Qunnessaa's page

Add me to the crowd patiently arriving early, book in hand. :)

I have a shameful backlog of books to read, always, so if I’m going anywhere for any meaningful length of time, I’ll probably have at least one in my bag to keep me entertained and out of trouble.

Also, one of my teachers is a living cautionary tale: my friends and I would see him fairly often racing frantically across campus to get wherever on time, and he’s managed to miss at least two flights in his life, that we know of, and for some of us it’s been hard to quash a censorious mental twitch of, You didn’t learn your lesson last time?

I can only imagine it must be nice to live comfortably enough that making alternate arrangements very quickly and presumably at obnoxious expense doesn't induce an aneurysm.

David M Mallon wrote:

NobodysHome wrote:

While I understand that Americans' understanding of geography is a constant source of ridicule, and those on opposite coasts frequently get things ludicrously wrong (when GothBard was a child she accused a friend of lying because he claimed he was going to drive across three states in a matter of hours), I expect the New York Times to do better.

I once got into an argument with a native Iowan who flatly refused to believe that there are mountains in New York State.

There are mountains in NEW YORK?!

Seconded. :) Mind you, I'm from a bit further north, and the ice age did a good job scraping most things pretty level around here. There are some neat craggy bits, but lofty peaks they ain't.

Though my mother's side of the family is on the west coast, so I was brought up to believe that things smaller than the Rockies don't really count, which probably skews my perspective.

Not that I actually have any sense for the interior of BC, and the Prairies are a mystery to me.

I lost all respect for unions when the state had a budget surplus so it gave an extra 15% permanently to schools and our union's "negotiations" resulted in a 17% raise for administrators and a 6% raise for teachers. If you can't even break even, you're not negotiating worth a darn.

Wow, yikes. I've been lucky here, but that's veering off-topic. Off-off-topic?

Getting back to less wicked problems than the state of the world in general, much as I'm always pleasantly bemused to see what folks are playing on their computers, since I've never kept my machines up assiduously enough to run the big studios' things remotely near when they come out, the usual suspects are doing their best to tempt me to open my purse (belatedly), despite having a shameful library to work through.

Trying to decide if there's a realistic chance that I'll get around to playing either Expeditions: Rome or Assassin's Creed: Odyssey if I give in, since I have a soft spot for (ancient) historical fantasy. One of these days I'll have to sit down with a notebook and revisit Hellenica to confirm some of the Easter eggs, because there were a lot for a nerd of my ilk even at a casual glance. It's a silly place, but I can't not have a soft spot for anything that manages to work in a reference to Erinna's Distaff. 11/10, because I'm predictable that way. :)

David M Mallon wrote:

NobodysHome wrote:

I was curious since I know California has deer hunting seasons but we never hear about them at work, but I was surprised to learn we also allow black bear hunting. Which makes me wonder how we can possibly have such a huge population of them.

... But again, black bear fur isn't all that great for much of anything, and their meat is terrible, so why hunt them?

Materials for creepy folk costumes? *Gathers flowers, assembles masks, starts constructing wicker man.* :)

This is the part of me that would be playing a Sensate in a Planescape game asking, but, uh, for the unenlightened, dare I inquire what's so unpleasant about bear meat?

My branch of the family has been urban for a few generations now, mercifully, but occasionally someone will break out a story about their great-granddad or whoever and the old homestead (now being stubbornly looked after by a couple of my great-uncles who really maybe oughtn't to), so we spoiled young'uns can sometimes be distracted by stories calculated for our horrible fascination.

It's been a while since I've checked in on this thread (it's been a long few years, and I'm a belle grognarde who still hasn't dabbled her toes in PF2, so my forum time tends to focus on my play-by-post games, but I thought folks here might have some insight on current affairs?

It's not happy news, so I'll put the lurid details in spoilers, but what's up with the WPATH stuff?

Trying to find a happier note, the student insurance provider at my school has recently broadened its coverage for gender-affirming care, so I need to look into that for some last odds-and-ends that would be helpful for me.

I hope everyone's staying safe out there, as best as they can. <3

I’ve never braved trying to track down author guidelines from, say, the pot-boiler romance market, just out of lurid curiosity, and I’d like to think that I avoid the tackiest end of things, but even a comparative snob like me wonders if there’s a certain *gasp* formula that unduly influences the sorts of trashy thing I might toss into my bag to waste time while stuck in a noisy laundromat that is not conducive to more challenging fare.

And I’ve been flabbergasted to see that even avowedly mad-libbed / name-swapped nonsense gets even negligible but non-zero hits among fanfiction readers. I mean, there’s wasting time, and then there’s a basic level of self-respect.

Convenient! Pretty soon we won't have to do anything at all to game. Generative AI will write the modules, create the characters, then run the characters through the modules. This is going to be a big time saver!

I have to admit I can imagine a sort of gruesome fascination with the idea, like watching a train wreck. Or something like this, only worse?

Or the schadenfreude of having a really terrible paper to grade, only without the guilt and frustration of having to actually mark the damn thing? In the case of "AI" "content," one could simply sit back and marvel, “Wow, somebody thought it was worth releasing something that could produce this?” Except that would only encourage them, I’m sure.

