Pick is not the most social of creatures (gasp, shock). The food suffices to outweigh the people for the first half hour, and the dwarf eats with an appetite that is sufficiently dwarven, albeit with rather poor table manners. But with his belly full he begins to be less than delighted with the press of so many people. He does notice the elf, with a dark snort to himself over all the time they'd spent-- if they had just gone to inn anyway, the elf would have come to them, ha, ha-- and he at least points him out to the others with a brief grunt.
This, to Pick, is the time for the people who like talking to do lots of talking. This is not him. He backs into a corner with a stein of the public house's ale and watches. He watches for strange things, for people who seem suspicious, for anything that catches his eye.
Taking a turn or three around the One-Horned Helm, Ialia and Joreld get a good view of the building and its unique architectural style. It’s not as interesting as a pleasant stroll and engrossing conversation with a new companion, but it’s hard to miss the fact that parts of the inn look to have been thrown on in a random fashion, with an overhanging balcony here and a turret there. If there was a plan to its construction and extension it’s far from obvious.
* * * * *
Inside, Calen and Pick get a good view of guests coming and going, as well as across the dining room. The two youths who Calen spoke to earlier enter the inn and quickly scan the room. With a wave in the Selunite’s direction, they head off to the loud table. Greetings are made in the form of backslaps and banter, and one of the pair bends down to kiss a black-haired woman sat around the table.
* * * * *
Not wanting to work her magic in such a public setting, Samara takes herself outside, looking for a little privacy. Fortunately the roadhouse obliges with no shortage of corners to duck behind and shadows to sink into. Knowing that the spell she is about to cast is taxing – condensing hours of conversation into a fraction of the time and sorting through the mental overload is understandably exhausting – she nonetheless feels the time is right to try. Centring herself, she focuses on the subject of her spell – Annika – and speaks the words of the enchantment.
A rush of words fills her ears. Whispers and shouts, snappy sentences and long-winded yarns, the noise of the inn and its many patrons distilled into a few key pieces of information. The magic has its limitations, being unable to sort truth from fiction and unable to impart knowledge that people do not possess, but it nevertheless remains a useful tool in certain situations.
Leaning back against the wall, head already beginning to throb, behind her veil a look of satisfaction crosses Samara’s face.
She now knows that Annika’s family name is Thersil and that she is an attractive, dark-haired half-elf. Her origins are less clear, with her home variously being given as Highmoon, Hillsfar and Cormanthor. She’s known as a traveller around Daggerdale, and perhaps beyond, often in the company of two men. One, Skairris Noll, is a heavyset man with dark hair and beard who works as a physician and healer and is gruff but generally respected. The other, Jamill Roshama, is a young man with long black hair, prominent cheekbones and the pallor of a corpse. He’s widely regarded as a troublemaker and womaniser. The name “People of the Green” has been mentioned in association with Annika, but exactly what this is you don’t know. In Goldfields she is known to be familiar with Garril Kormarsh, a relationship that on the face of it seems uneven with a beautiful older woman and a younger man, leading to grumblings about exactly what he has over her that have more than a hint of jealousy to them. Some of these mutterings are of dark things, others merely make crude references to certain parts of his anatomy. Perhaps more strangely, it’s rumoured that she has been seen with Korwen Brownrivver, a bachelor and owner of a large farm on the outskirts of the village who is widely regarded as reclusive and “not community-minded” by the locals.
While she is trying to compartmentalise the information overload and work out what it might all mean, a figure approaches the Bedine woman. Looming tall over Samara, a mellifluous voice asks, ”Are you ok, miss? You look like you’re in some kind of pain.” Looking up, she is greeted by a pair of concerned-looking green eyes flecked with gold belonging to the mysterious half-elven stranger.
”Are you ok, miss? You look like you’re in some kind of pain.”
No actress, Samara doesn’t need to fake her reaction. She presses on her temples; the spell always left her feeling like her head was an over-ripe fruit, ready to burst its skin. ”Pain. Yes, this is.” She rubs at her temples. ”It goes.”
As the ache abates and most of the voices quiet – except the ones about ‘Macneesh’ and his ‘vicious piles’ – Samara carefully wraps and puts away her stack of placards before cautiously rising, a bit unsteadily. She smooths her abaya and offers the half-elf a tentative nod. ”I thank for your worry, sayyid. I am Samara. I speak fortunes… head pain is cost sometimes.”
Joreld and Ialia comes across the sorceress in their wanderings. The paladin can see she is not well.
"Samara? Are you alright? I have several Lay on Hand healing from the remainder of the day. Can I help?"
The sorceress slightly shakes her veiled head. ”No, with thanks. Is only head-ouch, not… uh… injure. No worry, it leaves.”
While the Dalelands game of ‘polite pleasantries’ (as she thought of it) continues, the sorceress sifts through the fragments of collected information. Patterns begin to emerge. One of them dogged Glanwyn’s path from just before he disappeared to now. Perhaps it is coincidence, perhaps not. She finds it interesting nonetheless.
Samara turns to the tall stranger. ”Your eyes, sayyid… is green.” She says, as if it was significant.
