Have fun, everyone! Maybe we'll see each other in another game some other time! :)
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I'm less familiar with Lastwall / Belkzen than a bunch of other parts of the setting, so if other folks have ideas about potential points of interest for a visiting mage-y bard that might be fun to work into her backstory, I'd be happy to hear them. Thanks, I had to cudgel my brains for a bit to remember the acronym, but yes, a USO act of some sort, while basic, is probably her foot in the door as she gallivants about. Poking around on the wiki, maybe a link to the military college in Vigil would work, as a periodic consultant on magic beyond the perennially popular "fireball it to death" strategy? The one nice thing about how messed up a place Golarion is, is that there's always a reason for the good guys to share ideas. :)And fish-out-of-water can be fun. I can see some potential for some dark, dystopian humour, depending on party composition, if a bunch of weirdos emerges that can be framed as a bunch of misfits that the powers that be, paladins or not, find convenient to feed into the meatgrinder, but that might just be me.
Alright, I think I've updated Alaïs properly, at least as far as mechanics go. I mostly just tweaked her equipment from her previous incarnation; if selected, there's some wiggle room, but this should give a good sense of her interests/methods. As a court poet, she's much more bookish than most skalds, but I can make some adjustments so her gear, at least, is more obviously suitable for wailing on orcs. ;) I'm less familiar with Lastwall / Belkzen than a bunch of other parts of the setting, so if other folks have ideas about potential points of interest for a visiting mage-y bard that might be fun to work into her backstory, I'd be happy to hear them.
This sounds like it could be very fun, and I think the scope of this adventure, with the character I’d like to submit, isn’t too much for what else is on my plate right now. *Fingers crossed!* That character is the one in this alias, recycled from a game on indefinite hiatus. I’ll need to find a new trait, clean out some house rules and rejig some equipment (we were using Automatic Bonus Progression), but I’d like to think the fundamentals are all there. In anticipation, and since basic fluff was requested, some preliminary ideas of how those details will be fleshed out:
She’s the youngest daughter of a minor noble house in Kyonin, so she tries to live up to an ideal of elfishness that I’m trying to imagine as classic without being annoying (except to the extent that everyone finds it amusing in the meta :) ): artsy, tree-hugging, spells and swordplay. She sees herself as something like a knight errant, so she tries to be kind and chivalrous, but there’s a wild streak there from a very strong connection to ancestral spirits and the whole “elves and nature” thing; she loves a good party, and is surprisingly able to keep up when the wine and magic starts flowing. Even at her wildest, as a bard, she retains her elegance and sophistication – mustn’t be sloppy with art, with words, notes (and drink) spilling everywhere! There’s a bit of physical description at the bottom of the proper alias / character sheet, the short version of which is, basically: deliberately, almost painfully pretty. Something like an unholy mashup of whatever Stereotypical Barbie is among elves, the “girl next door,” and whatever queen bees might be like if they tried actually being nice for a change. :) Mechanically, the idea I’m going for is mainly a skirmishing and support role – the court poet archetype helps boost Int and Cha casters – and to try, weirdly enough, to make the skald as magical as possible: I really like the idea of spell kenning! That, combined with my idea for her personality (as a decadent aristo), shapes how I imagine her starting wealth will go: probably distributed fairly evenly with some mundane masterwork gear (quiet luxury!), with her big-ticket magic item for now represented by a spellbook, of all things, while waiting for spell kenning to come online.
^ ^ "I am Alaïs Thalanassa, and I approve this message." :) Absolutely, do what feels right and healthy, and leave the crazy to chaotic elves who are old enough to know better. Regardless of how the game goes, I hope everything else on your mind settles down soon, DM.
Alaïs follows a pace behind Edrukk, where she can (hopefully) support him if something wicked jumps out at him. She’s almost tempted to keep the beginning of a spell-song humming in her throat in the eerie light of the runes on the walls, and she’s beyond tempted to see if she can make sense of them.
Oh, it's no problem, unless aesthetically / verisimilitudinously there's a problem with letting the bibulous aristo cavort teeteringly about. Honestly, I kind of like the idea of a long-suffering Edrukk periodically having to reach out and grab Alaïs by the back of her armour before she runs too far off ahead or face-first into trouble. XD Anyway, at least for another level or so, Alaïs' go-to tactics involve a round or two of buffs or ranged spells, so she doesn't need to be in the van.
I think last time we went with Edrukk and Broccan up front, then squishie(r)s in the middle - Briar and Kata - and then Venelle and Alaïs bringing up the rear? That sounds like a perfectly good default marching order, if that works for everyone. I'm completely fine with Alaïs dancing back and forth to knock on doors, pull on mysterious levers, and so forth as required. Goodness knows she's airy-fairy and blasé enough to get herself into all sorts of trouble under the misapprehension that she can handle a lot more than is actually the case. :)
"Indeed, thank you," Alaïs nods. "None of us would have caught it at all, I'm sure." Her arm still cramping from the terrific pressure of whatever force took offence to her light spell, Alaïs takes a moment to murmur a soothing spell instead.
With another wave of her arm in an effort to get normal feeling back into it, she sets her shield forward, just in case, and then reaches past to open the door, cautiously.
“I guess not, then,” the aristocrat grumbles, though at least she doesn’t seem to have provoked any additional countermeasures or, for that matter, divine wrath. “There’s definitely a magical ward, and I’m afraid that my spells and other talents don’t really run that way,” Alaïs says. “Would you mind taking a look, Kata? Or we can just try one of the other doors, if you think that would be safer. I think we might want to err on the side of discretion while we can, so perhaps battering down the fittings only if all else fails?”
Alaïs balks at yet another obstacle, and throws another cantrip at the door, trying to figure out if this is another part of the twisted magic in the ‘Cathedral,’ like the bizarre rules forbidding the use of additional light. Is she really meant to offer up one of her own secrets to something that all too clearly is perfectly happy to do her harm? As repugnant as the thought is, it’s a clever bit of magic, if true: which, on second thought, seems less likely on the face of it. She imagines some sort of truth-telling enchantment layered onto an abjuration is conceivable, but rather complex for this place. Just how old is this place, really? Did Moonmeadow just happen to dig into a lost ruin agreeable to apocalyptic fanatics? And then something else occurs to her: ‘something only I will ever know.’ Well, it could be something new, then, or someone else’s secret, something not meant for anyone else’s ears? Her features sharpen with glee as a bit of pious controversialism from her brother recommends itself to her memory, and, rashly scorning this upstart power in its own temple, the heathen aristocrat murmurs in wicked, softly trilling Sylvan - which she thinks stands the best chance of not being understood by her friends - Sylvan:
<“Deep down, Norgorber, – or, alright, Vecna, if you will – you know that Calistria is cleverer than you.”>
"So, uhh..." Venelle has her bow out and an arrow drawn, eyes fixed on the pool. "Are we, uhh, following those rules? Or breaking them? And which door's first?" “It’s …” ‘messing with my head and very painful’ not being a very reassuring way of putting it, Alaïs settles on, “definitely got something behind it. I could try to push through with my cantrip for light, but it would take a lot of effort.” “At least until we get out of this chamber, or meet someone who indicates that they’re not worried about them, we should probably try to follow the rules, much as it pains me to say it.” Which is a fairly blasé way of considering the fact that the adventurers probably are going to be set upon by wild cultists waving knives or what-have-you, before too long, but that’s another matter altogether.
“There are altogether too many secrets in this town,” she mutters grimly, “and not being looked after by those who should.” Which is to say, the better sorts of elves and Calistrians, obviously. With that, Alaïs steps up to ‘Vecna’s’ door and gives it a shove, bracing herself to go for her sword or spell, if there's another unpleasant surprise waiting right there.
