"If I may suggest, we leave right after sunrise tomorrow", Joreld spoke. "That would give the rest of the day to shop for supplies, get some sleep, then head out at Morninglord's Light. We could all gather outside the Lathander's Light before we head into the wilds."
"We know he took the Tethyamar Trail down south and stopped through the three villages here.” The priest points to a trio of places marked Anathar’s Dell, Nettle and Upper Nettle.
A soft grunt from Pick. Anathar's Dell is.... the closest thing he has to a static "home" of sorts. His niece lives there. Some of his belongings are there, the ones too bulky to travel with. He had wondered if the trail would take them there, but it seems that Glan went there and left already-- no new information to be gained by a visit.
He follows the progress of the veiled woman's finger along the map. "We go north side of Dagger, to Springs. Hope to intercept signs of passage. I ask animals on way. Maybe get lucky, or maybe we reach Springs first and ask if he was there. If he did not reach Springs, we try south of Dagger."
Pick nods approvingly at the Red Armor's suggestion of when to leave. He is indifferent to the talk of the gods, but daylight is better for travel, certainly. He also brightens at the mention of Red Armor's horse. There will be THREE people of interest along, then. Of course, more than that with all the other horses they will be bringing....
"Ready in morning," he confirms. He starts edging for the door, eyes looking to the others briefly to see if there is any more that needs saying or if he can go and make his own preparations.
He follows the progress of the veiled woman's finger along the map. "We go north side of Dagger, to Springs. Hope to intercept signs of passage. I ask animals on way. Maybe get lucky, or maybe we reach Springs first and ask if he was there. If he did not reach Springs, we try south of Dagger."
Finding no fault in the plan, Samara nods, ”Good ideas. Go round Green Orb to Springs.”
She adds, ”I meet all by south gate, dawntime.” Being in the town center during a time of prayers, when many locals would be gathering, was something she planned to avoid.
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Ialia attempts to hide her grave disappointment that she will not share a saddle with Joreld.
But it's written all over her face. With her skin palette there's no hiding flushed cheeks. She turns away to spare further embarrassment.
"Have arrangements been made for us for the night? If not I'll inquire at the local Inn. I don't know about the rest of you - the finger foods were tasty but a proper meal is the next order of business. Anyone want to join me for dinner?"
Having saved a fair amount of gold for the journey, Ialia can afford to dine and stay at Dagger Falls finest house. Hopefully it has one. She'll look to have her clothing cleaned of road filth and battle grime and to replace any bloodied swaths. Her boots need to be polished and she'll require a warm bath. Luxury accommodations preferred and she hits up Cariamma for recommendations as the group departs.
"I shall join you. After my supplies are secured", Joreld adds.
”Of course we can, Samara,” Cariamma smiles.
”It sounds like you have the makings of a plan: you have a potential route in mind and will leave soon after first light. We will arrange horses for you - let’s keep that quiet from Erngaudle for now - and now is your opportunity to purchase supplies. And I’m more than happy to suggest accommodation options. We could probably put you up in the barracks if you really wanted,” she looks to Tunfer for confirmation - he nods - ”but personally I imagine you’d be much more comfortable at the Teshford Arms. It’s not the Ashabenford Arms,” she says, referring to the inn widely regarded as the most luxurious in the Dales, ”but Olavia has stepped things up in the last couple of years now she’s got a bit of competition and isn’t just relying on it always being full of Zhent merchants.”
”That is a good point about harnessing magic to help with the search, Pick,” she adds. ”We have been trying, though without success.”
”Indeed,” Tunfer agrees. ”It would be fair to say that you have not seen the best of Rissa this afternoon, but she is actually gifted in the illusion and divination spheres of magic. And no, I don’t think the irony of failing to foresee the disastrous consequences of her actions will have escaped anybody.”
The gnome shifts uncomfortably on the chair under the priest’s stern gaze before taking this as her cue to speak. ”I’ve been trying to locate Glanwyn by finding his necklace,” she says, casually casting a spell that creates a large scale image of three stylised waves attached to a simple thin leather cord. ”Ordinarily he would be too far away but I’ve been trying to modify it to work over longer distances. I don’t think it’s working, though something could also be blocking the magic. Or I suppose he could be deliberately blocking my attempts to contact him but I can’t think why he would.” Rissa looks thoughtful for a second before shaking her head. Her face is easy to read: clearly she is unable to conceive of a scenario where someone may not wish to speak to an excitable and highly talkative gnome.
”I’ve also been trying to harness the power of various crystals. Similar to using a crystal ball. The principles are sound but I don’t think I’ve made too much progress with it. Lord Morn was asking me about it as he wanted–” She cuts off abruptly, changing tack as a thought strikes her. ”Oh! Lord Morn! Have we heard from him? How is the baby?! Is she cute? I bet she is, babies usually are - I think they design them that way so people want to look after them. I bet she looks like Silver as well–”
Cariamma coughs politely, trying to keep a look of slight disapproval of her face. ”I rather think that you have wandered from the topic at hand, and I’m not sure we should be discussing state matters publically either.”
Perhaps unexpectedly Tunfer laughs, a deep barking sound. ”Actually I think Rissa may have a point. It’s not exactly a secret that Lord Morn is away visiting his sister. The location is, of course, guarded very carefully. This is a big moment for the Dale and the people are invested in this so maybe we should celebrate it.” He glances over at Joreld. ”The Obarskyrs made a big show of parading the infant Azoun V around the country a couple of years back. Perhaps we should consider something similar.”
”Perhaps,” Cariamma agrees, ”but we should save this for the next council meeting. Though without Glan and Lord Morn, and with Ariton and Nildeera absent, we are pretty much all present currently,” she adds drily.
Tunfer’s eyebrows raise slightly, though he doesn’t contradict Cariamma’s observation. ”Ariton is on patrol and Nildeera will be wherever she needs to be. We’ll be ok,” he says reassuringly.
”But yes, we have strayed from the matter. I think our business here is concluded?” he asks the group.
Getting through this conversation is like ‘winnowing grains of wheat from a lot of chaff’, the sorceress concludes. She had little experience with agriculture but it was a curious local idiom she was exploring. No sooner had she spied a seed of wheat (divination methods) than a torrent of chaff was thrown on top of it: babies, Morn’s whereabouts, political machinations, and people she didn’t know. Topped with the language difficulties, it was bewildering… but navigable.
”But yes, we have strayed from the matter. I think our business here is concluded?” he asks the group.
What was being asked was clear. What was being offered in exchange was not. ”What is award?”
He glances at Samara, Pick and Joreld, then back to Ialia. “Let’s head to the Teshford Arms. Dinner sounds like a mighty fine idea,” he drawls, his voice calm and easy. “A man can’t live on tartlets alone, after all. I reckon the rest of us could use a proper meal ‘fore we settle in for the night.”