Ialia suspects spell toll, but she isn't certain of what might have been cast. At least she is confident the half elf hasn't hurt her.
Unsure whether to push or not, the half-elf decides that Samara is - or at least will be ok. She's refused help from her friends so probably no point in offering aid himself. "Well met, Samara. I'm Tespen. And I see - well, no I don't see in the way you yourself describe, but I take your meaning. I've an old friend who does dabble in fortune telling, I'm sure she'd be interested in trading tips and tales. If she didn't live across the Dales"
"Sorry," he says, "Wandering off the point. Your friends?" Tespen indicates Ialia and Joreld. "And you're sure there's nothing that can be done for your head? Cold water and a warm seat if nothing else works well enough."
At the comment regarding his eyes, he replies good-humouredly, "Kind of you to notice, miss. And yours appear to be black."
Having decided that Samara is unhurt, Ialia immediately wonders what is happening here. The Bedouin woman was clearly looking for privacy; she's found a darkened corner of wall to slink to. If not for the pure chance that Joreld had suggested a walk around the Inn, and the open conversation between Samara and the Half elf, it's unlikely they would have discovered her.
So how did Tespen manage it? Obviously she and Joreld had arrived after the half-elf, so it remains unclear as to whether this meeting is the result of an arrangement Samara had set or accepted. But given the piece of the conversation they had heard, it seemed as though Tespen had only just approached her. Ialia had not seen Tespen's group of revelers disperse, if that's what happened. The circumstances seemed beyond coincidence. The exchange about eye color was equally strange. Was it not too dark for humans and half elves to see color? Unless Tespen is Drow blooded... And a friend "across the Dales?" Another point for Drow. But his hair color was wrong. Hmm. Perhaps he is disguising himself. Tespen is a highly suspicious character.
She wasn't about to give this stranger her name lest it be scribed into the enemy's ledger. "Indeed. When did you two meet?"
”I've an old friend who does dabble in fortune telling, I'm sure she'd be interested in trading tips and tales. If she didn't live across the Dales.”
”I’d like! I travel lot. Mebbe we meet someday. Where she in Dales?”
”And you're sure there's nothing that can be done for your head? Cold water and a warm seat if nothing else works well enough.”
”Night air helps. I walk a bit. Be good. You walk?”
At the comment regarding his eyes, he replies good-humouredly, "Kind of you to notice, miss. And yours appear to be black."
Samara laughs lightly, ”No. I… Yes. My eyes is black - is common. Green eyes is… hm… verra rare. We Bedine say ‘fate smile’. Green is color of wahatan… oasis? Is fortune sign.”
"Indeed. When did you two meet?”
The sorceress’ head cocks to the side, curious and amused at Ialia’s tone. ”Met now. I say Samara. He say Tespen. Met.”
Samara's words reassure Ialia that she is savvy to this stranger. No need to press her concerns.
"Very well then, enjoy your walk together. Joreld, shall we go back inside? I could use a drink."
"Yes", Joreld answered. "Please pardon us, Samara." The paladin gave a nod of acknowledgement to the half-elf, then turned the witch to walk the opposite way.
Calen catches the barmaid’s attention with a small wave and an easy smile. Leaning in slightly, he keeps his tone light and casual.
"Reckon I’d like to buy that lively table a round," he says, nodding toward the group of youths. "No need to make a fuss about it—just a friendly gesture for some folks enjoyin’ their night."
He slides over a few silver pieces to cover the cost, making sure it’s enough for a decent round of drinks. Then, he leans back in his chair, taking a slow sip of his own drink as he watches the interaction unfold. He’s in no rush—just looking to get a read on Annika and her company, seeing how they respond to unexpected generosity.
”A little place in Mistledale. I reckon she’d like it too,” Tespen says. ”And sure,” he replies, ”a light evening stroll works wonders for many ailments.” Bidding farewell to Joreld and Ialia, who make their way back into the inn, the half-elf continues, ”I think that’s just a difference between our peoples - you are Bedine? - the opposite would be true amongst the Tel’Quessir,” he uses the elven term for themselves, ”not that I am one of the People myself, being, uh, let’s say a meeting of two houses. I’m guessing that you didn’t ask me to walk with you just to gaze into my eyes and recite bad poetry though?” he smiles.
* * * * *
Inside the One-Horned Helm, Calen nudges Pick and points out the table his friends from earlier have joined, including the woman that he presumes is Annika. At his request for a round, the barmaid demands payment up front but after Calen proves he's good for it, she then makes the necessary arrangements. Around ten minutes later the drinks arrive and judging by the raised glasses, at least a couple of which are lofted in your direction, the gift seems to be largely greeted with enthusiasm.
”And sure,” he replies, ”a light evening stroll works wonders for many ailments.” Bidding farewell to Joreld and Ialia, who make their way back into the inn, the half-elf continues, ”I think that’s just a difference between our peoples - you are Bedine? - the opposite would be true amongst the Tel’Quessir,”
”Yes, I am Bedine! You know my people?” She’s rather excited to be recognized. It turns to puzzlement. ”Opposite? You people not take air for head hurt? Hmm.. is different.”