Distressingly, whatever is in the air of this place doesn’t seem to be going away as Alaïs gives her pinched and cramping arm a shake. If anything, it might even make things worse, and she hopes she won’t have to draw her sword very, very soon. “Definitely too much,” she says, answering her own question with bitter self-deprecating humour. “These madmen, whatever else they may be, aren’t lying about their warnings. We should try not to shed blood in this hall, at least, and if we can avoid setting more lights… And – very well! – we can avoid the pool for now. Perhaps we can hope that only this space constitutes the “Cathedral,” and whatever’s behind those doors doesn’t count.” “Or that even the Triad will be given pause before throwing themselves at us with their knives, or however it is these lunatics do.” Morningstar, then, maybe, Alaïs thinks to herself: probably still messy with a solid enough blow, but not guaranteed to spill blood in the same way a sword might. Let’s make this quick, anyway. Cursed temples and gods are really not her thing, even if one of her brothers is a cleric (and she’ll have to get to know the associate he’s fobbed off on her), and her own sweetheart does have a certain fondness for the rites of Yuelral. And Briar, of course, also keeps Calistria’s mysteries. It’s not a way of thinking that comes most naturally to the decidedly worldly aristocrat, but as this profane, subterranean cathedral seems determined to needle at her from almost the moment she arrived, invoking the Unquenchable Fire or the Wise and her deep lore to illuminate or bury this evil cult seems apt. Or the even more direct means she can imagine Edrukk’s Lord in Iron might enjoin.
“When did they do all this?” Alaïs half whispers to herself, grudgingly impressed with the overall effect, even if she’s not much of a black marble person herself. Something a bit warmer, more blue twilight-y than the cold depths of night, suits her better… Could it be a question of recent embellishments to a complex already in place? Maybe, she thinks, she should ask Allustan if anyone’s done a decent survey of all the cairns and such around the town, and how deep they go. At Edrukk’s question, Alaïs redirects her attention from the matter of whether any of these Ebon Triad cultists will be sane enough to interrogate about their design choices and aesthetics, at sword-point. “Oh, absolutely! It’s a bit old-fashioned, and I really should get a better acquaintance with the local languages of more recent scholarship, but…” As she steps forward to take a closer look at the runic inscriptions with an anti- sun-wise circuit of the room, the elven aristocrat keeps an ear out as well. Will this delving whisper too? And should she worry about more windy traps, with fanatics lurking in who knows how many shadows, ready to jump out if those candles blow out?
As she takes a first glance at the first inscription – some sort of rule, which, given what she knows of the ethos of the Triad, she is instinctively inclined to scorn – something is clearly very wrong as something resists her spell.
There’s a muffled sound of an extremely, if eloquently, blasphemous Elven suggestion about where Hextor and his friends can step off, and by then Alaïs is in front of the next door, shaking her painful hand as she peers at the next inscription. "Oh! OH!" she exclaims, abandoning her effort to maintain her spell. "No blood, no light..." She rushes to the last door. "'Don't dabble in the pool.'" "Was that ... too much?" She glances down worriedly at her un-illuminated ring, before clenching her fist in determination. "Is this 'Dissociate' in the pool, then? Tchah. Any preferences as to which obscenity we deal with first?" Brow furrowing again in disgust - not least at herself for not being able to resist whatever wants her not to shine a light into this dark place - Alaïs looks like she might want to chuck a rock into the pool out of spite, and then batter down Vecna's door, but then maybe the others have other ideas. Especially Edrukk, whose god in particular is one of the three the Triad has their mad, heretical plans for.
Alaïs focuses on helping to lower the group ever deeper into the earth instead of the glow of the lamps at the head of the shaft growing ever fainter as she and her friends descend. The things we do for glitter, she muses, wondering briefly what the world would be like if people could be contented with less intensive methods. Questions for a druid, probably. “I was just thinking I would do my signet, myself,” she nods, briefly lifting her ring hand from the task. “Or just my hauberk, unless we anticipate the need for more subtlety.”
"There's no hope for it," Alaïs says, with a certain perverse cheerfulness, "short of some dimensional magic that I doubt any of us could scrape up right now. It does seem like they're trying to keep a relatively low profile, so hopefully we won't have to run a gauntlet when we arrive, but on the other hand, they can't go anywhere than through us, and we have the upper ground." "Come on! Gorum wills it!" she says encouragingly.
Alaïs considers the lift somewhat dubiously, her thoughts subconsciously flitting back to the trapped shaft under the Whispering Cairn, with its howling winds. Still, her luck held then, and she hopes it might continue to do so now. Air and light seem to like her – which makes her rummaging around down here all the more ironic, though she tries to think about roots giving strength to trees and so forth to keep herself from freaking out with the thought of how much earth and stone are between her and the surface.
She takes a closer look at the device, and at a glance it looks like the sort of thing she encountered by-the-by in her architectural studies - but her interest was more in design than the practicalities, so the most she can say is that nothing looks obviously out of place to her. "It's the sort of thing where we just wind ourselves up or down, right?Everything seems in order to me, but I can go first, just in case." She reaches out for the bit that she thinks controls the feed of the chain through the spool, and steps onto the platform, assessing how much it gives her weight. It should be fine, right? "I think it could take another, but otherwise, I'll see if I can get a foothold down there," she adds. After enough time for someone to join her, she starts lowering herself and any companions down, an ear open for just how much of a racket the contraption makes in the tunnels.
"Alas, I have no Goblin. Let's stick with our own language and leave it to the luck of the goddess, if it comes to that," Alaïs confirms. "Cheers!"
As the adventurers convene on the threshold of the den of vipers they’re committed to eliminating, Alaïs reflects ruefully that the most obviously fun part of the business is behind them – at least until such time as they secure bragging rights, which is the tricky bit. Her head stuffed full of romantic tales and notions of noblesse oblige, she is very far from averse to a bit of flashy sword- and spell-play, but even Alaïs is aware of how messy things might get. She’ll have to make it worth it, and hopes she won’t lack for inspiration for a suitable song. Gathering herself, and trying not to think of how unlikely it is that there’ll be space enough to keep foes at bay with arrows, she gratefully ekes out the last moment before plunging into the cultists’ lair to thank Ava, “Thank you. As Broccan says, if you can spare a moment and a few odds and ends, if it takes longer than we hope… Just an apple or two (or the like) rolled in would give our magic something to work with. But please don’t worry about it for at least a couple of days, and only if you don’t need to risk your neck any more than you already have.” A last idea strikes the aristocrat. “Oh, and just before we go – would you happen to have a smattering of a less common language that your colleagues might not know? <Draconic, perhaps?> <Celestial?> If we end up needing to, we should be able to enspell a message for you here, and something that’s not our mother tongue would reduce the risk of interception.” Readying her shield, she offers a last, smiling glance back before stepping into the passage ahead. “Thanks again, Ava, in any case. After all this is over, drinks for us – and not for distraction – are on me!”
