The village of Rosehaven feels like a quiet breath between worlds — a pocket of peace resting along the banks of the Sellen River. The scent of tilled earth and ripened grain lingers in the cool afternoon air, mingling with the faint sweetness of crushed wildflowers and woodsmoke from distant chimneys.
The main path winds gently uphill from the dock toward the heart of the settlement, passing between low stone walls and tidy gardens bursting with late-autumn color. Chickens cluck lazily in their coops, and a farmer waves absently as you pass, his hands stained from gathering beets and barley.
At the center of the hamlet lies a broad village square, open and sunlit. A weathered well stands at its heart, surrounded by wooden benches and piles of hay bales already set aside for the coming Mercylight Festival. Pumpkins of all shapes and sizes are stacked nearby, some already carved into cheerful or eerie faces. Children dart among them, their laughter ringing through the air like birdsong.
To one side of the square rises the Temple of Shelyn, its wooden walls adorned with bright paintings and carved reliefs — some masterful, others endearingly amateur. Every spare inch of its exterior bears some sign of devotion: blossoms arranged along the steps, ribbons fluttering from the eaves, and murals that blend reverence with whimsy.
Across the way stands the Council Hall, a simple timber structure serving as both meeting place and storage for the village’s records and emergency supplies. Beside it sits the gardening shed, its doors open to reveal neatly hung tools and the scent of soil and cut wood.
You pass by the Flower Garden, where an old stone foundation peeks through the blossoms — the remnants of a tower long ago reclaimed by nature. Nearby, a communal herb garden perfumes the air with rosemary, thyme, and wild mint, tended by villagers who wave politely as they work.
Down the lane, you glimpse the Silver Flute Inn, its sign swinging gently in the breeze — a carved flute painted silver and wreathed in curling vines. Faint strains of laughter and the muffled notes of a lute drift through its windows, promising warmth and music inside.
Beyond the cluster of homes and shops, you can see the patchwork of farms stretching outward — fields of barley, potatoes, and gourds glowing orange and gold in the late sunlight. Somewhere beyond the horizon, the forests of Galt whisper in the wind.
For now, though, Rosehaven seems a picture of serenity — humble, welcoming, and utterly alive with the quiet rhythm of those who’ve worked hard to keep it that way.
And the festival, you are told, is to begin in about an hour.
Mizzie will spend some time asking around about the festival specifically, what it celebrates and why there's a ritual of forgiveness at the end.
[dice=Diplomacy (Gather Information)]1d20+8
The villager chuckles softly, setting down a basket of gourds as if grateful for a moment’s pause. “Ah, the Mercylight Festival, you mean? Well, that’s our way of marking the year’s end. It’s not much compared to the grand feasts you city folk probably have, but it means the world to us.”
He glances toward the center of the village, where children weave ribbons between posts and laughter drifts over the square. “See, the harvest’s done, the fields are resting, and soon the cold’ll creep in from the north. So before winter sets in, we celebrate what we have — food, friends, and the chance to start fresh.”
His smile softens, and he lowers his voice a little, as though sharing something more sacred. “As for the ritual of forgiveness… well, that’s the heart of it. Folks here, we’ve all lost something — families, homes, trust. Galt’s been through more blood and anger than any land ought to bear. So, on the festival’s last night, we light candles and gather by the river. We name what we regret, and we let it go into the water. It’s our way of keeping bitterness from taking root.”
He looks out toward the Sellen, its surface catching the afternoon light. “We can’t change what’s been done. But we can choose not to let it poison what comes next. That’s the meaning of Mercylight — mercy for others, and for ourselves.”
He gives a quiet, hopeful smile before picking up his basket again. “You should stay for it. Maybe you’ll see — forgiveness isn’t just for the forgiven.”
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Nuwa tries to capture what they learned.
“Well, dear colleagues. The people here obviously prepare for the Mercylight Festival, which seems to be their humble celebration of the harvest’s end. What I find interesting is that it is marked not by grandeur, but by gratitude. At its heart lies a ritual of forgiveness which the Venture Captain had mentioned, where villagers gather by the river, and then they release their regrets into the water, and let the past drift away maybe. It’s somehow their way of keeping old griefs from souring the future. We can definitely use this momentum to make our move!“
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Aurelia split apart from the group when everyone else did, looking to enjoy the festivities as of now. She will *also* try to gather information, she's more interested in details on Armeline specifically, and the Pathfinder society's reputation in town. If she could what Armeline thinks of the society in particular.
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Out of nowhere, without saying anything, Vrire is with the group again.
"Unless, of course, this festival is here to mask something nefarious going on in this town. There's something wrong with these people...they all...just go through the motions. It's like they lack a soul" She whispers, but she has a crazed look about her.