I’m bad at math – at least, at anywhere near where things start getting interesting – and there’s always so much other stuff going on, but I wish I could make some time to look over my old notes. For old times’ sake. :(

Completely unrelated, except for, I guess, numbers:

Bad Portmeirion. No biscuit.

Who is Number One? :D

My sister-in-law collects Portmeirion ware, though she inexplicably favours the more minimalist stuff. My kid brother was horrified when I told him that, of course, Portmeirion is The Village from The Prisoner. I may have inspired a certain low-level paranoia in him. What are sisters for, after all? :)

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.

(Bad enough being made a fool of, but if someone's yanking her chain to let an evil cult do its deviltry... It's the chance of that that's pushing Alaïs to react so strongly.)

“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?”

Oooh, do I detect a stake-out in the offing? And maybe an infiltration? :)

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.

You just had to say it, didn’t you? Might as well just cast Summon Chaos Princess, go on. ;)

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.

I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that Alaïs doesn’t know Diamond Lake well enough to recognize Ilhane, if she even recognizes the name. What’s the worst that can happen? XD

At Moonmeadow's:

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…”

With Moonmeadow’s employees:

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.

I'm really sorry I've fallen so far behind! This past month - huh, to the day, it seems - has been brutal, between brain chemistry nonsense and a pedal-to-the-metal start to the new year at work. I think it's the first time in a while that I've seen the whole department from us lowly underlings to the powers that be reaching the end of the week and collectively, openly venturing, "That was ... a lot, right?"

I think we've cleared the nastiest bump for the moment (fingers crossed!), and I'll try to get caught up here over the weekend. Sorry for making the martials do the heavy lifting! :(

Yep!

My mom's originally from BC, and my aunt spent quite a few years in the interior, and both are very glad now that they don't have to face the Coquihalla (or worse, the old highway) in winter. Even in our neck of the woods, which is mostly flat, there are valleys in our hills that even 4WD won't help you get out of after a decent snowfall, let alone a shabby job clearing the roads that leaves, as you say, a gloating sheet of ice. :)

Made all the worse because my mom doesn't even like to drive. Although when her job started to take her out into the boonies, she did have the pleasure of taking refresher winter driving lessons with a moonlighting F1 racer, who would constantly encourage her to go faster!, and test her ability to regain control in a pinch by slamming the emergency brake for her on icy patches.

Freehold DM wrote:

I thought Iowa of all places would be excellent when it comes to snow removal.

...

We're expecting another 8-10 inches starting late tonight and into tomorrow. People are panicking like it's the end of the universe, and no one (especially the surrounding counties) is doing anything to prepare for it. I absolutely cannot comprehend this. I just want to grab people on the street, shake them vigorously, and shout into their faces, "DON'T YOU REMEMBER WHEN THIS HAPPENED LAST YEAR?"

Sounds about right. My mom and one of her colleagues travelled together for a conference in Dubuque a couple of winters ago, only for this conversation to happen on picking up their rental car at the airport:

"My loyalty is not bought with gold or toys or trinkets, but with bonds of shared ideals, friendship, trust, and family. I do as I do because I share your concerns, because I trust those of you I know, and because I find that I like those of you I am getting to know."

He gives a weary sigh. "I say this because I have to, because of the town we live in and the wicked masks this town has learned to wear. So, to be clear, you have not offended me, and you have not angered me, and you have made no fool of yourself. But please, for future reference, do not offer me favors for favors. Do not ever offer me payment in these endeavors."

Oh gosh, and now I’m thinking all sorts of fun stuff about gift economies and how they might factor into elves’ cosplay feudalism if they like dressing up like lords and ladies but run around being chaotic all over the place. And with Calistria so important to them, so much potential for subtle, fine-grained calculations about appropriate exchanges without being so crude as actually saying it out loud... XD

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. Oh, we could have a tea party with Amariss and all our friends in town at some point! It would be fabulous!

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. (Bad enough asking an elf about ordinary mortal timeframes, but an elf like Alaïs ... ;)

“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.

Broccan looks up and meets Allustan's gaze, an amount of steel infusing both his spine and his gaze.

"It's'eh gift. Fer you. Sir," he replies in an uncharacteristically clipped tone. "'s thanks f'yer 'ssist'nce."

“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.

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!”

Sorry, Broccan, but it was too fun a prompt not to run with it. :)

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.”

Especially not if a well-intentioned but hopeless sort like Alaïs is the one asking.

“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.

I don’t think we’ve had a chat with Allustan yet about the presence of the Ebon Triad in town? If anyone wants to say a few words in character, so it’s not just Alaïs burbling away, feel free. Maybe one of the more spiritually-inclined among us? :) If not, she would get around to it eventually.

Maybe I'm not cultured enough (heh) but until now I have NEVER ONCE heard of or even considered yogurt to be used as a cooked ingredient in anything, reading it makes me recoil just imagining heating it making me think it would just make it go bad and sour but ... I guess that's often a desired ingredient function for many foods so I guess it makes sense even if it did make my head spin.

I guess I shouldn't be TOO surprised as up until only a month ago I thought that when people were talking about eating and liking "cold pizza" they were talking about pizza that wasn't heated and simply left out on the counter/table at room temperature and thought "oh that's fine, totally normal" rather than, you know, actually COLD REFRIGERATED pizza which, when I learned about it, shocked me to my core and to this day makes me feel like retching, just the idea of actually COLD pizza, you might as well ask me to try eating frozen fish it just doesn't sit right with me.