“Oh, well,” Alaïs says with the sort of elaborately casual shrug that might make people familiar with the ways of elves pre-emptively flinch in anticipation of chaos, “I don’t think we need to overcomplicate things?” “Sneak or sweet-talk our way in while politely, firmly, and inexorably making our way into the mine, ready, in the worst case, to bloody some noses on the way? I don’t think it will come to the last, if we pick our moment properly, so that letting us have our way makes things easier for everyone else. I can honestly say I talked to Moonmeadow about a tour, and you and Mr. Dunchad could be my advisors on finer points metallurgical and excavatorial, and all of us…” She’s honestly not sure how to frame the presence of the other ladies, really, but she’s sure the group can think of something en route. Guidance about the needs of the local community, as spiritual folk in one way or another? Anyway. “…underfoot, they might just decide it’s less troublesome to let us take our look before we get in the way of the busiest shift, the changeover, or just business as usual. After all, where would we go if we were inclined to cause trouble, deep underground in an artificial cave? If Moonmeadow gets wind of it and has conniptions, they can always wait for us to come back out, and if we haul some cultists out of there, I doubt we’ll be the ones having to make urgent explanations.” Spoken like a true child of the forest: Alaïs can’t really imagine willingly holing up belowground for some indefinite period of time, though it seems like that’s what the Ebon Triad lunatics have done – which only confirms their unhingedness, as far as the elven aristocrat is concerned. While the dramatic part of her imagination envisions an improbable unholy temple straight out of a story, a more strategic considers that it might be a good idea for her to pick some berries to transmute if the adventurers have to stick it out for a bit with defenders dug in in very tight quarters.
“As the gentlemen said, we’d be honoured to fight alongside you for a while longer,” Alaïs nods, “but it’s your decision. I can’t imagine that if a fight breaks out inside a working mine it will be any easier to maneuver than a monumental tomb complex. If you join us, if for any reason the walls start pressing too close and you have to fall back, we’ll understand. Don’t worry about us!” She smiles, putting a brave face on things, but makes some space in her thoughts to be ready to cover the gaps if their archer decides to withdraw, and to make sure that Venelle isn’t exposed to more danger in that case.
“That’s kind of you to say,” Alaïs says with a smile, “but he did manage to talk circles around me, even if he seems to have otherwise strayed from the ways of our people. Still, he’s taken pains to maintain a veneer of custom and respectability, so I’ll do my best if navigating that will help get to the bottom of what he’s up to.” “Kullen’s mage friend did say something about some big, hairy men, and I don’t think he meant the sort of luxurious locks that anyone would be proud of,” she adds, tilting her head and running a hand through her own wryly, despite the seriousness of the situation.
“Orcs, perhaps, of all things? Or some other sort of ogre? I imagine you’ll get your wish soon enough, Edrukk,” she speculates, but clearly not speaking from experience, and musing too about Venelle’s concerns. “I wonder: the Triad must have got in there somehow, but he probably doesn’t want to attract too much suspicion from his workers, or anyone else about town, so maybe the more active security is closer to wherever the cult’s laired, and the first line of defense is getting in – or out again – from a mine uninvited without either being noticed or making a huge mess.” “It might be a bit more talking first, then these ‘hairy men,’ who will probably need to be turned out one way or another, and then the cultists themselves, who one can only hope will not be too fanatical.”
After a hurried conference with the other ladies to broach the beginnings of how upset she is that Moonmeadow put her off so glibly, and an agreement is reached that the gentlemen should be informed as soon as possible, Alaïs takes off twitchily, the agitated commentary in Elven running under her breath interrupted only briefly as she and the others poke their heads in various taprooms to track down Broccan and Edrukk, until the Able Carter informs them that the two will meet them “at the usual place.” Even the possibilities for exercising her creativity and architectural fancies in doing up the old office, or how nice it would be to at least transmute another handful of berries if a proper dinner is too much to think about right now, are forgotten as Alaïs blows into the derelict structure. <“It’s Moonmeadow! I should have known he was hiding something, the scoundrel! Villain! Reprobate!”> she announces, with much less ceremony than usual, a spate of imprecation flowing for a minute before the aristocrat realizes that she’s still thinking in her mother tongue, and needs to catch her breath and switch to a shared language. Holding onto her patience with both hands, Alaïs summarizes Merovinn’s information as calmly and simply as she can, concluding, “I can see now why the old serpent was so keen to put me off his mines! And it’s not likely that he’ll be swayed, now that I’ve asked him nicely and he’s on his guard. At this point, I think our best chances are to get down there ourselves, whenever the people on duty at the surface are most likely to be tired enough to either let us slip by or talk them into thinking we’re expected. I imagine that would be either the night watch, or the earliest morning shift?” She deflates a bit now that she’s finally got everything out. Part of her still wants to storm to the mine-head without delay, but even she’s not quite so reckless, after a busy day of asking awkward questions. She adds, “Do you think, incidentally, we’ll end up having to beard Smenk in his den by the time this is over? I promised Bask that if the opportunity arose, I would put in a word for him, since Smenk is short a wizard. In that case, I certainly hope he remembers his benefactors, if we should need to call on him again.”
Alaïs gives a wry smile as Merovinn resigns himself to “I’m sorry about your friend. There aren’t many people who deserve to see their last moments at the claws of an owlbear, and I’m sure he wasn’t one of them,” she offers quietly, listening carefully to the bereaved wizard’s reminiscences. She wonders where they’re going, exactly, as it seems at first that they’re going to peter out back among the cairns, but then Merovinn drops a tidbit that lands like a more volatile alchemist’s concoction. Alaïs startles and issues a small cough, body memory instantly transporting her to an early childhood occasion on which her eyes were bigger than her mouth, overeager for a bit of confectionary , and her hand grips tighter around her liberated spellbook. “I see. I’m much obliged, sir, and if you think the Spider’s closer webs can offer some shelter against the Shadow, I’ll do my best to arrange an introduction as best I can, like I said,” she says grimly, swallowing her apprehension as her second thoughts are confirmed. Her glance flutters up into a shadowy corner at the ceiling and sharpens, as her imagination races and she takes a moment to try to process her feelings before turning to her friends. “It looks like we’re going to have to poke for a soft and squishy princely something after all, I’m afraid.” “My thanks again, and rest assured that we won’t breathe a word of your information,” she adds, turning back to Merovinn as prelude to taking her leave. Standing, she reaches for the mage’s tin of raisins and gives it a rattle as she hums a jaunty little tune , before taking a look and picking out of the tiny fruits and laying them on the table. “I hope you won’t need them, but if you or your Rascal run into a nip or a smack in the next couple of days, these should help take the edge off. Good morning, sir.” With that, and a last nod, unless any of the others have any further questions, the obviously rattled aristocrat sweeps off, intent on getting to the bottom of things as soon as she can, and not best pleased at having been given – however unsurprisingly, under the circumstances – the run-around by the Marshmallow.
Alaïs wishes the gentlemen good luck with their strategizing, while she and the other ladies turn to their own. Finding a small, sinister gang is likely to be trickier than getting the word out to interested parties among a larger guild, she expects. As she makes her way from the Emporium, she tries to remember who Kullen was working with. There was a mage, wasn’t there? Yes, there was, and she is most grateful to one of the less surly staff at the Feral Dog who’s able to point her in the right direction when she cautiously pokes her head in the door again and decides, no, she is definitely not willing to beard the lout gaming there. She goes quieter than usual as she approaches Jalek’s Flophouse. Which, for goodness’ sake. Who’s running Diamond Lake that people have to live like this? It does give her an idea for how to approach this Merovinn creature, above and beyond the professional connection she might be able to forge with someone working with arcana, even if she’s more of dabbler herself. She makes sure to carry Filge’s spellbook with studied casualness. Upon being pointed to the right room, the aristocrat is unusually direct, not least because, when she actually sees the wizard again, she realizes that the last time she saw him she was bouncing a tankard off his face, so he’s probably not going to be swayed by a show of the usual niceties. “Ah, Mr. Bask,” she says confidently, some of Moonmeadow’s grandeur seemingly having rubbed off on her, “I’m under no illusions that you’re finding this a pleasure, so I’ll be brief. Have you and Kullen and all, in your drawing of water and hewing of wood for our mutual friend, to say nothing of more ... improbable objects, had any truck with delivering or organizing unusual supplies to any of the mines lately? I hear that the stock in town has gone quite lopsided lately, and some of us have been wondering why, especially with some feasts coming up.” “In fact, my friends and I are in a position to assure you that your and Kullen’s boss is anxious to have some concerns relieved on related matters, and he’s currently got an opening for a wizard on his team.”