As you move through Rosehaven, you notice curious eyes following your group. Farmers pause at their work; children whisper behind their hands. The name “Pathfinder” carries little meaning here — just a title whispered by travelers and merchants who pass through once or twice a year. To these people, you’re simply strangers, well-armed and well-dressed, walking into a fragile peace they’ve fought hard to keep.
“That’s her, over there,” he murmurs. “Armeline. Best not sneak up on her, mind you — she’s had a rough few years.”
The woman he points out stands apart from the bustle of the festival preparations. Armeline is in her early thirties, her straw-colored hair tied back under a kerchief, her hands busy arranging ribbons and candles on a table that doesn’t quite hold her attention. Every so often, she glances toward you — not in open suspicion, but with the wary caution of someone who’s learned to measure strangers before speaking.
A faint breeze stirs the hem of her dress, carrying the scent of crushed herbs from the nearby garden. When your eyes meet, she quickly looks away, pretending to focus on her work, though it’s clear she’s aware of you — and perhaps curious, despite herself.
The sounds of the village carry on around her: laughter, hammering, the bleating of a goat somewhere down the lane. Yet, for a heartbeat, the world seems to narrow to the distance between you and the woman who clearly has more on her mind than festival decorations.
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Willow catches a bit of the first chatter as most of the group lingers in the square – it’s not a huge space, all things considered, for keen elvish ears – but if the festivities are going to kick off relatively shortly, that seems to make it all the more advisable to try to sort out lodgings before the folks at the inn get really busy, so she presses on ahead.
At the Silver Flute, she asks about rooms for half a dozen visitors (five ladies, one gentleman), and a place, more immediately, to park her halberd. Unless, she remarks drolly, in an attempt to break the ice, the village would prefer to see an exotic warrior strolling their gardens in full regalia, as it were.
She takes a look about the common room of the inn while waiting to hear what arrangements might be possible for where she and the other Pathfinders will be staying, keeping an ear open for any other visitors’ chatter, and making sure to express interest in anything they or the regulars might mention they’re looking forward to in an attempt to glean who the movers and shakers are in Rosehaven.
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As you move through Rosehaven, you notice curious eyes following your group. Farmers pause at their work; children whisper behind their hands. The name “Pathfinder” carries little meaning here — just a title whispered by travelers and merchants who pass through once or twice a year. To these people, you’re simply strangers, well-armed and well-dressed, walking into a fragile peace they’ve fought hard to keep.
** spoiler omitted **
The Silver Flute Inn hums with a gentle warmth — the low crackle of a hearth, the quiet murmur of conversation, and the comforting scent of spiced cider and roasted vegetables. The polished oak floor gleams faintly in the lanternlight, worn smooth by countless boots. Along one wall, a collection of old instruments hangs like trophies — a fiddle with a missing string, a dented horn, and, in pride of place above the mantle, a delicate silver flute displayed within a glass case.
Behind the counter stands a broad-shouldered woman in her middle years, her russet hair shot through with silver. She wipes her hands on a flour-dusted apron and looks up with a ready smile as Willow enters.
“Afternoon, traveler. The name's Ivy,” she says, her voice rich and friendly. “You’ve got the look of someone fresh off the river — and the posture of someone who’s been on her feet far too long. What can I do for you?”
When you mention rooms for six and a place to set your halberd, Ivy chuckles, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Oh, I think Rosehaven would sleep a little sounder if you left the weapon here instead of taking it for a stroll through the gardens.” She gestures to a sturdy wooden rack by the door, where a few farming tools and walking staves already rest. “You can set it there — safe as houses.”
As Ivy fetches the keys, you take in the inn’s common room. A few villagers sit scattered around wooden tables, chatting in low voices about the festival preparations — who’s carving which pumpkin, whether the weather will hold, and if the cider barrel will last the night. One older man is bragging, half-jokingly, that his gourd carving will “finally win the priest’s favor this year.”
Ivy returns, balancing a small ring of keys on one hand. “Three rooms, if'n you don't mind pairing up. You’re in luck. We’ve a few left open for festival travelers — all simple, but clean, and with good strong shutters for when the wind picks up. One gold piece for each room.” She slides the keys across the counter. “You’ll find fresh linens and water upstairs. The rooms face east — you’ll wake to the sunrise if you’re the sort who enjoys that sort of thing.”
She leans one elbow on the counter, glancing toward the flute on the mantle. “That there’s our namesake — belonged to a bard who passed through here many years ago. Left it behind as a gift to the town, said he wanted Rosehaven to always have music. Folk say it still plays sweetly when the wind’s right.”