”I’m guessing that you didn’t ask me to walk with you just to gaze into my eyes and recite bad poetry though?”
She smiles behind her veil. ”Is man job say poems. I listen, no laugh.” She gives him a moment to stew on that before continuing their stroll with a laugh, ”Walk is for head… but I wonder why you find me? Is accident? Also…” she waves towards the receding figures of Joreld and Ialia, ”they make… hm… sheep-eyes at one other.” She shakes her head slowly, ”To me, is not interest.”
Inside the One-Horned Helm, Calen nudges Pick and points out the table his friends from earlier have joined, including the woman that he presumes is Annika. At his request for a round, the barmaid demands payment up front but after Calen proves he's good for it, she then makes the necessary arrangements. Around ten minutes later the drinks arrive and judging by the raised glasses, at least a couple of which are lofted in your direction, the gift seems to be largely greeted with enthusiasm.
The dwarf grunts at Calen's indication of the table. He looks around for their red armored companion-- so far, the dwarf has noticed that the man seems to be the sort of human who other humans respond well to-- but Joreld is absent from the table. As are White Hair, Veil...
For himself, he is not leaving the table until all of his food is all eaten and then inroads made on anything else that seems edible and within reach. The dwarf eats when it is available, and eats enough for the chance that the next meal may be long in coming, or skimpy. Right now there is food, so he eats to satiation.
But the din of the conversation and presence of so many people wear on him. He finally pushes his chair back, glad enough to be out of it.
"I go... look outside," he says to Calen, and proceeds to do that: circling the building, poking his nose (literally) into a few areas with the benefit of scent , and generally feeling a bit restless.
If Glanwyn did not make it to Goldfields, but did make it to Dagger Springs, then the simplest sensible path is to travel again the routes between the two towns, and see where he might have ran into trouble between the two. But that is assuming that he did reach Goldfields and run into some trouble here.... that people are lying to them about.
People. Pick sighs.
When Ialia and Joreld return to the Inn she observes Calen sitting back with a drink, watching the young revelers. Pulling at Joreld's hand she tugs the powerful man in Calen's direction.
"May we join you?" she asks while sitting in the next chair.
"A round for my friend and I," she says to the barmaid.
More quietly, she recounts the interaction with the half-elf to Calen. "The tall one calls himself Tespen. We happened on him by chance as he had just approached Samara. She wasn't trying to be seen - was concentrating on a spell - sequestered herself in a darkened corner outside. And yet he found her as if he knew she was there. He's charming, to certain company, but also off-putting. He mentioned having a friend across the Dales. It was an odd thing to say to a complete stranger."
She places a few silver on the bar and sips her ale. "Anyway, they went off alone together. Samara can certainly handle herself and I got the impression she's wise to him. What did you make of him, Joreld?"
"Hmm", the paladin considers. "It could be a random encounter. It might be what Samara needs to help acclimate herself to
Cormyr culture. Like you said, Samara can handle herself. But being cautious, especially with so many mysteries around, might not be a bad idea."
"We shall wait and see", the Lothanderite stated.
Trying to calm Samara's obvious excitement, Tespen replies, "I think it would be fairer to say I know of your people, though that's probably more than many folk. And I was merely referring to eye colour - green among elves is as common as I have just learned black is to the Bedine. A walk for a sore head I think is probably universal, at least based on my travels and experiences."
The half-elf laughs at Samara's suggestion. "I'm neither poet nor bard, lady. Though I have been told that plucking a bowstring is an art of sorts. Not that I claim any mastery of the form and it probably takes a certain person to view that with your 'sheep eyes'." His eyes follow the departing Joreld and Ialia. "I'll withhold judgement on that which I know nothing about but I will simply say that they are undeniably a fine looking pair so all power to them."
Tespen appears to be a talker so the silence he leaves for a minute feels bigger as he considers how to answer the next question.
"An accident? Yes - I sensed you were in distress. But also a fortuitous one. I recognised your dress as that of the peoples of the Great Desert and your companions are an interesting looking group. Hard to miss, you might say. Without a bit of disguise-work there's only a one of you that could easily pass for an honest Dalesman - and he's accompanied by an oversized night bird. Not exactly subtle, even if she is a very handsome creature." He smiles ruefully. "All of which is to say, I'm intrigued: what brings you together and out here into the frontier? Curious minds - or whatever I have that passes for one - would be interested to know."
Trying to calm Samara's obvious excitement, Tespen replies, "I think it would be fairer to say I know of your people, though that's probably more than many folk. And I was merely referring to eye colour - green among elves is as common as I have just learned black is to the Bedine.”
”Oh.” The sorceress deflates a bit, but gives Tespen a point for admitting the limits of his knowledge. ”Yes, you know more lots Dale peoples. Is good… no say silly asks.”
"An accident? Yes - I sensed you were in distress…”
She wasn’t a thespian but Samara thought she’d masked her feelings passably well. If Tespen had indeed sensed her mood, and wasn’t simply taking a stab in the dark… It suggested he had some skill. ”Dalemen did follow me ago. First time for ‘distress’. My people, we do not… uh… crowd so much. Is difficult, for me. Unnerstand?”
