Quickly, our heroes take shelter using the table, chair, shields, or even just their natural grace and speed to dodge the rain of shattered crystal-- acquiring only superficial cuts due to the speed of their reactions and the might of their arms!
But the shelter is only temporary-- the heat radiating off of the Sarini ghosts is becoming intolerable. The tattered shreds of the curtains that hang on the windows are bursting into flame! You need to get out of this chamber, and fast...!
Time to make a break for the exits, of which there are three: the windows, the door back to the dining area, or the door out to the foyer.
Windows: Breaking the shattered glass and jumping through the smoldering curtains is dangerous-- but the quickest way out of the house, surely. But it will require skill to do so without becoming too injured.
Door to foyer: You came in through the other door, and realize this one is jammed shut due to damage, perhaps from the mob! To get the door open you'll need to either break it down or find a way to clear the jam...
Door back to kitchen area: When in doubt, retrace your steps, right? But the chimera overhead has begin to blaze, clumps of flaming fur and stuffing dropping like a hostile rain from above. Twist your way past the flames
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"Abandon Room!" Roger calls out, before shielding his face and feathered companion as he barrels into a window.
Having removed herself from the eye of the storm, as it were, Hannelia is able protect herself from the worst of the hail of glass. She can feel numerous cuts but she’s pretty sure they’re only superficial damage. The heat in the room is growing in intensity, however, and will soon become intolerable. Got to get out, she thinks and sprints for the door to the entrance chamber. The door is jammed and the pressure of the need to escape is getting to her and she is finding it more difficult than normal to figure a way out. ”Ah hells,” she swears.
Constantine grins over at Sirio as he helps him lift the table. They had done a similar maneuver back when Jacques had started a food fight one day in the cafeteria, taking shelter behind a table. Everyone had gotten a beating that day, even if they hadn't participated. Despite the memory of sore muscles, sour milk, and mashed potatoes crusting with blood in his hair, Constantine mostly remembers that day fondly. This was less fun in the moment, but there was still that feeling of camaraderie.
"Interesting is one way to put it!" he acknowledges as Emma quips at him.
As Roger bursts through a window, Hannelia tries the door to the foyer. "Ah hells," she swears. Constantine dives after her, agreeing that--with the other exits consumed by flames--this might be the best way out.
She's far better at this than he is, but he tries to unjam it nonetheless, more with sheer force than finesse.
Roger takes the most direct route out of the room: he plunges headlong through the smoldering curtains and through the glass of the windows. He is scratched and scraped by the glass but he lands on the ground outside, free, in blessedly cooler air!
Hannelia makes her way to the door, only to realize this one isn't open. The surprise of it throws her a moment- her hands fumble with the picks as she tries to ascertain if this is a lock, damage, or a combination of the two...
Constantine's at her side a moment later, putting his shoulder into the door to push against the hinges as he tries to yank the jam free as well! It gives with a sudden snapping of wood and metal, and Constantine tumbles back into the foyer, the place of his and everyone else's realization of earlier. Emma, Sirio, and Hannelia are able to quickly follow after, as the locked-together Sarini ghosts ravage the dining room!
Outside, Roger gets to his feet, patting himself to make sure he's not on fire and that all important bits are attached, like his parrot. Looking back towards the house to see the state of things, he sees that the entire house seems to be shuddering with strange energies, and a low keening moan is building from.... somewhere.
The iron gate by which you entered the property is swinging wildly in sudden wind that surely wasn't there when you entered the building earlier, the rusted hinges making a shrill scream. Roger has just gotten his bearings and seen that the others made it out of the dining room when the earth at his feet erupts!
Skeletal hands with faint remnants of dessicated flesh burst from the earth to try and grasp the old salt by the ankles!
Meanwhile, inside the house... The others cannot see Roger's current woes, but they have their own trouble to manage. The Sarini portrait that had caused a revelation of earlier, that Hannelia had proposed taking with you on your exit, is not lying as you left it-- it floats in mid-air, the three figures staring at all of you seeming almost alive, malevolence radiating outward in a sheer psychic assault. The front door is so close! But overwhelming surges of emotion and claw at you-- fear, guilt, hatred, self-loathing, grief...
"Sorry lads, I've escaped a sinking vessel before, I'm not going down with all hands! And besides, these are new boots!" Roger jukes and jigs his way from danger.
"I don't think we're going to be able to take that portrait, Ms. Venator," Constantine says as the group tumbles into the foyer. "And I don't think it's up to us whether the manor stays standing!"
The emotions are punishing, and Constantine is, due to his history and training, especially susceptible to the malaise. He hurls his hands up to try to keep the spirits at bay, drawing on his occult studies to draw a symbol in front of him.
Would that he had some powdered silver or cold iron! His eyes burn with tears and his throat tightens as he feels compelled to pitch to his knees. "I'm sorry!" he sobs. "I'm so sorry!"
"No! Sirio exclaims. He raises his pentacle against the painting as if to shield himself, or to beat back the rising tide of emotion-
And beats back the mind altering effect!
But the house... it still burned. He had to get his comrades out, but...
They'd have to think about saving it some other time.
"This way!" he barks, beckoning the rest to follow as he forges ahead as quickly as he can.
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Too relieved that Constantine manages to bundle the door open to castigate herself for fumbling the lock, Hannelia rushes out into the foyer. She turns towards the exit before a horrible thought strikes her and she changes her mind. Instead she flings open the ballroom door and bellows up ”Anilda! Get out now!” She’s pretty sure that the nuffekeen will already have left; if anyone is in tune with the emotions of the house it’s the fey. Logically she figures Anilda will have felt the rising anger displace the baseline aura of sadness clinging to the mansion well before the party did, maybe even felt a change with the demise of Wormgnash, and will have made her escape in good time. However, she prefers not to leave it entirely to fate so shouts up a warning.
Back facing the exit she sees one of the Sarini portraits floating between her and the exit, one final obstacle as she feels a wave of negative emotions crash over her. Ahead of her Sirio batters through the mental assault with sheer force of will but Constantine seems to have frozen. Gritting her teeth and focusing her mind to unravel the magics, she grabs the man’s arm. ”I know,” she says, kindly but firmly. ”But we need to go.”
Though relieved to stumble out of the room, the flood of negative emotions that follows is almost enough to make Emma collapse to her knees.
It's an intense feeling, hard to describe - a sudden mental fog that quickly swells in intensity. Old doubts and fears begin to bubble up - that she's not good enough for this, that she's going to get the others harmed - but she focuses her will and manages to suppress it. It takes a moment for her to clear her head enough to see that the likely cause - the floating portrait - has followed them of it's own accord.
That can't be good, she thinks. And then as her mind clears a bit more, she notices Constantine faltering in the wake of the flood of emotion. Poor man. It's no wonder, she thinks. More than most of us, he's really been through the wringer today. He's had to face a lot.
She joins Hannelia with an assuring nod towards the other woman. "Hannelia's right," Emma says in an equally firm voice. "As she often is. We have to go. Come along now."
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Constantine is wracked with the misery of every soul that has passed in this accursed house.... every servant that cowered in fear hiding in a closet or under a bed while mistress and master sought them out for dark fates. Every life bled out in the cellar below. Every nervous father or mother that came calling, hat in their hand, awkward in the face of the Sarini wealth and power, to haltingly mutter how they hadn't heard from their daughter in weeks, now, and just came to check...
And Marcius Sarini: his bone-deep, raw grief over his child. Long nights in a house made emptier and colder by the boy's absence, the only consolation the murmurs of a wife that said there might be a way to bring the child back, you know.... wouldn't you give anything, Marcius? Anything?
Even Sadira's own griefs are felt in an instant by Constantine-- flashes and images of a woman hunched in bed, arm wrapped around her belly, all her wealth and power no safeguard against the wracking pains of a new life gone wrong. As cruel as her actions showed her to be, she, too, suffered at one point.
He clutches at his head and doubles over, weak and near-insensate from the clamor of all the dead.
The house might claim him too, greedy for every drop of Sarini blood it can take in vengeance-- if not for Hannelia, and Emma. Each woman takes one of his arms, and they move, following Sirio's assured directives to leave...
Sirio hurls the front door forward, letting blessedly cool air in. Roger sees the other four emerge, Emma and Hannelia half-carrying Constantine... and he also sees unholy flames flickering through every window left in the building.
The five adventurers have only just reunited in the overgrown grass of the property when every last window of the Sarini manor explodes outward with the noise of a dozen souls screaming in agony and fury. Sprawled on your backs from the blast, you stare up to see a fireball rising into the sky, still roiling as if it contained two conflicting forces.
The fireball arcs higher-- then plummets, screaming down towards the earth. You unconsciously brace for impact...
...but the fire slams into the earth and passes into it, gone, gone, as if never there at all.
And all is silent, save for the faint noises of little pieces of smoking and molten glass hitting the ground and sizzling to silence.
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Hannelia finds herself flat on her back, not entirely sure how she ended up there. Her ears are ringing from the tremendous noise of... something and despite the coolness of the ground she can feel residual heat on her face and hands. An explosion. Yes, that was it. We were in the house - the Sarini house. Constantine! Trying to shift the fog in her head, she groggily sits up, bracing her arms to support her unsteady body. She notes the four other figures of her companions, similarly sprawled on the grass of the mansion gardens. An array of soft groans and heavy breathing informs her that they are all alive and she relaxes a little.
She is somewhat surprised to see that the house is still standing - she was sure there was a huge fireball. Looking more closely Hannelia can see that the windows have all been blown out, the glass annihilated and the frames charred and blackened. I didn't imagine it then. But I don't know if I understand what happened. She runs a hand through her hair, coming away with flecks of soot and ash. Her face feels a little pink from the heat too but that seems to be the worst of it and she offers a silent prayer to Desna, glad to be alive and free. She can feel her hearing start to return to normal as the ringing is replaced by the soft sounds of the fire's aftermath all around them.
"That," she starts tentatively, not entirely sure where she's going with it. "That was a lot. Is everyone - and I'm using the term very loosely here - alright?" she asks quietly.
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"... Aye. Gonna take me awhile to put that one into story." Roger surveys the situation with a strange faraway look in his eyes.
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Blast!" Sirio screams. He throws his buckler into the dirt, then kicks it away in frustration. He runs both of his hands through his hair and grits his teeth. He tries to compose himself after his outburst.
"It's fine. It's fine! he mutters under his breath.
"I'm fine." he declares. "How is he?" Sirio asks Hannelia, gesturing Constantine with a tilt of his head.
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It was too much. It wasn't just the sound of the explosion, but the cacophany of agony etched into every stitch and surface, suffusing the air itself, screaming with unholy resonance. Were it not for Emma, Hannelia, Roger, and Sirio, Constantine would not have made it out of the conflagration alive. Even now, lying on his back on the grass, with tears, soot, grease, bile, and blood staining his face, Constantine gasps and trembles. His face is wracked as he tries to process everything, everyone that his mind had glimpsed in that house. His breath comes in wheezes as his throat and hands spasm. He can't speak, much as he might try. All he does is shake his head.
No. I'm not okay.
Physically, he was more or less fine, as any of them with a semblance of medical knowledge would be able to tell. But emotionally, spiritually, and mentally, he was spent. Drained. It would take time for him to recover from that lash brush with death--with the dead. He hadn't ingested the demonsbile, but he might as well be in a similar state to Talon and Gellion. That rendezvous with the Mayor might need to wait for a bit until he could get his bearings back.
In one moment, Emma is moving as quickly from the house as she can, helping Hannelia with Constantine. In the next, she finds herself sprawled out in the dirt, blinking rapidly in confusion. There's a ringing noise in her ears, and gingerly, she sits up, looking back at the house. Still standing - a bit damaged, but still standing.
Blinking some of the confusion away, she glances around to make sure the same can be said for the rest of her party. It looks as though they've all made it out - if not perfectly intact, then at least all alive. Even Roger and his trusty parrot are both around.
Emma lets out a sigh, taking a moment to rest on the ground. Praise Iomedae, she thinks to herself. I think we actually did it. We did it and we made it out! Right?
She rubs her forehead, feeling the aches and pains from the previous battles begin to take their toll on her. She finds herself longing for a nice, warm bath.
"Did...did we do it?" she asks finally. "Is it over? Did we win? Are we all okay? Lie to me if you must, I don't think I could take it if you tell me the trees have turned evil and are about to attack us."
She turns her head to look at her companions again and instantly feels a bit of remorse at her glib comments. Constantine...does not look well. And she can hardly blame the poor man. She's also not entirely sure what she can do for the man at the moment. By this point, they all have to be pretty exhausted, and her brain is tired enough that she's having trouble trying to figure out something to say to him. In the end, she simply hopes that their presence will be enough. She hoists herself up off the ground, dusting off the grime as best as she can. She puts a comforting hand on Constantine's shoulder, and then looks at Hannelia. Of their group, she's the most likely candidate when it comes to knowing what to say.
"I'm fine." he declares. "How is he?" Sirio asks Hannelia, gesturing Constantine with a tilt of his head.
Hannelia glances at the prone form of Constantine - on the surface he looks bad but no more than any of the rest of them, though she suspects that he has mental scars that run much deeper. Satisfied that he's not looking she gives Sirio a curt shake of her head in response to his question.
"Did...did we do it?" she asks finally. "Is it over? Did we win? Are we all okay? Lie to me if you must, I don't think I could take it if you tell me the trees have turned evil and are about to attack us."