With a quick gesture to Lunaris, perched nearby, Calen adds, “And don’t you worry about the owl, she’s had her share for the night. Now it’s our turn.”
"I stayed at the Ashabenford Arms en route while traveling the river route upstream. It is as luxurious as you say." Ialia smiles at the recollection; her handsome personal bath attendant had been... extremely thorough.
"Interestingly, the talk of Ashabenford was the escalating tensions with the Drow. Anyway, the Teshford Arms it is."
Ialia nods when Samara inquires about payment.
He glances at Samara, Pick and Joreld, then back to Ialia. “Let’s head to the Teshford Arms. Dinner sounds like a mighty fine idea,” he drawls, his voice calm and easy.
"Makes sense", Joreld added. "We can store our gear in our rooms, then get our supplies."
As the paladin walks next to the white-haired magic user, Joreld leans down and whispers in her ear.
"Maybe this Teshford Arms will have two deluxe adjoining rooms we could sleep in."
"I'd settle for nothing less," Ialia responds boldly.
Trying to move this proceeding to a close, Ialia reinforces Samara's question with one of her own. She addresses Cariamma and Tunfer. "Thank you both for providing mounts and supplies. And for the recommendation of the Teshford Arms. If we can settle the small matter of our compensation once we've found Glanwyn, I believe we'll have everything we need."
Pick is already edging for the door. The question of compensation is apparently as unimportant to him as the matter of the wand he has abandoned on the table.
Coin is a complicated thing that he has found false more often than not. He has vague memories of smiling people offering him gold and platinum and jewels in their outstretched hands, and his taking it, and it turning in his hands to burning coals and stinging wasps, to the immense mirth of the smiling tricksters. Lookit! An earth-son who doesn't know real gold from false! What a fool...!
Gold was valuable, though. That much, he remembered was true. His clan, his people, had sought gold ore and silver, emeralds and other gemstones...
That was THERE. It's silly here. A golden flower is worth more, to the right buyer, and favors are more valuable than either. Do you understand?
He had nodded, staring down at his reddened hands. Favors. Debts. That, he could understand.
Now he is back in the place where people think gold is important, but it is still treacherous to him. He carries coins that he has found on the bodies of bandits and others, but their value often escapes him. Gold is worth more than silver which is worth more than copper, even though burnished copper shines more like gold than the silver does, and even though he likes its warm fire-hue more than he does pale silver. The coins have faces of chiefs and kings on them, often, but they are human leaders and he can't be bothered to remember or learn their names. Almost every time he has traded coins for goods, he learns later that he has been cheated.
Kharva had sighed deeply the last time she had learned of his most recent 'purchase.' Uncle, she had said, pinching her nose, and looking again at the iron pot he had traded with a merchant for. Uncle, this is only iron. You paid ten golden lions for this?? It's not even worth one!
The pot could be used to cook meat and vegetables when he was out of the towns. The gold coins could not be used for anything except in towns. The pot was worth more than the coins, which he tried to explain to his niece, but she had shaken her head and muttered something about imagine, a dwarf who didn't know the value of gold...
At her suggestion he left the coins that he found with her, and told her if he wanted things, and on his visits he picked them up. Mostly what he asked for was coffee. It was a workable arrangement, only he hadn't been to see his niece in a bit, and since then he had found the wizard armor stick, and more coins, which sat among his belongings like impractically and inconveniently sized rocks.
What does it matter to him, the payment for this task? Morn's people will owe him a favor, as will Glan. That is better than coins, at least to Pick's thinking.
Another thing he cannot understand is trading coins for a bed in a room, or for the dishes they make at the Teshford Arms. It costs nothing to sleep under the stars, and he has this wyvern meat to cook, so....
They will meet in the morning. It is good enough. Pick slinks out of the room with his own arrangements to make.
”A fair question,” Tunfer agrees. ”I was wondering when we would get to that. Bluntly, we probably can’t offer as much gold as you would like. I could appeal to your charitable side but we asked for help and just service deserves to be weighed against fair reward. We have, however, managed to acquire no small number of magical possessions, chiefly as a result of retaking the town. Mostly they are enchanted arms and armour but there are other things besides.” He shoots Rissa a warning look as the gnome’s eyes light up at the mention of magical trinkets to play with. ”You would be welcome to choose your reward from what we have available, within reason.”
As the rest of the group makes their way out, Samara hangs back to speak about whatever is on her mind, Pick grunts a farewell, leaving the remaining trio to make their way to the Teshford Arms.
It’s a large roadhouse right on the outskirts of town so the location at least is good, even if the accommodation hasn’t always been. Of course when the place was constantly full of Zhent soldiers there was no need to do much beyond the bare minimum because trade was good and few Dalesfolk cared to make the lives of their oppressors any more comfortable than strictly necessary. Since then a downturn in trade has meant the owner has had to spend some of the easy coin she had banked in order to deliver a better quality of service and attract patrons. The work you can see being done on the roof is testament to the inn being a work in progress still but the whole place has had a lick of paint and it is at least no longer the draughty barn it once was.
Entering, you come into a large open dining room of low-beamed ceilings and a rustic charm that feels quintessentially of the Dales. The furniture largely looks to be solid, albeit it has probably seen better days and the atmosphere is welcoming enough, if not quite what one would term cosy. The place isn’t heaving but at least half the tables are occupied and it seems to chime with how Cariamma described it.
A plump middle-aged woman with brown hair mostly shot through with grey greets you. ”Well met, travellers, and welcome to the Teshford Arms. Are ye wanting rooms for the night or just dinner?”
The red warrior steps forward. "For the night. Two of your finest rooms for myself and Miss Ialia here. Do you have ajoining rooms?"
0.0
The sorceress finds Tunfer’s comment about gold amusing. Money was the least valuable thing he could offer. Magic, on the other hand, that was useful. But perhaps not nearly as valuable as an obligation from Lord Morn. In any case, the offer was better than coins that weigh too much and soaked up heat too easily. As the Bedine saying went, In the desert, no one drinks silver. ”Fair offer. Deal.”
As Pick slides toward the door, the spell-weaver takes his wand from the table and loads it into sheath strapped to her forearm, concealed beneath her layers of clothing.
With the others gone, Samara looks to Cariamma, places a hand on her ribs, and says, ”Will you to heal, please? Thank you.”
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The red warrior steps forward. "For the night. Two of your finest rooms for myself and Miss Ialia here. Do you have adjoining rooms?"
Ialia swallowed hard. She would need to be at least a little careful around Lord Huntsilver, as he could very clearly charm the pants off of any damsel he chose. Well now, that was the point of it, right? But by the gaze of Sharess, this paladin could work it! Ialia swooned; she wasn't sure what she was hungry for.
