"Our young friend is from a smaller village," Majara says in a dry deadpan, her gaze sweeping up and down the tattooed wanderer. "I doubt Calistria has many followers there."
To Shel, the gnome offers slight further explanation: "Not only lust. Trickery, revenge. It is wise to be respectful to her clergy, if only out of self-preservation."
Another once-over of Tattoo-and-staff, and then Majara thrusts a hand upwards to the much taller person. "Pricknettle. Or Majara. Are you creator or canvas only?"
A child of Torag, looking very far from her home caves, Majara muses as she observes the green-clad woman. The gnome's fingers are never too far from her length of knotted string, and as she watches the dwarf she starts weaving the knot sometimes called monkey's fist. When it's completed she makes her way to the dwarf.
One of Majara's many pet interests over the last year or so has been a desultory study of the Dwarven tongue. She is far from fluent-- better with the runic alphabet than actual conversation (the dwarven population of Saringallow have grown weary of her attempts to practice on them), so this is a welcome opportunity.
"ᚴᚱᛁᛁᛏᛁᚾᚴᛋ," she intones, a very basic greeting. "ᚢᚼᛁᚱᛁ ᛅᚱᛁ ᛁᚬᚢ ᚠᚱᚬᛘ?" Where are you from?
”I’m Shel Lupescu,” she says, dipping into a curtsey. ”Nice to meet you, Mister… Are you headed to Saringallow too?”
Hawk watches the lass with growing delight at her manners and mannerisms. Matching her gravity, he pushes off the rail to stand straight, smooths his shirt, and offers her an elaborate bow. ”Hawkren Hargraves, at your service. It’s an honor and privilege to meet you, Miss Lupescu. Please call me Hawk, or Hawkren.” He considers her follow-on question. ”Saringallow? Not at present, no. The winds of trade are blowing me toward Misarias.”
"Our young friend is from a smaller village,"
Hawk’s eyebrow goes up and his smile brightens at the clarification. His look falls on Shel. ”Nothing wrong with that. I, myself, never saw a village until I was ten or so. Welcome to a wider and periodically astonishing world, Miss Lupescu.”
Another once-over of Tattoo-and-staff, and then Majara thrusts a hand upwards to the much taller person. "Pricknettle. Or Majara. Are you creator or canvas only?"
The gnome’s matter-of-factness leaves room for debate on what response would be best. In the end, the Varisian throws caution to the wind and risks it coming back in his face. He takes Majara’s hand, gently turns it over, and puts a chaste kiss on her knuckles. ”A pleasure, Miss Pricknettle.” He releases her hand quickly, in case he’s caused offense. ”I am both canvas and tattooist. Though most of the work on me is not my own. I’d be famous if I could work on my own back.” He pats the pack on his shoulder. ”If you’re interested in getting inked or would like to see my work, I have samples right here.” His eyes land on each of them in turn, clearly extending the offer to them all.
Majara's blue eyebrows sweep upwards at the knuckle kiss-- less offended than just imagining that they look ridiculous, the human bent double to reach her hand, and she herself hardly the epitome of courtly feminine graces-- a scarred and stained leather work apron rather than a dress, and hands that are just as marked by her trade-- old acid burns, discolorations from experiments, a sliver of flesh missing from the heel of one hand as a memento to use caution with her scavenger beetles, nails bitten down to the quick and painted different colors on Majara's whims...
Humans, though. What can you do?
She tilts her head at his volunteering to show his samples, giving an approving nod. "Yes. Let's see your sundries. What colors do you have available? Do you make your own ink? I have bone glue and high-quality soot, copper powder, ground alkanet root--"
A rapid-fire listing of a dozen other reagents that can be used as dyes in Hawkren's profession follows with Majara not pausing for breath before she finishes with, "Have you ever executed a design of a moth?"
She tilts her head at his volunteering to show his samples, giving an approving nod. "Yes. Let's see your sundries. What colors do you have available? Do you make your own ink? I have bone glue and high-quality soot, copper powder, ground alkanet root--"
A rapid-fire listing of a dozen other reagents that can be used as dyes in Hawkren's profession follows with Majara not pausing for breath before she finishes with, "Have you ever executed a design of a moth?"
The tattooist is delighted to talk shop, fitting in responses edgewise to the gnome’s rapid-fire questions as he digs into his backpack. ”Black and the primary colors: green, red, and blue. And white, but that I rarely use, only against the right skin-tone, or for certain effects… I haven’t made inks yet but I want to. I’ve got a recipe for the base, so I have some knowledge of the… A moth? Not that I recall, but I’ve done dozens of Desnan butterflies in several styles. A moth should be no challenge. Ah!”
Hawk pulls out a rolled leather folio. He opens it across his pack to reveal five sheets of vellum densely covered (front and back) in pen & ink drawings of animals (mundane and mystical), trees, abstract designs, flowers, sacred geometry, buildings (holy sites), holy symbols, people, protective symbols, and text in a variety of colors and artistic styles. He draws Majara’s attention to a section of the folio containing a few butterflies along with winged insects (from fairly realistic to very abstract) including dragonflies in flight.
"I show them on vellum because it is close to most people's skin. What you see is what you get." He says with a note of pride.
Majara looks with interest at Hawkren's handiwork, closely inspecting his designs, making little grunts of approval here and there over a stylized deer caught mid-leap... a dragon curled in a spiral... Desna's butterflies, stars traced on their wings...
"You have a decent eye," she remarks eventually, which might seem like faint praise but if her apprentice Gellion were here to comment he would say this counts as a high compliment. "Rates? Small moth, no bigger than an inch, on the back of my hand, black ink only, stylized like-- mm-- this one."
The tattooist raises an eyebrow at Majara’s decisiveness. He does a quick calculation in his head. ”Simple design, classic approach, small tattoo. It won’t take me an hour, if that. As you’re my first customer of the day and you’ll be a walking advertisement of my work aboard ship - which should loosen purse-strings - how does ‘no charge’ strike you?”
With an economy of motion from long practice, Hawk pulls out his needles and a small pot of blank ink. He arranges his pack to make a comfortable seat for Majara before sitting down on the ship’s deck cross-legged beside it. This was always the moment of truth. He had never calculated how many clients balked when the needles came out… but the percentage was pretty high. As an afterthought, he pulls out a pot of white ink and an empty one as well, lacing all three bottles between the fingers of one hand. ”Ready, mistress?”
Hawk examines her hand, lightly pinching a bit of her flesh and seeing how it springs back. He tuts at her. ”You should drink more water. Hydration makes your skin more resilient. Your tattoo will stay better looking over time.” He carefully washes the back of her hand with a bit of alcohol, then thinly draws the moth figure. Once Majara is satisfied with the design, he gets to work with his needles. While she had specified black ink only, he adds a few subtle white highlights. Against the moth’s blackness, it looks like a reflection of moonlight off its wings. His final task is to lightly apply a liniment over the tattoo to soothe any discomfort and protect the piece while her skin heals. ”What do you think?”
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Majara sniffs at the comment that she needs to hydrate for the sake of her skin. "Master Hawkren, I'm a hundred and twelve. Your skin won't look as good when you reach my age, I daresay. But I can certainly make no argument as to your price."
She shows no sign of hesitation at the needle, merely sets her hand flat on her knee and gives Hawk the nod to go ahead. Through the initial drawing she tilts her head but seems content to accept it however he draws it. The white highlights earn a brief flick of a smile across her sharp face.
When it comes time for the needles to make permanent what was temporary, there's only the occasional minimal wince from the gnome; she never takes her eyes from the process, seemingly intrigued by the sight of the needle's progress.
She takes her time answering Hawkren's question, spreading her fingers wide and observing the reddened flesh, gleaming slightly with the liniment, and the stark black of the moth atop it.
"It's a good souvenir," she says eventually. "An indelible record to travel with you, hmn? Well made. You could probably ply a very brisk trade by Saringallow's docks, if you wanted to. Thank you, Master Hawkren."
Majara sniffs at the comment that she needs to hydrate for the sake of her skin. "Master Hawkren, I'm a hundred and twelve. Your skin won't look as good when you reach my age, I daresay."
Hawk chuckles at the comment, never looking up as he draws on her skin. ”Fortunately, dear lady, I am an inveterate hypocrite… I’m not subject to my advice especially after I give it. I’ll see you in ninety-ish years to settle this bet.”
"It's a good souvenir," she says eventually. "An indelible record to travel with you, hmn? Well made. You could probably ply a very brisk trade by Saringallow's docks, if you wanted to. Thank you, Master Hawkren."
”You’re most welcome, Mistress Majara. I’ll keep Saringallow in mind should the fates allow.”