"All of which is to say, I'm intrigued: what brings you together and out here into the frontier? Curious minds - or whatever I have that passes for one - would be interested to know."
Samara chuckles at the idea that this water-rich, verdant, temperate land is a ‘frontier’. ”Curious? I unnerstand this. I curious much. So, we do trade, yes? Answer for answer, yes?” When she gets his agreement, she continues. ”Is two question…” She makes a sweeping circular gesture encompassing, presumably, the Dales. ”What bring me here?” Then she points to her feet ”What bring me here-now?”
Fairly certain her meanings are clear, she presses on. ”First ask. Leave Anauroch because Netherese.” She almost hisses their name. ”Saw Thultanthar come at my desert. Bedine need allies, so I come Dales.”
”Second ask. Lord of Daggerdales want help. His scout go look for danger. Maybe danger find him. We look for scout to help. Elf scout call Glanwyn.” She observes Tespen’s reaction for clues, before holding up two finger and closing them as she states each of her questions. ”My asks: Have seen Glanwyn? D’you know peoples here 'round?”
Calen takes a slow sip of his drink as he watches Pick slip away to scout outside. "Reckon there's more here than simple chance," he murmurs, eyes narrowing. "Tespen’s words and all this odd behavior point to someone hidin' secrets near Goldfields. If Glanwyn's caught up in trouble, we might find clues along the trail between Dagger Springs and Goldfields."
He glances at the lively table where the youngsters are gathered and adds with a wry smile, "Let's see if the beers I bought do their trick, and if those kids bring Annika over."
"I love a bit of company myself,"Tespen says, "but I appreciate not everyone wants their ear chewed off by a witty and charming half-elf all the time. And I guess if you're not used to such places, I guess I could see how it might be a bit much in there."
He nods in agreement at Samara's offer. "Seems fair enough to me - answers for answers it is." At the mention of the return of the Netherese city, a look of consternation crosses Tespen's face. "If even a fraction of what I've heard about a city of long-dead archmages coming to reclaim their empire is true then I fear you're going to need all the help you get can get. Some might tell you the smart thing to do would be to find a new place to live out of their shadow, but it's easy to say that when it's not your home being threatened. Wish I had happier words for you there but you're going to need some big fancy heroes to stand up to them."
The half-elf cocks an eyebrow at the explanation of their current purpose. "I haven't seen him, though I do know who you mean. We've crossed paths before." He pauses a second before continuing. "I know some folk round here, though as it happens I'm looking for some myself. Figured you might be it, given you were the obvious group from elsewhere. Alas not." He rubs his chin. "Tymora's not giving me an easy smile on this one then."
* * * * *
Calen's round of drinks does indeed do the trick and the two lads come over after a while, with the dark-haired half-elven beauty in tow. "Thanks for the drinks, Mister Calen. This here's Annika who I told you about earlier." A fairly inscrutable look passes over the young woman's face, wondering exactly what may have been said about her.
Calen inclines his head in a friendly nod as he takes in Annika's presence. "Well now, mighty fine to meet you, Annika," he drawls, his eyes warm but steady. "The lads mentioned you might know a thing or two about these parts—especially 'bout a certain elf ranger, Glanwyn. We’ve been searchin' high and low for him, and word is, you’re the sort that knows the lay of the land like the back of your hand."
He pauses, letting his gaze linger on her with a mix of genuine interest and caution. "I ain't lookin' to pry into your business, but any clue you can spare might help us find our missing friend.
Samara’s laugh is teasing. ”Charming half-elf? You no say poems! How charm wit’ no poems? Dale girls not hard to… to.. please.”
At the mention of the return of the Netherese city, a look of consternation crosses Tespen's face. "If even a fraction of what I've heard about a city of…”
She nods, turning serious. ”Is true. I there, at Scimitar Spires, when city come…” She demonstrates with her hand, something drifting, floating, ”stop at Shadow Sea. One year in Heartlands, I been. Seen cities, seen towns… Shadow city is big big.”
”I fear you're going to need all the help you can get.”
”Is true… If shadow no stop in Anauroch… Dalelands need help. Sometime neighbor problem go to you problem.”
”I haven't seen him, though I do know who you mean. We've crossed paths before.”
Samara doesn’t bother to hide her disappointment. ”Oh. IF him here, be mebbe 10 days ago. You here ‘round then?”
”I know some folk round here, though as it happens I'm looking for some myself. Figured you might be it, given you were the obvious group from elsewhere. Alas not.”
”Who you look? Mebbe, we see.”
Shaking his head, Tespen says. ”I wasn’t – only arrived here today.” He sighs. ”That’s the question, isn’t it? If I were to say that I didn’t exactly know I’d probably look rather foolish, wouldn’t I? But it also happens to be true. Since we’re getting on so well, I’ll put my cards on the table. Metaphorically, that is,” he clarifies, in case Samara is unfamiliar with the term. ”I’ve heard noises about some kind of meeting of folk from out of town tonight, hence why I was interested in you and your friends. Don’t know exactly what it’s about but if there’s something secretive going on then I’m automatically intrigued. You could say it’s a personality defect.”
