Delara considers for a moment before replying. ”I think you’ve already done us a service,” she says. ”With that in mind, I’m willing to sell the locket and rings for 100 gold, 150 for the whole lot other than Andama’s earrings.”
She looks over at her unconscious bodyguard on the couch. ”And if you happen to have anything that will take the edge off a sore head, I’m sure Ridinion will be appreciative when he comes around.”
Hawk nods. "Allow me to confer with my companions to see how much money we can pool together."
The sorcerer is candid and somewhat embarrassed. "I only have 7 wheels to my name at this moment, which is not much of a contribution. I'm happy to even accounts when Pava pays us. What do you think?"
Majara chuckles a bit. "Is that the only concern? Well, then. I think we can trust Pava to pay our wages-- if nothing else, Chelish tend to pay their debts-- so I don't mind fronting the coins."
No, she is not at all rubbing in Hawk's slightly cash-strapped state as she fishes around in pockets on her many bandoliers and produces a handful of mostly platinum coins, counting out until she hits the required sum.
After conferring amongst yourselves, Majara stumps up the gold. ”It’s done then,” Delara says, quickly counting the coins. ”A pleasure doing business with you and my thanks once again. I will certainly keep an interested eye on your exploits.” With the jewellery safely stowed, your host's steward Stefani sees you out.
Bidding the Adnen mansion farewell, you head back down the hill into the centre of Valten in search of a room for the night and a hot meal. A large painted sign advertises The Narcissistic Nymph as an inn and drinking establishment. The gaudy image leaves little to the imagination regarding the titular creature and its wetly clinging outfit; her reflection in the pool seems designed purely as an opportunity to paint the scantily clad fey twice. As it turns out, the signage is by far and away the most interesting thing about the place. Inside you discover a perfunctory but ultimately satisfactory inn with basic rooms, adequate food and average beer.
However, a chance to sit and talk is a good thing. Away from prying - and ghostly - eyes you are able to look at the locket properly. Hawk is relieved that he is able to open the clasp without issue or interruption. A short word is written into the inside of the shell behind where the painting of Althea’s fiancee was placed.
With all four items now recovered, you have four morphemes, giving Majara the opportunity to add the last one to her formula book and potentially form them into a whole.
Majara cranes her head back to ponder the salacious nymph in detail, squinting up at it with a critical eye. "Now that would be a tattoo alright... cover your eyes, Miss Blackford, Iomedae no doubt wishes her champions to avoid this sort of 'art'...."
Gentle trolling aside, Majara is much more interested in the actual result of their labors. "Ha, there we are-- four of four."
Majara retrieves her three existing scraps and adds a fourth on which she scribes the newest symbol.
"So, we have the components of what I assume is a name... per Rutillo's notes," she says. "Now.... supposedly this is a riddle to solve. Though I'm not sure there's a better way to solve it other than trying the four in varying orders."
"Having seen a few tattoos in Piren's Bluff, I can say that some of Iomedae's finest would find that nymph a bit tame." Hawk is somewhat reticent about piecing together the name. He speaks quietly, "With what we know of the Irrica history, this would seem to be the name of the family's erinyes guardian. I'm not sure if it will trigger the Rod or summon her. Either way, we might want to exercise a bit of restraint in a public place."
Nevertheless, he mulls the pieces of the name: mun, ti, fex, Avo… Avomuntifex? Avotimunfex?
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"Is that the only concern? Well, then. I think we can trust Pava to pay our wages-- if nothing else, Chelish tend to pay their debts-- so I don't mind fronting the coins."
"I can contribute some as well," Emma says with a shrug. "At least to help cover. Just let me know." She watches as Majara starts rummaging through her many various packs. "Or perhaps you already have this well in hand," she adds wryly as the gnome produces some platinum.
"Now that would be a tattoo alright... cover your eyes, Miss Blackford, Iomedae no doubt wishes her champions to avoid this sort of 'art'...."
Emma rolls her eyes at the jab, but when she takes a glance, feels her cheeks flush crimson. While Hawk's statement about Piren Bluff was more or less true, she had never opted to get such a tattoo. She clears her throat and mutters something about not being an art critic, studiously avoiding both Majara and Hawk's eyes.
"Two rings- wonder if someone someday'll come achance them and think 'em a fine buried treasure."
"What for these treasures.." Roger looks over them, "How much ye want to bet they'll summon a devil somehow what we'll have to send back to hell? I'm in for 5 gold."
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Majara smiles a bit to herself at having tweaked poor Emma, then chuckles aloud at Roger. "I won't be taking that bet, Roger. I'm a gnome, not an idiot."
Wisely deciding that attempting to tamper with unexplored magical items, especially those you believe may summon beings from other planes, in the middle of an inn may not be the smartest course of action, you wait until darkness falls and you have full stomachs before heading a little way outside the town to experiment. It does seem to be guesswork but you work your way through the various permutations of the four syllables, and holding or wearing the four items in various combinations. It takes a bit of time but to either your relief or disappointment, or perhaps a bit of both, nothing happens. No fell beasts from the Hells appear, not even a wisp of smoke from the end of the Hellfire Rod.
if nothing else, Chelish tend to pay their debts
"Hey, I resent that!" Nerissia fakes bristling at that, though it is obvious she understands the sentiment. Notably, she does not offer any of her own coin towards the purchase, believing it to be taken care of already. Or something like that, anyway.
"How much ye want to bet they'll summon a devil somehow what we'll have to send back to hell?
"Done it a few times already, what's one more?" she smirks, clearly confident in her skills.
"With what little I know of this specific Infernal artifact, it looks quite clear to me that we will not have much more success without extra information we simply do not have. Perhaps it is simply time that we return to this 'Pava' and collect our reward. Whatever happens after that, I'd like to get it over with quicker rather than later."
"The rod may be blood-tied to the Irrica line, so we can't operate it in any case. Since Pava isn't paying us to solve that mystery, I'm happy to leave it to her. I just wanted to see what would happen if we could trigger it."
He puts Roderico's portrait and the rings in a separate pocket from the locket. He doesn't trust Pava to fulfill Althea's wishes. And he earnestly believed in the ancient Varisian wisdom - passed down for countless generations - that says Să nu enervezi niciodată o fantomă.
"Oooh, or or, this could be fun, 'Pava' could actually be a demon possessing Pava's body, in order to summon the Devil and get a lick up on a rival. Demons and Devils what mess with each other, don't they?" Roger continues with silly ideas, that may or may not be silly. "That'd make for a fun tale."
The evening at the Narcissistic Nymph fades into night and you feel well rested the following day. With all four items now in your possession, you head back towards the river and then home.
In the early afternoon, approximately halfway back towards the Conerica from Valten, you spy a carriage coming the other way. In the wide open countryside it’s easy to spot the horse drawn vehicle and half a dozen mounted guards accompanying it.
Closing, you can see that one of the riders is clad in Hellknight plate and you recognise him as Carillus, Pava’s loyal follower. As you approach, the carriage stops. ”Well well well, there’s lucky,” he says softly once you are within earshot. One of the guards opens the door and Pava Irrica steps down out of the coach along with a short, balding man in carmine robes and two teenage girls garbed in the dress of acolytes of the Sisters of the Golden Erinyes.
”This has all worked out rather well,” Pava says. ”I have business in Canorate and had heard you were venturing to Valten so I was hoping that we would run into each other. How have you been faring?” she asks.
Despite the fact that is their own employer greeting them, Majara cannot help but run discreet fingers over the bomb components strapped to her bandolier at the sight of the armed retinue and Pava herself. Just to check. This is unexpected, and she only much prefers the unexpected when it's being instigated by her.
Her tone is nothing but civil however. "Good day to you, Lady Irrica. Fortune indeed; we are bringing you the results of the mission-- the four items that, as we understand it, make up your inheritance."
”Excellent, you have done very well. I expected you to be capable and you appear to have proved yourselves as such,” Pava says, her pleased expression matching her words. ”If I may inspect the items, I will have your remuneration prepared now.” She looks to one of the acolytes, who makes a move back into the carriage. ”I trust platinum trade bars are acceptable?”
A sharp bang nearby interrupts the conversation and announces the arrival of a black-winged figure in tight leather armor, wielding an enormous longbow. Dark hair cascades to one side of her face. Although her face is marked with purplish bruises on her fair skin, they don’t detract from her beauty. She hovers in mid-air, her dark feathered wings keeping her aloft. You recognise the being as an erinyes, both from the statue at the Irrica summerhouse and Rutillo’s mentions of a savage angel.
”I believe you have my ring. I will have it back,” she says in a carrying voice, hard eyes fixed upon both parties.
Pava’s nostrils flare slightly and she squares her shoulders, facing down the devil. ”By what right do you claim it?”
The erinyes stares back, eyes aflame. ”It bears my name, Pava Irrica. I helped to forge it when you were not even a gleam in your great-grandfather’s eye. By this right do I claim it.”
Turning to the party she says, ”I have stalked these lands for many long years and I am weary of mortal games, they all too often make for such tepid entertainment. For too long have I been away from home. My bargain is this: give me my ring and I will return to the Hells immediately following the exchange. By taking it I have insurance against being dragged back here against my will; you, I suspect, will not be unhappy with one denizen of Hell less to worry about.” The devil’s lips curl up in a sneering smile. There is also a strong subtext of “and you walk away with your lives” lying around half an inch below the surface.
Hawk comes up short on facts about Erinyes… possibly because her tight leathers and great hair are too distracting. That said, he’s inspired to do a tattoo based on her – assuming he lives through the next few minutes.
He clears his throat politely. ”I’m not a hell-bound barrister. That’s redundant, I know. But it seems your issue is with her”, he waves in the direction of Pava and her armed retinue, ”not with us. I imagine your ring came into Irrica hands through some sort of compact… the terms of which you would like to amend. Or am I mistaken? If not, then you and Miss Irrica have a bargain to strike.”
Hawk is fairly sure they aren’t going to weasel out of the middle of this fight that easily, but he gives it a try while preparing his second and third lines of argument.
”Are you not the current ringbearer?” the erinyes asks Hawk. ”Evidently you are, so this concerns you. Clearly you are not stupid as you know something of myself and my history, though equally clearly there are gaps in your knowledge. While I have been intertwined with the Irrica family in the past, I am bound by no oaths to them. And had the ring exchanged hands the fundamentals would not alter and the bargain would remain the same.”
In response to this Pava speaks up. ”Perhaps you would care to enter into a new agreement? You know my blood and my history and by your presence here I assume you know of me too.”
The devil scrutinises her for a long moment, as if weighing her very soul.”No.” The word hangs heavy. She then continues, ”Perhaps we could have found ways to work together as I did with your grandfather and your great-grandfather but I have grown used to my independence. As I stated, my patience with this world grows thin and I have no desire to remain.”
”I see that the deal has value for both of you. But there is a third party to consider. What do I gain from this?” If she is unnerved by the erinyes it doesn’t appear on her face, though her pale complexion generally seems drained of colour.
