Though swaying gently, relaxed and seeming quite comfortable in the saddle, the Bedine’s eyes never stop roving the land for dangers or curiosities.
When the warrior and witch review the map, Samara mutters something in Midani before switching to Common. ”Woods and hills, here side of Orbs. Easy hide.” She defers to the druid, ”Good spot stop?”
Riding next to Joreld, who sat tall and confident in his saddle, Calen smirked. "Reckon this is more your kinda weather, huh? Sun breakin' through, all bright an' hopeful." He gave a slight nod toward the sky. "Not bad, I’ll admit. Though if I had it my way, we’d be doin’ this under a full moon. Got a different feel to it, y’know?"
As they pressed on, he kept his gaze forward. "Just make sure we steer clear of Green Orb, Joreld. Don’t need to be stirrin’ up more trouble than we came for."
To Calen, Ialia ventures, "Joreld and I could enter the Green Orb under the guise of a wealthy couple on holiday. We have traveled northwest on our own from Ashabenford, having foolishly fallen prey to an unscrupulous guide promising a tour or ancient castles in safe and easy lands. We have plenty of coin and are in need of allies... That sort of thing. No one would be the wiser, and we would fit in with an upscale community. The rest of this party could play around the edges of town, making stealthy incursions overnight. We're nearly there now, is all I'm suggesting."
Pick rides in near-total silence, watchful of the area around them and finding his companions to be more talkative than is his pleasure.
At the suggestion they stop to investigate Green Orb, he turns in his saddle to give both Ialia and Joreld the blankest of stares.
"We know he went past there," the dwarf says somewhat flatly.
....We do know he definitely came out of Spiderhaunt and crossed the Ashaba heading north..... He was then going to loop back up, broadly in the shadow of the Desertmouth Mountains and ultimately into the Border Forest... ....We know he took the Tethyamar Trail down south and stopped through the three villages here.... The other place I would ask you to avoid is Green Orb. Glanwyn passed by going down the Trail anyway....
"Cariamma," the dwarf says, slowly, feeling frustrated to try to speak with so many words but also frustrated at the apparent confusion here, "knows he did not go in Green Orb. Told us that. Asked us also not to go."
The dwarf makes a clicking noise in his throat at his horse, urging it to speed up. "You two like to waste your time-- and the time of Glan, if he lives still-- doing things told NOT to, in a place he did NOT go? Good. You two go. I keep with plan."
The Bedine's question is a welcome distraction. Pick grunts once, thinking of the geography in question.
Enthusiastically, Samara nods in agreement with Pick’s recitation of the facts and his conclusion. He had spared her the mind-cramping effort of forming a similar response in Common. It takes a moment for her to recall a colorful idiom that is her additional two copper coins on the matter, ”Don’t be kick the hornet house.”
She stops speaking abruptly, before she airs her other suspicion as to why the moon-eyed couple are likely looking for an excuse to stop in the village for the night.
"We know he went past there," the dwarf says somewhat flatly.
Ialia listens patiently to Pick, then responds calmly when he has made his ultimatum.
"Good druid, perhaps you have the power to speak with the very earth, but short of that we don't know anything of the sort. You may believe what Cariamma and Tunfer assume to be true. But have it your way, as you are our guide and I'd prefer not to get lost. It was merely a suggestion and I offered it with no strong feeling on the matter. Lead on."
To Samara she replies,
Ialia listens patiently to Pick, then responds calmly when he has made his ultimatum.
"Good druid, perhaps you have the power to speak with the very earth, but short of that we don't know anything of the sort. You may believe what Cariamma and Tunfer assume to be true. But have it your way, as you are our guide and I'd prefer not to get lost. It was merely a suggestion and I offered it with no strong feeling on the matter. Lead on."
Pick sighs. He says, with a forced carefulness to his words to try to be clear, "Glanwyn and Cariamma talk. She says, every other day, usually, they talk. She knows he went to villages because he told her when they talk. Talked. So... either she was tricked in the talking, or she... lied to us, but is not.... is not... an assuming for her."
If they are going to start to question every shred of intel they were given, there is no point in even bothering for an organized search, since Glan could then be anywhere-- Pick might add on, if his Common were up to it. But his words in the last minute comprise more consecutive talking than he sometimes does in a week. The dwarf falls silent again, returning his thoughts to the terrain near Green Orb.
