The priestess raises a shapely eyebrow at Hawk, relishing the word-jousting and meeting his half-smile with a quirk her own lips. ”Transcendent? Yes, I can believe as much,” she reflects. ”Some say that pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin. It is an argument not without merit, though experience has taught me that often they are one and the same. It just depends on whose perspective you are viewing them from.” The words are a reminder to Hawk, just in case he needed one, that pleasures of the flesh are but one part of Calistria’s portfolio. In this instance, however, it’s clear to him that it is the former aspect that is very much on the priestess’s mind.
Maintaining Hawk’s studious eye contact, she reaches up to cup a hand under his chin and ensure he doesn’t break it. ”A wasp,” she purrs, slowly running her other hand down her body. ”Here, beneath my heart. I do fear that you misunderstand the purpose of business,” she continues. ”If the game ceases to be enjoyable, do not play. To separate the two suggests a certain lack of imagination - and I had such high hopes for you,” she sighs dramatically before leaning in so her face is mere inches away from Hawk’s. ”So no, I don’t want you to forget, I want to work with you, closely, teacher to pupil, and bring you to… enlightenment.” Her fingers dance lightly down Hawk’s chest as she finishes.
Hawk’s replies with a note of amusement. ”I think, Mistress, that you may be slightly underestimating me.” He runs his hand along hers, the one cupping his face, then presses his nail into the base of the cuticle on her manicured hand… just enough to zing her nerves so she knows he knows what he’s doing. ”My profession requires intimate knowledge of the nerves… usually to avoid striking them. My clients generally prefer to avoid the sharpest sensations.” He smiles, ”But there are others that want to experience it all. I understand that perspective. Life is too short and death too long.”
He takes her hand from his face and kisses it lightly on the palm. ”I look forward to working with you. I believe in lifelong learning. I hope you do as well. For as much as you intend to teach, I think you’ll find I have a few modest lessons to impart as well.”
She nods approvingly at Hawk’s touch of pressure on her nerve. ”Indeed. There is a time and a place for amateurs but tonight I am seeking a professional. I am pleased to have found one.” The priestess raises her hand as Hawk kisses it, giving him the option of continuing along her arm. ”That is well, I believe we understand each other. I trust this to be a very fruitful partnership.” Tossing her hair, she tells him, ”I have a suite at Mother Wilitta’s House of Rapture for the evening. I have preparations to make but I will see you for dinner. I always find a good meal to be a powerful aphrodisiac.” She smiles invitingly, all subtlety thrown out the window, and takes her leave from the boat.
Roger keeps himself in ship shape. There's no way they'd stay in port for too long, even if the storm they'd just weathered was a bad one.
He finds it not too hard to keep himself whipped into shape. That last adventure hadn't let much chance for taking it easy, that's for sure! Still, a little time of dedicated training never hurt no one- save in the pocketbook! Them martial masters sure had no lack of work to do, and were pricey to keep.
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The rest of their journey is uneventful, which a part of Majara appreciates even as another part of her can't help but ponder that she feels she has improved the formula for the powder of her incendiary bombs and it would be convenient if something would appear to give her the chance to test that...
The shopkeeper part of her savors stability and mislikes interruptions and chaos. The adventurer in her, even if it has lain somewhat dormant for twenty-odd years, craves excitement-- as all gnomes stereotypically do. The alchemist in her falls somewhere in the middle... the scientific process requires a certain base level of stability, in order to reproduce experiments without too many variables; documenting one's progress becomes very difficult if one is, say, constantly getting attacked. On the other hand, necessity is proverbially the mother of invention, and she certainly has had breakthroughs that were spurred by the need to stop someone constantly attacking her.
It's a bit of a conundrum.
But when they reach Saringallow Majara is pleased enough to let the shopkeeper have free rein for a bit. It is time to see what sort of muddle Gellion has made of things...
Beelining for her apothecary, Majara is consoled that, from the outside, at least, it's still standing.
"Welcome to-- Mistress Pricknettle! You're back!"
"I am. Let's looksee the ledger, hm?"
***
For two months, thoughts of adventure are set on the metaphorical back burner of Majara's mind as she spends much of her efforts in putting the business to rights-- correcting some of Gellion's errors of inexperience, inventorying the shop, checking his arithmetic, placing orders of reagents, and a hundred other little tasks.
And yet she finds herself distracted to a certain extent. She wants to fiddle with that dead cythnigot she brought back, not take the time to inspect the glassware and be sure Gellion hasn't chipped any of it. Profits the first week are a bit slow to start up-- Gellion confesses the shop made little coin during her absence, as indeed many residents seemed to be avoiding it-- or rather, him.
But news that the 'proper' alchemist has returned spreads through Saringallow and the second week sees an uptick of those coming to purchase their salves, hangover remedies, contraceptives, and other sundries from the shop. The biggest purchase of the week is a goodly number of supplies for the Desnans who are heading off to Ravensmoor. Majara rather drily wishes them luck.
The backlog of orders that haven't been placed, however, means that the shop is short of crucial reagents for the most popular items, the ones whose creation she usually outsources to Gellion. Deprived temporarily of the ability to replenish those wares, Majara resigns herself to a slow week. And sets Gellion to dust everything.
The orders arrive! Several crates are delivered from the docks by sweating porters who all the same handle the boxes with great care-- thanks perhaps to the symbols painted all over the outsides of the crates that say, in a dozen languages, how the contents might explode if handled harshly. (Exaggeration, but Majara's found that including that special delivery instruction to her suppliers in the Five Kings Mountains means more shipments arriving intact.) With fresh supplies of antimony, chalcanthum, realgar, aquia regia, and more, the shop can resume production of its best sellers. It results in the best business week since her return-- indeed, the best week that she supposes she's had in years.
Which doesn't mean much, she muses as she tallies the week's profit on Endday, compared to the profits to be found in plundering crypts, exploring lost wizard halls...........
A rash of summer thunderstorms keeps Saringallow's citizens inside for a few days, and only those with significant need come to the shop. Majara spends the slower hours concocting a paint. The name of the shop-- Pricknettle's Potions and Poultices00 needs to be refreshed, where it's done on the glass of the door. She redoes the letters, and then, after consideration, adds on Endorsed by the Saringallow Seekers.
Nothing saying she can't profit by it, is there?
The stormfront blows through and business picks up. In between customers Majara drills her apprentice. "Name three solvents, four adhesives, and seven species of salts..."
In between running the shop, Majara finds other ways to keep busy. Visiting Constantine to try to feed him a new experimental dose, the occasional meal at the Witch's End, where Roger can often enough be found-- Majara has found herself fond of his wild tales-- and Zuke has dropped by to catch up (and to learn precisely what happened with Elias, anyway). (That particular tale had necessitated closing the shop early, and opening a bottle of wine that was late in the finishing.)
The deepening of summer means that many come to her shop for nothing more urgent than the little cups of ice shavings Majara has often sold this time of year-- colored with bits of dyes, flavored with sugars. Profit is profit and a sale is a sale, even if it can't be really called alchemy.
Though business is not as brisk as she might wish, Majara feels content with the degree to which she has put the shop 'back on track. More to the point, she is content with how Gellion has been coming along. She is aware she thrust him into the deep end when it came to managing the shop-- and that after a traumatic event-- but her bet seems to have paid off. The work gave him something to focus on and throw himself into, and now that she's spent two months coaching him along with a greater focus on the business of the shop than before, he seems more confident. If she needs to leave again, she thinks the shop will manage.
If. If... or when...?
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High summer, and the shop is restocked, and Gellion is proving more capable, and she finds herself mostly sitting at the counter doing little enough while Gellion pitches the wares to those who come calling.
Very well, Majara thinks, sliding off her stool and taking herself to the back rooms where the equipment is. Time to experiment properly.
Some of her brewing is done with an eye to future needs-- whether adventuring, or otherwise. Some of it is done merely for the sake of concocting-- for the pleasure of experimenting.
Gellion cuts his hand when slicing mandrake root and Majara directs him to a curative potion, then realizes that stock is lower than she'd like. A few days are spent boiling down a decent batch of hogwort leaves, willow bark, and echnicaea, until she has a thick sticky syrup that by itself would coax natural healing along-- but it's the addition of of salt of hartshorn and calx that makes it alchemy and not mere herbalism. Four days of work, and a complicated blending and refining process later, and four new vials of lightly blue-tinged liquid well-being are tucked into the back office.
Recalling the supernatural darkness that had been used against them in Ravensmoor, Majara takes the better part of a day to painstakingly grind up the charred bones of a small bat until she has a remarkably fine charcoal. That is mixed with quartz dust, antimony, goldenseal, and xenotime and then the whole powder added to whiskey to soak for two hours. Then it's the process of boiling, reducing, adding more liquid, reducing again, telling Gellion not to interrupt her, boiling, reducing..... it takes the better part of a day but at the end an ounce of inky-black liquid is distilled into one of the many potion vials she has on hand, and Majara makes a satisfied noise before realizing she is ravenously hungry and Gellion's been gone for hours. To the Witch's end for dinner it is!
The next day, Majara spends out of doors-- partly at Gellion's urging, partly because her workroom needs a good airing. She walks around town, to the temple to see Constantine, up the hill to see the manor and Talon and Marcus Sarini's alchemy workroom, down again-- ouch, her legs-- and finally ends up by the river, watching the ceaseless flow of water and boats. She can't help but muse on what a poor swimmer she is. Or say Miss Blackford-- all that armor would make her sink like a stone... Hrhmn, maybe that's a good project...
Four nights later and she has four potions the color of the Conerica at its greenest, which she duly tucks away.
Of course, brewing of potions consists of a great deal of downtime-- time in which ingredients are boiling or simmering or setting or cooling-- and in those slow bits, Majara continues to work on her Dwarven, practicing runes and poring through a thick tome of the language...
At a more leisurely pace, now, Majara ponders making a few other useful items. Perhaps more things to throw at enemies... or syrup to soothe the gut....
A good morning's work... and for the afternoon, the soothe syrup.
The next morning Majara cracks her knuckles and considers something more of a challenge-- bottled lightning.
"Ma'am, you should really take a break," Gellion says to her the next day, whether out of concern for her or just out of the desire to be unsupervised for a few blissful hours being up for debate. Majara considers this, then nods, and heads out to see the status of Saringallow.
She doesn't receive the same nods and recognition as the other 'Seekers', which is fine by her. The others are the ones who saved the town, and stood before the mayor. Majara only helped save a different town (and she muses at points whether they did in fact 'save' it. Oh well). Still, she is a recognizable face around town regardless-- Saringallow doesn't have THAT many gnomes, and she's been here more than a few years, now, running a business. Pricknettle greets those who greet her, reserved but polite, and eventually winds up at the door of Quill.
"Care for wine?" is her perfunctory greeting when the elf opens the door of his lodgings; she offers up a bottle that used to be Mayor Kriegler's.
"Ah. Well by all means, come in. I understand you went on a trip."
"I did. I have the remnants of a cythnigot for you, if you'd like."
"Oh, really? That would be interesting. Well come inside-- I have some bread from Gunty's, and apple butter, and that and the wine, will, I think, make a satisfactory repast."
The rest of the afternoon is spent in what counts as pleasant socializing to Majara-- a great deal of discussion of plants, herbs, and showing off the tick antennae and extraplanar horror she brought back from her travels, all lubricated with wine and helped down by nine slices of bread liberally smeared with sweet apple honey butter.
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Our valiant non-hero enters the fray… well… he incinerates several hobgoblins from a respectful distance. Working together, the tide of battle turns. Those hobgobs not killed by the dryad or the tattooist, quickly flee. Hawk has visions in his head of his reward: a chaste kiss, possibly a shared meal, and maybe a bit of conversation… That’s when roots, branches, and vines lash around him and drag him deeper into the copse then beneath a pile of pine needles and leaf-litter. As his consciousness fades, he recalls an early lesson he’d received from one of his fae nannies: there are many different types of dryads… and they aren’t all nice. Well, sh!t.
Some time later, when the dryad’s mind reaches out to his, Hawk evaluates his situation. He can’t see, hear, or feel anything. He feels rather ‘floaty’. So… stasis. He remains calm, this wasn’t his first time in a fey trap. He really ought to thank his nannies for their attempts to educate him. He ignores the dryad’s overt attempts to torment him with promises of freedom, and instead engages her in conversation, all the while trying to pull information from her. It takes several of her ‘visits’ before he has gleaned a full picture of his peril.
She’s a Nimuein dryad. So thoroughly evil. Bad start. Disgusted by humanoids of any sort. More bad. Hates arcanists the most. Very bad. And really, REALLY hates arcanists with any sort of monstrous heritage …like, say, a draconic sorcerer’s bloodline. Fan-f#$king-tastic! And there is no way to break out of this field, so I have to get her to LET me out. Right. Time to be get creative…
Time becomes irrelevant as Hawk is only truly conscious when she contacts him and he has no idea how often that is. But he plays the one card he has available.