”That is a reasonable question, Pava Irrica. What do you gain?” The erinyes locks the Irrica heir in her gaze. ”Your ambitions to restore the reputation and strength of the House of Irrica are going well, are they not? It would appear to me that after this trade you have still gained three items of both power and significance. Significant to you both personally and for what they represent in terms of your family.” Her eyes blaze with fury as she asks, ”Would you destroy everything that you have worked towards because in your pride you break when you should bend?” The tone does not seem to have changed but the force behind these words is almost tangible and there is an obvious threat behind them. More emolliently the erinyes adds, ”If it makes you feel better, view this as a lesson in compromise, wisdom, or simply recognising that there are always limits to power. When I have the ring in my possession I am even willing to throw in a family history lesson as one final act before I depart. Consider that my parting gift.”
Off to the side there is a hissing noise and the robed man in Pava’s group appears to have multiplied himself, his duplicates all precisely mirroring his movements.
Swifter than humanly possible – and emphasising that the devil is emphatically not human – her hands a blur of motion, the erinyes draws her huge bow and in one smooth movement fires a single arrow that appears to be made of pure flame. It rips straight through one of the reflections of the spellcaster before it scarcely came into being. It is a highly impressive feat.
”That was a purely defensive gesture,” the man complains.
The erinyes seems to literally boil with fury, though her rage is a cold and a calculated one. ”As was that. If I wanted to target you rather than one of your illusions I would have done so.” To the assembled group she says, ”Any further magic, any weapon drawn, will be taken as an attack. Take me at my word when I say I will retaliate in kind with full force.”
She leaves that last remark to hang in the air, point clearly made.
If looks could kill, the one Pava shoots the man would have stopped his heart in an instant. Given the powder keg situation here, he is clearly here for his magical prowess rather than his diplomatic skill.
”You are wondering what would happen if you refuse the bargain,” the devil says, eyes sweeping between Pava and the party, a statement rather than a question. ”You are making calculations because you are competent at what you do. The question, then, is whether you are good enough. Huntress,” she says to Nerissia. ”The blood of fiends runs through your veins and your history. You are a proud warrior and a good markswoman. But are you a better shot than me? Can you fly, noble warrior?” she asks, turning to Emma. ”And you, magician,” she addresses Hawk. ”Do the flames of your magic burn hot enough to sear one born of Hell itself?” She beats her wings languidly, a movement of a totally different pace to the shot she fired mere moments ago. "I advise you to think very carefully. As I have laid out, the offer is mutually beneficial. I receive my ring and I am gone; you are rid of me. You then make the remainder of your trade as if I was never here. Choose badly and my judgement will be swift and without mercy, raining a storm of bloody vengeance upon you from above.”
Without knowing the particulars of the cast spell, Hawk does roll his eyes at the sheer stupidity of the move. He can’t really fault the Erinyes’ analysis, save on one point, and it wasn’t worth debating... or maybe it was. ”Miss Irrica provided few details on the family history, so gaps in our knowledge are to be expected. But I do recall an interesting note from one or another of the Irricas about the ring protecting the bearer from the wrath of the family ‘Angel’. That might effectively keep the ring out of the angel’s hands forever, if isn’t just fanciful talk. Food for thought.”
He turns his attention fully to the Erinyes. ”You are accurate about our abilities but you are wrong about my thinking. That said, if I am the ring-bearer and have an equal stake in this negotiation, then here is the compromise I propose so that all benefit. Miss Irrica will pay us four-fifths of the promised amount because we will deliver nearly all of the items retrieved, including some family keepsakes that were legally passed to her distant cousin. We will waive the costs we paid to acquire them. The ring we will return to Miss Avo," He abruptly cuts off before stringing the rest of the syllables of her name together. "... with her assurance that she will leave almost immediately without taking vengeance on any party. Then we shall be on our way and you, scions of Hell, can talk family history or whatever you like. Are those terms acceptable to everyone?”
The erinyes nods at Hawk, as he speaks of what he knows of the ring. ”Indeed. And is that a theory you would be willing to put to the test? That possession of the ring would protect you?” she asks, raising a shapely eyebrow. ”Even supposing it were true, if the ring comes into my hands then it protects everybody. I return home and there is no risk of it falling into anybody else’s hands. Nobody risks my wrath.”
”You hold it and you appear to speak for your group. That gives you a stake,” she states matter of factly, almost challenging Pava to disagree or Hawk to retract his statement and again claim no part. ”The terms are acceptable to me. Provided they are kept then I have no need to seek vengeance against anyone.”
Pava does not look particularly thrilled by the turn of events but seems to have come to the conclusion that she can only play the hand she has been dealt and that the devil may have had a point. ”Fine. I also accept.”
Beside her Carillus bristles. ”I knew we couldn’t trust them, hanging round with Regilianus and that freak.” He spits the last word.
”Silence!” Pava commands in a harsh whisper. ”Are you a Hellknight or a fool? Where is your discipline? This is not your decision, Carillus, so shut your mouth unless you want me to report you to your Order for insubordination.” Her face at this point looks entirely bloodless.
”Then the contract is made,” the erinyes says with a smirk, her body suddenly limned in flames as if visually representing the sealing of the bargain.
”Ilynia, if you’ll pass me the money,” Pava says to the acolyte who has returned from within the coach bearing a small wooden chest. She steps forward and counts out 16 small platinum trade bars, handing them to Roger. In return she takes the mace, the locket and the Hellfire Rod, as well as the additional jewellery and trinkets acquired from the Adnens. She takes a step back and the erinyes swoops in on her black feathered wings, landing on leather-booted feet and takes the offered ring from Hawk. She glances at it for no more than a moment, satisfied that it is the item she desired. ”The bargain is complete,” she says.
”Thank you,” Pava says to the party, looking happier now that she actually has her hands on her family treasures.
Looking to the Saringallow Seekers the erinyes says, ”If you would learn the history of the items you recovered - such as why that is not my name -” she shoots a look at Hawk, ”then you are welcome to stay. If you are incurious then you are free to leave.”
With the deal concluded, Hawk becomes cautiously jovial. ”Madam, calling you ‘the Erinyes’ seemed less polite than trying to ascribe a name to you. And ‘Avo’ has some connection to these matters, so I used it. I am curious to hear the items’ histories, if Miss Irrica doesn’t object. Also, would you mind if I sketched you?”
He adds an afterthought, "Also, Miss Irrica, we carry a message from your distant cousin that should please you and I will need your permission to visit the grounds of your summer house once more to fulfill a pledge I made to your Aunt Althea."
Pava looks at Hawk, a curious expression on her face. ”My aunt Althea is dead. Explain what you mean, please.” As an afterthought, she adds, ”you may stay. It is possible that you have information that you can add to the story.”
The erinyes also looks carefully examines Hawk. ”To what end?” she asks bluntly.
”My aunt Althea is dead. Explain what you mean, please.”
”Yes, Althea passed along with her betrothed around 4696. We spoke with her ghost. She’s a lovely lady. Her spirit seeks release and requested that we bury a pair of rings along with a cameo of Roderico – her beloved – in a spot where they had trysts, near the river at the summer house. I would urge you to agree with her request. She may still reside in her locket, which you now possess, or in the portrait of Roderico, which I hold. In either case, she was emphatic about her wishes.”
”We don’t know what your family history says about the couple’s deaths… but there may have been foul play. Her engagement ring was, in fact, a Raktavarna Rakshasha. Her accounts of her and Roderico’s behavior when they possessed the ‘ring’ bears that out. The creature manipulated them both without them being aware of its true nature… and possibly precipitated their deaths. In the process of uncovering this, we flushed out and destroyed the Raktavarna.”
”To what end?”
It takes Hawk a moment to grasp what she is referring to. ”To what end? The sketch? Ah… It’s likely a silly reason to you. ‘Art for art’s sake’ – you cut a striking figure. I’ll likely never have the opportunity to sketch an Erinyes again. Someday I may paint a portrait or craft a tattoo of you. My plans are no more nefarious than that.”
Pava struggles to control her surprise as she absorbs the words. ”I can find no record of her cause of death. Obviously much was destroyed when my family was killed but the one source I could find that made mention of it suggests that Althea’s death was both a tragedy and a mystery.” She inhales and stretches her shoulders upwards, rotating them in a move to loosen tension. ”You have my thanks and my permission to carry out my aunt’s wishes. Make sure that you do so.”
You are unsure if an erinyes can preen, but in the way that she casually spreads her wings and stretches them to their full ten foot span, that appears to be what she is doing. ”You may,” she says. ”I only hope that your artistic skill is an equal of the silver of your tongue. Be quick,” she adds.
While Hawk begins to hastily sketch the female devil, Pava quietly begins to inspect her new treasures. ”You called her ‘Avo’,” she says shortly. ”In line with the inscription on the Hellfire Rod. There are also words on the locket and the mace - and presumably also the ring. Based on my grandfather’s will, together you think they combine to make a name, which gives the wielder power over you,” she surmises, looking at Hawk. She turns to the erinyes. ”And by taking the ring, it is impossible for someone to learn all of the parts of your name, hence your reference to it being your insurance policy.”
”Avomuntifex,” the winged devil says, drawing curious looks given she has freely given the information that you thought she was trying to hide. ”Your logic is sound and I would also assume from his words that you are not the only one to have come to this conclusion.” She looks to Hawk for confirmation.
”Avomuntifex,” she repeats. ”That is the name I was known by to Rutillo Irrica. A shrewd man, cunning, ambitious and willing to use the tools at his disposal. I enjoyed working with your grandfather and we had a fruitful partnership for many years. But a partnership was all it ever was; he never possessed the knowledge to force me to do things against my will. I went along with it because it was mutually advantageous and I appreciated what he did, though I always took care to ensure that he never had need to doubt me. But it is evident from what you have said of his will that he believed he had the mastery of me to his dying day.” She smiles at Hawk. ”It was a good name and you are welcome to call me by it. There is no magic in it, however, neither coercion nor control.”
”So it did not have to be the ring? It could have been any of the items and you could still continue the ruse,” Pava asks. Then, firmly, ”No, there is something special about the ring.”
The erinyes looks mildly impressed. ”Very good, Pava Irrica. It seems you bear your family name well.” Although she tries to keep her face straight, it’s clear the compliment has stroked the woman’s pride. ”The ring bears my true name - if you know where to find it and have the force of will to use it. Most mortals possess neither the wit nor the skill to do so, and nor do they deserve to,” she adds, her voice once again taking on a tangible potency. ”Your great-grandfather was one such man. He summoned me and he bound me. While we again worked in tandem, he would use the ring to exert his will over me if we disagreed. I admired him for his power. But I would still have slain him for this insult against my person. I didn’t kill him though, and he never made it as the great man he thought was his destiny.” The erinyes pauses for effect, though the audience remains rapt.
”Instead he was murdered by a bullying idiot named Vegoran Thrune. Your great-grandfather could see how power in Cheliax was shaping up so courted the man in order to get in the good graces of the ruling family. Vegoran was perfect for his ambitions - not a smart man or a serious player, he traded off his family name and Elgifax Calificus played him like a lute with gifts and flattery in return for lucrative contracts. But as his strength grew, he worked to protect it. In order to conceal the secret of his mastery over me, your great-grandfather made the aforementioned inscriptions in various family possessions and casually dropped clues that would allow somebody smart enough to piece together the fabricated name that could be used to control me. It was a clever bluff and one I was content to go along with.”