A log pops in the fire, sending a swirl of sparks up the chimney. “You’ll find no shortage of kindness here, Miss,” Ivy adds, her tone softening. “Festival time brings out the best in everyone. And if you hear a tune or two tonight, well… consider it a welcome to Rosehaven.”
She smiles warmly, stepping aside so you can take in the inn’s cozy heart — the laughter, the flicker of firelight, and the quiet promise of rest after a long journey.
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“You should stay for it. Maybe you’ll see — forgiveness isn’t just for the forgiven.”
"Much appreciated, good soul," Mizzie comments as the man leaves them. "He seems nice," she says to Nuwa.
"Unless, of course, this festival is here to mask something nefarious going on in this town. There's something wrong with these people...they all...just go through the motions. It's like they lack a soul" She whispers, but she has a crazed look about her.
"Oh I don't know," she says at a normal volume, looking around. "The veil is at its thinnest at the end of the harvest, that's true enough. But I don't see anything wrong with these folk. Perhaps they're just ready to get the last preparations over and done with."
"I will be glad to get a room, though, and set all this gear down. We do look a trifle out-of-place."
Once reaching the tavern, Aurelia will pay for one of the rooms, she doesn't particularly mind who else is in there. She doesn't surrender her pistol, however, but will take care to properly conceal it so she doesn't alert the town.
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The Silver Flute Inn hums with a gentle warmth — the low crackle of a hearth, the quiet murmur of conversation, and the comforting scent of spiced cider and roasted vegetables. The polished oak floor gleams faintly in the lanternlight, worn smooth by countless boots. Along one wall, a collection of old instruments hangs like trophies — a fiddle with a missing string, a dented horn, and, in pride of place above the mantle, a delicate silver flute displayed within a glass case.
“That sounds lovely, thank you,” Willow says to the innkeeper’s explanation, finding a handful of coins for rooms for the duration of the festival.
“I’m afraid one of my colleagues would be better equipped than I to repay a tune in kind, but I’ll happily cheer on the bards,” she adds, along with, as she notices the wear on the other instruments on display, as well-loved as her battered textbook of introductory arcane theory, “I’m glad to see that that first flutist clearly inspired other travelers more musical than me. Is there a story to the fiddle and horn, too?”
After that, she leaves Ivy to what she’s sure must be a busy bit of getting the last things ready before the festival starts officially, and makes herself comfortable, introducing herself to the older man feeling good about his carved gourd’s chances while she waits for the others. She’s got enough of a green thumb to be swapping some tips for growing an ample vegetable canvas when she sees the other Pathfinders come in, and she acknowledges them with a flourish of the keys for their rooms.
“Here we are!” Willow says, handing keys round. “It seems like a friendly place. Maybe just a bit haunted, as to the eponymous flute, but not in a sinister way, to hear the landlady tell it.”
"True enough, maybe. I just can't shake the feeling that they're secretly watching in unison. Well it's...fine." She shakes her head. She feels like she's crazy.
"Alright. Let's get our rooms and then seek out Armeline. See what we're dealing with.
From the look on Vrire’s face, Willow worries that she may have tangled the thread of the inn’s warm local legend. Once everyone’s got their own sense of the place, she suggests, “Shall we watch the opening ceremonies? It sounds like the festival is dear to Rosehaven’s heart, and if we can’t find Armeline there, we can see about tracking her down?”
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Vrire nods at Willow in thanks as she pays the rooms -- she makes a note to pay it back with a drink later. She wanted to befriend the elf after the snafu days ago, after all.
"Yes, the ceremonies. Let's go watch them. She's sure to be there. I don't know what she looks like, though, so we'll have to keep an eye open." Without waiting for everyone, Vrire starts heading towards the festival, her hands twitchy as she looks around, staying vigilant for threats that are perhaps only in her mind.
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"I caught an eye onto Armeline earlier, probably best to wait till after the opening ceremony has concluded to track her down properly, seems she's helping out with setting the place up.
Aurelia nodded to Willow and Vrire.
"She's wary of strangers and newcomers alike, so keep that in mind once we're at the ceremony, let's try and keep shenanigans to a minimum, might spook her otherwise."
“I’m afraid one of my colleagues would be better equipped than I to repay a tune in kind, but I’ll happily cheer on the bards,” she adds, along with, as she notices the wear on the other instruments on display, as well-loved as her battered textbook of introductory arcane theory, “I’m glad to see that that first flutist clearly inspired other travelers more musical than me. Is there a story to the fiddle and horn, too?”
Ivy pauses, her expression softening. She glances toward the horn first, and her smile carries a touch of melancholy.
“That horn belonged to Merren Halden,” she says, her tone gentle. “He was our miller, lived just past the old oak by the river. Used to bring that horn to every gathering, no matter the occasion — weddings, harvests, even funerals. Said music made any day better, no matter how it started.”