Ialia retained her composure. She had been a spy for two years, and she understood that people have a natural tendency to think they have more information than they actually do. She had heard the same words he had, and found them lacking in certain details. For example, they did not know why Glanwyn chose this route so near Green Orb; being a place he knew to avoid there must have been a good reason for him to go this way. Whether or not the missing information was important could not be known without investigation. She would not hold anything against Pick, who clearly did not want to consider whether there might be any reason to go into Green Orb, deferring to Cariamma's wishes.
Ialia nods to the dwarf and hums. Cariamma was the employer, afterall, and there was certainly wisdom in obeying her.
She again responds calmly, but this time in a different tongue.
"Pick, I was only speaking IF we found evidence of Gladwyn's movement through The Green Orb", Joreld explains.
"If none is present, we continue the search elsewhere."
Samara’s reply is succinct, ”मेरा मतलब गांव से था। अभी तक Pick ने खुद को सैंडवैप्स का घोंसला नहीं दिखाया है।” After Joreld speaks, she appends with a shake of her head, ”इस योजना में कमज़ोरियाँ हैं और इसके लाभ भी संदिग्ध हैं। सबसे ज़्यादा संभावना यही है कि इसका नतीजा यह होगा कि गुस्साए ततैया और Glan की कोई खबर नहीं मिलेगी।”
The sorceress debates saying more. She steps closer to Ialia, shutting out the men from the conversation, ”मैं किसी पर कोई राय नहीं बना रहा हूँ। अगर आपको नरम बिस्तर और कठोर आदमी चाहिए - तो ठीक है। आप जिस तरह चाहें, उससे बिस्तर पर जाएँ... लेकिन ग्रीन ऑर्ब में नहीं। इसके लिए कोई दूसरा गाँव ढूँढ़ें।”
Ialia shoots Samara a look that basically says, f#&~ off.
She spurs Fennelseed and trots ahead.
Joreld does his best to keep his eyes forward on the road ahead, regardless of the heated discussion between the two exotic ladies.
Samara takes the dagger-laden look and cool response placidly and then watches the other woman ride off. She considers the matter a moment longer before turning to Pick and Calen and offering a shrug. ”Is solved.”
"Lady Samara, is their a relgious reason you choose to cover your face, or is it a cultural one?" The lathanderite asked. "Just curious."
Calen could see both sides—Joreld and Ialia's thirst for clues about Glan made sense, but Pick was right. Stirring up trouble in that place could be a fool’s errand.
With the others deep in their squabble, Calen finally spoke up, his voice calm, deliberate, drawl heavy with patience.
"Y’all bickerin' like this ain't gonna get us nowhere," he started, raising a hand to keep both Samara and Ialia from interrupting him. "Pick's right 'bout Green Orb. Ain't the place we wanna poke around in without damn good reason. But…" He glanced between the group, eyes narrowing slightly.
Calen shifted in his saddle, keeping his voice neutral, playing the role of mediator. "I ain't here to take sides, but let's weigh it proper. We came out here to find Glan, not to stir up a hornet's nest just 'cause we’re curious. We go in, we need to be sure it’s worth the risk. So how ‘bout we take a breath, think it through?"
...words in Sylvan...
Pick keeps his gaze focused on the trail ahead, not responding to being addressed in the tongue of faeries.
The red-armored paladin's words just make him grunt wearily and lift his shoulders in a shrug.
"I am not captain. You wish to go Green Orb to search? Go."
The dwarf snorts softly under his breath at the Bedine woman's apparent amusement.
He has thought of a campsite location now, and ponders the details of setting up for the night with so large a group (well, large by his lights). Water for the horses, plenty of wood for fire...
If Samara was trying to wind her up, it worked. She could easily set aside Pick's telling vs asking approach, but to be, what? Shamed? Not in this life.
Having only a modest knowledge of animal husbandry, Ialia attempts to take stock of Fennelseed's condition. How has the horse fared over the long day's excursion under the sun?
She's a poor judge of such things. Having dispensed with any plan to investigate Green Orb, Ialia may have counseled to ride into the night and put as many miles between themselves and the forbidden city as possible, but she won't risk the health of her horse. She defers to the others.
"The day grows long. Where do you propose we camp, Calen?"
"Lady Samara, is their a relgious reason you choose to cover your face, or is it a cultural one?" The lathanderite asked. "Just curious."