*Cavorts in mischievous fairy.* “Oooh, tell the mortal about chocolate zucchini cake! They won’t want it, so more for us!” :)

I need to faff around a bit with some raw stevia, so I also need to experiment with some bulking ingredients that aren’t too annoying to prepare in a (lazy) student’s bedsit.

Why are we putting an h in yogurt?

Since, as any witch or wizard will tell you, a healthy respect for words is important, you got me wondering. My first instinct was that it might be French (when I was a little girl, which I’m going to insist wasn’t all that long ago, I even encountered the form yaourt, which struck me as a bit odd, and which I think is getting rarer, as opposed to yog(h)ourt, which is probably still my go-to), but Etymonline is tediously terse and skips some steps, so I broke out my school’s subscription to the OED.

That informs me that the form without the h is actually original when the French adopted the word in the 15th c., but it might be a Dutch (or German, a bit later) thing from the early 18th c.

I’m not a linguist, but since, as it goes on to say, the Turkish it all goes back to had a voiced velar fricative, I think I would come down on the side that we should use the h-forms, because I’m a nerd. This despite the fact that there are other Turkish forms – and indeed, the modern standard – which elide the fricative, so maybe we should all be going with yaourt after all. :p

(And that’s why you never ask a mage. ;) )

“Pretty,” Alaïs says approvingly. “Do you think they’re something to do with the lanterns? Perhaps the king just had a particularly colourful appreciation for light.”

OK, we’ve established that Alaïs has only broad-strokes awareness of Garundi history, but maybe these crystals are part of a long-lasting regional aesthetic that she might know something about? Untrained Lore or Know (local?): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (17) + 4 = 21

In any case, she rather avoids the broken arrow. It’s not the sort of thing to hold much normal magic anymore, she imagines, and object reading for other sorts of traces is a bit specialized for her wide-ranging interests in the arcane. And, would that be the very arrow from the relief below? Rather morbid, I should think. If I were killed, I don’t think I would care to be buried with the wretched thing that did it.

“Oh! Or are those some sort of markers for logistics and planning campaigns?” she blurts, as thinking about the reliefs again brings another detail (Relief #3) to mind.

Still, she focuses, instead, on the black metal loop, probing carefully at its aura to see if she can figure out what it does. Spellcraft, with detect magic once again: 1d20 + 9 + 2 ⇒ (4) + 9 + 2 = 15

Wow, it's just not her day, is it? Probably needs to get some sunlight and someplace less creepy so she can focus properly.

“Poor fellow,” Alaïs murmurs, seeing what’s left of the first king of Kho. “Is this what waits for all of us, in the end? And I wonder, if he ruled one of the Shory citadels, why he didn’t have his tomb built there, so his spirit could fly light forever.”

She’s hardly an expert in the scant remains of Shory history that she knows of, but she knows enough that forever might have been notably shorter than expected. With a nod to the others as they ascend to the final tomb chamber, once she and Broccan extract the grave goods, she pauses to drag the lid of the sarcophagus respectfully closed once more.

“The only catch I can see, really, is this box,” the aristocrat suggests, glancing at the container in her miner friend’s hands. “It’s not the sort of puzzle that I was ever fond of.” That said, Alaïs probably loves the design, and I bet she would be a huge fan of Escher and Piranesi, especially with a curvier, more rounded twist.

In the meantime, she holds the diadem up to the light, and gives it a check for any magical auras. Spellcraft, if detect magic picks anything up: 1d20 + 9 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 9 + 2 = 21

Add more chaos everywhere, obviously, until it's, um, as uniform as chaos ever gets. It's inevitable, anyway. That's how entropy works, innit? Or proteans.

Or (*gasp*) surely you didn't mean it in the dreadfully unhip way of reducing the amount of chaos? So that's not my question.

Anyway, what does a nice elf girl need to do to get a good night's sleep?

Cliff Cardinal's take on Shakespeare's As You Like It. It's an Indigenous response to, well, a lot of things in Canadian culture, and it doesn't pull its punches. Not an easy read, but one would hardly expect it to be, and it's very good, I think.

Qunnessaa wrote:

*Swaggers into the room, props sagaris against the wall, helps herself to the wine.*

Objectively true, but if we wanted a male's opinion, we'd give it to him. ;)

I'd never heard of a sagaris before, and now I know what one is. Smashing.

I've never seen a real one, sadly. The Museum of Fine Arts back home, of all places, in its section of "antiquities and other foreign stuff we acquired before the relevant UNESCO treaties came into effect" does have an honest-to-goodness chakram in its collection of odds and ends from the subcontinent, though, which made the Xena fangirl in me squee with embarrassing enthusiasm last time I visited.

And on that note, having made my way to my favourite craft shop, I find myself living down to Virgil's catty remark about Camilla getting distracted by shinies. Managed not to blow the budget with silks I don't need quite yet, or more thread generally, but may have gone a bit overboard with beads. *Shakes fist at Maro for revealing, if not the sisterhood's greatest weakness, at least one of the more inconvenient ones which we'll admit to.* :)

*Swaggers into the room, props sagaris against the wall, helps herself to the wine.*

Objectively true, but if we wanted a male's opinion, we'd give it to him. ;)

In tangentially related news, signed up for a textile art workshop tomorrow which I hope to draw on for my embroidery work, as a hot Scythian. Which means visiting my favourite local craft shop and trying not to raid it too energetically.