Her teeth flash through her smile, and she drums her fingers on the book at hip. While she’s being rather ruthless in her negotiations, Alaïs gets the feeling that she’s getting a surprising amount of purchase. “If there’s anything you can tell us, your name won’t even have to come up, until such time as a recommendation to the boss might be suitable. You’re a clever man, I’m sure you can see your advantage here.” Moving up in Smenk’s estimation, and down on Alaïs’ own list of “Most Misliked Mages in Diamond Lake,” what’s he got to lose? And she didn’t even bring their owlbear cublet to this meeting, though she’ll reconsider that bit of courtesy if Merovinn gives her a hard time.
As people start to clam up at the general store after they notice a recurrent theme in her questions, Alaïs decides it’s time to cut bait for now, rather than try to wheedle something more from one of the porters. She’ll report back to her friends, and maybe they’ll have an idea for how to proceed. She wonders if she missed a significant look or other signal once her un-informants get more and more tight-lipped, but that’s as may be. When she gets back, the Emporium seems to have gotten a bit busier in the time she’s been poking about, and it takes her a moment to find where the others have been conspiring – hopefully with better luck than she’s had. While she’s looking about, she catches a glimpse of another elf in animated conversation, having evidently managed to buttonhole Zalamandra. For a second, Alaïs worries that it might be the person who accosted Broccan and Edrukk earlier, but after another moment’s thought, she decides that the descriptions don’t match, so she moves on. After a few minutes of catching up with her friends, it becomes regrettably clear that prying more secrets out of the denizens of Diamond Lake will take a bit more work than she would like. With a slightly dispirited shrug, she considers Edrukk’s suggestion of switching things up a bit. “I can certainly try talking to Kullen et al.,” she agrees. “I could at least offer a round of drinks and berries after last time, show there are no especially hard feelings.” She vaguely remembers lobbing hurling a tankard into a wizard’s (?) face, and tries not to how satisfying a hit it was. “And if you would be so kind as to chat with the Able Carters, perhaps we’ll be able to find out who’s feeding and hosting our vermeological friends, one way or another. I’d love to help with the porters, but I think I might have been rather less discreet than would be ideal, so I’m not sure how much more use I would be until they’ve had a chance to forget my inquisitiveness.”
Alaïs is gathering herself for the possibility of having to brave the Feral Dog again (why couldn’t Kullen by a dragonchess fanatic?), when, after a rustle of skirts, she hears a soft, “Excuse me,” with a light Elven accent, and looks up to see the woman who she glimpsed chatting with Zalamandra earlier. Nonsense to introduce an alternative PC for later: “Lady Ceri-Moel? Your brother told me he would write to you – and what a stroke of luck that our paths cross even before I set out to explore the town!” At that, Alaïs rises to greet who can only be Miss Adonara Strixis properly. The aristocrat is a bit nonplussed to find the priestess is dressed more fashionably (though casually), but then the Calistrian has been travelling and not, presumably, sticking her nose in death-trap tombs and the like. Not that she minds, really – and it will be fun to have someone to chat with about the latest trends, hopefully – and she is immensely flattered when, with a curtsey, the priestess brushes a light kiss to her proferred hand instead of simply shaking it. Adonara silently offers to repeat the bit of gallantry with the other ladies (leaving it to each to decide if they want to lift their hand the rest of the way as she bows over it, certainly) as Alaïs makes introductions, before shaking the gentlemen’s hands with an arch look that takes the sting out of her coolness with them. “Lucky indeed,” Alaïs says, returning to the matter of the fortuitous encounter. “My silly brother’s letter just arrived – I’m sure he delayed sending it just to increase his chances of embarrassing me, the knave! At least this way we aren’t perfect strangers, but have a rascal in common already, though I hope we can get to know each other better more regularly soon. Will you be staying long? I gather you’re on your way to Magnimar?” “Oh, eventually,” comes the reply, “I’m more or less at my leisure for now, unless the goddess has other ideas. But I’m interrupting you. I may take up here during my stay, if Zalamandra’s amenable, so perhaps once you’re at leisure to turn your thoughts to amusements…?” One might be forgiven for thinking that the elven ladies might be sisters, as they exchange compliments: they’re close to the same age, and quite similar in build and coloration, though the newcomer is decidedly paler and of broader feature, by elven standards, and certainly more restless. Which one of them was not brought up in luxury is clear, even if she’s the one currently in a more elegant dress. With that, the Calistrian Alaïs’ brother expects her to entertain takes her leave with a smile.
“One way or another, I’m sure we’ll find a way to inveigle some more useful gossip,” Alaïs avers brightly. “We just need to find a suitable pretext to invite ourselves into various conversations. I always have letters to write, and I can break a few of them up to have more excuses to visit Taggin.” She promptly extracts a scrap of parchment, and sets to jovially threatening her youngest brother with the prospect of her encouraging one of her friends to foist someone who needs a change of scenery on him. She adds a bit more local colour about what’s going on with the elves of Diamond Lake, based on what she learned at Moonmeadow’s, so it’s not too brief a missive by her discursive standards, and then strolls over to drop it off at the general store for the next messenger going in the right direction. Alaïs makes sure to linger a bit longer than she normally would at Taggin’s, browsing aimlessly while she tries to make conversation with other shoppers and the merchant’s cronies. She keeps her ears perked up for any grumbles about shortages or undercutting caused by large orders by any of the mine owners, and attempts to tactfully raise the question of what Moonmeadow’s people would normally be looking forward to, if the harvest festival were still in the offing, and if the supplies might still be available.
Between dashing off a note to her brother and loitering in the store, Alaïs has a bit of time to think things over more carefully. It occurs to her that if Smenk isn’t a complete nitwit and wants plausible deniability, not hosting the Ebon Triad in his own mine makes the most sense, and it would help explain how the worm he snuck to Filge might have been passed along without being noticed: trickier to get his hands on it, but not being around to have to brazen out the purloining over and over again. And why was Moonmeadow so testy about telling her to mind her own business? Does she look like someone about to start competing with him in Diamond Lake? What has he got to lose? The more she thinks about it, the more Alaïs worries that she let herself be put off too easily. Irritated, she wonders if she can blag her way into Moonmeadow’s operation for a look, especially with the help of one of her more silver-tongued friends. After all, it’s not technically a lie that she went to Moonmeadow to ask about how a mine runs, and that he offered her some advice, and if his foreman or whatever can blame getting talked over on her, they might be willing to risk it...
