Sorala's page

Sorala stands for what seems like a month, her mind and body stuck. A trap? Yes, it sure seems to be. We're certainly not going in there.

Eitleán's first observation begged an important question: just how much did Sorala need the Captain? Certainly there were other Free Captains she could approach. There was one of the Free Captains she'd struck a deal with earlier in the day that intended to betray her. If Sorala could suss out who that was, perhaps a mutually agreeable betrayal could be arranged...

On the other hand, Quye's hatred and extreme stubbornness really did make him ideal for what she needed. Ideal that was, if Sorala could figure a way to get over both of those qualities being pointed squarely in her direction. "Gorum's toothy maw," the White Squire mumbled. She'd give the stubborn Free Captain a few more moments.

"I am growing tired of your games," Sorala yelled, "And want to remind you that I did not kill your first mate. I offer you a chance to avenge him, the favor of a pirate lord, and a possibility to have your name spoken with reverence in taverns throughout the Fever Sea. Or you can stand there and get drunk with your ape. You have ten minutes."

Turning, Sorala looked for a nearby spot to sit and wait, with a good vantage of the Mermaid's Bucket and yet far enough from the entrance to avoid being ambushed by her erstwhile frenemies.

Seeing no threats, Sorala takes a deep breath and then pushes it back out, and then again and once more, before dropping her disguise and stepping back around the corner.

"Hello, Quye and friend. If you don't mind, I shall stay out here. You have tried to kill me once today, and I'd prefer not to put myself in a cave with the both of you. I promised I would not attack you today, but that does not mean I am looking to die today."

Sorala casts a glance towards the millpond. Nope.

"Your ship is impressive, Quye. In all the right ways. The sails are neat and trim and her quickwork is free of kelp or seaweed. I was correct about you. You are a fine captain. Come sit with me in the sun and lets talk. Your friend - who I have not met - is welcome to loiter nearby, but what I have to say is for your ears only."

"I'd hate to kill a destitute beggar because they try to steal you," Sorala tuts. "Dull you shall remain."

Sorala stops at the entrance. Whatever Sorala had expected the Mermaid's Bucket to be, this was not it. What was the purpose of the grate? To be raised for a small craft to enter? Or to keep something in the milpond? Ducking out of sight of Quye and his crewmate, Sorala spends a few moments surveying the land outside of the cave. Were there enemies hiding there waiting to cut off a route of escape if she entered the cave?

perception, ioun stone, alterness: 1d20 + 6 + 2 + 2 ⇒ (5) + 6 + 2 + 2 = 15

Cursing her newfound knowledge under her breath, Sorala sets off immediately for this Mermaid's Bucket, drawing Eitleán as she goes, keeping him disguised as a dull flat cutlass. It should be easy enough to find at least: a straggling shack, a sea cave nearby. It would undoubtedly have signs of use, and perhaps even people.

Which could be pretty bad as well. Best remain disguised for now. Quye would know her voice at any rate. And it could give her a few moments to judge if the Free Captain meant to do her harm. If she could get there first, if there were others there to blend into a crowd, or a place to hide if not. A lot of ifs.

Sorala cursed again and then forced herself to be thankful for the magical sandals at least. She'd cover ground faster with them. Perhaps she could beat Quye there after all, if she could just find the damn Bucket first. Another if...

Sorala's, er Ygritte's query floats off into the breeze unanswered, and with a sigh, the White Squire floats to the bottom of the derelict's mast. Figure that it is about 3 1-minute increments burned from her daily flight?

Making her way carefully back to land, Sorala turns the meeting over in her mind. The good: Quye definitely was filled with hatred for her people. And he was stubborn, so if she could bring him into her camp... things could go well for both of them. The bad: Quye was filled with hatred for her personally. Perhaps eclipsing any of her people. The gambit at the Mermaid's Bucket could well be a hastily imagined trap. Sorala turns up alone, the Free Captain turns up with his entire ship, looking for her head...

The ugly, of course, was the dog.

Well, if this was a clumsy trap, it would behoove Sorala to get to the Mermaid's Bucket before Quye, to see who he arrived with. And that meant figuring out what exactly this Bucket was. It had to be nearby at least - Quye would need time to get there himself. Speaking of the Free Captain, Sorala watches the man as she picks her way off the ship, taking note of where he goes. Does he board his own vessel, or veer off in another direction?

If Quye is boarding his ship, then Sorala will make haste inland and stop the first urchin/beggar-looking person she sees, asking them what and where the Mermaid's Bucket is. If Quye does not board his ship but instead heads off somewhere else, Sorala will follow from a distance. In either case, she will disguise herself as an average-looking sailor (average as in vaguely foreign and not of high rank) at the first available opportunity.

Sighing, Sorala lifts off the mast and flies towards Quye, her voice edged with exasperation. The man was stubborn, that was for sure, and while it could be a useful quality... Sorala needed to break the ice soon. She needed to save some of her flight for what was yet to come.

"I did not kill your crew, nor did I wish - nor know - that I'd be in this blistering, fetid city a mere four days ago. So to say we can't be friends, well that seems a bit short-sighted."