She turns her head to look at her companions again and instantly feels a bit of remorse at her glib comments. Constantine...does not look well. And she can hardly blame the poor man. She's also not entirely sure what she can do for the man at the moment. By this point, they all have to be pretty exhausted, and her brain is tired enough that she's having trouble trying to figure out something to say to him. In the end, she simply hopes that their presence will be enough. She hoists herself up off the ground, dusting off the grime as best as she can. She puts a comforting hand on Constantine's shoulder, and then looks at Hannelia. Of their group, she's the most likely candidate when it comes to knowing what to say.
"Yes," she says. "I think so and I think we did." As the others rise to their feet, Emma puts her hand on Constantine's shoulder and shoots Hannelia a concerned look in the hope that the other woman would say something. Hannelia answers with a nod, sure that the paladin's protective touch would tell the man that they were all still with him.
She kneels down next to Constantine and eyes him carefully. Talking first to the group as a whole, though also for the occultist's benefit so he understands that she has some idea of what he is going through, she begins. "It's not entirely clear in my mind but I believe that as we were leaving, the Sarini spirits bombarded us with emotion - fear, anguish, grief, bitterness, pain, sadness. It was horrible." She shudders, recalling the voices, both aloud and in her head and the cocktail of feelings that she had managed to shrug off enough to push past. "I think we all felt that but I believe Constantine felt it much worse both because he's so attuned to the spirit world generally and because of the personal family element."
Turning to Constantine to address him directly she says quietly, "I don't know what you're going through and I know you're probably not ok right now. But you will be." I hope. This trauma probably cuts deep. "You don't need to move until you're ready and we're here to support you however you need, Constantine, literally if need be." She recalls her and Emma bodily moving him out of the door. It may only have been mere minutes ago but outside of the rushed exit it feels further removed. "You don't need to force yourself to do anything. You've more than done your part and I can't imagine how hard going through all of that has been. Even coming here in the first place. We got through that as a team and we're a team still." Hannelia looks him directly in the eye. "There's no shame in asking for help and you are welcome to whatever aid we can give whether you ask or not. Including time and solitude, if that's what you need."
She turns back to the party. "When we're all ready - and there's no rush - we should head back to town. The house isn't going anywhere and right now I think we'd be much better off away from it. Rest and recuperation is what we all need and I don't know how much of that we'll get under the shadow of this place."
"Oh, I think we could do with a little rush. I know of a perfect cure for all this doom and gloom! A pint at the Witch's End!" Roger suggests enthusiastically, his moment of thoughtful repose quite short.
Constantine at first winces at Emma's touch. In his mentally frazzled state, it's easy for him to envision one of the devil nuns reaching for him to do injury. But as his mind races, nerves bare and exposed, he feels the comfort behind the gesture. Hannelia's calming words are as a gentle rain. As she tries to verbalize what he might be feeling, he agrees with a faltering nod.
We're a team.
That's a comforting thought, isn't it?
After the end of the speech, Constantine gestures. Between the throat spasms and mental trauma, he's still having a hard time speaking. Hopefully that's temporary. But his mind is beginning to come around enough to interact. He asks for some help getting up and stands shakily, uncertainly. It takes more time than he would like, his muscles feeling like jelly and his bones creaking like dry wood. Leaning on Emma, he raises his gaze to the house and clenches his free hand into a trembling fist. He raises this fist and extends his middle finger to the house, panting as he displays the triumphant, vulgar gesture. There is the slightest hint of the corners of his mouth upturned.
Burn in Hell.
Constantine tries to slow his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth with pursed, cracked lips. He lowers his fist and instead extends his thumb. Then his pinky. Then he makes a motion as if downing a pint, his lips parting slightly as he raises the imaginary mug to his mouth and tilts his head back.
You're right. I will be okay. Let's head back, team, and get that drink.
"Aye." Sirio replies, less enthusiastically. But he still agrees, "Let's get a pint."
He puts a shoulder under Constantine's to help him stand and half-carry him back to town.
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Constantine doesn't speak, but through gesture, he indicates his feelings on the matter-- on the house, and all the rest of it. He is helped to his feet by the others, Emma providing a strong shoulder to lean upon.
Roger proposes the universal cure-all for a pre-therapy society, and with fresh bruises, scrapes, and something resembling sunburn, you start the long, limping process back down the hill towards town...
You see no sign of Anilda, or her 'child', as you leave.... perhaps she made it out, but if she did, she isn't currently showing her face.
As you make your way down the last switchbacks, you hear voices ahead-- and you round the curve to see a small knot of the town guard coming warily uphill behind a grizzled guard captain and Father Ruvarra. They let up a bit of a cry on seeing you-- half relief, half a ragged cheer-- and the priest hurries forward to meet you.
He explains that all the town could see flashing fire rising from above the manor, and that he and Mayor Trinelli agreed that he should lead some guardsmen to try and determine what was going on.
"I admit, I was a bit afraid we might reach the top of the hill and find your corpses! I'm relieved to see you all alive, my young friends. But heavens-- Mr. Fioritura looks badly off! Here, let's help you the rest of the way-- whatever happened, up there? Actually, perhaps you had better wait til we reach the mayor, so you don't have to tell the story twice..."
When you enter town, it is to many a curious stare. The spectre of fire that rose above the old manor is the gossip of town, and you see people clutching old or makeshift weapons-- everyone worried that some great menace might be coming down the hill. The townsfolk are relieved to see you instead, and Father Ruvarra's assurances that all is well and that 'our brave heroes' have returned alive.
Heroes. That's apparently what you are, now, if only to the townsfolk of Saringallow.
The mayor intercepts you before you reach the town hall, grim tension easing from her brow as she catches sight of your group in the streets, a gaggle of clerks behind her.
"It looks as though you've quite the tale to tell, my friends! Let's see that you can do it in comfort."
***
A half hour later you are ensconced in a private room of the Witch's End, dark ale and golden-colored mead, tea and wine, brought to your table by the eager Morvinarr and the proprietress herself. The mayor and the priest listen to the complicated story of what was found in the house with increasing concern and shared glances. When it's finally done, Sandra Trinelli shakes her head and takes a long draught of the Kyonin wine she's drinking.
"To think, Sapiro was at the root of so much of this! However can ordinary folk ever make a go of it in this world, I wonder, when the death of an evil man doesn't necessarily put a stop to his sins-- when he can come back as a monster to steal our children, murder our merchants, and plot our destruction... And a hundred years wasn't enough to rid us of the lingering foulness of the old Sarinis... how can regular people ever survive, in a world with so much evil?"
"Through the kind protection of the gods, Mayor," Father Ruvarra answers. "Through the bonds of community and helping one's fellow man or woman... as these brave souls have done for us today. And while there have been losses-- poor Bravoni not least among them-- may I say that perhaps, in the long run, the evil has been lessened by bringing a light to shine on that house, and its legacy? Nothing can truly be cleansed until it is known, after all. A wound is disinfected before it heals."
"I suppose you're right," the mayor says with a sigh. She rummages up a smile for your group. "Yet again, I must tender my thanks to you. I will try to make that thanks material in nature, to the best of the town's abilities to repay. Please-- if you mean to move on, do not leave until I've gotten a chance to present Saringallow's appreciation to you. For tonight, our supper, at least, is on me."
Father Ruvarra takes the human remains you recovered from the old estate and promises that they will be properly interred as soon as possible, in order that these poor souls may finally know rest. The mayor and her clerks are interested in all the records you managed to recover.
***
True to her word, the next day, clerks find you and ask for your presence at the town hall. This time, instead of being ushered into her office, you find yourselves directed to the general hall, where you see dozens of citizens gathered that you don't know-- finely dressed merchants and commoners alike-- as well as people more personally familiar to you-- Gellion's parents, for instance, and each of the apprentices you'd rescued, and the Escoro family, wearing what must pass as their best finery.
"Saringallow would like to formally recognize you all for your great services in the region," Mayor Trinelli says, her voice ringing clearly through the hall. "You have rescued our youths-- discovered a festering threat in our town that might have claimed lives-- defended the farms and lands of our humblest citizens -- sabotaged a planned goblin attack before it ever came to our gates -- and last, but certainly not least -- investigated the old Sarini estate, that has lurked above our town as a vulture lurks above a dying animal for a century's worth of time. It has long been a site of whispered fears and dark unknowns, a symbol of our unhappy past. By boldly challenging those fears and revealing its mysteries, you have helped us to finally close a dark chapter in our history. We thank you all.
"I would like to present to your group these tokens of recognition for your deeds." Clerks present each of you with a small brooch of gold, which could be used as a cloak-clasp or pinned to a garment as you like. It depicts a stylized model of a rampart above a river that features a leaping fish, with a tiny emerald serving as the eye of the fish.
"Furthermore, Saringallow would like to present you with a gift of coin for your services...." The pouch that the mayor hands over clinks very satisfyingly indeed.
...and the merchants' consortium wishes to also thank you for discovering the fate of the unfortunate Marcuccio Bravoni, who will be much missed in our town. Our clerks are still ascertaining the state of his business concerns-- the warehouse where you defeated the bile threat contained many trade goods. Signor Bravoni had no kin known to us, and-- once any outstanding debts his business had are settled, of course-- the merchant consortium has agreed that it is fitting that your group is entitled to any profit that might ensue from the settling of his affairs.
"Finally, the records you have brought forth from the Sarini manor have put to rest questions of disappearances from generations ago. Some of their descendants wish to thank you for providing closure on the fates of their grandparents or great-grandparents, and have gathered together some measure of coin to recognize your efforts."
"If there is any service or boon that Saringallow can provide for you all, please, speak, and if it is in my power to give it while doing no injustice to our other citizens, I will try to fulfill it, as thanks for the heroism displayed by you...."
Mayor Trinelli pauses, then smiles crookedly. "--I suppose I should have asked-- does your band have a name?"
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Constantine's feet find him better about halfway back to town, and he's even beginning to feel like he might get his voice back. He's more soft-spoken than his usual non-battle voice, and certainly less loquacious, but in a raspy voice he asks Roger if he might share another story.
He tries to put on a brave face when returning to the town, but even wiping away the grime it's clear from the look on his face that he's half-dead. One eyelid droops a bit and his skin has a sallow tint giving that clear indication of having been through the ringer. Still, he gives a gentle smile to some of the people that he had come to recognize from around town and insists on walking by himself the rest of the way, even if it means that his ankles bend a bend and sway under him on the way there.
At the Witch's End, Constantine scratchily asks Alcie to come over. "We almost brought some giant frog legs back for you to cook. But I don't think the meat would have tasted good." He grins. "Do you have anything mulled? I need something hot and strong."
Then it's time to tell the stories. Constantine lets the others do most of the talking, knowing how much effort it is for him to produce even brief utterances. He chimes in now and then to clarify a few points, but is happy rest.
It was odd that Wormgnash had remembered so much of his existence as Sapiro. Didn't most outsiders have mere fragments of memories of their mortal lives? To have such a strong connection, a hateful vendetta, persist through the different patterns of his existence was troublesome. It might be something worth researching when he felt better.
Constantine looks at Father Ruvarra as he responds to Mayor Trinelli's dire pronouncement on the implications of the situation. The protection of the gods. The bonds of community. Shining a light.
The occultist waves for attention. "Speaking of shining a light, Mayor, there is something I wish to tell you." He clears his throat and takes a deep breath. "There is something that I have known for some time but tried to hide. Learning what we learned in the Sarini manor, I now know that hiding it will not do anyone any good." He looks back to Father Ruvarra once more and smiles. "I'm an orphan of the Goblinblood Wars. Sirio and I grew up together, actually. I found out when I was older that my parents had fought in the war and died protecting Isger. I also found out--" one more deep breath, "--that they were Sarinis."
Here he pauses, giving the revelation its due weight and allowing the Mayor, and anyone else, to respond.
---
Constantine wakes up feeling great. The trauma of it all is still there, but whatever psychic impressions had attacked his soul (and after Wormgnash had already done that--twice!) had dissipated with a good night's sleep. It would be a good day in Saringallow: perhaps the first truly good day in a while.
He joins the others at the Town Hall, his chest nearly bursting with pride. A Sarini had done good in this town, and he was being honored for it. This was worth it for no other reason than that twist. It felt like the first step towards redemption. Learning what just this one family did, the weight of the name Sarini had grown quite heavy indeed. Today it felt a little lighter.
"I suppose I should have asked-- does your band have a name?"
Constantine thinks back to the previous night. After a couple of drinks, the group actually had started to informally discuss this. It seemed like there was enough general good feeling that the team was actively considering working together again. And it made sense. Hannelia and Roger were from here. Hannelia was one of the most dedicated people he had had the pleasure of meeting. Roger's tall tales not only brought levity in the dark situations they had encountered, but he actually had the strength and courage to back up his bluster. Constantine had been looking for a home and felt comfortable here. Sirio had proven himself a helpful Asmodean with a clear, and perhaps not even entirely self-interested, concern in the town's politics and trade. Emma was the only one he wasn't positive about, since she wasn't even from this country. And yet she seemed to have a particular affinity for each of them, something in common with everyone. She was like the glue keeping them all together.
"Goblinkickers," Roger insists. Frequently and loudly, with physical reenactment demonstrations. It seems to be his primary contribution (and it's not exactly unpopular). "Straight to the point, funny, not a hint of hoity-toity, and anyone what hears it instantly knows you're a crew o'adventurers!"
Sirio seems to dislike that, much preferring that (probably to his ear) much more serious and agreed-upon threat of demons. "Demonslayers," he offers at one point, before getting caught on a series of names, places, professions, and other identifiers ahead of "Company". Gallows Company makes Constantine cringe just a little bit, because of the implication of execution. "There's something so medieval about naming your mercenary band 'Company'," he monologues. And then: "Jester Company," probably needling Constantine on purpose with that one. He earns a scowl for his trouble, but it's more out of good humor than malice.