"Uhh." Venelle clears her throat. "I... could be wrong, here. But the timing is only off if we assume the cult is... new to town, right?" She takes a deep breath. "But what if they've been here for, uhh, longer? Like, months longer? Maybe years longer, even? What does that say about our chances, if they're entrenched like that?" Alaïs’ colour is starting to return to her face, but she bites her lip in continuing chagrin at Venelle’s awkwardly apt question. “I suppose it depends on how many of us have trained with shields before, or can get in close quickly,” she muses. Her glance flickers to Edrukk unconsciously, guessing that if any of them stand much chance of having trained extensively for fighting in very tight quarters, it would be their dwarf friend. “Or if we could supply ourselves with less picky ordnance. Shame we don’t have an alchemist on our side, or that sort of wizard.” Dear Allustan would probably have a heart attack at the suggestion of hostile spelunking, Alaïs guesses, and her own experiments with alchemist’s fire have, er, not been particularly successful to date. She might have better luck with spirits, but those aren’t quite energetic enough, she thinks. “It’s like something out of the demon wars,” she says softly, her gaze losing itself into some far distance. Her memory stirs up the poison gas trap from the Whispering Cairn too – but she’s not sure even her oldest brother could manage something like that, and she’s tactful enough not to suggest it in front of Broccan, who she imagines might have tales enough of folk lost to bad air, if it hasn’t hit even closer to home. “Still,” she continues briskly, shaking her mood off and trying to summon an encouraging show of confidence, “if they’re only starting to reach out now, and even their go-betweens feel brave enough to poke their noses where they’re not welcome, how comfortable can they be? Didn’t Filge’s note say the worm had made its way to him through – ah – means other than entirely aboveboard?”
“I would say we could start a rival cult,” she adds playfully, “only I wasn’t planning on staying in Diamond Lake for years, I'm afraid, and I don’t think I could muster a convincing amount of conviction. I did just hear from my blessed youngest brother about a friend – but I think we may have more reason to trust to the direct approach than we might fear. Although, as Edrukk says, we need to find the Triad, first.”
At first, Alaïs, secure in her blissful ignorance, doesn’t worry too too much: Ilhane evidently has a flair for the dramatic (which speaks in her favour, as far as Alaïs is concerned, if the courtly bard is being honest), and there are some nasty tricks that the right formulae can work, not least some really obnoxious bombs, but if they can stay on their toes … maybe the squinnying alchemist is more bark than bite, like Filge was? She’s about to say so, but then the implications of the rest of Kata’s words sink in, and Alaïs grows pale with alarm, then stays pale, with fury. With effort, she tries not to jump to any more conclusions, and takes a laboured breath as she tries to keep a level head. It can’t be said that no one makes a fool of Alaïs Thalanassa, but she can do her best to make it so that it can be said that no one does so with impunity. “<Λακωνίζετέ με!> Is that what he wasn’t saying, the old serpent?!? Is that why he’s not holding the usual feast?! If that’s the case, I’ll – I’ll have his – his guts! for – for making sausages to feed that little owlbear!” Her indignation hisses like lees flicked at a candle-flame, and evaporates just as quickly, for now. Expressing her dismay at the possibility of having been hoodwinked in such sordid business gives her the space to think things through a bit more.
“That said, perhaps it’s just a miserly coincidence,” she continues, forcing something closer to her usual sweetness into her tone. “The timing is off – it’s been a few seasons, they said. But if Smenk’s being mean too – Mr. Dunchad, you would know better than I would: I imagine many miners bring their own luncheon with them, but do any of the mine-masters try to claw back your hard-earned gold with a tea trolley or the like? Or a company store?” An idea is doing its best to make its way to the forefront of Alaïs’ thoughts. “Or… if the cultists can’t be growing their own food, or showing themselves to get it, and none of the mines have their own stores – who are the grocers in town?! Or the biggest merchants at the market, who could broker a more significant supply?”
Once Ilhane’s left, Alaïs finds a drink of her own and waves cheerfully to Broccan and Edrukk to invite them over. “Moonmeadow was not particularly forthcoming,” she says, turning to Kata, “but he didn’t seem to be hiding much. Then again, I didn’t pursue too pointed a line of questioning, so it’s all too possible that he was able to discreetly fob me off. Fop me off? Anyway.” “He’s something alright,” she continues, her tone suggesting that it’s something she wouldn’t care to get on her skirts, “but working with Smenk more than he absolutely has to? I don’t see it. Also, I – ah – seem to have talked myself into looking into a feast for his people? His usual seems to be cancelled this season, and, well. I can handle it! Especially if we find this Triad cell, put it down, rifle their coffers, that sort of thing, to really make it a proper party. I’d welcome ideas about who might be able to help with catering and decorations and such, though.” She has the decency to look somewhat abashed to bring her unfamiliarity with Diamond Lake to her local friends again, but needs must, and she hopes they feel they could do the same if their situations are ever reversed. For now, though, she hopes their investigations about where the Ebon Triad might be hiding were a bit more fruitful.
Alaïs gets the distinct feeling that she’s wandered into a transaction that’s going completely over her head, but that's about it, and she doesn’t like it; it reminds her too much of her childhood as the youngest in her family. What is going on? "I rather feel I must apologize for not being my oldest brother," she says ruefully. "He's quite interested in earth magic, and I'm sure the two of you could have wonderful chats about gemology." Well. In for a copper, in for a platinum, and it might help sell it if she bruits her story about in case Moonmeadow has any doubts about her sincerity. "It's not really where my talents run to," she adds, committing to the bit, "but I did just have a moment getting some advice from Prince Moonmeadow, about some interests in mines back home. Well, home-ish. Among the neighbours, really..." Please don't ask too much about Elistia, she tries to beam telepathically to the others' minds. Who's in charge there again? Surely I haven't let the name slip already? She's pretty sure she can more or less carry off a superficial conversation of society circles in the parts she's situated her family's imaginary mines, if not.
Alaïs isn't the best at reading people, but as Ilhane finishes her drink, it's obvious that whatever this was, it's over for now. "I wish you the best for the what's left of the morning," she nods as the chemist takes her leave, and takes a last long shot herself in an attempt to add to her picture of how Diamond Lake works, "and for Autumn's End, when it comes, if Minemaster Smenk and the others hold their own feasts." Maybe they can play the mine owners' competitiveness and pride against them, if not even gesturing to the occasion would result in a loss of face? Not, mind you, that Alaïs isn't sure that planning actual parties is much better left to less pinching individuals.
Having about a month to plan a party for four score on her own, or with whichever of some rather new friends she can blandish into helping out, isn’t exactly something Alaïs has a lot of experience with. And it would be awkward to send back home for help sorting everything out at the last minute, whether by messenger through the usual channels, or an extravagant series of spells, which would be really tricky for the details anyway. She’s sure that it will work out somehow: some sort of subscription to appeal to the better natures of the more comfortable in Diamond Lake, perhaps? In the worst case, left to her own devices, it will provide even more motivation to find the Triad cell quickly and despoil it. Such are the thoughts revolving in Alaïs' mind as she tracks the others down in a much more convivial space than Moonmeadow’s lair. It takes her a moment to read the room, and what she finds there is a bit odd. There’s a post-set buzz in the air, and it’s not hard to see why, from where Kata’s standing, but there seems to be a curiously generous amount of space being given to her sister bard, compared to the well-wishers and would-be drinking companions one might expect. Even Broccan, Edrukk, and Venelle seem to be keeping their distance, which is – oh, maybe it has something to do with the eager woman in elegant black? Shop-talk with another musician? Has Alaïs missed a fabulous duet? That might explain it. The elven lady is many things, but she has never been accused of a lack of self-confidence, so she strolls over boldly to join their conversation. “Oh, hello, Kata! Any joy of things this morning?” she says cheerfully, before turning to the stranger. “I beg your pardon, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Alaïs Thalanassa. I hope I’m not interrupting. But you know how bards gravitate together in a room, as if to form a spontaneous band of waits. Are you also musical?” True to her upbringing, her lightly Elven-accented voice sparkles through an effortless burst of small talk to soften her intrusion.