Alsoalso, inquiring barbarians want to know: has anyone printed tights in the reconstructed patterns for ancient statues of Thracians in national dress? Several of my friends and I would be on that like a ferocious cavalcade riding down some poor schlubs intruding on our territories. :)

Ouch! Sadly, been there done that! Mine wasn't very hilarious though. After I got bandaged up I was the one that had to go back and clean up the blood....

Maybe this will help with your Archmage. It points out some interesting ideas on the Mythic rules. And Aith? according to the author of the site, you will now wield the "ULTIMATE COSMIC POWER"!

Vaarsuvius is my favourite part of the Order of the Stick. :)

Augh, option paralysis is real. After agonizing for a bit, I’ve finally settled on Wild Arcana for archmage arcana (that part was easy), universal path Mythic Spellcasting (haste), and Mythic Arcane Strike.

Probably not as gonzo as doubling down with Mythic Spell Lore or going with that instead and one of the archmage-specific path abilities, but since I was mostly tempted by some of the counter/dispelling things which I haven’t really dabbled in so far, this seems a bit more suitable and in character. Haste is one of Aith’s go-to spells, and Mythic Arcane Strike gives her a bit of flexibility when she’s not casting and saves one of her regular arcanist discoveries/feats that I was planning for.

You are reaching the point of being the scenery even in the urban environment?

High-level ranger hiding in plain sight?

In my little city-slicker part of the world, it was time to harvest my stevia today, so I've trimmed it down in the hopes that it will relax a bit, take a hint, and start thinking about getting ready to go dormant in the autumn. As a Canadian outside of our tiny zones that are warm enough, there's no way that it can overwinter outside in my neck of the woods.

I’m willing to let it lie fallow for a bit longer, if that’s alright with everyone, in case Rackal’s been tied up with something more or less awful for a while and still needs some time for X, Y, or Z.

Maybe after Lughnasadh?

I was going to send a PM, but it seems that feature’s been disabled on her profile, so!

Rackal, if you see this, having been delayed by whatever, I hope we haven’t scared you off! I hope you can update us when you have a moment, but no pressure. Feel free to vent if doing so to friendly internet randos you’ve been throwing electronic dice with for a few years would help, and thanks so much for putting so much in to run a wonderful game for us.

<3

-Q.

lisamarlene wrote:

I accidentally fell down a weird neopagan feminist rabbit hole on the Internets this evening and ended up reading an essay about how the Barbie movie is basically Inanna.

The Internet: legitimizing the ramblings of that one weird kid in your college dorm since 1990-something.

...s#+&.

I can see it.

Not having seen the film yet - and it's looking increasingly like I should at some point, even though I'm very much not a Barbie girl - from what I've heard of it, I think I can too, and would like to see that essay as well.

*Moment of awful realization.* Wait, am *I* that one weird kid for a bunch of folks at my school?

*Checks some of the essays she's written for various classes.* Dammit. ;)

The past fortnight or so has certainly been a fascinating experience for the newly-masked elf in the congregation. She’s still not sure what to think, really: she can understand the purpose of an ordeal, and – with a bit more recalcitrance – doling out instruction piecemeal rather than promising a single, glorious epiphany, but nonetheless. Why thirty-one steps? Why here, on the shores of Lake Encarthan, rather than among all the nations gathering in Absalom? How do the mysteries connect with the work of the clergy in the community?

Such are the questions that have preoccupied her over the past several days, and she’s come to realize that the priests don’t take as kindly as one might hope to a barrage of questions from a neophyte. It probably didn’t help that she came with the rather significant baggage of her own spirits, and she can’t really blame the higher-ranking officials for doubting the zeal of someone who admits that she has served the lesser gods, and is eager to hear what the greater has to teach, now that he’s revealed himself. There is such a thing as too much honesty, perhaps, and isn’t that something to meditate on?

Regardless, maybe now that there are several more postulants, they’ll be encouraged to talk among themselves and encourage each other?

She has other reasons to hope so, too, though while the elven ears of one of the new arrivals briefly catches her eye, once she realizes from across the crowd that the new five are all gentlemen, she resigns herself to the fact that the particular person she’s been hoping to run into is neither a novice nor among the more established acolytes she’s been introduced to so far.

DM's ruling, of course, but I don't think you need to worry about the burn if you're being rained on: dousing rain has, in addition to providing fire resistance 5, the neat line item "nonmagical fires are automatically extinguished," and I think burn is (Ex). So I would guess that we might take appropriate damage for getting hit by something very/magically hot/ on fire, but wouldn't be at risk of catching fire ourselves.

Up to this moment, Alaïs, while deeply unnerved by the distorted echoes (?) of what’s happened in this place, has taken some small comfort in the thought that maybe the newfound ghoulishness of Caith’s ghost is just a last, fading ripple resulting from severing the last bonds holding a spirit in a place where someone met a horrible, untimely end. Or maybe something to do with the mysterious ways humans and other mayfly folk think.