”Yet somehow Vegoran Thrune discovered the secret of the ring, slew his erstwhile partner and took it for himself. Cruelty is nothing to me and there is much to be said for the raw use of power, but I chafed being bound to a moron.” A purplish bruise on the erinyes’ beautiful face shifts and grows from her cheek until it covers the eyesocket above and spreads onto her forehead. ”No subtlety in him and no imagination - qualities your grandfather possessed in abundance. I made overtures to him - not easy as Vegoran kept me close and used me as his personal blunt instrument. But stupidity leads to carelessness and your grandfather seized his chance. I took satisfaction in making Vegoran Thrune pay.” The smile on her face leaves you under no illusion about how much the erinyes enjoyed this. ”Rutillo Irrica took the ring, having pieced together the riddle of the four items and reinforced his role as head of a family growing in size and influence. I never diabused him of his mistaken belief in where the power lay. And that brings us full circle to the end of our tale and the end of my involvement with the House of Irrica.”
There is a lot to digest and Pava opens her mouth to speak but the erinyes cuts her off. ”No more questions. My time is done and the covenant is fulfilled.” With that she springs effortlessly into the air, shooting upwards until she is around a hundred feet above you and with a crackle a hole opens in the sky, vanishing just as quickly after the devil flies through it. You get a glimpse of a barren, blackened land and a burnt orange sky as she disappears. A wave of heat rolls down to you before spreading out and then dissipating along with the smell of brimstone.
There is a long silence following the erinyes’ return to Hell. ”Well,” Pava says to her group, ”it’s time we made a move. We still need to make Valten before dinner.” The two acolytes and the mage clamber into the carriage and the riders mount up. Pava bids you farewell before climbing in herself and the caravan sets off on this leg of their journey to Canorate.
Alone at last, the job complete, you are ready to set off again to the Conerica, and beyond to home.
Hawk finishes his sketches in record time and appends the Erinyes’ name to it. He makes no comment during Avomuntifex’s explanation but notes with small smiles where his guesses were correct. He was more right than wrong, which felt like something of an accomplishment.
He watches the devil vanish through the gate feeling a combination of wistfulness and relief. Before Pava leaves, he delivers the final bit of news. ”Miss Irrica, your relation – Ms Adnen – asked that we let you know that she respects Cheliax’s decision regarding your bloodline and acknowledges you are the rightful Irrica heir. She has no interest in any Irrica properties or goods and will not dispute any of your inheritance, save the few ‘knick-knacks’ she received as part of her legal inheritance before you were named the heir.”
With their duties complete, Hawk brushes the dust off his clearly magical hat (that swayed an Erinyes no less!), places it squarely on his head, and sets a leisurely pace down the path that would lead the group to Saringallow.
"That is well. Although she obviously understands that she has no legal claim anyway," Pava says slightly haughtily. "Thank you for relaying the information anyway. Perhaps I will pay her a visit when we stop in Valten."
* * * * *
The early autumn sun beats down as you reach the river, lifeblood of Isger, and hope for a passing boat. After waiting for a couple of hours and late afternoon slips into early evening the odds are not looking so rosy and you prepare to camp for the night. Desna smiles upon you, however, as a small cargo boat arrives late and moors at the dock. The captain agrees to that you can squeeze on for the journey through to Elidir the following day. Two days bring you to the capital and, after a change of vessel, a further two brings you back to Saringallow.
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It might be late in the season but Hannelia knows a secret spot a little way outside of town that she expects will still be flush with fruit. Leaving Saringallow by one of the west gates, the pair make their way through the Conerics Paths before leaving it and heading cross-country. About an hour’s walk brings them to a small, dense copse that Zuke first introduced her to as a teenager. It may be limited in size but it is packed with useful plants, both edible and medicinal. Shel points out some of the plants that she knows, sometimes by other names, while Hannelia leads her to a sizeable thicket of brambles still heavy with fruit. Fat, luscious berries, their jewels sticky with promise, are ripe for the picking.
As the two women begin their harvest, Shel lets Sage out. While the mouse scampers around at ground level, nibbling away, she says, not for the first time, ”I do like your new hair, it looks real fancy.”
”It should do, the amount it cost,” Hannelia replies drily. ”I’m still not sure about it - or at least I’m still getting used to it,” she adds more seriously. She’s had it bobbed so it’s a fair bit shorter than she is used to, and neither is it tied up in her customary ponytail. Hannelia shakes her head from side to sore and the bob well and truly bobs as she does so.
”Well I think it suits you,” Shel says.
Hannelia wrinkles her nose. ”I felt very out of place when I was getting it done. I swear everyone else there was a noblewoman or a politician or someone else important. I’m sure they knew I was a fraud.” There is a note of doubt in her voice that is unusual for the normally self-confident young woman. ”Probably a sensible precaution to change my appearance a bit though,” she adds.
”You got as much right to be there as any of them and I bet they ain’t done any of the amazing stuff you have,” Shel says supportively. ”Anyway, are you going to tell me what you were actually doing that requires a new haircut as a precaution?”
Hannelia considers for a second before answering. ”You know I can’t tell you exactly,” she says carefully as Shel’s face falls in the way she was anticipating. ”I’m sworn to secrecy and while I have no real worries about any retribution - our tracks have been more than adequately covered - it’s still safer to not to know, just in case.” While this is most likely Hannelia’s natural caution kicking in, as her first direct mission for the Pathfinder Society she is also keen to follow instructions and make a good impression. ”I haven’t told any of the others,” she adds, ”so it’s not that I don’t trust you, Shel. What I will say - and I haven’t told anyone else this - was that it ended up being rather more like a heist than intended.” Shel’s face lights up, obviously pleased to be let in on a secret and her interest has clearly been piqued. ”Which is why we ended up with a lot of unexpected gold. Thanks again for distributing the presents, seems they were timely gifts as well.”
With the barest of touches to her lower arm, Shel’s outfit changes to a sparkling ballgown as she demonstrates her own present, clearly having now mastered the magic. Hannelia mirrors the action and she, too, is instantly adorned in splendid eveningwear. The two women grin at each other. With a further touch they each revert back to garb more suitable for fruit picking. Shel looks like she’s about to say something else but the moment passes and she remains quiet.
”Feels like a good time to break for lunch,” Hannelia says and she opens her new backpack. She pulls out a large picnic blanket and spreads it on the ground, before withdrawing food and drinks, suitable vessels for holding them, and a pair of folding chairs that definitely should not fit inside. A container that not only fits far more inside than the outside space allows and that precisely orders things could not be better designed for Hannelia and it’s fair to say the woman is delighted with her purchase from the markets of Absalom.
Sitting back in the autumn heat, Hannelia and Shel enjoy a leisurely lunch of many of the finest comestibles Saringallow has to offer, including a loaf from Gunty’s and even a small flask of lightly sparkling wine from the Witch’s End.
When they’re done, they continue to sit and chat for a while before returning to fill their pails with fruit. After a while, and having decided that it might be easier to talk if they are doing something else at the same time, Hannelia says gently, ”Would you like to tell me what’s on your mind? Something’s bothering you and you’ve been threatening to tell me about it for the past couple of days.”
Taken slightly aback that she is so easy to read, Shel’s instinct is to get defensive.
Hannelia laughs, not unkindly, and cuts her off before she can protest. ”Sorry Shel, it was kind of obvious - but that’s because I know you,” she explains.
Somewhat mollified, Shel nods and composes herself. ”Yeah, alright. There is something I wanted to ask you about. I ain’t even said anything to Jhessa yet. She listens to everything properly and gives great advice but I know she would say she believed me without question. I reckon you’ll tell me true what you think.”
Hannelia keeps her face fairly neutral. ”It’s a good thing to have a friend like that,” she says, ”and Jhessa’s no fool. But I understand what you’re saying,” she adds before the girl can jump in to defend her friend unnecessarily. ”And thank you,” she says quietly, then gives Shel the space to talk.
”Um, well,” she begins hesitantly, before plunging straight in. ”My dreams come true. Or some of them do anyway. While you was away I had a dream about dragons. And then your friends did fight dragons - two of them - on behalf of another dragon! And before you say it was just a coincidence, I know that it was connected to my dream. I can’t explain how I know but I do; it wasn’t like other dreams.” She casts around, looking for the right words to help. ”It were both more and less real than a normal dream. It felt so vivid and clear that I was there, could smell the smoke on their breath and taste the last meat they ate, but at the same time I was also detached. Sort of like I knowed I was dreaming and was watching the whole thing through a window.” She looks imploringly at Hannelia, desperate to be believed.
Hannelia thinks for a while before answering. ”I’ve never met anyone who has claimed such an ability before, but that’s not really a good measure of anything. However, I have seen an increasing number of strange and wonderful things in the past few months that may sound implausible to someone else so I’d be a fool to dismiss it out of hand, even if it was a stranger telling me this rather than you.” The corners of her mouth lift up into a small smile. ”I certainly think it likely that some people do have such a gift though. There are just too many stories and accounts for it to be otherwise, I think. Some of them I’m sure are simply coincidence, others housewives’ gossip or tavern talk. But there are many tales that are otherwise difficult to explain and that have been supported by credible sources. So if you think you sometimes have dreams that show glimpses of the future, Shel, then I have no reason to doubt you.” Her smile gets broader, hoping to appease the girl’s worries about sharing something personal that she was obviously worried about being disbelieved or even ridiculed for.
The relief on Shel’s face is obvious.
”Is this the first time it’s happened?” Hannelia asks after giving Shel a little time to process the response.
Shel rubs her forehead with her hand. ”Yes,” she says. Then, ”Actually, no. It’s definitely the first time where I knowed I was seeing something real that weren’t a normal dream. But I think now that it has happened before, maybe three or four times I can think of. They were small things so I just assumed they was coincidences, like you said, and didn’t realise what had happened at the time. They wasn’t as clear as this time neither.” She looks directly at Hannelia. ”Does that make sense?”
The woman nods. ”It does. Often we can only see patterns and understand more clearly in hindsight. Have you always been able to do this then? Since you were a child?”
”No.” Shel shakes her head. ”First time it happened was a couple of weeks after my first blood offering to the Dream Tender.” As she says the words, a look of discomfort appears on her face. ”Sorry,” she says, reddening, ”I’ve never learned another name for it.”
”It’s fine,” Hannelia reassures her, ”I know exactly what you mean. And I’d usually say monthly blood, or moon’s blood. But please carry on.”
Shel’s brow wrinkles a little as she commits the terms to memory. ”I remember it real vivid.” The girl’s face is animated now. ”Sorry, I’m not explaining right. My memory of events is very clear, not the dream itself. I don’t know that I even really would have said it was a dream exactly, things was real hazy, but I do know that one morning I woke up knowing that Jory Podani was going to try and rob the shop that night. Not just steal something but take all the money,” she clarifies.
Hannelia silently encourages her to continue.
”Well I didn’t really know what to do. I couldn’t tell anyone because I didn’t have no evidence and who would believe a girl over one of the best-liked men in the village. I just felt real sick and worried all day and I was so nervous I couldn’t sleep.”
”Anyone would feel the same,” Hannelia reassures her.