When she threatens, he accepts:
Dryad: ”The roots are growing into your flesh. Should I let them kill you?”
Hawk: [b]”Not a bad way to die, I guess. I’m not feeling anything so I guess I’ll just die and not even know it until whatever comes next.”
When she rages, he mulls:
Dryad: ”You are loathesome!”
Hawk: ”Care to explain? I don’t know what’s happening outside.”
Dryad: ”You are tree-killers and forest burners!”
Hawk: ”Not all of us. I’ve never cut down a tree or burnt one… except dead ones we gathered for firewood. Besides, I’m in here with you… so don’t blame me for what someone else is doing.”
When she torments, he tacks:
Dryad: ”Don’t you want to be free? I could let you out…”
Hawk: ”You could, but you won’t. What I don’t understand is what you get out of this… aside from killing one more person.”
Dryad: ”Normally, I charm your people, use you, and then kill you.”
Hawk: ”’Use me’? For what… raking leaves? Luring more people to you?”
Dryad: [chuckles] ”… And other things. Your people are stupid. I talk you into doing painful chores – like moving beehives by hand.”
Hawk: ”Ouch. But you didn’t try to charm me. Why is that? I’m not beehive worthy?”
Dryad: ”Your fire magic was too dangerous.”
Hawk: ”That’s fair, I suppose. It has worked out well for me. I can’t be stung by a hundred bees in here. This floating feeling isn’t bad compared to the alternative.”
When she gets lonely, he questions:
Hawk: ”I’ve heard your sisters have sex with humans sometimes. Is that true? Or is that not true for you?”
Dryad: ”After charming them, yes. Sometimes, we do.”
Hawk: ”But you hate humans… so why do that?”
Dryad: ”I have desires and I… have a right to fulfill them!”
Hawk: ”I agree. I would think your desires would be towards some race you like… treants or something.”
Dryad: [snort] ”Fool! They are not built in a way that will please us!”
Hawk: ”OK, OK. It was just an example. Hmmm. So… you’ve never actually had sex with someone who – without being charmed – wanted to have sex with you?”
Dryad: ”They desire to please me. It is the same thing.”
Hawk: ”No, it isn’t. It is very different when someone wants you for you. Frankly, I’m a little surprised.”
Dryad: ”At what?”
Hawk: [b]”When I saw you fighting the hobgoblins I though you were quite pretty. I’m a bit surprised you haven’t seduced some fellow the old-fashioned way. At least it would be a change of pace for you. You could always charm and kill them afterwards.”
Dryad: ”What do you mean a ‘change of pace’?”
Hawk: ”Never mind.”
When she gets smug, he gets zen:
Dryad: ”You’ll never be free. You know that, right?”
Hawk: ”Yes, but neither will you.”
Dryad: ”I AM free!”
Hawk: [laughs] ”Really? You are bound to a single tree and you do the same things over, and over, and over, and over again. Catch people, charm them, use them, and kill them. That’s it. That’s your entire life and you call that ‘free’?”
Somewhere in the back and forth of their conversations, doubts crept into the dryad’s head. He didn’t act like her other victims. She couldn’t torment him mentally… which left her unsatisfied. And she couldn’t enjoy killing him because he would feel nothing. And he seemed irritatingly fine with that! And he vexed her so she wanted to torment him, or kill him painfully, or enslave him for her own amusement… but all of those things required releasing him from his prison, at least for a brief time.
More endless eternity happens, when the now familiar presence of the dryad rouses Hawk to consciousness.
Dryad: ”I’m thinking about releasing you.”
Hawk: [laughs] ”Sure. Hand me a pot of leprechaun’s treasure, too. Work on your lies.”
Dryad: ”I’m not lying. I’m thinking about it. If I did let you go, what would you do?”
Hawk: ”Fine. I’ll play this hypothetical game with you.” There is a long pause as he considers the question, before offering an honest answer. ”I truly don’t know. I guess it depends on what I’m facing.”
Dryad: ”What does that mean?”
Hawk: ”I mean if I’m waking up to finding roots pushing through my eye-sockets, mushrooms growing in my lungs, and wolves eating my guts out… I’ll pass. I’ll stay here. I don’t need to experience a horrible death.”
Dryad: ”What if there are no roots or wolves?”
Hawk: [pauses] ”Like I’m just an older me, no immediate horrifying death?”
Dryad: ”Yes.”
Hawk: ”Then I really don’t know what I’d do.”
Dryad: ”Would you try to kill me?”
Hawk: [pauses] ”No, I don’t think so. I wasn’t inclined to kill you when we met and – despite this prison – I’m not mad enough to kill you now. But if you tried to kill me, yeah, I’d give it my best shot.”
And so it was, at some interminable time later, that Hawk came to consciousness to the sounds of rustling plants, the smell of soil, the itchy feel of pine needles and dirt inside his clothes, the warmth of sunshine on him, and he actually had to breathe again. He coughed dust from his unused lungs, wiped the dirt from his eyes so he could see and found himself standing right where he’d been taken. His backpack was roughly where’d he left it before the fight. It hadn’t aged appreciably so years hadn’t passed. It was also too far away for comfort. The dryad was far closer than he would have liked, practically pressed up against him, and holding his spell pouch. She was taking no chances with him, which he’d anticipated. He tries to speak, holds up a staying hand for a moment, then bends over to cough up the remaining dust in his lungs. When he’s able, he stands up and manages a pained smile and a warbly, “thank you” though his unused vocal cords. The dryad smiles… then Hawk drives the depleted, cold iron, 6” long, hex nail (he’d palmed off his necklace during his coughing fit) into the dryad’s shoulder, in a spot that was agonizing for a human… and he hoped was just as painful for a fey. He hilts the nail in her then sprints for his life, grabbing his backpack and staff as he passes.
The dryad’s ululating screams tell him he might have hit a nerve cluster both races share. He doesn’t stop running until he collapses.
Ten weeks after leaving Saringallow on a boat, the tattooist stumbles back into town, on foot, along the southern road. He is covered in a layer of dirt along with some pine needles. In addition to being dirty, his clothes look as if tiny rootlets have burrowed through them. They even show nibble marks by small animals. Hawk has three priorities: he asks people the month and day, he buys a Hex Nail, then he finds an Inn with a great bath.
"--interested to see how the crop fares the next few years, but not interested enough to risk going back there and getting my head bashed in by vengeful villagers, you see, so-- eh? What's that?"
"That, Mistress Pricknettle, is a window."
"Shut it. The man outside, walking down your street-- is that-- well he's dreadfully dirtier than the last time I saw him-- Quill, you'll excuse me. Business calls. Or adventure. Something."
****
A hesitant townsperson takes two steps back from Hawk before answering his question, or starting to. "...why... it's Erastus, and..."
"I'll take it from here," says a firm voice, and the townsperson looks rather relieved about that. Nothing bodes well of unusual people staggering into town filthy, mangled, and filthy, and also filthy. With a ducked nod of the head, the benighted NPC hurries away, leaving a blue-haired gnome gazing up at Hawkren with a bit of a frown on her face.
"Well you can't give anyone a tattoo looking like that. Hardly hygienic. You had better follow me, Hawkren Hargraves."
Majara turns, assuming he's doing just that without actually checking. "Is whatever chewed your couture pursuing you?"
"Well you can't give anyone a tattoo looking like that. Hardly hygienic. You had better follow me, Hawkren Hargraves."
The tattooist blinks at the gnome a few times. ”Miss Pricknettle… Are you in the market for another tattoo?” He trails behind her without resistance, seeming passably befuddled. ”I do want to see how your moth is healing but, perhaps, just not at this moment. Your hair is a very fetching shade of blue today.”
"Is whatever chewed your couture pursuing you?"
”Hm? I don’t think she eats people… No, no, my clothes that was… I’m guessing a gopher, possibly nesting ground squirrels. Wouldn’t it be funny if they chased me? I could harness them and use them as my chariot team. I suppose I’d need a chariot then.”
He shakes his head, trying to clear the fanciful notions. ”How long has it been since we last met? That fellow said Erastus.”
Majara sucks her teeth a moment before answering Hawk's question, at least the last one.
"Two months, two weeks, and seven hours, give or take a few minutes," she responds after a moment's thought for the arithmetic. "They seem to have been hard ones for you. That talk of gopher steeds is what I generally expect from my kin."
All the same she glances back over her shoulder to be sure there's no dire, enlarged squirrels incoming. Look, the town dealt with a quite real threat of enlarged vermin not so long ago, okay.
"I don't need another tattoo. The moth is nicely healed and quite striking. You're in need of a decontamination. Come along, I know an inn that accepts that some of its clientele will need to wash off truly foul substances."
Majara throws occasional glances back at Hawk as they walk, musing that it's good he can speak, at least. Two catatonic, traumatized tallfolk is two too many, ta.
"Who is 'she'? You know, I don't think your clothes will be salvageable. That dirt looks nigh-embedded. We can see if Roger has spares to loan you. You'll-- ha-- swim in them, but still."
The Witch's End soon enough appears before them, and Majara gestures Hawk along into the bustle of the inn's common room, which smells as it usually does of fragrant, delicious food-smells.
"Two months, two weeks, and seven hours, give or take a few minutes," she responds after a moment's thought for the arithmetic. "They seem to have been hard ones for you. That talk of gopher steeds is what I generally expect from my kin."
”No, no, just the…” the sorcerer takes a minute to do what should be a simple calculation, ”…last two weeks have been trying.”
"Come along, I know an inn that accepts that some of its clientele will need to wash off truly foul substances."
”Are we going to Mother Wilitta’s? I’m out of sorts, but I recall it being in the other direction.” As he follows the tiny gnome, Hawk looks around, trying to recall landmarks.
”You know, I don't think your clothes will be salvageable. That dirt looks nigh-embedded. We can see if Roger has spares to loan you. You'll-- ha-- swim in them, but still."
He looks at his clothes closely for the first time, noting the damage more than the dirt. ”Thank you, I should be fine. I can mend them with a spell. Washing them will take a bit longer, but I have time.”
"Who is 'she'?”
The sorcerer ponders this question, which it seems he has spent days considering already. ”Who, indeed… A sign of my folly perhaps, or a failed experiment in gallantry? Proof positive that heroics are best left to heroes? Never ignore the pine trees or the skin tone. They aren’t sure signs… but they can be telling.” He muses for another moment before tacking back to her question, ”’She’ is a dryad.. but not one of the amicable sorts. A Nimuein is their First World name, I think. About half a day’s walk on the southern road to Wolfpoint. Likely in an especially surly mood now.”
The Witch's End soon enough appears before them, and Majara gestures Hawk along into the bustle of the inn's common room, which smells as it usually does of fragrant, delicious food-smells.
”Thank you, Miss Pricknettle. I look forward to seeing you when I feel a shade more human.” He wanders over to anyone who appears to be working or barking orders. ”Hullo. I’d like a room with a bath-tub or a bath-tub with a room… I’m not picky.”
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As dawn broke and Emma geared up to head back to Saringallow with her companions, she found herself standing on the deck of the Mermaid's Klivanion as it cut through the shimmering morning mist. Despite feeling a little disheartened by her performance in the recent battle against the half-Ogre spellcaster, it was hard not to feel uplifted while soaking up the warm sunlight and taking in the crisp air as they sailed down the Conerica River. With each passing mile, it felt like they were nearing Saringallow.
Home.
Home. The thought made her smile. It was nice to have a place to think of that really did feel like home.
Movement across the deck caught her eye. Hawkren, emerging onto the deck. He gave her a slight smile before veering off to talk to Hannelia, but Emma figured it wouldn’t be long until the tattooist came over to talk to her. Hopefully he was feeling alright—when Emma had tried to pursue the spellcaster the night before, Hawkren had been left behind to deal with the swarm of spiders it had summoned. Emma wouldn’t feel so bad about it if it wasn’t for the fact that she hadn’t even gotten a single hit on the spellcaster thanks to losing her footing while climbing off the boat.
After speaking with Hannelia, Hawkren slowly maneuvered his way towards her. As he weaved through the crowd of sailors and passengers to reach her, she crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow inquisitively. He sauntered closer with a mischievous grin and lifted his hands up in a playful gesture of surrender. “I come in peace, bearing a gift,” he said.
“A gift? Why did you get me something? I should be the one getting something for you after last night!” Emma said with a laugh as he pulled out a small card-like piece of vellum from his pocket and handed it to her. She took it nonchalantly at first, not sure what to expect, but when she looks down at it, her expression changed to one of shock. She stood up straight, forgetting any sense of coolness or composure.
“This is a bit large for a cameo, unfortunately… but I hope I got her likeness right.”
Lucia.