Other than her voice, Sorala circles silently above Quye, her plaited braids coming mussed and undone in the flight. "But if we can't be friends, perhaps we can be allies of convenience. Would you say no to gaining the favor of a pirate lord? Of punching the invaders - and the Chels, to boot - square in the jaw? The perpetrator of a tale that will be told in taverns across Port Peril, and beyond? What of revenge for your slain bosun?"

One final circle in the air, and Sorala finds herself pointed again at the derelict. "But for these things, we must talk. Join me on the derelict, and we can see what use we can be to each other. There is no harm in listening to what I have to say. I promised I would not draw my blade against you today, and I keep my oaths."

Her offer made, Sorala flings herself back towards the derelict's mast hoping she has enticed the Free Captain enough to follow.

"You're cunning and I know it," Sorala yells as she swoops away from the Free Captain and towards the derelict ship Quye was haggling over mere moments before. "I want to talk, not fight - we have much to gain by being friends!"

Her voice grows louder as she flies further away, like thunder on the horizon. With a flourish, Sorala grabs hold of a frayed rope dangling from the derelict's mainmast and plants her feet upon the mast's side, a good twenty feet above the deck.

Another ~6 seconds of talking, fly round 2.

Sorala had expected an attack, perhaps even to fight a shipload of sailors. But a trollhound - or what she assumed was a trollhound at least - that was unplanned for. She had promised to not kill Quye today, but his crew, or his dog? They were fair game per her vow, but the killing of Quye's first mate was what had engendered his hatred towards her to begin with; killing the man's dog would certainly do the White Squire no favors. Instead, she would have to buy some time to talk the enraged Free Captain down. Which meant going up.

Sorala tapped her side with her wand and then she lifted off the ground, shooting straight upwards. While she rose, she turned a stern voice towards the Free Captain, her words drifting with disapproval across the muddy levee.

"You impossibly stubborn and single-minded man! If I meant to fight, you'd know it! Put aside your rage--"

That's six seconds of talking. Actions: standard: cast shield from her wand, move: fly 30' straight up, free: total defense. AC is 26.

Sorala marvels at the Champion Troll, truly as ugly a ship as was advertised. It was a wide craft and this was a good thing; it would have a shallow draft to accommodate a full hold, and while Sorala didn't care about the Troll's cargo capacity, the shallow draft was quite important. Turning her attention to the dog, Sorala frowned. It was a giant cur, slicked with slime, and obviously powerful - if neglected. And it was certainly mean. Sorala would need some tact - and perhaps a little luck - for what came next.

Slipping her pitted iron wand free, Sorala palmed the implement in one hand, keeping it hidden behind her wrist. She had promised her Captains not to kill Quye, but she had no illusions he would return the favor. Sorala left her other hand free of any weapon - for now. Raising her voice in volume and lowering it in timbre, the White Squire forced it over the litter-strewn sand and interrupted the negotiation.

"You should take the offer," Sorala yelled, directed to the dwarf. "Fifteen hundred gold is more than a fair price for that ship, and Free Captain Quye is known as a cunning Captain who says what he believes, and stands by it. If he says it is worth one and half, it is worth one and half, and not a bloody cent more. Captain, if the dwarf is not interested in your coin, simply walk away. You can always revisit this sale if you can't find a better deal, which I sincerely doubt. That derelict isn't going anywhere any time soon. You have time."

"Captain, I have business with you, but will remain here while you conclude - or pause - your negotiations."

The glamer remains in place, for now.

Sorala weaves through the crowded dockside, her disguise pulling little attention to the Squire. Her hair was black and tied behind her, the ponytail poking out from under her hat - now appearing as a simple sailor's hat, light, round, and with a narrow, circular brim. Her broadcloth shirt was a dark blue, and covered with a sash, from which small pieces of rope were tied and tucked into the sash - a simple way Sorala had noted sailors used to keep from losing smaller objects like tools. Her pants were baggy and tan and tied at the calves. Her footware, Sorala left almost unglammered: the silk rope of her sandals appeared to be a simple brown rope instead. Sorala's skin matched that of Kazim's - olive darkened by the sun, the indication of a foreigner, but not so foreign that she'd stand out to more than a cursory glance. Eitleán was disguised as an oversized cutlass ensconced in a plain leather scabbard dangling from a rope belt knotted around Sorala's waist.

The White Squire made note of the Irriseni paying for goods - something to inquire about later - and the bustling fort - something to investigate on the way back from Quye's ship. Provided she left the ship upright and not tossed dead into the bay, that is.

Stopping at the area she was directed to, Sorala sat atop the rubble from a disintegrated low wall and munched on a pastry provided by the bakers earlier in the morning, and she took a look upon the scene. This area of town was in disrepair, the type of place that people would only dock at if they couldn't afford - or wished to avoid - the security of the more traveled dockside. Doubt creeped into Sorala. Perhaps Quye didn't have the ability that she'd hoped? Still, she was here, and Quye certainly had a hatred of the Irriseni to make her proposal attractive. And these desperate surroundings may indicate a tendency - or need - to take a big risk. Sorala might as well see what he had to offer with her own eyes.

Sorala had considered disguising herself further, as Tadul or Shao, in order to gain an audience with Quye. But upon further reflection, the White Squire decided against it. If she hoped to make Quye an ally, she would have to drop the disguise at some point, and Sorala guessed that wouldn't go over well with the Greenblooder. No, Sorala would have to be more direct.