She smiles faintly, her eyes distant with memory. “He wasn’t much good at playing, mind you — half the time he blew so hard it startled the hens clear across town. But everyone loved him for it. After he passed a few winters back, we hung his horn up there, dents and all. It felt wrong to tuck it away. Now it’s just… part of the place.”
Her gaze shifts to the fiddle, and she chuckles softly. “That one came from a traveler — called herself Lirra of Daggermark. Rolled in one spring, played for her supper, and filled this room with more life than it’s had before or since. When morning came, she was gone, left the fiddle behind like a whisper along with a bottle of plum wine. Some say she meant to return for it, but I think she left it so we’d remember her.”
Ivy wipes her hands on her apron and looks back at Willow with a small, wistful smile. “Every piece in this place has a story. Some folks leave behind gold, others a song. Me, I’ll take the song every time.”
The fire crackles softly, its light dancing over the horn’s tarnished brass and the fiddle’s worn wood. Together, they hum a quiet harmony of memory — echoes of the people who brought their warmth to Rosehaven, and never quite left.
“The festival’s about to start!” a farmer exclaims, springing to his feet. At once, the inn stirs with motion — chairs scrape back, laughter fills the air, and the townsfolk file eagerly out the door toward the sunlit square.
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Hearing the stories behind the various instruments lets Willow know how welcoming the Silver Flute is, and she tells the innkeeper so. She begs off from committing to a song yet for fear of rivaling the miller for enthusiasm and lack of training, she jokes, but if the locals are as friendly as all that throughout the night, and depending on how much mulled wine she can be induced to imbibe, it is just conceivable that Willow could be tempted to embarrassing herself.
For now, though, even as the festivities are about to start, there’s business to attend to.
"I caught an eye onto Armeline earlier, probably best to wait till after the opening ceremony has concluded to track her down properly, seems she's helping out with setting the place up.
Aurelia nodded to Willow and Vrire.
"She's wary of strangers and newcomers alike, so keep that in mind once we're at the ceremony, let's try and keep shenanigans to a minimum, might spook her otherwise."
“No shenanigans, if possible. Understood,” the apprentice nods. She’s not that reckless, she hopes, and until she actually masters a few basic spells, her options are limited and probably not that applicable to a harvest festival. Unless there’s an event or stall that involves tossing apples or the like, whose participants could benefit from a steely eye and a steady hand, but surely that wouldn’t be shenanigans.
Once Aurelia can point out Armeline, maybe together the Pathfinders’ discreet observation might reveal a way to approach the wary informant without making her uneasy.
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As Ivy finishes her tales, and the inn fills with movement, Nuwa is still actively listening.
”Well, when the townsfolk are heading to the festival square then we should do so as well. We can blend in better with music and excitement spilling into the streets. At the opening ceremony, I really hope that we spot Armeline!“ she says to her companions as they regroup.
The afternoon sun bathes Rosehaven in a golden glow as laughter and chatter fill the air. The scent of cider and sweet baked gourds mingles with the crisp autumn breeze. Villagers gather in the square, children darting between tables piled high with pumpkins, their bright orange skins gleaming like scattered lanterns.
From the steps of the Temple of Shelyn, a man in simple robes adorned with painted blossoms lifts his hands for silence. Bertinard, the village’s gentle priest, smiles warmly as the crowd settles.
“My friends,” he begins, his voice carrying over the murmurs and rustling leaves, “another year turns, and with it, another blessing from Shelyn, the Eternal Rose. She has graced us with harvest, with beauty, and with one another’s company.”
He gestures for all to join hands, and a hush falls as villagers link fingers, heads bowed in quiet reflection. “Let us give thanks — not only for what we have, but for the joy we find in creating. May our hands shape beauty, our hearts share kindness, and our spirits remember mercy.”
His gaze drifts to the clusters of children clutching carving knives and eager smiles. “And remember, children — no teasing, no boasting. All art is beautiful in Shelyn’s eyes, whether it’s a masterpiece or a happy accident.”
A ripple of laughter spreads through the crowd, and Bertinard’s smile deepens. With a soft clap of his hands, he declares, “Now — let the Mercylight Festival begin!”
Music strikes up — a cheerful fiddle tune — and villagers surge toward the tables. Gourds of every shape and size are passed around, knives gleam in the sun, and creativity takes root in every laugh and handstroke.
After offering a few more blessings, Bertinard makes his way toward your group, his eyes kind and bright beneath the painted petals adorning his robe.
“Welcome, travelers!” he calls. “You’ve chosen a fine day to visit Rosehaven. We celebrate Mercylight in Shelyn’s honor — but you don’t need to be one of Her faithful to take part. Grab a pumpkin, carve what you like, and share in the joy of creation! There’s plenty more in the fields, so don’t be shy!”