Her mother…
Emma’s hands trembled slightly as she gazed at the drawing that Hawkren had skillfully created. The image is strikingly familiar, and memories flood back to her. Her mother appeared exactly as she remembered—perhaps even more stunning than before. Being away from Piren's Bluff for so long has made some details hazy in Emma's mind, but the sight of the portrait is enough to bring them back in vivid detail.
“I’m not great at drawing people from memory,” Hawkren continues. “I hope I’ve captured something of her. If it’s wrong, I’m happy to give it another go.”
Emma remains silent for a long while, her gaze fixed on the drawing in front of her. She can sense Hawkren's presence nearby, as he shifts uncomfortably, seeming unsure of what to do next.
Emma shakes her head with a disbelieving laugh. "You can't be serious. Did you really just say you struggle with drawing people from memory?" She shook her head and whispered, "Hawkren, this is perfect." Her fingers delicately trace the lines of the sketch, afraid that her touch might smudge the ink. Every detail of her mother's face is captured in meticulous lines, not just her physical appearance, but also the essence of strength and kindness that always radiated from her eyes, even in the toughest moments. "Thank you," Emma breathed, trying to keep herself composed because breaking down on the deck of Mermaid's Klivanion was not a part of her plans for the day.
Hawkren gives a small, relieved smile and touches his hand to his heart. "I'm glad. She was a beautiful woman—I wanted to do her justice."
"I need a moment," she admits quietly. "Just... thank you."
Hawkren nods, understanding in his eyes. He claps a hand on her shoulder, his grip surprisingly gentle, and then he walks away, making his way through the crew and letting Emma have her moment.
Emma’s eyes remain transfixed on the portrait of her mother. It was rare, this kind gift of remembrance, especially in the adventuring lifestyle she had chosen. The moments of serenity were few and far between. This was so much more than a drawing—it was a piece of home she could carry with her, a constant reminder that her roots were not forgotten.
Letting out a deep breath, Emma carefully folded the sketch and tucked it into a pouch attached to her belt, close to where her hand naturally rested when on guard. She would have to find a safer place for it later, when they were back in Saringallow. For now though, it felt good to have it near.
She reached up to touch the holy symbol hanging around her neck—a longsword crossed over a sunburst—an emblem of Iomedae. It was one of the only keepsakes she’d taken from her mother when she’d died. It had felt… right, somehow, to have it.
The symbol was warm beneath her fingers, the brass not yet tarnished despite their recent battles. The sunburst's rays spread out from the intersection of the blades, a promise of hope after conflict's resolution. The edges were worn smooth from her constant handling and sometimes she could have sworn she felt an echo of her mother's touch on it.
She took a deep breath, releasing it in a slow exhale as she dropped her hand, the symbol swinging against her chest armor with a soft chime that echoed strangely inside her head. There was peace there, in the familiar sound and action. A comforting ritual that centered her.
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It's amazing, Emma thought, how much seeing Saringallow truly feels like coming home. They hadn't been gone all that long, truth be told, yet, from her perspective, it felt as though it had been too long.
She gazed out at the city, her eyes lingering for a moment on the Temple of Erastil. Their first destination would be to see Father Ruvarra and tell him of Constantine's condition. She offered a silent prayer to Iomedae that he would be able to find some answers or offer some kind of a solution. Even if it wasn't an easy or quick one—something would be better than nothing.
As they walked through the town, they made for a rather sombre procession. Emma kept a hand on Constantine's shoulder, ready to support him in case he stumbled or experienced another episode. So far, he hadn't had one since Ravenmoor, but it was better to be prepared just in case. There were still many unknowns about what had happened to him there. He was able to walk, but most of the time, he just wasn't responsive.
Nearby, Roger walked to the side of the party, idly whistling a melancholy tune, undoubtedly a song picked up back in his pirating days. It was catchy in a sort of haunting way.
Because of Constantine's slower pace, Majara had no problem keeping up with the rest of them, her eyes unfocused, likely wondering about her shop or other bits of business she would have to take care of once they were done here—Emma had almost forgotten that the little gnome owned a business here, and was likely keen on checking up on things.
Hannelia was on the other side of Constantine, ready to step in if needed, and helped to keep the path clear ahead of them, while sorting through various bits of paper and gear.
Sirio swept along just after Constantine, his face worn and worried, muttering under his breath, casting looks at Constantine and the group alike. Emma could practically feel the worry and concern radiating off of him, despite the glares he shot at the others whenever they made eye contact. It was understandable—he hadn't been there when it had all gone down.
Their group made slow but steady progress through the town, with the occasional person calling out a greeting as they recognized them. Despite the circumstances, it was still nice to see the friendly faces greeting them. With everything that had happened in Ravenmoor, their reception and departure had been… mixed, to say the least.
The sun was high in the sky when they finally reached the Temple, and a sense of quiet respect settled over Emma. Erastil was not her deity, but she felt a deep respect for this place nonetheless, and for Father Ruvarra in particular. Places of worship, regardless of the god they were dedicated to, had always brought her peace.
Well.
Most places of worship, at least. Of the deities that weren't outright evil.
Father Ruvarra looked up from his prayers at their entrance, polite curiosity on his face replaced by a smile. "Ah, the erstwhile adventurers return! I was wondering when you would be back." He nodded at them warmly, but then his eyes fell upon Constantine, who did little to register the fact that Ruvarra had said anything. "You alright there, my boy?" His frown deepened and he waved a hand in front of Constantine's face, to no reaction. "By the rolling wilds! What happened?"
"What a useless question. Nothing good," Sirio snapped. "Obviously."
"Sirio, please," Hannelia said. The Asmodean Cleric glared at her for a moment before turning away, shaking his head with a tight frown. "We don't fully know," Hannelia admitted, while Emma helped Constantine onto a nearby bench. "He had an encounter with something in Ravenmoor that left him deeply unsettled, unable to speak Common, and resulted in his becoming… like—well, like this. I'm sure I can give a more detailed recounting, but… it's been a long journey and I need to sort through my thoughts."
Father Ruvarra nodded, his gaze on Constantine was full of worry. He walked to an altar at the side of the temple, picking up a pendant with a stag's head—the emblem of Erastil. He held it in his hand for a moment, his lips moving in silent prayer. The group dispersed, each finding their own corner of the Temple. While Father Ruvarra tended to Constantine, Emma took a moment to glance around at the temple interior. The air smelled faintly of myrrh and age-old timber, a comforting scent that seeped into her armor.
Nearby, she spotted Roger examining a large tapestry depicting a scene of a large white stag standing in the wilderness. "Thought I saw one ‘o them stags once," he told Emma when he noticed her presence. "Course, it weren't a stag—just an old, white tree trunk that what grew into a similar shape. Squinted at it fer hours from the crow's nest ‘fore I realized my mistake. Mighta tried shooting it once or twice as well."
Emma chuckled lightly. "That tree will think twice before it tries to fool anyone else," she told him.
"Aye, it'll be quakin' at the sight of any sailor," he said with a grin.
Majara had perched herself on a pew nearby, muttering softly to herself in Gnomish. Emma couldn't really make out any of it—she didn't speak Gnomish. Perhaps she would have to remedy that, if she could. Constantine had taken up the effort before his… incident… and it would be nice to try and pick up the language of their newest member. Occasionally, Majara reached over to grab for a bottle or elixir, holding it up to the light streaming in from the windows. Perhaps she was working out what kind of things she'd be brewing once she got back to her shop.
Sirio had withdrawn to the furthest corner of the temple, a silent and brooding figure in the soft light. His eyes were focused on Constantine, as if he could will the man back into full awareness by sheer force of will. She would have to talk with him later, when he was in a clearer, better state of mind. She was curious about what he'd been up to in their time away, and how Scrent was doing.
Hannelia took a seat at Constantine's side. Though he was silent for the moment, not really looking at anyone or anything in particular, he seemed comforted by the gesture. She held onto his hand, as though hoping to anchor him back to reality.
Emma found herself alone, the silence of the temple wrapping around her like a warm cloak. It was a calm amidst a storm, one she badly needed. She moved slowly, her armor clinking subtly as she made her way towards a small alcove near the back of the temple. Here stood a statue of Erastil, standing tall and proud with his bow at his side.
With a bit of hesitance, she knelt before it, her armored knees clinking against the floor. Though she did not follow Erastil, she understood respect and homage when in sacred places. She cast her gaze downward, a silent plea for guidance and strength sent into the still air of the temple.
She clasped her hands together, praying to Iomedae quietly for their journey onward. She pleaded for strength, not only for herself but for her companions too. For Sirio's impatience and brooding nature to ease, for Majara to find luck with her concoctions, for Roger to never run out of entertaining stories to tell them, for Hannelia's hopes to be answered and above all for Constantine's recovery.
Father Ruvarra turned away from the altar, the pendant now hanging from a chain around his neck. He approached Constantine with a calm and gentle demeanor, maintaining a respectful distance as he knelt before him. "My dear boy," he began, his voice filled with quiet concern, "Whatever has befallen you is surely not of this world. I can see it in your eyes."
Emma watched as Father Ruvarra began to pray over Constantine. His words echoed softly through the temple.
A few moments passed in silence interrupted only by the father's low voice. Emma looked at her companions once more - each absorbed in their own thoughts, their own worries.
Slowly turning her gaze back to the praying men, she noticed Constantine's face change subtly—his eyes flickered with what could have been recognition or understanding. It was fleeting, but…
"Constantine?" Father Ruvarra questioned gently.
The afflicted man's response was too low for Emma to hear but as she watched him, she saw Constantine nod his head ever so slightly.
"Good lad," Father Ruvarra murmured with a tender smile. Rising from his knees, he turned his attention towards the rest of the group. "Give him time, let Erastil's peace fill him. There are no guarantees in life but sometimes faith is all we have."
"Thank you, Father," Hannelia said, bowing her head slightly as she stood. "Please, let us know if there's anything we can do in the meantime, or if there's anything you need."
"More information would be good to have, of course, but I'll keep trying to figure out what's going on with him. Don't expect any miracles, and regardless, it'll likely take time." He hesitated. "And—it's good to have you all back."
Hannelia smiled slightly, grasping Constantine's shoulder briefly. "It's good to be back," she admitted.
"If only that were true of us all," Sirio muttered, with a last look at Constantine before sweeping out of the temple.
Emma watched as Sirio's retreating figure disappeared into the early afternoon sun.
"Sorry Father," Hannelia said softly, her gaze lingering at the now empty entrance of the temple. "He's taken the revelation about Constantine harder than he would care to admit, I think."
Roger chuckled, rolling a piece of parchment between his fingers. "Ah, he'll be fine once he finds somethin' to throw a hex at."
Hannelia shot him an admonishing look and Roger shrugged, feigning innocence. Emma smiled slightly, the corner of her lips twitching upwards.
As they exited the dimly lit temple behind Roger and Majara, Emma took one last look over her shoulder at Constantine. He was seated in silence under Ruvarra's watchful eyes. The quiet peace that had descended over him made her heart clench with worry and hope. She offered a silent prayer once more before stepping outside.
***
The next morning, Emma wasted no time in completing the most crucial task of them all—picking up some fresh loaves from Gunty's Heart Breads. The tempting aroma of freshly baked bread filled the air as she entered the shop, her stomach growling in anticipation. Behind the counter, Noemi Tauralio gave her a friendly smile, followed swiftly by a muffled curse that echoed from the oven, where Gunty worked as grumpily as usual.
"Oh! Hello Miss Blackford! I didn't realize you guys were back," Noemi said. "Glad you and the others made it back alright!"
Gunty grunted, giving her a curt nod. "And here I was hoping it'd be a paying customer," he grumbled, despite the fact that he had, in fact, been the one to offer Emma free bread after their party had saved Noemi and the other apprentices before their departure to Ravenmoor.
Ignoring his grumbles and bickering with a warm smile, Emma said, "Gunty, you old curmudgeon. One day your heart will soften, or I'll find a spell that does it."
"Bah! Ain't no such spell!" Gunty said, never looking away from the oven.
Emma smiled at Noemi. "It's nice to be back," she said. "I've missed this bakery the most, let me tell you. How have you been holding up, by the way?"
Noemi shrugged casually. "Not bad, all things considered."
"Good to hear," Emma said, though she took note of the lines of fatigue etched on Noemi's face.
Emma put in her order for several hearty loaves of bread, including paying for a few extra ones to be sent along to Father Ruvarra at the temple. While Noemi packages the bread, Emma glanced around the bakery with a smile. What a scandal it would be, she thought, for people to find out that a Paladin of Iomedae could be so easily bribed with the promise of freshly baked bread. Gunty better not ever take advantage of that…!
