Pick mulls over the suggestions from both Ialia and Calen.
"White Hair up in sky - very... easy to see. No way to hide. If use magic, use for her, I think. You two choose."
He shakes his head in the negative in regards to Ialia's question about if he can talk while in dog form. Someday, but not yet. "Three barks is danger, come help."
Pick will ride til they are clearly out of sight from any of the villagers, then slide off his horse to the ground. After a moment's thought, he takes various items off his person-- he cannot use them as a dog, after all-- and puts them into his saddlebag, in case the others need access to them . "Lead my horse?" he asks Veil. Then, the dwarf closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. Think dog... earthsniffer, fourpaws, wagtail, sharpears, wetnose....
A handful of seconds later and a rusty-colored mutt of no particular breed crouches where the dwarf previously stood. The dog shakes its head once to clear out some lingering dwarf-thoughts. It rolls in the dirt of the trail to get its coat a bit shabbier-looking, and then pads back towards Goldfields and the house in question.
"People rarely look up unless they have a reason to," Ialia responds. "Save the spell for now."
Then to Pick she replies, "You can hear me as long as I can see you, which won't do us any good if you go inside. Hopefully this is nothing."
Samara’s concern is obvious from her eyes. She takes the horse’s reins from the dwarf. ”OK. Three barks, I come too.” With a flick of her wrist, a magical sapling (familiar to Pick), slides into her hand. ”Want yizard armor?”
"Alright. Good luck, Pick", Joreld nodded.
Calen tips his hat slightly toward Ialia and Pick, his face calm but his eyes intent. “Fair enough, Miss Frostmoon. We’ll keep the magic for a rainy day.” He glances at the rusty-colored mutt that Pick has become and nods approvingly. “Good thinkin’, Pick. You’ll blend in easy like that. And don’t you worry—if we hear those three barks, we’ll come runnin’.”
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Pick is skeptically silent to Ialia's assertion that people rarely look up. In his experience of farmers and their ilk, checking the sky to assess the time of day by the sun, or to see if the rainclouds look like they might be clearing up, or to check if that shadow on the ground is a bird overhead or a wyvern... is frequently enough done. But he does not speak his thoughts on this aloud. This is possibly because he is a dog and cannot talk.
Instead, when Veil offers to use the wand on him, his canine head tilts to one side, curiously. He had not understood that the 'yizard armor' could be cast on others. Interesting. The dog gives a single bark of assent, and holds still for the casting, before the aforementioned trot back towards the village goes as mentioned.
Padding into the village, Pick-as-dog tries to stay out of sight and find a suitable place to watch the door of your target house. The other dog you had seen by the man in the rickety chair barks once as he locates you and trots over to give you a good sniff. An old mutt, a companion dog rather than a working beast, he is satisfied that you pose no threat and wanders back off to lie by his master. The man in the chair follows the dog's lead, trusting that the rust-coloured interloper is no threat if the other canine is happy with its presence. A stray dog is perhaps a bit unusual but nothing to raise any kind of suspicion.
It's a definite contrast to Ialia. As she lies over the rooftops of Goldfields, a middle-aged man - not one you had seen previously - calls out loudly, "Hello miss. What are ye doing up there? If ye're looking for something why not come down and see if it's something we can be helping with?" The tone isn't overtly aggressive but there's certainly a wariness to it. At his shouts, another couple of residents step out of their houses to see who the man is talking to. After looking and not immediately spotting Ialia, they follow his gaze into the sky and go to stand with him.
Sure, now they want to be helpful, Ialia grumbles to herself. She has half a mind to tell the guy to mind his own damn business. Instead she ignores him and continues to try to support her team although her efforts have been wasted.
A mutual sniffing session occurs as the two dogs get to know each other. Pick sometimes thinks it would be nice if two-legged people were open to being sniffed as a greeting ritual. It seems so much more straightforward than trying to talk your way through introductions, with all the potential for misunderstandings and so forth, and of course words can lie... smell doesn't. Usually.