As something that sounds rather more like a sinister, snickering sort of calculation enters into the ghost’s words, the elf lady tenses even as her own consciousness seems to split. While she listens to what’s left of Caith gloat at Kata and Venelle, Alaïs can almost hear what she imagines her parents would say if they could see her right now. ‘This wouldn’t be so terrible, blossom, if you had just… focused a bit more. Not that we’re blaming you. But you have to admit, if you had committed, like your oldest brothers, to spellcraft, or the goddess’ mysteries, like Ascyron, you would at least be able to channel life energy more efficiently. Even if that wouldn’t necessarily keep a ghost down…’

Seeker’s unexpected comment snaps Alaïs back to reality, or as close to it as she’s able to discern, currently. “This one, too?” Like the underwater ghoul? Or the elementals? Either way, it sounds like what she’s starting to fear must be at stake…

“-stuck,” indeed.

Horror gives way to quiet outrage, carefully checked as Alaïs reminds herself that this isn’t really Caith, who would have been a terrified young girl, in any case.

“Right,” she says, unconsciously echoing Broccan before she gives a little hum and a dry comment that betrays her own sharper sense of the ironies involved. She'll spend a round of performance to boost her Cha with raging song / insightful contemplation for when she makes her Diplomacy check.

“Everyone here is lovely, but I can’t help but observe that I am not family,” Alaïs says. She’s far too well-bred to twitch her ears to make a showy reminder that she’s the only elf in the room, but she does rather, er, pointedly tuck a stray lock behind her ear as she tilts her chin up. “If we could avoid immuring ladies of the forest who do not belong in this cairn, that would be most appreciated.”

“Or other people, for that matter,” she adds, thinking of Artophanx, for example, since she’s not entirely heartless. “Something must be keeping those who are stuck, stuck, and it isn’t anything we’ve seen so far, I don’t think. Do you think you could let us through to explore the room beyond? If all else fails, then we can consider collapsing the tunnels in this place, before we’re reduced to starving on beetles while we can. Or perhaps if your family isn’t trapped here, in due course you’ll be able to join them wherever their paths take them?”

Diplomacy, “Open the pod bay doors, HAL”: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (7) + 10 = 17

Alaïs isn’t at all sure that that’s how souls work, of course, but she figures it’s worth a try. The catch is, even she can tell that it’s probably not tactful to spell out that eventually Kata and Venelle will pass on, possibly find their way to the Boneyard, and what’s human time to a ghost (or an elf) anyway? She begins to think that maybe Rosella got the better deal in volunteering to look after the owlbear cubchick (chickub?) after all.

Hmm. That makes a lot of sense, and I've never thought of it that way before.

It's been a long time while since I've lived in a space with my own lawn, but if anyone had ever asked, I would have noticed that my path tended to end up spiralling inwards, no matter how I started.

Just for aesthetic reasons, if nothing else. Who doesn't like spirals? (See also: Spirograms, crazy straws, curly fries, labyrinths, knotwork...)

And that last, trivial push is deeply, lizardly satisfying.

Who just goes back and forth across the whole lawn? That sounds like a recipe for making the chore even less exciting than it ever is. :)

If you'd look up 'reckless" in the encyclopedia I'm sure you'd find a portrait photo of Aith there. :P

If we survive to explore the City of Brass, I can just imagine how things might play out:

*The party turns their back or otherwise gets distracted for one second.*
Tariq: “Dammit, where’d she go? Swear to Sarenrae, if she’s got distracted by some scribbled old scrolls…”
Yasmeena, to an obliging gentle-genie: “Excuse, have you seen an elf pass this way? About so tall, pale, black hair, blue eyes, probably talking a mile a minute to herself about something that sounds like it could be an alarmingly bad idea?”
Said genie, shuddering: “Oh, her! If she’s yours, keep a closer eye on her from now on! Went that way. Just follow the screams.”
Haleen, pinching the bridge of her nose: “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

:)

Alaïs is a bit nervous about poking about some more in the cairn after how tricky it was to bring in Filge, but the break among the Jasidians was refreshing, and if the others are feeling braver than she is, who is she to argue? And making sure Caith’s spirit is now at peace before haring off for other business is only right, though the presence of a sinister cabal also calls for swift intervention. On the way out, in an attempt not to get overwhelmed, Alaïs takes a moment to consider the Boneyard’s mint again, and remembers something else.

After that, she deliberately keeps herself rather distracted on the way back to the Whispering Cairn, taking breaks from her thoughts to hum odd snatches of music, or to do her best to answer the calls of birds passing or passed by. The whimsical aristocrat quiets down properly, though, upon approaching the ancient mound once more.

She waits in the stillness where Kata’s friend fell, the silence broken first by Seeker, then by Broccan’s tentative appeal to Caith, and then… an errant (?) breeze from somewhere that tugs at a lock of Alaïs’ hair tucked behind her ear, and for a second she thinks she hears a whispering chorus urging her to, Return. Return. A greeting? Warning? Demand? She’s not actually sure she didn’t imagine it, because she couldn’t say whether it was in her mother tongue, or Auran, or even Common.

Trying to do my bit to set a little something up. >;)

Alaïs’ face falls into an almost comical image of alarm as her mind automatically goes to the more dangerous sorts of enchantments – long-lasting charms, or even dominations, and what that implies about the level of resistance – before latching on, belatedly, to the implications of what Broccan said about Smenk being a liar.