“If anyone could do with a squarer meal than usual from time to time, I think miners would be high on the list,” Alaïs nods to Aerel, trying (and mostly failing) to imagine what it must be like to spend day after day hacking away at and hauling ore. “Fortunately, there’s still some time, isn’t there?” she adds, thinking of the date. “What makes for an enjoyable feast in this part of Varisia? How many usually attend? That will give us some idea of what might be possible. I’ll think it over, and in the interval, if something comes up ... I’ve been strolling in the hills a bit lately, but my letters are being delivered at the general store, and I do try to keep up with them. I’ll be in touch with himself, certainly, and - until then - wish you a good day.” Once she’s got some idea of what she has to work with, Alaïs saunters off with a nod. If it comes down to it, she wonders how far she can stretch a goodberry salad, and how long it would keep, and, most of all, how delightful it would be if she and her friends could thrash a wicked cult and turn their pelf towards good ends instead. That means finding said cult first, and she drifts towards the centre of town to find the others, hoping they’ve had a bit more luck than she’s had.
“Oh no, that won’t do!” Alaïs immediately protests, positively aghast at the idea of cancelling a party. “What’s needed? I’m afraid this far from home there’s only so much I can scrabble together on short notice, but there must be something I can…” Something a bit more rustic than she’s used to might have to do, but given time to forage for wildflowers, and any berries and such in season, and to do a bit of hunting. After all, she and her friends seem to have somehow saddled themselves with an owlbear chick that will need to be taught how to look after its needs, she can only presume – not being an animal trainer herself – the sooner the better. As the unhappy maid appears, the bard allows her fervid imagination to pause for a moment as she explains, “I gather there’s a problem with a feast? I’d be happy to help, if I can.” What is it with Moonmeadow’s people and the Emporium? Granted, Lazare’s House seems to be the place to be, as far as Alaïs has been able to tell from her time in Diamond Lake, but at least Zalamandra’s has more interesting people and business around than the Spinning Giant or, gods help them all, the Feral Dog.
Again, Alaïs is unsure of what to make of the biggest elf around town. He seems to be in earnest, as far as she can tell, and if his attitude seems rather overbearing and interfering compared to leadership as she knows it, well, he has been living cheek-by-jowl with shorter-lived folk for who knows how long, and, sadly, she can well imagine that that rubs off on a person in unfortunate ways. There’s a reason such elves are known as the Forlorn, after all. She takes her leave, not quite sure if she’s been skillfully put off by someone with something to hide, but trusting her gut for now. Moonmeadow all but makes her shiver, as if he casts a chill as cold as his stretched shadow is unearthly long, but his scorn for Smenk seems real enough, so not a likely candidate for helping to hide a lunatic cult. “You’ve certainly given me much to think on,” Alaïs says as she rises and flutters through the polite valedictions. “Of course, putting your advice to best use might have to wait until I can visit my people personally, but what I can do from here…”
For all her uneasiness with Moonmeadow himself, she takes her time leaving his domain, trying to get a sense of his people, their moods, and what might be going on in their lives. Like Moonmeadow said, those blessed by a position of influence owe it to their own to look after them. And, after all, the wicked side of her just can’t help but discreetly goggle at the Kyonin-lite effect of his enclave. “The prince had some interesting suggestions,” she dangles casually to the servants as she arranges her outer layers. “It is good to be among one’s own people, and I’m glad that there’s something for us even in Diamond Lake.” She lets her eyes linger longer on the friendlier older couple than on the standoffish maid, though she certainly does wonder what the story is there. “Though it’s also been refreshing to see the wider world, I must admit. If the town ever tempts you on a free evening and I can be of help, please don’t be shy. Or I can stop by again with a song and a tale? It’s no trouble, and it’s the sort of thing I do.” Fine lady though she may be, Alaïs is also a bard, and that is as bards do. She lives off gossip and stories almost as much as song and wine.
“Hmm. I think see what you mean,” Alaïs says equably. It sounds pretty good to her, though she’s not sure whether he actually believes it, even if it outmaneuvering all the other mine owners must be a very sensitive, long-term project. Maybe she was wrong about him? She can extend the benefit of the doubt. Still. “ – though I think we’ll have to cordially disagree about the Emporium. Not quite to our tastes, to be sure, but not every vintage can be exceptional, and I suppose there must be some place even for small beer in this world, as it were, goddesses help us.” The oenophile tries to sketch her metaphor delicately, feeling she ought to say something, but not wanting to offend Briar either by being too snobby or by mouthing off like a would-be champion of a world she knows nothing about, really. A wicked part of her wonders if she could introduce her brother’s friend’s colleague to the question, and see what a nest of Calistrians putting their heads together might do to disabuse Moonmeadow of his misapprehensions. This Miss Strixis sounds like a handful in all the best ways, she thinks, before refocusing on matters at hand with a smile. “But as I said, the thrust of your argument is well taken. Family, as you say, and I’ll do my best to remember that. I’m the youngest, you see, so my experiences, as far as extending the idea to keeping everyone happy in other contexts… So on that note, how do you defuse disagreements so resentment and gossip don’t … turn sour?” Inwardly, she’s rather pleased with herself for finding a word that she thinks fits both wining and mining, though even Alaïs would admit that poisonous air down a shaft is much worse than drinks gone off.
Walking into Moonmeadow’s domain feels rather like stepping into a trap, knowing that, for all her scorn, he is an influential figure about town, while Alaïs – isn’t. As such she keeps her brows leveled and her nose unwrinkled – despite her Findeladlaran sensibilities – at what can generously be described as an … ambitious attempt at emulating the architecture of her homeland. Both the gothic pile itself and the creeping claustrophobia match his name, at least, unless it’s the other way around: certainly, if anyone she’s met could live up to the slanderous stories other people tell of elves hunting outsiders through the fields of nights, it’s the unnerving wraith she gets ushered to. Taking him in her last opportunity for choosing her words, it’s brought home to Alaïs that even people as long-lived as theirs eventually need to move on from this world: whether to Sovyrian, or elsewhere in the planes, or, if they’re seekers after the Brightness, rebirth. If she clings too long herself, what will she look like? Like the sparkle on wine and of laughter, as evanescent and immaterial as both, in contrast to Moonmeadow’s sombre adornments? With Moonmeadow:
“Your highness,” she begins, humouring his pretensions with a straight face and even tone, though her body language indicates her confidence in her own standing, before launching into the tale she’s planning to weave with what she hopes he’ll take as fellow aristocratic frankness, “I know we haven’t got on well, since we met, but I’m not too proud to admit when I’ve been wrong, or when I need help. The fact is, I’m in a bit of a bind, and I’m not sure what to do. I recently came into a share of the company managing our extractive interests in the Hold of Elistia, and I’ll admit that mining is more complicated to manage than I thought. So many things going on at once, as you well know! Mishaps at the face, and the ensuing delays, rivalries among the pit gangs… The latest news I’ve just had from my people! How do you do it? I throw myself upon your better nature, sir, for any advice you can offer. I’ll gladly make it known that I was wrong, and if you have any affairs in Kyonin that could benefit from the good offices of a Thalanassa, I’m the woman for you. Here and now, if it means going down into the depths of your operations to learn from your workers, to emerge blinking and besmirched in the light of the sun so you can show me owning my mistake, ‘See, the Lady Alaïs, humbled, learns the truth of the work from the dust, and confesses the ignorance of her previous boasts!’, so be it.”
With his staff: After making her appeal to the master of the place, and hearing his reply with as much composure as she can, she lingers for a moment with his staff on the way out, trying to be friendly – and to spin whatever they might have overheard of her interview as sympathetically as she can. In any case, she offers a night of tales and to stand them all a bottle either the next time they have a night off on the town, or to come visit them downstairs. Baroness Ceri-Moel she may be, but that’s also very far away as she gallivants about Varisia, and she’s not a complete snob. Is that what’s set the maid’s nose out of joint? Does she have family in Moonmeadow’s pits? The aristocratic poet treads as carefully as she can.
