Phantrel Springleaf's page

Frowning, Phantrel looks up at the sound of splashing as Argatha soaks Raka with some freshly conjured water. With the only sources of magic the dagger and pendant - not a surprise given what they have learned about the rest of them - he decides that perhaps they are not the origin of the fell power. Having successfully snapped Colin out of his desire to clean, Phantrel abandons his spell for now and copies Xira's action by walking over to Brimble and giving the kobold a brisk shake. "I'm sorry, Brimble" he says, reaching down, "but I thought you would probably prefer this to an impromptu shower."

Move next to Brimble and give him a shake.

"If we can get them to stop, we should," Phantrel says, "though I'm not sure how easy that might be." Physically tackling Raka might take at least a couple of them. "It doesn't seem to be doing any obvious physical harm to them currently at least. Ideally I think the best course of action would be to cut off whatever is invading our thoughts at the source. I can feel the presence of magic here," he indicates the corpse, "so I'm going to see if I can discern what it is and hopefully that might lead to an idea of how to suppress it."

"Xira, maybe see if Droskar's rune has any magic to it as well? Gods' symbols are a often a source of power." Phantrel points above the doorway, while keeping his mind focused on the spell.

Keep focusing with detect magic.

Perception DC 15: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (16) + 5 = 21

"That's not exactly reassuring," Phantrel says. "Although it does make a certain kind of sense given the seemingly endless list of chores marked on the wall. That one, however," he indicates a line of runic script, "is even more concerning." He reads it aloud to the group: "I killed her. I killed him. I killed them both. I am damned."

* * * * *

As he suspected was likely, Phantrel cannot tell whether the dwarf's death was caused by one of the shades. While he's looking at the body, however, he starts to feel the hairs on his arms stand on end. Something strange is happening here and he realises that his hand is slowly making a move towards the piece of chalk. Stopping the forward motion of his arm, he calls, "'Ware! There's some kind of strange magic afoot. Be on your guard." He indicates the chalk on the ground. "Something is making me want to pick it up, drawing my hand towards it. I suggest that nobody does so until we can determine what might be causing the effect." With one hand still on Thunder-follows-Lightning, the half-elf keeps his wannabe-wandering hand in place and moves his fingers through the gesture of a spell, his focus on the chalk.

Casting detect magic to take in the chalk and the body.

Phantrel stops wondering what the dwarves might have grown down here and puts down the rake he was inspecting. "That's an unpleasant thought," he says, heading over to look at the body. In the heat of the moment, there was a lot going on and grabbing Lord Highcliff's weapon was his priority, not to mention the fact that the body here is extremely old, but Phantrel figures it's worth looking to see if there's anything on the corpse that resembles what happened to their unfortunate employer.

Heal: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (11) + 3 = 14

Sense motive DC 15: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (9) + 7 = 16 From a little way back

Phantrel feels that Thunder-follows-Lightning was not keen to divulge the information about the daggers, it perhaps being something the blade perceives as personal and it is being protective over the dwarven culture. His hunch seems to be confirmed when it speaks up again.

Thunder-follows-Lightning is silent a little bit as our heroes displaced ordinary folk discuss the daggers-- which represent, if nothing else, more wealth than any of them have ever touched before-- and what ought be done with them.

Eventually, it says to Phantrel, Your people.... you do not wish to simply profit from the daggers, nor to give them to Auric's consortium? You wish to .... honor their owners, to do what is in accordance with the customs of the stone-born?

Phantrel can sense that the blade feels surprised-- and cautiously approving.

No, he replies, surprised in turn by the surprise in Thunder-follows-Lightning’s ‘voice’. These are personal items, it would be wrong to take them. I think most people try to respect the customs and possessions of other peoples, especially those concerning the dead. Not everyone, he admits, and I agree that it is likely that anything we were to bring out would be claimed by the company. He looks in the direction of Brimble, the kobold being the one who made the comment. As the most experienced in the ways of the GMC, he probably knows what he’s talking about, and Phantrel’s personal experience with large corporations aligns with this theory too.

As the sword is being a little more open, Phantrel offers up some information in return. You should know - though I would guess you probably already do - that walking these halls would likely be considered an important discovery. Little is known of… the stone-born, did you call them? As a result many people are fascinated by them. Some will simply wish to learn all they can of them, for some reason Colin and Em’s faces float into his head, though others would undoubtedly seek the wealth and power that such discoveries may bring.

Mostly I just want to get out of here, he sighs, though that looks to be more challenging than I originally thought it was going to be.

Brimble’s call on the latest discovery brings the conversation to an end, piercing the grey clouds that had been gathering in his mind. Phantrel heads down the corridor and enters the bed chamber. ”A horrible way to go indeed,” he agrees with Colin.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (13) + 5 = 18

He peruses the items, looking for clues about who their owner may have been.

It turns out that arcane theory is no substitute for putting it into practice and when the group hold the daggers, none of them can detect any of the benefits Phantrel suggested would apply to the bearer. At this point Thunder-follows-Lightning pipes up in his head, giving an explanation of what they are. It doesn’t outright say that his reading of the items was wrong, but there is a plausible theory that it was based on the fact that the daggers are so strongly tied to individuals.

He explains what his swordcane has imparted, apologising for his optimism about the blades’ usefulness. ”Alas, I may have misinterpreted the magic. And I agree,” he says to Argatha and Xira, ”for now it makes sense to use them if necessary, but let’s hope we have no need. What worries me is that if they are linked closely to individuals, why are there so many of them left here?” he continues. ”I would perhaps expect them to be the kind of item one might always carry on their person. Or something that might be buried with them upon death, though I know nothing of Dwarven customs.”

At Brimble’s call, the half-elf comes to translate the numerous writings on the wall of the hallway. Again, it’s mostly tasks and a record of their progress, though with some sayings mixed in.

Phantrel murmurs inaudibly, the mental equivalent of a nod of recognition. Apparently pushing back a bit had got him somewhere and Thunder-follows-Lightning was more forthcoming as a result. Thank you, he replies.