Walking the dockside, Sorala's sandals squelched in the mud, and the White Squire strode with purpose, directly looking at anyone nearby but dropping her eyes before her look lingered long enough to be a challenge. She hoped she'd see Quye's ship soon. Just how hard could it be to miss an ugly green three-masted flute anyways?

"Quye is welcome to try," Sorala shrugs, "And per our agreement he will not be harmed, regardless of his success. But I appreciate the advice none-the-less. Oh -- and what is a Greenblooder? I am not familiar with the term."

Sliding Eitleán into its home, Sorala keeps her hand on the sword's worn handle, the connection between them blunted but not broken. "Yes, it is no surprise, but it is good to know. If you can suss out who intends to betray us, let me know. We need their moral compass to help guide us through these dangerous waters."

Sorala lets her hand free, severing the connection. Hopefully Eitleán's interest was piqued, and the blade would spend its time ensconced thinking more intently on the identity of their possible ally.

Returning Kazim's bow, Sorala presents the man with smile, genuinely warm, for the thought of fine food brings the Squire's near perpetual hunger - despite the recent fine sancocho - into sharp focus. "I appreciate the offer, Free Captain Kazim of the El-Shadun. I shall certainly take you up on it. A future filled with meshkak and date is a present filled with dreams-kissed anticipation.

Turning to Tadul and Siboniso, Sorala offers them a bow as well. Free Captain Tadul of the Bouncing Headsman, Free Captain Siboniso. It is my pleasure to meet you. May you grow wealthy from our agreement."

Off to Quye!

"Others?" Sorala asks Eitleán, concern edging into her mindvoice. "What do you mean by others? Humanoid or something else? Which one was the other?" Depending on Eitleán's answer, this could be very bad. Sorala held the rimeblade unsheethed in her hand, tip pointed at the ground, her pose as unthreatening as possible given that she kept Eitleán bared.

As her mind carried on her conversation with Eitleán, outwardly Sorala showed a calm presence. A small smirk played across Sorala's face, briefly touching her eyes as the White Squire thought of the only person she'd ever held closely, like a sibling: the long-dead Halgred Morgannan.

"Ah yes, troublesome siblings. We love them regardless of the grief they bring upon us. And themselves."

"Lastly, I promise to you that I will be discreet in my visit. No one will see Ygritte Guiding Star enter or leave that boat. So, with those concerns addressed, shall you provide uphold your terms of our agreement and provide me your honest counsel? Tell me where I can find Free Captain Quye."

"It is done," Sorala muses, her voice light. Pulling a cloth banner from the railing, Sorala runs it along Eitleán's blade and then drops it atop the table, for someone could use it to clean the bloody contract later. "We are friends now, and you shall be very, very wealthy. I shall have papers sent to your ships soon, likely in the next day or two, allowing your free passage to and from port. Tell me where your ships a moored so that I may get you your papers as promptly as possible."

"And, now that we are friends, I have need of your first bit of council. Where is the Free Captain Quye's ship birthed? What is it called? I wish to pay him a visit."

Sorala thinks briefly of shaving her head and then waves the thought from her mind. She was proud of her hair; its distinguished white-blond color, which complimented her flat grey eyes nicely, and, when moments allowed it, the White Squire enjoyed braiding it, or wrapping beads into it. Such self-care was a time for reflection, a time to feel beautiful. No, she would not let this insufferably hot and damp city take that from her.

Ignoring Cinderbeam, who after a moment's quick consideration seems not be intent on killing her, Sorala places the rimeblade on the table, one hand holding the blade upright. "I assume that is some sort of closure for an agreement you are attempting, Cinderbeam? We do things a bit differently where I am from." Sorala draws her hand across Eitleán, a quick sharp gesture, and before the pain sets in, the White Squire clenches her fist, blood dripping from her palm, a rivulet of red splattering the table. Sorala guides the blood until it makes a shakey set of initials: YGS "If you accept, run your hand across the blade - or one of your own, if you prefer, and let the blood fall in an approximation of your name. This act binds us in agreement." The bloodletting was an old form of treaty in Irrisen, one undoubtedly approved of, and possibly created by, the clergy of the Midnight Lord, one of the countless ways in which his influence intruded into Irriseni everyday life.

Nodding to Shao, Sorala considers her question, a short pause accompanied by a slight head-waggle, a sign of respect. "It is a good question, Shao. I should be pleased to see if you can make our agreement work. If we face shortages, I shall offer the deal to others. We shall see how exclusive the deal needs to be - deliver enough, or more, and it can be very, very lucrative for you. Don't, and I reserve the right to offer the same deal to enough Free Captains to make it worth it for the invaders."

"Do you accept, or should I look for another Free Captain to pick up your slack?"

Perhaps the Overtyrant was a fan of sancocho? Sorala muses. She turns her thoughts to Eitleán, curiousity tinging her mindvoice. "Our bond has grown over the years. Strengthened. Can you... sense what I sense? Are we linked in any way but thought? Do you feel the pleasant burn of this seafood stew?"