Hawk watches the lass with growing delight at her manners and mannerisms. Matching her gravity, he pushes off the rail to stand straight, smooths his shirt, and offers her an elaborate bow. ”Hawkren Hargraves, at your service. It’s an honor and privilege to meet you, Miss Lupescu. Please call me Hawk, or Hawkren.” He considers her follow-on question. ”Saringallow? Not at present, no. The winds of trade are blowing me toward Misarias.”
Flattered by the man's attention and greeting, Shel smiles. "It's a pleasure to meet you too, Mister Hawk. We come through Misarias on our way here."
She nods as Majara warns of other aspects of Calistria's portfolio, taking another look at the priestess and trying to see her in a slightly different light.
"Can I watch? I've never seen this before." she asks excitedly as Majara fires off a brief to Hawk, though she's assuming that this isn't likely to be an issue. While the man works, Shel remains quiet as she doesn't want to interrupt his concentration, though this requires effort as she has various questions about the process.
* * * * *
A child of Torag, looking very far from her home caves, Majara muses as she observes the green-clad woman. The gnome's fingers are never too far from her length of knotted string, and as she watches the dwarf she starts weaving the knot sometimes called monkey's fist. When it's completed she makes her way to the dwarf.
"ᚴᚱᛁᛁᛏᛁᚾᚴᛋ," she intones, a very basic greeting. "ᚢᚼᛁᚱᛁ ᛅᚱᛁ ᛁᚬᚢ ᚠᚱᚬᛘ?" Where are you from?
The dwarven woman has as far as possible tried to carve a space for herself, not particularly easy on the crowded barge, though most people seem happy enough to give her a wide berth. She looks apprehensive as Majara marches over, fiddling with one of the large hooped gold earrings she wears. A look of slight surprise crosses her face as the gnome speaks to her in her native tongue.
"ᚷᚱᛖᛖᛏᛁᛝᛋ. ᛘᚪᚳᚱᛁᛞᛁ, ᛁᚾ ᛞᚱᚢᛘᚪ" she replies. "ᛁ ᚪᛘ ᛞᚪᛚᚾᚪ," she continues by way of introduction as she sizes Majara up. "ᚳᛁᚾ ᚩᚠ ᚹᛖᚾᛏᚱᚢᛞᛖ," she adds, having decided the gnome does not appear to be a threat and she has no real reason to be rude and not disclose her lineage. Greetings. Macridi, in Druma. I am Dalna, kin of Wentrude.
She offers Majara her hand to shake, expecting her to introduce herself in return. A glance at the calloused fingers and soil under her fingernails shows that Dalna is clearly somebody well used to working with her hands.
"Can I watch? I've never seen this before."
”Certainly not. This is a sacred process.” He pauses for a beat then laughs, ”I’m joking. Of course, you can watch! I don’t often have an audience.” Hawk explains what he’s doing and why as he works on Majara’s moth. If his concentration is affected, it doesn’t show. He’s happy to answer Shel's questions and only curtails his explanations when he lapses into the vagaries of different skin types based on customer race, age, and tattoo location. ”...Had this kobold client once. He was a challenge – thick, nubbly hide. Wanted a tattoo on his tail, of all places. I needed longer needles and a bold non-linear design to… never mind. That’s very esoteric. Let’s just say it was 'difficult'.”
When Majara leaves to speak with the curiously kitted dwarf, Hawk turns to his audience of one before packing up his color pots and needles. ”What about you, Miss Shel? Would you like me to paint something on your skin? No needles - just an idea of what a tattoo on you might look like. It’ll wash off in a few days. Starting a new phase in your life is an important moment - worthy of marking it.” His smile is warm and reassuring, applying no pressure on the young woman.
"Would you?" Shel responds enthusiastically, very taken with the idea. "That would be real swell, Mister Hawk, thank you." Her mind races through ideas but she doesn't vocalise them until she's made up her mind, mostly at least. "A flower. On the inside of my wrist." She holds her forearm up to show where she means. "A daisy. No, a sunflower! Yeah, I'd like a sunflower please."
She stops, her excited train of thought abruptly coming to a halt, and her face falls. "I ain't got any money," she admits. Shel is pretty confident that Hannelia will be happy to pay - she had said that she would, after all, and she's paid for everything so far but necessities like room and board aren't quite the same as this. She makes a quick decision, assuming that the worst that could happen is she has to make an apology or earn some money to pay back. "It'll be fine," she says. "Please go ahead, Mister Hawk."
”Good choice. Sunflowers suit you.” Hawk pulls out a small stack of empty pots and begins mixing colors, creating a selection of yellows, oranges, greens, and browns. As he’d done with Majara, he cleans Shel’s arm with alcohol and tests her skin. He leans in to whisper, ”Don’t tell Mistress Majara - your skin is perfect.” He sketches the flower and begins painting once Shel is happy with the arrangement. ”Since this is your first tattoo, I want it perfect. So, this is going to take some time. If you get tired, let me know and we can take a break...”
Hawk stretches his back after he’s finished. It took some time but he is pleased with the results. He watches Shel’s face, looking for an honest – and hopefully pleased – reaction.
"It's perfect!" Shel beams, rolling the other sleeve of her dress up to mirror the one with her new artwork. "Thank you so much, Mister Hawk, I love it! I'm going to go and show Miss Hannelia." Impulsively she gives the man a hug - a stranger he may be but it's hard not to feel some kind of bond with him given that he's just spent a good chunk of time painting her skin - before bouncing off. Judging by her child-like delight, there's a reasonable chance that she's going to show everyone else she can too. If Hawk was looking for some free publicity he's certainly found himself a good customer.
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A little startled by the hug, Hawk appreciates it nonetheless, returning it hesitantly. ”You’re quite welcome!”
He watches the girl bound off, a portrait of joy. There seemed to him to be a particular and specific magic about the arts that was very different from spellcrafting. Part of it was the nature of existence, the lies we tell ourselves to keep the spectre of death at arm’s length. Someone steps in front of an arrow for you or uses a spell to save your life… You thank them and think “I would have died”. But over time you think, “well, maybe I would have but maybe not.”
Few people can live with the notion that our lives are wavering candles that can be snuffed out by an errant breeze. We push it aside, then minimize it, and then we forget.
But art can leave a lasting impression – whether it’s a poem that speaks to a bitter moment in our lives, or a song that makes us weep, or a squiggle of paint on a forearm that captures a moment when our world expanded. Art touches soul, at times.
Hawk cleans his paint pots and watches Shel furtively. If I had done something to avert harm from Shel, she’d remember it for six months, perhaps. But when Shel is celebrating her 70th birthday, surrounded by her grand-children and reminiscing about her life, she’s going to remember the first time she went from that small village to the big city, saw a Calistrian for the first, and might fondly recall a sunflower painted on her arm that captured how her life opened up in extraordinary ways.
Maybe that was the ‘magic’ in the arts. Casting magic profoundly changes the life of the caster, without doubt. But receiving the magic of the arts changes the life of the recipient. Shel Lupescu likely wouldn’t remember his name or face in the waning years of her life, many decades from now… but she might just remember that sunflower.
Hawk shakes the water out of his cleaned pots and needles, returning all his equipment to his backpack. He rolls up his folio and packs it as well. All things considered, thought Hawk watching the effervescent girl, I can live with that as a legacy.
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The bustling crowd in the White Stag tavern is a nice change of pace to Emma, even though their mood isn't exactly a triumphant one. Yes, they had defeated the Mayor and the cult in Ravenmoor, but it had come at a cost - a pricey one, as evidenced by the silence of their companion at the table with them.
Still, the town would hopefully have a better future ahead of them thanks to their efforts, and Shel would have a chance at a better life elsewhere as well - it was good, she decided, that Shel was coming with them. Even if she ultimately ended up returning to Ravenmoor, her experiences outside of it would end up expanding her worldview. As someone who had spent a good deal of her time at Piren's Bluff before heading off on her own, she could appreciate how broadening a trip elsewhere could be, even if it was to a relatively small place like Saringallow.
Sirio's arrival leads to a somewhat mixed reaction from Emma, for a variety of reasons, not least of which is that she knows his reaction to Constantine is going to be hard to deal with.
That, and the fact that they'd disagreed in the past on matters made their relationship a somewhat rocky one...yet, there was denying that he was a familiar sight, and it was nice to see him again.
"Friends!" Sirio calls. "Friends of Saringallow." Emma lets out a slight snort at the use of the name. "Listen, as I've been at court, I've managed to sway the nobility to our side. We are just as good as already having full claim to the manor. They are quite pleased with your performance. As is the Church. We're sending missionaries..." He pauses for a moment, after having taken a double take at Constantine's listless eyes. Emma winces at the reaction. "Constantine? Connie?" Sirio snaps his fingers. "What's wrong with him? What in the Nine Hells happened?"