“Why, the nasty little weasel!” she exclaims, though a bit of grudging admiration seeps into her tone as she catches on. “So Filge might not actually have been introduced to the real Dourstone, or even one at all? I suppose we could ask the rat if he was, or if he knows where in relation to the town the mine the cultists are holed up in is? It’s the sort of thing I would ask, in – goddess forbid! – his shoes, to think about whether the cultists are drawing on the magic of the place they’re lurking, for whatever they’re doing with these worms.”

Alaïs nods at Briar’s recommendation for discretion. “We could start with some questions in town, certainly. Would you be willing to approach one of those mines under the guise of looking for another bit of work, Mr. Dunchad, and keep an ear out for any gossip from the, er, pit? (Alaïs has about as much of a grasp of mining lingo as you would expect.) I could try talk to that Moonmeadow weed, but I must confess we decidedly did not get on when we were first introduced.”

She doesn’t exactly toss her head, and only a bit of audible distaste creeps into the aristocrat’s intonation, but her brutally dismissive words make clear her scorn for the fellow giving elves a bad name in Diamond Lake. She considers the possibilities, “I suppose I could make a show of needing his help for something, say I have some Forlorn dependents back home who I’m not sure how to get back on their feet… I’m sure he’d love to be able to gloat about a Kyoni lady coming to him for advice.”

... gossipy rich girls with more taste than sense. And not the kind-hearted ones like Alaïs. ...

Wow, the truth hurts. ;)

Also, while Alaïs is much more of a treehouse / princess tower sort of girl, bonus points to the Jasidians for the whole hollow hill thing they’ve got going on.

Alaïs sips her tea (neat) and nibbles on a cookie while thinking of how she would frame things, bearing in mind Kata’s discretion around Agate, earlier. Her eyebrows lift at Briar’s opening gambit and being lumped in – she’s not sure if she hopes, actually, or not – among “common chancers.”

“Adventurers, certainly, I suppose you could say, though I prefer to think of it as errantry, myself,” she demurs, nodding an apology in Briar’s direction as she raises her cup to her smile again, still choosing her next few words.

“As Miss Vervain could tell you, it’s a rather silly story of some hapless ruffians who got the worst of an owlbear and made quite a mess of our turn about the hills to take the air. They left the most adorable little savage behind, poor tyke,” Alaïs, as she turns to Amariss, is not above stretching a point or two for effect, such as to imply that Kullen and his cronies were driven in disarray before the little owlbearlet that they’ll have to do something about soon.

“When we investigated the commotion – we couldn’t not, it was terrible – we ended up at the old Land farm, and we discovered…” Alaïs leans in confidingly. “That the wretched devils had dug up what was left of the Lands, obviously with no good intent! Fortunately, Masters Dunchad and Thorvirgunson were able to help us persuade the villains to reveal who passed for the mastermind of their sordid operations, and where we might find him.”

“Dear eye,” (that would work better to answer hooks than buttons, but Alaïs is improvising), she says, giving a little shiver and with pale green eyes wide, “it was dreadful! Completely tacky, not just with the monuments of a self-aggrandizing madman to himself, but regrettably literally, with unholy necromantic apparatus dripping all over the place.”

The elven aristocrat frowns with a downward glance, as if the memory alone has conjured an unfortunate stickiness even onto the delicate porcelain in her hand. She pauses there, partly to tease the promise of details, but also to let the more devout in the party decide how to introduce the profane scroll they’ve got a hold of, and, especially, so that Kata can decide how much she wants to say about finding Caith – or the girl’s restless spirit.

The Jasidians seem much more her style than the town itself. All that mint! And roses! And Amariss’ dress is lovely. Alaïs wonders where she got it. She’s also deathly curious – appropriately enough – about what’s underneath the Pharasman banner at the entrance to the shrine, but is far too polite to twitch it aside to take a peek.

"Oh, fiddle-faddle." Amariss laughs. "We're not going to judge you over how people are dressed--goodness, our sacred shrine is a hole in the ground, what would it say about us if we made everyone take off their shoes and wash their hands?" She looks Broccan up and down, visibly appraising him with a raised eyebrow. Her eyes drift over the rest of the party. "Of course, I could have Fleck and Henna draw up some baths, and we'd be more than happy to provide something finer to wear, if you feel ill at-ease taking tea in your... necromancer-battling clothes. It will give the tea time to steep. Really, it's the least we can do for friends of our sweet Kata's, especially after the ghastly day you've had." Her eyes sparkle. "One way or another, darling, I must insist on having my way on this."

She smiles and dips her head respectfully to Edrukk. "Master Thorvirgun. Always a too-rare pleasure."

** spoiler omitted **

Her lips purse for a bit at Broccan’s diffidence, and she wonders what she’s going to do with the young man. She doesn’t want to officiously start tidying everyone up willy-nilly with her magic after they get dragged into trouble (not that there isn’t some appeal to the idea), but if people are going to be so self-conscious if she doesn’t share her magic about…

Know (relg): 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (14) + 4 = 18

Bah, a bath would do her good, too, show some solidarity with those of her friends that don't primp themselves obsessively with prestidigitation, and really show some reverence for the sanctity of the place.