Sorala quirks her eyebrow as the Free Captains express their doubts. Her placid fascade cracks, a small smile forcing its way through. "A savage invasion, you say? Yes, I suppose that is accurate. Still, many of my people - not all, but many - understand that a hammer is best accompanied with a pillow. You are the fortunate few that can choose the pillow for your head, and not the hammer."

"And your instincts about money are correct. I can assure you that some of your money will be lost among the... how did you put it? Layers of the pearl? That is a beautiful euphemism. I shall borrow it in the future. But, I will save you at least one and half percent. You see, I have no interest in money. The Jadwiga will provide me with what I need."

Sorala drops her spoon into the now empty soup bowl with a clatter, noticing just how quiet the tavern has become; the storm has stopped, the conversation in the Deadlight occurs -- if at all -- in whispers.

"What I want from you is your friendship. If I am in need of guidance, I would appreciate your honest council. If I need a connection made, I would appreciate an introduction. If I need supplies, I would appreciate access to your networks. Strangers in strange lands need friends. And so the deal I am offering you is favorable to you, because you have something more important than all the sancocho in the Shackles, to me at least. You have connections. What do you say?"

"Very well," Sorala said, unsure if the silence she was met with was a good sign or not. "You will have freedom to come and go from Port Peril with official letters of transport. You will pay docking fees at the current rates, with a one-year freeze on any increases. Representatives for Lady Elysia and House Morgannan will have first right of refusal for any trade goods that you bring to port. We will pay one and quarter times the going rate for any food, weaponry, and ammunition to you and you alone."

"You will not need to sign any "loyalty pledge" to the Lady. Instead, you will receive papers of safe and free travel as long as your docking fees are paid and any contractual quotas are met. Effectively, you will be granted neutrality and preferred trading status with House Morgannan. In return, you will deliver goods as expected per your individual contracts, give the House and its agents right of first refusal on trade goods that you bring in, not take up arms against the House, and abide by House Morgannan's laws and regulations while in the city. House Morgannan and Lady Elysia's representatives reserve the right to cancel contracts if you are unable to meet your obligations, and can revoke your favored trading status and neutrality for crimes against the House and representatives of Lady Elysia. House Morganan and Lady Elysia's representatives will reserve the right to offer similar favorable trading status and neutrality to other Free Captains as needed. Likewise, any Captains that you work with and would like to recommend for favored trading status and neutrality will be granted an audience. It is my hope that the numbers of Free Captains with this status will be kept exclusive, so that we may all profit from this."

Sorala took another bite of her sancocho and surveyed the Captains, looking for any reaction. "Thoughts?"

sense motive: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (8) + 10 = 18

Sorala sits, posture rigid, head turned slightly at an angle as the captains pepper her with questions, some hotter than the sancocho her mouth is already watering in anticipation of. While they had first sat in silence, and then while the Free Captains talked, Sorala again made judgements to their characters, refining her opinions - and options - as the conversation continued.

Vraxakor was a buffoon most likely, or someone that played one, a useful skill if that was the case. And whether act or not, the diminutive man relished the spot at center stage, much like the preening barrel rollers of her homeland. That could be a useful quality for what Sorala had planned. Someone that chased fame would be likely to bite on her real offer, when she was in a position to make it.

Kazim was eloquent and certainly comfortable speaking for others; charismatic, pretty, a natural leader. Such people, Sorala had learned over the years, could be dangerous. Best to keep him close and at the same time, at arm's length.

Siboniso, while a pessimist, was someone that was observant, and comfortable being in a position to observe. He was smart, and perhaps could be useful, though Sorala doubted it would be in the way that was needed. Still, securing his allyship could prove worthwhile.

Tadul was expressive, likely too expressive for what Sorala needed, and seemed to chase neither revenge or fame. A businesswoman to her core, Sorala decided. She would be expensive to hire for Sorala's plan.

Shao remained steadfastly difficult to evaluate. Sorala had no new insights into the captain.

Raising an empty glass - small, like a snifter but without a stem - to Kazim, Sorala smiles and tips the Bag Island Rum back. It was pleasant; fiery in the back of the throat like whisky, but with a sweetness that complimented it nicely. A dangerous spirit for those that relish them.

Sighing, she let the others tuck into their sancocho - a pang of sadness running through the White Squire as she watched them eat - and began to answer their questions.

"On the matter of jurisdiction, I was notified of the invasion the day it began, and sent by my liege to make sure that Lady Elysia Morgannan, who now consolidates her hold on the city, does not run into any barricades - both literal and figurative. One barricade, as Siboniso so keenly noticed, is food. And so I am out to remove that barrier for the lady. But no, I do not consider myself an invader, though I acknowledge that the distinction may be a fine one in the eyes of most. For the purposes of this conversation, know that I can open the sea to those that are my friends."

"As to the matter of timeliness, forgive my bluntness Free Captain Fatru, but where and when you are due right now is of little matter. The fact is that if you try to leave the island, you are at risk of being sunk and losing at least your livelihood. I believe that once you have your freedom of passage your contractual issues will resolve themselves. Surely you have language in them for acts of the divine and unforeseen do you not? And I would think this invasion would certainly count for unforeseen. Your partners will be forgiving, and if they are not? You will be wealthy and that will salve the wounds of any lost friendships. All that said, I will work as quickly as I can to resolve your contracts."