"Mental contact with a powerful eldritch outsider is the current theory," Majara says. "He began acting oddly after that, and after our last battle lapsed into full non-responsiveness, such as you see. A cleric may be able to do more for him than I can. Father Ruvarra assisted Gellion, I believe."
Emma nods. "I'm sorry Sirio - truly. We don't fully understand what happened. But Majara is correct - Father Ruvarra is absolutely one we should seek out the moment we return to Saringallow. Things spiraled out of control rather quickly, and well..." Emma shrugs helplessly. "I'm sorry," she says again.
Sirio's usual composure slips, and he doesn't really appear to hear much of what is said after. Emma keeps her distance for now - if Sirio wants to talk, he'll talk.
Instead, she focuses on what Majara says next.
"And there's another thing. I..." Majara begins, hesitating. "Well. I found working with your group to be acceptable. If you need a hand to fill in until Mr. Fioritura is feeling better, I... would be willing, I suppose."
Emma smiles at the gnome. "Majara, I didn't even think there was a question of that," she says. "You've fought with and beside us, showing a great amount of courage - and some much needed practicality. Beyond being a solid asset to the group, I've enjoyed having you along - even if much of what you say regarding your work tends to go over my head." She glances around the table. "As far as I'm concerned, at least, you're already an official part of this group."
----------
Gaining passage on the Mermaid’s Kilvanion ends up being a good thing. Her experience with boat travel the first time around doesn't seem to strike her as bad this time around - perhaps tangling with a Blightspawn and dealing with a cult was enough to make travel by sea seem not as bad.
She also finds delight in the name. In an offhand comment to Roger, she remarks that she'd love to see an actual mermaid on the voyage - something of a fantasy she'd had ever since she was a younger girl. When she was younger she thought it would have been great fun to be a mermaid. When she was a bit older, her interests shifted more in wishing she could spend time with a mermaid.
"Say, Roger, have you ever encountered any mermaids on your journeys?" she asks Roger at one point, curious at the pirate's perspective.
One of the passengers is a red-headed dwarf woman, dressed in a long patterned green tunic. Her ensemble is belted at the waist into a dress, evoking a sort of similar image to a jester's outfit. The expression on her face betrays her feelings of awkwardness. Not speaking the language herself, she simply gives the woman a respectful nod.
At the bow of the ship is a man, clearly a traveler from elsewhere if his garb and tattoos are any indication. His black hair is in a ponytail, and he has a silver walking staff that rests against the rail.
One of the most alluring people is a tall woman standing with two attendants. Her delicate features are framed by ringlets of tightly coiled dark hair. She is dressed as a Calistrian priest, leaving little to the imagination, nor doing much to protect against the elements. Emma feels a blush rise to her cheeks as she regards the priest, but she gives her a respectful nod all the same. Iomedae and Calistria aren't exactly the closest of the deities, but they aren't as opposed as some others.
Besides, she just can't bring herself to feel animosity towards anyone that beautiful. A character flaw to be sure. And an unworthy thought on my part. At least I'm aware of it - that's something, right?
To her amusement, she notes that Shel is very taken with the priest, and hides a smile behind her hand.
"Um," Shel asks in a carrying whisper, "why is that lady wearing clothes that ain’t really clothes?"
At this, Emma does laugh, but Scrent's coughing fit over the woman's clothes (or rather, lack of) manages to keep it hidden enough.
It does draw the attention of the tattooed man, however, who looks over at Shel.
"That is precisely her point, young lady."
"Begging your pardon, Mister," she says. "I ain't sure I understand. You're saying that she wants people to look at her and see her... her whole body?"
More or less, Emma thinks. Iomedae forgive me, I know I should disapprove, but...
"Apologies for eavesdropping, my ears are sharp. And, yes, she wants to be seen but more importantly - desired. It’s a facet of her faith. Calistria is the goddess of lust. First time in Elidir?"
"Yes. I’m Shel Lupescu," the woman says, giving a curtsy that makes Emma smile. "Nice to meet you, Mister. An’ these are my friends."
Emma gives a polite nod to the man. "Emma Blackford," she says by way of introduction.
"Our young friend is from a smaller village," Majara explains. "I doubt Calistria has many followers there."
"Very likely not," Emma agrees.
Majara leans in closer to Shel and adds, "Not only lust. Trickery, revenge. It is wise to be respectful to her clergy, if only out of self-preservation."
"A wise point," Emma murmurs to Shel after.
Majara thrusts a hand upwards. "Pricknettle. Or Majara. Are you creator or canvas only?"
Emma smiles at the gnome's blunt introduction and settles back to watch the exchange. To her surprise, Majara ends up getting a tattoo done. Emma watches with interest, having never seen the procedure done before herself.
To her greater surprise, Shel ends up getting one next - her first instinct, to Emma's surprise, is to step in and ensure it's what Shel wants - but then she stops herself. Part of having Shel leave her town was getting to experience new things - such as this. What better way to begin her newfound independence by exercising her choices to do exactly that?
Despite this, Hawkren appears to be very skilled at what he does, and both Majara and Shel are pleased with the end result of his work. Emma finds herself impressed as well.
"It's perfect!" Shel says. "Thank you so much, Mister Hawk, I love it! I'm going to go and show Miss Hannelia."
Watching her run off with a smile, Emma approaches Hawk a few moments later. "You're very gifted," she compliments him. "And in regards to Shel there, that was a very kind gesture. As Majara said, she's from a smaller village and this is her first real taste of the larger world. After the experiences she had over the past few days, it's incredibly nice to see her smile like that again."
Watching her run off with a smile, Emma approaches Hawk a few moments later. "You're very gifted," she compliments him.
”Thank you. I appreciate that.”
"And in regards to Shel there, that was a very kind gesture. As Majara said, she's from a smaller village and this is her first real taste of the larger world. After the experiences she had over the past few days, it's incredibly nice to see her smile like that again."
”Again?” Hawk puzzles, ”I can’t picture her being anything other than sunny.” He glances at the armor-clad warrior a little more closely, trying to fit some pieces together. ”Mistress…” He tries to recall her name, the morning had proceeded at a rapid fire pace, ”Blackford, if you don’t mind a question… what happened over the last few days? Your group is a curious one. You an experienced warrior, along with Mistress Pricknettle whose hands are acid-kissed and stained with chemicals, Miss Shel, a seaman, and…” he casts a curious glance at Sirio in his Asmodean regalia, ”a hard-eyed fellow. I’m Varisian. We are notorious for our motley gatherings, but I would be hard-pressed to say I’ve seen a more, uh, ‘diverse’ group of companions in some time. Would you care to satisfy my curiosity, or should I stick to my own affairs?”
Emma had gotten so used to her traveling companions that the idea of them being seen as a diverse group is somewhat surprising. Hawkren has a point though - they do stand out a bit compared to most groups around them.
"I don't mind - some things aren't mine to tell in detail, of course." Emma hesitates for a moment, looking around at the others milling about. "We're an adventuring party out of Saringallow - the place we're headed back to at the moment. We were hired - by Mistress Pricknettle, in fact - to investigate a missing person and our journey led us to Ravenmoor. Long story short, we ended up uncovering a Cult of Ghlaunder that had it's hooks deep into many folks of the town. Shel's family suffered some losses as a result, as did more than a few others. We were ultimately able to stop it, but not without some cost." Emma looks back at the man. "Suffice to say, it's been a rather harrowing few days." She looks over at where Shel had run off to. "Shel was quite vibrant when we first arrived, easily the most polite and open minded of those we ran into, but of course, once dark things started happening, well... I'm glad she ended up deciding to come with us."
She finds herself looking forward to returning to Saringallow - even just the simple thing of being able to indulge in some freshly baked bread sounds like an amazing comfort.
After they see to that Constantine is being cared for, of course.
"How about yourself? Where are you headed to, Mister... Hargraves wasn't it?"
More an observer of religion than a student of it, Hawk has no idea who Ghlaunder is. But from Emma's account it seems better NOT to be schooled on this particular Cult.
He looks at Shel with fresh eyes, "I wonder if that is a testament to the resilience of youth, her character, or a bit of both?"
Hawk shakes off the rumination. "It's Hawk... or Hawkren. I'm not picky. Shel mentioned you've recently come from where I'm going - Miserias. Nothing heroic or adventurous in my future, just seeing a new place and, hopefully, needling some clients."
"I wonder if that is a testament to the resilience of youth, her character, or a bit of both?"