He’s definitely learned some things and decides to share them with the group. ”I’ve been speaking with Thunder-follows-Lightning and it believes that this level is likely to be only stores,” he announces. ”Which tallies with what we’ve found, though the supplies have definitely been useful. However, it suggests that in order to find better weapons we would probably need to go up a level. And yes,” he adds grimly, ”it thinks that it would be prudent to be armed. The original inhabitants may be long gone but there may still be guardians of stone or metal, probably more mechanical traps for the unwary too. And possibly other interlopers more troublesome than rats or silverspore, not to mention the possibility of more shade-creatures.” Phantrel shivers involuntarily, his flesh where the creature had touched him still numb and burning with cold, even though the contact was light. Having seen what it did to Lord Highcliff, he doesn’t want to dwell on his fate had the shadow got a firm hold on him.

After a pause to let that sink in, the half-elf continues, ”It hasn’t been in these halls before – I assume, though I don’t know for certain, that it was crafted in another Dwarven city – but it seems to have a sense of how they are generally structured. Or it’s inferring things from the signs and messages. Either way I think this seems sensible advice and again fits with what I think we have managed to piece together.” Seeing no need to mention the disagreement with his new sword, and with it settled at least for the present, Phantrel says nothing of the matter.

He is also able to give some more time and consideration to the items that the others have been scavenging from the store rooms. At Xira’s call, Phantrel comes over to examine the array of daggers and pendants that she has carefully laid out.

Perception DC 15: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20
Spellcraft DC 15: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (18) + 5 = 23
Spellcraft DC 17: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20
That’ll do nicely!

”I think you have the right of it,” he agrees, as Xira shows him how the pendants slot into the empty dagger pommels. Having seen the young woman do so, he too works through the words and gestures to a simple spell. ”There seems to be some minor magic on both types of items too. As far as I can tell, the ornaments have been inscribed with some kind of personal mark, maybe an identifier.”

He picks up a dagger, holding it up to the light in order to examine it more closely. ”This seems more interesting though – or at least I find it so. They appear to have been enchanted as a set so anyone in possession of one of these knives can monitor where its companion blades are. That’s extremely useful to a squad of guards or a battalion of soldiers. Or indeed a group of lost miners,” he smiles at Xira before returning his focus to the dagger. As he scrutinises it, something falls into place in his understanding and he lets out a breath of astonishment. ”There’s something else to it as well. I think – though I could be wrong on this – that it also alerts its bearer as to how its fellow bearers are faring in terms of health and whether they need aid. This is a rare gift indeed.”

Phantrel is a patient man but Thunder-follows-Lightning is beginning to wear at the edges of his forbearance. What was intended as a brief marriage of convenience against an immediate threat seems to be growing increasingly inconvenient, the sword’s ego and superiority grating against the half-elf’s humble outlook and lifestyle. Obviously not, Phantrel returns, mirroring the weapon’s sarcasm given his preferred method of speaking softly seems not to be generating results. Otherwise I would not have risked my life by picking you up. But speak plainly. If there are other creatures here, name them. The same with the other dangers that you allude to but fail to spell out. We have established that you know far more than the rest of us but it’s of little use unless you tell us what you know and how to make use of it.

He’s glad that the rest of the group is spared the sword’s comments. You seem to be under the impression that ‘my people’ are warriors rather than simple labourers - miners and farmers and craftsfolk. If we do not know how to swing a sword to your satisfaction it’s because most of us have probably never had cause and certainly not the training. So you can either help us get out of here and then we can go our separate ways when you find yourself a bearer you deem more worthy, or we can all struggle our way to an inglorious death.

?: 1d20 ⇒ 8

Not sure if there’s some kind of battle of will needed here? Have a d20 roll to use if applicable.

Thunder-follows-Lightning’s answers are vague and Phantrel has the distinct feeling that he’s said something wrong. Whatever the cause, the sword seems to be in some kind of mood. Apparently sentient weapons have a range of emotions to match any humanoid. Still, ignoring the slight, there was some information there. The dwarves, perhaps, referred to themselves by another name. And there’s a strong suggestion that if Thunder-follows-Lightning was a proof of concept, there were - are? - likely other similar weapons. How common they might be is another question, though presumably there can’t have been too many of them or more would likely have been discovered and come to prominence, at least outside of humble backwaters like Salt Spire. More to ask about later, anyway.

While he and Colin examine the silverspore, deciding for the present to leave it be, the others begin exploring some of the store rooms off the main corridor. Phantrel is content to leave them to it while he tries to regain some kind of equilibrium after recent events.

Sense motive DC 15: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (17) + 7 = 24

Having been silent for a while, his swordcane pipes up after Em’s comment regarding moving to a different floor. Food and drink are important too, Phantrel mentally replies. We’re not going to be able to survive much without basic supplies. But thank you, that’s useful. What would we need weapons for though? he asks, curious and a little concerned. Thunder-follows-Lightning’s advice seems sound but the half-elf senses that its eagerness to head up is concealing something else. While it’s practical to be armed, this place is abandoned. And we already have one incredible blade, he adds, happy to stroke the sword’s ego a little.

The scavenged sustenance isn’t bad, and frankly on an empty stomach most things quickly become palatable. The smokiness of the beer isn’t unpleasant but Phantrel considers it to be an acquired taste, and one he’s yet to develop. He snorts at Brimble’s joke, finding it hard to disagree with the kobold’s assessment. ”I assume the sword would pass to his daughter,” he replies to Em. ”Or his spouse or any other children. I have no idea about the rest of his family but somebody so powerful will certainly have made arrangements in the event of their death. Though that does leave out Thunder-follows-Lightning’s opinion on the matter,” he looks at the sword lying next to him. ”I don’t suppose you found a scabbard or anything that might suffice?” he asks the storeroom explorers.

"Well, we can create water without issue, though ideally we'd want a way of concentrating it correctly," Phantrel replies to Colin. "If we can do that, I can freeze it - like I did back on the platform - and we can shatter it. Let's steer clear for now though."

Returning, Phantrel joins Em and starts to read the notes. They appear to be some sort of records or diary entries, though whoever made them did so only sporadically. He reads them aloud to the others, before opining, "There are two references to 'spikemouths'. Whatever they are, from the context it seems they are dangerous. The note about receiving no answer is also ominous."

His sword has been quiet for a while but when it pipes up, Phantrel defends Brimble. I think he's just curious. It's not really surprising - we don't know what happened to the Dwarves and it's been a very long time. People fill in the blanks with stories and ideas of their own. He looks around at their location. And this, even if it is only a labourer's level, is still impressive and is only like to fuel imaginations and questions.