Shel looks grateful, if slightly sick at the recollection even now, years later. ”I don’t know what time it was but it was very late in the darkest part of the night when I heared him come in. He was so quiet there’s no way I would have heared him if I wasn’t expecting it. Momma and Poppa didn’t wake up neither. I still didn’t know what to do and I still don’t really know why I did it but I crept downstairs quiet as a mouse and I screamed. Then they did wake up.” The ghost of a smile plays on Shel’s face, but there’s no mirth in it.
”Then it was all chaotic as I must have woken up some of the other villagers and then Mayor Kriegler came and I had to explain what happened. I said I had heared something and had woken up and everyone believed me. I mean, why wouldn’t they? But Jory’s face said that he didn’t, he couldn’t believe that anyone could have done.” She runs her blackberry-stained hands down her dress, thinking. ”Maybe he had some kind of silent magic or something? I don’t know.”
”I didn’t know what was going to happen to him but Mayor Kriegler said that we were a small community and that we shouldn’t turn on each other. He said we look after our own and that Jory would learn his lesson.”
Having met the mayor, Hannelia raises her eyebrows, both at the surprising benevolence of his words and the sinister double meaning hidden within them.
Shel clearly realises this too, likely for the first time, and she exhales deeply. She sits down on the blanket, shaking slightly as she says, ”So he wasn’t punished, not in public. But a few months later, once everything had died down and people had started to forget, Jory left the village. It was said he’d gone to live with a cousin someplace else. Senara maybe it was?” The way she says the place name suggests that it may as well have been in Irrisen for all most Ravenmoor folk knew of the outside world.
Hannelia lowers herself to the floor too and the two women sit silently, neither needing to vocalise the obvious fact that Jory Podani never left the village alive. Sensing his mistress’ distress, Sage scampers along Shel’s arm and she strokes him absentmindedly.
Hannelia reaches out and squeezes her other hand. ”None of that was your fault,” she says softly.
”I know,” Shel replies. ”I ain’t responsible for his actions.”
”Nor for anything that happened after,” Hannelia agrees. ”I hope you didn’t give yourself a hard time over it at the time though.”
”Not really. I didn’t understand and I didn’t know what to do so I didn’t do anything and over time it sort of just became this weird thing that happened to me,” Shel says.
”You didn’t speak to anyone about it?” Hannelia asks, though she’s pretty sure she knows the answer. ”Your parents?”
Shel barks out a laugh that serves as an answer.
Tentatively Hannelia says, ”I know things aren’t easy at the moment and there’s no hurry but it might be worth speaking to your dad about it at some point. It’s said that such gifts can often run in families,” she adds, by way of explanation.
Puffing out her cheeks, Shel exhales deeply in recognition of the current strain between father and daughter.
Hannelia squeezes her hand again in understanding. ”It’s completely up to you,” she says softly. ”Obviously.”
Shel leans forward and wraps her arm around Hannelia, pulling her into a hug. ”Thank you,” she says. ”For believing me.”
As something of an afterthought Hannelia asks, ”You weren’t tempted to say anything to Majara and the others?”
Shel shakes her head. ”I didn’t know what it meant at the time. And besides-“
”You weren’t sure what to say or that they would believe you,” Hannelia finishes for her as she realises she already knew the answer to the question.
”Exactly,” Shel says. ”For a second I thought Mister Hawk was going to ask me about it but he didn’t and I’m sort of glad so I didn’t have to say anything.”
After Shel disengages, the two women sit there in companionable silence for a while, enjoying the autumn sunshine, before talk turns once again to matters less serious. With the brambles picked sufficiently clean and all their containers full to bursting with glistening inky purple fruit, the pair eventually make ready to leave.
Standing, Hannelia checks they have everything and that it is all carefully stowed away before offering Shel her hand to help her up. She loops her arm through the younger woman’s in a sisterly fashion and the two set off for home. Yes, she thinks, it’s been a good day.
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On a crisp autumn morn, as the Saringallow Seekers are falling back into their ‘town lives’, Hawkren packs his kit and heads to the dock. As much as he affects a devil-may-care lifestyle, he is capable of extraordinary focus when it matters. And this matters. Nevertheless, he has to put on a show - so his hat is set at a jaunty angle and he puts some extra bounce in his step. He purposefully passes Wilitta’s House to observe the early risers amongst the ‘soiled doves’ and offers them a rakish, sweeping bow and a grin. He enjoys the wolf-whistles and the lewd offers in passing. Yes, young lady, that WOULD wake me up faster than coffee.
He jumps aboard the first boat heading down river. His plans are simple. Get to the Irrica estate and keep his promise to Althea. He fervently hopes it will put her spirit to rest. She was the only Irrica he’d met or heard about that he actually likes. After that he would head north, back to Varisia: the Sonos Forest, Markham’s Abbey, home. After visiting his parents and inscribing Ladunappindon’s name in the family ledger… well, that’s when matters got interesting.
Reflecting on this bout of adventuring, there were too many times when Hawk was scrambling from one physical threat or another. It was a helpless feeling when all he could do was ineffectively swing a stick at a measly skeleton. The unstated Hargraves family motto was “more magic” but Hawk had doubts. Dodging a problem seemed simpler than slinging more and more spells at it. So, maybe it was time to take up the Abbot’s offer…
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Majara is pleased enough with the conclusion of matters.. she had had no particular joy in her heart at the thought of trying to bomb a flying devil. That's a test of her skills she's happy to put off until another day.
They have sold off some of their spoils in Umok-- especially the small-sized things, likelier to find appreciative buys there than back in Saringallow-- and Majara has found herself the de facto treasurer of the group, given she handles sums on a regular basis with her business. She duly presents Hawkren a tidy sum of gold before he manages to skip town, with an assertion that should he need more coin, she's almost confident the Saringallow Seekers will have space in their midst for a few more of his potent fire spells, as well as his skill with people. And of course his tattooing prowess.
She hands the same amount of gold out to each-- Roger, Nerissia, Emma-- with different exhortations: she advises Roger not to spend it ALL at Alcie's; she advises Emma to buy something 'fun', and for Nerissia, she suggests 'some excellent raw meat for Alocer, he's learned it.'
The gnome lingers a moment near Nerissia. "Saringallow has no shortage of things in the woods that need hunting," she says after a bit. "Especially as the town's resident ranger is recovering from an incident with demon possession. This group here has a manor near the town with more than enough space for you and Alocer to stay a bit, if you like."
Majara purses her lips a moment. "Though if you do, while in town you might want to be... circumspect? About your order. Asmodeans are not necessarily overly-loved in Saringallow."
The gnome shrugs. "For myself, I have a shop I need to ensure my apprentice hasn't destroyed."
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One of her first stops was at Gunty’s Hearty Breads. The grumpy old man was hunched over the oven as usual, and his eyes narrowed slightly as he glanced over in her direction. "Oh," he said. "You’re back, then."
"Nice to see you too, Gunty," Emma said. She gave a nod to Noemi, his apprentice. "Hope you’ve been doing well."
"Well enough," the baker grunted, turning back to his work. "What do you want?"
Emma smiled. "Two loaves of your crusty sourdough, please. And... do you have any of those cinnamon rolls left?"
"Two rolls left," Gunty said, his perpetual scowl softening slightly as he gestured to Noemi. "She's been experimenting with the recipe."
Emma noticed the barely perceptible pride in his voice as Noemi maneuvered through the bakery, her movements precise and confident. The girl had grown in the months since Emma arrived in Saringallow.
"I added more butter to the dough," Noemi explained in a conspiratorial whisper. "And a touch of nutmeg with the cinnamon."
"The kind of experimenting I appreciate. I'll take both then," Emma says, placing coins on the counter. "Perfect for my first morning back."
Noemi nodded eagerly. "I'll wrap them up for you."
Majara had ordered her to buy something fun after all, Emma thought with a smile. Surely Cinnamon rolls counted.
She didn’t really have much in the way of hobbies outside of being a Paladin. Perhaps that was something she ought to look into at some point. As much as she enjoyed her calling, and was generally proud of what she’d done, it would be kind of nice to have something else to focus on sometimes. After all, adventuring couldn’t take up all of her time. Probably. Then again, she was probably just as likely to end up dead on one of these adventures, so perhaps that was a problem that would solve itself. It wouldn't really matter what hobbies she did or didn't have in that case.
That took a maudlin turn, she thought to herself.
"Emma? Hello?" Noemi asked, waving a hand with a smirk. "You fall asleep?"
"Sorry," Emma said with a sheepish smile, taking the bread and pastries from Noemi. "Just lost in thought."
"Seems like your adventures have made you even more absentminded," Noemi teased.
"On that, there is no floor I’m afraid." Emma leaned against the counter, glancing over at Gunty. "Heard any interesting news while we were away?"
"Nothing worth repeating."
"Come now," Emma said. "You always know what's happening in town."
"Despite my best my efforts not to," Gunty grumbled. The old baker straightened, wiping flour from his hands. "Fine. That Pathfinder girl came back from wherever she went. Looking different, she is. And talk of something going on. Mayor's been in a foul mood."
From behind him, Noemi pointed at Gunty, then mouthed, 'He thinks everyone is in a foul mood only because he always is.'
"Hannelia’s back?" Emma asked, brightening. "That’s great!" She’d missed their bard companion on their last adventure.
"Oh yes," Noemi piped up, wrapping the cinnamon rolls in paper. "She came back about a week ago. Got her hair all cut fancy-like. Looks real smart."
"Looks ridiculous," Gunty muttered under his breath.
Emma exchanged a smile with Noemi. "Thanks for the news." She hoisted the bag of baked goods. "And the rolls."
All the stuff after hadn’t been as much fun though.
She’d just about had a heart attack when the erinyes had arrived. Her first instinct had been to draw steel, tempered quickly by the realization that it would have gone very, very poorly if she had.
How easily their confrontation could have turned deadly if not for Hawk's silver tongue. The fiend's wings, her cold beauty, the casual power with which she'd shot down that illusion—it had been terrifying and awe-inspiring in equal measure.
It had shaken her more than she cared to admit. For all her training, for all her dedication to Iomedae's teachings, she'd felt utterly outmatched in that moment. What good was a sword against a being who could fly and rain fiery arrows from above? She could throw her sword, sure, but that wasn’t exactly a winning strategy by any stretch of the imagination.
As she continued on, several townsfolk greeted her with varying degrees of enthusiasm—some with genuine warmth, others with the cautious respect reserved for those who associate with adventurers and other troublemakers. They’d gotten a bit more used to her presence, but the townsfolk of Sarringallow were a bit closed off at the best of times, and downright hostile at the worst of times. Still, there were more than a few that were happy to stop and exchange pleasantries.
Her next stop was at Gordrek’s. The inside of the smithy was too warm for her tastes, even in the chill of autumn, but it was refreshing to see. The dwarf wasn’t anywhere to be seen at the front of the shop, but she could hear clanking coming from the back.
"Gordrek?" Emma called out, moving toward the back of the smithy. "Are you back there?"
"Aye, lass, give me a moment!" came the gruff response, followed by the sound of metal being quenched with a loud hiss of steam.
Emma waited patiently, examining the various weapons and tools displayed throughout the shop. A few moments later, Gordrek emerged from the back room, wiping his hands on a leather apron already stained with soot and oil. His beard was singed on one side, and his face was flushed from the heat of the forge.