When the conversation loops around to Marcuccio Bravoni, with a toast given to his life, there is even some discussion about how important what they had done probably was. The Conerica River was Elidir's link--Isger's link--to the rest of the world. A country surrounded on almost every side by mountains lived and died by its rivers.
"The Conerica River Company," Hannelia suggests. Sirio's eyes widen, almost frustrated that he hadn't thought of it first. He collects himself and fixes a hand in the air. "It might already be registered, though. I'd hate to be hit with a cease and desist for trademark violation."
Constantine interjects at this point. "That seems like something you could check, Sirio." He arches an eyebrow in a near-perfect imitation of the portrait of Marcius Sarini. "If it means that much to you."
---
"We're still trying to decide on that," Constantine says. "But we're certainly friends of Saringallow. You can call on us, and count on us, whenever you're in need."
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The journey back to town isn't far but it feels like a much longer one given everything the group has been through. All things considered they're not in too bad shape, though Hannelia shoots Constantine regular looks as he's definitely not himself. She uses the time to try and put events in order, both to understand them clearly in her own mind and to explain to others - she anticipates having to tell the story multiple times in the coming days. She is relieved when they run into Father Ruvarra and then escorted to Mayor Trinelli for the debrief at the Witch's End.
* * * * *
Once they are all gathered, she contributes to the story, picking up the lead at times and taking a backseat at others. As Constantine decides to speak up about his family background - she wasn't sure if he would choose to speak of it, either now or at a later date - Hannelia moves quickly into the silence in order to defend her friend with some words she has been rehearsing for this eventuality. "Anybody who grew up here knows the story of the Sarinis," she begins, "or at least some version of it; the wicked family who cast such a long shadow over the town. It's a name to frighten children - and more than a few adults too - and words can be powerful things, especially building up over such a long period when truth may not be known or even much matter. From our research and our investigations, it's also clear that their devilish reputation was well-deserved."
Hannelia pauses, checking that she has the complete attention of her audience. "And yet names are not destiny. We are not responsible for the actions of our parents, never mind ancestors generations removed. Living with the name Sarini cannot be an easy thing for anyone, but Constantine is anything but a manifestation of all things evil. Time and again he has proven his valour in this investigation, showing courage in the face of danger, skill in the face of challenge, and kindness in the face of cruelty."
She looks directly at Constantine, not wishing to embarrass him but determined to sing his praises nonetheless. "I cannot deny it was a shock when he told us, but that alone must have taken enormous courage. More to the point, to my mind his deeds weigh far more heavily in his favour and he has shown himself to be a fine companion. I am proud to call him my friend."
In the brief silence that follows, she adds an afterthought, "And if my word only goes so far, and I accept that it has its limits, travelling with a paladin of Iomedae is a good way of rooting out those with stains on their souls." She hopes Constantine takes heed of this too - while she doesn't believe he does think like this, it would be easy to fall prey to thinking that a dark name must lead to dark deeds.
* * * * *
After the ordeal of the day, Hannelia is glad to partake of a few drinks with her new friends; the mood lighter, the conversation flowing and possible futures unfolding in front of them. Naturally she is already planning for these, thinking of her follow-up activities - she mentally ticks off the archives, the temple, Pricknettle's Poultices and Potions, the Vazarros, Zuke, and a comfortable writing chair - as well as what may lie further ahead.
She's pretty sure that her father will have heard of their return - she suspects the whole town will know soon enough given the visibility of the explosion at the manor and how quickly news travels - but she slips a street boy a copper to let him know that she is fine, will be staying at the inn for the night, and that she'll see him in the morning. Much as she is keen to see him now and set his mind at ease, she's still concerned about Constantine and would rather be nearby in case she is needed for anything. Plus, she concedes to herself, a long soak in the tub - even one less fine that the exquisite model of the Sarinis - is a very appealing thought right now.
With that in mind, she excuses herself before the hour grows too late and, whether it's the drink or just the positivity she is feeling right now, she gives all of her companions an uncharacteristic hug. She's still chuckling to herself about a couple of their expressions some while later as she luxuriates in the hot water of her bath for a good long time. When she is finally finished she towels herself dry and prepares for bed. Although she is not expecting trouble, habit means she carefully checks the security of the room before she collapses on the bed and sleeps the sleep of the dead.
* * * * *
In the morning Hannelia wakes early, feeling clean and refreshed. Leaving a message for the others that she'll see them ahead of the presentation she heads for home. She makes a detour via Gunty's, relishing the warmth of the fresh bread in her hands and the promise of a good breakfast. Cammus Venator is already upwhen she arrives, cleanly shaven and dressed in his finest outfit. "Come on girl, what time do you call this?" he smiles. "You've got another busy day ahead of you." He pulls her into a hug. "My girl, the town hero. I'm proud of you, Han. Your ma would be proud too," he says quietly. "Thanks Dad," she replies. "I know, but it means a lot to hear you say it."
They hold the embrace for a moment, before Hannelia suggests eating. The aroma of the bread is alluring and Cammus quickly agrees. "Gunty's a miserable bugger," he says, cracking some eggs into a well-worn pan, "but you've got to admit the man does know how to bake." As he cooks Hannelia starts to tell her about the events at the Sarini mansion and how they fitted alongside the prior episodes. "No doubt you'll get the official version later," she says.
Once they've eaten she washes the dishes before going to get changed into something more appropriate. She rarely wears dresses, preferring more practical clothing, but certain clients prefer or expect what they consider to be a more feminine presence so she maintains a few choice pieces in her wardrobe. She plumps for a forest green blouse, pairing it with a knee-length brown and white patterned skirt. Untying her hair, she tips her hair forward in front of her face before throwing it back and gathering it again in its customary tail. After a moment's thought she decides against it and lets it hang loose instead, running a brush repeatedly through her chestnut locks.
She briefly wonders whether Emma will be wearing a dress, struggling to picture it. You never know, she chides herself, though probably more chance Roger turns up in one than Emma. She snorts; the pirate undoubtedly has a tale where he was forced to don ladies' garments for one reason or another. Dabbing on a splash of perfume, she checks her appearance in her hand mirror before deciding she's ready to go.
Unsurprisingly, Hannelia has left plenty of time before the ceremony is due to start but she knows she has to adjust to her father's slower pace and is keen to see her companions ahead of it. After the last week it feels very weird to be out without lugging her pack and bow around, though her back and shoulders are certainly not complaining about their absence. They might be early but a few people are already milling about and she exchanges brief greetings with a couple of people she knows, before her father assures her that he's fine to find a seat and that she should go and reunite with her companions.
* * * * *
Hannelia stands seriously throughout the presentation and the mayor's words bring forth a curious mixture of awkwardness and pride. They have indeed done some good things, she acknowledges, and unravelled and then put an end to the demonsbile threat. And yet hearing it talked about like this feels so different to the actions of battling foul creatures or the pressure of disarming a fiendish contraption. As Mayor Trinelli pins the small gold brooch on she sees her father beaming with pride at the end of the front row, and, seated much further back, she catches the eye of her gnome mentor and Zuke winks at her.
She nods along as Constantine answers the question about the group's name. "Friends of Saringallow," she agrees. "There are few finer things one could be called."
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Sirio contemplates the nature of these events and his mission as they trudge back to town. He tries to support Constantine as they walk, he was nearly half-dead after all.
Then, as they're greeted with excitement and applause, he smiles. It's a smile that feels warmer and more genuine than any he'd had for a long time. It nearly brought him to tears. Nearly. It'd be inappropriate for an advocate of Asmodeus to display such emotion in public.
A more self-serving smile creeps in from behind. His mission was a success in some fashion. Regardless of their feelings on the Church as a whole, he'd earned some trust in the town. It was a way in. The foothold he was sent to find.
When the conversation with the Mayor turns to the revelations of Constantine's parentage, Sirio internally screams with excitement. Outwardly, he nods to Constantine.
He enjoys and partakes in the evening’s festivities. Getting drunk was part of a mercenary’s job well done.
"Sing us a shanty, Roger!" he laughs. When the drink starts to flow, Sirio loosens up and allows himself some leisure and laxes his normal restrictions.
__________
The next morning, Sirio made sure to three-fold his normal morning devotions. His faith was shaken after facing the reality of the murder of a child. He wanted to stop what had happened to himself when he was a child. But what had happened to Luca Sarini was worse. The Archdevil had no room for such weakness in his ranks. Neither did the Hellknights. And yet… it wasn’t something he could discard. He tried to strip it away like he stripped the flesh from his back.
But he couldn’t.
He’d stick to the resolution he made in the cellar of the Estate. He’d perform any other terrible, depraved command in the name of Asmodeus, but children were off limits, he Vowed. He wrote it down and penned his signature, and knew the power of his pledge. Asmodeus respected power. Conviction would be Sirio’s.
He put on a clean robe. A simpler one he wore as a younger clergyman. Black and red without embroidery or gold threading. No pentacles adorned this robe, but he still wore the silver one around his neck. No armor to pair with it either. He still wore his morningstar and buckler, symbols of his Order.
He’d pay a visit to the Escoros sometime in the next week. The boy Scrent there reminded him of himself. Or at least a version of himself that had never gotten into all of this. He could teach him the right way, and be a mentor to the boy.
__________
Then, Mayor Trinelli asks if she can offer a boon. "As Constantine is the only known living heir to the Sarini Estate, would it be appropriate to offer him the deed and title to the building? Obviously it would need some work, and one would never ask for free labor, but I have some ideas to acquire funding for the Estate's renovation. It might be a way to reclaim it from the shadow which loomed over this town. I am certain we can prove Constantine's legitimacy, even if he should choose to maintain the name 'Fioritura'. I have contacts in Elidir whom I may be able to call on for assistance."
He considered asking for some more formal recognition of Asmodeus (like a shrine), but he thought better of it. He was sure it would lose him the goodwill he'd worked so hard for. And he wasn't wholly sure he wanted it. His faith was still somewhat shaken by the ordeal. But in either case, the Devil was nothing if not patient.
______
"Friends,” Sirio repeats, chortling a bit. ”I suppose that’s appropriate. It’s not as bold as some of our other ideas, but Friends of Saringallow has a nice ring to it. It sounds… kind I think. Aspirational.”
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Roger isn't much of one for forethought. He oft marks an X on the map, and then tries to chart a course as he sails, so to speak. And even in ways of speaking, he often thinks of the next line of his story as the last one passes through his lips.
But even his 'present' focused mind has things to think after such events. First and foremost, which parts of the story are appropriate for the kiddies? Goblin 'kicking' is always on the table. No child in Saringallow doesn't know the right response to sighting a goblin. The goop and Wormgnash and the Sarinis? Darker tales, darker tales indeed.
And what of his fellows? A stout crew they were, and they didn't seem to be of the mind to disband. The taste of adventure had passed their lips, and they were hooked like so many young lads and lasses before, Roger himself was one of them. He wasn't sure if Saringallow had more adventures to give, or if its dark history was finally finished, at least until some new tragedy took place. So did that mean they'd find some place with more troubles? How far abroad would they go?
With these thoughts on his mind, Roger, quite the taleteller himself, left rather more of the story to be told to the others than one might expect.
But he did get more than a few words in on the subject of the old fort full of goblins and the Escoro's farm. Showing goblins what for was always good mindless fun.
--
"Friends of Saringallow?" Roger shakes his head. "Might as well name a ship 'Floaty McWoodthing'. I think it's daft. But if ye'r all set on it, it's not the absolute worst named venture I've ever been apart of."
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"I'm an orphan of the Goblinblood Wars. Sirio and I grew up together, actually. I found out when I was older that my parents had fought in the war and died protecting Isger. I also found out--" one more deep breath, "--that they were Sarinis."
Mayor Sandra Trinelli blinks. And blinks again. "Oh," she says after a moment. "Oh dear."
Hannelia is quick to speak up, and point out all that Constantine has done and proven himself. The mayor listens in silence, staring into her wine glass, her brows lightly knit. When Hannelia finishes her impassioned defense, she looks up to Father Ruvarra, a gaze passing between them that speaks to a long partnership in the civic matters of the town.
"Hrmn. You aren't shocked by this, I see."
The Erastilian spreads his hands with a little shrug, which earns a snort from the mayor. She places both elbows on the table then presses fingertips to her forehead in thought for a few long moments.
When she lifts her head again it's with a set jaw. "Thank you for the confidence. I will admit I wish that this secret was... something else, but not because I mistrust you, Mr. Fioritura, but simply because... it is a complication. This town-- our history-- well. You know. You all know very well. I do not know how people will react to this. I would ask that you not pass this around to the populace tonight, at any rate. Let me do a bit of getting ahead of the storm, as it were."
Sirio seizes the moment to bring up the matter of the property, which earns another brooding silence from the mayor. "That... is an interesting suggestion, Mr. Regilianus. It might help matters. Or it might not. I can add it to the questions to keep me up tonight.
"But regardless, you have all earned your rest and then some. I will see you on the morrow.... 'Friends' of Saringallow.'
****
The next day, at the ceremony to recognize your deeds, the mayor says her bit about a boon-- and the Friends* demur, taking their cue from a tiny headshake no that Trinelli favors you with.
*at least for now
"You will all note these brave souls refuse any further reward, despite their service," Mayor Trinelli says to the gathered crowd. "And yet, I think they are owed more, though they may be too modest to claim it.