He gestures invitingly toward the tables, where the villagers are already laughing and showing off their first cuts and designs. The air is alive with color, light, and the quiet beauty of a people celebrating simple grace.
Among the milling townsfolk, you catch sight of Armeline — standing a little apart from the bustle near a cart piled high with gourds. She smiles faintly as a group of children dart past her, but her eyes don’t quite share their joy. Her gaze flicks toward you for just a moment — curious, cautious — before she turns her attention back to tying ribbons to a nearby post, her motions precise and deliberate.
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When Nuwa sees the festival begin, she can only think that really is a peaceful village. And seeing all these people so alive with the warmth of late autumn gives her courage.
She looks at her companions and with a small smile, Nuwa begins to move to Armeline. When she is around four steps away, she stops and bows to Armeline in formal Tian fashion.
“Apologies for any intrusion Lady Armeline, I hope that this is an appropriate moment for a brief introduction?“
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As the crowds start to coalesce into a single mass before the temple steps for the opening of the festival, Willow watches quietly, feeling the distance between herself and this small village far from home, with its own peculiar traditions. She’s ages from the stage in her life for any maternal stirrings in her heart, but from what she knows of how rambunctious children can be – let alone human children – part of her wonders if it was really wise to let the village sprogs glom onto the knives before they’re quite ready to start carving. At least no one seems to be running around. (Yet?)
She listens politely to the village priest’s welcoming words. As one might expect from a Shelynite, they’re kind and sweet, unobjectionable, though with a corresponding … Well. It’s fine. Folks’ festival best is lovely, too, with the painted fabrics.
At Bertinard’s encouragement, she tentatively finds herself a pumpkin and starts thinking about what she could do with it. As Willow considers her options, her eyes flicker up when Armeline is pointed out to her. The ribbons catch the apprentice’s eye, in particular. Interesting. Wishes, or luck, or warding? As she sees Nuwa approach, Willow looks back down to her pumpkin so as not to add the weight of her gaze, but she tries to keep her ears perked over the noise of the crowd.
Something is definitely in the air. Although Willow starts out rather desultorily trying for something vaguely botanical and seasonal, the outline of a late-autumn tree, branches bare with all leaves fallen, somehow she finds herself getting into the spirit of things. Her knife slips, once or twice, leaving her with larger voids to work around, but it occurs to her that with a smaller candle, or a splash of oil and a wick, and roughening the interior walls, maybe she could give a hint of something standing out on the edge of a dark wood...
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Mizzie takes a pumpkin and carving knife and, tongue between her teeth, sets to poking out a few shapes. She's happier in this task than she expected to be on a Pathfinder mission-- how long has it been since I last did this? -- despite not being very good at it.
Mizzie isn't particularly concerned with what Shelyn would think of her efforts, being in the sworn service of another, but she's entertained by the fact that her small piece of art will continue to decorate this town after she leaves. Of all the things she might have expected from a Pathfinder mission, making art was not among them.
When she sees Nuwa introduce herself to Armeline, Mizzie sidles in that direction to accompany her. "What a lovely festival this looks to be. I'm happy we made the trip to see it."
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"You know... I'm not quite sure... we don't really have pumpkins where I'm from...
Nethertheless, Aurelia joined in, carving a somewhat simple pumpkin with an asymmetric... hopefully cheeky grin.
Though, she did set it down once Nuwa approached Armeline, approaching as well, flicking the knife she was using away. She smiled up at Armeline, tipping her hat.
"Quite the festivities, huh?"
At the sound of her name, Armeline’s shoulders tense. She turns sharply, eyes narrowing as she takes in Nuwa’s bow. The polite smile that forms on her lips doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
“Please,” she says quietly, her tone brittle as she smooths her apron. “There’s no need for that.” Her gaze lingers on Nuwa for a beat too long — studying, measuring — before drifting toward the rest of the Pathfinders nearby, some approaching.
“So,” she says after a pause, folding her hands to keep them still, “the Society’s sending its people out here now.” Her tone is mild, but there’s a flicker in her eyes — something caught between curiosity and old disappointment. “I suppose there’s good work to be done, even in little places like Rosehaven.”
She exhales through her nose and forces a thin smile. “Apologies. I shouldn’t take that tone. It’s festival day, after all.” Still, her posture remains guarded, her weight shifting slightly as though she’s not sure whether to stay or walk away. “You wanted an introduction, was it? Well, you’ve found me. I’m Armeline. I suppose you already know who I used to be.”