"Well now, if it isn't our wandering paladin," he said, his voice a rumbling bass. "Back from another adventure, are ye? Not dragging any more broken equipment for me to fix, I hope?"
"Broken? Not quite." She took the wrapped bundle of armor out of her pack and laid it gently on the counter. "It held up beautifully, but it could use a polish." She unwrapped the bundle and the two looked down at a medium sized ding on the breastplate, which was slightly charred. "Maybe a little, ah...freshening up."
Godrek’s brows rose. "What’d ye do? Fall down a damn mountain?"
"More like a mountain almost fell on me," Emma said. "I was in a fight against two drakes though. And a number of other encounters—"
"Two drakes, huh?" Gordrek asked. "It’s okay, lass, I know ye can be clumsy. You don’t need to lie about drakes." He shook his head with a tsking noise.
"I'm serious!" Emma protested, feeling her cheeks flush. "We were hired to protect a dragon in disguise from two rival drakes that were trying to kill her. There was a whole battle in her underground lair."
Gordrek gave her a skeptical look as he examined the armor. "A dragon - in disguise - hired you to fight two drakes? Aye, and I'm the High Priest of Abadar." He poked at a particularly deep gash in the breastplate. "This looks more like ye tripped and fell onto a fence."
Emma sighed, knowing the dwarf was just teasing her now. "Fine, don't believe me. Can you fix it?"
"Course I can fix it," Gordrek huffed, sounding mildly offended. "Might take a day or two, though. And it'll cost ye." He named a price that made Emma wince slightly, but she nodded. The armor had served her well, and she wasn't about to skimp on repairs.
"I appreciate it," Emma said. "I’ll be back for it in a couple days."
"I'll have it ready," Gordrek promised, already examining the scuffed pieces more carefully. "And next time you fight 'drakes,' try not to let them use your armor as a chew toy."
Emma rolled her eyes but couldn't help smiling as she left the smithy. The dwarf's gruff humor was oddly comforting after the strangeness of their recent adventures.
After a stop at the temple to check on Constantine, Emma headed to Sarini Manor. On her path through town, she caught sight of Shel and quickened her step considerably. She was quite sure Shel had no particular desire to see her, any more than Emma had any desire to speak to her. Their last encounter had been awkward enough, and she didn’t need to make things worse. She’d been thinking about it in the back of her head ever since they’d last left the town.
Put a monster in front of her? No problem. Goblins? A drake? Demons, devils? She’d draw steel and fight to her last breath if that’s what the situation called for.
But talking to girls?
Emma found herself quickening her pace, almost breaking into a jog to avoid Shel. She'd rehearsed what she might say a dozen times during quiet moments on the road, but now faced with the actual prospect of conversation, all those carefully prepared words seemed to evaporate from her mind.
Luckily, Shel seemed equally intent on avoiding her, turning sharply down an alleyway between buildings as soon as she spotted Emma. The mutual avoidance was both a relief and strangely disappointing.
Back at Sarini Manor, she smiled when she saw the figure heading the opposite direction. "Talon!" she called. "Nice to see you."
Talon's eyes brightened when he saw Emma approaching. "Emma! You're back!" He seemed genuinely pleased to see her, which warmed her heart. The half-elf ranger had recovered remarkably well from his ordeal with demon possession, though there was still a haunted look in his eyes at times. "How was your adventure? Did you find whatever it was you were looking for?"
"We did," Emma said. "More or less, anyway. It was... interesting. Challenging. And educational." She summarized their encounters with the drakes, the Irrica artifacts, and their ultimate confrontation with the erinyes, carefully omitting some of the more sensitive details.
Talon whistled low. "Goblins, devils, drakes, and ancient artifacts. You've certainly been busy." He shook his head with a wry smile. "Almost makes me miss the adventuring life. Almost."
Emma glanced past Talon and noticed fresh claw marks on one of the doors. "Alocer's been making himself at home, I see."
Talon chuckled. "Makes me glad I just tend to the gardens," he said. "Always nice seeing you, Emma. We’ll have to get a meal at Witch’s End before you head out on your next adventure."
"Definitely."
Emma smiled as she watched Talon head back towards town. Despite everything that had happened to him, the half-elf had found a measure of peace.
Inside, the manor was quiet. Roger had mentioned stopping at Alcie's first—no surprise there—and Majara had hurried off to check on her shop. Nerissia was presumably settling in with Alocer, though Emma hadn't seen them yet. Hawk had already departed on his own mission, and Hannelia was apparently back in town.
Emma made her way to her room, which remained untouched since she'd left. She placed her pack on the bed and began unpacking, sorting through the items she'd accumulated during their journey.
Her eyes grazed over the portrait that Hawk had made for her, of her mother, Lucia West. The regal figure was a comforting, if not a somewhat conflicted, sight. "You would’ve enjoyed the fight against the drakes," Emma told it. "And I’m sure you would have dispatched them in a much more impressive manner. But we held our own."
Emma studied the portrait for a long moment, then removed her boots with a sigh of relief. The past few weeks had been physically taxing, and despite her training, her feet ached from the miles of travel. She stretched out on her bed, staring up at the ceiling beams of Sarini Manor.
Emma found herself dozing off, still dressed in her traveling clothes. The fatigue of their journey caught up with her all at once, and her thoughts drifted to the Erinyes, to Hawk's clever negotiation, to the dragons they'd faced. In her half-sleep, the images blurred together—black wings against a burning sky, gleaming scales in darkness, the flash of a devil's cruel smile.
Later that evening, at the Witch's End, she found Roger already installed at his usual table, regaling a small crowd with tales of their adventures.
"...and then, as if the very gates of the Abyss had swung open, there she stood - the devil herself! Wings darker than a moonless night, blacker than a raven's plume, spread wide in all their terrifying glory!" Roger was exclaiming, his gestures wild and grandiose. "Her bow was drawn taut, an arrow nocked and ready to send our souls hurtling into the waiting arms of Pharasma herself!" A few of the people listening in, including Morvinarr, gasped. "But then," he continued, leaning in closer as though sharing a secret. "Our fearless Hawk, quicker with his wit than any rogue with a dagger, faster than the most seasoned wizard with his spells - he steps forward! He parleys with this demoness and strikes a deal that not only saves our hides but leaves us standing tall!"
Emma slipped into a seat beside him. "Don't forget the part where we fought drakes," she said with a smile.
Roger beamed at her. "Emma! Just in time! I was gonna loop back to that part." He pushed a mug toward her. "Alcie's finest."
"Cheers." Emma took a grateful sip. "Have you seen Hannelia? I heard she's back in town."
"Think I saw her earlier—least I think it were earlier—heading to the mayor's house," Roger said, taking a long pull from his own mug.
Emma nodded, savoring the warm, spiced taste of Alcie's autumn ale. The tavern was comfortably crowded this evening—not packed to the rafters as it sometimes got during festivals, but with enough patrons to create a pleasant hum of conversation. Firelight danced across the worn wooden tables, and the smell of hearty stew wafted from the kitchen.
Emma settled into the comfortable rhythm of tavern life, listening to Roger embellish their adventures for an increasingly enthusiastic audience.
"And then the first drake, twice the size of this tavern, lunged at Emma with jaws that could snap a ship in half!" Roger was saying, his hands mimicking enormous gnashing teeth.
Emma rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "It wasn't quite that big," she corrected, but found herself enjoying the storytelling nonetheless. There was something reassuring about being back in Saringallow, where their exploits could be transformed into tavern tales rather than life-or-death situations.
The tavern door swung open, letting in a gust of cool evening air that made the nearest candles flicker. Emma glanced up automatically—and promptly inhaled her drink instead of swallowing it.
Framed in the doorway, illuminated by the warm glow of the tavern lights, stood Hannelia. But not quite the Hannelia who had left them months ago. Her long hair, which had always cascaded down her back in a practical ponytail, was now cut in a stylish bob that framed her face perfectly. The shorter style accentuated her high cheekbones and brought attention to her expressive eyes. She wore a deep blue tunic with subtle silver embroidery at the collar and cuffs—clearly Absalom fashion, and clearly expensive.
Emma coughed violently, ale burning its way down the wrong pipe as Roger thumped her helpfully on the back.
"You alright there?" he asked, amusement evident in his voice.
"Fine," Emma wheezed, eyes watering. "Just—went down wrong."
The bard moved through the tavern with effortless grace, greeting familiar faces with warm smiles. When had she become so... poised? So sophisticated? Emma suddenly felt acutely aware of her own travel-worn appearance—the simple tunic and trousers she'd thrown on, her hair hastily pulled back, the smudge of soot from Gordrek's shop that she'd probably failed to wipe completely from her cheek.
What in Iomedae’s name is wrong with me? Emma thought frantically, trying to sort through the jumble of emotions coursing through her. This is a dangerous line of thought.
The bard's new bob swung neatly as she scanned the room, her face lighting up when she spotted Emma and Roger.
"There you are!" Hannelia called, making her way over. "I heard you all returned yesterday. Successful venture?"
"Good to see ya, lass," Roger said, lifting his mug. "Ye missed a hell of a battle, I’ll tell ya that much!"
Emma tried to compose herself, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. "Welcome back," she managed, voice still a bit raspy from her coughing fit. "You look... different. Good different. Hair." She winced. "Your hair looks good, I mean."
She quickly refocused herself, shaking her head. Jealousy was a bad look on her, she thought.
(It is jealousy, right? a small voice whispered in her head. No, of course it is.)
She’d never really been the sort to get her hair done up back home, and her late mother hadn’t either. For most of her childhood, haircuts had been a quick affair. Her hair had always been kept at a short, manageable length for practicality when training. She'd never really put much thought to it.
Hannelia's hand went to her bob self-consciously. "Thank you. It's taking some getting used to, but it seemed practical for Absalom's climate." She pulled out a chair and joined them at the table. "So, tell me everything."
Roger launched enthusiastically into the tale again, this time with even more embellishments. Emma found herself watching Hannelia's reactions more than contributing to the story. The bard listened intently, her expressions shifting from surprise to concern to admiration as Roger described their encounters with the drakes, the rakshasa, and finally the erinyes.
"An actual erinyes?" Hannelia asked. "And Hawk talked her down?"
"He was brilliant," Emma admitted. "I was ready to draw steel, which would have been..."
"Suicidal," Roger supplied helpfully.
"I was going to say 'ill-advised,'" Emma said with a wry smile.
Hannelia's laughter was bright and melodious. "I missed you all terribly," she admitted. "Absalom was fascinating, of course, but there's something about adventuring with friends that can't be replaced."
"We missed you too," Emma said, perhaps a bit too quickly. "The group dynamic wasn't the same without you."
"So what were you up to in the big city?" Roger asked, signaling Alcie for another round of drinks. "Hobnobbing with the nobs, by the looks of your fancy new clothes."
Hannelia rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "I can’t say much," she admitted. "Not about the particulars, anyway. That’s kind of the way it is with the Pathfinder Society and all. But it wasn't all work," Hannelia continued, accepting the mug Alcie slid across the table to her with a grateful nod. "Absalom is... overwhelming. The Grand Lodge alone is bigger than half of Saringallow. And the markets! You could spend a lifetime browsing the stalls and never see everything twice."