While Noemi worked, she chatted about the goings-on in town since Emma had left—there had been a small fire at the blacksmith's that had caused a brief uproar but was fortunately contained before anything too bad—there had been a shipment of various food goods that had ended up being pilfered by goblins before the town guard was able to muster up enough of a force to get it back—and the arrival of a tall, mysterious merchant that wore a trench coat and a low hood, who had never shaken off the whispered rumors that he was actually two Kobolds underneath the coat.
As Noemi handed over Emma's order, the paladin smiled at her. "Don't work too hard now—you've been through a lot."
Noemi chuckled. "Well, someone has to keep Gunty in line."
From the back, there was a grumble that sounded suspiciously like ‘ungrateful wench'. Emma hid a smirk behind her hand while Noemi rolled her eyes.
Before leaving, Emma left a large tip—just because it was free didn't mean she didn't want to offer something for it.
Next up, Sarini Manor.
After handling a few essential tasks (such as a long bath) the previous night, she had opted to sleep at the temple, just in case Father Ruvarra or Constantine needed anything. Today, though, she was intent on claiming a room for herself at the Manor. The drawing from Hawkren, still protectively contained in her pocket, had given her the desire to set up a small space for herself—somewhere to display the drawing, and perhaps a few other keepsakes she'd gathered. A place to truly call her own.
And of course, she wanted to catch up with Talon.
Fortunately, the Ranger happened to be at the Manor when she arrived, walking outside the grounds. Naturally, Talon caught sight of her long before she caught sight of him. Leaning against a tree outside of the Manor, he gave a cheerful wave as she approached.
"Well, well," he chuckled. "I heard you guys were back. I could hear your heavy footfalls from a mile away in that clunky armor of yours." He flashed a mischievous grin. "I see we've opted against stealth entirely."
Emma couldn't contain her laughter. "No need for stealth when I can just hit people with my sword. Of which I have a new one, I should add—one that glows. So now my poor stealth is accompanied by a handy little light!"
"That will be sure to terrify all the spiders drawn to the area by your heavy clunking," Talon said.
"Ah, ah, no spider talk! I'd have no qualms about smiting you and taking your share of the bread," she retorted, revealing the loaves she had purchased.
Talon raised an eyebrow with a smirk on his lips. "A smite, you say? For a mere spider? My, my, Paladin, your sense of justice is truly fierce." He playfully slapped her shoulder as he let out a hearty laugh.
Emma couldn't help but grin back at him. "Only where food is concerned," she admitted, passing him one of the loafs. "Especially Gunty's bread."
A quick appreciative sniff and Talon bit into the loaf, savoring the warm, fresh bread. "Gunty does know his way around flour," he said, sounding rather muffled through the mouthful. Legs crossed at his ankles, he leaned more comfortably against the tree as he enjoyed his impromptu breakfast.
Emma took a seat on a nearby stone bench, shrugging off her shield and leaning it against the side. She mimicked Talon's actions and bit into her own loaf, chewing thoughtfully as she watched the Ranger.
"How've things been around here while we were away?" she asked after swallowing her mouthful.
He shrugged his shoulders and brushed some crumbs away from his lips. "Quiet, mostly," he responded, eyes narrowing for a moment as he stared out into the trees beyond them. "Nothing particularly interesting to report."
"That's a relief," Emma responded with a sigh. She understood that 'peace and quiet' was precisely what Saringallow needed after all the chaos they had experienced.
"Yes, just a dragon attack. The guard was quite alarmed at first, until the dragon started complaining about how it had brought all these spiders from the far corners of Golarion for a Paladin, but that said Paladin didn't even have the good graces to be here for it. She flew off in frustration!"
"You think you're funny, eh?"
"No, I don't just think it—I know I'm funny."
"Well, that's alright. Looks aren't everything."
Talon choked on a mouthful of bread, his eyes watering as he coughed and thumped his chest. Emma watched him with an innocent expression, her own mouthful of bread carefully tucked to one side.
Finally regaining control of his windpipe, Talon glared at her. "That was uncalled for," he muttered, brushing crumbs off his shirt.
Emma shrugged her shoulders in response. "You were the one who initiated it," she stated. "And let's not forget that you shot me with an arrow once."
"I was possessed!"
"That doesn't change the fact that I still have a wound from it," Emma shot back. "A deep, painful, lingering wound. Apparently, I'll never be able to play music as well as I used to."[b]
[b]"You played music before?"
"Well, no. But now it's definitely out of the question." Talon rolled his eyes in response.
They sat in a comfortable silence for a few moments, finishing their bread while watching the morning sun rise higher in the sky.
When they were done, Emma stood up and stretched. "I should go," she said, looking towards the Manor. "I need to clean up."
"Of course," Talon replied, pushing himself away from the tree. He stretched his arms high above his head. "I should get back to patrolling anyway."
They started walking back towards the Manor together, their footsteps falling into an easy rhythm with each other's. As they reached the main gates, Talon turned towards Emma and gave her a small smile. "It's good to have you back," he said sincerely. "Saringallow hasn't been the same without its fearless Paladin."
Emma felt warmth spreading through her chest at his words. She returned his smile and placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's good to be back," she replied. "And you're not so bad yourself, Ranger."
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A week after their return to Saringallow, Emma decided to take stock of her inventory and look into upgrading her gear. There had been a few moments in Ravenmoor where things had gotten a bit dicey… where it would have been nice to have some more protection. Emma knew she'd never be the most agile of the group, or the quickest, but at the very least she could fortify her defenses to ensure she could take the hits that the others could not. More protection would have been very welcome in Ravenmoor. She wasn't likely to forget the sight of the Mayor transforming into a Blightspawn anytime soon.
Plus, with the gold she'd accumulated from the previous adventure in Saringallow, and the gold from their adventures in Ravenmoor, she just might have enough to get herself some better armor.
And so, she found herself making a trip to Gordrek Heavystone's. She'd been to him once before, to purchase her current set of armor. It had served her well in the time since she'd purchased it, but now, hopefully, she would be able to get something even better. The sign above the door displayed a massive hammer striking an equally massive anvil. Above the sound of clanging metal, Gordrek could be heard gruffly instructing his apprentices.
As she entered, the scent of heated iron and oil filled her nostrils. She was momentarily taken aback by the intense heat radiating from the large forge situated at the back of the shop.
"Gordrek!" Emma called out, raising her hand in greeting. The dwarf paused in his work and lifted his goggles to regard her. Spotting her in the doorway, he grunted an acknowledgment, a grin spreading across his rough-hewn face.
"Ah, lass, I recognize ye. Well, I recognized that finely crafted armor of yours, then I remembered ye." He chuckled. "Back so soon? Don't tell me ye broke that sword of yours," he joked, setting down his tools and approaching, his muscular frame making him look bigger than most dwarves.
"Not exactly," she replied, unsheathing her glowing sword and placing it on the counter for him to see. "Had a bit of an upgrade in that regard, actually. This one's still got plenty of fight in it."
His eyes sparkled with interest as he looked over her weapon. "Aye, that's a fine piece ye have there," Gordrek admitted with an appreciative nod.
Emma laughed lightly at his compliment before getting down to business. "I'm here for some armor though—"
"Already?"/[b] Gordrek asked, eyebrows shooting up. [b]"Don't tell me ye broke the armor girl!"
"No, no," Emma said. "It's served me quite well, in fact. But… recent events have made it apparent that it would be a good idea for me to be more heavily protected. And well, I came into some more gold in my time away—"
"Gold, ye say? Well, then, I quite agree," Gordrek said quickly, eyes sparkling with interest. "Something heavier, won't be cheap lass…"
"I should be good for it…" Emma said. "Half-plate has served me well, but I think it's time for full-plate."
Gordrek retrieved some parchment and began scribbling out some numbers, muttering to himself, staining it with soot and bits of metal. Emma waited patiently, looking around at the various gleaming wares, appreciating the craftsmanship Gordrek had put into them.
After what seemed like an eternity, Gordrek finally set down his quill and looked up at Emma. "I reckon I can make ye a suit of full-plate for… 1,425 gold pieces."
Emma made a choking noise. "Right," she said in a strained voice. "Well, if you'd be willing to buy the half-plate back, and I suppose I could sell one of my swords, and ah, perhaps sell some other bits and bobs… actually, can I see that quill and parchment?"
Chuckling, Gordrek retrieved a fresh piece of parchment for her and scooted it over. Then it was Emma's turn to hunch over the paper, muttering to herself as she took full stock of what she had, while Gordrek occasionally threw in some numbers on what things were worth.
Going through everything made Emma's head start to hurt, and gave her new appreciation for Majara's skill. The Gnome likely would have come in knowing exactly what she had, how much it was worth, and what she wanted as a result. Perhaps she'd be willing to give Emma lessons.
Eventually, though, she was able to work it out well enough that she had enough gold to pay for the armor—and from the quality of the half-plate she'd been using, she knew that it was quality work, and worth the gold.
She straightened her shoulders and nodded. "That sounds fair. When do you think it will be ready?"
The dwarf scratched at his grizzled chin. "Well lass, it won't be an overnight job, that's fer sure. Making full-plate is a time-consuming business, but I reckon I could have it done in about two weeks."
"That'll be alright," she agreed, "I suppose I'll just have to be extra careful until then. I'll have to watch myself around Gunty."
"Hmph. Always good advice, I think. Never know when a bit a toast might be chucked at your head."
Emma chuckled at the image. "Quite so." She extended her hand for a firm shake. "Until then, Gordrek."
"Until then, Emma. Stay safe, lass," He replied, his grip on her hand just as sturdy as she had remembered.
As she walked back to the door, Gordrek called after her. "Emma!" She turned around, raising an eyebrow. He grinned again and pointed with his blackened thumb at the gleaming sword resting on his counter. "You're forgetting something important."
"Oh," she laughed nervously, having completely forgotten in their haggling and numbers talk that she had set it down earlier and hadn't picked it up. "Right," Emma grabbed her sword from the counter and quickly re-sheathed it. She gave an embarrassed wave goodbye before leaving the shop.
***
Emma knew that Hannelia would occasionally take some time to spend with Constantine, and made it a regular habit of hers as well. Sometimes, he would be capable of having a conversation—at others, he would be silent, withdrawn. Regardless, Emma was happy to spend time with him, hoping that their presence would help him back in a more full capacity. Ruvarra had warned them that it might take time, and that even with that time, it might not produce anything substantial.
Still, she held out hope, and continued to pray to Iomedae that Constantine would recover fully.
On one such day, she brought some parchment with her. She hadn't really reached out to anyone from Piren's Bluff since her departure. It hadn't been a conscious decision to carve that era out of her life, but in a way, she had done so as a sort of protection, a way to distance herself following her mother's death.
Now, though, she wanted to reach out and see how some of the people she'd known were doing.
Aurelia Veloise had been one of the knights stationed at the fort. She'd been a large help to Emma following her mother's passing—never seeking to intrude, but always there to offer a distraction or to just talk shop at the tavern. Aurelia had supported her decision to leave, and she felt a little bad for not having reached out.
Emma settled herself beside Constantine, pulling out her parchment and dipping her quill into an inkpot she had brought along. Constantine watched silently as she began to pen her thoughts onto paper.
Dear Aurelia, she began, her hand moving with a steady pace as the words streamed from her mind. I hope this letter finds you in good health.
She continued to describe her adventures in Ravenmoor, her return to Saringallow, and the challenges that she had faced. She asked about the state of things back in Piren's Bluff and whether Aurelia was still stationed at the fort. As she wrote, she would occasionally show Constantine portions of her message.
Next on her list was Kartur Netleson. He was a fellow Paladin of Iomedae, one of the others who had trained under Emma's mother. Kartur had always been good-natured and quick with a joke. The way he could switch between a professional representation of the order to cracking wise was something that Emma had enjoyed—and envied. He had an ease about him which most couldn't match, least of all Emma.
Dear Kartur, she scrawled down after sealing the first letter shut. It has been too long since we last spoke.
Again, Emma detailed her adventures, making sure to intersperse tales of danger with lighthearted anecdotes that reminded her of Kartur's own humoristic style. She inquired about his current situation and what new challenges he may be facing on his path as a paladin. Even if he wasn't still at Piren's Bluff, they would likely be the ones to know where he was currently and send it on.
"Life before death," Constantine said. He was staring ahead, not quite at her, but she looked over at him.
"Strength before weakness," she continued, smiling.
"Journey before destination," he finished.
She clasped him on the shoulder and stood. "We're all here for you, my friend. Whatever you need, just let us know."
She held Constantine's gaze for a moment longer. The air around them was silent. For Constantine, she hoped it was a comforting silence.
***
One afternoon, Emma visited Majara's shop. She was impressed with the gnome's business acumen and her ability to concoct all sorts of different things—and it was the business acumen that she was most interested in today.
"I ended up spending quite a bit for my new armor," she told the gnome, who was hard at work even as they talked. "More than I was expecting, which… I probably should have been expecting. Hopefully it will be worth it."