He hadn't planned on engaging in a heavy conversation now, but since the opportunity has presented itself, he decides to take it. Working out the right angle to take with his next question, he asks, Are you able to tell me about your story, Thunder-follows-Lightning? How old are you? Where were you forged? Have you been to these halls before? There's a lot to chew on there so he hopes the blade is feeling talkative.

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 6 ⇒ (4) + 6 = 10

”Understood.” Phantrel takes the offered helmet and puts it on, pulling the attached material across his nose and mouth. It itches a bit and there’s a distinct odour to it, but better to err on the side of caution.

While Brimble is away scouting, Phantrel answers Raka's question. It may have been rhetorical but he deems it worth responding to anyway. "I don't know. But he's shown himself to be brave and capable, and he's got a good sense for hazards so I'd say he's got a better chance than most."

”Thunder-follows-Lightning it is. When you got time to chat with it – maybe it knows what happened to the dwarves? Or… can a sword forget things like people can? Can it change shape?” He’s going down a tangent but Phantrel opened the door a crack and that was all the room a kobold needed. He rubs his muzzle, and explains. ”I only know dwarves by legend. I only heard tell of axes, mallets, picks, and the like. So, a sword cane seems odd. But it does fit Highcliff. It made me wonder if Thunder-follows-Lightning turned into a sword cane for Highcliff. Or maybe I’m just stupid about dwarf stuff. Anyhow, if you get a chance to ask, I'd appreciate it.”

After the kobold returns and relays his findings, Phantrel listens thoughtfully. They seem to be reasonable enough questions and he has no concept of how old the sword may be, how its magic works, what it remembers. "I will," he says, though he's not exactly thrilled about the prospect. He's not ungrateful to the weapon, but equally it was a lot more than he was bargaining for when he made the decision to snatch it up. "It's quite taxing, so I'd prefer to do it when we have some time to sit and do it properly. But I agree that it might have some useful insights that would be beneficial to our situation." He pauses, musing. "I don't think it will necessarily know about these Dwarves though. Not unless Lord Highcliff had been here before, or had only just acquired Thunder-follows-Lightning himself."

Knowledge nature: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (17) + 5 = 22

"I'd like to see the mould too," he says. "Some are sensitive to the elements - fire, ice - and if we can identify it, we might be able to remove it as a hazard. I can provide light too." He runs through the motions of a simple spell and follows Brimble and Colin down the corridor.

Before he does so, he answers Argatha.

What does the writing say, GM?

"Em, perhaps you could take a look and see if there's any more script you can translate?" he suggests.

Dwarven lore DC 10: 1d1d20 + 1 ⇒ (7) + 1 = 8

Phantrel looks at the script in the kitchen but while he can read it, the words don't immediately mean anything to him and his scrambled mind can't piece them together.

* * * * *

The half-elf nods along as Brimble suggests a course of action. The kobold seems to have the measure of the group, though he suspects they all have talents and depths as yet unrevealed by their time in the mines. There’s only so much you can learn while tiredly hauling rocks.

Sense motive DC 15: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (10) + 7 = 17

”This is a far cry from my usual environment, but I’m used to foraging in the woods, locating water sources, finding my way and so on. Once I've found my bearings I hope that I might be able to manage something similar here. Nature shows itself in many forms. I know something of what grows down here – fungi and the like – though more from reading than first-hand experience." He looks over at Xira. "I don’t have your talent for drawing but I’m happy to be a second pair of eyes on the map to help ensure we’re heading in the right direction and not going round in circles. And .”

”And Thunder-follows-Lightning – my sword – would like to inform you that it has a name and would appreciate it if you could please use it.” A small smile plays on Phantrel’s lips. The sword-cane seems to have strong opinions and, as far as the half-elf can tell, would prefer to be wielded by him. Which is fine, to a point, but he doesn't consider himself a very suitable wielder and Phantrel is pretty confident that the sword's magic would need to be mighty indeed to make up for the shortfall in his own swordsmanship. "I think for now I'll keep hold of it, I don't want to irritate Thunder-follows-Lightning after it has generously shared its gifts with me." He hopes that will appease the sword and that the others understand that it's not possessiveness on his part that might be the barrier here. As he had said earlier, giving it to whoever would best be able to use it would seem the wisest course of action.

He notes, too, the disregard the blade seems to be showing towards Brimble. Because it's prejudiced against kobolds? he wonders to himself. Phantrel has had minimal contact with the creatures but he would always rather judge people for who they are and his default is to try and rub along with everybody. Life is just easier that way and to the half-elf so much conflict seems unnecessary and ultimately harmful to all parties. Brimble has shown his character and bravery and he is genuinely glad that the kobold survived. And certainly, in his opinion, they have a better chance of getting out of here with Brimble in their number. He would also probably have been Phantrel's first choice as wielder - the sword being lightweight and more manageable than a heavier weapon. Or because he's a natural leader?, which is an unsettling thought in a different way.

She says something strange to Phantrel. If he listens very closely, it sounds something like "you have dwarf ears?"

"I do now," he replies quietly, the feel on his lips strange as he recites the words, fluently but without familiarity.

* * * * *

He makes a hand gesture encompassing everything, "I realise it's just a kitchen, but what a kitchen, this is beyond amazing! Besides if we're stuck down here for a long time, getting the kitchen working again would be useful no?"

"If. Let's deal with that if it comes to it. I agree with Xira, getting out of here ought to be our priority. As amazing a find as this is, it may as well have remained hidden if we don't make it out to share the knowledge." It's a touch grim, but Phantrel doesn't think it's an inaccurate statement.

Pre-kitchen exploration

”I can,” Phantrel replies to Xira. ”I also know a little magic that will return spoiled food to an edible state, though I would have to rest and study to be able to use it. It would also rely on us finding something that may once have been food.” The trace of a smile plays on his lips. ”And I too can sense traces of magic and conjure light.”

”As for the sword…” he turns to Raka and sighs quietly, not entirely sure that he is able to vocalise much of what just happened, not least because he doesn’t really understand himself. ”Yes, it is - was -” he solemnly corrects himself, ”Lord Highcliff’s. I had the opportunity to grab it up after he fell. With it seemingly the only thing that could hurt the - what did you call it? A melly?” he asks Brimble, ”it seemed prudent to take it in case it does follow us. Or, and I apologise for putting such unpleasant thoughts into everybody’s minds, there are more of them.” He pauses for a moment to let his explanation sink in, along with his fears.