Emma considers this as well. "I think a bit of both... though certainly there's a lot to be said for her strength of character. She's surprised me a lot. I regret the terse way in which I treated her when everything was going down. I can sympathize with her situation. I myself set out to experience more of the world after hearing about a call for adventurers in Saringallow after my mother's passing in Piren's Bluff." She pauses. "Sorry for rambling there. It's nice to chat normally with someone after a rather few tense days."
"It's Hawk... or Hawkren. I'm not picky. Shel mentioned you've recently come from where I'm going - Miserias. Nothing heroic or adventurous in my future, just seeing a new place and, hopefully, needling some clients."
Emma grins at the phrasing, and at Hawk's choice of words. "Of course Hawkren. But careful - saying such things is often tempting the gods to curve the path you think you're on. Jokes aside, though, I don't think you'll have much trouble - like I said, with your talent, you should have no shortage of interested parties."
She pauses. "Sorry for rambling there. It's nice to chat normally with someone after a rather few tense days."
"I'm sorry to hear about your mother. Please, don't apologize. After extraordinary days, it helps to ground ourselves in the mundane for awhile, I think."
Emma grins at the phrasing, and at Hawk's choice of words. "Of course Hawkren. But careful - saying such things is often tempting the gods to curve the path you think you're on.
The tattooist smiles broadly. "I've heard it said that when we declare our heartfelt intentions to the universe, the gods chuckle. But the joke is on them, Miss Blackford. I have no idea the path I'm on so I wouldn't know if I was thrown a curve or not."
"Jokes aside, though, I don't think you'll have much trouble - like I said, with your talent, you should have no shortage of interested parties."
"Business has been a bit scant of late, so I hope the gods mark your opinion well. And if not, perhaps I should ply you with fine wine in the hopes that you continue to compliment my artistic talents when I begin to doubt them." His tone suggests he is being playful and light-hearted, but also earnest in some respect.
Although she turned down the rulership, Lucia was widely feted as the hero of Piren's Bluff. She led its military defences, working hard to protect the village and improve the lives of its citizens. Until her death Lucia was probably the most popular citizen in town, having proved her mettle and loyalty countless times. Each year the villagers celebrate the retention of their freedom on the anniversary of this event.
”Wait… Piren’s Bluff? High walls, military stamp to the place, hard by the Aspodells? I’ve been there!” Hawk sifts his memory, ”I didn’t do much business there, mostly Iomedae symbols… and one soldier who wanted a playful-looking demon on her left cheek.” He digs deeper, beyond the surface recollections. ”There’s a bit of history there too, if I recall. Not a big… a raid. Yes! A group prevented Piren’s Bluff from, from aiding… Cheliax.” He looks at Emma’s armor, like it might tell him a story. He looks into her eyes with a sharp focus previously undisplayed, and states, ”Lucia. Lucia Blackford.”
Emma notes two things in the exchange. The way Hawk said 'Cheliax' sounded almost like he was cursing. And his eyes are an unusual shade of black, almost metallic.
The dwarven woman has as far as possible tried to carve a space for herself, not particularly easy on the crowded barge, though most people seem happy enough to give her a wide berth. She looks apprehensive as Majara marches over, fiddling with one of the large hooped gold earrings she wears. A look of slight surprise crosses her face as the gnome speaks to her in her native tongue.
"ᚷᚱᛖᛖᛏᛁᛝᛋ. ᛘᚪᚳᚱᛁᛞᛁ, ᛁᚾ ᛞᚱᚢᛘᚪ" she replies. "ᛁ ᚪᛘ ᛞᚪᛚᚾᚪ," she continues by way of introduction as she sizes Majara up. "ᚳᛁᚾ ᚩᚠ ᚹᛖᚾᛏᚱᚢᛞᛖ," she adds, having decided the gnome does not appear to be a threat and she has no real reason to be rude and not disclose her lineage. Greetings. Macridi, in Druma. I am Dalna, kin of Wentrude.
She offers Majara her hand to shake, expecting her to introduce herself in return. A glance at the calloused fingers and soil under her fingernails shows that Dalna is clearly somebody well used to working with her hands.
"...and that is, I fear, about the extent of my Dwarven," Majara says drily. "I am trying to learn more of the tongue, but further attempts would no doubt be an insult to your people's speech. Majara Pricknettle, kin of nobody in particular, these days. An alchemist and apothecary by my trade, based in Saringallow."
"Is it trade, then, that brings you hither? It seems the most common reason for citizens of Druma to travel."
Dalna's eyebrows rise but a small smile plays across her face at Majara's confession. "Greetings Majara Pricknettle of Saringallow." A range of emotions plays across the dwarf's face in quick succession, gauging how to answer the question and what to she feels comfortable sharing. "Visiting my sister - she married a local. Hapless but I suppose harmless. And I did do some work in their garden - my trade - but not my reason for coming," she adds. That would explain the condition of her hands and glancing at her pack you can see a trowel and a small fork, tools of a gardener, tied to one of the straps.
Sirio analyzes the Varisian, looking him up and down as he speaks, narrowing his eyes at Hawkren's tone in reference to Cheliax. His own feelings on the subject were complex, but he was obligated to step in to defend the motherland, at least in appearance.
The Asmodean gives a slight sardonic smile and clears his throat to grab the man's attention, "Master Hargraves." He intones, "Though Isger is only a vassal state, I would choose my words carefully in these lands were I you. We wouldn't want the wrong people to acquire the wrong impression about your alignment to Her Majestrix, would we?"
He frowns a bit at the man's long hair, tattoos and general person. "Have you considered a hair cut?" He adds. Almost as if he were more slighted by Hawkren's appearance than his apparent venom at Cheliax.
"Wait… Piren’s Bluff? High walls, military stamp to the place, hard by the Aspodells? I’ve been there! I didn’t do much business there, mostly Iomedae symbols… and one soldier who wanted a playful-looking demon on her left cheek. There’s a bit of history there too, if I recall. Not a big… a raid. Yes! A group prevented Piren’s Bluff from, from aiding… Cheliax. Lucia. Lucia Blackford."
At the mention of her mother's name, Emma's attention focuses on the man sharply. It was the first time she'd heard the name in a while - not since leaving Piren's Bluff, in fact. Hawkren has her undivided attention.
"Master Hargraves. Though Isger is only a vassal state, I would choose my words carefully in these lands were I you. We wouldn't want the wrong people to acquire the wrong impression about your alignment to Her Majestrix, would we? Have you considered a haircut?"
She hopes Hawkren doesn't take offense at the words - not too much, at least. Given the recent events surrounding Constantine, Sirio is probably more on edge than he would normally be - and she can't really blame him there. And of course, Sirio would have strong opinions regarding Cheliax. It sounds as though Hawkren has his own. Better to try and smooth things over before asking the question she really wants to ask.
"Would you believe I was able to hold my tongue throughout our adventure in Ravenmoor, Sirio?" she asks. "Mostly, at any rate. Admittedly, once the cult cropped up, any concerns over social missteps on my part faded to the wayside."
She turns back to Hawkren. "Lucia - that's my mother's name! She was stationed there for many years - and had quite a few adventures of her own. Adventures to which I was mostly not kept in the loop while focusing on my training and studies."
Memories of long nights pouring over historical tomes, etiquette, and learning various sword techniques come flaring back up, the smell of woodsmoke from the soldiers and paladins gathered at the fort, the sound of horses and traders making their way through the region...
"Did you... did you meet mom - Lucia - while you were there, then?" she asks, trying not to sound too eager to hear the account of an outsider's encounter with her mom. She'd heard many stories when she had been growing up in Piren's Bluff, but since leaving...
He frowns a bit at the man's long hair, tattoos and general person. "Have you considered a hair cut?" He adds. Almost as if he were more slighted by Hawkren's appearance than his apparent venom at Cheliax.
Hawk’s smile never flags. ”I have, sir. I certainly have. I even tried short hair once – a few years ago. But here’s what I found, if you’ll allow me to bend your ear a moment. Appearance is a tricky thing. It says something about who we are, who we think we are, and what others see us to be. Even a common man, such as myself, knows that sometimes the impressions other have of us affect how we view ourselves. So, when I had my hair short, I looked a bit more ‘serious’, I guess. As I’m sure you can imagine, when you’re asking someone to trust you with a needle, ‘serious’ instead of ‘friendly’ is no benefit. And as people took me more seriously, I started taking myself seriously. I’ve found that’s a detriment as I am rarely a serious man… so, long hair suits the impression I wish to leave.”
"Master Hargraves." He intones, "Though Isger is only a vassal state, I would choose my words carefully in these lands were I you. We wouldn't want the wrong people to acquire the wrong impression about your alignment to Her Majestrix, would we?"