Majara made a grunting noise.
"Gordrek does great work though, so it was worth it. Still, I'm going to need to figure something out. I was thinking we'd be off on another adventure at this point, but we seem to be in a moment of relative calm. Which is great… just, maybe not so much for the coin purse. I don't suppose you'd need another apprentice or something?"
Majara looked up at her, her large eyes unblinking. "I assume you know a craft."
"Pardon?"
"A trade craft," Majara said. "Of some kind."
"Oh," Emma said. "Yes, though it's been a little while since I've made any use of it. I would help with crafting weapons back in Piren's Bluff."
"Well, there you go," Majara said, turning back to her work.
"But... I don't see how that's going to help me here in an alchemy shop," Emma said, glancing around at the shelves lined with odd-shaped bottles and pots filled with peculiar ingredients.
Majara paused, glancing over at her. She blinked before speaking. "You… do realize I was suggesting you use your knowledge with weapon crafting to go work for a blacksmith, yes? Such as Gordrek? I presume he likes you well enough, seeing as you've spent quite a bit of gold at his place."
"Oh," Emma said, blushing. "Right. That… makes more sense."
Majara let out a soft, almost inaudible chuckle. "Of course it does," Majara said, her eyes crinkling with amusement. "You humans always overthink things."
"Well, to be fair, I think that applies to me more than most." Emma shook herself out of her embarrassment. "Right, well, then I suppose I'll pay Gordrek a visit tomorrow." She gave Majara a small smile. "Thank you for your wisdom, Majara."
"Mm-hmm," Majara noncommittally replied, waving her off as she returned to her work.
Tomorrow she would seek out Gordrek and hopefully boost her dwindling coin purse. While she loved being a paladin and serving Iomedae, Emma knew she needed to survive on more than good intentions and faith.
And that was how she ended up offering her services to Gordrek, who agreed to pay her for her assistance whenever she had enough time to do so. It ended up being a good fit, as she got along well enough with the dwarf, and it helped to bolster her coin purse while she was between adventures. Much of her free time was spent training with the sword and doing various exercises to remain fit; crafting weapons was an ideal way to earn some coin while still remaining active.
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A few weeks into their return to Saringallow, Emma met Jhessa Florica. While delivering a cache of gear, she almost literally ran into the girl, nearly losing her grip on the crate.
"Oh!" the girl said in surprise.
"Sorry!" Emma gasped. She quickly regained her footing and set the box down with a sigh. "Whew. Are you alright? Sorry—that was a little heavier than I was expecting."
"Yes, of course, I'm sorry as well," the girl said. She was quite pretty—petite, with a tangle of blonde hair. Emma's eyes, however, were drawn to the symbol of Shelyn that she wore.
"I'm Emma," the paladin said. "Emma Blackford."
"Jhessa Florica," the girl said, holding out a hand. She followed Emma's gaze. "I'm an acolyte of Shelyn," she explained with a small laugh. "And new to town." Gesturing towards Emma's necklace, she continued, "Always nice to meet a follower of the Inheritor."
Emma smiled at her. "And always nice to meet a follower of Shelyn. Where I'm from, Piren's Bluff, there was a group that came through with some regularity, entertaining us with music and dance and various other performances. I always found it fascinating—and danced a bit myself, even if it was mostly just stomping around in a sort of rhythm."
"Stomping around in rhythm is the beginning of a great dance," she assured Emma. "There is beauty in simplicity as well."
"Then I must be an excellent dancer indeed," she quipped.
Jhessa giggled, then glanced down at the box Emma had nearly dropped. "This looks heavy," she observed. "May I assist you?"
Emma didn't want to embarass the girl by pointing out that the box in question probably weighed more than she did. It was a kind gesture either way. "Thank you, but I've got it well in hand—provided I remember to keep an eye on what's in front of me," Emma responded, a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. "Welcome to Saringallow. Feel free to say hello if you ever see me around."
"I see," Jhessa said, offering Emma a smile. "I will leave you to your task then, Paladin Blackford."
"Just Emma is fine," Emma said in a rush. "Please."
"Very well—Emma."
She went about delivering the crate and didn't think all that much of the meeting.
Until a few days later, when, at the Witch's End, she saw Jhessa again… with Shel. They were around the same age, so it shouldn't have been a surprise that they would become friendly. For a moment, Emma wondered if perhaps Shel had found someone else she was attracted to, and felt an odd mix of relief and disappointment. Yet, when Shel saw her, she let out a yelp and ended up sending her plate of food tumbling to the ground. Jhessa looked around in alarm, only to be replaced by confusion when she saw Emma. Emma gave a small wave to the pair, before veering off to sit with the others.
Then, a few days after that, she saw the pair again, walking along the center of town. As Emma debated about ducking down an alleyway to avoid any awkwardness, Shel spotted her and ended up spilling a bunch of ink all over her sleeve.
Where did the ink come from? Emma thought. Never mind, not important.
She continued on her way with a hasty glance backwards, where she saw Jhessa looking at her with a thoughtful expression.
Encounters with Shel had continued to be awkward since Hawkren had called her over to help steady Shel while she got her first tattoo. Emma knew she would have to do something about it eventually—she just wasn't sure what.
***
"Thanks for meeting me for lunch," Hannelia said. "I'd like to talk with you about something that might be a bit awkward."
Emma paused, a cup of ale halfway to her mouth when she paused. "Wow," she said after a moment. "I haven't felt a sense of dread like that since my mom had ‘the talk' with me."
Hannelia immediately held up her hands. "Ah! Well—not that awkward perhaps," she clarified hastily.
Emma laughed. "I was teasing." Then she frowned, narrowing her eyes. "Mostly, anyway… What's up?"
"It's about Shel."
Emma lowered the cup to the table, and let out a sigh. "Ah," she said. "I was kind of waiting for something like this to happen, I just didn't know when it would."
Shel had come with them from Ravenmoor, eager to experience a world outside of it and get to experience more of life. There had been a moment—several moments, in fact—where something had almost happened between them. A connection, a spark, of sorts. But every time, something had either intruded, or their mutual awkwardness had prevented any progress.
Emma knew that Shel had been staying with Hannelia ever since they'd gotten back. The two had gotten very close, and she'd heard that Hannelia's father had been a big help as well in making Shel feel welcome. She was exceedingly glad that Shel had someone like Hannelia looking out for her. Hannelia had become something of a big sister to Shel. As far as mentors went, Emma couldn't think of anyone better.
"Shel is… adjusting," Hannelia began, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. "Life here in Saringallow is different than what she's used to. Things were very controlled for her back in Ravenmoor. She has a new friend now—"
"Yes, Jhessa," Emma murmured absently.
"Right," Hannelia said. "You've met, then?"
Emma nodded. "Almost knocked her over with a crate of goods from Gordrek's," she said.
"Well, I guess that's one way to introduce oneself," Hannelia said with a laugh.
Emma rolled her eyes. "I have a knack for grand entrances," she said. "Anyway, it seems like they've been getting along well."
"They have. But… well, Jhessa and I have both observed Shel's awkwardness towards you." Hannelia sighed. "And your own towards Shel. It's an awkward dance that's becoming harder to ignore. I suppose I just wanted to ask…"
"What my intentions are?" Emma asked, going pale. "Not a conversation I've ever had, to be honest."
"That is how it sounds, isn't it?"[b] Hannelia agreed, shuddering slightly. "Never tell my dad about this. But in essence… yes? If something is or isn't going to happen, it should be dealt with."
Emma let out a long breath, her fingers curling tighter around her tankard. She stared into the dark liquid, her thoughts churning.
"I..." Emma began, then paused. She cleared her throat, choosing her words carefully. "I am fond of Shel," she confessed. "She's unique and full of life. And yes, there were... moments back in Ravenmoor which made me think that perhaps there could be something more between us." She leaned back in her seat, tugging at the collar of her shirt. "But here in Saringallow, things are different. We're not in danger every moment of every day; there isn't that urgency pushing us forward. Shel needs time to adjust to this new life and I wouldn't want to complicate things for her further."
Hannelia nodded slowly, digesting Emma's words. "So you're saying you'd rather stand back and let Shel find her footing? You don't want to pursue anything... romantic?"
"Not for now," Emma confirmed with a small nod, her voice for once lacking its usual lightheartedness. "Shel has enough on her plate without me adding to it."
"Then perhaps you should sit down and tell her that."
Emma nodded. Somehow, the idea of facing off against another Mayor turned Blightspawn seemed like a more appetizing prospect. Still, Hannelia was right-as usual. "Perhaps I should," she agreed with a sigh.
***
The Witch's End was it's usual busy self, full of people looking for food and drink. When Emma entered with Shel, she glanced around. There was an open table nearby. She led the younger girl over towards it, noting only once they were closer that Roger occupied a table not too far away. The pirate-turned-adventurer didn't seem to notice them, and either way, he wasn't the sort to pry. Probably.
"So," Emma said.
"So," Shel echoed.
They stared at each other for a moment, each one opening their mouth slightly before closing it, waiting for the other to speak. Emma focused on the young woman sitting across from her, with her curious eyes and her uncertain smile.
"Ah… whatever you'd like to order, it’s on me," Emma said finally.
Shel raised her eyebrows, surprise flickering in her eyes. "Oh, um, thank you," she said, glancing over at the menu board displayed prominently on the back wall. She chose a simple bowl of stew and a mug of cider.
Emma caught the attention of a passing server and relayed their orders. They sat in silence for a few minutes, waiting for their food and drink to arrive.
"Shel," Emma began. "There's something we need to talk about."
Shel's smile faltered a little, but she nodded eagerly. "Sure, Emma. What is it?"
Emma took another moment to collect her thoughts, struggling to find the right words. "It's about... us," she finally said.
A flicker of confusion crossed Shel's face, followed by realization. Her eyes widened and she swallowed hard. "Us?" she echoed softly.
"Yes," Emma confirmed. Her voice was steady, but inside she was trembling. "Back in Ravenmoor... There were moments where it seemed like there could be something more between us." She paused, watching as Shel's expression changed from surprise to realization… to a steely gaze. "But now... now we're here in Saringallow. And things are different," Emma continued, forcing herself to meet Shel's gaze. "You're starting a new life here, discovering new things about yourself and the world around you. I don't want to complicate any of that for you."
"You don't, do you? Well. I'm so glad you decided that for both of us, then," Shel snapped icily.
"I... I didn't mean it like that, Shel," Emma stammered. "I meant--"
"No, I get what you meant, Emma," cut in Shel, her icy voice barely a whisper now. She scoffed, shaking her head as she looked away from the paladin. "You don't want to 'complicate my new life', right? You're just so considerate," she added bitterly.
"I just…" Emma began again after a tense moment of silence, struggling to keep her voice steady. "I thought it was better if we concentrate on our own paths for now. I didn't mean to…"
"Decide for me?" Shel finished for her, anger simmering beneath the frosty exterior. "You think I wouldn't be able to handle it?"
"No, not at all," Emma rushed to assure her. "I just… didn't want to impose."
Shel snorted at that, shaking her head incredulously. "Impose. Right." The younger woman let out a bitter laugh. "Well, thank you for your consideration, Paladin Blackford."
"Shel..." Emma called weakly, standing up as well. But Shel was already striding away. She watched helplessly as Shel disappeared amongst the crowd, leaving her alone at their table.
Silence filled the space that Shel had vacated. Emma could only stand there for a moment longer before sinking back down on the wooden bench. A moment later, a server came by and dropped off the food that she and Shel had ordered, which Emma barely acknowledged.
A moment later, Roger took up the seat that Shel had been in. He set down two drinks and let out a sigh. "Women, eh?" he asked, taking a bite of the stew that Shel had ordered.
"Roger, I'm a woman," Emma pointed out.
Roger shrugged. "I don't judge."
Emma let out a snort and reached out for one of the drinks.
"Hey, hands off!" Roger said. "Havin' to listen to that display… these are both for me."
Despite the awkwardness of the meeting with Shel, Emma laughed. "Fair enough."
***
Emma turned the page of The Ravenwood Conspiracy. The fact that Hannelia had written something so eloquent about their adventures in Ravenmoor was… incredible. She was undeniably talented at doing so, down to coming up with a rather creative title. Even though Emma had quite literally been there in Ravenmoor, and knew all that had happened, she found herself turning the page with keen interesting, unable to find a good stopping place, to the point where Gordrek had told her to go home if she was going to just focus on a book instead of weapons. She'd read another chunk of it at Gunty's, who had pointedly told her it wasn't a restaurant several times.
It was long past sundown when Emma finally closed the book, marking her spot with a scrap of parchment. She sighed, rubbing her tired eyes. Their adventure in Ravenmoor had been… well, they hadn't been all that grand. But there was something cathartic about reading an accounting of them. A sort of distancing that helped bring it all into focus.
