watches the room but makes no attempt to join in on the discourse.
Bort sees the four of you enter and waves enthusiastically. "There you are!!! Here, these lads doubt the truth of my tale-- isn't it so, that our wagons were attacked by a hundred wolves breathing fire? Look, see, that man there is still bandaged from the fray! He'd have been so much wolf food if I hadn't come charging on over, now isn't that so?"
Markon looks wry, but doesn't immediately answer, glancing to the others with a brow arch of are we gonna let him tell it this way? Sparrow merely snorts.
There's no sign of the surly Hallod, at least.
"What is it you ARE looking for, anyway?"
After a few moments spent considering her question, Regariel gives Lilita a smile rather more light-hearted than his usual, even a touch mischievous. "What every investigator searches for," he replies. "Answers."
Looking back toward the village and the people moving toward the inn, he adds, "Or failing that, maybe some interesting new questions."
"Though I'd just as soon you not mention that I'm an investigator to the townsfolk," he says as they reach level ground. "They have enough to worry about without wondering if I'm on the trail of an escaped murderer or a rogue spellcaster or some such. Which I'm not."
Reg shows no concern about the once-over he gets from some of the villagers, offering only a small smile and a head-bob if he happens to make eye contact. Nor does he react to the lackluster musical stylings of the lutenist, though many an elf might wince delicately at the assault on those obviously pointed ears.
On hearing Bort's tale-spinning, however, he finds himself caught between amusement at the caravan-master's mendacity and indignation at the implied slight to Lilita's skilled and courageous role in the wolf-fight. He finally temporizes with "I was too distracted by both my burns and Miss Yuzu's excellent swordplay to see, I'm afraid."
Lilita quirks an eyebrow at Reg, regarding him for a long moment before shaking her head and moving on the step inside.
She smiles at the townsfolk who nod at her and nods back as she makes her way inside. Most of the townsfolk seem to be enjoying themselves, which brings a yet wider smile to her face. Bort's address to them does seem to give her a moment's pause, but she looks down and rubs the back of her neck at Reg's praise.
"I admit I was a little distracted, myself, but it was a very unpleasant fight and I saw Reg himself and" she gestures to Markon and Sparrow "Others in our group doing a fine job in the defense of the caravan. I consider myself to be very lucky to be traveling in the company of ones so skilled as Bort and his compatriots"
"What I wish to know is if this turnipia we are promised is as legendary as we have been led to believe." she winks
Bort seems amused rather than not with the qualified, careful response from the two, and slaps the table with mirth. "Well sit, sit! Yes, miss Lilita, the turnipta is grand! I cannot wait for it to be served! Won't you share the table with us?"
He gestures for more chairs, and there's some shifting around as people make room.
Markon looks over at the table where the twins are winning? Losing? Hard to tell without a closer inspection. He says, "I'm just gonna go see how that game over there is going..."
Sparrow sniffs. "Please don't lose all our traveling money."
"Yeah, yeah..."
Thumbs hooked in his belt, Markon saunters off towards the table; Sparrow shakes his head a moment as he eases down into a seat. A balding man wearing an apron and a smile comes to ask him, and perhaps Lilita and Reg, what they want to eat and drink. (Finnik is apparently not the Feedmill's only employee.) You have a terribly wide selection...
There's turnip soup, of course. And turnip-flour bread. And a salad made of turnip greens. And turnip-booze. And.... well, you get the idea.
To be fair, there's also fish from the river on the menu, and venison, and even wine (of which Sparrow orders a glass after clarifying that it's made with grapes, not turnips).
The minstrel's playing continues, somewhat unfortunately. The balding man promises that the food and drink will be out very shortly, and moves on to get the orders of others.
The townsfolk seem to have heard enough of Bort's tales for the moment, and turn to each of you. "Any news from the road? Any tales?" In a world without newspaper or televisions, strangers are a source of entertainment just by merit of being strange.
Lilita sits down with a smile. She orders a bowl of the turnipa with turnip bread, but cannot bring herself to order turnip ale to go with it.
When they ask her for stories, she admits to not having been many places of interest but recounts a self effectively humorous story of getting lost in the city before joining Bort's caravan
"So I am standing there and he says 'Well this is where you wanted to go, isn't it? Cherry Lane?' and I look down at the address and if it doesn't say 'Cherry Court.' So I tell him and ask 'Is there a difference?' and he starts swearing a blue streak at me. Apparently there was indeed a difference..."
She wraps up the tale. It is a short story and, feeling her conversational duty to be done, she slips to the bar, having held off on a beverage at first. She orders an ale and pauses by the lone man.