Hawk inclines his head, ”Thank you for the word of caution, sir. I’ll corral my words like horses – can’t have one jumping the fence and mounting a mare in the adjacent paddock, can we?” While it seems his conclusion is comical, his initial thanks are genuine.
Hawk tries to muster a look of dismay at the Majestrix’s possible impression of him, ”I would never wish to offend the Right Honorable Majestrix or the House of Thrune, sir. Heavens forbid!” He doesn’t smile at the jest, ”Someday, the lady may wish for a tattoo and I would hate to miss that commission based on a poorly turned phrase. I don’t know much about lofty folks and political matters – clearly. But as an outside observer, may I say that I worry the House of Thrune, through no fault of their own, might be leaving a wrong (but repairable) impress…”
If Emma was worried that a serious geo-political argument was going to erupt, she sees instead the tattooist engage in a more playful verbal fencing match… which Hawk immediately steps back from in deference to her questions. He offers the priest a deep bow, ”Another time, perhaps? And thank you again for your wise advice.”
He turns his attention back to Emma.
"Lucia - that's my mother's name! She was stationed there for many years - and had quite a few adventures of her own. Adventures to which I was mostly not kept in the loop while focusing on my training and studies."
Memories of long nights pouring over historical tomes, etiquette, and learning various sword techniques come flaring back up, the smell of woodsmoke from the soldiers and paladins gathered at the fort, the sound of horses and traders making their way through the region...
"Did you... did you meet mom - Lucia - while you were there, then?" she asks, trying not to sound too eager to hear the account of an outsider's encounter with her mom. She'd heard many stories when she had been growing up in Piren's Bluff, but since leaving...
Hawk is a bit crestfallen, unable to give Emma the answers she seeks. ”I’m sorry, Miss Blackford, I don’t believe I met your mother. If you have a portrait of her, I might be able to give you a definite answer. People talk when getting tattooed. Your mother was mentioned many, many times by warriors and townsfolk alike. The way people spoke… well, she was practically a legend. I only wish I had met her.”
"Would you..." Hawk starts again knowing his words could be taken as intended or the exact wrong way, "Miss Blackford, I have a good bottle of wine. Would you be interested in drinking it with me this evening? We can toast your mother, you can tell me about her, and - for my part - I will drag my memory for every good thing people said of her." Behind the armor was a grieving daughter. He regards her with sympathy while questioning what would come next.
Forty pounds of armor, strong arms, three feet of forged steel... If she takes this as me trying to bed her, I'm about to lose teeth. And my smile was so pretty.
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"Mermaids? Aye, well, to believe company around cups, apparently t'were no end to the fair maidens of the sea. Me myself, only spied a merman-merkid? Not sure? Slight little lad surfaced and flipped me off he did. From the look of him and how he was looking below as much as me, I figure he was doin' it on a dare for some other kids that didn't dare surface."
Dalna's eyebrows rise but a small smile plays across her face at Majara's confession. "Greetings Majara Pricknettle of Saringallow." A range of emotions plays across the dwarf's face in quick succession, gauging how to answer the question and what to she feels comfortable sharing. "Visiting my sister - she married a local. Hapless but I suppose harmless. And I did do some work in their garden - my trade - but not my reason for coming," she adds. That would explain the condition of her hands and glancing at her pack you can see a trowel and a small fork, tools of a gardener, tied to one of the straps.
"Ah-- a gardener," Majara says, her expression brightening somewhat and her speech becoming more animated. "What is your opinion on adding bone meal to fertilizer? Do you find that compost of kitchen leavings is better than the manure of beasts for the sake of the aforementioned fertilizing? What contributes most to the rapid growth of plants-- gypsum, acids, or ammonia? Conversely do you find that the hardiness of growth is affected by any of the above? I have been trying to engineer a strain of devil's trumpet for the last three years to enhance the psychoactive potency but my experiments are failing to produce consistent results. Too many parameters. Would you recommend sandy soil or that with a greater proportion of clay for the sake of--"
It is perhaps a solid minute before Dalna is able to get in a word edgewise in the face of Majara's onslaught of specialized question.
Dalna registers surprise as Majara starts reeling off questions but she’s more than happy to talk shop and share her expertise with someone who clearly has experience of cultivating plants. When she’s able to get a word in, the dwarf starts ticking points off on her stubby fingers. ”Some folk are squeamish about it. I’m not, just don’t find it does much. This is a hedge but depends on the soil type and what you’re trying to grow. Manure in most cases though, particularly for food crops and flowers. Kitchen leavings can do well for herbs, house plants and small shrubs. I’d use gypsum for speed, ammonia to boost yield.” She appears somewhat baffled by the direction of the last questions. ”My recommendation would be don’t. I spend enough time trying to remove weeds for people so sure as Torag’s hammer I wouldn’t be trying to cultivate it.”
"Mermaids? Aye, well, to believe company around cups, apparently t'were no end to the fair maidens of the sea. Me myself, only spied a merman-merkid? Not sure? Slight little lad surfaced and flipped me off he did. From the look of him and how he was looking below as much as me, I figure he was doin' it on a dare for some other kids that didn't dare surface."
Emma's mouth quirks up slightly. Not exactly the kind of story of mermaids she was looking for, and yet, as was often the case with Roger's stories, still worth hearing regardless.
"Flipped off? Was the pun intended there, or did they literally use their flippers to do so?"
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"I'm sorry, Miss Blackford, I don't believe I met your mother. If you have a portrait of her, I might be able to give you a definite answer. People talk when getting tattooed. Your mother was mentioned many, many times by warriors and townsfolk alike. The way people spoke... well, she was practically a legend. I only wish I had met her. Would you... Miss Blackford, I have a good bottle of wine. Would you be interested in drinking it with me this evening? We can toast your mother, you can tell me about her, and - for my part - I will drag my memory for every good thing people said of her."
Emma smiles at Hawkren. "I hardly think I'd be worthy of a good bottle of wine, but that sounds nice otherwise. It's been..." She scrunches up her nose at the thought. "A while since I had the opportunity to talk about her. And even if you never met her directly, it would still be nice to hear some stories of Piren's Bluff from an outsider. I miss it on occasion, even though I quite enjoy the company I keep these days. Given the events of the past few days..." Emma gestures vaguely with her hand, not really wanting to get too much into it. "I'd rather not drink too much. I'd like my wits about me just in case. But it sounds nice otherwise."
Emma smiles at Hawkren. "I hardly think I'd be worthy of a good bottle of wine, but that sounds nice otherwise.”
Hawk’s brows crease a bit, ”Oh, you under-value yourself, Miss Blackford. But if you need another reason to share a fine bottle… My great uncle Anatole always said ‘Life is too short to drink bad wine.’ It’s not profound, but it is wise. I live by a corollary of that, to wit, ‘life is short, so drink good wine.’ Worthiness is irrelevant.”
"It's been..." She scrunches up her nose at the thought. "A while since I had the opportunity to talk about her. And even if you never met her directly, it would still be nice to hear some stories of Piren's Bluff from an outsider.”
Hawk smiles, ”That sounds like a ‘yes’. If so, I’m delighted! Would nine o’clock suit you? And I may have met your mother, I just don’t know. I’m guessing she wasn’t the sort to get a tattoo, so if we crossed paths, it would likely have been in passing. I did draw a few glares and some terse, but polite, questioning while I was there… and one officer expressed ‘reservations’ about the tattoo I gave one of her soldiers.”
"I'd rather not drink too much. I'd like my wits about me just in case. But it sounds nice otherwise."
The tattooist briefly cocks his head sideways – curious – before inclining it in agreement. ”I’m tempted to ask ‘in case of what?’ but I’ll refrain. You might be about to impugn my sterling copper character." He chuckles then adds soberly, "If you drink one cup or the entire bottle, I’ll enjoy your company this evening. I’ll pour and you can tell me when to stop. So, nine bells then?”
The early morning chill dissipates pretty quickly once the late spring sun emerges, beating down a pleasant warmth onto the deck of the Mermaid's Kilvanion. The day passes uneventfully as the barge chugs its way along the meandering course of the river. It winds its way through the gently undulating landscape of hills, regular copses of trees, and, around highsun, a larger area of light woodland. In late afternoon the boat is sporadically plagued with clouds of tiny black insects; a nuisance to be sure, but nothing more than that. And certainly not like the constant thick miasma of bugs you had to put up with in Ravenmoor's environs.
As dusk draw down, Arauna (as you have learned the captain's mate is named) bangs a small gong and two crewmen bring out a huge cooking pot of broth and several crusty loaves. It's warm and filling, if lacking the finesse and depth of flavour of Majara's cooking. There is no proper waystop at a settlement but this is a well-travelled route and a number of moorings at sporadic intervals have been set up around the halfway point between Elidir and Saringallow. Captain Rufinus calls a stop for the night before the visibility becomes too low to sensibly continue.