After introductions are concluded, Pick the dog wanders, aimlessly, over to the house in question, to sniff around the scent trail that hopefully the tall cloaked figure left in their wake. He wants to get the person's scent if nothing else-- the next step will be to scratch at the door and look pitiful and hungry, most likely.
He doesn't share Ialia's idea that her efforts have been wasted. After all, nobody is going to think twice about a stray dog when there's a flying woman to gawk at.
After Ialia fails to respond, one of the other villagers, an older woman, shouts, ”Who are you and what do you want. If you’re looking for another wizard there ain’t none here so you’re wasting your time and your magic.”
At this another couple of doors open, including the house you’re watching. The woman Samara spoke to earlier sticks her head out. She idly clocks a reddish dog outside but pays it no mind - surely that can’t be who is being talked to? From her position she can’t initially see the witch flying above the house and returns inside, leaving the small gathering to it for the time being.
The dog is able to pick up many different scents around the village, including half a dozen stronger ones of people from around the entrance to the house. Pick recognises one of them as Samara and can now identify another, easily the strongest of them, as belonging to the woman who lives there.
"You're right, my time has been wasted, by all of you! You know who we're looking for. We told you already. Now is your chance to be forthright with my friends."
The paladin sidles up next to the inquisitor, not really sure what is even said or done. "Hope this works."
Samara waits quietly, listening, the reins to Pick’s horse looped loosely around her saddlehorn.
The assembled villagers look somewhat bemused by the woman’s words. ”Begging your pardon, miss but I’m not sure I do,” the old woman calls back. ”But if you’ve already spoken to someone else here then I’m sure they helped as best they were able. We’re hardworkin’ folk here and not looking to waste anyone’s time.”
Ialia loses interest in the townsfolk and their games. She considers that all the clues she has been given might lead nowhere, in which case, the first order of business is always survival, and it's lunch time.
* * * * *
When the woman briefly opens the door, Pick does his best to steal a glance inside while it's open, but he has mere seconds for this, it must be admitted. After she's closed it again, the dog slinks around the house, hunting for windows that he might be able to sneak a peek through, or a crack to put his ear at, as surreptitiously as he might be able to. He is just trying to ascertain if the somewhat-unusual figure is still in the building.
If none of this is productive, he resorts to his last bit of plan: scratching at the door, whining, and doing his best to look pathetic and hungry when/if the door is opened. A beseeching stare. Puppy eyes.
Acting is not his strong suit, but at least he knows the mannerisms of animals.
At the scratching at the door, the woman opens it once more. A brief look of confusion on her face vanishes at the sight of a solidly built rust-coloured dog of indeterminate breed. If the unhappy noises he makes to try and indicate hunger are a bit obvious, well, dogs are not exactly renowned for their subtlety where food is concerned. She rolls her eyes and smiles, saying, ”Wait there and I’ll find you something.” As she heads back in, you can hear her say, ”A dog. Stray, I assume. Similar, but still got some way to go to match your colouring.” This last is said teasingly and is greeted by a laugh.
From his vantage point at the door Pick can see a figure seated at a kitchen table. Shadows fall across him, meaning colour is hard to pick out accurately but a tall man is holding a mug in two hands. A heavy travel cloak is draped over the back of the chair. The way the light falls means it’s hard to guess his age, but the shape of his face, including a pair of pointed ears, suggests he is an elf or at the least has elven ancestry.
The woman brings some leftover scrapings of meat in a dish and bends down to put them down by Pick. ”That should tide you over for a bit,” she says, thinking about stroking the dog's head before ultimately deciding against it. She closes the door, leaving Pick to his lunch.
Entering the inn you discover it’s a dimly-lit place of rambling floors, stout pillars and thick crossbeams. The atmosphere strikes you as typical of the Dales: worn-down and perhaps not as clean as a high-end big city establishment, but made up for in terms of cosiness and easy rustic comfort. An old woman, her stoop and lined face suggest she is well into later life, leans against a large wooden bar and turns to face you as you come in.