Armeline’s expression remains tight, her hands still working the hem of her apron as she studies each of you. The tension in her shoulders betrays unease — and something sharper beneath it. Whatever history she has with the Pathfinder Society, it’s written in the guarded way she looks at you.
Still, there’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes — a hesitation that suggests her distrust might not be absolute.
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Nuwa’s gloved as always due to her burns, and the faint trace of blackened skin still peeks out at her wrists. Her expression is gentle.
“Lady Armeline. It’s an honor to meet you. I understand this day belongs to the village … yes, to joy, maybe not to old burdens.”
She glances briefly toward the square and to her Pathfinder companions.
“These are my companions, Mizzie Mysken and Aurelia Woodshadow. My name is Nuwa Feng. We’ve come together with other colleagues from the Society, yes, but today, we come as people enjoying the experience of the festival.”
There’s a faint, and rueful smile that is almost an apology.
“If this is not the right time to speak of such things … then we would be grateful to meet you later, when the festival quiets. We can talk then, or not at all, as you wish.”
Nuwa inclines her head once more.
“No one should have to face old ghosts on a day meant for forgiveness.”
She steps back then to allow Mizzie and Aurelia to stand with her.
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"The Society *should* have its people out everywhere, in an ideal world. Like you said, there's good work to be done out here, and personally I find it... tragic... that there's a question there at all. You have more than enough reason to not trust us and our words, but..."
Aurelia looked over the festival, at all the people running about, and all the festivities and happiness around.
"For now, why don't you let our actions do the talking? What good work needs done here? Not to make things right, there's no doing that, but to show that the new blood in the Society has a lot it can offer even a small town like this."
For a long moment, Armeline says nothing. The festival’s cheerful noise swells around you — the laughter of children, the scrape of knives against pumpkins, the melody of a fiddle somewhere near the square — but here, at the edge of it all, there’s a stillness.
Her gaze moves from Nuwa, to Mizzie, and finally to Aurelia, her guarded composure faltering just enough to reveal the weariness beneath.
“You speak kindly,” she says at last, her voice quieter now. “Kinder than I expected.” Her fingers twist at the hem of her apron before she forces them to still. “I suppose that’s unfair of me. I’ve let old scars do too much of my thinking.”
She looks past you, toward the square, where the sunlight flickers across the faces of laughing villagers. “There was a time I might’ve said something like that myself — about action speaking louder than words. But words can hurt just as much as they heal. The Society taught me that lesson well.”
Her lips press together, then soften into something almost like a smile — uncertain, but genuine. “Still… maybe you’re right. Maybe not everyone who wears that badge should bear the weight of others’ mistakes.”
She draws a slow breath and meets Nuwa’s eyes. “All right. No ghosts today.” A faint chuckle escapes her, quiet and self-conscious. “You’re here for the festival — so be part of it. The people here could use a few more friendly faces, and perhaps I could… use a reminder of what it’s like to trust one.”
She hesitates, then adds softly, “When the day quiets, come find me. There are things you might want to understand — and maybe things I need to say aloud again.”
For the first time, her posture relaxes. The hardness in her eyes fades, replaced by something fragile but real — the cautious spark of trust beginning to take root.
"I'm going to carve a pumpkin." she says before walking to the tables, taking her leave.
The moment of tension between you fades into the warm hum of the festival. Laughter rolls through the square like music — children race past with half-carved pumpkins, villagers raise mugs of cider in cheerful toasts, and the bright rhythm of a fiddle drifts from somewhere near the inn. The scent of roasted squash and sweet breads hangs heavy in the autumn air.
Vrire and Willow have joined the merriment: carving their pumpkins, sampling food, and chatting with the locals. The golden light of late afternoon catches on smiling faces and swirling ribbons, and for now, the worries of the wider world seem far away.
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Half-watching and -listening from her station carving her pumpkin, Willow is relieved that nothing seems to be going amiss between Armeline and those of her colleagues who have approached her already. Rather than adding to the pressure, she hopes, when the informant takes her leave of the small knot of Pathfinders, Willow restricts herself to waving to the others as if noticing that their business of the moment is done. It's an unobtrusive way of identifying herself as another member of their party.
Once she's happy with her pumpkin, she thinks, some cider and some music would be an idea. Maybe at some point she can pay her own respects to Armeline, but so far the others seem to have that well in hand, so she figures she can just wait until the group seeks Armeline out again.
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Nuwa inclines her head with a smile softening her features.
“Then it’s a promise. No ghosts today. We’ll find you when the sun has settled. Until then, may the day bring you a little lightness.”
She gives a bow and then steps back to let Armeline breathe and the others rejoin the festivities.
For a while then Nuwa lingers near the edge of the square, and she watches as the others carve their pumpkins. She doesn’t carve one herself. She looks at her burned hands and flexes them slightly as if remembering heat and pain, but she watches the lanterns take shape with quiet contentment.