Basil hissed in her ear. "Did that wyvern clobber you senseless?"
"What?" Ialia replied in the Common tongue.
The bat bit her ear a little harder than it needed to, drawing a sliver of blood. "Is this one of those times where I'm supposed to 'find somewhere else to be?'"
Ialia recoiled at the pricking of her ear, as opposed to other places. "Ow, Basil!"
The witch was aware that she was making a scene. She attempted to turn away from the party and swat at her familiar but the confounding flying rodent buried itself in her hair. She turned back, pretending to be combing her fingers through it absently, smiling at Joreld and Calen as if nothing was amiss.
"Ahh, yes, that's right. Adjoining suites, very good. And a drawn bath. Warm, preferably. Thank you, Joreld, for making arrangements. Now, to dinner and drinks!"
Ialia tries to disguise her embarrassment and contempt for Basil at the moment.
Calen enters the Teshford Arms and takes in the familiar rustic charm of the place. It’s not fancy, but it has a kind of worn-in comfort that suits him just fine. As he watches Lunaris take off, likely to find a quiet place to roost outside for the night, he hears the innkeeper’s greeting.
“Well met, ma’am,” he replies with a polite tip of his hat. “Just dinner for now, but we’ll likely be needing rooms after that, I don't mind what kind of room ya give me, long as it has a bed,” He glances back at the two, catching Ialia’s barely contained excitement over the adjoining rooms with Joreld.
As Pick heads out to camp by the horses, Calen turns his attention to Samara. He’s noticed the sorcereress has been carrying Pick’s wand, and there’s a subtle weariness in her eyes despite her strength in battle.
“Looks like you’ve got Pick’s wand there,” he says, offering a faint smile. “If you’re needin’ a bit of healing, I can take care of that for you. No sense carryin’ around extra bruises if we don’t have to.”
He gestures toward one of the empty tables, pulling out a cigar and lighting it at the table while he waits for a bar maid, “How ‘bout we grab a bite while we’re at it? Talk a little more. Might be more to this place than what we’ve seen so far.”
”Oh Samara, yes of course,” Cariamma says. ”Come, let’s find somewhere more suitable,” and she leads the other woman to a small room with a bed and medical supplies that has clearly been used for treatments before. Locking the door, she indicates that Samara should lie down. ”Is this ok?” she asks before examining the wound, unsure if it’s pride, privacy or something else that is only now causing her to speak up.
* * * * *
”That’s two suites then,” the woman smiles in response to Joreld’s request. ”I’m sure we can sort that out for ye. Will ye be wanting a bath now or later so I can get water drawn in your chamber, milady?” she asks Ialia, a bundle of courtesy in the face of the pair’s charm and good looks.
To Calen she says, ”All of our rooms come with proper beds, but they’re cheaper if’n ye’re wanting to share. Only the suites have tubs in the rooms, mind. The main bath house is out back by the stables. Which reminds me, do ye have any horses? I’ll get Zzantilar on it if so. And I’m Olavia,” she says, puffing herself up slightly pompously, ”proprietor here, so if there’s anything ye’re needing then just let me know. Have ye come far?" she asks.
The Bedine is momentarily puzzled by the question. ”Yes, room is good. Thanks.” She leaves her head and face coverings on but removes her cloak before untying her robe to expose the partially healed wyvern wound. From ribs to hip, her side is deep purple from the blow. As instructed, she lies down on the bed with a hiss of pain. ”No poison, just…” She uses her hand and arm to make a stinger striking motion.
”That’s two suites then,” the woman smiles in response to Joreld’s request. ”I’m sure we can sort that out for ye. Will ye be wanting a bath now or later so I can get water drawn in your chamber, milady?” she asks Ialia, a bundle of courtesy in the face of the pair’s charm and good looks.
”All of our rooms come with proper beds, but they’re cheaper if’n ye’re wanting to share. Only the suites have tubs in the rooms, mind. The main bath house is out back by the stables. Which reminds me, do ye have any horses? I’ll get Zzantilar on it if so. And I’m Olavia,” she says, puffing herself up slightly pompously, ”proprietor here, so if there’s anything ye’re needing then just let me know. Have ye come far?" she asks.
"Madam Olavia, we are leaving tomorrow morning just after sunrise. I'd like to pay for the two suites now, to avoid the rush back here to pay", the red warrior explained.
Pick's first order of business is to cook the wyvern meat. The pot is useful, see, Kharva??? He leaves the town's walls to find a quiet place outside, and to find fresh herbs.
Spring onions. Fiddlehead ferns. Wild leeks. All of these can be found growing in the Dales in spring-time, as well as many more. When he has a goodly handful of herbs, the dwarf finds a spot by running water and builds a fire, a whispered word providing the first spark. A tripod of branches suffices to hold the pot over the flames.
Salt would be good, he muses. He doesn't have any with him just now: another purchase he relies on his niece to acquire for him. Salt can be found in the wild, among certain rocks, but he does not know the area around Dagger Falls itself well enough to have a place in mind and hunting for one could take hours. This will do.
He washes his hands in the stream as the rudimentary stew boils away. On reflection, he muses, it would be good to rinse off the rest of him as well. His armor (another prize from bandits) and the rest of his clothes come off, and Pick enters the chilly waters of a stream fed by springtime snow melt, teeth gritted a bit against the cold.
Hot springs would also be nice, but there are none nearby that he knows of. There is wild soapwort growing on the banks of this stream, though, and he tears off a handful of leaves and crushes them in his rough palms. The resulting sap creates a sort of lather with the water.
It admittedly takes Pick much longer to attend to a bath and to a meal than it does for those at the Teshford Arms. But the time involved does not bother him.
After his rinse, he sits on a sun-warmed rock teasing out tangles from his thick, wild hair. The scent of the stew makes his stomach growl: onions and seared meat, mellowed by the time it has simmered. Scent-- the wilds are full of smells, more pleasant than those in the towns. Flowers, pine, clean water. He breathes deeply of the air, knowing that tomorrow he will need to travel with the others-- the white hair woman especially smells of perfumes, too strong to his tastes.
Scents.... Pick frowns as something occurs to him, and mutters a single word in Sylvan that would have made Dellabrynna either laugh or scold him, depending.
An hour later he is back at the garrison, somewhat to his annoyance as he goes in search of Cariamma. Fortunately the guards know him from the earlier meeting and are able to give him directions to the Eldathan.
"Thank you, Joreld."
Ialia turns her attention to the Innkeeper. "Normally I'd request the bath right away but I haven't had a proper meal since Shadowdale, and I wouldn't brag about it."
She sets a gold piece on the desk beside the Innkeeper. "If you'll show me to my room I'd like to get settled before supper. Gentlemen, I will see you shortly in the dining hall."