Samara stops to appreciate the ambiance of the inn for a moment, before engaging the old woman and parroting a phrase from the lady in Goldfields. ”Hullo! We like to have a ‘hot meal’. Please?”
"Well met. Yes, dearie, I think we can manage that. Nice to see you've remembered your manners too, not like some." The woman's face clearly reflects how she feels about the issue. "Let's see, five of you, yes? Your options are stew or meat and greens or we can sort bread and cheese and things, though you'd be right in saying that's not the hot meal you asked for. Sit wherever you feel comfortable." She gestures towards open doorways on either side. One leads to a large room, full of various sized tables. The other looks like it lends itself to a more intimate experience, being full of booths and the atmosphere is a bit more reserved compared to the bustle and noise of the general dining room.
"I know you've only just got here but anything else we can offer you? There are rooms to suit all tastes - and budgets, if coins are tight. You'll forgive me for saying so but you look like you've just off the road. Do you have any horses that need stabling?"
"Why, yes Matron", Joreld bows. "I'll pay for stabling for the group."
"Nice to see you've remembered your manners too, not like some."
The Bedine nods, ”Yes. Manners verra important.” She considers the options offered and points to the larger common room. ”We sit there. Thanks. Think five meat and greens, please, and two bread and cheese. Not sure what all like. Maybe one stew? Please and thank you.”
She offers the innkeeper a polite bow before proceeding into the common room. She looks for a table large enough for six, near a window. Samara sits down - still finding chairs something of a curiosity - and glances about the room, trying to get a feel for the place.
Hey, there's worse things to get out of some attempted espionage than a free lunch. Pick will not turn his nose up at the meat scraps; far from it.
The height and elven ears of the figure briefly makes him hopeful-- then a sight of fiery red hair dashes it again. This is not Glanwyn anymore than the minstrel was. The dog huffs a sigh into his leavings. Another false lead. The dog stays in town only long enough to get a good glimpse of the man, to confirm, and then trots his way back down the road out of the village, to rejoin the others.
***
When he meets up with the others, back out of sight of the village, he performs a complicated stretch that winds up with him back into his own body. The dwarf clambers back onto his horse before speaking, slightly sourly. "Man was an elf. Not Glan. Not sneaking or thieving or anything. Wasted time."
***
The inn smells of dozens of people and various food scents, which make Pick's tummy rumble slightly. The scraps from Goldfields were tasty but changing his shape always makes him hungry. He nods an emphatic assent to stew, greens, bread, and cheese.
If Samara finds chairs novel, Pick finds them known but not entirely comfortable. He takes a seat, half perched on the edge of it, looking around for, ideally, Glan seated by the fire. Of course that's not likely. But maybe the looking will turn up other things of interest.
Ialia looks around the Inn.
Calen's attention remains on the room, and he leans forward slightly to speak to the group in a low voice, his words barely carrying beyond the table.
“Place like this, folks talk. Sooner or later, they’ll forget about us bein’ new and start jawin’ ‘bout what’s worth hearin’.” He pauses, glancing around, “Might not hurt to grease the wheels if y’see someone who looks like they’ve got a story to tell. Most folks ain’t as good at keepin’ secrets as they think.”
Joreld nodded to the inquisitor's wisdom wordlessly. The paladin appreciated Calen's candor and wit-isms while on the road, and has learned to rely on his council.
”So long as it’s all accounted for it’s all the same to me, dear,” she shrugs at Joreld’s mention of payment. ”Hullett!” she hollers. ”Get your backside here and sort out these fine folks’ horses!” Shortly after a stocky man with a pair of missing front teeth appears in the doorway. He looks briefly at your hostess before hurrying outside. She then takes a drinks order and leaves you to it.
A rosy-cheeked serving girl brings over your drinks and then returns with your food in due course.
The room is large and sparsely populated, definitely under half full currently. As you take it in, you are easily able to place most of the occupants as travellers: merchants, traders, wanderers. Not that this is a particularly startling observation as you would expect a transient population in a roadhouse at any given time and most of the village residents will still be hard at work for at least a couple more hours yet.