For their next adventure, whatever it may be, she would have to do better. That was all there was to it, really. She hadn't been lying to Shel when she'd told her that she needed to focus on her duties for a bit. She was resolved to become better—to do better. To be the Paladin that she wanted to be.
She looked at the portrait of her mother that Hawkren had done and given to her on the boat, and smiled.
It was nice to have a space for herself, and nice to be in a place where there were so many that she cared about. Even after weeks of being home, there were others she wanted to check up on, things she wanted to do. She still wanted to look into learning Gnomish, though she wasn't sure where to start on that. She was afraid to interrupt Majara when she seemed so busy at her shop.
"Journey before destination indeed," she murmured, thinking of Constantine, still in the Temple.
Her mother had been a Paladin too. A warrior of strength and courage who had not shied away from any challenges that had come her way. Emma's heart ached as she traced a finger over the painted features of the woman who had given her birth but had been taken away from her far too soon.
On her way to the kitchen, she halted once again before the portrait of her mother hanging on the wall.
"Ah, mom. You never questioned yourself, did you? You would've known what to do," she murmured softly to the portrait. "You always did. I'm getting there. Slowly, perhaps. But… I'm getting there." She turned away from the portrait. "For now, that's the best I can do."
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Shel has taken the news about as well as Hannelia had anticipated, though she is - mostly - confident that Emma had been a lot kinder than in Shel’s telling. No, that’s unfair. Emma fronted up to this and for all that she can sometimes be awkward, there’s no way she didn’t do this gently and honestly. Hannelia reflects on the subtle changes in her friend in the last couple of months. It seems to her that she is starting to process things with her mother better and perhaps beginning to step out of the shadow that Emma has previously - and to Hannelia’s mind, unhelpfully - been determined to stand in. From what Emma has told her of it, she is very grateful for the conversation she had with Hawk, the itinerant tattoo artist they had met on the Mermaid’s Klivanion. Her mind is unable to wander too far, however, given the immediate need currently clinging her to her in the form of Shel.
”Nobody is ever going to love me, Miss Hannelia,” she sobs, unconsciously slipping back into the more formal address that she has since dropped with regards to Hannelia.
Hannelia strokes her hair, ”That’s not true. You’ve got so much going for you, Shel. You will meet someone, I promise.”
”But I don’t want someone,” Shel sniffs, ”I want… I want…” She seems unable to say Emma’s name.
”I know, I know,” she soothes. ”But she was honest with you, and I’m sure she did it as kindly as she could. Trust me, that’s not always the case. Relationships can be hard and complicated and people can do horrible things to each other. I’m sure she didn’t mean to hurt you, even if that doesn’t make the pain you’re feeling right now any better.”
”I don’t even know why you’re friends with her anyway!” Shel fires off irrationally.
Keeping her face strictly neutral, but smiling internally, Hannelia replies gently, ”Probably for a lot of the same reasons you like her. I know it’s not what you wanted, Shel, and I’m sorry. I really am. I wish there was something I could do to take your pain away. If I could, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”
”And Shel,” she says, her tone now serious, ”however hurt you might be feeling right now, don’t even think about trying to curse her. It might make you feel better, but only until the point when you regret it and you’ll then feel so much worse. Trust me, I’ve been there.” Shel looks up, intrigued, and Hannelia sighs. There’s a story here that she has alluded to a couple of times but it’s not something she’s proud of so has had no great desire to share. Still, given its relevance to the current conversation and the fact that it might prevent Shel from making a similar mistake, now does seem like the right time to tell it. Sensing a story coming, Shel extricates herself from Hannelia and slips into a chair right next to her instead.
”Things with my first ever boyfriend didn’t end well,” she starts, skipping to the important part. ”I discovered that he was cheating on me with someone else and when I confronted him, he then promptly left me for her. It would be fair to say that I didn’t take it very well.” She winces, the memory still prickles, even after several years. ”I wanted to show him that he was making a mistake and he was messing with the wrong person so I broke into his house, snuck into his room and left him a message telling him exactly what I thought and how I felt. I wanted him to know that this was something I could do, whenever I wanted to, and to put the fear of the gods into him.” She smiles a pained smile. ”I mean, I think it worked, but it was a terrible thing to have done. I might have been the victim in the relationship but there’s no excuses for how I behaved. Learned some things about myself that I didn’t like very much.”
”As it happens - and not that I wanted to see him for a good long time - he was a lot nicer to me after that. Although I suspect a lot of that was down to his new girlfriend. I’m pretty certain she didn’t know about me and felt awful about the situation. Made it very clear to him what would happen if he treated her the way he had treated me. And to be fair to him, he learned his lesson too - they’re married now.” Hannelia runs a hand through her hair. ”I actually really like his wife, we get on well, though I wouldn’t say we’re particularly close. You might have met her actually: Daisy Gaspare, short dark hair, works at Torvello’s Candles?” Hannelia realises that she’s somewhat wandered from the point, but also that Shel’s sniffs have mostly stopped and her previously ragged breathing has settled into a calmer rhythm. She brushes some hair out of Shel’s face in order to look her properly in the eye. ”Anyway, what I’m trying to say is that relationships can be hard and can make people do stupid things. Be better than that, ok?”
Shel nods, not looking entirely convinced, but perhaps she’s not unhappy with the change of tack and to be focusing on something other than her own pain and unhappiness. Given where the conversation has been, she seizes on it to ask something that she has been curious about but - perhaps surprisingly - has managed to keep to herself. ”Hannelia,” she asks, ”why ain’t you got a boyfriend now? I always wondered because you’re, just, well, really good at everything.” She colours slightly, as does Hannelia at the compliment.
”Well, I think I’ve just demonstrated to you with that story that I’m really not,” she says drily. ”And I’d like to hope that previous deeds haven’t earned me an unfortunate reputation.” The glib answer buys her some thinking time while Hannelia ponders the question. It has been a while; she realises that somehow it’s been eighteen months since she and Carius had split up. Not acrimoniously, just that they had started to want different things and had begun to drift apart a while before it dawned on either of them that the relationship was coming to an end. ”I suppose I have been pretty busy this year,” she says truthfully - her life has certainly been eventful these past few months. ”And I guess I just haven’t met anyone I’ve liked in a while.” It’s something of a cliche but it also doesn’t make it any less true. ”Actually,” she says after a pause, ”that’s not entirely true. You remember that Desnan priest who came to see me a few weeks ago?”
”The friendly one with the nice smile?”
Hannelia laughs, ”Yes, that’s the one. Well, I did tell him that he should stay in Ravenmoor until he’s happy that his work is done, but that when it is he should hurry back here so he can take me out to dinner.”
Shel gasps in surprise and delight. Apparently this exchange has totally passed her by. She snuggles in close to Hannelia again, who puts a sisterly arm around her and strokes her hair. ”It’s going to be ok,” she says softly. ”It hurts now and I can’t take that away, but it will pass, I promise. And you will meet someone who feels the same way about you that you do about them. It’s going to be ok.”
It has been a glorious summer in Saringallow. The sun has been relentless in its appearance and most of the townsfolk have turned a healthy-looking bronze colour. Some less fortunate souls have found themselves a decidedly less healthy red, but their complaints that a little rain might be welcome fall largely on deaf ears. Besides, word from the surrounding farmland is that a bumper harvest is expected this year.
The Conerica river has been a hive of activity with dozens of children and an equal number of adults using the cool waters to escape the sweltering heat. The attempts to restrict this bathing proved unsustainable in the face of such huge numbers so Mayor Trinelli issued an edict cordoning off an area for leisure purposes. It may have caused chaos among the river traffic for a couple of days as everyone adjusted, but even Calannie Thistletop, the ruddy-cheeked no-nonsense dockmistress, was forced to accept that this predictability was infinitely preferable to the hassle and dangers of rogue bathers continuing to take a devil-may-care attitude to the constant flow of boats and their personal safety.
Indeed, something about the unremitting heat seems to have caused the usually guarded and serious folk of Saringallow to shed their inhibitions in increasingly unlikely ways. Overall an almost carnival-like atmosphere, tinged with just a little heat-induced mania, seems to have descended on the town for the past couple of weeks as the calendar ticks into Arodus. Sure, there have been rumours of the living dead roaming the foothills of the Menador Mountains, way off to the west. And news of a skirmish between troops from Molthune and the Chelish army filters in too, though when isn’t Molthune on manoeuvres? Anyway, worrying about every potential threat and giving credence to every bard’s tall tales is a surefire route to madness, especially when Saringallow currently seems to be flourishing.
To capitalise on the general good mood, Mayor Trinelli has declared a harvest festival for a month’s time when the crops start to come in. It’s hard to believe that this is the same place that just a few months ago was plagued by a succession of people fallen victim to demonsbile and living in the shadow of the infamous family for which the settlement is named. No further outbreaks of the foul purple substance have been found and, while it will likely never be anything other than tainted in the eyes of many townsfolk, the name of Sarini has been at least partially redeemed. To those in the know, both of these things are well worth celebrating.
And, that is what is happening tonight. The weather seems to have had a beneficent effect on Constantine, or perhaps it is simply the passage of time, and he proposes a meal with friends. As a result of this, the Saringallow Seekers are gathered at the Witch’s End. Alcie has tapped a new keg of a floral pale ale, which is going down very nicely with the reliably excellent food and, like the rest of the town, everyone is in good spirits. Even Talon swung by for a while, making his excuses only after Roger presented him with a further two pints and suggesting some kind of challenge.
If there’s one thing that stops it being truly perfect, it is the absence of Hannelia. Unfortunately the missing member of the group is out of town on some kind of secret business, the cautious young woman unable or unwilling to give much in the way of details, though her non-attendance certainly doesn’t put a stop to the night’s revels. There will no doubt be plenty more opportunities to get together with friends in the future, after all.
The Witch’s End is as busy as ever tonight, the bustle and noise a far cry from some of Saingallow’s more staid establishments. Pretty much all the tables are occupied by the usual mix of travellers, wanderers and locals looking to cut loose, with other groups choosing to stand and some spilling out into the street. Away from your corner of the room, a couple enter the inn. The woman gestures to an empty table and hands the man, one of the tallest people in the room, a thick black travel cloak that seems incongruous with the summer heat. The loose-fitting, deep red robes she wears underneath seem much more suitable for the weather and she scans the room, looking for something.
Having found what she is seeking, she strides gracefully across the room, radiating the power of somebody in total command of their body. Closer up you can see she has a pale pretty face, long black hair tied up tightly, and she wears the symbol of Asmodeus at her neck. She draws up behind Sirio and Constantine, before putting an arm around each man in a familiar manner and leaning forward between them. ”Hello boys, fancy seeing you here.”
It takes Hawk a couple days of hot baths, good meals, and watching the constant goings-on in town from his window at the Witch’s End to recover from his ordeal. The good weather and carnival-like atmosphere help put a comforting mental patina of “it seemed like a dream” on his harrowing escape from the dryad’s snare.
One particular evening, when the town is in especially high spirits and the Witch’s End is buzzing with activity, Hawk decides to join the festive crowd and somehow finds himself sitting at a table with the local – clearly celebrities – he’d met on the Klivanion. It does give him a chance to inspect Majara’s tattoo which has healed well and looks rather good. The whole evening seems to be going well when the Asmodean ‘nun’ appears.
The tattooist stiffens briefly, initially concerned she was here to collect the disputed taxes he owed the Church in Misarias. After a moment of panic, logic prevails and Hawk decides that an Erinyes Sister would not be sent as a mere tax collector… Nevertheless, he decides the less attention he draws the better off he’ll be, so he sits silently.
Majara tilts her head at the approach of the woman, but like Hawk, whom she is sitting next to for purposes of tattoo inspection, she says nothing. She does take a long guzzle of the pale ale, however. Normally she's more of a wine drinker, but far be it from her to turn down the newly opened keg.
Asmodeans. A reunion of.... well, 'old friends' remains to be seen. Somehow she doubts Constantine counts the woman as a friend, considering what he's said on Asmodeans before on their trip to Ravenmoor.
But Sirio is proud of his faith. How will he react to the woman? A question that only observation will answer.
Occasionally she flicks a glance at the woman's traveling companion. Mostly to wonder how on earth he isn't bathed with sweat.
The proposal from Constantine for a group meal is a welcome surprise. It wasn't one she intended to miss either, even though she had been making herself somewhat scarce around public gatherings, if only to spare Shel any further awkwardness. Hannelia had told her enough that Emma should probably steer clear for a bit, and Emma had readily agreed, still feeling guilty about how it had all gone down, but sure it had been the right thing to do at the time. She had enough to keep her occupied most of the time.
But for Constantine to be lucid enough to suggest a meal, when the town's spirits were so high? Even Gunty had been in high spirits recently (well, high spirits for Gunty, at least, which meant a minimum of grunting and sarcastic commentary.)