"The property of Marcius and Sadira Sarini has stood absent since their execution at the hands of Saringallow's citizens, a hundred years ago. We all know the rumors: dark spirits and cruel murders, unspeakable deeds. Even our own town guard, ready to raise steel against any other sort of invader, have given the manor a wide berth-- and justifiably so.
"That we no longer have to fear what may lurk within an hour's walk of our walls is only part of what our friends have done for us, but to me it speaks with the loudest voice. I propose that the manor and its grounds be bequeathed to our local heroes, as a residence if they so choose, or in whatever manner seems best to them to continue to aid Saringallow."
A wave of murmurs spring up from the crowd, but it doesn't seem displeased or unhappy-- mostly just the noises of merchants and guild leaders considering that renovation of the old manor will no doubt require goods and labor, and, well, you all just were given a good sum of gold by the mayor. Trinelli pauses a moment to allow the crowd to perform this math, then continues in a clear voice that quiets the murmurs.
"Besides-- even if it were not theirs by claim of eradicating its troubles-- our friends have another claim. Mr. Fioritura-- will you stand forward, please?"
Constantine might or might not hesitate, but the mayor doesn't. She says, simply, "This man has a claim by blood to the estate and its grounds."
The hall is silent only a moment before erupting again in noise-- this time less quiet, and certainly less happy. The mayor lets the noise build for only a half a dozen seconds before she lifts her hand and speaks sharply:
"Yes, you do take my meaning. But let us discuss this in an orderly fashion. I would hear from-- Steader Jarn Escoro."
Some of the muttering subsides as heads crane to look for who that might be-- and there is Pa Escoro, standing, clearing his throat, wringing his hat in his hands.
"Er-- good day, goodfolk. I am a simple man. I farm the earth and keep my animals. I don't know much about names and history. What I do know is-- those fellows and lasses on the stage there, they saved us. My farm. My wife. My children, my boy. They bled on the earth I work to keep it safe. They ran forward when goblins would have killed my boy. That is all I need to know."
"Thank you, Steader Escoro. I would hear from the Vazarros."
And Gellion's parents stand, still looking shaken from their experiences but better than you last saw them. "We would surely all be dead now if not for these people," Betrana whispers. "They slew the spiders that poisoned us. They rescued my boy from the... the madness that took him. The ladies there-- they came and cleaned our house, though no coin or reward waited. If those two vouch for him, then you'll hear no question from us."
The mayor gives a brief nod and quickly points to a big young man and a red-headed girl standing at the back of the hall. You realize that this was all at least somewhat planned by her-- the people you have helped are scattered through the crowd just dispersed enough that everywhere she points, one of your staunchest supporters is already there. This time it's Morvinnar and Nolaria.
"I bit off more than I could chew and they saved us. They cut us from terrible cocoons," Nolara announces, Morvinnar nodding earnestly ins support. "We'd be dead if not for them, including Mr. Constantine."
Mayor Trinelli coaxes a few more statements from people, but her ploy seems to be working: the grumbling is quieting down. If there is still resentment for Constantine's identity, then those who hold it are choosing to keep their peace in light of the changing mood in the room.
The mayor nods slowly. She looks around the room steadily, meeting eyes of guild leaders and rich merchants before she continues:
"Saringallow has lived the last century in two shadows, not one. The shadow of the manor has stretched long over our town, yes. But no less dark is the shadow of what our grandparents and great-grandparents did in the heat of revenge. Innocent people died then in the name of mob justice. Evil compounded upon evil.[/b]
"As we throw off the one shadow, let us also be rid of the other. We are known throughout Isger for our high walls, our fair merchants, and that we walk with our heads held high-- subjects, but not serfs, of Elidir. Saringallow is a town for those who would be free, in body and soul.[/b
[b]"So then, let us not be slaves to old fears. Let us extend the fairness of our trade practices to the judging of a man's soul as well, and judge him how each us of would wish to be judged: by our deeds."
There is no applause, but there is slow nodding around the room. Father Ruvarra, silent until now, takes the chance to stand and clasp Constantine's forearm roughly. "Erastil welcomes you to his temple, Constantine-- whatsoever your surname may be."
****
When the crowd disperses, the mayor sits down in a chair with a bit of a whuff, gesturing a servant over for wine.
"A fine speech, Mayor," says the priest.
"Ought to be, I was up half the night writing it. I apologize for putting you on the spot there, Mr. Fioritura-- or Sarini... --but it seemed best to get ahead of the rumors before they could fester. It's hardly true that truth is the best policy in politics-- but lies are dangerous, at any rate. I think that the gamble paid off.
"Don't be surprised if the same people who were just muttering darkly about your Sarini name five minutes ago are some of the first to come to you and offer lumber or manpower. The true faith of Saringallow is a gilt one," she finishes drily.
"I suggest you rest while you can, as well-- after this presentation of you, it won't be long before people up and down the Conerica know that your group may be able to solve their problems. You may soon have much to keep you busy."
****
Majara Pricknettle was one of the assembled crowd, though not called upon to speak by the mayor. Leaving the assembly, she heads home with her head down in deep thought, one hand resting inside a pocket of her clothing, where her restless fingers drum against a recently received missive....
Constantine chuckles lightly at the formal naming. He hadn't intended "Friends of Saringallow" to be their crew name. And yet there it was. He's inclined to agree with Roger that it was a bit--how did he put it?--daft. But while the discussion continued, it would do.
He is also incredibly grateful, both the night before when his companions rise to his verbal defense and the following day when the Mayor has corralled the beneficiaries of their good deeds, for the kind words. It is clear to him that it isn't just Constantine that they are praising and defending. It is the Friends as a whole. Even though his throat tightens with the increased tension, he reminds himself to breathe. (It's surprisingly difficult to remember to breathe, even though it's supposedly a natural, automatic bodily function, when you're afraid that someone might throw a rotten tomato or a rock at your head and run you out of town.)
And at the end of it all, Constantine and the others are bequeathed a house! It's a fixer-upper of the highest order, but it's property. For the longest time, Constantine had carried everything that he owned with him on his back. And now he would have a place to come home to.
"It was indeed a fine speech," Constantine agrees. And it was--a fine series of speeches. They brought to mind the old maxim that the pen was mightier than the sword. The Mayor had a deft hand. Whenever the next election was, he'd vote for her. "Thank you for your efforts."
"No one's born bad, at least not beyond saving. It's what you do: that's what matters."
Constantine wouldn't rest on the reputation of the name that chose him, nor the name that he chose, nor what he had done so far to prove himself. If he was to be a citizen of this town--and a friend--he would choose each day to show himself a man worthy of both titles.
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The days immediately following your recognition in the town hall are busy ones. There's a property to have assessed-- and bolder gawkers to dissuade, as more than a few souls from Saringallow are eager to traipse up the hill and see the old estate now that it's generally considered safe... or at least safer. Conscious of the broken glass, the poison garden, and other possible dangers, you have your hands full keeping them out.
There are surveyors you do allow in-- to provide you with quotes for a proper cleaning, replacement of the windows, and so forth. Several companies offer you an assessment free of charge, at any rate.
The gleaming, glorious bathtub fared through the explosion surprisingly well. A dwarven tradeswoman strokes her braids as she looks over the object and nods-- aye, her crew can get it out, intact, and will pay you a decent sum for it-- minus the cost of their removal fee, of course.... Gold coins change hands, and the ungainly majesty of the tub is wheeled off down the hill, to be loaded onto a barge bound for some larger city, no doubt.
Bravoni's warehouse and business affairs prove more lucrative. Almost a week after the town hall, the mayor and a smiling, somewhat weasel-featured man from the merchant's consortium offer over a writ to be drawn at the local Abadarian changehouse to the tune of fifteen-hundred gold-- a tidy profit indeed!
Majara Pricknettle takes a number of potions and other objects off your hands, paying you more than you expected from them. The reason becomes more obvious when she clears her throat and asks if it's true there was an alchemy lab found upstairs...? Might she look at it.......?
Surprisingly, the bottles and beakers survived the explosion-- though Pricknettle nods sagely. "Good, he tempered them for heat and pressure changes! I'll buy the lot it from you if you're willing, hard to get glass like that these days from anyone save the dwarves..." More coins are passed into your hands.
Promised herbs are delivered to Quill, who pays well for them. Gear that you no longer need is traded in for coin, at the Sundries, and new gear is in turn purchased, at least by some of you.
The eternal question of a curative wand is once again posed to Father Ruvarra as well as the Sundries merchants....
...and this time, the merchants have something for you! A carved stick, simple enough in appearance, but it truly can save a life.
****
Not all your time is spent at the old manor, of course. In town you have your share of eyes on you, as well as those who don't stop at eyes and come up to greet you, shake your hands, ask endless questions about the goblins, the manor, ghosts, so forth and so forth. People hesitate only briefly before greeting Constantine-- either the mayor's words did their work, or those who have less favorable views are simply choosing not to approach him at this point.
If anything, Constantine gets less slight hesitation than Sirio. He has hardly kept his faith a secret, though he has had the sense to be discreet about it; but there are still eyes that regard him with wariness. No-one is anyone but polite to his face, but behind backs there are still uncertain mutters about devil worshipper and Chelish provacateur...
Sirio sees Scrent only once during the week that follows-- the day of the meeting itself, before the Escoros return to their farm. The gangly youth gives him a measured nod, a mixture of admiration and wariness, and comes over to mumble that his family is curing some prize mutton just now that they will send along as a gratitude and housewarming gift to the manor when it's ready.
Hannelia finds that more people knew her name than she ever guessed-- or at least they claim to, now. One of the neighbors on her father's street gushes about how they always knew she was destined for great things, even from a little girl.... Whether this is truth is, perhaps, a question for the philosophers. But her father is proud of her, and Zuke gives her a wink and a grin and asks that shouldn't he have a mentorship cut of your treasure, then...?
Roger enjoys a singular benefit... his tab at Witch's End completely paid off by the number of townsfolk suddenly willing and eager to buy him a drink! After years of being something of a sea-salt-encrusted punchline at Alcide's tavern, he abruptly has become something like a guest of honor. Alcide looks somewhat resigned to it all, but does not turn away the coin of those who come to ask the old salt for a tale of either his pirating days or more recent adventures. His cup is never left empty and he has a comfortable seat by the roaring fireplace.
And Emma Blackford...? The townsfolk greet her with no hesitation at all, the symbol of Iomedae hung around her neck the only token most need of her goodwill. The guards at the bunk house are getting to know her well, and perhaps there, in the ordered lifestyle of drill and practice, weapons maintenance and rising before the sun does, Emma feels something of the home she's left. The temple of Erastil welcomes her with goodwill anytime she chooses to go there, and Nolaria asks shy questions about the goddess of honor.
What can be tidied of the manor by your backs and hands alone, you do; though full repairs will require skilled laborers. But the glass can be swept up, the stains scrubbed. Life goes on, busy with cleaning, with gossip, with haggling, with practice and training to keep your skills sharp...
******
Sirio
Nighttime, midnight, the darkest hour. A small banked fire in his room at the Witch's End to keep off the chill of the night. It flares to reddish light.
Now. A seed planted is given time to grow. Return to your superiors; they have other, immediate tasks for you. You will return to this town and these companions when the hour is right.
Take your reward for your service, my warrior: skill and power alike.
***
Emma
The sword, the sword, it always comes back to the sword. Muscles aching and there is the sword to be polished, the scabbard's straps to be checked that they need no oiling, the armor to be looked over, the blade to be sharpened....... there is always something to do, for a champion of Iomedae, even when evil is not at immediate hand.
The whetstone glides down the blade over and over under Emma's callused hands and she finds herself sliding into almost a meditative trance, seeing shapes and images reflected in the sword's gleaming metal. Fire. Battles. Past, present, or future? Hard to say. Iomedae's pennant flying ragged and singed, but triumphant... and her mother's face, eyes, smile.
You're doing so well. You're being tempered for all the battles yet to come. Emma: I am proud of you. Walk tall. Find your place here. My gifts travel with you.
***
Roger
It's strange, how much younger you feel today than you did, say, a month ago. It's good to get the open air in your face, and good to see coin, win it fair and square (or maybe not so fair), and be able to get your hands on it, have a clinking purse for a few days' time, and good to be able to spend it too-- to freely toss a coin to children on the street, to order what drink and meat you like, without fear that it'll run low. Work hard and play hard-- maybe someday, get that little boat you've dreamt about, sail down the Conerica and all the way back to the great blue Sea.... but little voyages first, aye?
But more and more comes back to you. You remember old maneuvers and twists of a boarding pike, and you think of how you might be able to use them now...
***
Constantine
The manor is... quieter than you expected. Oh, there are spirits, to be sure, but after the priest conducts a ceremony to put their remains at rest, nearly all of them fade to nothing. To true and peaceful rest. Almost to be envied, perhaps.
But the past never entirely stops whispering to you. Secrets, magic, war and more. Yet on the subject of your parents.... they still tell you maddeningly little.
***
Hannelia
One night, you are roused by the flick of pebbles against the small window of your upstairs loft bedroom. Groggy, you crack it open to see Zuke grinning up at you.
"Come on then, Hanny-- what are you doing in bed at this hour! It's barely two in the morning. Slither out down here with your kit-- I don't have that many more tricks left to teach you, soon you'll be passing me up, but until then you're wasting a perfectly good night of sneaking around and seeing what locks we can crack! So let's get at it!"