As the darkness deepens, increasing numbers of passengers make their ways down the stairs and into the two large sleeping quarters. The temperature has also dropped again with the departure of the sun so by nine bells the deck is largely deserted.
After the brisk morning trade, Hawk’s business slows down appreciably. It was to be expected. Folks would have to mull on Majara’s tattoo and Shel’s paint before they’d approach him. He figured by day three or four of the trip, he might start getting nibbles of interest. The real coup would be drawing in the Calistrian priestess, if he could manage it. His strategy was to largely ignore her. When they made eye contact, he nodded politely, respectfully… but he didn’t stare or let his gaze linger too long on her. He never approached her or – as some others he saw – came up with a ‘reason’ to pass her by. It wasn’t a difficult task, really, she was striking but not the type of woman that drew him. So, he enjoyed the fine weather, a sunny spot on the deck, wracked his brain for every remembrance of Piren’s Bluff, and watched the world float by…
Against the evening chill, Hawk takes his hair down and buttons up his woolen vest. He sets up a couple chairs with a small table between them facing the rail. From his pack, he pulls a pair of fine cups along with the bottle of wine which he uncorks so it can breathe. He takes a seat and enjoys the night, watching fish deftly breaking the river’s surface to snatch low-flying bugs in a gloom so deep that no one with normal eyes could see the sport. He almost pours a little wine, before stopping himself.
Odds she’ll show? Hard to say. She seems naturally reserved… call it 60/40?
He sighs and watches the fish. If she doesn’t show by ten bells, I’ll drink it by myself.
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Emma's mouth quirks up slightly. Not exactly the kind of story of mermaids she was looking for, and yet, as was often the case with Roger's stories, still worth hearing regardless.
"Flipped off? Was the pun intended there, or did they literally use their flippers to do so?"
"Well the words got away from me there, I suppose. Though, if he did flip me off with his flippers too, I wouldn't have been able to tell it from him just doing whatever he did to submerge again. Not an expert of sub-nautical navigation, I am not." Roger thinks back.
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Against the evening chill, Hawk takes his hair down and buttons up his woolen vest. He sets up a couple chairs with a small table between them facing the rail. From his pack, he pulls a pair of fine cups along with the bottle of wine which he uncorks so it can breathe. He takes a seat and enjoys the night, watching fish deftly breaking the river’s surface to snatch low-flying bugs in a gloom so deep that no one with normal eyes could see the sport.
Running a bit late as she'd been practicing some manuevers with her relatively new sword, Emma arrived with Hannelia in tow. They'd only just caught sight of Hawkren when Hannelia reached out and stopped Emma before they went any further. Hannelia had a sort of amused smile on her face, and Emma's face was scrunched up in slight confusion - the scene before her seemed oddly intimate.
"I think perhaps you may have gotten confused," Hannelia says in a low voice. [b]"I believe his invitation was extended to you, and only to you."
Emma let out a sigh. "Iomedae... I am not good at recognizing this sort of thing. I wasn't even really thinking of that sort of thing..." She lets out a sigh. "Now I feel bad. I'm, er, I'm not really interested in men that way."
Hannelia smiled at the paladin. “Emma! Relax. He’s not expecting your hand in marriage. You don’t have to do or talk about anything you don’t want to. Including about your mother. He seems like s decent guy - did Shel show you her artwork six or merely five times?"
Emma laughed. "Eight, I think."
"See? Just relax, and have fun. Tell him upfront that you didn't understand, he seems like the sort that won't take it hard. And if he's insistent, then probably don’t blast him with divine power - unless he's very insistent. I’ll tell you about my first boyfriend another time - not my finest hour. But mostly just have try and enjoy yourself. You deserve a chance to relax."
Hawkren happened to look over before Hannelia departed. Emma gave an awkward wave as Hannelia squeezed her shoulder and departed.
Emma wasn’t really sure what to make of it but she already felt embarrassed enough for not realizing how Hawkren probably saw it.
"Hey," Emma said awkwardly as she approached. "This is quite the set up. How did you manage to arrange all of this? It's quite impressive. I...--" She mentally kicked herself. Get it together, Emma, she told herself. "I fear there may have been a bit of a misunderstanding? I mean, I'm happy to spend some time with you, but - oh, blast it, let me start over. I'm - I guess you could say I'm mostly interested in women? Not that I'm assuming this was supposed to be romantic or anything! Just in case it was - I just didn't want to give you the wrong impression and I fear I may have..." Emma trailed off, letting her hands drop. "And I'm rambling. I apologize."
Hawk watches Emma with growing amusement as she rambles, resets, then rambles again. His grin just keeps growing. ”We should definitely be friends, Emma. May I call you Emma? We have so much in common… we both adore women.” He chuckles, ”I swear, I wasn’t trying to lure you here under false pretenses. I do want to talk about your mother. And, since you’ve been so disarmingly candid… When I ask a woman out, I try to be very clear about my intentions.” He gestures towards a waiting chair for her and only sits after she does so. To her comment about the elaborate setup, he dismissed the effort as trivial, ”I’m no wizard, with a bit of scrounging the ship provided everything – save these cups, my dubious company, and the wine. Speaking of which…” He pours them each a half cup then holds his up for a toast. ”To your mother and fond remembrances of a great lady.”
He takes a sip and savors it as he regards the water for a moment. ”Could you describe her… her looks and bearing? I’m hoping I crossed her path and just never caught her name.”
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”We should definitely be friends, Emma. May I call you Emma? We have so much in common… we both adore women.” He chuckles, ”I swear, I wasn’t trying to lure you here under false pretenses. I do want to talk about your mother. And, since you’ve been so disarmingly candid… When I ask a woman out, I try to be very clear about my intentions.”
"That sounds nice Hawkren. Thanks. And I'm sorry."
Emma ruefully rubs the back of her head, knowing how she must look after practicing with her sword not too long before. Her hair is disheveled and she probably doesn't smell of roses.
"You may of course call me Emma," she says with a laugh. "As you can probably tell, I'm not great with this sort of thing." She lets out a sigh, looking out at the water, and speaks in a lower tone. "Shel was interested, I think, but then the mayor went and turned into a giant bug and there was a whole cult thing, so... and no sightings of merfolk on this voyage yet. My bad luck knows no limit. Alas."
He gestures towards a waiting chair for her and only sits after she does so. ”I’m no wizard, with a bit of scrounging the ship provided everything – save these cups, my dubious company, and the wine."
"Well, still, it's impressive. And dubious company - I think I'm fine with that. That seems to be par for the course for me as of late. Have you met Roger yet?" She smiles.
"To your mother and fond remembrances of a great lady."
He takes a sip and savors it as he regards the water for a moment. "Could you describe her… her looks and bearing? I’m hoping I crossed her path and just never caught her name."
She takes a sip of the wine and raises her eyebrows. She was far from a connoisseur of such things, but even to her unrefined taste, she could tell the wine was high quality.
"This is very good." She raises her glass in response and takes another sip. "Thank you, once again."
Emma tilts her head to the side, frowning. For a time, she doesn't speak, idly sipping at the wine and drudging through her memories. Memories she hadn't thought of in some time now.
"She was... a stern woman. Gray eyes, very sharp, always catching anything going on around her. Very focused on her mission, maintaining her skills, and training my own." She looks down at her calloused hands. "But she wasn't always business. There were moments where her kindness and dedication shone through. Sometimes, I think, she may have been a little too hard on me, but, ultimately, I think it worked out well." She laughed. "It was always fun to watch her disarm some of the more headstrong paladins and knights who came through. No one ever expected her to have such a strong voice, but she had one. She barked out orders once that sounded so commanding, half a contingent of knights ended up marching straight into a wall when she commanded them to. She once ended a brawl after a group of fighters drank too much simply by standing there and gazing at them until they went about their business elsewhere." She looks back at Hawkren. "She had shortish hair, a scar on her cheek and and chin..."
They were details she hadn't thought of in a long time, but now, she can see them clearly in her minds eye.
"She was many things. I miss her, even still." She looks back at Hawkren. "Does any of that help?"
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"That sounds nice Hawkren. Thanks. And I'm sorry."
The tattooist chuckles, ”Well, don’t be too sorry. You are intriguing… and lovely. While I wasn’t angling for a romantic encounter this evening, it would be lie to say I hadn’t considered the possibility of an assignation on another night, had the fates aligned.”