”What I was not expecting,” Phantrel continues, ”is that it is… sentient. Trust me when it say it was something of a shock discovering the sword could speak to me mentally just after I had jumped,” he says drily. ”With Lord Highcliff's passing it has seemingly chosen me as its new wielder, though I think through an accident of fate rather than for any skill with a blade that I possess. We now appear to be bonded - hence my ambiguity earlier, Em.” He turns his forearm outward and then back in again, flexing it.

”Exactly what magic it possesses I am not sure. My knowledge of spellwork is mostly limited to what helps things grow - water, light. I think it has some kind of electrical property based on what we could see earlier. And I believe it to be of Dwarven make, primarily because,” he casts around for an adequate description of what happened, ”it has gifted me the ability to speak the language as part of the process. It’s quite unnerving,” he admits, probably unnecessarily.

”I’m sure that you have many more questions - I do too - but I fear I may not be able to answer them because there is much I do not understand here. I could perhaps ask the sword but it has been taxing. The bonding process was extremely painful and I do not feel entirely myself still.” Although he is now at least able to release his grip from the sword, internally his arm is still subject to intermittent twinges.

The rescue attempt goes more or less to plan, with the chain of swimmers hauling each other along and up to the platform, the twine providing a guide and a safety net. With everyone safely out of the water, Phantrel unties the end and rolls it back into a bundle. The discovery of proper rope in one of the salvaged bags is rather more practical as Brimble bravely returns into the wet, determined to recover Carver’s pack. While he himself is unsure what’s in it, he trusts that the kobold knows what he’s doing. He’d proved himself to be competent and taking his job as safety lead seriously so if he believes there are useful and important things in there, Phantrel isn’t going to argue.

In the general hubbub, for the first time he finds himself with a little time to breathe. Still feeling a little unsteady he takes himself to the far side and slowly sits quietly for a minute. He’s not going to be much use hauling on the rope, and besides Argatha and Raka seem to have that well in hand. Ditto Colin with the pillar, though he supposes that might be something he could help with in a way that not so many minutes ago it would be totally outside his body of experience. And while he understands Em’s rallying speech for what it is, surveying the carnage in the water Phantrel struggles to see much that is glorious about it.

Still, that’s Em - she’s always been a dreamer, but one who inspires others to follow her lead too. And here of course are Xira, creative and funny, and solid and dependable Raka too. He lets his mind, still aflame from its newly ingested knowledge, wander. It doesn’t seem so long ago since those three were girls, babes even. The half-elf measures time differently, of course, but he’s still seen more harvests than the three young women combined. Colin and Argatha still have their youth. He wonders quietly how kobolds measure the passage of time...

In other circumstances, what Phantrel would like to do now is sit down with a beverage - steeped nettles with mint is a nice calming drink - and try to unpack everything that has happened. Then again, he can’t imagine any other circumstances where these events could have happened. He’d had an ulterior motive for signing up with the GMC but this most certainly did not figure into his plans. Right now they look deader in the water than, well…

He sighs deeply, trying to clear his head, before standing and joining Colin at the pillar.

You have shared fine gifts with me, Phantrel agrees, aiming for an emollient tone. I am, though I have had no formal training with a blade. I am grateful and I meant not offence. It was merely a request that in challenging circumstances, it may to be the benefit of all if one skilled in swordplay would be permitted to wield you while I used my magic. Such as now. He looks towards the various members of the group still in the water.

The half-elf curses as his spell misses the target and instead leaves an icy trail on the surface in the creature's vicinity. Since we're being honest with each other, he adds drily to his new weapon, My magic? I use it to grow and nurture things. Mostly plants. Hence... Phantrel gestures towards the patch of frost.

Watching in bemusement as Em and Xira jump off the platform and back into the water, it doesn't cross Phantrel's mind to join them. He'd already proved a liability once - and that was before Thunder-follows-Lightning did whatever it had done to him.

"I've got a ball of gardening twine," he says to Xira, slightly surprised that it might come in handy right now. "It's not rope but it is pretty strong for what it is," he adds as he starts to tie it to the ladder. The knot seems secure enough so he passes the ball to Em in order for her to continue moving it along the chain.

Tie rope: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (14) + 2 = 16
@dien I've gone with a straight Dex check here as wasn't sure what it's covered by (RIP Use rope skill). I'll gladly swap it for my Survival mod if you think that would be applicable though! =)

Even if he wanted to relinquish the sword - and having been clutching it tightly up to this point to avoid losing it in the fall and the water, he probably doesn’t - Phantrel finds that he physically can’t let go. His arm thrums with magic, knowledge, power, spreading throughout his body.

On top of his near-drowning experience, which in turn is layered upon the bone weariness he’s feeling from the hard physical labour of the mines, this is an intense experience. Phantrel has no real concept of whether seconds or years have passed but for his aching body it certainly feels more than long enough. So too for his aching head.

He sits up, coughing, which is promptly followed by a headrush and he just about manages to lean forward far enough before vomiting over the edge of the platform and into the water. Dizzy and achey, it’s a closer run thing than he’d like as to whether he, too, was going to follow it into the water.

Exactly what just happened he’s not sure. And the how of it can wait. But the weapon is now speaking more clearly so either it has drawn from him the ability to speak the common tongue or… he can now Dwarven? His head isn’t clear enough to tell, but logically he assumes the latter, else why would Thunder-follows-Lightning, as he now knows the blade is called, not have taken the linguistic improvement from Lord Highcliff? Unless he had denied the sword? Now there’s a thought.

But the sword had promised ‘improvements’ and though it’s taking a while to order his jumbled thoughts and sensations, Phantrel does feel different. And somewhere in his soul he knows that Thunder-follows-Lightning spoke truly. Whatever his new gifts are, there will be time to assess them later.

Th-thank you, he manages, slightly stunned. For the gifts, I mean. You’re Thunder-follows-Lighning, he adds redundantly. The swordcane is presumably well aware of its own name.

Right now, he realises, focusing once more on what is happening without rather than within him, they need to establish where they are and get out of there. Some of the others have managed to get to the platform too, but not all of them.

And from Em’s shriek and the ominous movements in the water, there is something in there other than the survivors and those who met their end that needs taking care of immediately. Whatever they are, his befuddled mind can’t make out exactly what type of creatures lurk beneath the dark water.