* * *

The hot water eases her lingering soreness from the morning’s fighting, and the crimson robes she’s borrowed (to say nothing of the heat) bring out the roses in Alaïs’ cheeks. She pauses to add one of her enchanted berries to the offerings around the sarcophagus – a little thing, but it is magic, and she thinks for a moment about the cycle of seed to flower to fruit to earth and seed to…

And there’s tea! Things are looking more civilized all the time, out here, if a bit morbid for her tastes. Nonetheless, she eagerly takes in everything about the place. She looks around to find out where Amariss wants them for tea and scandal (the best sweetener), gathering her thoughts to make the most of the conversation.

Alaïs’ brow furrows at Agate’s challenge, casting her mind back to the graves at the ruined homestead. It’s the sort of thing that gets stuck in a court poet’s head, names that might need to be remembered. There was Anders, and … Bemissa, yes, and …

She’s sure she’ll think of them all in a moment, but she doesn’t want to interfere in whatever’s going on between Agate and Kata without the latter’s invitation. In the end, the elf lady throws her cloak over one of the lower branches of the tree the Jasidian indicates and sets to work alongside Broccan and Edrukk.

She listens carefully to the miner’s song as she works alongside him, taking the chance to get a better feel for the cadences of the local musical tradition, and doesn’t intrude there either. The part of her mind that can focus on her immediate surroundings eagerly feeds her uneasy imagination, as Alaïs’ thoughts immediately run to what sorts of buried treasures likely lie at her feet. The sorts of jewels Filge would love, presumably.

When the work is done, she quietly murmurs the names Venelle provided earlier as each body is lowered into the grave, and listens respectfully to Agate’s sermon and everyone else’s valedictions, even if she hasn’t the Dwarven to actually understand Edrukk’s song.

Not having known the Lands herself, Alaïs contents herself with kneeling at the foot of the grave and laying a gentle hand on the earth heaped up and filling it again. She murmurs,

And then, head still bowed solemnly, she rises and steps away, glancing at Kata to see if the elegist wants more space to say her farewells to her friend in private. Alaïs is quite - well, perhaps happy isn't the right word after all - to see if Agate can be taken aside to dicker about profane scrolls and be warned about the remaining zombies.

Alaïs keeps her eyes on her target as Kata’s jab past her provides an opening from the skeletal beast’s instinctive (?) response.

Shield bash, IC, power attack, high ground, arcane strike, aid: 1d20 + 3 + 1 - 1 + 1 + 2 ⇒ (1) + 3 + 1 - 1 + 1 + 2 = 7 Damage if hits: 1d3 + 2 + 1 + 2 + 1 ⇒ (2) + 2 + 1 + 2 + 1 = 8

At least, that was the plan, but the inexhaustibly curious part of her mind gets preoccupied at the worst possible time for her attention to be divided, as she wonders if it is instinct that propels such monstrosities, or if it’s all the drive of the unholy magic that first raised them up.

The elf very nearly tumbles into the operating theatre herself from her disastrously distracted swing, and as she scrabbles to recover begins to glow with a mixture of embarrassment and outrage.

Ugh. Just, ugh.

;)

Figured it might be worth putting it out there somewhere: Alaïs is all about the aesthetic. When in doubt as to where exactly she is or how she’s sorted herself, she can always be assumed to have attempted to drape herself as decoratively or dramatically as possible.

Which means, if anyone ever needs a body to pull something off or set the scene, so long as you can find a way to pitch it in a way that would appeal to a fastidious poseur (poseuse?) of an elven princess, go for it.

Oh gosh, she should never be allowed to throw a party, because she'd be far too tempted to micromanage seating arrangements and meet-cutes and trying to arrange (*shudder*) tableaux vivants. Now that I think of it, part of her objection to Filge right now may be more that he's doing it wrong than that he's playing dollies with his "guests" as such. o.O

I had imagined it as more of a stirrup-cup situation, since Alaïs has her shield to deal with, but I guess she could slump down into the chair afterwards into something like a tableau of “Aftermath of the Mad Tyrant Queen’s Dinner Party,” especially if she did end up taking her swing at her zombie. :)

Up to you! It would take quite a lot before Alaïs is too tired for “And then! …” shenanigans.

Alaïs Thalanassa wrote:

So it’s a particularly early morning for her, but she tries for a jaunty attitude as she takes the time to stroll back to the berry bushes near the Whispering Cairn – keeping an eye open for any sign that Seeker’s still lurking near the entrance –

Seeker greets Alais politely. "It is well to see you again. Will the others return soon?"

I can exit Venelle or have her come with--up to y'all!

Oops, slight wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff, I guess?

Alaïs tries to remember what Allustan had said about Seeker, now that she knows that that’s mainly the eyes, and not the bird they’re riding. Which is a thought, but anyway. Her skin may be crawling a bit, but at least they don’t have to worry that the creature’s slunk off somewhere to do more mischief. So, as much as she doesn’t like it, just in case…

“Good morning, Seeker,” she says politely, putting on a cheerful face. “I’m afraid we’ve got another busy morning. Hunting dangerous game, you know. Apparently there’s a wicked necromancer skulking about the outskirts of town, stealing bodies!”

She gestures in nervous excitement, and – Oh. That was tactless, wasn’t it? She tries to move on quickly. “We have to check an old observatory. I know you’re not keen on daylight, and we’re gathering in the town square, but, if you could use a change of scenery and brave the morning, you could … perhaps fly high, and follow us? Or we could check in with you later, if that would be more comfortable.”