After everyone’s had their sweet breakfast and they’ve exchanged their farewells with their host – if Alaïs focuses on these things to not think about what it means that they’ve found a talisman to help control a horrifically destructive device, and possibly been embroiled in a prophecy about the end of the world, she thinks she can hardly be blamed for that – Alaïs braces herself for trying to deal with Ellival Moonmeadow, and starts strategizing for a confrontation that she would enjoy more if he weren’t such a piece of work as he is. She hardly notices Allustan’s brother as their paths briefly cross outside. Instead, she rejoices in how even Diamond Lake can’t entirely deprive the morning of its glory, and takes her leave of the others to stretch her legs and gather her thoughts until such time as it’s a reasonable hour to see about getting hold of her chosen mine owner. * * * In the interval, remembering how much better she would have felt in the battle with the armoured elementals, or if she ever faces skeletons again, with a crushing weapon that fits in one hand, to allow her to keep her shield, Alaïs browses among the offerings of the weaponsmiths in town, and eventually finds a morningstar that meets her requirements in weight, handling, and acceptable aesthetics. She also stops by the general store, where she is pleasantly surprised to find a letter waiting for her, addressed in her youngest brother’s familiar hand. It is an agreeable distraction from overthinking her forthcoming investigation: at least, until, among the expected news from home and priestly prattle, one particularly startling passage leaps out at her: From Ascyron’s letter:
“… which reminds me, dearest sister, I have a tiny boon to crave of you. Do you know Calanthielle, high priestess of the House of Autumn Veils, between the branches of the K.--- River? I can’t recall if you’ve ever met. In any case, one of the under-priestesses of one of her people – well. I’m sure you can imagine, given what happened there, and it would be a favour to me to let me do a favour to Calanthielle, and between the two of us, we decided, since you’re still in the barbarian vastnesses (or fastnesses – regardless, will you be in the Mierani soon, incidentally? I can't see you enjoying too long away from civilization), that it would be lovely if you could be a friendly face for a bit on her way to Magnimar, rather than sending her there directly or - Goddess forbid! - to Riddleport.
Don’t look at me (fine, my letter) like that. She’s perfectly charming, by all accounts. Just dabbles a bit in singing, but she’s a fine dancer, and she knows a bit about your profane hocus-pocus. An even better theologian and historian, and by rights by now – but anyway, for reasons of her own, I gather, she has resumed the rank of one of the Courtesans of her House. One of your tribe, and very good at her work, I hear, though, since you know I wouldn’t dream of transgressing into your ladies’ privities, the details escape me. I would say you could ask her, and even better – if you and your Hyalinnea weren’t content to yearn so revoltingly for one another. (For the sake of all our sanities, are you planning on making it official any time soon? The two of you would make a ruddy Shelynite blush, may the Sting come to us gently! I’m glad that I’m only your brother and you’re not in my cure. But I digress.) Anyway, again, I’m sure you’ll get on like a house on fire. Oh! Where have my wits gone? Her name’s Adonara Strixis, and Calanthielle tells me that she’ll be sending her off as soon as…” There’s an irony that Alaïs is sure Calistria appreciates that the offending brother is the person in her circle best-placed to tell her under what circumstances the goddess would approve of fratricide, as a commensurate act of vengeance. From what the aggravated aristocrat can infer from the rest of the letter’s gossip, Ascyron must have sat on the letter for a while before sending it (admittedly, adding a few more delightful anecdotes), such that, assuming no unexpected delays, this … this Adonara person will be arriving in Diamond Lake any day now, with her trunks in tow and innocently expecting that her colleagues in the church have oh-so-thoughtfully arranged for a contact and welcoming party for her in the depths of Varisia. Alaïs carefully gathers herself so she’s not glowering, before she draws herself up to her full height and swoops off to beard Moonmeadow in his den. At least her irritation with her brother has given her the energy to resist any nonsense on the part of the parvenu miner.
The colour that left Alaïs’ cheeks at the realization that Kho had a bloody sphere of annihilation to play around with rushes back as she realizes belatedly that the little compliments and effusive niceties that pepper the conversation in some of the circles she knows best might be a bit much for Allustan, especially hard on the heels of a gift. “Oh, certainly not, perish the thought!” she exclaims. “We wouldn’t dream of it! I’m sorry to have spoken so carelessly as to give rise to any such misapprehension. But –” If any finger-jab could be described as languid, the gesture the elven poet makes toward her wizard friend with the hand not occupied with a bit of funnel cake can. “– in the interests of avoiding such, if ever you have occasion to visit us in Kyonin - tricky with the passports, I know, but nonetheless - you should be prepared to be showered with little gifties, just because. That’s the way it works, and that applies to all of you.” The ferocity of her nod around the table is rather undercut by her smile and the bit of sweet she still has to nibble on.
Allustan's brow wrinkles. "Neff can be... challenging, but I am his brother, and he will help if I talk to him. I can certainly ask. How long do we suppose this cult has been in operation?" As Allustan asks about timelines as he turns to examine the adventurers’ finds, Alaïs thinks over what Filge said and what she’s been able to piece together from his notes and morbid treasures, realizing that that was something she forgot to consider. “Smenk’s creature wasn’t particularly talkative about where he came from, but long enough for some correspondence to go to and fro before he was summoned here. He had … aspirations, and seems to have run afoul of Hellknights, so perhaps from Korvosa? Or Magnimar? I would think by way of one of the larger cities in Varisia, at any rate, so … as for the cult, at least a couple of months? Long enough to get comfortable and start causing trouble for their hosts.” She’s obviously guessing wildly, betraying the attitude to time and space of a lady of leisure whose people have access to a portal network when they need to travel quickly. “He also seems to have thought they’re in the Dourstone mine, but that could have been misdirection or a misconception on the part of someone who’s about as well-versed in local affairs as I’m,” Alaïs says ruefully, before quieting as Allustan signals his satisfaction with his inspection of the royal treasures. She pales as her friend identifies the talisman of the sphere, blurting out, “So that’s what it was in the reliefs! I had thought it might be some sort of spell, but in that case… I’ve heard of something similar back home, the legacy of a terrible tragedy, but a sphere of annihilation sounds even worse. Thanks be to the Guiding Hand, but there wasn’t any sign of the sphere itself in the Cairn. I can only hope the weight of ages has claimed even such a thing as that.” She’s wondering if Allustan would care to visit the Whispering Cairn himself to see the enspelled reliefs, when Broccan shyly produces the staff they found in the lower levels. It’s a generous gift, and the aristocrat’s brow furrows as it occurs to her, not for the first time, that they really need to get the young man to be less bashful, though that’s easy for someone like her to say, and less easy to guide him to it.
“Mhm,” she hums with a nod of agreement and encouragement as Broccan finds his confidence, chiming in, “We’d be at quite a loss without your help, and you are so kindly assisting us with freeing the poor elementals bound so long in a place forgotten to boot. I can think of no sage worthier to steward an artifact from the first days of Kho, and only hope that it won’t prove all too useful if we can’t stamp out this infiltration of the Ebon Triad before they can work out we’re coming for them.” Alaïs sits up a bit more purposefully in her seat at that, the warrior (or at least the sportswoman) in her responding to the thought of quarry.