The Bedine takes no offence at the question. She’d also heard it enough in the past year, she had a somewhat practiced response. ”Jus’ ‘Samara’. Not sheik. Is culture and pragtical. Sand, dust, and hot sun in Anauroch. Bad to nose, mouth, eyes, and skin. Culture part… about modest. Only people to see face – family, women friends, mebbe very very close men friends, children, and husband… or lover.” She tacked on ‘lover’ because it was the follow-on question she’d received a half dozen times.
”Is very crime to take away woman’s face covering. Woman’s family have duty to kill man who does. Very deep in culture. Here… you strip a woman, her hands go like this, right?” Samara throws an arm across her chest and covers her groin with her other hand. ”Strip Bedine girl and we do this…” She again throws an arm across her chest. But her other hand clamps over her mouth and nose, leaving her groin presumably exposed. ”Unnerstand? Face is intimate.”
She returns her hands to the reins. ”Sometimes, men here joke about pull keffiyeh or veil. Very funny, they think. If do, they burn… like wyverns. No joke for Bedine.”
The Cormyrean lord nods. "Indeed. Thank you for that explanation. Is Miss Samara acceptable?"
Samara doesn’t grasp the importance of titles to Joreld, but it seemed a small thing. ”Is… true. Not married. OK, Miss is good.”
She rides along for a little while before addressing the paladin again. ”If look for Glan in Green Orb is important… I have way, mebbe work. Verra quick, small risk.”
Calen gave Ialia a nod, glancing toward the distant hills to the east of Green Orb. He had been thinking about their next move and wasn't keen on camping anywhere near the town. The tension was still hanging in the air from their earlier debate, but now it was time to focus on practical matters.
"Reckon we should make camp out east, near them hills," he said, tipping his hat up slightly and pointing with his chin in that direction. "That'll give Green Orb a wide enough berth, keep us clear of any unwanted attention. Ain't no need to be settin' up camp right on their doorstep."
He leaned forward in his saddle, giving a thoughtful pause. "From there, we can head out toward Serpent's Bridge at first light. The hills’ll give us some cover and keep the road in sight without bein' too close to the town. We’ll have some distance if we need it.”
Calen looked around at the group, his tone calm but firm. “Ain’t no sense in pushin' our luck with Green Orb. If we run into trouble, best it be on our terms, not theirs."
Samara doesn’t grasp the importance of titles to Joreld, but it seemed a small thing. ”Is… true. Not married. OK, Miss is good.”
Joreld nods again. "I assure you, should your personal liberty and modest be threatened, I would quickly step in and end that risk.
Fatally, if I must."Calen looked around at the group, his tone calm but firm. “Ain’t no sense in pushin' our luck with Green Orb. If we run into trouble, best it be on our terms, not theirs."
"I am in complete agreement with my selunite counterpart", Joreld spoke airly. "But we haven't currently come across any hints of Gladwyn's passage yet, have we?"
Calen looked around at the group, his tone calm but firm. “Ain’t no sense in pushin' our luck with Green Orb. If we run into trouble, best it be on our terms, not theirs.""I am in complete agreement with my selunite counterpart", Joreld spoke airly. "But we haven't currently come across any hints of Gladwyn's passage yet, have we?"
Pick gestures around them at the relatively hard-packed earth of the Tethyamar Trail, what can safely be called the closest thing to a major road in the entire Dale.
"Tracks don't show easy on road," he says drily. "Especially after ten, twelve, fourteen days. And other travelers come after, cover over tracks. Not looking for his tracks here. Right now, only travel. To place we know he was go. Going."
If the day passes uneventfully, the time spent on the road getting to know each other at least keeps things interesting. Deciding to err on the side of caution - and instruction - you take Calen’s advice to find a place well clear of Green Orb and Pick locates an ideal spot to make camp. It’s away from the road, defensible and protected from the elements.
As night draws in there is a quiet to the land and a few scattered pinpricks of light from distant farmhouses are all that puncture the darkness. Overhead it is clear and whorls of stars lie scattered across the sky while Selûne hangs brightly above you. It’s a far cry from Suzail or Selgaunt but this is a true slice of the Dalelands.
Setting a watch is always prudent when travelling but the hours of darkness bring nothing that stirs beyond nocturnal fauna and the land remains at peace.
The next morning is bright but cold at first light and after your lengthy discussions yesterday on the best route to take, after breaking fast you are ready to mount up once more.