He laughs a little and shrugs his shoulders, the action causing something to fall out of his pocket. Tespen bends down to pick it up: a small wooden whistle. Samara isn’t certain but she thinks she remembers the woman she spoke to in the village having something very similar around her belt. He rubs it with his sleeve and then blows a few notes as a test. ”Do you play?” he asks. ”I’m afraid I know nothing of the music of the Bedine but I’ve always felt it was a universal language.”
* * * * *
”I’m afraid I can’t help you.” Annika shoots Garril a quizzical look as if to say “What possessed you to tell them I could help with this?”
Slightly flustered, her beau says ”What I said was that you’re well-connected and know a lot of people across the Dale. Not that you know this elf.”
”Oh I see,” she looks mollified by the answer. ”That’s right – I know people,” she says pointedly, ”I don’t go hobnobbing with lords. Thank you for the drink, that was very nice of you and I’m sorry I can’t be of assistance.” She turns to the boys. ”Probably time we got going.”
Ialia turns to Joreld. "How's your room? Did they give you a comfortable bed?"
Calen leans forward slightly, his gaze steady and his tone low and friendly. "Now, Annika, I ain’t lookin’ to pry or stir up trouble," he drawls, "but it’d be a shame to let a good mind go untapped. You say you know people and keep to your own, and that’s fine enough. But sometimes even a quiet soul might catch wind of somethin’ worth knowin’—especially if it concerns a lost friend like our Glanwyn."
He gives her a soft, reassuring smile, leaning in just a touch. "Sure, I respect that you don’t mix with lords, but perhaps there’s a nugget or two you might share, even if it’s just a whisper? We’re not lookin’ to intrude, just to piece together a puzzle. What do you say, Annika? Ain’t no harm in sharin’ a little more, is there?"
"I'm sure it will be fine for it's intended use", Joreld smiles. "The bed should be far softer than the ground."
"I've already told you I don't know this man, nor do I move in circles where I would hear about the doings of nobles and aristocrats." Annika's response is polite but firm. She looks briefly at Joreld as she speaks.
"What about Jammil hinting that he's got a friend in high places?" Garril blurts out, clearly feeling bad that they have not been able to help. Neither of his companions look thrilled about this comment.
Hadam nudges him in the side. "Don't be an idiot."
"Quite," Annika agrees, a look of mild distaste on her face. "Jammil says a lot of things that he thinks will make him sound interesting or popular or mysterious, especially to pretty young girls who seem to be depressingly susceptible to his charms. Being that I don't think he's trying to bed you I'd have thought you'd have learned by now not to take everything he says too seriously."
Ialia is amused that these people are actually having this conversation while they stand there. Not one to interrupt gossip, she orders another round of ales and sits back to listen.
When Annika finishes she asks, "Is Jammil worth bedding? Is he here now?"
He rubs it [whistle] with his sleeve and then blows a few notes as a test. ”Do you play?” he asks. ”I’m afraid I know nothing of the music of the Bedine but I’ve always felt it was a universal language.”
”Goldfields lady made, yes? We talk, little. Nice.” She shakes her hand at the whistle. ”I no play. Sing, sometimes, but not for peoples. No. No.”
”I’ve heard noises about some kind of meeting of folk from out of town tonight…”
Samara nods, ”We hear same. Mebbe no thing but we come, too. This ‘folk’…” she looks at the half-elf, debating what she should say, whether to go with her instincts and his green eyes. ”Is girl with them, dark hair, pretty. Peoples say she lead men by…” she makes a two-fingers-together dangling motion. ”Watch her careful. Mebbe center of ‘folk’. Mebbe ‘folk’ not good folk.”
She glances around. ”OK, ‘nough airs. I go see meeting and uh… chats... with… my peoples.” She offers Tespen a slight bow, ”Thank for walk and talk.” She smiles, realizing she made a rhyme. ”Mebbe talk again… after you learns poems.”
She turns and slowly heads back towards the Inn, seeing if Tespen will accompany her at least part of the way. Instead of going for the door to the noisy and crowded place, she heads to the window by their table… which is why she chose that particular table, in the first place. She could look in on the crowd but wasn’t trapped within it.
Standing outside, she rest her arms on the open window frame and acts casual… much as she’d seen drunken reprobates do across the Dales, ”Hey! Hand me my tea, please. Thanks!” Drunken reprobates didn't say 'please' in her experience, but Samara felt that was going a step too far.
When Annika finishes she asks, "Is Jammil worth bedding? Is he here now?"
Joreld merely blinked at Ialia's audacity.
Pick had circled the end to no particular benefit, checked on their horses, and finally encounters Samara again as she is leaning partly into the building calling for her tea. The dwarf makes his way over to her, though he cannot comfortably lean on the windowsill, being shorter than the Bedine.
"No signs outside," he grunts, then blinks to realize there are more people here at their table.