Sounds good! IIRC, we had even rolled some dice for our first steps in investigating the mines just after the post you linked to at the end of the recap before the heading for the new chapter, and I don't think you'd hear any complaints about taking those to set us up with the results of the first stages of our investigation. *Searches her music library for something suitable for an
"Indeed." Allustan wrinkles his nose as he retrieves the last of the funnelcakes and takes them into the focused kitchen area. "How do you mean to get access to these mines? There is little I can do, but..." His eyes dart towards the ancient grandfather clock. "My brother will be visiting in less than an hour. I could beg him to pull a few strings here and there for you, but I first need to know which strings to pull. Do you intend to confront the six mine managers directly, speak with their employees, enter their mines...?" Gently, gently, Alaïs thinks, considering the delicacy of the cat’s-cradle of connections and influences the Ebon Triad is exploiting to manipulate their, er, catspaws, to labour the metaphor. As much as she might be amused to drop a convenient owlbear chick into said cradle, as it were, that probably would only make matters more difficult. She wonders how well Allustan and his brother get on, too. As the baby in her family, Alaïs shamelessly exploits her position to wheedle favours out of her own brothers, but not everyone’s family dynamics allow the playing of the frustratingly adorable brat card. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to actually pull any strings,” the aristocrat says glibly (and very much stretching the point for politeness’ sake), “but if you and your brother are on gossipy enough terms, might I that you discreetly inquire to see if any strings are particularly worth pulling? If the Triad’s lurking in one of the mines, I suppose business as usual would slow or change as miners have to be kept from whatever shaft the cult is occupying, unless they’ve been pressed into service. So … declining profits, perhaps, or a new vein being explored…? Or just any interesting new developments, I suppose.” As other ideas starts to pop up around the table, she adds, resignedly, “And I’ll try to talk to that Moonmeadow mite. I doubt it will be very cordial actually, but by the same token perhaps that leaves an opening to tempt his vanity into betraying something useful.”
Turning back to Allustan, she asks, “If you have a moment, we’d appreciate it if you could take at the look at this crown, and … hmm, this odd little lorgnette? Or whatever it is. If it once had a lens, it seems to be missing now. I’m sure they’re magical, but they seem to have defeated my ingenuity for the moment. Turning it over in the back of my mind overnight – and with a divination or two into the mix – might help, but I thought, why not ask a more experienced scholar?”
As she catches Broccan’s huffed snatch of world-weary song, Alaïs laughs, her merriment sparkling in contrast to Kata’s gravity. “Indeed! And I plan to continue feeling fine for a good long time yet, to say nothing of not leaving my home through a gate to parts unknown to me, thank you very much!”
In another moment, she’s a bit more serious again, adding, “Hopefully it is a coincidence, and if not, and if the Triad is this scavengers’ triumvirate, it sounds like if we want to cheat the prophecy as it stands, we’ll have to make sure they don’t win anyway.” “Not, mind you, that we don’t have reason enough to thwart them as it is, even if they’re just lunatics, once we find which mine they’re lurking in,” she says, bowing her head in acknowledgement of Kata’s judgement. “I suppose that might be the first tricky part. I don’t imagine the owners here are keen on offering tours.”
With Briar reading and Kata to suggest a tune, Alaïs is able to absorb both the text and the musical possibilities of the morbid little song. What a rotten thought, in more ways than one, though I suppose mostly inevitable, in the long run. Although it does still count as dying if one abandons the world for the planes, doesn’t it? Avoids the worms, too! Out of respect for Kata’s dedication to Pharasma, Alaïs decides not to speculate on possible loopholes. Instead, she pieces together what she can from the words, humming the tune to get a better feel for it. “Hmm. Let’s see, so the Ebon Triad and three black birds, Filge’s worm and – well, all that, and the end of the world as we know it. But drawing down the moon? Is that a hint of Earthfall? I suppose it hasn’t been too long a delay of doom in the grand scheme of things. And the worms were … riding the Starstone? Or the moon? Although about ‘what ought to crawl,’ is it a good thing if that thing we find doesn’t turn into some sort of moth, or not?” “It sounds like we ought to stop those ‘crows,’ at any rate,” the aristocrat says, lifting her chin to toss defiance at fate, certain that this prophecy is best defanged.
“I’m afraid we don’t have much call for Varisian at home,” Alaïs admits. “I’ll have to acquire more regional languages as soon as I can.” Certainly the common tongue of Garund, if we want to get a sensible history of the Old-Mage’s successors. “Nor were we particularly nudged towards prophecy: there were four of us children, so after the eldest started exploring elemental magic, my parents thought it would be amusing to encourage us to share out the energies among us,” she adds, making herself comfortable as she narrows the sense of home that she’s gossiping about. “Works better for some spellcasting traditions than others, of course.”
“Turning it quite upside-down,” Alaïs admits with a perverse sort of pride. “We discovered a hidden upper passage defended by some diabolical traps – ” She slows, modulating her tone out of respect for Caith’s memory, “ – and discovered a gallery with a series of simply spectacular enspelled reliefs depicting a war from what I can only presume was the earliest days of the Shory. Early enough that Jatembe’s Magic Warriors, or some of the first to follow in that tradition, were involved. Candidly, history is not my strongest suit.” “There was a rather unfortunate bit of business with some sort of bound guardians that were determined to put the most unflattering construction on our presence there, and in the end we found what must actually have been the true tomb that motivated the whole complex. It might have been a bit presumptuous to assume that our ‘need is great and cause is true,’ in this age when reliable omens are lost, but under the circumstances, since we now know that the tomb could be breached with enough determination, it seemed best to accept the inscription’s invitation and remove the regalia of the interred for safekeeping.” With that introduction, Alaïs happily settles in out of Allustan’s way to put the details in better order, enjoying the prospect of testing out her tale of the clash with the judgmental elementals.
“Good morning, Master Allustan,” Alaïs says easily, sweeping after her host. Unfortunately, with her lifting mood, she’s got a bit of the demon in her and lives down to stereotype, her flair for the dramatic given free rein. “Oh, you know, this and that. We finished our explorations of the Cairn, found the last resting place of the first king of Kho, and turned up a few things regarding which we’d appreciate a second opinion.” There is nothing in her tone to suggest that this is other than an ordinary start to the day as she leans casually against the sideboard and holds up the crown they found. “Do you need any help with that?” she asks ingenuously, glance flickering to the frying cakes. While she is enjoying herself, she really does hope her words don’t startle the sage enough to cause an accident.
“He’s a wizard friend helping us think of ways of sending Artophanx home,” Alaïs explains cheerfully to Seeker, about Allustan. “I hope you can avoid too much horrid sunlight until we meet again.” Meeting with said friend is a much happier prospect than taking up with the weird eyes controlling what’s left of the bird later, and, unlike Seeker, once out in the morning again, Alaïs brightens almost visibly, taking a deep breath of the sun-pierced air. She briefly considers setting the diadem on her head for the trip down, but thinks better of it while it’s still unclear what it might do. “And then, I suppose, we will have to see about that cult, whether they’re really down in the Dourstone mine or somewhere else.” Her mouth closes for a moment as, out of respect for Edrukk and Broccan’s sensibilities (as dwarf and miner as the case may be), the elven lady decides not to complain about the prospect of another subterranean excursion. She settles on what is surely unobjectionable with a sigh, “I wish one of my brothers were here. Any of them might have ideas about shining a light into dark places. Literally, in Ascyron’s case, since he’s a priest of the Unquenchable Fire.” “Still, ‘if wishes were flowers, we’d all live in bowers,’ as they say.”
After a moment, Alaïs pinches the bridge of her nose and shakes her head. “At the start of the Age of Darkness, as far as the tales I know have it, there was an understandable effort to cling to magic that would preserve the memory of the light and colour of day…” “But that was a very, very long time ago, even by our standards. And as much as it pains me to say it – in more ways than one – whatever this sinister little thing is, it’s making my head hurt. I could use some fresh air and sunlight, and maybe Allustan would have a better idea about what it might be.”
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