Upon arriving at the room she checks to make sure it is as described, relative to the connected suite. Not fully trusting the other clientele (party members excluded), she casts Detect Magic into the room and spends half a minute focusing.
Satisfied, she opens the window and throws Basil out of it. Then she washes and changes into her dancer's garb, affixing her sapphire brooch, earrings, necklaces, and bracelets and brushing out her hair. Then she touches up her makeup before locking her possessions in the chest and finally exiting the room twenty minutes after arrival. She strives for fashionable lateness but not disrespectful tardiness.
Returning to the dining hall, she seeks out her companions and a clean place to sit.
After paying the fee for both suites, Joreld went to his suite to puts down his backpack on the large bed. The paladin began to remove his red dragonscale armor, placing it neatly on a nearby chair. The Lathanderite then changed into his courtier outfit, ultimately deciding to wear his corresponding jewelry with it: to make a good impression. A few minutes with his grooming kit, and Lord Joreld Huntsilver left his suite to have dinner with his fellow rescuers.
"I understand," Cariamma says at Samara's action. "I'm sorry but this will almost certainly hurt when I touch it," she continues. "Nothing about your movement suggests anything is broken but I want to make sure that there isn't anything going on beneath the surface." With gentle hands, she checks the purple bruise. Satisfied that there is nothing worse than the swelling, Cariamma spreads the fingers out on her left hand and touches her holy symbol with her right, praying to Eldath and letting herself become a conduit for the nourishing magic that pours forth from her to the Bedine woman. The bruise changes colour rapidly and fades until the area is essentially the same olive complexion as the rest of Samara's skin. "How's that?" she asks.
* * * * *
Pick is escorted to a small chamber where Cariamma, a heavy shawl draped over her shoulders to stave off the early evening chill, greets the dwarf with a smile in spite of the tiredness that lines her face. "Pick. Well met. You caught me just in time, I was heading home soon. How can I help?"
* * * * *
"Yes of course," your hostess replies. "That will be four gold pieces for each of the suites, and either two gold for a private room or five silver for a shared one," she says to Calen. "Will ye be wanting breakfast before you hit the road?" she asks. Payment concluded, Olavia sends scurrying staff to show you to your rooms and ensure that your needs are sufficiently met.
Freshened and changed, Joreld and Ialia rejoin Calen in the dining room. A fresh-faced serving girl with dirty-blonde hair moves over to your table to take your order. "Good evening. Would you like dinner or just drinks? The special is roast chicken and vegetables tonight, or we can provide bread, meat and cheese if you prefer something cold. May I suggest a glass of the mint wine, it's famed throughout the Dale."
"I'm sorry but this will almost certainly hurt when I touch it,"
The sorceress nods, indicating that the healer should proceed. ”Pain is right… tells ‘I am live’.”
"How's that?"
Samara takes a deep breath experimentally, anticipating the pain. She smiles when it doesn’t hurt, ”Is verra good! Thanks.” She gets off the bed and dresses. ”Other question. In town, is merchant of books? Like… hm… smart books? Like… words book - dish’naries?”
Pick is escorted to a small chamber where Cariamma, a heavy shawl draped over her shoulders to stave off the early evening chill, greets the dwarf with a smile in spite of the tiredness that lines her face. "Pick. Well met. You caught me just in time, I was heading home soon. How can I help?"
Pick grunts at the priestess in lieu of a greeting. He does not mince words but says: "You have anything of Glanwyn's? Clothes? Things with smell."
The dwarf shifts his weight foot to foot. "Time passes, smell is weaker, but maybe. Worth the try."
He does not say aloud: I know the two of you are close and you would be the likeliest person to have a personal garment of his. He figures that is self-evident.
"Yes of course," your hostess replies. "That will be four gold pieces for each of the suites, and either two gold for a private room or five silver for a shared one," she says to Calen. "Will ye be wanting breakfast before you hit the road?" she asks. Payment concluded, Olavia sends scurrying staff to show you to your rooms and ensure that your needs are sufficiently met.
Lord Huntsilver pays the matron the 8gp. "I likely will not want breakast, but I am curious: do you sell fresh trail rations? I am looking to acquire ten, please?"
Freshened and changed, Joreld and Ialia rejoin Calen in the dining room. A fresh-faced serving girl with dirty-blonde hair moves over to your table to take your order. "Good evening. Would you like dinner or just drinks? The special is roast chicken and vegetables tonight, or we can provide bread, meat and cheese if you prefer something cold. May I suggest a glass of the mint wine, it's famed throughout the Dale."...
Joreld meets Ialia as they both reach the dinning hall. "You look delicious", the paladin purrs quietly at the white-haired spellcaster.
Dressed in his courtly finery, Joreld catches everyone's eye, nodding politely to those who meet his gaze. Once seated at the table, the lathanderite humbly greets the Selûnite inquisitor. "Well met, Master Derethor."
Once the waitress explains the specials, Joreld speaks up. "This will be on one bill", the noble said, pointing to himself. "Let's see. I will have the roast chicken and vegetables. Some bread for the table. And I shall try a glass of the mint wine, with an additional glass of water." Joreld looks to the other at the table, eager to hear their orders and stories.
Ialia can't help but blush again at Joreld's approach. Having spent too much time in her young life dealing with vampires, his word choice almost makes her laugh, but his meaning is plain and the attraction is mutual.
"I'll wager that tongue can do a lot more than talk," she replies.
Once seated, she acknowledges the waitress with a smile. Deciding they're about the same age, Ialia feels a little smug for having been blessed with extraordinary abilities which have taken her to this point in life. That her birth mother, Magreth, had chosen one of the wealthiest men in Saerloon as the sire for her daughter was extreme good fortune. She made a mental note to tip this young woman very well, assuming the service and food lived up to the greeting.
"Drinks and the Special for me, thank you. And I'll try your mint wine as well."
After her first sips of wine she contemplates her handsome companions; she's decided Calen's rugged charm and trail-hardened good looks are nearly a match for the younger paladin, and perhaps he is an interesting conversationalist. She aims to find out.
"How well do you know the Daggerdale, Calen?"
Calen shifted in his seat, the weight of Ialia's question hanging in the air. He gave her a steady look, careful not to let too much show. "Daggerdale," he began, his voice carrying that familiar southern drawl, "Ain't exactly the friendliest patch o' land. Rugged, like the folk who call it home. You got goblins crawlin' outta every crack in the mountains, Zhentarim still causin' a stir, and all sorts o' things lurkin' in the dark. It’s more'n just a fight for land—it’s a fight for breathin' room."