Hannelia described the towering spires of the Ascendant Court, the chaos of the Coins district, and the strange wonders for sale in the Peddler's Belt. The bard's eyes lit up as she spoke, her hands moving expressively, painting pictures with words in a way that made Emma feel as though she were walking those distant streets herself.
"And the people there," Hannelia said, shaking her head in wonder. "Every race, every nationality you can imagine, all mixing together. I met a Garundi woman who trades exclusively in magical inks, a Tian monk who can fold paper into animals that come to life, and a halfling who claims to be over two hundred years old and sells memories in bottles."
"Memories in bottles?" Emma asked, intrigued despite herself. "How does that work?"
"I have no idea," Hannelia admitted with a laugh. "I was too afraid to ask for a demonstration. But the bottles glowed with different colors, and he said each one contained a moment of perfect happiness or terrible sorrow or breathtaking wonder."
"Sounds like a load of horse dung to me," Roger said.
Hannelia smiled. "Probably. But that's Absalom for you—even the charlatans are fascinating."
One of the first things Majara does once back in town is visit the square where Bit's Emporium had been, to see if he is still around and if his interesting celestial plant is, as well. As she makes her way there, she can't help but ponder the cytillesh that's still in her possession. There really ought to be a way to weaponize its mind-affecting properties... and the last adventure, with its ghosts and devils, has her pondering what expansions to her repertoire beyond mere fire might be useful. The problem with entities from other planes, be they divine, infernal, or otherwise, is that they often are less affected by an alchemist's standard elemental concoctions. Ice and acid and lightning alike can all be blunted. And many extraplanar entities cannot be poisoned. The undead certainly can't....
She mulls this little problem over, working various formulae in her head as she walks, thinking about distillations of cytillesh to play around with once back in her shop. But first, business with her fellow gnome!
"Sunnyday, Bitbit!" she calls on approach, assuming in fact that his traveling booth is still there.
*****
At the shop, Gellion greets her a bit nervously, but with more composure than the last time they'd played out this little drama. He recounts the shop's transactions with a touch more confidence, a little pride. Good enough. Majara listens, a little distractedly since she wants to play around with a memory-destroying, addictive fungus known to cause insanity, birth defects, and other such things. Humm di dum li doo....
"Yes, very good, carry on," she finally says, interrupting Gellion's accounting of successfully mixing an anti-acne cream for a young lady of the town. She Sweeps past him into the back rooms, closes the door, and gives a little sigh. Home.
Time to get back to work. And there's so many formulae that her book could benefit from... perhaps a visit to the town's arcane practicioners is in order....
Beats DC by 10, so half the time, halved again, and half the time again for swift alchemy; rounds 1 week down to 21 hours of work, or three 8 hr days ish. So by the end of day 4, I have a holy water for the grand price of 8.3 GP. ....crafting just ain't that profitable. I will brew potions for day 5, 6, and 7. I'll simplify life and have them all just be barkskin potions. -450 GP to craft 3 level 3 pots.[/ooc]
Hannelia grins and rolls her eyes as Emma gets flustered and loses her words at her arrival at the Witch’s End. Never change, my friend. ”Good to see you too. Ale is supposed to go down the hatch,” she adds helpfully.
She’s excited to see her friends and hear about what they’ve been up to and Roger is already in full swing, his audience eating out of the palm of his hand. She’s already making mental notes in order to write up their escapades; ‘The Riddle of the Irrica Regalia’ has a nice ring to it. She keeps the story of her exploits in Absalom brief and light on details, more than happy to ask questions and turn the conversation away from herself. Once the crowd disperses and Roger calls it a night, she shuffles her chair closer to Emma’s. The hour is growing late but she’s looking forward to speaking properly with her friend.
Casting an eye around the more sparsely populated taproom, she taps her wrist and her smart outfit instantly turns into something more comfortable and casual, more typically Hannelia. She takes a sip of wine and exhales, relaxing a little more now it’s just her and Emma.
Looking for a way in to what she wants to say, Hannelia pulls back her outer coat and removes something from her blouse, passing it to Emma. It’s a small brooch made of gold in the shape of a rose. A dozen minute garnets make up the petals. ”What do you make of this? Constantine gave it to me before I went to Absalom, though he didn’t say why,” she explains. ”He was being all enigmatic and wouldn’t explain himself.”
Emma points at the inscription on the reverse, etched in tiny writing. ”Did he tell you what this says?” she asks.
”What do you think?” she smiles fondly. ”I take it you don’t read Celestial then? Me neither. Well, I didn’t - I’ve started learning now. Obviously,” she adds, self-aware enough to know that she doesn’t like not knowing things or being unprepared. ”It’s coming along but I had to get this translated. Anyway, it reads ‘There is always hope in the dark’. I took it to be a reminder to trust myself, and a memory of friends and home in case I was ever feeling overwhelmed. And I assume that it’s a representation of Milani,” she says, referencing Constantine’s patron deity.
She turns her head up so her eyes meet Emma’s. ”It was well chosen,” she says quietly. ”As much as I learned a lot and I think I did well, Absalom is an enormous place and I hadn’t realised how you can sometimes feel alone even when you’re surrounded by people.” Trust doesn’t always come easily to Hannelia - hardly surprising growing up in the long shadow of the Goblinblood Wars and with Isger still firmly a Chelaxian vassal state where even in Saringallow you never quite know who you can count on. But with those who have earned her confidence, she has learned how to be emotionally open. Eventually she comes to the point. ”What I mean is, I missed you.”
Emma fought off the smile, but it was a losing battle, much like the warmth on her cheeks. “Yeah,” she murmured. “We—I—missed you too. It wasn’t quite the same without you there with us.”
Emma sits quietly for a moment, turning the brooch over in her hands. The garnets catch the tavern's firelight, glinting like tiny flames trapped in gold. "Constantine has a gift for meaningful gestures, even in his current state," she says finally. "And you're right about Milani—the rose is her symbol." She traces the inscription with her fingertip. "There is always hope in the dark... that sounds like something he would say."
She hands the brooch back to Hannelia, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. "I imagine Absalom could be overwhelming. Sometimes I feel alone just in Saringallow, and it's tiny by comparison."
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Hannelia pins the brooch back, then covers it so it’s hidden once more. ”Well I’m always here for you. You know that,” she smiles. ”And yeah, definitely something Constantine would say. Maybe a good reminder for all of us. I went to see him a couple of days ago actually,” Hannelia says. ”I keep hoping he will get better but he clearly suffered a lot of trauma in Ravenmoor. Whatever it was he saw, it’s left some pretty nasty scars.” Emma surely knows this too so perhaps Hannelia is speaking for her own sake. ”And I think he is doing a bit better. But I also think he’s still got a lot to try and understand and work through. He does realise that though, and that helps.”
She tosses her hair, still getting used to the new style. ”I guess I’m just worried about things,” she says, getting to the heart of what’s bothering her. An anguished look crosses her face. ”I couldn’t do anything for him,” she says, voice heavy with emotion. ”We were right there when it happened and yet I couldn’t stop it.” She sniffs and wipes away the ghost of tears beginning to form.
”It’s not exactly the same but I know I’m equally powerless in the face of whatever internal church machinations Sirio has become embroiled in,” she continues, everything she’s been bottling up starting to spill over. ”And he’d hate to hear me say it given everything he has been through and how much he needs to be able to do things for himself but dad’s getting older too. Not old by any means, it’s the passage of time that I’m sure will get us all in the end. But I’ve noticed that things he used to do easily seem to be just a fraction harder. And of course there’s now Shel as well. Don’t get me wrong, I love having her around but she can be hard work at times and I just feel responsible all of the time.”
She’s on a roll now and all of Hannelia’s fears pour out. ”I just worry that I’ve taken on too much. I love being on the road with my friends and honestly things are great, even when they’re dangerous and hard. Until the point when they’re not. I… I just couldn’t bear for anything to happen to any of you.”
”You almost died, Emma!” she blurts out suddenly, her voice rising. ”You nearly died and I wasn’t even there! Thank goodness Iomedae is keeping watch over you!”
Hannelia pauses for breath, her hazel eyes puffy and rimmed with red and the taste of perhaps one too many glasses of wine souring in her mouth. ”I know we all go into whatever we do with eyes open and I respect that choice - we understand each other that way. I’ve had to learn the hard way that I can’t control everything, I can’t protect everyone. But it doesn’t mean I have to like it,” she declares, a note of defiance, slightly tinged with hysteria, in her voice.
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Like a patient thief, virtually unnoticed, autumn slowly steals its way into Saringallow. The only tracks it leaves are subtle and passing… a shift in the intensity of the breeze off the river, a surprising crispness in the dawn air, a hint of brown on the leaves’ edges.
The old timers feel the change in their bones. The young imagine summer will last forever. The dead… well, they haven’t shared their perspective on the season’s change yet. But, for the living, commerce and life proceed apace – morning, noon, and night.
Hannelia’s eyes snap open abruptly. Nothing is wrong, nothing is menacing.
It had been a benign dream. She was visiting areas of Saringallow, getting the town’s pulse, checking in with contacts, and chatting with friends. She vaguely recalls sharing lunch outside of Gunty’s with someone that felt like a friend she hadn’t seen in a while, probably one of the Seekers. It was pleasant. They were chuckling together about something. The whole dream seemed normal... and yet, something intangible felt slightly off about everyone in the dream. That realization had brought Hannelia to consciousness.
As dreams do, hers would fade by day’s end. But in the first hours of the day, as Hannelia made her rounds of the town, she watched people more closely. She saw and felt no oddness from the locals. Everything seemed normal.
**********
On her way to work, Majara swings by the market square. Someone’s timing is impeccable as Bitiborium is just rolling up the door flap to his Item Emporium. Majara also notes that there are a couple potential customers milling about outside the portable shop, anxious to get in.
"Sunnyday, Bitbit!"
Flap up, Bit waves the customers in before giving Majara a broad smile and his full attention. ”And a sunnyday to you as well, Miss Pricknettle! It is lovely to see you again and a delight to not crick my neck having to look up at you. They grow these humans so tall now-a-days. I heard you have recently returned. Am I your first stop? Should I take that as a compliment to my store or my personal appeal?”
Emma heads to Sarini Manor. She narrowly avoids Shel then runs into Talon. As their conversation winds down, Nerissia appears, lugging her gear up to the manor. Generously, Majara has offered it as a place for the Inquisitor to stay and help repair. This seems fortuitous because, during Emma’s and Talon’s quick tour of the home and its history, Emma spots a fresh crack in the wall near the piano. Given the general state of the house, she might not have noticed it except there is a respectable pile of plaster dust below it on what were swept floors.
Locals gather around the tables at the Witch’s End for food, drinks, warmth, and a bit of camaraderie as the evening grows chillier. Roger’s stories improve the festive air and inspire a smattering of guffaws and some applause. Hannelia and Emma share some public and quite a few private words. Who else will enter the Witch’s End this night? None can say.
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Emma drew back in surprise at Hannelia's outburst. In her mind, Hannelia had always been the one who was in control, who always had a grasp of the situation. Emma had, perhaps too many times, felt out of her depth on their adventures. She reached across the table and gently took Hannelia's hand. "Hey," she said softly, her voice steady despite the flutter in her chest. [b]"I'm still here. We all are. Even Constantine, for as much as he's been through, is still here."