Knowledge nature to identify: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7

Xira’s words drift into his consciousness. Am I ok? Phantrel has no idea how to answer the question. He wants to laugh but fears he might throw up again. He settles for ”I’ll live. I hope,” which doesn’t come close to covering everything that has just happened and feels an awful lot like tempting fate given the current situation. He rises unsteadily to his feet.

”I… don’t know if I can give it to you, Em,” Phantrel says a little dazedly. He flexes his sword arm (he has a sword arm now?!) to try and get some feeling into it. ”I don’t think we have the time to explain properly now - I’m not sure I truly understand everything myself - but since Lord Highcliff’s death… we have a bond. The sword and me, I mean.” His lips move, trying to smile but it comes out as more of a grimace. ”But for my part at least you’re welcome to wield it.”

Is that acceptable? he asks Thunder-follows-Lightning. I don’t want us to get off on the wrong foot after your generosity. Phantrel looks over to the three dark shapes in the water. [i]Regardless, unless they come a lot closer, I’m going to need to rely on another kind of weapon. He can feel that the blade was not lying when it said it was unlocking some magical gifts but for now without time to study and explore them, he will have to rely on more mundane means. He considers retrieving his sling - when was the last time he had used it? - but his hand still seems incapable of letting go of the sword. He identifies a spell that he can cast and with his other hand walks through a new, yet strangely familiar, motion and thrusts his hand outward. A small jet of ice flies out at the creature circling close to Raka.

Attack, ranged touch ray of frost: 1d20 + 3 ⇒ (12) + 3 = 15
Damage: 1d3 + 1 ⇒ (2) + 1 = 3

Swim: 1d20 - 4 ⇒ (11) - 4 = 7

Coughing up water, Phantrel manages a spluttered "Thank you" to Argatha as the man hauls him up and starts to swim towards a nearby platform. Able to tread water at least, the half-elf is no longer a complete dead weight as Argatha continues to swim, navigating a path through the bodies. He is grateful for Em's hand up out of the water, offering his thanks once more. His other hand remains firmly clutched around the sword hilt.

He hasn't had chance to respond to the voice in his head but sorting through his jumbled thoughts he recognises that it is Lord Highcliff's name the sword has been using. Lying panting, dripping wet, on the platform, he is just about able to form coherent thoughts once more. "I am not. Auric is... Auric is dead," he projects solemnly. "I'm sorry. I was not sure if you could tell this? But yes, we would welcome your help."

Phantrel understands - or at least thinks he does - what the voice is conveying. It is the sword, or at least the weapon's enchantment, though he's unsure if the two things are separate. He picks up the name 'Auric', which he believes to be the blade's name. Or possibly its previous wielder - he can't recall Lord Highcliff ever having been addressed by a first name.

He has no further time to ponder or ask questions as he makes a hard landing in the water. The air is momentarily knocked from his lungs in spite of the magic slowing his descent. As he inhales sharply, he quickly realises that many of the bodies next to him, those who were not fortunate enough to benefit from Lord Highcliff's final spell, are highly unlikely to have survived impact with the water.

Swim DC 10: 1d20 - 4 ⇒ (9) - 4 = 5 Could see that one coming a mile off!

Although he's spent much of life in close proximity to the sea, Phantrel has never been much of a swimmer. Admittedly the strong currents, biting cold and whipping wind make the coast off Salt Spire a challenging place to do so. Or perhaps he just takes personal offence at the high salt content in the water and how it negatively impacts the opportunities to grow things. He can make water, heat it up, freeze it, but the salinity has limited uses for plants, even if when extracted the salt can be good for preserving meats. As it is, the underground lake is placid, a far cry from the Varisian Gulf, but off-balance and weighted down by his heavy pack, the half-elf struggles to keep afloat. He manages a brief cry of "Help!" before his head disappears beneath the water.

Had Phantrel not been gripping the sword quite so tightly, it's entirely possible that he would have dropped it when the voice starts speaking to him. The first words are in a language he doesn't understand, but when it tentatively reaches out in broken Common, the meaning is clear.

"I am Phantrel," he says, or more accurately thinks. Actually speaking while falling down, down, down, is currently beyond him. Besides, he's unsure if the voice spoke aloud or only in his head. "Who are you?"

With the others having heeded the urgent need to move, and demonstrated the efficacy of Lord Highcliff’s parting gift in the process, Phantrel’s way is now clear to make his own move. Before they have all jumped, however, the light in the old man’s sword has gone out. So, too, his eyes.

The half-elf swallows. From his position next to their fallen employer, a necessity for using his own magic, the shadow creature is in far closer proximity to him than he would ever wish for. With a swift motion, Phantrel ducks down, reaching out to grab the sword. He’s not sure if its magic has been snuffed out forever or has merely been dimmed as a result of Lord Highcliff’s death. But if the darkness pursues them, well, he judges it better to have the weapon than have not. If its power is truly gone then they’re probably all dead anyway but at least having possession of it might give them a fighting chance.

And it’s no more than the old man has earned. Whatever else he may have been, at the last he proved himself both honourable and brave, nobly putting himself in harm’s way and making the ultimate sacrifice. Maybe if it all somehow works out they can give him the burial he deserves, and pass the blade to Alithea.

Right now, however, that will have to wait. Phantrel pushes himself forward, clutching the sword and rising into a desperate sprint. With a look over his shoulder to check if the shadow is following, Phantrel launches himself into the air over the pit, waiting for the spell’s effect to take him down with the others.

It’s not until he’s in midair that a new fear hits him: what if the magic died with Lord Highcliff?

"I'm sure," Phantrel replies to Raka. "Ever watched a leaf float gently down from a tree? If you were to fall it would slow you right down in a very similar way."

The early hope Phantrel had that Lord Highcliff would be able to fend off the darkness fades as the appearance of his daughter distracts the old man in a way that Phantrel's spellcasting had not. A black hand reaches into him, flesh and bone seemingly nothing to its unnatural claws.

At this point everything seems to turn to chaos as half of the mining crew bolts, only to be swallowed up as the ground itself crumbles and disappears beneath them. There will be time to mourn and to wonder later, however. For now there is only survival as what are likely to be Lord Highcliff's final words in this world have an almost compulsive force to them.