Calen's fingers paused their rhythmic tapping, his eyes drifting toward the door where Lunaris was outside, likely perched somewhere high and watchful. His drawl softened slightly as he continued, "Lunaris, she’s the reason I’m here. That owl’s got a sense 'bout things, always guidin' me where I need to be. She don’t say much, but Selûne speaks through her. The Moonmaiden—she sees things clear as night, knows where her light’s needed. And right now?" His eyes flickered back to Ialia, then Joreld. "She’s pointed me here. There’s somethin' wrong in Daggerdale, sure as shootin'. Folks here need help, or Selûne wouldn’t have guided us this way."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice low and serious. "Maybe it’s the Zhentarim, maybe it’s somethin’ worse, but I can feel it. The air's heavy, like a storm brewin'. Can’t shake the feelin’ that somethin’ big is comin'. And I reckon it’s up to us to find out what."
"With hope, we can find Glanwyn alive and well. I try to focus on one mission at a time. But from what I've seen Daggerfalls isn't too bad. They do have a Lathanderite temple at least. But yes, we may be here a while", Joreld says as he lays his napkin over his lap.
Ialia focuses on Calen. The weight of his words rest heavy on her shoulders, and she can feel in her heart that he's right.
"I feel it too. It's not only here. I fled from my home because war seemed impossible to avoid and I wanted no part of it, but since the day I left there's been this sense of despair all around. I thought I was getting away from it, finding an adventure for myself far away from my problems, but I've come to realize that they aren't my problems; it's everywhere, like Faerûn itself is coming undone."
The young witch breathes in sharply and exhales in an audible sigh. To have said what has been on her mind this long trip feels cathartic, but the words do not lift the burden.
"I wonder if I should have stayed. Could I have done some good? Is my family in danger, and could I have helped them? But the River Road to Ashabenford, the trouble with the Drow, the monstrous incursions at Shadowdale, and the dark broken road through the valley, with each hamlet seeming worse for wear despite the Zhentarim having been expelled. Even behind these formidable walls there is chaos - the storm inside the fortress..."
Ialia leans in closer to the men and speaks softly. "I don't believe a group of adventurers was summoned to find one lost man. Rather, we're to find what Glanwyn was seeking, some greater knowledge of the darkness and the cause of..." her voice trails off. Ialia has not the words to finish her thought.
She looks to Joreld and offers a sad smile. The mood, so recently charged with anticipation, has changed dramatically. Her eyes betray her, and a tear rolls down her cheek.
She raises her glass. "To new friends."
Joreld listened as Ialia unleashed her worries. Nodding affirmatively, the paladin raised his glass to hers and Calen. "To new friends."
Cariamma smiles back, ”You’re welcome, Samara.” To the Bedine’s other question, she wrinkles up her nose, thinking. ”Dagger Falls just isn’t that big,” she says apologetically. ”You could try Rimardo. He's very well travelled and he trades in all sorts. He’s always got his eye out for antiquities, curios, esoterica - basically anything he finds interesting, which is a pretty broad category. I can’t promise he’ll have what you’re looking for but it’s the only place in town you might find one.”
Samara follows Cariamma’s directions and arrives at a narrow shop front. The sign outside proclaims it to be “Rimardo's Curios”. Entering, she is greeted by a small space full of tables and cabinets stuffed with items ranging from the mundane to the magical. In spite of the fact the small shop seems full to bursting, there is an obvious order to it. A large grey macaw is sat on a perch hung in the far corner and it lets out a caw in greeting. A tall man with mahogany skin, dark curly hair, and a long beard neatly squared off at the end responds to this alert and comes through a door. His eyes light up as they settle on Samara and he greets her in her own tongue. ”Greetings noble lady of the Great Desert. I am Rimardo of the house of Dorvalde, of Alaghôn and many places since. How may I serve you?”
* * * * *
Knowing Pick well enough to understand his directness, Cariamma keeps her face composed. She is not so much affronted by the somewhat personal nature of the question, more just the twinge of worry that has never been far from the surface this past tenday. From what she thinks she understands of the dwarf’s worldview, she and Glanwyn are mates so naturally she would have something of his. ”To help you find him?” she asks rhetorically, thinking of Rissa’s demonstration with the facsimile of Glan's necklace earlier. ”I do,” she says, ”but not here. At home,” she clarifies. ”Can it wait until the morning? I can bring you something before you set off.”
* * * * *
In the Teshford Arms, the mint wine goes down a treat, greasing the wheels of conversation. The food isn’t bad either, from what you gather the cook is pretty new to the establishment and what is a marked improvement on the distinctly average to poor fare that was previously served. The trio of adventurers at the table may have been thrown together but are united by a common purpose and are taking the first steps to becoming more than just strangers.
Samara’s relief is almost palpable. Finally, a conversation in an easy language! ”Peace be upon you, Rimardo, son of the Dorvalde. I am Samara, born daughter of the people of The Sword. It is good to speak in my own tongue; Thank you for that gift. I am hoping you have some books that might help me with your common tongue? Also, I am curious about the Dwarven language as well?” she asks with a note of hope.
She switches to Common. ”I say some Common, not verra good. None talk of dwarf.”
”To help you find him?” she asks rhetorically, thinking of Rissa’s demonstration with the facsimile of Glan's necklace earlier. ”I do,” she says, ”but not here. At home,” she clarifies. ”Can it wait until the morning? I can bring you something before you set off.”
A single nod, yes to help find Glan, and then a pause. More hours will mean a weaker smell.... but Pick supposes that with the elapsed time so far, the additional hours until morning will not make a great difference. He shrugs and gives another nod, a little slower than the first.
"Clothes best. Clothes worn to skin."
The dwarf pauses. Some part of him thinks it would be good to say, We will find him. Do not worry.
However, he does not know if this is true. He does not know if they will find Glan. It would be a form of a lie to say what they will or will not do before it is done. What good is comfort if, in fact, she should be worried? And words, especially in Common, are not his strong suit.
After a few more seconds, Pick just gives a third silent nod, and turns to go once more.
The Turmish man bows, his hands clasped in front of him. ”It is my pleasure. Please forgive any errors, it has been a while since I have spoken your tongue. Rare it is to meet one of the Bedine beyond the borders of Anauroch.” He smiles at Samra’s request and her explanation. ”Your Common is at least the match of my command of your language,” he reassures her. He switches back to ”As it happens, you’ve come to the right place. Some folk like collecting swords, others coins. I enjoy the challenge of learning languages.” At this, the parrot squawks, in a way that sounds remarkably like ”Ha!”
”Hush, Verne,” Rimardo says, rolling his eyes. ”My apologies,” he says to Samara, ”my hobby also extends to teaching my friend here bits and pieces of the Common tongue, though sometimes I swear he understands far more than he lets on. But I digress. Please, come with me.” He moves around the shop and encourages Samara to follow him through the doorway. This leads to a second, even smaller, room, though it is equally packed full of interesting items. He removes a set of keys from a pocket and sorts through until he finds the one he is looking for and unlocks the lower doors of a large cabinet. The taller doors are made of glass and various drinking vessels and other items of glassware are on display but beneath this the cupboard is full of books, papers, pamphlets and the like. He removes a stack, shakes his head and then takes out a second pile.