"Expecting someone?" she asks, somewhat softly.
The story is received well by the listeners, to whom it appears to be the height of comedy. Several of them toast Lita with their glasses of turnip ale, and chuckle heartily. "Good one!"
The watchful man at the bar doesn't join in the mirth. When Lilita approaches him, he looks tense. When she goes so far as to speak to him, he actually scrambles off his stool, his eyes wide-- they flick over her Iomedan garments and he backs hurriedly away.
"Leave me be! I pray you, leave me be!" he says in a hoarse, fearful whisper. "Can I have no peace?!"
"Leave me be! I pray you, leave me be!" he says in a hoarse, fearful whisper. "Can I have no peace?!"
Lilita holds her hands up, backing up a step herself, surprised at the reaction "I meant no harm." she assures him. "Soon as I have my ale I will go back to my seat.
"Then do so, by all the gods!" the man mutters, and remains standing with his back against the wall until Lita moves away back to the counter. Only then does he return to his stool, seeming all the jumpier, now.
Lilita returns to her seat, but she is distracted now. She attempts to hide it by nodding and smiling along with the conversation around her, but she attempts to keep an eye on the man, and on the door he is watching.
The man is much twitchier than before, and alternates between looking at the door, looking at Lilita herself when he thinks she isn't watching, and drinking even more aggressively.
Reg also places an order, for turnipta (he's curious about whether it merits Bort's enthusiasm or the twins' joking revulsion), turnip green salad, fish and a glass of wine. He joins the chuckles at Lilita's tale, but then sinks into his own thoughts...
...sinks into them, at least, until the watchful man's reaction to Lilita catches his eye. He'd noticed the man in passing earlier, but now Regariel focuses on him, looking for anything unusual or familiar in his appearance or demeanor, other than his obvious nerves.
And when Lilita returns to her seat, he near-whispers to her, "That seemed a bit ... much, for a simple query from a stranger."
"He didn't seem to be a fan of my fashion choices. she whispers back.
Lilita returns to the table just in time, as the food is starting to come out. She and Regariel exchange a few words, and Sparrow glances over inquisitively but doesn't comment. There's nothing more for Reg to notice about the man other than that his posture and table manners are good even as he knocks away the drinks, bespeaking an upbringing probably far away from this humble farming town.
But further musings must wait, for here is the fabled turnipta, and wine, and all the other ordered things...!
The food is good enough, though you think you might get tired of turnips day in and day out. As for whether the turnipta really is as good as Bort makes it out to be-- that is for each person to determine for themselves. It's got a decided earthy flavor, and if you do in fact like the taste of turnips it's probably pleasant enough... but maybe it's just an acquired taste, or a dwarven thing, that has Bort scarfing down his bowl like he just can't get enough.
Sparrow snifs at his, eats a few bites, and puts it one side, murmuring that he doesn't think it's quite to his tastes; Bort makes loud noises of disbelief and offers to finish the other man's bowl for him.
Before Sparrow has a chance to respond, however, there's a shout of annoyance from the table where the gambling is taking place. It looks like the waiter bringing out soup has just tripped, and dumped a bowl-full in the lap of a red-faced farmer.
"Is it not enough that I'm being cheated blind here, now the waiters are blind too?" the man bellows.
Ulf-- or is it Olf?-- stands to his feet. "Cheating? You take that back, right now--"
"Not YOU, the other one," the farmer quasi-backpeddles/accuses, pointing at the other brother.
"Oh, so now you're saying my BROTHER'S a cheat?"
"Frankly I don't know why you're complaining, Eamon, that hot soup is probably the most warmth you've had in your trousers in--"
Maybe it's the farmer who throws the first punch; maybe it's one of the twins; possibly the waiter got in an elbow of his own to the back of the farmer's head. Hard to be sure, but all of a sudden, the slurs against parentage are flying and so are people's fists, mugs, and bowls of turnipta!
"Here now!! None of this! In Delma's own house!" Bort cries out, jumping to his feet. "And you're wasting so much tur--"
A tankard hurled at Ulf misses by a mile-- but smacks Bort in the face instead, cutting his words off with a slosh of turnip-smelling ale.
"You have got to be kidding me," Sparrow sighs, pinching at the bridge of his nose. "I just wanted a quiet meal...."
He mutters and gestures, and a slight glow surrounds him, perhaps protective in nature. He gazes out over the fight, and his eyes take on a distant, distracted look...
...before he looks at Lilita. "I-- I think you'll have good fortune," he says, and Lilita feels an odd tingle... right before Sparrow crawls under the table to be out of the way of the flying crockery.