Sorala paused, and dipped a spoon into the sancocho, relishing its peppery bite, the tingling it left on her tongue. "Do you have any questions? If not, I shall move on to terms."

"I imagine you will not let yourself be ignored," Sorala says, her voice carrying over the rain, sourness tinged in tone. "But you weren't invited, and I said I would meet first with Siboniso, Tadul, Kazim, and Shao, others after. However, I will defer to your fellows; if they do not object, then you can join us. What do you say, Free Captains?"

There was something off about the halfling, and the others' reactions were less than enthusiastic. Sorala did not wish to be involved in the politics of the Free Captains. Let them voice how they felt of the Acetabularii's Captain.

While they waited, Sorala fished ten gold from her bandoleer and stacked the coins atop the rail. Turning her attention to the bar, she tapped the rail beside the coins. "Last time I was here, I had a fine sancocho. Another bowl, please, and a bottle of a fine local spirit. Bring glasses for my guests."

There was no time to address the laughter in the rain, so Sorala made a mental note to come back to it later with Eitleán. Instead, she waited for the confusion to die down, silently pleased at the commotion; her entrance had been grand. Now it remained to be seen if it was effective.

Perhaps it was too effective. A small frown crossed Sorala's face as Quye stormed from the Deadlight, taking a coterie of captains with him. Sorala needed someone like Quye for a friend - one that hated the Irriseni and the Chelish with enough passion to do something that would make them enemies. Sorala suspected that if she could get some time with the man, they may be able to strike an agreement. Still, Quye's passions got the best of him easily, and someone capable of keeping their Conqueror plays close was less risky... and also harder to locate. Perhaps someone less passionate, but more morally pliable or ambitious was type she needed? Sorala considered Siboniso, but he seemed to nakedly pessimistic. There would be little chance he would take such a risk. Perhaps the Tian captain, Shao, or Kazim of the El-Shadun would be more suitable. Sorala would focus on them for now and try to get a better measure of their character, and would see if there was a way to yet meet with Quye. The White Squire refined her thoughts and remained silent as questions were shouted at her, eventually sliding Eitleán into his scabbard.

"Your fellow captain Quye is obviously a fine captain and a passionate man, but he is none-too-bright. I have not lied. I am Ulfen to the depths of my unshorn soul." Turning to the fat captain, Sorala clasps her hands in front of her and gives a short bow, a mea-culpa. "I see I offended you. Please understand that was not my intent. Many people from my land would kill - literally - to have your physique. It signifies wealth and power. I would be honored if you would treat with me."

"You did not leave with Quye, so you are at least interested in discussion. I ask you to remove your sailors outside so that we may merely have the space to talk confidentially. But if you'd prefer to keep an honor guard with you, I will not object. If I were interested in conflict, or in making demands, I would not be here alone in your tavern. I am not interested in making demands. I am interested in negotiating. And I hope that you are as well."

Sorala flits to the back of the balcony, to a particulary shadowy spot, and lets her disguise drop. Removing Janis’s tricorn hat and sliding it folded into her pack, Sorala slips her circlet onto her head and flips her cloakhood up, and drawing Eitleán, waits the final few seconds for the invisibility spell to end.

Flickering back into sight and shrouded by shadows, Sorala strides forward towards the rail, hoping that it appears the crewmen closest to her that she drew from the shadows themselves. Stopping at the rail, Sorala flips her cloakhood back and notes with satisfaction the voices quieting around her. Now it was time to draw the Free Captains’ attention.

Placing Eitleán’s blade atop the rickety rail, Sorala walks the balcony, the blade scraping across the wood, the sound of the scraping seemingly growing louder the more the tavern quiets. Tiny shards of ice drift down from the balcony to the tavern’s main room below.

Sorala stops again, this time close to an open window, in case she needs to make a quick escape. "Be alert, Eitleán. Likely everyone in this room wants to kill me. So, like court. Look for hidden blades and bolts."

Satisfied she’s commanded enough of the Deadlight’s attention, Sorala wraps Eitleán on the balcony rail, once, twice, thrice, and then bellows. "Siboniso! Quye! I am glad to see you still walk the streets of Port Peril! Free Captains! I am pleased you are here tonight! For those of you that don’t know me, I am Ygritte Guiding Star. I should start by saying that Siboniso has been correct tonight, twice. The invaders do intend to sit on you, like a gull on an egg. And, they do need food. There are deals to be made, and money along with it. And I can offer you those deals, if you are interested."

Sorala waves Eitleán vaguely at the crowd of sailors behind them. "Send your crew outside. I should like to meet with you here on the balcony. To start, Siboniso, the Tian woman, the fat woman, and the pretty man in the burnoose. Quye, I would like to meet with you after and discuss ways we can bury our grievances. And then any others that wish to discuss opportunity. The Jadwiga are not patient. I suggest you not toss aside this gift."

Imperious and stern-faced, Sorala stands rigid. Eitleán shimmers gently in the still, humid air. The White Squire would wait until the Free Captains made a move, one way or another.

The Deadlight thankfully was as cluttered as a pirate ship. Ropes, nets, sails, even a wheel or two hung from the walls and ceilings of the tavern. There was also a small balcony, and the open-air windows with their open shutters made opportune egress.