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Emma doesn't even try to hide her smile when Roger makes his comment about the name "Friends of Saringallow" - and while Emma can admit that it's a perhaps a bit too on the nose for her tastes, it nevertheless gets the point across. At least for now, it's what they'll likely be known for.
There is the promise of potential adventures yet ahead of them; there hasn't been any official discussion about it yet, but Emma feels as though they've got a good thing going here so far. They've proven they can work well together, despite her initial misgivings at working with an agent of Asmodeus.
Half their party sounds like the set up for a bad joke - a pirate, a cleric of hell, and an Iomedean paladin walk into a bar...
Roger probably has a joke along those lines already. She'll have to ask him when she gets the chance.
---------
The following day, when the Mayor makes her announcement regarding Constantine's heritage, Emma remains close by in a silent offering of support.
At first, she's worried that old prejudices might cause the crowd to turn against them; but in the end, it proves to be a baseless one.
Her heart swells with pride as the various people they've helped step forward to offer their testimonials. Hopefully it will help Constantine come to terms with who he is - that he doesn't have to be defined by a family name. That he can take that which is his by right and redeem it through his actions and purpose.
Later that night, at the inn, Emma nudges Constantine at the table and raises her mug.
"I think that went well today, my friend. Congratulations on what promises to be a new beginning. Here's to stepping out from the shadows of the past and forging ahead into the future."
---------
The next couple days are surprisingly peaceful.
After the hectic events leading up to them, it feels odd to wake up and not begin preparing to charge headfirst into a dangerous scenario.
Not that she doesn't keep up her training, of course. She still maintains her weapons and armor, still goes for a run, still practices her swordplay. She enjoys drilling with the guards; she'd already enjoyed a sort of silent respect with them before, but there's something new there now.
People nod and recognize her when she's out and about in the town. People she's never met before will smile and nod at her. Nolaria asks shy questions about Iomedae, which Emma is always happy to answer.
Every day, she stops in for a bit of fresh bread from the bakery - though the gruff baker always insists it's free, she always insists on leaving a tip just the same.
It's....nice.
It wasn't ever something she sought out or even considered to be a possibility. Seeking out fame had never been her intention. But it's still nice - to see that people are happy to see her. She'd seen knights and paladins get similar treatment back home at Piren's Bluff, including her mother.
Even so, she does her best not to take advantage of it. Some nights, she still spends in the guard barracks. Despite everything, the simple surroundings still suit her.
-------------
The day is young when Emma sets out from the town. A few of the guards give polite greetings to her as she sets out. It's not unusual for her to leave for an early run around the town.
Today, though, she has something else in mind. She hasn't spoken of this to the others. It seems unlikely, though it's possible one of them might get curious if they see her and follow - not that it would be an issue. Still, this was something she had to do for herself.
When she had set out from Piren's Bluff, it had been...a test of sorts. The death of her mother had hit her hard, and she hadn't been sure of what to do. So much of her life had revolved around her mom - trying to live up to the examples she'd set and the ideals she'd expected.
It hadn't always been an easy life, nor a rewarding one. And in the wake of that loss, she'd found herself wondering - who was Emma Blackford?
There was so much to life she hadn't been able to get a chance to experience. So much of the world she hadn't seen. Her first stumbling attempts at romance had been horribly awkward. Despite her appreciation of her mother and her lessons, there were many times when Emma had felt stifled - even trapped.
The obvious choice to prove herself was to set out into the world and see if she could make it on her own. A chance to see if all the years of training and study had paid off. And a chance to see if it was even the right choice for her.
She walks through the woods for a time, taking in the sights, enjoying the quiet stillness of the morning. No demonbile infested bugs leap out at her today. Just a few woodland creatures who keep their distance at the noise her armor makes as she winds through the forest.
Finally, she reaches a clearing - it seems suitable for her needs. She sets down her pack and withdraws a small locket. It had belonged to her mom - it had been with her ever since she'd left Piren's Bluff. A piece of the past to hold on to.
Compared to Constantine and Sirio's past, hers seemed ridiculously pampered. And yet, after all they'd gone through and the recent revelations, something had finally clicked for Emma.
For a moment, she stands still, holding the locket to her chest. She offers a quick prayer to Iomedae, then sets the locket down at the base of a nearby tree.
She withdraws her sword and begins to move, executing a few of the basic maneuvers. As she moves, the old words spring up. This is something she hasn't done since her mother was still alive.
"Life before death," she murmurs, grip firm on the sword as she whirls it gracefully through the air. "Strength before weakness." The branches crack beneath her as she continues her steps. "Journey before destination!"
For a while, she falls silent, save for the swinging of her sword. Even with the cool breeze of the morning, it's not long before she's worked up a bit of a sweat.
It feels good. It makes her feel alive.
"I will protect those who cannot protect themselves," Emma continues. "I will honor those who have come before me. I will seek freedom for those who are in bondage. I will unite instead of divide."
The old words flow faster now. Her mother had taught them to her in her childhood. It had become something of a ritual. Later, during her studies, Emma had been somewhat confused - they weren't necessarily teachings of Iomedae. And yet, her mother had held these words, these sayings, in high regard. She'd spent years drilling them into Emma. She'd claimed someone she held in high regard had taught her those lessons when she was young - though she never spoke of who it had been or why they had taught them to her.
"I will protect even those who I oppose, so long as it is right. I will listen to those who have been ignored. I will take responsibility for what I have done. If I must fall, if I must fail..." Her voice trails off for a moment, and her hand drifts up to her chest, tracing the spot where Talon's arrow had pierced her. Even after the healing, there's still a scar that will always serve as a grim reminder. "If I must fail, I will rise each time, better than I was before."
There are tears now, silently rolling down Emma's face. She doesn't swipe them away; instead, she gently puts away her sword and walks back to the tree, where the locket still lays. She takes out a small hand trowel and begins to dig away at the dirt.
When enough has been cleared away, she takes the locket and puts it into the ground. Gently, she swipes the dirt over the freshly dug hole, until the locket is no longer visible. She plants a small symbol of Iomedae at the spot, and places a hand atop it.
"I accept....I accept there will be those I cannot protect," she finally says in a shaky voice. "I don't know if what I saw when I was in the twilight between life and death was real...but...I choose to believe it was. I miss you. Despite all the rules and expectations....I miss you. But I think I'm finally ready to move on, and become my own woman. I think you would be proud of that. I like to think so anyway." Emma smiles slightly, still crying softly. "So much of my life was spent trying to live up to your example. I don't think I ever would be able to do, to be honest. I still doubt myself. I've made these friends...they're a good bunch. I think they believe in me, even if I don't always believe in myself. I feel as though I've let them down more often than not when it comes to combat, but...we've got something going here. Something promising. And I want to see it through." She lets out a sigh. "I miss you, but throughout this whole business with Constantine...moving beyond the shadow of his family and working on establishing his own legacy seems to be the best path forward for him. And, I think perhaps the same is true for me." She stands up. "I'll always love you mom."
With another prayer to Iomedae - perhaps a selfish one, to keep this small area protected from storms and wildlife and whatever else may happen by - she gathers up her gear and begins the trek back towards...home? Is that what Saringallow is to her now? It's hard to say. It certainly feels like a home, even if it may not end up becoming her long term one. Regardless, it's where her friends are.
And though a few tears still fall, Emma feels lighter than she has in months. She holds her head up high and smiles at the prospect of whatever the future may bring.
Though he is still in the care of the priests for the day of the town meeting, about three days later you see Nolaria helping a limping figure slowly, slowly, up the hill. It takes some time before they are close enough for you to recognize the lanky form of Talon.
He offers a wan smile on sight of you, sweat beaded on his pallored face.
Nolaria says hurriedly, "He insisted-- we told him he was still ill, but--"
"But I wanted to come," Talon finishes, his voice a hoarse rasp. "Don't worry. Stupid bravery has limits. I'll take a... I dunno... donkey back down or something.....
Nolaria is mostly supporting the half-elf, having rebounded much quicker from her encounter with demonsbile, it seems. Ah to be young. Talon catches his breath before continuing.
"I had to thank you. All of you. You saved me. Not just my life, though I'm grateful for that... but, I think, my very soul. I think... I think I wouldn't have gone somewhere good.... if I'd died under the... the... influence of that ... the foul...."
Talon trails off, his attempted smile fading into a haggard look as he deals with the recollections. "Emma. I'm-- beyond sorry. I... I'm glad you live. How inadequate words are, no?"
Talon takes a deep breath and tilts his face back to absorb the spring sunshine, the cleansing light. His eyes are closed for a long moment, then they open to regard the manor, and he finds a crooked smile again.
"So why don't you give me a... a tour of the place? Since I missed the first exploration. Who knows-- perhaps I can house-sit for you if you're needed elsewhere. I think... it'll be a while til I'm up to making the journey back out to my cabin again."
Healing proceeds..... in different ways for everyone, at different paces.
***
In Majara Pricknettle's apothecary, the gnome rereads a parchment missive several times, then heaves a deep breath. The letter is rolled up tightly for the umpteenth time, tied with a bit of cord, and Majara pads into the tiny room-- originally a closet for the original human-sized building owners-- that serves her as a sleeping chamber, the only part of the building not devoted to her craft. Shoving a pile of blankets to one side, she opens the hinged shelf beneath and squints down at links of chain armor.
"You'll need oiling, I suppose. This is very inconvenient. I'll have to leave Gellion in charge of the shop," Majara says with a scowl seen by nobody else.
"Hrmn, then again, it might do him good. Something to focus on. Take his mind off the nonsense. I'll need to put the books in order first. ...But for now, oil."
The next few days are busy. Different to the previous few in that Hannelia is not putting her life on the line, but she has a number of things she wants to accomplish, including visiting a number of different people, spending some time in the town archives and writing up an account of their recent deeds for the mayor so that it too may be carefully stored and referred to as the passage of time wears away at individual and collective memory. Not to mention anything she may wish to do with her new companions, such as work out what they should do with their new property. Yes, she thinks, life doesn't feel like it's immediately going to get any quieter.
Rising early on the first day she decides to begin the morning with social -and business - calls. She stops in at a few places - the Vazarro family's house, the temple of Erastil - to see how the various victims of the demonsbile are faring, bringing offerings of food and help in case any is needed.
She also stops in at Majara Pricknettles's shop. Entering, she is content to waits to attract the blue-haired gnome's attention while she seems engrossed with making some kind of concoction. Hannelia observes her work, admiring the care and attention to detail that must go into such delicate work. When the gnome appears to have finished, she cough politely and Majara seems genuinely surprised to see her there. "I beg your pardon, Ms Pricknettle," she says. "With all of the business around town this past week now complete, I wonder if I could beg a favour? I'm writing up a report of what happened and I wanted to include some information about the demonsbile, the substance at the heart of so much. Unfortunately it's not my area of expertise, whereas I'm sure an analysis of it would very much be in your wheelhouse." She dips into a pocket and carefully removes a package, unwrapping it to reveal vial filled with the purple ooze. "If you'd be willing to look at it and let me know any details I'd be much obliged. I'm happy to pay for your time. If I never see any of this again it'll be too soon," she says honestly, "but I think it's important to have a record of what it is, its properties, how to destroy it, that sort of thing. It should serve as a warning in case any more surfaces in the future."
Having lunched with Father Ruvarra and the apprentices at the temple, her initial errands are complete and Hannelia turns her mind to shopping. She wants to ensure her supplies are replenished, sharpen her tools and restock her quiver. She also plans on combing through a number of stores looking for magical gear, both practical items and curiosities. If she can find one, she likes the idea of a protective cloak like the one Emma has. She's also read about some enchanted clothing that allows the wearer to change their garments at will, which would make her wardrobe choices easier and allow her to adapt to any situation. She also eyes the set of studded leather armour with its magical protection again, thinking that it would be a definite upgrade on her existing set if she can't find anything else.
She combs through a number of different stores, generously welcomed by most of the shopkeepers and thanked for what she has done. News travels fast, she thinks, especially concerning individuals believed to be in possession of newfound coin.
Unfortunately her search for the items she was hoping to find proves fruitless but just as she's on the verge of giving up for the day and heading home for supper, a young dwarven girl with twin braids dashes out from an armourer's shop.
"'Scuse me miss," she says, attracting Hannelia's attention, "but me da was wonderin' if ye had a minute. There's something 'e wanted to show you." Somewhat surprised she agrees and enters the shop. There's a smell of fire and the clang of hammer on metal from the forge out the back and the girl runs out there. Hannelia look around to see the walls are lined with various helmets, greaves, gauntlets and so on. Two full sets of armour - one heavy plate, the other of a style similar to Emma's - are displayed on wooden dummies. The girl returns with a heavily muscled dwarf with hair and beard the same shade of flaming red. He wears an apron and a pair of goggles are pulled up on his forehead.
"Gordrek Heavystone," he introduces himself, proferring a heavily calloused hand for Hannelia to shake. "An' you're Hannelia Venator, unless I'm much mistaken. Ye've been doin' some darn good work by all accounts. Was hopin' ye'd come by - got somethin' that might interest ye." Hannelia glances again at the heavy metal armour. I'm not sure I could even move wearing those. Perhaps he's going to ask me to invite the others along to view his wares. I'm no expert but the craftmanship looks respectable enough to me. Gordrek sees the slightly dubious look on her face. "Not these, lass. Ye'd need a bigger beard to wear that. Got something special that might work better for your skinny frame."