As night draws in there is a quiet to the land and a few scattered pinpricks of light from distant farmhouses are all that puncture the darkness. Overhead it is clear and whorls of stars lie scattered across the sky while Selûne hangs brightly above you. It’s a far cry from Suzail or Selgaunt but this is a true slice of the Dalelands.
As the lathanderite removes his armor, and begins to make his rollbed, Joreld stands close to Calen, as he too, looks up at Selune hanging above. The paladin had some sense of selunite prayer and didn't want to intrude on any sacred time.
As it was said: Lathander to protect us during the day, and Selune to protect as as we sleep. The holy warrior smiled to himself.Setting a watch is always prudent when traveling but the hours of darkness bring nothing that stirs beyond nocturnal fauna and the land remains at peace.
Joredl volunteered for First Watch, wishing everyone a good sleep.
The next morning is bright but cold at first light and after your lengthy discussions yesterday on the best route to take, after breaking fast you are ready to mount up once more.
Before the first ray began to glimmer on the horizon, Lord Joreld Huntsilver was awake dressed and ready to say his morning prayers. The Lathanderite greeting the first rays of sun with high spirits and hope in his heart.
Once his daily devotion was said, the fully-armored red warrior joined the others, gnawing on a trail ration.
Once camp is made and the evening meal done, Samara weaves a spell to make the talisman around her neck glow with a faint light. She pulls a modest set of books from her saddlebag and settles in – using her saddle as a backrest – to read for the evening. Talking, it seems, is not her usual practice.
With the efficiency of long practice, the Bedine quickly cleans and repacks her gear, saddles and feeds her horse, and is ready to break camp shortly after sunrise.
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
Once camp has been made, Pick sits down with a grunt before the light fire. He pats the various crude pockets of his garb as if seeking something before reluctantly looking around to the others... and spotting that the veiled woman has a book. Ah! Useful.
Moving nearer to her, he adopts his customary posture of sitting on his haunches until she deigns to glance at him. Pick nods with his chin towards the volume she holds.
"You have paper. Need a bit... this big," he says, indicating a few inches square with his fingers. "Blank. You have?"
****
Pick takes the darkest watch of the night, with his eyes so well suited for pitch blackness. He finds it the best part of his day: there is no conversation, only the sounds of nature, the brilliant starts above, the soft, intermittent whickering of the horses... during his watch, he takes the chance to admire Sunrise more closely, albeit from a careful distance of respect. A pity he has no apples with him.
Horses are, to an extent, more civilized creatures than Pick really cares for-- he is drawn to the wild animals more than the tame sorts. But still, Sunrise is a magnificent animal.
He pays some attention to the other horses too, checking their riders cared for each of them appropriately and rubbed them down. Then he resumes his peaceful watch by the low fire, occasionally feeding another twig to the flames.
****
In the morning, the dwarf rolls his neck side to side, stamps his feet, and saddles his horse. With luck and if the road is good, they might reach Dagger Springs by nightfall. But once off the Tethyamar Trail, the roads are less maintained, he knows.
”You have paper. Need a bit... this big,” he says, indicating a few inches square with his fingers. "Blank. You have?"
Her eyes smile as Pick gets her attention. She greets him as if they haven’t been traveling all day together. ”Hullo, Pick.”
At his request, Samara’s exposed brow and the crow’s feet by her eyes form a frown. She guesses at his need. ”To fire?” She puts aside the two smaller volumes and runs a hand over the largest and most weather-beaten book. The pages are yellowed with age. She opens it hesitantly and flips to the end looking for likely blank pages. She finds there are a couple of extra.
Hesitant to rip even a blank page from a book, an idea strikes her. She casts a simple spell… and conjures a wad of paper in her palm. It is too coarse for writing upon and a quill nib would likely tear through it, but it might suffice to start a fire. ”This work? Have flint, if need. Have real page, too.”
"Hnnnh."
The dwarf inspects the piece of magic-created paper with a certain skepticism, then shakes his head.
"Not for fire. Message."
”Not for fire. Message.”
”Oh.” She says, slightly crestfallen. ”OK.” The sorceress pulls her curvy dagger and carefully slices the sheet of paper from the book then cuts it into a series of smaller squares. She hands the small stack to the dwarf and sheathes her blade. "More, for next days."
The cormyrean lord watch the exchange between the bedine and the dwarf will mild amusement as he continues to work on his ration.
Calen crouched down, carving a small divot in the earth before cupping his hands and whispering the words to summon fresh, clean water. With a practiced ease, he rinsed the grime of the day’s travel from his hands and splashed his face, the coolness grounding him.