As for the building itself, it definitely has a personality, primarily rustic charm. The furniture is worn but comfortable and in a variety of styles, clearly built up over time. Doorways lead off to other places and a large central staircase leads to the upper floors. The main notable feature is a battered iron helmet mounted in pride of place above the bar. A single tusk projects from it and a hole where a second one presumably once was. This, you surmise is the item the inn is named for.
Ialia sits down heavily at the table Samara has selected and accepts whatever food is put in front of her. Having entrusted Fennelseed with the others, she really has no cares at this moment. By her reckoning of the Daggerdale they had come a very long way in a circle, such that a well-planned day of riding and a little luck securing a barge on the Tesh would deliver them back to Dagger Falls by the end of tomorrow.
Unfortunately for all their travel they were not closer to finding Glanwyn, or perhaps they were but didn't know it yet. Finally able to relax, she feels road weary. And dirty. Her hair must look frightful. she shakes her head at the thought of the townsfolk in Goldfields. They assumed she was looking for a wizard. Why? They had no prior knowledge of the group's intentions. She would have appeared as a floating stranger and she had said nothing to them. But surely to see someone as unusual looking as her fly into town would have aroused suspicion. She had her bearings wrong, is all, but they didn't know that and they had reacted as if she posed no threat to them whatsoever. For all they knew she might have been a demon come to raze the village. They seemed to want to be helpful, yet the previous group could not have wanted to be less helpful. Goldfields is a strange place and she is happy to have it behind them.
"What's your read on all of this, Calen? Are we closer to our quarry?"
Calen pauses, letting his eyes drift across the room, "As for our quarry... reckon we're closer than we think. That robed figure back in Goldfields—it means somethin'. Could be coincidence, but I don't put much stock in those. Someone tall enough to duck through a doorway in a village of laborers? That don’t scream local to me."
He sets his mug down, his tone growing more thoughtful. "Question is, are they leadin’ us to Glanwyn, or away from him? Either way, I don't like playin’ catch-up. Feels like we're dancin’ to someone else’s tune."
Calen adjusts his hat and raises a hand to flag down the rosy-cheeked serving girl as she passes by.
"‘Scuse me, miss," he says, leaning slightly forward in his chair. "Mighty fine place y’all got here, and the food’s even better. Me an’ my companions are obliged." He slides two silver pieces across the table toward her, the coins catching the dim light.
"Figure I’d pay forward some of that kindness with a round of drinks for you and your staff, if that’s alright. Also, if you’d be so kind, I was hopin’ you might tell me a little about someone. Goes by the name Annika. Heard she’s the one to talk to if a body’s got questions ‘bout the goin’s-on around these parts."
"That's mighty kind of you, goodsir," the barmaid dimples and flashes Calen a smile as she pockets the coins. "Though I can only disappoint you as I don't recognise the name. Don't think she lives in the village - not unless she keeps to herself and never comes in here." She tinkles a laugh. "Which would be odd if you're saying she's some kind of oracle or something. Hold on though, I'll ask Baralaia." With that she disappears, returning shortly with the old woman.
"'Annika' is it?" the elder of the pair says. "Me, I've got some questions of my own: who's doing the asking and what might they want with this Annika then?"
Calen tips his hat slightly, offering a charming smile that suggests a mix of respect and harmless curiosity. "Well now, that’s fair, ma’am,"he begins, his tone easy and conversational. "Name’s Calen. Me an’ my friends are just passin’ through, lookin’ to set a few things right where we can. Heard her name mentioned by some folks who said she’s someone who knows things—local matters, maybe more. Sounded like she might be able to lend a hand or point us in the right direction."
Baralaia purses her lips, her forehead heavily creased, as if weighing her words. "Well, Mister Calen, I wouldn't be imparting any information about guests, that's their own business. At the Helm anyone's welcome to a bed for the night or to hire a room so long as their coin's good. I don't ask for names but if you want to go under the name the ghost of King Azoun that's your lookout." She stops, perhaps realising she's not answering the question.