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Aurelia offered a half smile, and after finishing her own pumpkin....
"Well, we got plenty of time, I'm going to go see if I can find some games to play... always my favorite parts of festivals."
Not straying too far from the party, Aurelia looks for some games of skill, the classic *throw a ball and hit pins down* or *shoot the target and win a prize*.
Who knows, maybe she could win a souvenir?
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Sola is glad that the tension has diffused and that everyone can enjoy the festival for now. As someone who is good with swords but not with words, he eagerly participates in the pumpkin carving. It’s still a great deal of fun, even if nothing artistic comes out of it.
He also speaks of his sister’s experiences with festivities in Brevoy up north : the flower parade, the sack-hopping race, and other such events.
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As Aurelia wanders through the festival grounds, the air alive with laughter and the earthy scent of carved pumpkins, she realizes there are no formal games or contests—only the rhythmic scrape of knives and bursts of chatter from the carving tables.
Still, a cheerful noise catches her ear: giggles and the clatter of something striking wood. Just beyond the square, a group of children has set up a makeshift game along a split-rail fence, balancing a row of empty glass bottles across its top. One after another, they take turns hurling small stones from a short distance away, whooping with delight each time one topples.
When they spot Aurelia, the oldest—a freckle-faced boy with straw in his hair—grins wide. “Hey! You there, miss! Want to give it a try?” He tosses a smooth stone up and down in his palm, eyes bright with mischief. “Bet you can’t knock down two in one throw! I'll even give ya three chances. One silver says you can't do it! If you win, I'll give you my lucky token!”
He pulls out a small, wooden charm with the crest of Rosehaven engraved on it dangling from a leather string.
The other children erupt in playful challenge, waving her over eagerly. “Come on, miss! Let’s see if you’ve got a good arm!”
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"Oh? Careful..."
Aurelia put on a devilish grin, walking up to the kids, and flicking a silver at each of them, as payment for the contest, even though they only said one silver.
"I'm a lot more accurate than I look..."
And with that, Aurelia snatched the smooth stone out of the air, and picked up two more... tossing all three up in the air a few times.
"You ready? Going to throw them all one after the other."
And with three quick flicks of her wrist, the three rocks were launched at the bottles.
Aurelia fishes a silver coin from her pouch — then, after a moment’s thought, another, and another — until all five wide-eyed children has a gleaming coin in their palm.
The boy blinks, stunned, then grins ear to ear. “You’re serious? All of us?”
The children cheer as Aurelia steps up to the line drawn into the gravel road, stones in hand and a confident grin on her face. The freckle-faced boy who started the game crosses his arms, smirking playfully. “All right, miss — knock down two bottles at once, and this charm’s yours!” He taps the wooden token hanging from his neck.
Aurelia’s first throw flies straight and true, striking one bottle squarely and sending it spinning to the ground with a satisfying crash. The children gasp, then cheer — but the bottle next to it remains stubbornly upright.
"Aww. Almost, missy!" one girl teases.
The second and third stones go wide, one bouncing off the fence post, the other skimming harmlessly through the grass. The children erupt into laughter and good-natured groans, clapping and stamping their feet.
The children crowd around to thank her, their earlier teasing replaced by pure delight. As Aurelia steps back toward the square, the boy calls after her, holding up his charm proudly. “You didn’t win it, miss — but you’ve got Rosehaven’s luck all the same!”
The laughter and clinking of bottles trail behind her, a bright, heartwarming echo of the village’s simple joy.
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Vrire had heard the conversation, but chose not to join as someone with the charisma of a brick wall, and that turned out to be the right call. She finishes carving her pumpking and joins Aurelia "How about I give it a go?"
Vrire does it first try, and looks away, pushing her hair away dramatically, she's so cool, just this once.
Vrire had heard the conversation, but chose not to join as someone with the charisma of a brick wall, and that turned out to be the right call. She finishes carving her pumpking and joins Aurelia "How about I give it a go?"
[dice=attack 1]1d20 + 2
[dice=attack 2]1d20 + 2
[dice=attack 3]1d20 + 2
Vrire does it first try, and looks away, pushing her hair away dramatically, she's so cool, just this once.
After hearing about the challenge from Aurelia, Vrire hustles down the road away from the square. The children’s laughter rises again. The freckle-faced boy from before puffs up with pride, clearly enjoying his role as ringleader.
“Another challenger!” he declares, spreading his arms theatrically. “Step right up! Rules are simple — knock down two bottles at once, and you win my lucky charm. Miss, and you owe me a silver.”
A few of the other children giggle and whisper among themselves before falling quiet in anticipation.