Nearby, Lunaris watched, her large amber eyes gleaming in the fading twilight. Calen reached out, resting a hand on her feathered head. “Night’s comin’ on, girl,” he murmured. “Time for you to have the edge.” With a soft invocation to Selûne, he shifted Lunaris’ focus from the strength of the Tiger to the keen senses of the Bat. Her pupils dilated, taking in the evening’s shadows as if they were bright as day.
Standing up, Calen cast a glance around their darkening camp, satisfied. "Best keep ourselves sharp tonight," he said quietly to the group. “No tellin’ who or what might wander by.”
”Oh.” She says, slightly crestfallen. ”OK.” The sorceress pulls her curvy dagger and carefully slices the sheet of paper from the book then cuts it into a series of smaller squares. She hands the small stack to the dwarf and sheathes her blade. "More, for next days."
The dwarf takes the paper squares with another grunt, and returns to his place before the fire. A twig that is smoldering on the edges of the flames is withdrawn, blown out to be sure there's no fire, and then the charred end serves as a simple writing implement.
It is clear that Pick is no skilled scribe. His handwriting, in the Common tongue, is crude, blocky, childish even, and the simple message takes him several minutes:
FIRST NIGHT CAMP BEFORE GREEN ORB
TOMORROW GO WEST
PICK.
The message is rolled up snugly and tied with a bit of string when done; CARIAMMA written on the outside of it. The remaining squares of paper are tucked carefully away on his person., then Pick stands and moves to the edges of their little camp. A handful of dried berries and roasted seeds should suffice-- along with a little magic-- to coax a bird nearer.
The dwarf brushes charcoal off his hands when his task is complete. As an afterthought, he gives Samara a small nod which he intends as a wordless oh, right, thank you.
*******
(In the morning)
Pick does look at the fire thoughtfully as they break camp and cover the last coals with earth. Maybe tomorrow he will make coffee.
Ialia is quiet at camp. She tends to Fennelseed and assembles her tent. Basil is similarly quiet. The poor bat spent a full day inside a saddle bag with only a few opportunities to stretch its wings in the oppressive sunlight. Ialia suspects the road has worn on them equally. It wasn't just the present day but the weeks of travel to Dagger Falls and the cumulative toll. The world had a weight to it that was pulling on her, and Basil felt it to.
Take the night, friend. The fire will remain lit whenever you feel it wise to return, Ialia says in their secret tongue.
She watches nonplussed the interaction between Pick and Samara. And although her attraction to Joreld is genuine, she can't help feel a different sort of kinship with Calen that more acutely involves the night. That she is herself half hag and can see perfectly in complete darkness is not information she shares easily, and so she does not stray too far from the fire during her watch, and the night is uneventful anyway.
She considers for too long a time whether an apology to Pick is warranted; he was hard-headed about Green Orb but he also wasn't wrong, but she decides to just let it go and start fresh with her companions in the morning.
In the morning as they ready to hit the trail she sets her ioun stone into the wayfinder.
As you head west, skirting Green Orb, from atop a nearby hill you can spy the village to the south. A small walled community surrounded by farms, it looks like much like many similar places that Dalesfolk would call home. Larger farms stretch away from the ringed buildings that make up the village's heart, as do a handful of orchards.
The westward trail follows the Dagger River and is clear, if not well used, and largely flat due to following the path of the water. To the north the land undulates and the hills roll. As the morning wears on, a westerly wind blows a scattering of clouds down from the Desertmouth Mountains that begin to dot the previously clear sky. Eventually, by mid-afternoon, there is considerably more cloud than sun.
As the sun begins to dip, signalling the end of labour, the land begins to rise towards the mountains that you have been consistently moving towards, you can see your destination come into view. Passing outlying farms, heads turn in the fields as you go, but nobody challenges you. Neither does anybody bid you welcome as you make your way into Dagger Springs itself. The village is made up of a dozen or so buildings. The majority appear to be simple homes, older buildings that have repairs which are obviously more recent, though there is also one with an open smithy, a large high-roofed barn, and a house with a new extension and a sign hanging outside proclaiming it to be the "Hope Springs".
Joreld looks over the map, pleased the group has been able to make good distance over the last two days. Chaffin from riding has been kept to a minumum, and everyone was communicative, yet respectful. All and all, a good experience!