He strides off, expecting her to follow and heads to a store room with three almost comically large locks attached. "Wait here," he instructs her, giving Hannelia a partial view through the door of of various smithing supplies and precious goods. After a minute the dwarf returns carrying a shirt made of thousands of tiny interlinking chains. It shimmers silver and Hannelia can immediately tell that it's of superior quality. "Mithral," he says, handing it to her and she's amazed at the lightness of the shirt, she had been bracing, expecting it to weigh far more. Close inspection only seems to enhance the armour's attraction, truly it is a fine piece of work.
Gordrek silently watches Hannelia appraise it, before being unable to stop himself saying "Good, innit? Not mine," he adds, wanting to give the correct credit, "but crafted by me clan." This must be worth a fortune, thinks Hannelia, though I suppose I have come into one recently. "It's beautiful," she says, stating the obvious fact. The dwarf nods, knowing that he's made a sale and that all that remains is to agree on the price.
A short while later Hannelia departs, arrangements made for the gold to be delivered the following morning and for her to pick up the armour later that day. Satisfied with a good day's work, she heads home. After dinner with her father, she starts pulling her notes together, plotting out how to tie the narrative together and provide an accurate account of recent events. After a couple of hours she decides on an early night, something she is relived about when she is awakened by the sound of pebbles bouncing off her bedroom window.
She also stops in at Majara Pricknettles's shop. [...] "I beg your pardon, Ms Pricknettle," she says. "With all of the business around town this past week now complete, I wonder if I could beg a favour? I'm writing up a report of what happened and I wanted to include some information about the demonsbile, the substance at the heart of so much. Unfortunately it's not my area of expertise, whereas I'm sure an analysis of it would very much be in your wheelhouse." She dips into a pocket and carefully removes a package, unwrapping it to reveal vial filled with the purple ooze. "If you'd be willing to look at it and let me know any details I'd be much obliged. I'm happy to pay for your time. If I never see any of this again it'll be too soon," she says honestly, "but I think it's important to have a record of what it is, its properties, how to destroy it, that sort of thing. It should serve as a warning in case any more surfaces in the future."...
The gnome gazes fixedly at Hannelia for a moment, then down at the proffered vial and sucks her teeth a moment. She dons a pair of leather workgloves before taking it.
"Hmnn. Yes. Obviously recent events have shown that more warnings ought to be attached to the literature on the subject. Valuable opportunity to expand the awareness of practical dangers. Perhaps in the future a curious apprentice won't taste-test it. Tch. I'll provide analysis as per Leugistios's standard substance and reagent indexing protocols and provide you with a copy. City clerks as well. Then I'll destroy this. It multiplies. Indefinite storage not a solution against happenstance, chance, or circumstance."
Majara taps the vial against her palm a few times, holds it up to the light with a tiny grimace, then glances back to Hannelia. "No charge. Public good, community best interests, slightly reduced odds of someone someday deciding to lynch my apprentice. Solid investment. Zukaloom Fingletucket says you're bright."
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The gnome gazes fixedly at Hannelia for a moment, then down at the proffered vial and sucks her teeth a moment. She dons a pair of leather workgloves before taking it.
"Hmnn. Yes. Obviously recent events have shown that more warnings ought to be attached to the literature on the subject. Valuable opportunity to expand the awareness of practical dangers. Perhaps in the future a curious apprentice won't taste-test it. Tch. I'll provide analysis as per Leugistios's standard substance and reagent indexing protocols and provide you with a copy. City clerks as well. Then I'll destroy this. It multiplies. Indefinite storage not a solution against happenstance, chance, or circumstance."
Majara taps the vial against her palm a few times, holds it up to the light with a tiny grimace, then glances back to Hannelia. "No charge. Public good, community best interests, slightly reduced odds of someone someday deciding to lynch my apprentice. Solid investment. Zukaloom Fingletucket says you're bright."
Hannelia watches the gnome gaze at the vial, taking a second to attune herself to Majara's staccato speech pattern. She nods in agreement at the response. "Sensible precautions, we're both well aware of the danger it can pose in the wrong hands. And thank you, I appreciate it and I'm sure our fellow citizens do too. I'll ensure you're properly credited." Hannelia appreciates someone taking time and care over their craft and she approves of the other woman taking her work seriously.
She blinks at the gnome's final comment. While Hannelia knows Zuke and Majara knew each other - probably unsurprising given Saringallow's gnome community is not large - she wasn't expecting her sometime mentor to have spoken of her. "Thank you," she says cautiously, "that's kind of you to say. I don't suppose you've seen him lately? Or today, anyway. Catching up with him is on my to-do list, should he ever sit still for more than five minutes."
* * * * *
Rising from her slumber, Hannelia throws on a robe and cautiously moves to the window, unsure who or what to expect. She sees Zuke smiling upwards, encouraging her to come out. Sighing to herself that he couldn't have done this at a saner hour, but also glad that her friend has come to visit, she tells him to hold for five minutes and that she'll be right with him. Quickly gathering up the things she thinks she might need, grateful that as always she has left everything in its right place, she moves as quietly as she can - listening for the regular snore of her father's breathing - and slowly pushes the front door closed.
"Pff," is the gnome's reaction. "You trying to wake the neighbourhood? You big folk don't half make a lot of racket even when you think you're being quiet." Hannelia shoots him a look. "Seriously, " he says. "I wasn't going to do a lesson tonight but after that display - about as subtle as an ogre's marital spat - looks like I'm going to have to. How to move yourself so as to avoid making noise and to get yourself out of scrapes." His tone is light, though he adds more gently, "You're usually more graceful than that and you're light enough on your feet, clearly nobody's ever taught you how to do it. Good job you've got yourself a good teacher." Hannelia rolls her eyes but smiles, knowing that Zuke will indeed put her through her paces but that she'll be the better for it. "Go on then, good gnome - lead on." She dips into a mock bow and falls into step behind him.
Over the next couple of hours, Zuke does indeed show her how to compose herself and pad around like a cat. In return, she gives him the full version of the last week. "You've done good," he acknowledges. "I can only run night patrol round town so much of the time, it's nice to have someone else pick up the slack."
When Hannelia mentions the encounter with Majara, she says, "I didn't realise you knew her so well. I knew that you knew her, not that you were quite so friendly." Zuke nods, "Lots you don't know, Hanny." Can't argue with that, she thinks, her friend can be pretty close-lipped about his past. "So you know how back in the day - twenty-some years, when you'd have been smaller than me - I used to run around with a group? Bit like you and your new friends, in fact." She nods - this was indeed something she did know. "Well Majara was one of the group. We didn't always see eye to eye and ended up having a bit of a falling out between us, me and Majara on one side and the other two on the other. That's what actually brought the two of us to Saringallow after we fell out. She doesn't talk about those days much, though if you ask me she should be proud of herself - she's a smart cookie and I'd always be glad to know she'd got my back. Anyway, it's up to her so I respect that. Besides," he adds with a grin, "all the more glory for the rest of us - that's me and now you and your lot - as town defenders. Also, you're not really calling yourselves 'Friends of Saringallow'? You can do better than that."
Hannelia also tells him about her start writing the events up, somewhat cautiously as she is keen for his approval. "Great idea," he says enthusiastically. "Put it in the archives that you spend so much time in. Embellish it a bit, add in some more derring-do here and a dash more romance there and we'll make a Pathfinder of you yet. It'll be like all the stories that you love so much." On the surface it may have seemed like a passing comment but the gnome knew what he was doing - looking at the pensive expression on her face he could see that he'd lit a fire under Hannelia, as he knew he would.
* * * * *
The next day Hannelia sleeps later, her night time adventure having taken its toll. She heads to the archives, keen to revisit the Sarini papers and see how everything fits together with what they now know. In the manuscript touching on the building supplies she finds a reference she had previously missed to another tome, the context suggesting it might have some information on construction and traps. She is pleasantly surprised to find a copy within the archives and equally surprised, not to mention stumped, when she discovers that it's a dwarven work. She leaves it as a dead end and continues her work from a different angle - as ever she can go down rabbit holes following where leads may take her, but her meticulous note-taking and referencing means she can always retrace her steps.
She had temporarily forgotten it after having left the archives for lunch, then going on to collect her new armour. As Gordrek greets her, an idea suddenly strikes her. Once she has the package safely stowed and wrapped, she enquires, "I don't suppose you could spare your daughter for the afternoon? How would she feel about a little translation work...?" As it turns out, Fellis Heavystone is more than happy to accompany Hannelia. The adolescent dwarf has a curious mind and an aptitude for learning and Hannelia enjoys explaining things in return for the dwarf's translation work. The two agree that it was mutually beneficial and Hannelia is happy to teach her some more in return for continued language lessons.
* * * * *
The next few days are spent cross-checking things, writing up her notes into a coherent narrative - with appropriate sidebar for the properties of demonsbile courtesy of Majara Pricknettle - until finally she has something she is pleased with. As she puts down her pen, she feels an immediate sensation of relief and pride, mixed with the fear of having someone read it. Well, best get it over with - it's the toughest crowd tonight so may as well take it along. If the others are happy with it then that's good enough for me. The adventurers have all been doing their own thing, seeing each other at times but keeping themselves occupied with their own projects. Tonight, however, they're all meeting for dinner at the Witch's End. It's good to see everyone together again and they seem to be enjoying each other's company. Not necessarily wanting to spoil the mood but wanting to get it over and done with, Hannelia decides to get over her nerves. "So, you know how I've been taking all these notes and writing up an account of what happened. For the town archives, so people don't forget. Um, well, I'd be really grateful if you could take a look and make sure you're happy with it." So saying, she places a neatly bound bundle of papers on the table entitled 'The Demonsbile Affair'.
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Friends of Saringallow. It is what you're called now. The Friends who weren't already settled into town, find their own routines and habits. Projects to work on at the Estate or in assisting others as hired hands.
Sirio, for his part, sets off to Elidir to register Constantine's claim to the estate and request funds to renovate it. The genealogical records and the orphanage's adoption records should be enough to prove kinship. And the Mayor's boon should provide a bolstering of the claim. And the funds will come from the expectation of preservation of a historical site, improved taxation, and higher security on the Conerica River trade route. The open secret that Elidir and its steward obeys Cheliax and the Church of Asmodeus doesn't hurt Sirio's cause either.
Talon insists on assisting with the management and repairs of the house, as well as anything else he can do to assuage his guilt.
Hannelia continues her training with Zuke, and outfits herself for future adventures. She spends her time, as one could be sure of all the Friends, working with and supporting the locals. In Hannelia's particular case, bolstering the town's archives by chronicling the accounts of what happened during the Demonsbile Affair.
Emma trains with the guards, and likely sees Roger in some similar capacity. Perhaps they train together and share drinks at the Witch's End after days of exhaustion and bruises. One could be sure that the guards are only too happy to entertain their celebrities, new and old.
Constantine seeks understanding in the halls of his estranged forefathers. Nothing substantial reveals itself, and indeed the ghosts are either gone or have some form of contentment now that the dark has been scoured away in flame. A curious builder (by the name of Roburtius Rufinus, "everybody calls me 'Bob'" he insists) strikes up a conversation at the Witch's End with Constantine with regards to the renovations. Something Constantine may or may not be ready for.
The town's festivities die down after several days of rejoicing in their new Heroes.
A message comes from a nondescript traveler, some spice trader, bringing news from Elidir. A private letter to Majara Pricklenettle. While there is some nosy prying into the news of the day, it's quickly forgotten in the joyous festivities of the week.
Majara unfurls and rerolls the page several times and anxiously mulls over her response.
The Letter Reads:
Dear Ms. Majara Pricklenettle,
It has been a long time. For us at least; I know for you gnomes it may have felt just like yesterday. You know I wouldn’t be turning to you for help if I hadn’t exhausted every other avenue first.
Elias is missing. I’m nearly certain. It’s been over a month since he’s gone and he should have returned by now. Let me elaborate:
After we parted ways… we both settled into Elidir, using our rewards to purchase homes for ourselves. We’ve always stayed nearby. Elias met someone else and married her, but she passed away last year and he hasn’t been the same since. He’d fallen back to his old habits, and he’d lost his employment.
I recently found a discrepancy in the taxes of a forgotten little hamlet called Ravenmoor and asked Elias to investigate it. Likely a mistake on our end, it seemed as though they hadn’t paid taxes in 22 years. I think they hadn’t had a tax collector sent to them during or after the war. Elias was supposed to collect the taxes, a small amount, five hundred gold pieces and change, or to pursue a plan for repayment. I wanted to secure this information before bringing it to my superiors in Elidir. They have been looking for an excuse to replace me with a stooge for some time, so I wanted to get this done quietly.
In any case, I asked Elias to do this for me. He needed the work, and I hated seeing him so aimless and despondent. I wanted to give him purpose again. Thinking back… I think everyone saw it, but you know I’d do anything for him. I didn’t want him to think I was giving him charity, his pride wouldn’t take it. I’m beside myself Majara. He could be dead lying in a ditch and for what? A city desk job? Politics? He has his old sword, but he's older too.
I’ve heard rumblings of a bit of heroics going on in your neck of the woods. Your band is not so well known so as to attract the attention of courtesans here. I know what I said when we last parted ways, but… I have few others I can turn to.
The gold or some form of payment agreement is secondary but not unwelcome. But if I can stress this to any degree without looking foolishly desperate, please bring him home.
Thank you for your consideration and I await your response,
Jeminda Anikee, Office of the Exchequer
The evening is at large and everyone is in high spirits. The rain outside makes inside all the more cozy. Drink is flowing, Alcie is almost not scowling, and Gellion is singing atop a table, dragging his more introverted friends upstage to join him. Morvinaar pleads with him, insisting he has to get back to work.
Sirio has already gone to Elidir, but the rest of the Friends are eating at the Witch’s End this evening.