Apparently, the windowsill is RIGHT in his way of whatever there might be to be noticed.
Tespen's eyebrows rise a little in surprise. "She did, yes. You've got a keen eye. And that's a shame." He looks thoughtful at Samara's next words. "With the noisy youngsters? That's possible. Some of them I know are locals, others from out of town. Thank you." The half-elf does indeed accompany her back to her friends - or at least as far as the window. "A pleasure talking with you, Samara," he says. He does not, however, immediately leave, opportunistically listening in to the ongoing conversation at the group's table.
* * * * *
Annika turns to face Ialia and shrugs her slim shoulders. "Depends what you're looking for. He certainly does alright for himself, I'll say that much," she says a touch acidly. "If you're a pretty young farm lass who's bought into his rhetoric and then finds that the next day he's moved on, you might have a less rosy view of things than you did the previous night."
She looks the white-haired woman up and down, appraising her appearance. "He's over at the table." she gestures through to the rest of their group. "Dark hair, sharp features, ego to match. I've no doubt he'd make himself known quickly enough if you said hello," she adds drily.
As Samara returns and asks for her tea, the trio bid you farewell and take their leave.
Ialia tracks to the table and to Jammil. She's a little annoyed he's not already looking back at her; it's impossible for anyone at the Inn to not have noticed the young witch in her colorful dancer's outfit. She couldn't be more out of place. She waits for Annika to leave and then uses Message to whisper into Jammil's ear.
"Hey, come buy me a drink."
Outside in the sky, Basil watches.
Hanging at the window, Samara sips her tea and silently waits for all the new people to leave, including Tespen. Green eyes or no, she wouldn’t trust him with all that she learned. She is glad when the ‘kids’ leave as well as the gregarious half-elf. Ialia leaving is just bad timing but it couldn’t be helped.
When it is just their party, she offers what she’s managed to sort from the collage of instances. ”Heard stuff.” She indicates Annika with her eyes, before glancing at Joreld, ”Annika, family has name Thersil. Know it? Lots places she say is home… Highmoon, Hillsfar, Cormanthor. Travels lot an’ ‘People of Green’ name stick to her… like Dagger Springs. Like gnat, men buzz ‘round her.” She glances about the room, indicating likely people with her eyes as she names them, or looks down when she doesn’t see a likely candidate. ”Skairris Noll, doctor, healer. He respected. Jamill Roshama, corpse skin. They say trouble and womanizer.” Her scoffing tone at the title makes it sounds as if she doubts the claims or the judgment of the women involved. She goes back to looking for targets and finds the obvious one, ”Garril Kormarsh… barely a man, older woman. People wonder.” She looks around a little more, not necessarily expecting to find the final face. ”Korwen Brownrivver. No wife, has big farm on village edge. Stay by self and ‘not community’. How they meet?”
As the young trio leave, they don't return to their table but instead head up a flight of stairs. Some others from their table also rise and follow, as well as a couple of others from around the room. Jammil is not one of them, however. He scans the room, looking for the originator of the message, before locking eyes with Ialia. He saunters over to the witch and stretches his arm behind her to lean on the bar, gently brushing her dress as he does so.
Close up she can see long dark lashes, prominent cheekbones and a languid confidence to his movements: he's a good looking young man and seemingly well aware of the fact. He looks her up and down, not bothering to hide that he is checking her out. "Well there's a generous offer if ever I heard one," he drawls, looking self-satisfied. "I think that I just might." He waves to attract the attention of a barmaid and leaves it to Ialia to order her drink of choice.
Ialia requests the Inn's finest spirit. Jammil may be classically handsome, but that doesn't cause Ialia to lose her mind. She's not a schoolgirl and she had been in the room with many handsome men, including the one standing behind her. She's also not offended by his wandering eyes; she had dressed to impress and it was past time someone noticed.
When the drink arrives, Ialia thanks Jammil with her eyes. "You look fun, not like the local stiffs. What brings you through here?"
Joreld leaves the table and retires to his room. The paladin did not wish to intrude on Ialia's evening activities.
Calen sits back, nursing his beer with a slow, thoughtful sip as he watches the scene unfold. Annika's curt refusal to help stings a bit, but he’s used to secrets and half-truths in these parts. He watches as Ialia deftly charms Jammil—her colorful manner and coy whispers drawing him in like a moth to a flame.
Calen nods to Joreld as he gets up to leave, "Reckon, I'll be here awhile longer, just to watch the crowds,"
Going with the a glass of the same spirit himself, Jammil clinks vessels and takes a sip. "I'd like to thnk so," he agrees. "As for what brings me here, well, the attentions of a beautiful woman," he says, deliberately misunderstanding the question. "Though I was rather under the impression that it was you who summoned me over."
Ialia is immediately unimpressed. Jammil is either needlessly coy or simply stupid. But perhaps he didn't hear her correctly.
"Mmm." She pretends to enjoy his flattery, combing a finger though her hair and recrossing her legs. "Attractive people are better together, don't you agree? But you know what I mean. How is it the two of us meet in this modest establishment in the middle of nowhere? I don't believe in chance."