Spellcraft DC 16: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (17) + 5 = 22

Phantrel recognises the magical workings as the sword releases a spell, a final gesture in place of defence and that is surely going to mean the end for Lord Highcliff. He nods in understanding at the doomed man and tries to reassure the remainder of the crew. "Be easy, do not panic, and do as Lord Highcliff says. You will not fall, the blade's spell will ensure you don't." His tone is gentle but firm. As he says, panic will help nobody, but speed is also of the essence. He looks around at the others and across at the newly-formed chasm. "Whoever is closest, go - now." Although he is unlikely to be too much assistance himself, he asks, "Raka, can you manage Em by yourself? The magic will support you both."

Before it happens, Phantrel gets a sense that something - something bad - is imminent. It does him little good, however, as the appearance of the thing, a void where a person should be, still catches him by surprise. Whatever this creature of darkness is, it seems clear to him that the miner is no more. The fact that weapons just seem to pass through it is also a major concern, though Phantrel himself is no swordsman even against ordinary foes.

Instead, he makes a calculation that not only will there be hell to pay should anything happen to him, but also that Lord Highcliff and his crackling blade is probably the only thing standing between them and certain doom. It's a gamble but Phantrel ignores Lord Highcliff's command to stay back, instead approaching slowly and calling out, trusting that the man is accomplished enough not to be distracted by his shout. "Lord Highcliff, I can work a few minor magics. With your permission, I can ward you against evil spirits if you'll allow me to approach."

Assuming he's ok with it, I will approach Lord Highcliff and cast protection from evil on him.

The alarm brings the conversation to an abrupt end, regardless of whether Agatha or indeed Phantrel himself had anything further to say at this juncture. The half-elf rises and follows the others down the tunnel, trying to take in the situation and his surroundings in order to help as best he can.

Perception DC 18: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (3) + 5 = 8

Exactly what that might involve he’s not sure so he hangs back to await further instructions.

Over lunch, Argatha does his best to sit across from Phantrel, or at least nearby. After the first wave of snarfing, he speaks up.

”Phantrel…” Argatha sidles up to the man uncomfortably. ”I was wondering if I could borrow some of your wisdom. It seems to me that you’re smart, and I could use some help.”

”Er. So I’ve been a farmer and animal husbander for my life so far. Excepting a little mine work lately with the GMC of course. But here’s the thing. I won’t be working here forever.” He states it like a fact that has only just occurred to him and impressed him with its weight.
”I dunno what I’m going to do next!” he says, clearly anguished.

”You’re smart. What do you think I should do?”

Phantrel looks a little uncomfortable. ”I’m not so sure that’s true. Lived through some years maybe.” Then, with a small smile of encouragement, ”Go on, Argatha. I’ll make no promises I can’t keep, but I’ll certainly hear you out.”

”Second, I don’t think I can answer that for you. That’s something I think only you can do, though I don’t think you need an immediate solution. You’ve still got some time here, yes?” He forks some food into his mouth and looks for a nod of confirmation from Argatha before continuing. ”So I’m going to turn this round: what is it that you’d like to do? What do you enjoy doing? What are you good at doing? Now, I’m not saying that’s an easy thing to answer. Nor am I saying that you can necessarily turn that into a job. When it comes down to it, unless you’ve got wealth to spare,” Phantrel’s eye flick in the direction of Lord Highcliff, "whatever you do has to bring in some money. Or at the very least put food on the table. Think about the work you’ve done: what’s good about it and what’s less good? What would you change that would make it better?” He decides to leave it there for the moment. ”That’s a lot to chew on,” he says. ”If you’ve got ideas now, great. We can continue another time too. Either way, I hope I can put your mind at ease a bit more.”

As more of the map is revealed, it becomes clearer to Phantrel that that is indeed what it is. He's happy to follow instructions and clear whatever is most useful. "Colin," he asks, moving over to work next to the man and voices an idea that he's been tossing around mentally for a while. "you mentioned that the star map was mostly, but not quite, aligned to the sky outside. Do you think there's any link between the map here and the one above? Obviously they are both ancient so I'm not sure how we might know what was different without something to reference." He stops shifting rubble into his bucket for a second, stifling a yawn. Yesterday's exertions are still taking their toll on the half-elf. "It might be nothing but a coincidence but with two such impressive works, it feels possible they are related in some way."

Thank you for the kind words. I'd second everything about the group and I'm also really enjoying how you're bringing the world to life, GM. It's clear how much you're enjoying the scenario, Salt Spire feels like a lived-in place, and it's great that you're rolling with what the characters are doing. It makes playing very easy when all that's going on.

Knowledge geography: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (2) + 5 = 7

Brushing away the layers of debris takes a while but somewhere along the way Phantrel hits the base. As Colin gets down to help clear the floor, he excitedly proclaims that it’s a map. Phantrel is struggling to see it himself, but Colin has shown a good eye for such things. ”Are you sure?” he asks. ”A map of where? Or, indeed, what?” Regardless, the half-elf continues to clear the surface to reveal more of the floor’s design in the hope that it will share whatever secrets it possesses.

"Hmm, maybe," replies Phantrel. "But wonders or not, maybe some things were meant to stay buried. Nature is has a way of revealing things when she wants them to be found. I usually defer to her wisdom." It would appear that the allure of the dwarven ruins is strong.

”What do I want?” Phantrel muses, wondering what to say. He opts for a simple version of the truth – it’s hardly sedition. ”I’m hoping for a better future. Money’s part of that, sure. It’s not everything but try telling that to someone who doesn’t have two copper bits to rub together."

He pauses a second before continuing. "What I really hope is that when the work here in Salt Spire dries up and moves on – which at some point it will – is that it doesn’t mean the money stops too. It’s been hard here of late and when things are good folk often think that’ll last forever.” He doesn’t say that short-termism is a peculiarly human vice, as that’s not entirely true or fair. But having already lived through more years than most humans are likely to see, the half-elf has seen – and, perhaps more importantly, can remember – times both good and bad so he prefers to take a longer view. ”If I can nudge a few people into investing in the future or putting something aside for those winter days when the wind rips the waves right out of the ocean, well, that’ll do me. I’m not the village boss or anything,” he adds, slightly defensively, ”but it’s my home and I’d like to see it thriving again."

"As for messing about with things you don’t understand? I’m with Kubanu – seems like a foolish idea to me,” he shrugs.

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6 Curse of Raka - as I believe it's now officially called - strikes again.