The bottles gleam in the slanting sunlight, lined up along the split-rail fence. Vrire takes aim and throws. The stone whistles through the air and strikes one bottle squarely, sending it tumbling to the grass below with a sharp clack — but the second remains balanced, unshaken.
A chorus of “ooohs” rises from the children.
The next two stones miss entirely — one nearly hitting a chicken strolling past and startling it, the other disappearing into the grassy field beyond. The crowd of youngsters explodes into laughter and playful cheers, clapping and stamping their feet.
“Good throw, miss!” the boy calls, still grinning. “But rules are rules — that’s one silver!”
He catches the coin she tosses his way with a practiced snap of his hand, then tucks it into his pocket proudly. “Better luck next time! I’ll keep this charm safe 'til someone earns it proper.”
Two of the children giggle as they reset the bottles, already arguing over who gets to throw next. Their laughter fills the roadway again, light and easy —the kind of Joy found only in small villages on festival days.
Nuwa lingers near the edge of the crowd, the light of the autumn sun painting soft gold across her features. The townsfolk are all smiles and easy laughter, their hands busy shaping gourds into whimsical faces and symbols of Shelyn’s grace — but Nuwa’s hands remain still.
From across the way, Bertinard notices. The old priest excuses himself from a knot of cheerful villagers and walks over, his pace unhurried, his kind eyes warm beneath his graying brows.
“My dear,” he says softly, stopping beside her. “I couldn’t help but notice you’ve not chosen a pumpkin yet.” His voice is neither chiding nor insistent — just the calm tone of someone used to tending gentle hearts. “You needn’t be an artist to take part. It isn’t about skill. It’s about sharing something of yourself, no matter how small.”
He looks toward the carving tables, where children laugh as they try to balance crooked gourds. “Shelyn teaches that beauty isn’t in perfection — it’s in honesty. In the marks we leave behind.” His gaze flicks, briefly, to Nuwa’s hands — not with pity, but quiet understanding.
“There’s no judgment here,” he adds, his smile faint but genuine. “Only joy. And perhaps a bit of friendly competition.”
He gestures toward a small pumpkin nearby — round, bright, and unclaimed. “What do you say? It needn’t be grand. Just yours.”
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Nuwa looks up at Bertinard, and there’s surprise briefly visible.
“You make it sound so simple. I’ve never been much of an artist… and my hands don’t always remember gentleness.”
Still, she steps forward and picks up the gourd. After a pause, she kneels at the table beside the children, borrowing a small knife and beginning her work.
When she’s done, she sets it among the others.
“Perhaps you’re right, Father. Beauty doesn’t always have to shout.”
When Bertinard returns to check on Nuwa, he smiles warmly, the deep lines at the corners of his eyes softening.
“You’ve the heart of an artist already, my dear,” he says quietly, looking over the gourd now resting among the others. “Shelyn cherishes beauty born of courage — and I daresay there’s plenty of that in your work.”
He folds his hands, giving her a small, approving nod. “Sometimes, the quietest creations sing the loudest to the gods.”
With that, he leaves her to the flickering glow of the lantern-lit pumpkins, his expression one of quiet pride.
As the pumpkin carving progresses, the pumpkin supply runs low, and a group of villagers heads out to the fields to collect a new batch of pumpkins.
The golden light of late afternoon softens as the festival continues. The laughter of children and the scrape of knives against pumpkin rind fill the air, blending with the tune of a fiddle and the chatter of neighbors sharing cider. For a while, it feels as though nothing could disturb the peace of Rosehaven.
Then, from the road leading toward the fields, a small group of villagers returns—a cart full of fresh pumpkins, and their faces pale and drawn. The merriment falters as one of them, a young man spattered with mud, rushes through the crowd toward Bertinard. He grips the old priest’s sleeve and leans close, whispering something hurried and low.
Bertinard’s expression falls. His eyes close, and for a heartbeat, the joy of the festival seems to dim with him. He murmurs a quiet prayer, then places a trembling hand on the villager’s shoulder before approaching your group.
“Friends,” he begins, his voice steady but heavy with sorrow, “I fear something dreadful has happened.” He glances toward the far edge of the village, where the fields lie beneath the fading sun. “One of our own—Elm, the druid who tends the pumpkin fields—has been found dead.”
He draws a slow breath, meeting each of your eyes in turn. “I would not ask this of guests, but you seem… capable folk. The constable is gathering what few hands we have to investigate. If you have the stomach for grim work—and the kindness to help—we would be in your debt.”
His tone is gentle, almost paternal, and though meant to protect, it carries a faint note of condescension. “If not, no shame in it. You may remain here, help with the little ones. They need steady hearts now more than ever.”