Talon carries two armfuls of alesteins, weaving around celebrating patrons. He leans over the table to set them down, then plops into a seat next to the others.
”So what’s everybody been up to? Hey Constantine, I’ve been thinking -and anyone else can chime in too- but what do you think about a bed and breakfast up on the old Estate? I’d be happy to run it for you, it's been something of a dream of mine. Maybe a hunting lodge, so as not to step on any toes around here. This town is about to get back on the map, and it could be a good service to provide new visitors.” He puts his hands up, ”I don’t mean to get ahead of myself or impose or whatever. Just putting it out there.”
As he speaks, the door swings open, allowing the sight of the dark rain through the portal. As well as a small figure. The apothecary.
Gellion’s smile falters, and everything quiets a moment as Majara makes her way inside. Nobody stops her, but even after conversation resumes, the crowd seems to be keeping an eye on her.
However quickly and in whatever manner she does, Majara reintroduces herself to the Friends and has something to request of them…
"No it isn't. I said he said you were bright. Objective relaying of statement by third party. No kindness on my part required," Majara rattles off, though there's the faintest twitch of her lip that suggests she might be slightly, slightly joking. "But it is good to document discoveries. Vital in my work. Important in yours. I approve of the impulse."
The question of Zuke makes her pause momentarily, then shrug. "I've been busy," she says laconically, with a flick of her fingers at the vial of bile and then around at her shop, as if to indicate all of the recent ... everything and the way it has impacted her profession.
"Good day to you, Miss Venator. I'll have the write-up to you shortly."
"Zuke? Open up."
"Who is it?"
"Who do you think, you butterfingered bliffpuffen?"
"Oh, well, you should have said it was you, you shrillvoiced coinminded booksnorter. Come in, come in..."
Pleasantries exchanged, Majara Pricknettle entered the other gnome's residence with her hood raised against a late spring rain. She moved to stand near the fire for its warmth, wordlessly retrieving the many-folded missive and passing it over to Zuke to read, who took it with arched brows. Minutes of silence passed in the cozy residence broken only by the patter of the rain and the crackle of the fire.
Finally Zuke cleared his throat, shooting a glance up at the still-hooded figure standing motionless before his fireplace. "Maj-pie, you know you don't owe him a blessed thing, yes? No matter how things went there, or what you'd have done differently-- he went and made his own choices as well, you're not obligated in any way. And that goes for Jeminda as well."
Pricknettle's voice was dry. "I'm not obligated to her, or she's not obligated to him?"
"Either. Both!"
"Well, that is an area where you and I have never seen eye to eye, isn't it... obligations. I'm not here for your advice, Zuke. I'm here to see if you're going to come along."
The silence stretched again. Zuke folded the letter. "I'm busy here, Maj."
"Yes, I thought as much. There's coin in it, you know."
"Hrmn, yes, six hundred for me, six hundred for you split halvesies-- a tidy amount, can't say it's not. But I'm comfortable, these days. And I'm not off to risk my neck for Elias's."
"Very well," Majara said simply, and turned for the door. Zuke scowled.
"--well you could at least try to argue me a bit harder, you know!"
"Oh? Would it make any which-wise way of difference?"
"Not a cat's hair of it! But still. You shouldn't go alone. --you know what? Hannelia. Her and her friends. See if they'll go haring off after a wayward fool. Course, you lose out on a fair bit of the profit."
"Mmm. True enough. Risk, reward, ratio. Reckon it. Hope one's judgment has improved. I sense a theme. Stay dry, Zuke. Stay comfortable."
The gnome stands still a moment even after the overt staring has stopped, pulling back the hood of a heavy-duty raincloak in order to gaze around the room. Majara notices Gellion, who offers her an uncertain 'hi, boss?' smile, but turns for the table where the freshly minted local heroes are enjoying the largesse of their efforts.
"Hello," Majara says after stopping at the table's edge, gazing up a bit at the seated humans and one half-elf. "Hmn. Missing your priest. Town gossip says he left by the northgate. Inconclusive as to whether devils followed hot on his heels. I'm sure you know more than me. May I sit?"
Majara barely waits for a moment's nod from one of the others before she climbs up into a chair with the practiced ease of a smallfolk who has learned to navigate a town of bigfolk and their furniture; once in the chair she settles on her haunches to put her face at a more comfortable height relative to the others.
"I've business in tiny village called Ravenmoor. An old..." Majara pauses, frowns, resumes: "...a former colleague is missing. Mutual colleague asked for my help locating him. I'm soliciting assistance. He was on government business- there's a reward if he's found. It would come out to..." a brief scan of the table with her eyes, "one-hundred-and-seventy-one crowns, four moons, two copper wheats for each of the seven of us, if--"
Talon hurriedly clears his throat. "Oh-- I'm not traveling, Miss Pricknettle. Still recovering. It'd be you and the other five, if-- if everyone else wanted to go."
"Oh? Well. Easier math then. Two hundred crowns each."
Majara folds her small hands on the table and looks around at each of you with an unblinking purple-eyed gaze. "Interested? Profit goes up further if only some of you come, I suppose. Questions?"
As Majara waits for responses, her eyes settle briefly on the slim volume of Hannelia's write-up of The Demonsbile Affair. She possibly smiles.
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Roger smiles, parting the black depths of his beard with a flash of white and leans back in his chair. "Ahar, looks like it didn't take long for adventure to find us again." He raises his mug as if for a toast.
To his mind, it's a foregone conclusion, the lads and lasses can't resist the allure of a good deed done against evil odds! And a name like Ravenmoor? Har, almost as ill fated a name as Saringallow! There had to be dark secrets to uncover and wrongs to right with blade and spell.
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First-time ownership proved to be a trickier thing than Constantine expected, but he throws himself into all manner of projects to begin working up the manor. He is frankly surprised at the number of Saringallowans who come up to him with offer of goods and services, or even just ideas. Roburtius Rufinus is a welcome addition to the team, especially with how many citizens are eager to peek their head around. Constantine wants to make sure that they're not going to accidentally injure themselves, especially after all of the hard work to make it safe again. He doesn't want to dissuade them from their curiosity or set himself up as yet another unapproachable figure behind secretive doors. And so, giving Bob a tour of the estate and showing him all of the broken glass and other dangerous abutments, he sits back down with him at the Witch's End.
"So, Bob," he asks while Morvinarr pours a pair of drinks. "Can we fix it?"
Bob gets a glint in his eye before responding. "Yes we can!"
---
During the early days of renovations, Constantine is thrilled to have another eye for detail in Hannelia. He would have relied on Sirio for some of the documentation, but the Asmodean has to return sooner than expected. He's helpful while he's present, of course. But there are so many forms, and Constantine quickly has to figure out whether he's going to go by his chosen name or his given name. There need to be consistent records, especially if one of his more legally minded kin seek to challenge him. He ultimately decides, with some encouragement from Emma, to begin signing documents as Constantine Sarini. She was right--this was a new beginning. He is still proud of his Fioritura identity (and its deliberate association with the Everbloom), but if he was going to redeem this name, he had to use it.
To that end, he inquires with Sirio about what sorts of forms he might need to file to ensure that his birth records, if they exist in an archive not burned to the ground in the Goblinblood War or redacted by the Church, are associated with his Fioritura name. Sirio assures him that he'll take care of the proper paperwork.
Around Saringallow, he responds to both names, though Mr. Sarini always gives him a moment of pause. But he begins to get used to it, day by day.
---
Constantine happily sets aside some coin for the acquisition of a proper wand. He is eager to get some practice with it but doesn't want to risk depleting its magic unnecessarily. Besides, it's the sort of item that Hannelia has an innate facility with. As long as she doesn't fall in the midst of battle, he might never have a need to try it out. Still, he wonders if anyone in Saringallow has a practice wand of sorts that they consider valueless, but which retains a handful of charges.
On one of his days in town proper, Constantine goes to the armorer Gorgrek Heavystone to see what sorts of new armor has arrived in Saringallow. His armored coat had taken a beating, and the chain shirt, though well-made, chafed something awful. He could have gotten it resized, but it provided just as much protection than the armored coat, and without the benefit of quick egress. While fighting goblins, fey, and demons, though, he found himself much more in the thick of melee. He needed more protection.
As he browses around, he sees a beautiful breastplate on a mannequin, trimmed with silvered filigree. Moving up closer, he traces a finger along the decoration and sees that some of it even looks flowery. It is a fine piece.
What little he understood of economics, passing this much gold over in a single transaction would surely benefit the rest of Saringallow (and wherever else the armorer might choose to travel all flush with coin). Besides, if he could keep himself and his friends from getting injured more often, it was worth it.
---
Talon is a visitor that Constantine had not expected to see so soon, but he eagerly provides a tour. "It's...well, it's not much yet. It's worse than it was when we first saw it, but we'll restore it soon. And we'll make it better."
And house-sitting? Repair management? A bed and breakfast? Why not? "You're as welcome here as the rest of us," Constantine assures the half-elf. "It could have been any of us waylaid by that befoulment. Take care of yourself, friend."
Besides, with Sirio gone and Hannelia busy with writing, Talon is an excellent choice to help out with some of the documentation. Rangers might be more comfortable in the wild, but they could easily turn their skills towards urbane matters with sufficient prompting. And if there was a way to turn all this into something positive, then Constantine's answer was wholeheartedly yes!
---
Later at the Witch's End, Constantine marvels at Hannelia's write-up. "The Demonsbile Affair," he reads. "It's a strong title to start. I look forward to reading it!" He's silently glad that there is no mention of Sarini in the title, nor of gallows. "I should have some time this evening, if no one else minds that I have first read."
Talon has just barely had a moment to introduce his idea of the bed and breakfast or hunting lodge arrangement when the door to the tavern swings open. As Majara pads over and asks to sit, Constantine gives the faintest nod before he finds that she has already hopped up. Quicker than she looks.
With the offer of a job on the table, Constantine's eyes scan those of his fellows. Roger responds first, drawing a grin from Constantine. Of course, that might be the drink more than anything else. "An old colleague gone missing. I'm happy to assist, especially after your sundries helped us in our most recent forays."
He wants to ask more questions, but first hopes that the others are similarly willing. And Ravenmoor...did he know anything about that village?
Hannelia waits tentatively as Constantine picks up her write up. Positive enough words are encouraging and she can't believe anyone is likely to challenge him for first reading given his personal stake in things. In fact if he's happy with it then chances are the others will be too.
When Majara makes her entrance, Hannelia isn't altogether surprised. After the conversations she's had with the gnome herself, with Zuke, with others, somehow it felt like their fates were going to be woven together. If indeed she believed in fate, which she's not entirely sure that she does. She nods in greeting, anyway, and Majara hops up into an empty chair and explains her request.
"Let's say that we are willing to accompany you," she begins, smiling - she knows full well that Roger's analysis of the situation is spot on - "and as my colleagues have hinted, I suspect we all are, what else can you tell us please?" She starts asking questions, unconsciously tapping the fingers of one hand in a counting gesture as she asks them. "Who is this old friend? Is he from Saringallow? What sort of a man is he - as in, is he the sort to go missing? What was his government business in Ravenmoor? Do we know whether he definitely arrived there? What sort of a place is it - I'm not sure I've ever even heard of it? Sorry," she apologises to Majara, "that's a lot to be getting on with." She looks around at the others, "And please chip in. I'm just keen to make sure we know as much as we can beforehand so we can prepare as well as possible."
Its perhaps not surprising that you don't know much about Ravenmoor despite your studies. Its not on many maps as it isn't much of a town. It sits in a crook of the Conerica River just south of the Chitterwood They might be a farming population of around 100 strong. They seem to be self-sufficient and survived the Goblinblood Wars, but not a lot of new information has gotten out of there since then, as they'd been forgotten by official records and there isn't much of a reason to stop in town.
Constantine blinks a bit as Hannelia asks most of the questions that he had in mind. He wracks his brain for a recollection of Ravenmoor. Ravenmoor. Wait, that Ravenmoor?
It was a small farming village on the other side of the Chitterwood, right on the Keld River (and therefore on the border of Cheliax). It wasn't too terribly far from the Aspodell Mountains either. In fact, getting there might prove...interesting.
The safest, but certainly long way, would be to sail down the Conerica until it met the Keld and then back up the rest of the way. A trek through the Chitterwood would almost certainly be fraught with danger. Much of the forest had been burned to kill off the goblins at the end of the war, but recent events demonstrated that the goblins were merely cowed, not exterminated. And they weren't the only creatures rumored to nest in the half-dead wood. Trying to move around the wood wouldn't be much easier than going through it, with much of the forest abutting straight up against the Aspodells.
There wasn't much else to say about Ravenmoor, though. They had mostly been ignored since the war.
Given this knowledge, Constantine adds a question to Hannelia's flurry.
"It would also behoove us to know what route your colleague chose to follow. Did he go by river from Elidir or rough it through the woods? I doubt Elidir would have condoned the latter, even if it might have been a bit cheaper, because he probably wouldn't have made it through. Following a trail might be more helpful than piecing together fragments."
Nolaria says hurriedly, "He insisted-- we told him he was still ill, but--"
"But I wanted to come," Talon finishes, his voice a hoarse rasp. "Don't worry. Stupid bravery has limits. I'll take a... I dunno... donkey back down or something.....
Nolaria is mostly supporting the half-elf, having rebounded much quicker from her encounter with demonsbile, it seems. Ah to be young. Talon catches his breath before continuing.