Well, Emma just couldn't pass that up.
So, she finds herself with the rest of the group at the Witch's End, sitting across from Majara and Hawkren. The absence of Hannelia is keenly felt, and Emma is more than a little curious about what in all was going on with that, but still, spirits are high, and the food and drink are excellent.
When the woman in the thick coat enters and begins scanning the room, Emma notices her, but doesn't think much of it, even when she discards the coat and reveals a much more revealing deep red robes underneath.
And, more importantly to Emma... the necklace that she wore.
The necklace that bore the symbol of Asmodeus.
Between what Constantine and Sirio had told her, and what she'd gleaned from her own studies, she had no trouble realizing who this woman likely was - well, rather, who she likely represented at least.
Before she can voice a warning, the woman saunters up behind Sirio and Constantine and drapes an arm around each man, leaning forward between them.
"Hello boys, fancy seeing you here," she says.
Emma's eyes dart between the two men, unsure of how either one is likely to react. A glance at Majara tells her that the gnome has come to similar conclusions.
”Well, aren’t you going to introduce me?” the woman asks with a mock pout. She peers at first Sirio and then Constantine. ”Overwhelmed by my presence, apparently. It happens.” The tone is light but there is a hint that she’s not being entirely facetious. You get the sense this is a woman who considers herself important and is used to getting what she wants. ”Pava,” she says, ”Pava Irrica.” She stresses the second name, perhaps assuming that it should mean something to you.
In case it wasn’t clear from the context, Pava explains, ”Sirio, Constantine and I all grew up together. I suppose you could consider us part of one big family given the Sisters in their kindness took us all in.” She smiles warmly. ”And it is family matters that I wish to speak to you about. You’ve made quite the reputation for yourselves here restoring the good family name, haven’t you, Mr Fiotura?” She looks pointedly at Constantine, the tone edging towards the line but staying just straight enough to avoid tipping over into mockery.
”I would like to engage your services for a similar task. Now is not the time to talk business though. Be at my townhouse at eleven bells tomorrow morning and we can discuss arrangements. Apologies for intruding on your supper but I simply couldn’t not come and say hello. I trust this will be adequate recompense.” She drops a small black purse onto the table. Judging by the heavy thud it makes, it is well stuffed with coin. Pava takes a step back and sweeps into the formal bow of one who has honed their body with rigorous practice. ”Eleven o’clock,” she reiterates and takes her leave.
Hawk waits for the Sister to be well and truly gone before he glances at the others across the table. He waits even longer in the general silence before breaking it. ”Sooo, she seems… intense.” He adds, "Is that how jobs come your way?"
Majara waits until the woman's gone as well before... picking up the purse. Look, priorities, okay. She undoes the drawstring and glances inside to make a rough guess of how much Pava Irrica is willing to pay.
"Well, I hired the group for their second 'job'," she says a little drily, "and the one before that was, I believe, a response to a general call from the mayor. So no, not precisely.
"She certainly has the money to pay, at any rate. The Irricas have lucrative trade contracts in the entire region thanks to their allegiance to House Thrune. I believe that I actually get devil's blood from an Irrica-owned business, when I have need of it," she adds on absently.
The tattooist chews on that particular piece of gristly information, without satisfaction. "I haven’t met many Asmodeans, but they strike me as the type of people to do their research… I would think she’d know I’m not a member of your alliance." He lets that idea sit for a moment. ”So, did she not care I was here… or was I meant to be included… OR did she neglect her research?”
”I’m perplexed about where I should be tomorrow at 11.”
"I would think that depends on if you want a portion of this," Majara says pragmatically, fingers moving inside the pouch with metallic noises. "She didn't tell you NOT to come. And I wouldn't refuse you. You handled yourself impressively on the boat."
Majara doesn't seem to consider whether the others in the group might have an opinion on whether or not Hawk is invited.
Hawk resists the temptation to smile. "Perhaps she wants a tattoo and was too shy to speak of it? Possibly a sparkling unicorn beneath a rainbow on her hip... she looks the type."
The next morning you assemble at the Witch’s End in good time to head off and find the address Pava gave you. If last night’s concern was pleasure, today is about business and you have the sense that your potential employer is somebody who appreciates punctuality. Heading southwest through Merchant’s Square there is a bustle of activity. As ever, a solitary guard - these days a largely symbolic role - stands watch by the original gallows for which the town is named. And along similar lines of nomenclature, there are a number of stalls with people busy hawking their wares.
Many of the more established businesses in Saringallow have permanent properties, but some vendors favour the busy central location and the flexibility offered by a smaller, portable stand. The regular stallholders are then supplemented by a number of out of towners passing through. Aside from the typical food and goods stands, a Rahadoumi merchant looks to be doing a healthy trade in brightly coloured cloth and patterned rugs.
While the other merchants have been plying their trade for hours now, as you cross the square you see a middle-aged gnome pulling a small two-wheeled cart approach from the opposite corner. Humming a happy ditty, cane stuck jauntily on his arm, he seems to pay no heed to the other traders. In the cart is a large crate, some six feet high and four feet long. Sticking off of the crate and cart are a wide variety of ropes, gears, pulleys, gizmos, flags, banners, bunting, and odd devices that defy description including what appears to be an orc trumpet (if orcs had any business making legitimate music or instruments).
The little gnome happily proceeds to pull the cart until he finds ‘the right spot’ in the square. He stops and begins to unpack the cart. In a matter of minutes with dizzying rapidity he pulls, unsnaps, opens, tugs, unlatches, latches, closes, kicks, wrestles, and cajoles the crate and cart into a geometric monstrosity covering approximately 100 square feet. It is decidedly a merchant’s stall (with a colourful awning to protect patrons from the sun) packed to the rafters with an odd assortment of items both familiar and incomprehensible.
Many of the market’s customers, not to mention the other stallholders gawk at the gnome and his outlandish contraption. Whatever he may be selling, his presence has certainly added a little extra colour to the day’s business.
Continuing on your journey, it’s not long before you find yourselves standing outside your destination, a three-storey townhouse. It is one of a row of similar brick buildings, larger and better built than the average Saringallow dwelling. Given the town doesn’t have much of a noble class and the accompanying villas or estates that often go with such individuals, this is the type of home the average resident would probably aspire to should they strike it rich.
”Sooo, she seems… intense.” He adds, "Is that how jobs come your way?"
"Intense be one little word for how Asmodeans can be. Oy trust me, ye'd best not want to be on Sirio's badside in battle! He can shout with such intensity that the foe's all afeared shaking their little paws!"
"And aye, this is how a lot of jobs come our way." He nods a moment later as an afterthought.
In the marketplace, Majara's head starts to swivel towards the gnome with his contraptionary set-up as if it's on a swivel. Oohhhh-- well-- now he did he get the support frame to do that-- and is that on the shelf there a dwarf-make distillation vessel--
Her feet slow down despite herself and veer slightly towards the Interesting Booth. Surely she could spare a few minutes....
Only on realizing the others are getting ahead while she weighs the odds does she sigh with great regret.
"Sunny-money, fellerkin! Luckamuck eebiesure I'd tarry sedtiktiken, maywise yollgresar!" she calls to the gnome with his cane, waving briefly at him, then skipping into a bit of a jog to catch back up with the others.
***
The building they wind up before is considerably less Interesting than the booth. Majara scrutinizes it a moment with a slightly dour frown. "Well? Shall we?"
If nobody else seems so inclined, Majara raps smartly at the house's door, albeit lower than most visitors likely do. As they wait for any answer from within, she says in an aside to Roger, "Really? Hmn. I'll try and avoid getting on his bad side, then."
The cane-wielding gnome almost leaps at Majara’s patois and his head cranes around trying to find the speaker in the crowd. Spying her, he smiles and taps his cane against the ground, striking a jaunty pose. Then he gives her a deep bow accompanied by a nearly ground-dragging elaborate sweep of his arm. ”Beycomin’ y’dial slowtiks azlow!”
Curiosity generally trumps his common sense… so Hawk finds himself attending the meeting with the Saringallow Seekers. He’s a little intrigued to find out what a devotee of Hell could possibly want… Was this about power, money, family honor, or some benighted mashup?
He adds, "Is that how jobs come your way?"
Emma shrugs. "I don't think we've been given enough jobs yet to have a usual way," she says.
At almost the same moment, Roger remarks "And aye, this is how a lot of jobs come our way" followed closely by Majara saying "Well, I hired the group for their second 'job', and the one before that was, I believe, a response to a general call from the mayor. So no, not precisely."
Grinning, Emma looks over at Hawkren. "Hope that answers your question," she teases.
***
Emma walks with the others to the building, feeling uneasy about the whole situation. She's not the biggest fan of vague situations that involve so many unknown quantities, of which this certainly qualifies.
When Majara knocks on the door, Emma positions herself close by, hand on her sword.
Just in case.
A man, presumably a steward of some kind judging by his simple yet smart dress, ushers you all inside. Given the sweltering summer weather there are no cloaks or coats to relieve you of so he leads you straight to a door at the far end of the entrance corridor. He knocks, waits a second for a reply, and then opens it. ”Your guests, Ms Irrica,” he says, stepping back to allow you to enter the room.
Pava Irrica, your hostess, rises to greet you as you file into the room. No longer dressed in the robes of the Sisters, this morning she is clad in a mustard yellow blouse with ruffed collar and sleeves and form-hugging black trousers. ”Welcome, welcome. Please take a seat.” To the servant she says, ”Thank you, Jimus,” and he nods his head before departing, closing the door behind him. Looking around the room, you can see that it is a large and well-appointed parlour. A portrait of a middle-aged, ferociously-whiskered man above a fireplace draws the eye. Several walnut armchairs, upholstered in deep green, are set out around a coffee table made of the same wood. A large cabinet and writing desk sit in the far corner of the room. It’s not ostentatious or particularly showy, but the items in the room are obviously well made and speak of both quality and taste.
A large man with a shaved head - Pava’s colleague from last night - remains seated by the writing desk, though he turns his chair around to face you. ”Regilianus. Fiortura.” He nods towards the two men, unable to fully hide his distaste as he says the second name. Even seated he is obviously a physically imposing figure. A shield ornamented with the symbol of a red tower rising from dark flames leans against one leg of the desk. Given how out of place it looks in the rest of the room, it appears to have been placed there strategically.
Once she is happy that everybody has taken a seat, Pava settles herself once more in her own armchair. She looks carefully around at the assembled group. ”Thank you for coming, it’s good of you to make the time. And everybody is here -” she stops. ”Oh no, where’s the other woman, the meddlesome one? But you’ve brought the… tattoo artist instead. How interesting. Still, no matter. But where are my manners?” She turns to the man in the corner. ”Sirio, Constantine, you know Carillus, of course. And now so does everybody else.” The man grunts in acknowledgement.
There is a light knock at the door and a serving girl enters with a large jug of water and a platter heaped with pastries that are recognisable as Gunty’s finest. She places them on the coffee table beside a collection of glasses and two bottles that look to contain some kind of cordial. She pours a glug of pale green liquid from one of the bottles into a glass, tops it up with water and offers it to Pava. Curtseying, she swiftly takes her leave.
”Please, help yourself to refreshments,” Pava gestures towards the table. ”Business flows so much more smoothly when everybody is suitably fed and watered, don’t you find? Nobody wants to agree to something they haven’t fully understood due to the distraction of an empty stomach,” she laughs lightly.
Pava takes a sip of her drink, giving you the opportunity to take one of your own should you so wish. ”Everybody happy? Let’s talk. As I mentioned last night, your reputation precedes you and I am looking to engage your services. We shall of course discuss terms in due course, but please indulge me in a little history lesson first.” She shuffles in her chair, sitting up taller. ”You may be familiar with the name of Irrica, but I take nothing for granted. Time passes and hard times have befallen many in Isger. I am sure that I do not need to tell you of the tragic wars of two decades past; I am well aware that many of you were affected by them, as indeed was I. Prior to that, the Irricas were a well-known family in the region, generously favoured by the grace of the Most Noble House of Thrune for supporting them in the Civil War. Even this fortune, however, was not enough to prevent the desecration of the family home. A terrible waste, and the entire family line wiped out out at a stroke.”
She pauses to take another sip of cordial, allowing the words to sink in. ”Or so it was widely believed, anyway. Finally, after years of painstaking legal research and careful reading of contracts - and you know how tedious that can be, we do like to be thorough -” she smiles knowingly at Sirio, ”I am able to claim my birthright and legally use the name of Irrica. As you have no doubt surmised, I am the last of my line, looking to restore the good family name once more.”
”Which is where you come in. You have already demonstrated competence and skill in a not dissimilar situation, which is what attracted my attention. Plus I do like to keep an eye out to see what my old friends are up to these days." Her smile is cat-like at this comment and there is something resembling a twinkle in her eye. "You may know that the Irrica summer estate lies north of here along the river. I am looking for your help to secure it for me and to return any property you can which is rightfully mine.” Her tale finished, Pava folds her hands and leans forward, looking expectantly around the group.