"Alright, alright!" Sorala sneered, twisting away from the bouncer and stepping away from the tavern, all the while rubbing her shoulder as if hurt. "Got the message, loud and clear."

Taking a turn at the nearest alley, Sorala looked for observers and then crouched by a wall and whispered an arcane syllable, twisting her fingers from a circle into a flat hand. Invisible, Sorala activated her flight hex and twisted through the air, into the tavern through one of its large open windows, before lifting herself onto the far end of the balcony, against the wall. Taking a quick glance along the balcony, Sorala eavesdropped listened to every conversation she could, counting the seconds off as she spied. She had roughly four and a half minutes of time before the invisibility wore off. At three and half minutes, she'd need to make a decision...

Loremaster Aelick was - in addition to being a fine tutor, also a worldly man, and a foreigner. Sorala had never been able to pin down exactly where he was from, but the rumors were from Northern climbs. Regardless, his accent was not Irriseni, and was familiar enough to Sorala that she felt confident she could mimic it enough that the orc painfully pressing their giant hand into her shoulder would be fooled.

bluff to adopt Aelick's accent (Sorala is wearing her hat of disguise and not her circlet, so -3 to bluffs from her character sheet): 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (18) + 10 = 28

"Yeah, well, I don't rec' ye either," Sorala says, trying to peer around the towering half-orc. "Proabably not around when ye on duty, right?" Sorala peers up at the bouncer, and shrugs. "I'd remember ye that's for sure. Why's the Deadlight closed then? Never seen that before. Private party or sumthing..." Sorala yammers on for as long as the bouncer will let her, letting her mouth run nonstop about whatever tangentially germane to the situation crosses her mind. The whole time, the White Squire turns options over in her head, like pages in a book.

She could simply leave, cast invisibility on herself, and come back. But, she'd only be invisible for five minutes, and there's a good chance she'd like to be in that room longer than that.

Sorala would feel bad killing the bouncer. They were just doing their job after all. But, it was an option. She could agree to go, and once he let go, punch him full in the nose and then sprint towards a nearby alley. Once there, she'd kill the bouncer, change her disguise to be them, and then saunter back into the Deadlight. If she didn't have to speak, she could probably linger for as long as was needed.

But there's always a chance she would have to speak, or actually bounce someone.

Perhaps a blending of the plan was in order?

Sorala is going to use her memory of the previous visit to the Deadlight, and as much as she can look around the bouncer now, to try and figure out if there are any good "hiding spots" in the tavern. How high is the ceiling? Is there a balcony, second floor, rooms on the first floor, ceiling beams, second entrances, etc. Anything else of note?

perception if needed, ioun stone: 1d20 + 6 + 2 ⇒ (10) + 6 + 2 = 18

They are getting passes? Heat rises in Sorala's breast, her cheeks flush. Gods damnable unreliable Jadwiga. Hadn't she stressed the need to keep the Free Captains locked down? That it was a way to twist them into compliance? That she had a plan she was working on? That the plan was ultimately to her benefit, and not Irrisier's, well, they didn't know that.

Of course, it was always possible that the rumor mill was running full steam and the captains were still locked down. Equally likely, someone had acted on Sorala's idea before she could, or more benignly, had a similar idea and was operating in an information bubble. Either, given the state of Jadwiga court politics and Jadwiga logistical capability, was equally plausible. Sighing, Sorala decided to linger at the door and wait some more, listening to the conversation and looking for Fleta.

The Squire fidgeted at the doorway, and then decided it would be better to slip into the tavern under the guise of being a patron and gain anonymity within the crowd, like one flamingo among a flock.

Sliding Eitleán into its scabbard, Sorala slid into the crowd, looking for a place toward the rear of the conversation where she could eavesdrop while also scanning the room for Fleta.

stealth: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (9) + 2 = 11
perception to look for threats, Fleta, and a good spot to remain hidden in plain sight, ioun stone: 1d20 + 6 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 6 + 2 = 24

Sorala frowns as the halflings rattle off their list, using her eidactic mind to note a couple of that seem promising, a nearby general store and a second-hand shop. Tucking the note into her bandoleer, Sorala's eyes linger over the remaining bread and grilled fruit, what did they call it, a mango? A silly name for a glorious fruit, Sorala decides, and realizes she's run her tongue over her lips, a visual display of want. "I'm sorry," Sorala asks, pointing to a nearby roll. "Would you mind if I take a couple with me? They are soooo good. You're masters of your craft and it honors me to share a meal with you. I can pay a few silver. Would that be enough?"

Sliding Eitleán from the table she'd placed him atop while she ate, Sorala's mindvoice teased, "Did you enjoy breakfast? These are the types of things that happen when you are in your scabbard. The halflings - they are at least interesting to watch, aren't they?" Sorala then adopts a more earnest tone, her mindvoice soft, mindful. "I hope your reflections were valuable last night, Eitleán. Is there anything you wish to speak about?"

Stepping into the street, Sorala smiles and turns in place orienting herself to the nearest general store. The morning was about as pleasant as the climate got in Port Peril, and Sorala was surprised to find herself feeling it almost tolerable. Perhaps she was adjusting?