Back in town:

“Good morning!” the elf trills in answer to Broccan's greeting, her light tone failing to disguise her unease. “Let’s get this cuckoo out of our nest, shall we?”

The miners are boisterous and quite talkative, and though they aren't exactly the sort of crowd Alais is used to hobnobbing with, she does a decent job of blending in. All things considered, anyways. "You're one o' them prissy Moonmeadow miners, aren'tcha?"

...

“Not really, no,” Alaïs says, as it becomes apparent that she’s going to have to work for the good gossip, not that she minds. She’s tempted to say that she’s much better than that, but even she’s not that cluelessly rude, and she keeps the momentary comparison of that Moonmeadow serpent to owlbears that flashes across her mind to herself. At least the latter don’t know any better. Anyway.

“Orchards and spirits are more my line,” she says, lifting her glass as if to illustrate. “I absolutely know some real drinking songs. And while I’m not much for baiting, the hunt is a delight. Give me a moment.”

After considering her repertoire, Alaïs settles on something eminently suitable.

"Of all the birds that ever I see,
the Owl is the fairest in her degree,
For all the day long she sits in her tree,
and when the night comes, away flies she,"

Out of her mouth, especially, it comes across as very pretty for a place like the Feral Dog, and she doesn't quite have Kata's sense of rhythm, but once Alaïs really gets going...

"To-whit, to-whoo, to whom drinks thou?
Sir Knave, to thou,
This song is well sung - I make you a vow! -
and he is a knave that drinketh now!"

Perform (sing): 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (16) + 8 = 24

... it becomes clear that she has no intention of setting her drink aside while she's singing, and there's a thinly-veiled challenge to see who can keep time well enough so that they don't lose the tune while taking a sip, nor drink when the tune calls for a rattle of the glass on bar or table for percussion.

I'm sorry to hear that. Of course, take all the time you need!

*Shakes tiny elven fist at rain!* If even Alaïs’ 22 isn’t cutting it, could we imagine some sort of Lady Bossyskirts situation to get aid bonuses from Broccan and Venelle’s rolls? ;)

Anyway, Alaïs will definitely head over to the farmhouse with the others.

Venelle swallows, looking similarly stunned. She bends to help Broccan inspect the scene.

"It's been raining a lot," she says weakly, "but it looks like there were a few people here. Maybe four or more? But I can't, uhh, find any sign of who."

Broccan doesn't see anything exceptional about the shovels--they aren't marked in any way.

Alaïs Thalanassa wrote:

“Maybe whoever did this didn’t know that she couldn’t have been buried here,” Alaïs says quietly, before turning to Kata and Venelle. “Could someone have just bought this place and decided to move the Lands to the cemetery?”

"... no. Uhh, I mean, I can't imagine." She looks between the graves and the abandoned building. "Why would anyone want this old place?"

The weather is rotten for tracking, at least for a certain novice noblewoman, but Alaïs stubbornly keeps her eyes open for anything she might have missed, on her way to the ruined house.

“Oh, well, it was just a thought. The plague would make sense of things, but I would have thought someone would have moved in, rather than the place lying empty until it fell apart entirely. Even if it needed some work at first,” she’s obviously trying to keep her tone casual, but Alaïs’ words start getting a bit clipped and her accent stronger as her train of thought gets darker as she tries to puzzle things out.

“Come on, sister. We often know more than we think, if we take the time to set it out so we actually see it.” She can almost hear her oldest brother’s annoyingly patient and relentlessly logical, wizardy voice.

“I hate to ask, but are the doctors in town reputable?” Even as she asks, it occurs to her that after almost ten years, there might not be much left to interest an anatomist. And that means… It scarcely bears thinking of, and she’s almost afraid of speaking it aloud, as if into existence.

Even if they weren’t interested in whole bodies, how did they get them out of here? And why throw the shovels away? Unless… they got them from the house? In that case, maybe there are some clues left inside.

Alaïs’ eyebrows raise as she finds out just how tense things were between Venelle and the rest of Caith’s evidently … complicated family, to put it mildly. She doesn’t mean to be misleading, really, but she can imagine how she would react if she lost one of her brothers and someone walked into her home announcing that they had his bones in their bags, and where would she want them?

Now, though, the cat, at least, is out, and the best she can do is try not to hurt any feelings as she tries to navigate the question of where – or who – Caith’s home really was. Her lips purse for a moment before she explains, “I am sorry. It’s as Kata says, and I had just hoped to spare you the worst of it until we could bring … Caith back home. That’s as much as we know about what she wanted, but we would be honoured to see it done, wherever she should be laid to rest, and you are more than welcome to join us, of course.”

Diplomacy: 1d20 + 8 ⇒ (17) + 8 = 25

It sounds a bit strange to her own ears, and she is very aware that she's a toff from who knows where meddling, but this is what she was born for. Well, the meddling too, but mainly empathy, tact and diplomatic words, and despite her foreignness, Alaïs feels pretty confident that she's found the right tone and posture to convey her earnestness.

Ugh, started a draft post late last night, and am feeling a bit too lazy to fuss much about rewriting it. If you don't mind imagining that the first part comes after Allustan asking why "ghosts and shadows..."