The paladin chortles, pointing to the large sign. "'Hope Springs'!" Lord Huntsilver laughed. "If there was ever a finer sign of The Morninglord's favor, I haven't seen it! Or! It's a highly-specialized trap just for Lathanderites! What say you? Should we investigate?"
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Ialia rides up abreast of Joreld and inspects the sign for herself. Basil takes the opportunity of the darkening sky to escape the saddle bag and stretch its wings.
"I thought we were were going to Dagger Springs," hisses the bat.
"This is it," Ialia replies.
"What does that say?"
Ialia reads the sign to Basil in their unique language.
"Are they trying to be ironic?" Basil responds.
"I don't think so, Basil."
The bat flies up and does a quick circle, then returns. "They are definitely going for irony."
"Have I ever told you what a cynical view of the world you have?"
"You're speaking to a bat, witch. I've been stuffed in a sack for two days."
"Then off with you!"
Basil makes the bat-equivalent noise of a harrumph and flies away.
Samara swivels her head to take in the small village, looking for the stables. The high barn seems likely. She leads her mount in that direction with a slight tug on the reins. ”I go see find if that horse house.”
Calen chuckled as he dismounted, adjusting his pack and giving Lunaris a quick scratch along her feathered neck. "Hope Springs," he drawled, raising an eyebrow at Joreld. "Could be just as likely a trap for wayward folk lookin’ for a break." He gave the paladin a sly grin. “But, well, you’re the expert on signs from above, so lead on.”
Turning his attention to Samara, he nodded. "Good thinkin', Samara. Get our mounts sorted, and I’ll see what’s open in town for the night. Might be a place with a quiet corner we can stake out."
He sends Lunaris off to circle above the town, flying around to get a decent lay of the land. Trusting she'll come back if there's any danger.
The paladin follows the sorcerer up to the barn.
Samara and Joreld make their way to the barn, though unfortunately for your purposes it does not turn out to be a stable. Instead, peering through the door you can see that it is filled with grain and animal feed, separated on shelves that are raised high up into the roofbeams.
"Can I help you?" a voice asks. A broad-shouldered balding man, with a broken nose and a greying beard worn short approaches. The protective leathers he wears and the hammer hung at his waist indicates that he is the village's smith. "Well met, anyway. What brings a hand of such distinctively attired folk to Dagger Springs?"
* * * * *
Meanwhile, Calen makes for the building adorned with the sign and pushes the door - already ajar - so that it swings open. Sticking his head inside he is greeted by a small open room that he realises is a basic tavern. There isn't a bar as such, more a large table with a pair of large kegs beneath, along with a pair of tables and a few stools. The place is empty, though from beyond one of the internal doors he can hear a masculine voice calling, "Alright, alright. Must've been a hard day if you need a tipple already."
The door opens and the speaker comes through. He is a youngish man, tall and whip-thin, with the stoop of a much older man. Taking in Calen, his eyebrows rise in surprise but he nevertheless greets you with a smile, "Hail and well met, stranger. I'm Garrick. What can I do for you? A couple of of tankards of Nettle's Best and I'm sure we'll be strangers no longer."
Samara and Joreld make their way to the barn, though unfortunately for your purposes it does not turn out to be a stable. Instead, peering through the door you can see that it is filled with grain and animal feed, separated on shelves that are raised high up into the roofbeams.
"Can I help you?" a voice asks. A broad-shouldered balding man, with a broken nose and a greying beard worn short approaches. The protective leathers he wears and the hammer hung at his waist indicates that he is the village's smith. "Well met, anyway. What brings a hand of such distinctively attired folk to Dagger Springs?"
"Please beg pardon, good sir. This young lady and I are part of a search party from Dagger Falls, and we thought this was a place to shelter our animals for the night", the red warrior nodded.
Normally, Pick would take it on himself to see to the animals, but the Veiled Woman and Red Armor are already doing so. The owl's human goes off to the other building of note, leaving him and White Hair alone a moment in what passes as the village square.
There is what might pass as an awkward silence for a few seconds, Pick stretching his legs a little after the long day in the saddle, watching White Hair from the corner of his eye until he speaks, in his usual blunt way.
"Yesterday. You talk to me in other language. Not common human tongue. Why?"
In greeting, Samara lays a hand upon her heart. ”Good eve, sayyid. Is there horse house in village?”
Calen returned the young man’s smile with a polite nod. "Hail yourself, Garrick. Reckon I wouldn't say no to a mug—somethin' easy after a long ride," he said, stepping inside and letting the door close gently behind him.