Sorala's form shifted; this time she took on the appearance of a sailor, with a tan shag shirt and simple brown woolen pants. The hat atop her head took on the appearance of a bright red bandana, and as for her sandals - they remained the same. Gripped in her hand, Eitleán appeared to be a well-worn cutlass, with a gleaming brass hilt. Recalling the directions to the general store, Sorala frowns again. Down High street and two or three doors down from the cigar store Mwangi. Okay, but where was High Street?

Sorala pauses to admire the industriousness of the halflings. She could see why they made prized slaves: they made things happen! Of course, such initiative was often dangerous in Irrisen, where slaves did only what they were ordered to do, and nothing more.

Even as she ponders the differences in enslaved peoples of the northern and southern climes, Sorala is seated, and her comparative sociological thoughts are whisked away with the arrival of the feast, and what a feast it is! For a moment, Sorala understands why the Jadwiga keep such a close hold on their power; to be fetted and served as she is these few moments is nearly as close to the heavans as Sorala has ever been in her life.

Of course, the Jadwiga were often imperious and cruel, and Sorala had no desire to be so with Norintha's people. She smiled and closed her eyes as she ate, ensuring that her enjoyment of every single bite was telegraphed to the watchful bakers. Did they speak the common tongue, Sorala wondered?

"Excuse me," the Squire said, running the washing rag over her hands and catching the gaze of the closest baker. "I have rarely had such a wonderful feast, but I must be going soon. Do you know where I can find the ships of the Free Captains? Particularly one named Fleta, who owns the ship The Yellow Fin?"

Sorala casts her eyes down at her newly cleaned hands, frowning as she spies her crimson fingernails. "And someone who sells gloves? Is there one nearby? One that sells good quality handware?"

Sorala nods and places the Andoran copper cap into her pocketed scarf, which Sorala had taken to wearing as a colorful cloth belt, tied around her waist, the pockets folded inward, just as they would be if they were around her neck in colder climes.

"Thank you, I shall hold it close and dear, Norintha. And do not worry, I have a plan to float the ship. Or the inverse, as it may be."

Making her way below the shop, Sorala takes in the dead Divedi's room, smiling. "Your bakers have been busy. This is wonderful. Do they all sleep here then?"

Slipping into the hammock, Sorala sighs, finding it surprisingly comfortable, as if one were sleeping in a cacoon. Looking over to Eitleán propped against the wall, Sorala's mindvoice creases with worry. "Are you sure you will be safe there? I would bring you to bed with me, but a blade, unscabbarded in a hammock seems... dangerous for me."

"More importantly, what pulls at your mind, Eitleán? Why the worry?"

----

Sorala hears her stomach grumble and worries for a moment that she's woken anyone sleeping in the near vicinity. Alas, other than Eitleán she seems to be the only one awake, and perhaps even downstairs. Grabbing her blade, Sorala climbs the ladder, her mouth watering, as Sorala thinks over her day. Most important - after breakfast of course, which smelled good enough to kill for - would be a visit to Fleta. She should also, Sorala thinks, little relish in the thought, not waste too much time before going to visit Elysia. But I need something to offer her. Fleta first.

At the mention of a ship, Sorala smiles. "I do not need a crew yet. I shall let you know a few days from when the crew is needed. And I do not have a ship. But, I have a ship in mind. A Chelish brig ran aground at Marlow's Shelf, and they are waiting for a flood tide to wash it out. I plan to seize it. Of course, our sailors will have to be kept a little in the dark until they know the true objective, and they will need to get to the ship with us. I have not figured this part out yet. Wheels within wheels, as they say."

Sorala slides the Andoran Cap back across the table to Norintha, nodding her head. "Thank you. A good sleep sounds wonderful. And many thanks to Brother Barnabas. I do not think a good sleep would have been possible otherwise. I look forward to giving my appreciation to the Brother personally."

"Yes. I do hand you a great weapon," Sorala murmurs, panic rising in her breast. "I have, as far as I can remember, only been this vulnerable with one person." And he is dead, Sorala muses, but decides to keep that to herself.

"And you are correct. My masters would kill me... painfully and extravagantly, if they knew my plans."

Sorala casts a glance towards Eitleán, keenly aware of the fact that this is the first time she's voiced these thoughts so explicitly with him as well. The moments pass, Sorala sitting quietly and marveling at the Andoran coin, even though she didn't entirely understand what Norintha spoke of.

"I think I understand," the Squire exaggerated, her voice soft. "In my land, the closest thing is the Heralds of Summer's Return, though they are more myth than reality at this point. Your ideas are dangerous to those in power, Norintha."

Sorala does not need to elaborate. She is sure Norintha knows as much. "I am thankful that you would like to help, and grateful for your favor, Norintha. What do you think? Can I be free?"

"You asked to be out of your scabbard more, not I. This is the sort of thing that happens in the world when you are not in it." Sorala closes the window of her mind to the icy rimeblade and turns her attention to Norintha.

Which is a good thing, because Norintha's question begged careful consideration. To an Irriseni, the world was merely made up of betters, rivals, and servants. One flattered and accomodated the first, schemed against the second, and gave little thought - other than an expectation of obedience - from the third. Norintha would not stand for the most natural arrangement to Sorala, that of servant and master, and such a different arrangement was difficult for Sorala to wrap her mind around.