Searching through, he pulls out a slim folio. ”This was compiled by the esteemed linguist Gavroldar of Tsurlagol, who I had the privilege of studying under for a period. It is, in this humble man’s opinion, the definitive Midani-Common phrasebook. Of course it may be the only one, but it is very good, I can vouch for that.” He strokes his beard, thinking. ”You also wish to study Dwarven, you say? If something similar exists then I’m afraid I am unaware of it, though by Oghma there is much I am unaware of. Oh! Maybe…” Rimardo exclaims, an idea striking him. He rifles through the piles, pulling out yet more books when he is unable to find what he was looking for. Eventually he strikes gold and holds out a pamphlet to Samara entitled “The Tethyamar Treatise”. ”This is an old agreement between the dwarves of Tethyamar and a handful of Bedine tribes, notably the Dakawa, Lalajar and Yethtai. It’s a few centuries old - obviously - but Dwarven is a language not known for changing with times and fashions so that shouldn’t be an issue.” He flips through the pages to about halfway through the volume and points on the page. ”It includes the terms in both languages and there is an appendix that covers some basic terminology in translation. It’s a long way from comprehensive but it should allow you to gain at least a rudimentary grasp of the language. And with an understanding of the grammar and rules the foundations are there to build upon. Hopefully these will suit you?” he asks.
* * * * *
”I understand,” Cariamma says. As the dwarf turns to leave, she adds, ”Pick - thank you. I appreciate it. I’ll see you all by the main gate around sunrise. I’m assuming Joreld will be at morning prayers at the temple at that time but I know you want to be on the road as soon as you can, which probably means when he is done speaking with the Morninglord.”
”Your Common is at least the match of my command of your language,” he reassures her.
Samara inclines her head, ”You are too kind to think so.” It was the politest way in Midani to say “You’re lying through your teeth but I greatly appreciate your lovely untruths.”
The sorceress openly ogles the treasure trove of strange items and books. She could spend a week snooping through every shelf and item trying to satisfy her curiosity… In fact, if she finds the time on her return to Dagger Falls, she plans to do exactly that.
”Yours is a shop of wonders, Master Rimardo. May I return some day to look through it all at my leisure?”
”It is… the definitive Midani-Common phrasebook.” He strokes his beard, thinking. ”This is an old agreement between the dwarves of Tethyamar and a handful of Bedine tribes, notably the Dakawa, Lalajar and Yethtai. It’s a few centuries old - obviously - but Dwarven is a language not known for changing with times and fashions so that shouldn’t be an issue... Hopefully these will suit you?”
The Bedine is elated, excited, and concerned in equal measure. She takes the volumes in both hands, as if accepting a rare gift. ”These are perfect. I recently traveled by Tethyamar and I appreciate the context and history this agreement will provide.” She frowns, ”I have no goats or sheep. I apologize that I do not have appropriate wealth to exchange for such rare books. I mean no insult to you or your shop. I do have…” She is almost embarrassed to complete the sentence. ”coins of gold and other metals, if those are acceptable. What can I offer to equal the worth of these gifts?”
"Thank you, Samara. I would welcome that. If you are able to let me know in advance I shall try and acquire some camel’s milk for tea and we can talk at leisure. I take it that means you are departing for somewhere soon?” Rimardo inquires. ”Coins would absolutely be sufficient if you’re short of other tradable commodities. I can always exchange them elsewhere,” the man smiles. ”While the dictionary is the more complete work, the Tethyamar Treatise is much rarer - even a copy such as this - so the cost is actually greater. That will be 10 gold pieces for the former and 20 gold for the latter. Should you ever come into possession of an original, guard it well as it would likely be worth a great deal more. But please don’t go looking for one,” he warns. ”By all accounts Tethyamar is still overrun with powerful monsters so you are far more likely to find trouble than ancient manuscripts and then I would miss out on being able to welcome you back.”
* * * * *
As befits a devout follower of the dawn god, Joreld is up very early to celebrate the sun’s rise at Lathander’s Light. He is welcomed by the High Mornmaster and introduced briefly to Lynthaen, the aforementioned knight of the Order of the Aster. The man is young and fresh-faced, looking barely out of his teens, with close-cropped hair and he carries himself with the demeanour of one who has grown up in the military. ”As the sun rises, we are blessed by your presence, Lord Huntsilver,” he says. ”Harndarr informed me that you have a mission that requires your immediate attention but I’m glad to have made your acquaintance and look forward to speaking with you further upon your return.” He claps you on the back in a warrior’s salute. ”Go forth and shine Lathander’s Light on all.”
* * * * *
In line with yesterday’s agreement, the group assembles early at Dagger Falls’ main gate. Cariamma is waiting for you there along with a couple of grooms in charge of mounts for you all. Using the time Joreld is at the temple to get used to your horses and sort your equipment, you are ready to depart by the time the Cormyrian nobleman arrives with Sunrise.
”I have a shirt and a pair of old boots,” Cariamma says to Pick, handing the items to the dwarf. ”You can take either or both but ideally bring them back - Glan will still want them.” She smiles weakly, perhaps trying to convince herself that Glanwyn is going to be ok.
She bids you farewell. ”Good luck and may Eldath protect you all.” If you turn back as you leave, you can see that the priestess is standing calmly watching until the gate passes from your sight.
The conversation took on a darker tone than Ialia would have expected; there is a depth to Calen's thoughts that exposed her own fears. She barely tastes the food, although it isn't bad by any means. The wine is similarly consumed without frivolity. At least it takes the edge off that struck her when the wyvern's claws scored her flesh and had not diminished in the half day since. She tips generously and catches the tab for the meal, believing that a proper adventurer should be generous with coin, and her purse is heavy.
When the trio retire to their rooms, the plan for afterwards is put on pause. Tonight is not the night; her mood has changed and more than anything she needs the comfort of a warm bath, another hour to brush out her hair and then a good night's sleep in the last comfortable bed she is likely to lay on for the foreseeable future.
Ialia opens the window to the coolness of pre-dawn and calls for Basil. The bat is surprisingly mute for having been sequestered apart from her for the entirety of the night, and the witch assumes that Basil suspects she shared her bed and is restraining itself from judgment.
She takes breakfast and then meets the rest of the group at the main gate. She can ride, and is happy for the mount and a back on which to hang her kit. She takers her Wayfinder in hand and keeps the ioun stone at the ready in a pocket but separate for now. She's not much of a scout but should she be separated for any reason from the group she is slightly less likely to become lost.
Ialia looks to the east. "Sunrise to begin a journey is a good omen."