She took a moment to gather her thoughts, unaccustomed to seeing the normally composed bard so emotionally raw. "You know," Emma said after a moment, "before I came to Saringallow, I thought being strong meant handling everything alone. Carrying every burden by yourself." She shook her head. "That was...a result of my flawed beliefs. Learned behavior. I was wrong. She was wrong. That's not strength—it's just stubbornness. And it leads to breaking, eventually."
Most of the other patrons were involved in their own matters, or else, deliberately ignoring them and not wanting to intrude on the moment. In the relative privacy, Emma's voice grew softer, more earnest.
"You can't be everywhere at once, Hannelia. None of us can. I was there as well, next to Constantine when it happened. And I felt just as powerless. If I'd been quicker, stronger, smarter—what could I have done differently? If I'd been using the extent of my abilities, could I have seen the danger and stopped him? I don't know. That'll always haunt me. But we also can't let it control us in the present, and prevent us from helping others. Or from helping ourselves. And Hannelia, you're already doing so much—supporting your father, mentoring Shel, worrying about Sirio and Constantine, not to mention your Pathfinder duties." She sighed, running a hand through her hair. "We all feel responsible for those we care about. It's... what makes us who we are. Do you think I wasn't worried about you when you were off on your own?" Her own voice broke a little at that. "You're the one who went off to the most dangerous city in the Inner Sea region without any of us to watch your back."
Emma hesitated, then added, "But you know what I've learned since coming to Saringallow? That sometimes the strongest thing you can do is trust others to handle themselves. To believe in them." She gave Hannelia's hand another squeeze. "Like I believe in you."
She released Hannelia's hand and leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the embers in the tavern's hearth.
”I’m sorry, Emma,” Hannelia says. ”That wasn’t fair at all and it crossed a line. I think I’m getting a little lost inside my own head at the moment. I knew I needed to talk to someone about it - I’m not sure I realised quite how much though,” she adds with a nervous laugh. ”I went out hunting with Nerissia yesterday to try and get to know her as more than just an irregular client and to see if burning off some tension would shake loose some of my worries. Not really, it would seem,” she says wryly.
”And thank you. For believing in me. I know and I appreciate it. It’s just… I don’t even quite know what I’m trying to say.” She sighs and instinctively goes to pull at the ponytail that’s no longer there. ”On the one hand things are genuinely great. Really,” she says, perhaps trying to convince herself as much as Emma. ”Absalom was an eye-opening experience in so many ways, I feel I’ve got real purpose and am able to make positive change in the things I want to do. But at the same time things can feel that bit harder, the stakes are that bit bigger. I’m more responsible whether I asked for it or not. Not that I’m ungrateful for it. Does any of this make sense?” Hannelia looks into her friend’s face, worry etched into her own.
"You have no reason to apologize," Emma insisted. She looked at her friend's worried face, seeing the genuine distress there. "It makes perfect sense. More responsibility, higher stakes—it's a lot to carry. And sometimes the hardest part is that nobody asked us if we wanted those burdens. They just...appear."
She ran a finger along the rim of her mug, gathering her thoughts. "It's like when I first set out from Piren's Bluff, after hearing about the troubles here in Saringallow. I was excited, of course, but also terrified. What if I wasn't good enough? What if I failed when it mattered most?" She gave a soft, humorless laugh. "And then I did fail. More than once." For a moment, her mind traveled back to when she and Constantine had been standing off against the transformed mayor of Ravenmoor. "‘If I must fall, I will rise each time, a better person.'" she quoted.
She glanced back over at Hannelia. "I think what I'm trying to say is that feeling overwhelmed by responsibility doesn't make you weak. It makes you human. The fact that you care so much—about your father, about Shel, about all of us—that's not a weakness, Hannelia. It's your strength. You just need to remember that you don't have to shoulder everything alone." She hesitated, then added, "And sometimes, you need to let others worry about you too." Her mouth quirked up into a smile as she gestured toward Hannelia's haircut. "Also, perhaps we ought to get you a scarf, so you have something to tug on when you're anxious."
Hannelia laughs, a genuine sound amidst all the earnestness and mutual concerns. ”I’ll get used to it I suppose.” She flicks her hair in an exaggerated manner, probably the most performatively bardic act she’s ever made.
”Thank you, Emma,” Hannelia says, standing up slightly unsteadily and wrapping her arms around the other woman's more muscular frame. Physically and metaphorically she’s a steadying presence. ”I’m sure they’ve changed me in various ways that I’m not aware of yet but one thing I do know is that thanks to Shel and Jhessa I’m much more of a hugger these days.” She disengages. ”Right, I need some water and some sleep and to set one of Majara’s tonics on standby as I could live without a sore head in the morning.” She smiles to let her friend know how much she appreciates her and that if she’s not quite as ok as she’d like to be right now, she will be fine.
Emma stiffens a little at the hug. The flutter returns, but more of it has to do with the fact that she just simply wasn't used to them. Her mother had never been much of a hugger. The soldiers and paladins had moments of affection, but that was a different kind of familiarity, often borne of relief. With conscious effort, Emma relaxes and returns it, giving Hannelia a pat on the back.
For a moment, she considers asking how Shel is doing, but decides against it. It's not her place, and she figures she's had her fill of being awkward for the evening.
"Of course," she says instead as Hannelia takes a step back. "I'm here anytime if you need to talk."
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” it’s the passage of time that I’m sure will get us all in the end.
"It's not all bad you know- get some wisdom with it aye~" Roger mutters into his drink, but has enough wisdom not to interrupt the mood and enjoys it with a wry smile instead.
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She is surprised to see the devil appear, however, and she immediately drops any pretense of preparing for a fight. The group assembled might be able to take her down combined but many would die in the attempt, to the point it wouldn't be worth it to try.
"Huntress,” she says to Nerissia. ”The blood of fiends runs through your veins and your history. You are a proud warrior and a good markswoman. But are you a better shot than me?"
Nerissia makes a five pointed star in front of her chest before taking a kneel before the magnificent fiend, the representation of her god's will made manifest. "No, I am not. Not yet." she jokes under her breath, smirking.
After a few moments of kneeling, she stands back up again and rejoins the party, as it were. "I think it is an advisable course of action, I do not think it wise for this...situation to come to blows." she says, indicating for Alocer to heel behind her. "I am honored to have met you, Avomuntifex. Perhaps we shall cross paths again once more, I'd like to see you under better circumstances." she says before the devil departs.
"Well, that certainly was something, huh? I've seen a lot in my long days, but that most assuredly tops the cake so far." Nerissia says to the party as she lets the rest of the business be taken care of.
The gnome lingers a moment near Nerissia. "Saringallow has no shortage of things in the woods that need hunting," she says after a bit. "Especially as the town's resident ranger is recovering from an incident with demon possession. This group here has a manor near the town with more than enough space for you and Alocer to stay a bit, if you like."
Majara's invitation, however, pushes her firmly into the 'stay a little bit longer' camp, and as the gnome asks it she smiles warmly down at her. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt to extend my stay longer than originally planned. You mention a manor, why don't we head on over and see what that's all about?"
When the party eventually takes her to the manor, she is immediately enamored with the place and it shows. Passing by Emma, she gives a polite nod, knowing that the nighttime talk about her aversion to alcohol with the paladin hasn't actually happened yet and not particularly wanting to have it right this moment. She waves over the surprisingly large amount of gear she and Alocer are carrying it (multiple bags are tied over the giant fox's back and Nerissia is carrying a handful of her own, and her hands are full of bear traps and other weapons. "Got a lot to handle, I'll catch up with you guys later."
Making her way into the estate and spending a bit of time exploring the significantly run-down house, she eventually finds the flooded basement. Seeing the corrupted shrine and obviously not being okay with it existing this way, she claims the abandoned kitchen for her temporary sleeping place until she can finish the cleaning out of the basement's water and demon bile problems, if there's any left anywhere.
"Right disgrace what has been allowed to happen to this place, I'll reconsecrate it in your name, Dark Prince." she promises, repeating the five-pointed star gesture reverently.
After she's settled in (as much as one can settle in with only hunting gear and a pair of bedrolls, anyway), Nerissia does make good on her promise to meet back up with the rest of the party later that evening at the Witch's End. She doesn't leave Alocer at the manor either, instead taking him with her and glaring at anyone who dares speak up against her companion joining her in the tavern.
She walks up to the table just as Hannelia mentions their hunting trip, laughing quietly about it. "That she did. Wasn't that bad with a bow, I'll say that much. Could use a bit of work on the actual hunting part before you fire the arrow, but we'll have plenty of time for that I'm sure." she says, smiling towards the bard. When someone comes to get her drink order, her face pales a bit before she orders a water. "With lemon, if you have one."
Thereafter, she sits and listens to the conversation between the two women, simply observing without giving her own input. When Hannelia stands up to hug Emma, she scoots her chair out of the way and looks away, ostensibly under the excuse of seeing who's in the tavern that night. She's not sure she'd even recognize any newcomers or strangers other than herself, given how little she actually spends in places like this, but it can't hurt to see if anyone looks out of the ordinary for tavern-goes. Current company excluded, of course.
Nerissia averts her glance and looks around the tavern. No one in particular draws her attention or really stands out. There are some drunk travelers flashing their wealth a little too boldly, but it really isn’t of note. However, scooting her chair as she does places Nerissia in a spot where the room’s acoustics are shifted and amplified. She hears a conversation to which she is not a party.
It takes her a moment match the conversation to the mouth movements at a table on the far side of the tavern. Three women – seemingly local women of common employ – sit around a small weather-beaten table sharing a wooden tureen of stew and small cups of beer. Two are ‘sturdy’ and of middling years. The third is older by at least a score of years, with gnarled hands and a skinny frame.
Skinny: ”…lin’ ya, that’s an odd one. I got silver in me pockets and he won’t take’em for some booties.”
Sturdy 1: ”Booties?”
Skinny: ”What did I say? Yeah, BOOTIES… like for a babe.”
Sturdy 2: ”Why ya need booties? Someone knocked you up, at your age?”
Sturdy 1: [laughs heartily]
Skinny: ”Oh, ‘har har’. Never you mind, why I want’em! Point is, I offered a fair deal. He said no. I upped it. He said no again!”
Sturdy 1: ”So what did he want?”
Skinny: ”That’s what I asked! I said ‘what’s your price?’.. and he says he wants a gen-u-wine smile from me.”
Sturdy 2: ”A smile?”
Skinny: ”Yeah, not hard-earned coin… a smile.”
Sturdy 1: [pauses] ”A’right, that’s a bit queer… but it sounds like you got a good deal. You kept your money AND got the baby shoes, eh?”
Skinny: [affronted] ”I didn’t! You think I’m gonna smile like some jackanape? No.”
The sturdy women say nothing, clearly used to the skinny one’s moods… but it seems clear they are puzzled by her choice.
During the days of brewing there is downtime. As various things distill, percolate, or otherwise undergo time-intensive refinements, Majara uses such moments to scribble down notes and observations about cytillesh, which she has managed to obtain a decent amount of from the cythnigot spores.