She's really, really hoping she's not wasting her time with this one. Scaring Joreld away for no use would leave a bitter taste.
…before glancing at Joreld, ”Annika, family has name Thersil. Know it?”
Joreld leaves the table and retires to his room.
Irritation flickers. The paladin had made a point of dropping names. And now, when they had a family name that might provide clues, he had walked off - pouting over a woman.
As the young trio leave, they don't return to their table but instead head up a flight of stairs. Some others from their table also rise and follow, as well as a couple of others from around the room.
Samara marks the people heading upstairs. She looks to the dwarf, taking a moment to make sure they aren't heard. ”Girl and others go up. Is meeting, I think. A bird or animal mebbe go near and hear things, eh?”
Jammil smooths back his hair. "I could probably ask you the same thing, lady, though that may be perceived as prying. Let's just say it's Tymora's will... or perhaps that of Sharess," he purrs, invoking the goddess of hedonism and sensual fulfilment. He sighs, glancing up the stairs to where the others of his group have gone. "Business brings me here and it is business that requires me just now, even if I would much rather focus my attention on the divine being before me. Rest assured that I'll be back." He tips back his head and knocks back the remainder of the Dragon's Breath, the brandy-like spirit disappearing down his white throat in one swift gulp. "One more," he calls to the barmaid, pointing to Ialia and leaving her with another drink to keep her company.
As he rises, Jarril whispers in her ear, "I always find that a pleasure deferred only sharpens the anticipation." With that he saunters off up the closest staircase.
Ialia smiles as Jammil leaves. She learned almost nothing from the brief exchange but there is an opportunity if she's quick. As soon as he is out of view she rushes outside and calls for Basil. Following the run of the stairs with the line of the building, she guesses where the group may have gone.
Perch at that window and tell me what you see, she instructs the bat. They repeat this process until Basil finds the right room to spy into.
Good, now watch them and tell me what you see.
Ialia returns to the bar to wait.
Samara marks the people heading upstairs. She looks to the dwarf, taking a moment to make sure they aren't heard. ”Girl and others go up. Is meeting, I think. A bird or animal mebbe go near and hear things, eh?”
Pick doesn't answer immediately, reaching through the window to take a seemingly unclaimed drink from the table and quaff from it. He rolls the beverage around in his mouth slowly, brow lightly furrowed as he seems to be considering something, and then a swallow.
"Only... some animals. Small animals... hard. Hard to-- to-- squeeze down," he says slowly. "Birds... bigger birds. Eagles. Swans. Easy to notice."
The dwarf shrugs and drains the rest of the glass before setting it carefully back on the table. "I try."
He walks away from the windowsill.... to see that White Hair seems to have beaten him to the punch, and has a better companion for this tactic. Pick watches silently a moment as the woman and the bat triangulate to the presumably correct room, nods to himself, and returns to the spot at the window.
[b]"White Hair's bat listens,"[/b]
he explains softly to Calen and Samara. He goes on tiptoes to look at what else might be up for grabs on the table. Priorities.
Pick sees the table is currently cleared of anything he can easily reach. He brushes some crumbs from his hands and his beard, still mulling over the challenge of the spying. He does not want to become a dog again; the dog has been seen now. If he could be a mouse it would be ideal! But he cannot be a mouse. He has tried before. He is simply too much dwarf to cram into a mouse shape... perhaps with more practice. A rat is similarly too small. However....
Hmn. Pick scratches at his ear, then says to Calen and Samara, "I go try."
The dwarf again wanders away from the windowsill and glances around to be sure he is not observed as he finds a place beneath where Basil maintains vigil. At least, not observed by anyone not an ally! Then, he crouches and thinks of rats, skittering claws, lashing tail, questing whiskers, sniffing noses....
Focused on the group conspiring inside, Basil doesn't notice the massive rat approach until it's clamoring up onto the ledge. The bat takes flight for fear of its life. It will do no good to observe the gathering if it doesn't live long enough to report! Instead, Basil flies high overhead, watching the rat take its place.
Basil hisses into the wind, cursing its luck knowing Ialia will not be pleased with this turn of events. Well, there was that other person the witch had encountered earlier. What became of him? Maybe this effort won't be wasted. The bat flies in a widening circle around the Inn, as far as it needs to go. Ialia is half drunk and won't miss it for a while.
Instructed to find a large room with multiple occupants somewhere in the right direction, Basil takes a look through a few windows - those not shuttered, anyway - before alighting on what appears to be the right location. Unfortunately he is unprepared for the sudden, silent appearance of a rat the size of a small dog clambering up towards him and shoots up into the air. Circling around the One-Horned Helm his sharp senses espy Tespen sat quietly on a secluded bench on the edge of the inn’s grounds, quietly smoking a pipe. He flutters up to a chimney to perch and keep an eye on the half-elf.
Fortunately there is a small ledge outside the window and the boards are mostly drawn across the window, meaning Pick-as-rat can perch if not comfortably then at least easily enough and can peek in on occasion with minimal chance of being spotted. The ramshackle nature of the building combined with his heightened hearing also means that he is able to overhear the majority of the conversation. If any guards or wards were posted at the door, the window was an oversight - they are on an upper storey, after all.