For the dwarf, the night was not spent in the comfort of the Teshford Arms-- to be fair, the soft mattresses would have made him uncomfortable anyway. Instead, after taking his leave of Cariamma the night before, Pick had made his way up to what the humans call the Eagle's Eyrie. The dwarves have a different name for it. Or had. No dwarves hold the old clanhome anymore.
Those are names Pick somewhat remembers. Dorn had been the chieftain, when he had been a boy. Not that he'd ever met him, but he has old, distant, rusted memories of seeing Old Grim addressing the clan. More memories of the priest, Elshar, during regular prayers to Moradin, Dumathoin, and the others, where much of the community would gather to chant the low, rumbling responses to Elshar's calls.
Many of the Brightblade clan would have fought Morn's forces, many more evacuated at Grim's order. Pick wonders absently and distantly which he would have been: one of those whose honor was found in a grim and doomed final stand, or one of those whose youth dictated that he go with the bulk of the clan in hopes of a brighter future.
It is a moot wondering, because he was not here when it happened. He was in a very different place, and Morn had not even been heard of by any dwarves when he had been lost in the depths of the earth.
Kharva spits when she hears Morn's name, even the current Morn, Randall. Pick feels no particular enmity towards the grandson of the man who drove his clan from their old homes. It's all too distant, too remote. While other dwarves were learning to curse Colderan Morn-- while his parents, and siblings, were forging arms to wage war against him-- Pick was lost in the green.
Now, he wanders the so-called Eyrie with detached curiosity, with an odd pang here and there at the sight of dwarven runes carved into the blackened rocks, or the sight of a few coins left as remembrance-offering at a soot-covered statue. Other dwarves make pilgrimage here, and leave those tokens of remembering.
Did his family do that for him, in the years that they must have thought he was dead? Did they light the funeral fire without a body to burn, as is sometimes a necessity for those lost in accidents where they cannot be recovered? He supposes they probably did. It's strange to imagine. As strange as having the heritage of his people in this place, and yet feeling like he is a stranger to it, an interloper.
Pick wanders the empty, ruined halls and battlements until the first yawn starts to come on him. Then, he finds his way to what was no doubt once cozy living quarters. He lights a small fire in the room's surviving hearth and curls up on the stone before it with his pack as a pillow. Morning will be here soon enough.
***
Pick is with the horses early, stamping his feet and moving briskly to warm himself against the morning's chill. He'd made coffee before leaving the old Eyrie and the warmth of is still pleasant in his gut. On seeing the others start to assemble, he gives them slight nods of acknowledgment.
The priestess hands over some items, and he takes them with another nod. "Will keep them safe."
Then he promptly buries his face into the shirt, sniffing deeply. This may or may not look weird to anyone else. It possibly looks weirder when he then sticks his face into the boot. Mmmm, ranger-foot-funk.
”If you are able to let me know in advance I shall try and acquire some camel’s milk for tea and we can talk at leisure. I take it that means you are departing for somewhere soon?”
”In the morning, I will be leaving for some period of days - likely a fortnight, possibly more.” She adds with a small laugh, ”But for proper tea, I shall return and give you as much notice as I can. If you manage to acquire a skin of camel’s milk, I may even attempt to brew my grandmother’s haleeb al'iibil almukhmir . It was reputed to both burn the hair off any man’s chest and effectively clean infected wounds.”
She pulls her pouch, counts out thirty gold coins, and places them in the antiquarian’s hands. ”… with my thanks, Master Rimardo. I look forward to having tea with you upon my return.”
Samara spends the evening in the stable, becoming acquainted with her borrowed horse and reading. Were the stablemen a little concerned about this odd turn of events? Yes. Were they able to convince her to go elsewhere? No, they were not.
Near the gate by the city wall, the desert sorceress sits comfortably in the saddle on the back of a sorrel Karabakh mare. One leg is thrown loosely around the saddle horn, balancing a large tome on the bend in her leg. Engrossed in her reading, she pays little attention to the comings, goings, or curious looks of passersby. Her gauzy veil from yesterday has been replaced with a sturdier keffiyeh that hides every facial feature below her eyes.
On seeing a few people she recognizes, Samara closes the book, puts it in her saddlebag, swings her ‘reading’ leg back over the saddle, and slips her sand-booted foot into the stirrup. Her final touch is to seat a leather holster containing a folded three-sectioned staff against her saddle as a warrior might stash a great sword for ready use. ”Good morning. Ready for travail?”
2nd Spells (4):
1st Spells (8): x
Dancing Lights (2):
Vest (1):
Versatile Spell:
CLW (1):
Stunning Fist (2):
Claws (8):
Effects:
Mage Armor = +4 AC/FF for 5 hrs
The conversation took on a darker tone than Ialia would have expected; there is a depth to Calen's thoughts that exposed her own fears. She barely tastes the food, although it isn't bad by any means. The wine is similarly consumed without frivolity. At least it takes the edge off that struck her when the wyvern's claws scored her flesh and had not diminished in the half day since. She tips generously and catches the tab for the meal, believing that a proper adventurer should be generous with coin, and her purse is heavy.
When the trio retire to their rooms, the plan for afterwards is put on pause. Tonight is not the night; her mood has changed and more than anything she needs the comfort of a warm bath, another hour to brush out her hair and then a good night's sleep in the last comfortable bed she is likely to lay on for the foreseeable future.
Joreld could read the writing on the temple wall: the anticipated exploration of the porcelain spellcaster would be put on hold. Perhaps it was that anticipation that made evening chat more difficult than normal for the former Purple Dragon. The Huntsilver took the news with gracious abloom, but Ialia likely observed the clenched jawline as they parted.
The paladin returned to his room, and cursed quietly to himself. Joreld was hoping the sexual tension between both holy warrior and questionable spellcaster would be relieved. But it was not to be. Joreld took a nice bath, likely one of the last ones for a while until the ranger was found. After his cleansing, The cormyrean lord went to sleep.
As befits a devout follower of the dawn god, Joreld is up very early to celebrate the sun’s rise at Lathander’s Light. He is welcomed by the High Mornmaster and introduced briefly to Lynthaen, the aforementioned knight of the Order of the Aster. The man is young and fresh-faced, looking barely out of his teens, with close-cropped hair and he carries himself with the demeanour of one who has grown up in the military. ”As the sun rises, we are blessed by your presence, Lord Huntsilver,” he says. ”Harndarr informed me that you have a mission that requires your immediate attention but I’m glad to have made your acquaintance and look forward to speaking with you further upon your return.” He claps you on the back in a warrior’s salute. ”Go forth and shine Lathander’s Light on all!"
"Blessed be, Lythaen" Joreld answered. "I do hope we can speak with more liberty upon our return." The lathanderite paladin returned the salute as he departed the temple, rejuvenated by the worship of the Morninglord.