"Speaking of our smaller firend, where is she?" Pahntrel mutters. "So much for keeping an eye on her, he admonishes himself. The halfling seems to have disappeared but in the general hubbub and melee of the mines people are coming and going all the time. "At least that means she's not bothering you, which is something at least," he says to Colin.

The second day definitely seems to have sapped Phantrel's energy more than the first. His body was aching - that was, he supposed, a given - but his usual lightness of step appeared to have deserted him on his early morning walk down from the wood. Grey weather and light rain seems somehow fitting for his mood.

The work remains both hard and monotonous - again, a given - but he is intrigued by how the chamber is shaping up now that it's been cleared.

Perception DC 18: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20

He also notices that the red-headed halfling seems to be more than a little curious about Colin's new gift. He'd probably go so far to say she had a shifty look about her. When Carver calls for break, Phantrel waits for an opportunity when Specks is elsewhere to let Colin know. "Nice gear," he says quietly, placing a hand lightly on Colin's shoulder. "I'm sure the warning not to mess around with it was unnecessary. But you should keep a careful eye on it. The strawberry-blonde halfling - Specks, is it?" the half-elf inclines his head in her direction, "she was watching you open it with a shrewd gleam in her eye. I can't speak to her intent but it seemed a covetous look. I'll try and keep an eye on her, just in case she has something in mind."

Lady Highcliff looks appropriately sad at the plight of Salt Spire's food situation, as relayed by Phantrel. "I see... well, food can be one of the opportunities that we bring to the area, then! Perhaps more-- vegetables! And fruit!"

"I'm sure that would be greatly appreciated, my lady, and not just by the miners," Phantrel replies. "Growing things is actually what I spend most of my time doing," he adds, "when I'm not here, anyway." He decides that will do for the moment. He's planted a seed and it will no doubt need nurturing in order to grow and, ideally, bloom, but for now it's a decent start. The food and that sliver of optimism gives him a brief new burst of life and he decides to head home, even if his walk back up the slope is more of a drag than usual. He checks on and tends his various plants but the half-elf is bone-weary and ready to turn in for the night soon enough.

Deciding to hold off making a decision on sleeping, Phantrel joins the others in the mess hall for dinner. He's exhausted but the food perks him up, at least a little bit, and is much needed after a gruelling day. Somewhat surprisingly Lady Highcliff once again decides to join the workers - perhaps she's keen to escape the gaze of her father, perhaps she's genuinely interested in knowing more of the miners, perhaps there's something else at play. It's interesting, certainly, but he's too tired and has too little information to really make a guess, though she has shown a willingness to help by providing Colin with some extra gear.

"It's only my second day, my lady" he replies, "but I would imagine so. Hearty food - and plentiful portions - are what's required after a hard day's work." Phantrel pauses a second, considering whether to say anything further. "Truth be told, the last few years here have been hard. The catch has not been what it once was and it's never been the easiest to make things grow. The soil's not the best - too much salt - though it's workable. Most folk here will generally be glad of a full stomach as that won't always have been the case every night." It's a comment designed to pull at the heartstrings, of course, but neither is it anything less than the truth.

Slightly surprised, but not unhappy, at Lady Highcliff's decision to sit with the workers, Phantrel is content to watch and listen. The others seem to have the conversation in hand so he feels there's no need for additional social lubrication and there's interesting information to pick up.

Fort DC 10: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (6) + 0 = 6

Perception DC 15: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (4) + 5 = 9

By the end of the day he's glad of not overworking his jaw given how much the rest of him hurts. He feels exhausted and the trip home feels further away than it did last night. Perhaps he'll sleep in the bunkhouse tonight, but perhaps he'll get a third, or a fourth, wind once they're back out in the fresh air. Looking at the assorted workers coming and going, exhaustion and a layer of grime seem to be something in common to all of them.

Perception DC 15: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6

The conversation moves on quickly and away from Phantrel - not that he had anything particular to say beyond offering a greeting to the Highcliffs. Based on their interactions with the miners, and the conversation between them, Lord Highcliff looks to be every bit as difficult to get anything out of as he suspected. He can already hear Celys' "I told you so" - though in truth he also never really expected anything else. In his limited experience those who wind up owning large businesses tend to exert tight control and are more than happy to throw around their power. The point about his daughter studying Andoran is an interesting one and her more genial tone - treating the miners as people, even if there's a sizeable difference in wealth and rank - means there is at least the potential of something to work with there. If he ever sees her again.

The opportunity to listen and learn over, Phantrel follows the barked and instructions and resumes work.

Knowledge nature: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (13) + 5 = 18

So far not much about the mines has surprised Phantrel too much but the stars overhead in the large chamber is sufficient to draw a sharp intake of breath. It's a feat of remarkably artistry and beauty, enough to make one forget that they're below ground rather than out in the open under the night sky. "Indeed," Phantrel agrees, nudging Colin, "and the Two Brothers there, pointing at a pair of stars and then some futher constellations. This is beautiful," he says wonderingly.

* * * * *

Perception: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17

Phantrel thinks that Raka has the right of it when she says the young woman's dress is too nice to be down here. What's more, if he's any judge, it is also too expensive to belong here any more than its wearer - or the man with Ubek who he takes to be her father. The way the foreman spoke to her, and the way the man speaks to him in turn, leads the half-elf to surmise that these are important people.

"I'm not sure she's here to work," he whispers to Raka, quietly but audible for anybody close enough to hear, including the well-dressed young lady. "I think she's probably come to inspect things."

Phantrel turns and offers the woman a bow. "My lady."

Making a quick check of his kit, including that his helmet is securely fastened, Phantrel is soon ready to go. And, he assumes, to keep on going. He doesn't feel like a miner yet - perhaps he never will - but for now at least he's dressed like one and doing the work so he supposes that makes him one, at least for the moment.

Turning to Colin, Phantrel adds, ”I can also create temporary magical lights for a short period if you need any extra at any point.”

Phantrel listens carefully to the instructions, looping the cord of the whistle around his neck. He's as curious as everyone else about the dwarf gold but acquisitiveness isn't one of his vices so there's no temptation burning to disobey the instruction. He pulls on the gloves and flexes his fingers, testing the range of movement. They fabric is pretty tough but he can move his hands without too much restriction. Not so different to the pair he has at home for working with certain plants.

As he starts loading the rubble - muck, in miner parlance - he says to the group nearby, "Anybody need any extra water just let me know."