If Sparrow wants to hide from the fight, Markon's more than eager to get into it. He jumps to his feet with a whoop, as if he's been waiting for this all day, and promptly headbutt the complaining farmer.
Markon follows his headbutt up with a beautiful knee into the man's groin that very nearly crumples him to the floor, but somehow the farmer's still standing-- and ready to strike back. His drunken uppercut seems to take Markon by surprise, and he staggers back into the path of a chair that another burly farmhand is bringing down on him with a shout of "It ain't sportin' to get a man in his jewels, stranger!"
Markon manages to dodge the chair. All through the inn, fists are flying-- farmer vs farmer, farmer vs twins, farmer vs Markon, farmer vs waiter, Bort vs farmer, twins vs farmer, twins vs Markon? ("Oops, sorry friend!")
What will Lilita and Reg do? Join in, or stay out of it as Sparrow's trying to do?
Lilita grabs the nearest farmer to pull him away from the fray, trying to break up the fight. "Hey! Stop that! she shouts
(she has a 15 on athletics for the pulling there)
Regariel isn't entirely sure how Lilita plans to subdue a dozen burly farmers (and possibly three of their caravan comrades), but he won't let her wade into the fight on her own. He follows her, pulling his sap on the way. Then he takes a defensive stance to cover her back, ready to sap any combatant who looks likely to take a shot at either of them, or to simply knock aside flying crockery.
Lilita wades forward and gets one burly farmer into a headlock, hauling him away from the fight and sending him sprawling into a corner in a spread of limbs.
Reg keeps pace with her, covering her back and readying a sap.
Delma edges around the fracas, shaking her head as she hurries through the inn's front door and disappears. Bort clutches his nose with one hand and picks up the same mug that beaned him, bulling forward to try and help the beleaguered Ulfen twins, who are fighting back to back, one using a chair, one using a large serving platter as an impromptu shield. The unluckily clumsy waiter is engaged in a dispute with Eamon-the-farmer, the exact terms concerning whose face is about to be dunked into a bowl of soup.
Markon, despite his bleeding lower lip, seems to be having a grand time. He continues to trade blows with the same farmer he already kneed in the unmentionables, smashing an elbow into his jaw that sends the man sprawling into a table and seeming to be down for the count-- then wheeling on the chair-smasher and trying to trip him at the ankles with a low kick... but the man dodges. Markon moves to keep a table between him and his besiegers, a blood-smeared grin on his face.
"Oh for gods' sake," Sparrow mutters somewhere beneath the table.
Two farmers converge on Markon, and one tries to grab Lilita... Markon doesn't see the one coming up behind him who beans him hard in the back of the head with a tankard. Markon groans and sags forward, only to get met by another fist, which sends the fighter crashing heavily to the ground.
The farmer that closes on Lita has a gap tooth and seems deep into his cups by the slur in his voice. "Heyyy! You-- leggo my brother!" he says, ignoring that Lita already has done just that in favor of bulling into her and trying to grab her by the arms. He succeeds.
Lilita attempts to break out of the man's grasp
"Stop this!" she repeats, attempting to pull back one of the men who has zeroed in on Markon
She is deliberately not hitting anyone as she attempts to separate people
Lilita manages to squirm loose of the farmer's bear hug just fine, but has less success in trying to get him in a grip of her own. Regariel, want to go give Lilita a hand... or her playmate a sap? Or check on the downed Markon?
Since Lilita is not in immediate danger, Regariel's attention shifts focus when he sees Markon taken down. He turns, takes a moment to assess the nearest of the fighter's opponents, and takes a shot with his sap.
Hurrying to the downed Markon, Regariel deftly sizes up the farmer that's kicking Markon in the ribs, and neatly catches him at the base of his skull with the sap. The man staggers, but doesn't go down.
Markon, however, isn't moving much, other than to groan...
Sparrow crawls out from under the table with a tense expression, tight-lipped. "Regariel! Lilita! Close your eyes!"
A blast of psychedically-bright color springs from his hands a moment later, washing over multiple farmers, as well as Ulf and Olf...
When the actinic, rainbow hues fade, several of the farmers (and Ulf) are standing there slack-jawed and motionless, and two of them start clutching at their eyes. "I can't see! I can't see!"
"Good, then maybe you'll stop fighting!" Sparrow says shortly. "This is ridiculous! And I think you've knocked my companion out, you had better pray for your sake he's not actually that hurt!"
The collective farmers, and the caravaneers present, all hesitate for a moment-- some because Sparrow's spell has them blinded or temporarily insensate, others perhaps a bit chagrined.