"I had to thank you. All of you. You saved me. Not just my life, though I'm grateful for that... but, I think, my very soul. I think... I think I wouldn't have gone somewhere good.... if I'd died under the... the... influence of that ... the foul...."
Talon trails off, his attempted smile fading into a haggard look as he deals with the recollections. "Emma. I'm-- beyond sorry. I... I'm glad you live. How inadequate words are, no?"
Emma stiffens in surprise when Talon first appears, being supported by Nolaria. The last time she had seen those eyes looking at her, it had been followed by an arrow straight to her chest. The scar on her chest throbbed a bit with phantom pain. She says nothing as Talon talks of his status, and then, when he turns to her and offers her apologies...
She holds the mans gaze steadily. There's really only one thing to do in this situation.
Wordlessly, she digs into her pack and withdraws a bit of freshly baked bread that she'd picked up that morning. She tears it into two and offers one half of it to Talon.
"My friend, you owe me no apologies. You quite literally weren't yourself. I'll admit, I have a newfound appreciation and fear of skilled archers now," she adds with a wan smile. "But - truly - it's alright. I'm glad you're doing better. You missed out on some interesting revelations and some intense fights, but in the end, we all managed to come through it - Iomedae's blessings surely must have been upon us considering all we went through."
She ends up keeping Nolaria company while Constantine gives Talon a tour of the house - all things considered, she's not quite ready to go through there just yet, and is otherwise happy to keep the girl company while they wait for the others to return.
------------------------------
With the newfound coin weighing down her purse, Emma finds her mind turning towards potential purchases that may end up making her life easier out in the field. Thus far, her scale mail has served her well enough...but given the kind of monsters they've been going up against, it may not end up being enough in the end. And so, she ventures through the marketplace.
Hannelia had warned her that the shopkeepers seemed to be keenly aware of the money the group had come into, and it certainly seems to be the case - overly friendly greetings, enthusiastic handshakes - all of the shopkeeps are particularly eager to draw her attention. She's polite as she can manage, smiling and nodding her head. A part of her wishes she could afford a fancier weapon - an enchanted sword perhaps. Still, her current sword has served her well.
In the end, she decides to check out the Armorer's shop. She's pleasantly surprised when the shopkeep doesn't end up accosting her outside the shop. As she ducks into the building, she glances around at some of the various wares on display - gleaming bits of armor and shields grace her vision. The craftsmanship involved is clearly the result of some skillful individuals.
"Ah, ye're one of them folk what saved the missing people!" comes a gruff voice.
She turns to find a rather heavily muscled dwarf, with startlingly vivid red hair gracing both his head and chin. The apron he wears is covered in burn marks, and a pair of lightly scratched goggles dons the man's forehead. The hand he sticks out to shake her own is heavily calloused - clearly a man who loves his work.
"Gordrek Heavystone, pleased to meet ye. What can I do ye for?" His eyes travel down from her face to find the symbol of Iomedae she displays. "Ye must be the paladin then," he surmises. "A paladin of the Inheritor no less! Afraid I don't have any holy armor or what have you...granted, not sure what would qualify as holy armor...glowing with a holy light prolly...or made outta somethin fancy...gold would be too weak for armor, though it'd look nice...suppose that would be an interesting project to work on..."
Emma finds herself smiling at the dwarf's friendly gruffness and musings. "Emma Blackford," she says. "I am indeed a paladin. Truth be told, I don't think I could afford anything resembling holy armor. I was looking to get something a bit sturdier I suppose." She sets down her pack and unzips it to reveal her armor - which looks dull and beat up compared to the pieces on display in the store. "My current armor, some scale mail I brought from Piren's Bluff - well, it's mostly kept me alive, but there's been too many times where it hasn't seemed adequate for the kinds of things I've been facing--"
The dwarf holds up his hand. "Well, obviously!" he says with a huff, looking down at the scale mail with a sad shake of his head. "Scale mail, now that's not suited for a paladin. Might've been find if ye were just wandering the countryside for a stroll, but...nah, that won't do for ye at all. Ye need somethin' heavier lass! Something with a bit of weight to it."
"My thoughts exactly," Emma says. "And while I do have some coin to spend, something that won't...ah...break the bank would be ideal."
"Right, right..." Gordrek mutters, scratching his bearded chin. "I think I might have something in mind, then. Not the fanciest bit o' armor I have, nor the strongest, but it should do the job ye require of it. And it'll be a damn sight better than scale armor, I must say!" He waves at the scale mail as though to banish it from his sight, and leads her over to a nearly display. "Now this here, this is some half-plate. Like I said, ain't nothin' fancy or what have you - and it'll be a bit heavier than your old gear, hope that's not an issue, can't imagine it would be for a paladin, but ye never know."
"It shouldn't be an issue," she reassures him. "And it looks perfect. How much?"
Gordrek looks at the armor - looks at Emma - looks at the symbol of Iomedae she displays - then back at the armor. For a moment, he seems to be engaged in a silent debate with himself, shrugging and holding up hands as he seems to go back and forth. Finally he shrugs and says, "Five hundred and seventy crowns."
It's a definite hit to her recent bounty of coin - more than half, in fact - but for the potential benefit, it seems well worth it. Perhaps one of her other companions might attempt to haggle, but it had never been her strong suit. And it seemed a fair price for something so skillfully made.
"Sold," Emma says. "Er, I don't suppose you have any use for some used scale mail?"
Gordrek lets out a loud snort, then seems to remember that it was in front of a customer who had just agreed to buy a set of armor. "Er, apologies there lass, didn't mean to offend ye. I suppose it couldn't hurt to have a bit of scrap metal..."
---------------------------
"So, you know how I've been taking all these notes and writing up an account of what happened. For the town archives, so people don't forget. Um, well, I'd be really grateful if you could take a look and make sure you're happy with it." So saying, she places a neatly bound bundle of papers on the table entitled 'The Demonsbile Affair'.
Later at the Witch's End, Constantine marvels at Hannelia's write-up. "The Demonsbile Affair," he reads. "It's a strong title to start. I look forward to reading it!" He's silently glad that there is no mention of Sarini in the title, nor of gallows. "I should have some time this evening, if no one else minds that I have first read."
Emma's eyes widen as she takes in the account that Hannelia has written of their adventures. She hadn't ever even thought to write any of it down - it wasn't really her strong suit, to say the least. Oh, she loved reading - books of history, stories (including romances, much to her mother's embarrassment when she was younger) - but she'd never been very good at the whole writing part of it.
"Hannelia, that's amazing!" Emma says. "And with a perfect title for the whole thing! That's just - it's perfect! I have no objections to your calling first dibs Constantine - so long as I get a chance to read it next." She shakes her head. "And you just did this on a lark Hannelia? You continually impress me!"
------------------
When the awkward silence falls over the tavern, Emma glances up to see the town's apothecary, Majara, enter. Emma frowns, trying to recall if she'd ever seen the gnome in here before - based on the general silence of the crowd, it seems unlikely that it's a common occurrence. It's not long until the gnome's purple eyes manage to find their table, and she approaches them.
The gnome doesn't waste any time introducing herself to them and transitioning into her request of their group. For her part, Emma is pleased that they're already being approached - their group had come together to find missing people originally. It seemed oddly fitting that their next mission should begin with a similar request.
"Ahar, looks like it didn't take long for adventure to find us again," Roger says, raising his mug as if for a toast.
Emma lifts her own mug in response and gives Roger a slight smile. "I'll drink to that."
She's content to let her companions work out the finer details of the mission. She hasn't heard of Ravenmoor herself - not too surprising, considering her general lack of knowledge of the areas outside Piren's Bluff. The name certainly sounds ominous.
"Who is this old friend? Is he from Saringallow? What sort of a man is he - as in, is he the sort to go missing? What was his government business in Ravenmoor? Do we know whether he definitely arrived there? What sort of a place is it - I'm not sure I've ever even heard of it? Sorry," she apologises to Majara, "that's a lot to be getting on with."
"Colleague~~," Majara corrects Hannelia's words of old friend, with a slight moue. She cranes in her seat to catch Morvinarr's attention, gesturing the strapping youth over and ordering a glass of wine.
"Never apologize for gathering data. Query one: Elias Kyle. Query Two: No. Query three..."
Majara's staccato pauses a moment, as she fishes out a coin from under her cloak to hand to Morvinarr-- or perhaps she's stalling on immediately answering. The coin changes hands and the gnome steeples her fingers before continuing.
"At one point Elias Kyle had some skill with a sword and was in the same line of work as yourselves. But he was, or is, given to gambling, disposed to drinking, wasteful with wealth, et cetera ad nauseaum ad infinitum ad taedium."
"Query four," Majara continues crisply, ticking off on her fingers, "collecting overdue village taxes. If you are pondering the prudence of posting a profligate to part people from pennies: Yes, so am I. Not my decision. Clerk in the Exchequer office offered the job to him out of...... pity, I suppose. Misplaced nostalgia. Rusty camaraderie. Overdeveloped guilt. Emotional variables, in short."
Majara crosses her wiry arms, gazing at the far wall of the tavern with a small frown. "Query five, arrival status: Unknown. The exchequer official says he has been gone a month. Query seven, Ravenmoor:
"Unknown. I've never been. Query eight, route of travel: Unknown."
Majara's wine arrives and she takes it with barely a glance at Morvinarr. She has a swallow, rolls the liquid in her mouth assessingly, hold the glass up to the tavern's lights with a squint, then adds on in her rapidfire way: "Possibilities multiple: dead on the road, dead in the town from villagers unwilling to pay taxes, drunk in the town, in jail in the town, took the money and ran to somewhere he could drink it to nothing! Non-zero possibility of the latter. Glamorous assignment, it is not."
Majara pulls a tiny flask from wherever the coin came from and adds a few drops to her glass of wine, stirring it briefly with a spoon she picks up from Emma's place at the table. She sips the doctored wine and nods to herself in seeming approval.
"Other questions?"
Sipping her drink, Emma listens to Majara as she answers the various questions asked of her in a rather eccentrically ordered manner, keeping her face studiously neutral throughout. She's always had a fondness for gnomes; even the most serious of them manages to possess that sense of - for lack of a better word - gnomeness that makes the race so infamous throughout Golarion.
"Other questions?" Majara asks of their group.
A raised eyebrow is all the reaction Emma gives as the gnome stirs her drink with the spoon she'd taken from Emma's place at the table.
"Not to dissuade you from offering us a job, of course," Emma says, hastily glancing around to make sure she's not speaking out of turn. "But in regards to his status, have you considered sending a letter - or letters, perhaps - to Ravenmoor and the surrounding areas - to see if Elias has turned up in any of those locations? Unless you've already done so, or there's a reason why it wouldn't be a good idea - I don't have much knowledge of the area in question I'm afraid."
Majara makes no acknowledgment of the fact that she just appropriated Emma's spoon. A shrug of her small shoulders.
"Exchequer official may have done so; likely, knowing her. Fondness for writing. But if so she mentioned no response. A messenger by courier might not get there much more speedily than we ourselves.... if anyone at the village sees fit to respond. If foul play is feasible, a response is unreasonable.
"A letter isn't a terrible idea," she continues, in tones that indicate she'd have no problem saying so to someone's face if she thought it was a terrible idea, "if not for the matter of a return address. A courier sent now-- traveling-- hrmn-- a hundred miles or more, returning-- days from now? Much longer by the safer route-- should I wait while that message travels to, and back again, to reach me here? I think better to get on the road. And difficult for a return courier to find me, on said road."
Constantine smiles, appreciating Majara's manner of speech. He had enjoyed engaging in a bit of wordplay with her when they first met. She seemed to prefer clear, succinct communication peppered with pattered prose. And that patter! He had been working a little on and off with some of the gnomish tongue and wondered how--or whether!--her manner of speech might change. Something to get to later, of course.
He raises his hand to draw some attention. "I know a bit of Ravenmoor," he offers. "As much as there is to know. It's a small farming village without inns or taverns." Hopefully the lack of the latter didn't put Roger off. "Isolated, on the other side of the Chitterwood, near the river border with Cheliax. They've been left off of most recent maps. Probably haven't paid taxes in years because people forgot about them."
Putting things together, Constantine offers his initial thoughts. "It's not that he couldn't get drunk in town, but someone would probably have to open up their home to him. It's probably the same for a jail, a place that small." He gestures a bit. "It's close enough to the border that he could make his way into Cheliax, but I somehow doubt anyone there would offer refuge to a foreign officer of the law on dereliction of duty. Haugin's Ear might be more receptive. Maybe."
No sense of Elias' route was a problem, but not an insurmountable one. Constantine waits to see if anyone else raises his thoughts on the relative danger versus time, or if they have any reactions to his knowledge. Just because he knew facts didn't mean he had any particular insight into the case. But someone else might be able to piece things together...
Majara gives Constantine an assessing gaze much as she had given the wine, and then a nod. "You know more of the town than I do, then. If I had to guess I think Elias would have taken the path less perilous. Perhaps he also took his own beverages. Or took the gold and went the other way--Cheliax is closer, but Andoran is reachable.
"In short, we hypothesize with thin evidentiary grounds."
"Well, I may not know what evidentiary means, but I'm guessing from the course a the talking, we got a lotta ideas and not a way to choose between them." Roger doesn't take a lot away from the conversation, save that it's not certain anyone else took much away either.
"Let's sail there the safe way. A course is better than none." He asserts with no evidence to back up his cause, other than it being better than not coming up with a plan.
Constantine nods. "Most hypotheses begin with thin evidence," he muses. "But I'm sure our salty sea dog wouldn't mind being back on the water, even if it's merely a river."