"Anyway, she runs around with the Kormarsh boy - don't ask me why, an' I don't think he's really asked either. Mostly looks like he can't believe Tymora's smiling on him like that. But her and her friends are in here sometimes, first time probably some months back now. Don't know where she calls home either but it's not Goldfields." She shrugs her stooped shoulders. "Want to know any more than that you'll have to ask her yourself."
"One of the people we met in town mentioned there's something happening here tonight. Seems like there's a fair number of folk here for the middle of the afternoon. Did we arrive for a local event?"
Samara sets to her meal with relish, making a smorgasbord on the plate before her from the platters at the table's center. She seems oblivious to the conversation. She nods with approval after trying the stew and ladles a serving into a bowl by Pick. "Mushroom. Is verra good!"
The woman shrugs again at Ialia's question. "Nothing that I'm aware of. But like I say, dearie, none of my business what anyone wants to hire a room for."
"Of course. Do you have a room with a bath?" Ialia picks up the room tab for the group.
"Hmm," Baralaia muses, "that I can do. The fern suite at the of the broken turret has one, and a fine room it is too. One the assumption that you're taking it, are you looking to bathe soon so we can get it ready?"
Calen nods slowly, his expression shifting to one of understanding as Baralaia speaks. "Well now, I appreciate your candor, ma’am. Sounds like Annika’s her own kind of mystery," he says with a soft chuckle. "And Tymora smilin’ on the Kormarsh boy? Reckon that’s her way of keepin’ the world interestin’, huh?"
He tilts his head slightly, his voice dropping just enough to convey a sense of shared discretion. "You’ve been mighty kind, sharin’ what you have. Not every innkeeper’d bother, and I’ll not forget it. Seems like Annika’s got her own path, and we’ll see if ours happen to cross. No need to stir the pot more than necessary."
Calen leans back slightly, offering a warm, appreciative smile. "If there’s anythin’ else you think we oughta know, or if trouble tends to find this Annika or her friends, you’ve got a pair of ears here. Otherwise, I reckon we’ll let things unfold as they will."
The old woman listens to Calen’s smooth tones and general musings. She dips her head in a slight bow. ”I’m not her mother, dear, only so much I can tell you, candid or otherwise. She’s just a slip of a thing that drinks in here on occasions. But yes, things do tend to unfold as they will.” With a genial smile she takes her leave.
As the afternoon goes by, you all pass time as you choose, whether that’s up in your room, exploring the roadhouse and its surrounds for a quiet nook and some solitude, or simply people watching in the dining room.
People come and go - those travellers not staying overnight presumably keen to get back on the road in order to secure decent shelter before nightfall - and the common rooms become sparsely populated. It starts to fill up again as early evening falls, with a fresh batch of merchants and wanderers seeking a roof for the night. They are complemented by a number of villagers who’ve walked the couple of miles up the road after a hard day’s fishing or farming in search of a hearty meal, a well-earned drink, or a comfortable armchair to sink into. Or indeed all three.
You recognise a few people. The old dog owner is sat at a table with some of his contemporaries; you get the impression that they’ve probably been sat at the same table most nights for decades. Some tables look to be filled by the numerous employees of merchant caravans, working for this or that trading coster, the economic lifeblood of the Heartlands. A large table is full of raucous youngsters, probably in their late teens or early twenties and keen to enjoy themselves in the closest place to an entertainment venue for miles around. Other patrons make their way in and disappear upstairs. Another group of half a dozen attracts your attention; partly because they are laughing and joking loudly, and partly because holding court at the table is a copper-haired half-elf at least a head taller than the majority of the rest of the room’s occupants. If his height isn’t already a giveaway, Pick is able to confirm him as the tall stranger he followed earlier.
And you, too, draw the eye, attracting glances and hushed whispers. After all, for good or for ill, adventurers always bring a little colour and a little interest to a place.
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The conversation with the Inkeep having gone more or less as expected, Ialia finishes her meal quickly and excuses herself. The bath prepared, she spends the next couple hours meticulously cleaning herself. The amount of dust that accumulates in her hair is truly awful, and taking care of it is one of her top priorities in life. It is her greatest asset and also her greatest responsibility.