Though she is not baring her heart about it in the tavern with the other two women, her thoughts also go to Constantine here and there-- as well as Gellion, and Talon. Majara has observed, in her hundred-odd years, that most non-gnome folk seem to carry deeper scars of their experiences. For a gnome... well, it is not that gnomes are not marked by bad things that happen to them-- but a gnome lives almost always in the moment, or even in anticipation of what is to come, and not what has already happened. Her people are resilient. Terrible things happen, but they leave lighter furrows on the soul of a gnome than it seems they do to most of the tallfolk. It's rare that her kind carries a grudge or muses on past failures or wounds. Majara in her own right is more serious than many of her kindred, but even in her life she has dealt with exasperated talls asking if she just doesn't remember certain awful things, as little as they seem to bother her.
Of course she remembers, but it means less, she supposes. It seems to mean a great deal more to all of them.
Gellion is still quite marked by his demonsbile experience, as (she assumes) his friends are as well. And the ranger. And Constantine, marked by whatever unknowable thing he unwisely looked at. It's a pity the memory of these things can't just be...... wiped from their minds, since it seems to harm them so.
But cytillesh has properties of forgetfulness.
Humming absently to herself (the tune of a popular and very dirty ditty about two halfling lasses engaged in a competition to acquire the most paramours), Majara begins to write down ideas on her paper...
****
She is only intermittently at the manor itself, mostly to rummage among the late Baron Sarini's very nice alchemical set-up, consider his old but still useful notes, and also to investigate the gardens, that both the other Seekers and Quill have mentioned to her as containing interesting specimens. It is on one such errand that she runs into Nerissia, busy doing what appears to be some sort of grunt work of emptying buckets of sludge.
Cleaning out a mucky flooded basement is not Majara's idea of a good time (this sort of drudgery is about 75% of why she has an apprentice, after all) so she regards the tiefling woman a bit blankly before finally asking, "How is it.... going, then?"
"Sunnyday, Bitbit!"Flap up, Bit waves the customers in before giving Majara a broad smile and his full attention. ”And a sunnyday to you as well, Miss Pricknettle! It is lovely to see you again and a delight to not crick my neck...
Majara smirks a bit. "I visited Umok-- such a sensible scale..."
As to the question of whether it's his store or his company-- Majara's smirk grows to a broader smile. "It need not be exclusive. Let's say both. Has business been good?"
”Umok? I’ve never been! I’ll have to venture there next - if only to give my neck a short reprieve.”
Majara's smirk grows to a broader smile. "It need not be exclusive. Let's say both. Has business been good?"
The other gnome matches her smile. ”How unintentionally charming you are. Delightful!” Bit then considers her question, one business owner to another. ”I’m new to this Isger and your less hospitable neighbors. It started out as a bit of rough sledding among the locals, to be honest. But maybe that is just how they are? Anyhoo, I’m doing regular sales and trades with your visitors and I feel like maybe I’m turning a corner with the local folk as well. Even your mayor was in my shop just a day ago.”
Probably if she hadn’t had dreams on her mind a lot since the revelation from Shel, Hannelia wouldn’t have thought anything of it. The sheer mundanity of the dream means it usually would usually have fallen from her mind before breakfast. Still, the uncanny feeling it provoked in her, of normality but something being slightly awry with it, means it stays with her as she embarks on her plans for the day. She keeps a careful eye out for anything out of the ordinary in her interactions and is relieved when all seems well. I’m probably just wound a little too tight at the moment, she thinks and by noon the nagging feeling in her gut has dissipated.
Hannelia allows herself the indulgence of sleeping late the following morning. The advantage of managing her own work means she can do this easily enough, though she doesn’t like to without good reason. Her mouth feels dry and metallic so she gulps down some water. Her head seems fine though - the overindulgence was mild rather than spectacular.
She sits at her desk and looks over her timetable for the rest of the week, debating options before making a couple of quick changes to make up for this morning. Job done, she heads through to the kitchen. She cuts a hunk of bread from the loaf and plates it along with a pair of cold sausages left in the pan by either her father or Shel.
As she eats Hannelia plays over last night’s conversation in her mind. It was good to catch up, both with the group as a whole and with Emma. She mildly regrets that the wine may have been necessary to loosen her tongue but those were the circumstances they found themselves in. And it proved to be a useful lubricant to get her to unstopper the bottle and allow her to pour out what she needed - and Hannelia can’t deny that she’s had a lot on her mind. She’s too guarded to be a heart-on-her-sleeve person but with those she cares about and trusts she’s open enough about where her heart lies. It’s just about picking and choosing who those people are with care.
She’s not embarrassed by it though, not really. She already feels better for unburdening herself and while she is inclined to worry, she tries not to obsess over every little thing. Everything Emma said was true enough and it was good to lighten the load and share. She’s learned from experience that any fears or shame of anything she might have said is almost always far more acute for the speaker than the listener. It goes against her instinct a bit but dwelling on it overmuch doesn’t help with anything and that it’s better to put these things in perspective. In the grand scheme of things it almost certainly doesn’t matter and will likely be forgotten soon enough.
Having said that, had the situation been reversed she knows Emma would be mortified and it would linger and swirl and eat at her friend for days, probably weeks. And all that being said, she doesn’t feel proud of the irrational outburst and wishes she’d handled it better. It’s done though and she can’t take it back so better to make peace with it. Knowing her friend’s fondness for baked goods, Hannelia resolves to send something from Gunty’s over to her as an afternoon treat, an apology and a thank you for being the audience she needed.
She’s also a little relieved that Hawk wasn’t there last night. Not from any personal dislike of the man, of course. More that in her heightened emotional state she’s worried that her and Emma might have woken up with matching tattoos. Of course in all likelihood it would probably have taken a lot more alcohol for that eventuality to come to pass, but still. The tattoo artist is a charmer and from her limited experience, always seems happy to chance his arm, whether to pick up business or ingratiate himself with most folk he meets.
The man had, naturally, enquired if she was interested when we were on the boat but Hannelia declined. She explained that she can’t conceive of anything that she is certain enough of to want permanently and she’s worried she would regret it. It would be fair to say that she generally lacks what could be described as a certain gnomish impulsiveness, she’s just too careful, too much of a planner. Maybe, she said, if she came up with something and a year or so later the idea still seemed like a good one she would consider it, and obviously she would let Hawk know if so. For she can admire his artistic ability - and he is undoubtedly talented - even if Hannelia struggles to think of anything she wants to permanently adorn her body.
Hannelia was disappointed to find out that their itinerant friend is off travelling. Having heard the tale of the ghost of Althea Irrica, she approves of Hawk keeping his word and going to lay the uneasy spirit perms to rest. And she understands that he has always been a wanderer and has his own agenda to attend to right now. The downside is that she would actually like to get to know him properly. Her opportunity to talk with him on the Mermaid’s Klivanion was pretty limited between looking after Shel and Constantine in their individual ways, not to mention deciphering the Kriegler Book and writing up their adventures in Ravenmoor. But for his kindness to Shel, and the way Hawk integrated himself within the group during their latest escapades - his undoubted talents, and the fact they all came back more or less unscathed - Hannelia is very grateful to him for that.
Next time, she thinks, confident that whatever else the future brings, there will be ample opportunity to hit the road once more.
Having finished a few tasks around town, Hannelia is heading home when she feels like she’s acquired a second shadow. She keeps walking and takes a turn onto one of dozens of streets she knows like the back of her hand. Most importantly, she knows the few places on this street a shadow could choose to hide or bolt for. She takes another five steps before spinning around suddenly, hoping to catch her tail.
She comes face-to-face with a young man she’s never seen before. His eyes widen in surprise, much like hers, she suspects. He’s surprised she turned suddenly and she’s surprised her shadow was close enough to fix her hair… if her new hairdo wasn’t already perfect. The man – make that ‘boy’ because she’s sure his face has never felt a razor – backs up and grins. ”Chief said you had sharp eyes. I’m not dis’pointed.” He slowly raises his hands, showing no weapons, just a black letter. ”Was asked to hand this to ya.” He offers the letter to Hannelia, turning it over to expose the red wax seal – stamped with the Open Road glyph of the Pathfinder Society. Message delivered, the young man takes a couple backwards steps then turns to leave.
In another part of town, a grumbling porter with a modest load on his back trudges toward Emma. He stops and looks her up and down, noting her armor and holy symbol. He pulls out a scrap of paper and squints at it a bit before reading off it, ”You, uh, Emma Barkfurt?”
Roger is enjoying the final drop of a well-earned afternoon drink at the Witch’s End. A gnome he’s only seen in passing enters the tavern, stands on a chair, and announces, ”OY! OY! OY! I need a couple hale and strapping lads to carry some goods from hither to thither. I’ll pay. Anyone interested?”
He surveys the nearly empty tavern and quickly rules out the staff, the washer women, and the old human who is so bent with age he’d look up at a gnome. Undaunted, his eyes fall on Roger. ”You’ll do. Thanks for volunteering. Let’s go.” He hops off the chair and heads for the door, only looking back to see if Roger is following.
Hannelia eyes the youth warily, flicking between his boyish face and the letter. It looks to be legitimate but the message delivery method was… a little odd, though perhaps it’s just youthful exuberance. It’s not so different to the games she used to play to entertain herself learning how to open locks. ”And you move very efficiently,” she returns the compliment. ”It’s a useful skill, but this is perhaps not the best time to employ it. Whether alert to your presence or caught unaware, if you sneak up on them, plenty of people will react with an attack first and ask questions later.” The advice is freely given and perhaps just as easily ignored. Maybe it will take a punch in the mouth from an unwary target for that lesson to land.
She looks at the letter and takes it. ”Thank you. Out of curiosity, who are you referring to as Chief?” she asks. And as the boy steps away ready to leave, Hannelia follows up with ”I assume you weren’t expecting anything in reply then?” She would prefer to have privacy and time to look it over but also didn’t want to get the young man in trouble if he skips off without a response.
”…Whether alert to your presence or caught unaware, if you sneak up on them, plenty of people will react with an attack first and ask questions later.”
”Truer words never been spoke, ma’am. Chief has said the same.” He continues with an unabated smile. ”I gambled you wouldn’t. We’re on your turf, Chief said you ain’t ‘hasty’ with a blade, and I seen how you deal with the locals. I fig’red you’re not the type to regularly knife a fella without making sure he earned it first. An’ here I am with not so much as a black eye, talkin’ shop with you.” He ticks off a point in the invisible ‘win’ column.
She looks at the letter and takes it. ”Thank you. Out of curiosity, who are you referring to as Chief?” she asks. And as the boy steps away ready to leave, Hannelia follows up with ”I assume you weren’t expecting anything in reply then?”
The teenager stops, his look becomes canny and a bit playful. ”Now, ma’am, you know I’d be a bad messenger that blabbed a name, if I even knew’d it. Chief is Chief. But, as we are being sociable and I’m not black-eyed by yur lovely hands despite I gave you cause… I’ll say that you’ll know as much as I do soon enough. Chief signed that letter. He also said ‘If I find Ms Venator didn’t receive the three items enclosed, you will regret our next encounter’.“ To his credit, the boy does a passable imitation of a mature man’s gravelly, bass, voice.
”He ain’t expecting a reply, ma’am… but if you want to script one, I’ll deliver it. I can be at your window whatever time you name so as not to disturb your Da or that girl.”