"As you can probably tell, I'm not great with this sort of thing." She lets out a sigh, looking out at the water, and speaks in a lower tone. "Shel was interested, I think, but then…"
He listens, with disappointment, as she starts to diminish herself. He puts his cup down, ”You don’t know me well, Emma, but let me offer some advice as a friend… we often make our own luck. If you like Shel, tell her. The worse that happens is you’ve missed an opportunity – which will definitely happen if you don’t speak. Not saying something… that will be a decision you have to live with for the rest of your life. ‘What Ifs’ haunt us all.” He smiles and his tone lightens, ”And I might suggest that when you do have a date… you reconsider bringing a chaperone, a sword, and armor. You wouldn’t want the girl to think you are looking for a battle not a romance.” He gives her a reassuring wink.
Have you met Roger yet?"
Hawk frowns, considering. ”The seaman? No, I haven’t. I do appreciate his very quiet, feathered companion. Still as a sphinx, that bird.” He stifles a laugh. ”Your companions are quite unusual.”
"She was many things. I miss her, even still." She looks back at Hawkren. "Does any of that help?"
Hawk thinks on it, running through the folks he met or even just recalled seeing… ”Grey eyes, short hair, scars… scars…” He gazes at Emma’s face looking for similarities. ”The scars seem familiar. Wait. Well-defined cheek bones. Her nose was not long or sharp but slender-ish and you noticed it. And her hair was somewhat wavy with some grey in it. Does that sound close?”
Emma nods with growing excitement.
”I did meet her! Related to a client I mentioned before.” Hawk sits back in his chair and sips a bit more wine, warming to the subject. ”This warrior from the garrison wanted a symbol of Iomedae on her bicep. After I’d finished, she said he wanted another one, a smiling cherubic devil on her cheek.” He meets Emma’s eyes then his head cocks and his gaze slide down to her rear, then back to her eyes, then to her rear… and back. ”You understand? She wanted a demon on her cheek… So, we moved into a tent so her… uh… assets weren’t on public display. Now, normally, on a job like this, I have the client drop their pants and hold their knickers out of the way, just enough so I can do the tattoo.” He chuckles, ”This young lady was very enthusiastic and… WHOOSH… pants down and knickers hit the floor with them! To be clear I’ve done more intimate tattoos than a ‘bit of cheek’ so this turn of events did not, in particular, bother me. I clarified that she could have her knickers on but she wasn’t hearing of it! Up she hops on the table. So, I did the painting and proceeded with the tattooing. Well, we were getting close to the finish and some other soldier who wanted a tattoo or something comes barging in. So, there this girl is, with her arse – pardon my language – in the air and my hands firmly on it. The fellow mutters an apology and practically takes the tent down while stumbling out as fast as possible.” The tattooist shakes his head. ”I finish the piece, get the girl back in her knickers and pants… and off we go. Job done, client happy.”
”I’m cleaning my paint pots not ten minutes later when your mother comes storming into the tent. She’s looking for the fellow who was caught convincing her soldiers to strip naked to slake his lustful appetites and corrupting their flesh with hellish sigils. She had a sword so I armed myself… but a longsword and a tattoo needle are not an even match, in case anyone tells you otherwise. Anyhow, she had a formidable glare and wanted a full accounting of my whereabouts and actions or I could expect ‘dire results’… I think those were her exact words and I believed her. I told her my business and I think it mollified her a bit but she was thorough. She pulled me around half the town and the barracks identifying everyone that my needles touched, inspected their tattoos, and asked them about my comportment – if I’d in any way done anything inappropriate. It was a long afternoon, I can tell you. Anyhow, eventually she was convinced that it was a misunderstanding and I could be on my way. So, I said, “Well, ma’am you’ve see all my work… Would you like a tat - maybe a flattened devil or scared tattooist squashed on the bottom of your foot?” Ohhh, I thought she was going to kill me. She had a glare that one. But then her eyes crinkled and she laughed. She was very pretty when she laughed.”
"You don’t know me well, Emma, but let me offer some advice as a friend… we often make our own luck. If you like Shel, tell her. The worse that happens is you've missed an opportunity – which will definitely happen if you don't speak. Not saying something... that will be a decision you have to live with for the rest of your life. 'What Ifs' haunt us all." He smiles and his tone lightens, "And I might suggest that when you do have a date... you reconsider bringing a chaperone, a sword, and armor. You wouldn't want the girl to think you are looking for a battle not a romance." He gives her a reassuring wink.
Emma takes another sip of wine, casting her gaze down. "Heh - well, fair point. Unless the girl in question was a warrior herself, I suppose. I've known a few who would probably consider fighting demons a good first date." She lets out a sigh. "Fair enough regarding Shel, though for the moment, I'd rather she have a chance to find her footing. She's only just getting to experience having her own choices and her own life."
"The scars seem familiar. Wait. Well-defined cheekbones. Her nose was not long or sharp but slender-ish and you noticed it. And her hair was somewhat wavy with some grey in it. Does that sound close?"
Emma nods with growing excitement.
It had been so long since she'd heard anyone talk of her mother, had heard anything outside of her memories.
"I did meet her! Related to a client I mentioned before. This warrior from the garrison wanted a symbol of Iomedae on her bicep. After I'd finished, she said he wanted another one, a smiling cherubic devil on her cheek." He meets Emma's eyes then his head cocks and his gaze slide down to her rear, then back to her eyes, then to her rear... and back. "You understand? She wanted a demon on her cheek..."
Emma blushes at the realization, then lets out an embarrassed chuckle. That sounded about right for some of the soldiers at the fort - she'd seen a few of the tattoos, now that she was thinking about it - she'd never really thought about where they'd come from. She'd just assumed they'd gotten them done. Emma could only imagine the uproar that would have occurred had she gotten one herself - though she likely had been too young anyway.
As she listens to the rest of Hawkren's tale, her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush further with secondhand embarrassment.
When Hawkren finishes, she sits there in silence for a moment, staring at the man in silence. He shifts around, looking uncertain for a moment, perhaps wondering if he had said something wrong.
And then, a choked laugh escapes her lips, leading to a longer one that echoes across the water, and soon, she's laughing so hard that tears are streaming down her face.
She can imagine the scene in vivid detail - her mother, standing there with her sword extended, her stern look in place, while Hawkren held a tattoo needle up in defense. And the idea of her mother marching around demanding to see his handiwork, barking orders at the soldiers to see the tattoos... oh Iomedae, the thought of it was incredible.
When Emma gets control of herself, she looks up at Hawkren and wipes some of her tears away, still chuckling. "She did have a great laugh," she agrees in a strained voice. "My word. Thank you for that story, truly."
"Fair enough regarding Shel, though for the moment, I'd rather she have a chance to find her footing. She's only just getting to experience having her own choices and her own life."
"Fair. Shel is just starting her journey... but you might be a choice she'd like to say 'yes' to, if only she knew it's possible. Just something to consider."
When Hawkren finishes [his tale], she sits there in silence for a moment, staring at the man in silence.
Hawk shifts around, feeling uncertain for a moment. Damn. Did I strike a nerve? Oh, I hope I didn't just make her cry...
And then, a choked laugh escapes her lips, leading to a longer one that echoes across the water, and soon, she's laughing so hard that tears are streaming down her face.
Hawk doesn't even bother hiding his relief. He was trying to make the young woman feel better, not worse.
When Emma gets control of herself, she looks up at Hawkren and wipes some of her tears away, still chuckling. "She did have a great laugh," she agrees in a strained voice. "My word. Thank you for that story, truly."
He pours a little more wine in both their cups, and enjoys watching Emma laugh. There were even hints of her mother's laugh in it. "You're quite welcome, Emma."
An idea strikes him, "When you return to Piren's Bluff, if you'd like to hear the other end of that story - literally - the cheeky soldier, her name was... Penelope... She said her friends called her 'Threepenny'. Mentioned that several times as something of a point of pride." He imitates the pitch and tone of a tipsy girl, "Penny Threepenny they call me!" He smiles, shakes his head, and drinks.
Perception
Initiative
Despite their initial misunderstandings - mutual or otherwise - around the evening's entertainment, Hawk and Emma get over any fledgling awkwardness quickly enough. Lubricated by a decent bottle of wine, the conversation is both heartfelt and surprisingly raucous. Unfortunately, like all good things, it must come to an end - and does so abruptly.
Despite the alcohol, Hawk manages to keep his wits about him and is able to discern a pair of shapes in the darkness of the land alongsde the barge just in time to be hit with a coating of thick green strands, like seaweed in appearance but resinous and sticky. At the same time as the spell lands, a large hulking shape clambers up on to the deck.