”And everybody is here -” she stops. ”Oh no, where’s the other woman, the meddlesome one? But you’ve brought the… tattoo artist instead.”
Hawk smiles, ”In her absence, I’m acting as the other woman's meddlesome delegate.”
”I am able to claim my birthright and legally use the name of Irrica. As you have no doubt surmised, I am the last of my line, looking to restore the good family name once more.”
”Which is where you come in. You have already demonstrated competence and skill in a not dissimilar situation, which is what attracted my attention… You may know that the Irrica summer estate lies north of here along the river. I am looking for your help to secure it for me and to return any property you can which is rightfully mine.” Her tale finished, Pava folds her hands and leans forward, looking expectantly around the group.
Hawk glances at the others for a response. When none is immediately forthcoming, he pipes up ‘meddlesomely’ and cheerfully, ”I don’t get it."
"If you have a documented legal right, then it seems your family name is already restored and the estate is yours as well, yes?" He pauses briefly, considering, "Is there some specific piece of ‘property’ you’d like found?”
"In name, yes," Pava agrees. "In reality, even the most Desna-kissed fool would be hard pushed to assume that a large building has remained abandoned and untouched for over two decades. As I said, I am looking to you to flush out any undesirable squatters before repair work can begin. Specifying property as part of the agreement seems only prudent, no? I accept some things may be long gone, but you can assess and recover what you can." She smiles demurely at Hawk. "Besides, it is only common courtesy to be mindful of the possessions of others."
Majara has been absorbed with the cordial, having taken Pava up on her offer of refreshments. She's been rolling the light green liquid on her tongue the last minute or so, eyes half closed, trying to analyze what flavors comprise the liquer, and is thus somewhat distracted at first. Pear? Anise? A type of absinthe, or related? Sweet, but with that slight bitterness of--
Oh, right, business.
Majara settles her cordial to one side and steeples her small hands in front of her. "Right. Clearing the grounds of trouble. Wouldn't do to have you assume your ancestral home only to discover it's full of spider swarms or something."
(No, Majara isn't looking at Emma. Why would she be?)
"Do you have any advance intelligence on the property? Maps of the grounds or the house itself? Any rumors of what might have taken up residence?"
Majara glances around the room after her question. Interesting shield. Clearly a statement. Of what?
Nope. No idea. Back to Pava. "How far are we talking from here, a day's travel? More? And what, pray, killed the original inhabitants?"
"Indeed," comes the dry reply to Majara's first, presumably rhetorical, question. As the gnome rattles them off, Pava exchanges a look with Carillus. "I... I don't honestly remember anything of the attack," she begins, for the first time less than effortlessly cool and calm. "Nor can I say how I survived, except that clearly the Dark Prince favoured me. I am informed that it was a swarm of goblins, wave after wave. It would probably have had to have been, to overwhelm the house guard and its defences." She takes a sip of her drink, trying to fully regain her composure.
"As for now, rumours persist of hauntings and curses, though find me an abandoned manor which does not have similar attached. Whisperings of 'demon rats' - or 'devil rats', there seems to be little agreement, though I doubt most folk are able to make a precise distinction - have been circulating for some years." She absently brushes her left hand on the opposite sleeve of her blouse. "Otherwise, take your pick from any of the likely suspects who might take advantage of the shelter it offers."
"The house itself is by all accounts not in great condition. The roof has been badly damaged and has collapsed in places so it's likely that will have had some effect on the interior." Pava wrinkles her nose in distaste. Clearly she views the damage to her family home personally. "I do not have a map of the house or grounds. Personally I would be surprised if such exists as I doubt any of my ancestors would want it to fall into the hands of a rival. But the town archive is probably as likely a place as any to have a copy if one does, Saringallow being the closest major settlement. Which leads to what I believe was the last of your questions: it is more than a day from here, perhaps two, depending on your mode of transport. Broadly, you follow the road north past the Sarini Manor," she side-eyes Constantine as she says this, "and keep to the main route of the river towards Swiftrun once you reach the Elidir fork."
"How old were you?" Majara asks, head cocked as she gazes up with violet eyes at the woman who is hiring them.
"And what will be our financial compensation?" she asks a second later, in much the same blunt, dispassionate tone.
Although not directly connected to the mission, as well as being a personal question, Pava hesitates for a second. Deciding that there's no real reason not to answer, she meets the gnome's gaze. "I was five." She lets this sink in - not that it requires a leap of imagination for the assembled group given their similar experiences - before continuing.
"I would like to offer you 500 gold pieces per head for completion of the tasks. Obviously I'm looking for the return of any Irrica property, but I am willing to let you keep any other spoils you come across in the course of clearing out the estate."
"Aye, this is a familiar tale." Roger strokes his beard. Peculiarly familiar. Mayhaps Thrune was investing in lots of orphans to reclaim ancestral homes as a whole project or something.
"Makes sense. If it'were just a matter of renovating, we'd not be the crew for it, but if there be rats of unusual sorcery about, we can take a look." Roger feels the mission straightforward enough.
Five hundred a head. Majara siiiighs to herself, thinking how many very good weeks of business at the shop she would need to make five hundred gold coins. Truly, the lucrative pull of adventuring is strong.
"Well, I'm in," she says simply. "Let's hope it's merely rats, Roger."
Hawk does the financial calculation not nearly as fast as Majara... mostly because he's amusing himself with the idea of tattooing a glorious unicorn on the Asmodean. "Sure. With luck, we'll be able to entice out a few miscreants with the offer of free tattoos."
Pava looks at Hawk with a tight-lipped smile but she seems pleased with the direction things have moved in. "Excellent, we are agreed then. I trust that a verbal covenant is sufficiently binding?" She looks towards Sirio, who nods curtly. "Contract therefore agreed between the House of Irrica and the Saringallow Seekers." She pronounces this last softly, drawing out the sibilant sounds.
With business concluded, Pava turns the conversation towards small talk - the sweltering weather , the accompanying boom in trade, local politics - before bidding you all farewell. The steward, Jimus, shows you out.
It is only once you are outside and a distance from the house that Constantine, who remained stoically silent throughout the conversation, speaks up. "I don't think you I can accompany you on this," he says, shaking his head. "I'm not... you know..." He looks sadly down at his feet. "I could probably accompany you to the archives if you're thinking to not take Ms Irrica entirely at her word," he says, brightening, aware of the potential awkwardness around his situation. The weight still hangs heavily on his shoulders and the slightly distressed look on Constantine's face suggests that he, at least, probably wouldn't take Pava completely on trust.
"I haven't visited the local archives." Hawk muses then adds too innocently, "As a visitor to town, I've heard it is a scenic spot I really should see."
Silently, he concludes, then I'll know how close she sticks to her word to gauge how closely I should stick to mine.
"Trust but verify," Majara says drily to the concept of whether or not they take Pava at her word-- with a certain intonation that suggests she feels 'trust' may be stating it strongly.
"They're decent archives," she answers in response to Hawk. "For a town of Saringallow's size, anyway. Good records for gatherers. I think I'll start there, with anyone who hopes to have some history to mitigate the mystery. Hawkren- welcome to being provisionally a Seeker, it seems. I can assure you, they let anybody in here."
With the last delivered deadpan, Majara immediately suits action to word and starts striding off for the town hall and the records there, assuming that anyone who wants to is coming with her without bothering to check.
”I think you are underestimating the binding nature of our agreement,” Sirio snaps, a note of temper in his voice. ”Contracts are something we take seriously in the church. Yes, she may test its limits and meanings but that is simply part of the game. Whatever else she may be, Pava Irrica is no fool so let’s not be foolish ourselves. But the point remains that the contract itself – remuneration for services rendered – is solid.” He touches the holy symbol worn around his throat and a little of the stiffness in this hard man softens, as he adds, ”It would certainly be wise to see if we can verify what she said. Or, perhaps more likely, discover what she has omitted to tell us – Ms Irrica is under no obligation to disclose any more than she wants to, even if it may aid us in the completion of our tasks.”
"Well, the books shouldn't bite, so I'll leave that to you, when we're ready to depart, you know where I'll be moored!" Roger passes on the the archives, figuring the party would be safe without him.
Upon arrival at the town hall, you are welcomed into the basement by the archivist, Fustifer Bing. The elderly halfling’s snowy hair is not quite as wild as usual, a healthy dose of sweat from the warm weather seeming to tamp it down somewhat.
”Ah yes,” he says, ”Welcome, friends! Welcome. I should warn you that it is, ah, quite hot down here. You’d think it might be a bit cooler, being underground but alas. I did think that a little moving air might help cool things down a bit but, well, the magic wasn’t precise enough. Disaster. It’s taken me two weeks and I’m still working through the mess.” He’s not exaggerating, a wall of heat hits you as you enter the archives, adding an additional potent odour to that of old papers and lack of sunlight. Fustifer’s personal table is as overflowing with documents and well-worn books as last time you were there. It would appear that an archivist’s work is never done. A pile of loose papers pushed into a corner is testament to the failed experiment with the breeze spell.
”So to what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from the town heroes? No trouble here I hope?” he asks, his bushy white eyebrows rising up his forehead. ”Hmm, but is Hannelia not with you? Come to think of it, she’s not been in recently. Strange, really.” The halfling appears to be talking primarily to himself. He perks up at the mention of the Irrica name, however. ”Ah yes, another notorious name. Not quite as well known here is Sarini - oh I beg your pardon,” he says, only seeming to realise who Constantine is at this point. ”Perhaps not as well known now, passage of time you know, but roll back a couple of decades and the name of Irrica was almost as prominent. Certainly in terms of an active house until, well, yes…” He trails off. ”Who would have thought it, though? A live Irrica heir. Helped her out of course, when she paid me a visit. Pleasant enough young woman, in spite of the name, if you understand me. Respected the materials though, and I always appreciate that.”
”Anyway, I’m sure you haven’t come just to listen to an old halfling prattle on. Let me see what I can find…” With that Fustifer shuffles off and quickly - at least by his own standards - brings back some documents. ”This will do for a start. Might take me a bit longer to fetch some more.”
Fustifer’s words, paired with the initial manuscripts, corroborates the basics of what Pava said about the Irrica family. It is evident that they tied their flag to the mast of House Thrune and rose in fame and fortune as a result of this favour. Similarly, it is easy enough to find evidence that the line was believed to have been ended in the first year of the Goblinblood Wars. Digging deeper, however, may bring further information to light…
Rutillo Irrica’s will The Irrica patriarch filed a will in Elidir in 4680 AR. Pava recently furnished the Saringallow archives with a copy of the document.
Irrrica family tree From various sources you are able to piece together the Irrica family tree.
A small inheritance A broadsheet records that somebody named Delara Adnen inherited some Irrica family possessions around 18 months ago.
A haunted house? Various rumours and mentions in chapbooks and news sheets allude to the Irrica estate not being deserted.
The Thrunes and the Irricas The Irricas’ liaison was Vegoran Thrune, a distant cousin of the queen.
The Asmodean still seems snappish over Constantine's state, or perhaps Pava is bringing up awkward memories, but he calms down some in the archives. Legal research is something any follower of the Prince of Law worth their salt can do, and Sirio is a dab hand at the trade...
With a certain self-satisfaction Sirio emerges a few minutes into the document with the look of a man who is good at his trade and knows it.
"A standard-- if complex-- family will, governing the succession and the disposition of certain specifics. However-- all the named parties seem to be deceased. Pava and her siblings were born after this was drafted-- if a more recent version of the will exists, it isn't this one."
Majara would, all things considered, prefer to be in her lab than reading historical documents; if there must be historical documents they could be good enough to be alchemical historical documents, but alas. She vaguely envies Roger who is sensibly taking himself off to the tavern, but supposes that her cred as a form of scholar might suffer if she doesn't join in.
Besides, she likes Fustifer well enough.
"I've got more arthritis salve at the shop now, if you need some," she says by way of a greeting. "Let's see what we've got then."
Majara wanders to the genealogy records that Sirio has started to pile up and begins pulling down volumes. If she just pretends that the names are, say, rare ingredients...
...nope. Doesn't work. She just starts trying to wonder what you might use 'Altheia' or 'Vercilius' for in a potion...
Majara ignores the broadsheets, apparently.
...and the rumors.
However, during the course of the research, she does snap her fingers slightly at one name. "Ah-- Vegoran Thrune. Veggie Thrune, you might call him. Supposedly a bastard even by Thrune standards and determined to enrich himself no matter who else he hurt. It's possible the Irricas eventually took exception, because Vegoran disappeared about a year or so into his role as their liasion. And there was talk that the Irricas were being helped by someone. Or something."