Peering inside, Pick is able to identify nine figures: Annika, Jamill, Garril and Hadam, along with a broad, heavily bearded man that you think from Samar’s description is Skairris Noll and another young woman from their group’s table downstairs. The other three appear to be strangers and also the focus of much of the conversation.
It takes a little for Pick to discern the context and thread of the conversation but it would appear that the group have designs on changing Daggerdale’s rulership and system of government, desiring to replace the hereditary lordship of the dale with a democracy. You are able to judge the trio of strangers as potential recruits to the cause, hence the talk largely being directed towards them, with Annika and Jamill dominating the conversation.
”It just makes sense,” Annika says earnestly. ”It’s fairer, it gives everyone a stake, and makes the ruler truly accountable to the people,” she says earnestly.
”But the people mostly love Lord Morn,” one of their targets, a middle-aged woman, says. ”He’s the hero who overthrew the Zhents.”
”Yes,” Annika agrees.”Though a good swordsman doesn’t necessarily make a good ruler. I do think Randal Morn seems to be that too,” she concedes. ”But what if he wasn’t. Or his heir turns out to be a tyrant. There’s no easy way to get rid of a mad, or even just a bad, king. It’s just a silly way to do things when there are obviously better alternatives. He could even rule still under a system chosen by the people; the important thing is that he would be chosen to do so and could be replaced if he didn’t do a good job.”
Jammil laughs. ”Be serious,” he sneers. ”One way or another this ends with his head on a pike.”
Voice rising slightly, she replies, ”It doesn’t have to. That’s the beauty of it, there’s no need for bloodshed.”
”Annika chooses to pretend that such things don’t happe,” Jammil says to the potential recruits. ”She doesn’t want to worry her pretty little head about such things but I’m looking for assurances that when things get serious you’re willing to fight.”
Garril starts to rise, ”You shut your mouth! he says heatedly.
”Ah, the noble bed-warmer pipes up to defend the poor maiden’s honour. This one looks like he’s only stopped soiling the sheets recently. Honestly, Annika, you could do so much better,” Jamill grins, before twisting the knife. ”Indeed you have, plenty of times.”
The half-elf woman’s pale cheeks flush and she puts a restraining arm on Garril’s shoulder. It’s not hugely effective as he takes a step towards the long-haired man insulting them both.
”If you’d like to take this outside later, be my guest,” Jamill drawls. ”I’ll show how a real man fights and then I’ll tell you how a real man f–”
”Enough,” growls the man with the dark beard and the others fall silent. Seemingly he commands respect. ”Jamill, stop with the needle. Annika - Jamill’s probably right about how things will turn out, however much you may wish it otherwise.”
One of the new recruits, a wiry man with a scar on his cheek, speaks up. ”What if we decide we don’t want to join you?”
”How attached to your tongue are you?” Jamill asks pleasantly.
Skairris shoots him a look. ”You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t been vetted or vouched for already,” he says to the three.” And we do have ways of ensuring your silence. I suggest you choose wisely.” The unnamed threat in his words sounds rather more ominous than his younger companion’s more cartoonish one. He slowly withdraws a small pouch and pulls out three pieces of cheap green agate jewellery, placing them on the table. ”Identity marker,” he says.
”What were you saying earlier about potentially having someone high up on board?” the thin man asks, looking at Jamill.
”That’s an easy one. Jamill likes to show off and make all kinds of assertions that he can’t back up because he thinks it makes him interesting,” Annika puts in, smiling sweetly at him.
”I’m sure it won’t be lost on you that dear Annika doesn’t like it when she’s not the special one and other people know things she doesn’t,” Jamill retorts. To the questioner he says, ”Brownrivver.” At Annika’s incredulous look, he smirks, getting the desired reaction. ”Just because the old lech wants a piece of stuck-up elf-kin for himself, doesn’t mean he tells you everything, however many assets you flaunt in front of him. Anyway, something interesting’s going down on the farm at first light.”
Rising to the bait, the woman says, ”You’re full of it. I was there the whole time, you never had chance to speak to him alone.”
”True enough,” he concedes with a languid grin. ”I had a little look through his correspondence.”
”Jamill” Annika’s voice rises at the same time as Skairris growls, ”Need to know, boy.” The bearded man looks at the group. ”Nobody needs to worry their heads about what may or may not be happening there tomorrow morning. We,” he indicates Jamill and Annika, ”will be on the road to our next destination at first light. Doing our job,” he adds pointedly. ”And the rest of you will go about your business as normal, same as you always do unless we come calling. It was nice not seeing you here,” he adds, the first touch of levity in anything he has said, looking at the three new recruits. Two of them have already discreetly donned their tokens, while the scarred man picks up his, perhaps a touch reluctantly. ”I suggest everybody makes their way to their chambers.” His tone indicates that this is less a suggestion and more a command. With that, he strides over to the door and seems to work some kind of magic. The group files out towards their bedrooms, leaving Pick alone outside the window.