At the barge's stern there is a dual rippling effect in the water, hard to detect in the darkness, followed by a scrabbling sound. Majara's ears prick up at the noise and Sirio's head also whirls round. He manages to get out a startled "What in the-" before two more large brutes thump their way onto the Mermaid's Klivanion, the sound reverberating around the whole of the boat. Green of skin, with unfortunate-looking faces shrouded by a mass of hair, despite the webbed nature of their hands and feet, the claws at the end of their appendages look sharp and dangerous.
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What Majara wants to do is fish. There are night-fish in the river that she'd like to catch at least one or two of (her conversations with the dwarf regarding possible fertilizers have led her to want to try out fish, if nothing else) and it's a quiet enough night, good for it, Miss Blackford and Mister Hargraves far enough away at the prow of the boat that she, fishing at the stern, is not bothered by their conversation.
That doesn't preclude being bothered by Sirio.
It is reasonable (Majara reminds herself) that he is concerned over Constantine. It is reasonable that he has questions.
It's just that she's answered them all, ad infinitum ad nauseam ad taedium, and comfort is deeply not her strong suit.
"Yes, Mr. Regilianus, no doubt there are divine petitions that can be made to your patron, but that is much more your area of expertise than mine, and--"
She and Sirio both stop, heads snapping around as two-- rather large shapes join them on the aft deck.
She wrinkles her nose as she doesn't recognize the specimens in front of her. Well, no matter. She is fairly sure they are not supposed to be on the boat, regardless.
Even as she's making this observation, Majara's fingers are moving for one of her extracts, and a light shimmer of force emerges around her as she guzzles the small bottle.
Hawk has enough time to look curious and say “What is th..” before getting slathered in webbing that it – in no way – benefits him to identify. Yep, a Web spell. I’m quicker than this. I blame the booze.
If a hulking, watery, beast hadn’t lumbered onto deck, he might be content to play the damsel in distress and let Emma rescue him. It would avoid questions he’d really rather not answer. But given that she might be entangled as well… he chooses to ‘out’ himself.
He manages to get a hand free and recites a brief incantation. An arc of flame streaks from his fingertips to touch the beast on the head before caroming off its thick skull to streak towards the caster on the shore…
2nd Spells (4): x
1st Spells (7):
Dancing Lights (3):
Effects:
Mage Armor = +4 AC/FF for 4 hrs
Emma doesn't know what they are, other than ugly, but their intentions are perfectly clear when they attempt to ensnare her and Hawkren. She manages to avoid being caught in the gunk.
She takes a moment to look over at Hawkren. "I appreciate your earlier point. But perhaps there's something to be said about keeping a sword on hand regardless of the situation, eh?"
Then she steps forward towards the... whatever it is. Damn wine.
Here's hoping the wine didn't affect my sword arm any, Emma thinks, raising her glowing blade.
At the appearance of the boarders, the other occupants of the deck take one look at the huge green brutes and scramble for the hatch to the lower deck. Rushing down the ladder come a single crew member on watch and a couple out for a moonlit tryst- or at least a tryst, as the moon is well hidden behind thick clouds. From below, the thumps of the merrow sound ominious and the creak of the barge's wooden exterior only serves to add to a sense of low level panic in the two large sleeping chambers. But the Mermaid's Klivanion is large sturdily built and the thuds don't send it rocking wildly or cause any serious damage.
Hannelia is up on her feet instantly, seeking out Captain Rufinus and telling him "Unless any of your crew are noted warriors probably best to leave this to my companions." The captain nods quickly in agreement and Hannelia dashes off to the bottom of the ladder, helping the trio down from the deck and ushering them behind her. She tries to put Shel's worried expression, one shared by most of the rest of the barge's passengers out of her mind and concentrate on the matter at hand. "I'm going to stay guard down here," she calls up. "Let me know if you plan on coming down as I'm going to set up a surprise for anything that thinks of heading this way. I'll assume you have everything in hand but shout if you really need me."
It would appear the Hawk the tattoo artist has been keeping his powder dry regarding his magical powers but they look to be useful in a tight spot. Despite being firmly enmeshed in the seaweed web, he is able to conjure up a bolt of fire that incinerates the merrow, leaving it a charred corpse, before arcing its way to the spellcaster off the side of the boat. And for all of her companion's jibes about bringing a sword, Emma's words prove correct as it is undeniably useful in this situation. Perhaps being able to conjure fire with one's fingers means mere physical weaponry is less important when it comes to self-defence. In spite of the wine she has imbibed, by Iomedae's grace, the paladin sidesteps and avoids becoming entangled.
Majara quickly downs an elixir and confirms understanding to Hannelia. Sirio simply snarls and works a spell before suddenly vanishing from sight.
In the afterglow of Hawk's spell, you can see that the spellcaster has a similar appearance to the merrow, though less buky and his face is weirdly handsome despite the mismatched eyes. You suspect he probably has more than a drop of human blood in him. His height appears to be close to seven feet and would tower over all of you, it's just that alongside the full-blooded merrow it doesn't seem so large. A grimace crosses his face at the burns scarring one side of his body and he coughs, a horrible retching sound. The cough continues for longer than seems plausible and the creature's cheeks bulge before it tilts its head back and spews forth a seemingly endless stream of tiny spiders. They land on the deck and swarm forward, crawling all over Hawk and Emma.
At the boat's stern, the two river ogres look momentarily confused by the disappearance of one of their foes but then just move forward and lash out with their scaly webbed claws at the two remaining opponents.
Perhaps it is good fortune, or maybe the creatures are not accustomed to fighting outside of the water, but none of their claws land telling blows. Off to the side, you hear Sirio's voice chanting. "May the iron law of the Dark Prince guide our blades to strike true," he finishes.
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Round 1
”But perhaps there's something to be said about keeping a sword on hand regardless of the situation, eh?"
Trapped in strands of sticky seaweed… and now coated in a healthy dose of spiders, Emma can barely see the tattooist’s face. The one hand she can see makes a dramatic ‘really?’ gesture as she hears the sound of retching behind the mass of spider-laden seaweed.
This thinks Hawk, as he dry heaves among the spiders and seaweed’s cloying brine, is why I don’t adventure… Worst. Non-date. Ever.
2nd Spells (4): x
1st Spells (7):
Dancing Lights (3):
Effects:
Mage Armor = +4 AC/FF for 4 hrs
Nauseated = Nauseated creatures are unable to attack, cast spells, concentrate on spells, or do anything else requiring attention. The only action such a character can take is a single move action per turn.
Majara's head swivels to and fro, taking in their incoming problematic friends, as well as the-- spiders? at the bow. Oh. Spiders. Those are foes she is especially equipped to dispatch, she muses. But perhaps one thing at a time.
Taking a defensive step back down the stairs, Majara lightly tosses-- almost rolls-- a flask across the deck to crash into the ankles of the merrows. The flash fire won't burn long enough to do any REAL damage to the deck; she thinks the captain will understand.
"Blast it not you blubbermonkeys again!" Roger roars in surprise as he lurches out of the clutches of one of their foes.
Pulling steel, he readies himself to to face these foes.
"Dunno what their deal is, but they don't like being stabbed, same as the rest!"
As the spiders spew forth and swarm Emma and Hawkren, Emma lurches backward slightly, her heartbeat accelerating. Spiders!
"Damn it! Why is it always spiders?!" Emma shouts. She just barely managed to stave off a wave of nausea as the spiders swarmed, biting into her and slipping beneath her armor. "Get off!" she cries, her voice rising sharply in a rather embarrassing shriek - though Emma is past the point of caring about how she comes across to Hawkren at the moment.
Trapped in strands of sticky seaweed… and now coated in a healthy dose of spiders, Emma can barely see the tattooist’s face. The one hand she can see makes a dramatic ‘really?’ gesture as she hears the sound of retching behind the mass of spider-laden seaweed.
Emma shakes her head slightly at Hawkren - she'll apologize later. It was a dumb comment, and with the spiders swarming, her taste for humor had swiftly abandoned her.
Kicking at the swarm, mostly for her mental health than anything resembling an actual attack, Emma pushes herself forward. The spiders are still swarming around her, and Hawkren seems like he's in trouble, but...
Emma knows that this won't be getting better anytime soon unless the spellcaster is taken care of. So, despite the fact that it makes her feel like a coward, she presses on. Using one of the mooring ropes, she begins to descend the side of the boat, grunting from the bulk of her armor.
At first, things go well enough, though the side of the boat is quite slippery.
But, as she descends further, her grip on the rope falters, and with a cry, Emma finds herself falling the rest of the distance.
"Damn!"
She tries to recover but ends up being unable to react quickly enough. She lets out a grunt as she falls the rest of the way, landing prone.
At the very least, she hopes the fall killed some of the damn spiders that managed to crawl under her armor.
Iomedae! she thinks. Why was it always spiders?!