Last night

Delighted to hear the excitement in the dryad's voice, Phantrel encourages her to lead on. It might mean a later night but he considers it time well spent.

* * * * *

The morning

Interested to learn that their leaders are not immune to persuasion, Phantrel pays attention to the arguments and who made them, storing the information away for future reference.

While the idea of working outside is an appealing one, given he's not currently bunking in the dorm he feels it's a bit unfair to deprive someone else of the opportunity so doesn't put himself forward.

"I know you don't," Phantrel says, trying to reassure her. "And you know that I'd prefer not to be doing it either, but we've talked about it and I don't think either of us is going to change our mind." He looks down, meeting the dryad's gaze with his own. "If that happens then something has gone seriously wrong. Mining is dangerous but there is aid, including magic available, and they seem like a serious operation at least."

He steps back, breaking contact. "Come," Phantrel says, "I've spent all day underground and I'd rather not relive it all now. I'd much prefer to spend tonight doing something better. Show me something interesting that's been happening in the wood since I last saw you." He smiles, hoping that a little bit of flattery will nudge away the gloomy clouds of Celys' mood.

* * * * *

In the morning Phantrel's body still aches but his soul feels a little lighter. He breaks his fast with a little food before making his way down the slope to the mine, where he takes on more sustenance. The food remains both relatively plentiful and more than edible. He waits to find out what Carver has in store for them all today.

"Hail fair maiden," Phantrel replies, using the tongue of forests and fey creatures. He stoops into a low bow, a grin on his face, and reaches to kiss the dryad's offered hand in a parody of knightly courtship. "That I am," he agrees. "It was a long day and hauling rocks is as hard and as dull as you would expect." He stretches his arms skyward as he speaks, looking to put a little more life into their leaden weight.

"And you're right again. Based on what I've seen today and the state of some of the miners I'd go so far as to say it's not good for anyone. Perhaps once upon a time it did something for the dwarves but..." He lets the silence hang, implying that whatever was responsible for the vanishing of the dwarves, living underground clearly did nothing to save them from their fate.

Phantrel carefully scrutinises the dryad at the same time her green eyes are closely inspecting him. It's an open look, the kind permissible only due to the intimacy between them. The dryad, in keeping with the surrounding trees, has been in better health. The half-elf says nothing of it, however. In part this is because he knows her fey nature may not take kindly to the words, however sincerely they are meant or delivered, and in part because nothing needs to be said as both know it to be true. He also knows that, like the wind-whipped pines around them, she is hardy, a survivor. Phantrel steps closer, reaching out a hand to cup her face and breathing in the scent of her. She smells warm, woody, familiar. "It's good to see you, Celys," he says quietly.

The fresh air is almost as much of a blessed relief to Phantrel as the end to hauling rocks. He weighs up the walk back up the mountainside against the lure of a closer bed, but the promise of home wins out. His own space is appealing after the time in the cramped quarters of the mine and he's always been more than comfortable with his own company. He bids the crew goodnight and heads up towards the wood. Even at a slow pace and despite his weary body, it feels easier than he expected, probably because he isn't pushing a wheelbarrow.

"I love pickled onions," she comments with a smile. Hard labor or no, some simple pleasures deserve to be appreciated.

"They're good," Phantrel agrees. He doesn't mind pickled fare in its place - it's a necessity over winter when less grows - and the sharp tang at least distracts him from his aching body. And fortunately there's no shortage of salt to keep what meat can be found over the scarce months too. But unsurprisingly he does prefer fresh produce and he can coax crops and plants to give up their goods in most conditions.

* * * * *

The half-elf is a fair way off when the accident happens so he doesn't see it, only the aftermath. It's clear that both Brimble and Xira are nursing some bruises but it could certainly have been worth. He makes his way over. He offers his waterskin to the woman first, then the kobold. "Have as much as you like, I can make more. And if there's any wounds in need of cleaning you're welcome to use it for that too."

Unsure if his attempt at humour was misjudged or just misinterpreted, Phantrel decides it's easier to smooth things over. "I was merely referencing what he himself said. I meant no offence, Em, and I make no judgement to his character or otherwise. He's clearly regarded well enough by the consortium, which probably says something."

"And dreams are good," he agrees, "though if they are worthwhile, I prefer to try and turn them into reality."

* * * * *

As the group of miners are led down the tunnel, a murmuring rises as they reach the Door. It's been at least a couple of decades since Phantrel has been to see it but despite the passing of years and the dirty work of the mine it looks much the same as it does in his memory. Clearly it has some kind of property which protects it from the dust and the grime.

The half-elf is slightly surprised to be described as a "strong'un". He's definitely not physically unfit, being well-used to outdoors work planting, harvesting and everything else that comes with growing things, but, glancing around him, nor does he have the hardened frame of some of his new colleagues. It only takes him a couple of trips pushing a wobbling wheelbarrow outside to realise that his muscles will be getting a significant workout. By the time break is called he is drenched in sweat, his body adapting to the new conditions. He is thankful at least that working with his hands and being on his feet a lot means that they are already well-accustomed to manual work and therefore less prone to blisters.

Raising an eyebrow, Phantrel asks Em, ”Do you remember your dreams regularly? Is it common to have the same one repeatedly?” genuinely interested.

The half-elf snorts at the mention of Brimble and his colourful account of all the trouble he didn’t get into the previous night. ”I suspect you’re right,” he agrees, adding quietly. ”And it might be you dodged an arrow if kobolds in heat aren’t to your usual taste.” Phantrel thinks for a while before responding to the next point. ”Mining is always dangerous, but my understanding is most of the dangers come from natural hazards – or not taking adequate precautions – the mundane rather than the mysterious."

Phantrel had eaten lightly when he awoke but partakes of second breakfast with the rest of the GMC employees when he arrives on site. Keeping his strength up is probably a necessity and the food isn’t actively terrible. Skimping on rations means that the workers will just be less productive so he figures his new masters know this and plan accordingly, even if the emphasis is likely on quantity rather than quality.

He checks the equipment in his pack once he is assigned to it and turns to Em, who he finds himself next to. ”Good morning, Em. How did the night treat you? Do you think we missed anything by not bunking down here?” he asks the young woman genially.

@Em - I'm assuming that as locals the two at least know who the other is. Happy to roll with anything for an established relationship from 'know to look at' to basic friendship.