In line with yesterday’s agreement, the group assembles early at Dagger Falls’ main gate. Cariamma is waiting for you there along with a couple of grooms in charge of mounts for you all. Using the time Joreld is at the temple to get used to your horses and sort your equipment, you are ready to depart by the time the Cormyrian nobleman arrives with Sunrise.
”I have a shirt and a pair of old boots,” Cariamma says to Pick, handing the items to the dwarf. ”You can take either or both but ideally bring them back - Glan will still want them.” She smiles weakly, perhaps trying to convince herself that Glanwyn is going to be ok.
She bids you farewell. ”Good luck and may Eldath protect you all.” If you turn back as you leave, you can see that the priestess is standing calmly watching until the gate passes from your sight.
The lathanderite rides up on one of the most beautiful steeds you've ever seen. It's pelt almost shines in the early rays of dawn.
"Good morning, everyone" The almost jubilant paladin addressed his fellow search party members. "Thank you all for your dispensation on my part. I prayed to The Morninglord for our success, and I can feel his Hope and Goodwill surround us al!. I am packed and ready to leave. By your leave, Pick", Joreld nodded to the local druid, ready to follow his lead, for he was the expert, after all.
Calen finishes eating quicky, maintaining small talk when necessary but eager to find some solitude. He'll ground his cigar into the table and flip a gold coin onto the pile that Ialia leaves.
Under the silver moon, Calen knelt by the edge of the trees, Lunaris nearby, keeping watch. His hands clasped together as he murmured his prayer in a soft drawl.
"Lady o’ Silver, your light guides us through the dark. Reckon you brought me here for a reason—there’s somethin’ stirrin’ in this place, trouble brewin’ where your light don’t quite reach."
He paused, glancin' up at the moon hangin' bright in the sky. "I’m your servant. Show me the path, guide these here steps. Help me keep folks safe, bring peace to this land, and be the blade and shield in your name."
The wind stirred the leaves as Calen bowed his head. "In your light, I’ll always find my way."
Calen squinted against the early rays of dawn, barely holding back a groan. Mornings weren’t his strong suit, and the sight of Joreld practically glowing alongside his radiant steed felt like too much this early in the day.
"Mornin’, Joreld," Calen replied, his drawl a little rougher than usual as he tipped his hat. "Glad to hear the Morninglord’s lookin’ out for us." He stretched, his eyes lingering on the paladin’s horse for a moment. "Looks like even your horse’s a mornin’ person."
He scratched his chin, shooting a glance at the sky before muttering, "Reckon the Moonmaiden don’t much care for dawn ridin’, but we’ll get by."
His lips twitched into a faint smirk. "I’m packed an’ ready—just don’t expect me to be all bright-eyed ‘til that sun’s a little higher."
Pick looks over their group and checks the saddlebags that came with his own mount one more time. Comfortable in the wild he may be, but all the same he eyes his own horse with a certain... wariness. He would prefer to go on his own feet. But even with a bit of magic to bolster his step, that would still be slower than the rest of the group, if they are mounted. So horse it is.
Still, whatever his feelings on horses, he will still take care that the animal's harness and straps are well situated and not likely to cause the beast any blisters or discomfort before somewhat awkwardly clambering aboard, the opposite of the grace displayed by some of the others.
Sunrise's arrival momentarily draws his eye, and the dwarf openly admires the majestic beast, his expression softer than it usually is.
"Good horse," he says succinctly to Joreld after a few moments' gaze on the likely-blessed creature. The paladin's words make Pick look a bit awkward and, after a few seconds, shrug.
"I am not captain either," he says. But he does know the Dale, that much is true.
Not entirely sure if he and the horse are entirely of the same accord, Pick gathers the reins in hand and gives them a little flick to set the beast going. The sound of five sets of hooves lightly clopping marks their official departure from Dagger Falls... and the start of the journey to come.
From Cariamma, Ialia learns her horse is named Fennelseed, apparently an import from an ill-fated wagon train from the south of Sembia. Perhaps it is fate, then.
She rides sidesaddle in one of her less resplendent outfits more suited to the dusty trail and whatever weather may come. Her hair is braided and then turned in a very large and loose knot between her shoulder blades so that as little as possible of her white silken mane contacts the mount. Basil hides in a bag attached to the saddle, wanting little to do with this morning sun.
She settles in somewhere near the middle of the order and allows the horse to follow with a very light touch on the reins. Free to observe the countryside, she keeps an eye out for trouble as they ride.
"Mornin’, Joreld," Calen replied, his drawl a little rougher than usual as he tipped his hat. "Glad to hear the Morninglord’s lookin’ out for us." He stretched, his eyes lingering on the paladin’s horse for a moment. "Looks like even your horse’s a mornin’ person."
He scratched his chin, shooting a glance at the sky before muttering, "Reckon the Moonmaiden don’t much care for dawn ridin’, but we’ll get by."
His lips twitched into a faint smirk. "I’m packed an’ ready—just don’t expect me to be all bright-eyed ‘til that sun’s a little higher."
The lathanderite couldn't help but feel sympathetic for the night-based inquisitor. "Mornin' Calen. Lathander will help protect us during the day, while Lady Selune will guard us as she rises over the horizon in the evening. Deal?"
The morning is chill and lightly misted, and dew lies heavy on the grass. Seemingly neither Lathander nor Selûne have taken responsibility for the day's weather but by mid morning the sun has pierced the clouds and the day feels fresh - a good day for new beginnings. As you ride south down the Tethyamar Trail, there's not much traffic on the road. It may be the main route through Daggerdale but it's not one of the Dalelands' main arteries. Based on the detailed map you looked at, the route will take you past a handful of villages and judging from the speed of your horses, you'll probably end the day somewhere in the vicinity of Green Orb - a place you were explicitly asked to avoid.
Joreld rides alongside Ialia and Fennelseed. "So? Feeling better?"
During the journey, Lord Joreld asks to examine the map.
"By my reasoning, we should likely stop short of the Green Orb. But I am for exploring it if it shows any sign of Glanwyn's trace.
We will find the missing hunter, no matter how dark the path!"
Ialia looks at Joreld and admires the cut of his jaw. "I am now." Basil makes an audible hiss from the saddlebag, the sound an intelligent bat would make if it were groaning while rolling its eyes.
The white witch is wearing a gray leather riding skirt with an inner wool lining and a matching jacket. When the sun shines brightly she dons a wide-brimmed hat to shield her sensitive flesh.
With her own natural darkvision and with Basil, Ialia would almost prefer to travel at night, but given the unknown dangers of the Dalelands she is thankful for the abilities of her companions.
Sharing the map with Joreld and whomever else wishes to use it, she responds, "I am of the same mind. We will waste valuable days if we leave the stone unturned and later have to retrace our path."