As the day is finally exhausted, Basil arrives at the window and with a scratch it alerts the witch to allow it inside. The bat is used to seeing her naked, which is how she greets it. She continues to brush out her ivory pillar of hair while it squeaks at her.
You look refreshed, Basil observes. With the bat, there is always a small amount of sarcasm in its tone. Whether intended or not, or if that is merely its nature, Ialia has never learned.
I feel much better, thank you. And you?
Your saddle bag isn't exactly comfortable, but it is dark. Better than yesterday when you tossed me out to go and observe some wandering idiot.
Count your blessings. Today I was the idiot. I should have thrown you into the air in my place.
Just as well then.
Keep close tonight. Something is going to happen and I want to know if any suspicious individuals or groups approach this Inn. Keep a perimeter and come find me if you notice anything.
Of course.
Basil returns to the sky to feed and keep watch.
In the next hours she braids and ties her hair, does her makeup and dresses in her colorful dancer's outfit, complete with full jewelry. In the unpolished mirror she looks stunning. There will be no missing her in a place like this, which is fine. She'd already made a spectacle of herself in town. No sense hiding now, and it may draw attention away from the rest of her group if there arose a need for stealth.
Repacking her kit, she returned to the Inn proper to rejoin the group.
Joreld watches Lady Frostmoon walk to her bath, then later when she returned. "Feeling refreshed?"
Ialia grabs Joreld by the arm as they walk in together. "Yes, thank you. I'm ready for an ale. If we don't find any leads on Glanwyn we can at least relax."
"'Relax' in the weakest sense", the paladin explains. "The more time passes, the more I am unsure we will find Glanwyn well."
Ialia hums. "We can only follow this cold trail. What's most confounding to me is what motive anyone might have to capture Glanwyn, if that's what happened. This errand may lead us to a tragic conclusion and simply an unfortunate end. I'm prepared to accept an outcome where Glanwyn was murdered by chance. Wrong place at the wrong time; it can happen to even the most skilled guide. In my experience, a plot is far less likely. But if that is the case then we need a break or we have lost the scent completely."
"The whispers of The Black Network are troubling", Joreld admits, "but I must work even hard to keep Hope alive in my heart, lest I fall in despair."
The Lothenderian gently pats Ialia's hand. "Thanks for helping me talk this out, Lady Frostmoon." Joreld drags his finger across the back of the witch's hand slowly.
Ialia smiles and pulls herself closer to Joreld. "Have you seen the others? I thought I'd be the last to return."
Looking around, Joreld commented, "Either in their rooms or milling about. Shall we risk a short walk outside?"
"Mm-hmm."
Joreld escorts Ialia outside the roadhouse in a courtly manner. The paladin and the witch makes several circuits around the frontier inn.
Samara initially enjoys her late lunch and the people-watching, even though they learn nothing of substance. As dinner time approaches, the sorceress grows more fidgety and her expression (what can be seen of it) sours slightly. Possibly the meal has turned on her? The Inn fills and grows noisy. Samara shifts in her chair, uncomfortable. At a particularly loud burst of laughter and pounding from one table, she’s out of her chair. The words to her tablemates are rushed and clipped. ”Excuse. I be back.” Without awaiting a response, Samara is off, avoiding the larger knots of guests while weaving past the smaller ones. She is out the door quickly.
Outside, the sorceress walks briskly away from the building and the people, trying to slow her breathing. She had hoped that choosing a large table by the window would help, but it had only forestalled the inevitable. Still, it was progress. Despite the strong desire to leap directly out the window, she had refrained.
After ten minutes of solitude and meditation, her agitation diminishes and her calm returns… but not enough to dare the crowded dining area. But perhaps enough to work the only spell in her repertoire that filled her with dread. She makes her way around the Inn to the stables, to find an unobserved corner or a spot in the hayloft. She sits down, pulls out her prophetic placards, utters a personal prayer, then recites the incantation. ”… أيها القدر تحدثني عن أنيكا”