"Nettle’s Best, you say? Sounds about as local as it gets," he added with a slight smirk, glancing around at the humble setup. This wasn't the bustling type of tavern he was used to in the larger Dales, but there was a charm to it, all the same.
“Me and my crew just rode in from the north,” he continued, settling onto a stool. “Place name threw us for a bit. Got any story behind it—or was it just in need of some fresh paint?"
"Yesterday. You talk to me in other language. Not common human tongue. Why?"
Ialia hopped down from her horse. She was tempted to take to the sky and do a little surveillance of her own, but it was then that Pick, who had stayed behind with her, asked a question.
Ialia replies in Dwarven, mostly to see if Pick's speech is any easier or if he merely has a disdain for conversation. Or people. "I expected it is a tongue only you would know," she started, "And what I said I wanted to say discretely. We may be a group of five, but it's sometimes preferable to speak privately."
She thinks to add, "My grandmother taught me to speak it, and many others. A defense of a sort."
Ialia unties her hair and allows it to spill nearly to the ground. Combing it quickly with her hands, she gently gives it a twist and then loops it across her shoulders around her neck like a scarf against the chill of the evening.
"The sea can bring a cold shock of wind in winter and it wails for days against the stonework. But this valley is different; the way the air cools and settles like it has nowhere to go." She's not speaking directly to Pick, more just musing for the long quiet day on the trail.
She returns her attention to the dwarf. "You're from this part of the realm, aren't you?"
Ialia replies in Dwarven, mostly to see if Pick's speech is any easier or if he merely has a disdain for conversation. Or people. "I expected it is a tongue only you would know," she started, "And what I said I wanted to say discretely. We may be a group of five, but it's sometimes preferable to speak privately."
She thinks to add, "My grandmother taught me to speak it, and many others. A defense of a sort."
Ialia unties her hair and allows it to spill nearly to the ground. Combing it quickly with her hands, she gently gives it a twist and then loops it across her shoulders around her neck like a scarf against the chill of the evening.
"The sea can bring a cold shock of wind in winter and it wails for days against the stonework. But this valley is different; the way the air cools and settles like it has nowhere to go." She's not speaking directly to Pick, more just musing for the long quiet day on the trail.
She returns her attention to the dwarf. "You're from this part of the realm, aren't you?"
Pick watches the woman talk, and adjust her long, stark white hair. Dellabrynna's had been red-gold, and not as long, but something about the way she handles it makes him think of the huldra all the same.
He does not answer immediately, seeming to mull over his words, but when he does speak, it is in Dwarven.
"I do not know why you would think I know the speech of fairies. Dwarves are not... creatures of whimsy. But if you wish to speak in the tongue of my own people, it is well enough. I have not met many humans who speak it. It takes too long for them to learn it. Dead by the time they master grammar."
His speech is certainly more articulate in Dwarven, though still slow and careful, as if each word was coaxed slowly from stones-- he is not a natural conversationalist in any tongue.
A single nod at Ialia's last question. "My people have been here long, as humans count years. Before Randall Morn. Or his father, or father's father."
Pick cranes his head back to look at the darkening sky overhead, night coming on swiftly and, yes, chill enough, for those who are not used to spending every night out of doors.
"I have not seen the sea. Only heard stories."
Ialia smiles and continues in Dwarven. "Why might I think you know the language of the fey? I didn't, of course. But you have chosen to paint your body in vines and leaf, you speak to owls, you pack nothing despite the journey, and for a dwarf you are quite tall. Add to that you fight with claws like a mountain lion and your intimate care for our animals is evident. Call it a hunch. And if I was wrong then you would have hardly known it, but you do."
Ialia adds, "The better question is how each of us learned to speak Sylvan, or in my case, how my grandmother learned it, but these can be stories for another time. Shall we go find our companions?"
The witch gives Fennelseed a good scratch behind the ears and leads it ahead.
Pick knits his brows as Ialia lays out her observations, glancing down despite himself at the symbols on his bared arms, and he curls his fingers into his palms self-consciously to hide his formidable nails.
His answer, after a delay, is another grunt-- seemingly an assent to the question of looking for their companions.
Owl's Human went into the one building, Red Armor and Veil Woman into the other. He glances between the two then heads for the hopefully-a-stable, since, as Ialia has pointed out, he does care for the animals. He leads his own horse along with the occasional click of his tongue.