"I had hoped we'd be friends," Sorala fumbles, the sad realization escaping her that Norintha probably was, next to her grouch of a sword, the closest sentient thing Sorala could call a friend. Sorala shifted uncomfortably in her seat, running her hand again over the wooden table.

Norintha was boxing Sorala in as deftly as she had Master Halporhini's Conqueror pieces but a few hours previously. There was an order in which Sorala needed to parse information, and she had already said too much. But without Norintha's help, Sorala was likely doomed. There was no point in continuing to be cagey. "But I realize that is asking much of you. I have a proposal, one that I'd hoped to make when my plans were more set, but the truth is, I cannot do this without you. I ask that you keep this conversation to yourself for now, Norintha."

Sorala leaned in closer, her voice barely a whisper. What was it that the rogue archon had said? That Sorala would be aware if one tried to activate the scrying mark placed upon her? Here was to hoping it was right. "Do you play Conqueror, Norintha? To use a metaphor from that game, I plan to leave this island and my bondage once I am able to get the proper pieces on my board. Once I leave, I plan to go where the winds take me. I shall be a Free Captain. For this, of course, I need a crew." And a ship.

"And for this, if you are willing, I'd like you to be my ship's quartermaster. You would be an officer, and would receive proper compensation for this role, and as you are already, you would be one of my trusted advisors."

Sorala searches her mind for information on the Shackles, both gleaned recently and from her previous life in Irrisen, through the dusty tomes residing in Loremaster Aelik's study. The details were still hazy.

"I admit to some ignorance as to how a Free Captain's ship is structured, to be honest. There is no master and servants, if I recall correctly? Everyone on the ship gets compensation, yes? And everyone is free to come and go as they see fit once they are in port, correct? I would follow your people's custom and would appreciate your tutelage."

"And if you are not interested, then I hope that you will help me slip my bondage as I helped your people slip theirs, and that when I leave this damnably hot city, we can part as friends. And when I slip my bondage and am a Free Captain, I promise to you that I will be no friend to slavers, whether you are with me or not. What do you say, Norintha?"

"Baking..." Sorala murmurs. "That is good. To feed others, it is as noble a profession as any." Sorala stomach audibly moans, and the Squire winces, embarrassed. "Yes, let's move inside. And I hate to ask, but do the bakers have anything yet for sale?"

Inside the bakery, Sorala runs her hand over the flour-worked table. "In my homeland, the finer manors have marble slabs that are used for working dough. It is easy to clean with a scraping tool. I assume that marble is hard to come by here? At any rate, forgive me," Sorala says, as she draws Eitleán and places the blade next to them on the table. "I get tired of carrying this thing with me. It is almost like another arm, but it weighs me down in more ways than the physical."

"Calm down, Eitleán. I don't mean it. It is merely a ruse to get you out of your scabbard, as I promised."

"Fast, cheap, good," Sorala repeats, drawing forth Divedi's jeweled elephant, and placing it on the table between them. "I'd prefer fast and good. And very discreet. Would this elephant, exchanged for coin, be enough to wrangle up a crew, and earn yourself a retainer to boot?"

Norintha's face hardens, but Sorala's face remains passive. She had expected as much, and though the White Squire would prefer to keep her personal information secret, this was a moment that required candor.

"I am happy for your people, that they now get to live. Happier than you can know, Norintha, until now, and what I am to tell you I request you take to your grave, or at least as long as it takes me to leave this island. I also live in bondage, Norintha. My destiny is not for me to make. At any moment, my master can cause me incapacitating pain. It is a curse that can only be lifted by a priest of the Midnight Lord, and for obvious reasons, the priests of my master are not an option. The only good thing about my curse is that my masters don't know that I know of it, so I have a... window, I think is the expression, a window of time to get it removed. But like a spider, I must weave a web. The rumors about Janis, the sailors, and the priest, among others, they are all related."

"So, I hope to find a priest among this island's slavers, as that seems the type of work they would be drawn to. Then, if I am able to get my shackles removed, I'll be able to live. Let me live, Norintha. Find me a priest of the Midnight Lord."

"People are divided if you killed him. Flying chase through the city, breaking into the Redoubt." Gods, there's more chatter here than a Jadwiga court.

Putting that aside for a moment, Sorala nods, her voice soft. "I'm glad they have their freedom. What do they plan to do? Have they spoken of such things, now that they can live?"

"When you talk of rumors, do people mention me specifically? Or when you say, "you," do you mean in the Witches' Taldane." Noting the confused look on Norintha's face, Sorala clarifies. "In the general sense. "You" as in the..." Sorala thinks of ending her question with the word occupiers and changes tack. "Northerners." Reminder that Sorala was disguised for much of her pursuit.

"You seem to have a well-developed ear for rumor; can you spread them as well? I need a good portion of the city to disbelieve that Janis was killed."

For a moment, Sorala thinks back to her game of Conqueror with the honorable Master Halporhini. The lesson of that game was not to wait too long. When there is an opening, push your pieces into the pieces into the breach. Exploit it. This time, Sorala would name things correctly.

"Whether Janis is dead or not is immaterial in the long arc of this city's history, but to the Jadwiga, they will have to prove his death, for their rule depends on showing their superiority to the Pirate Lords. And I need your help to sow that doubt, so that I can push the occupiers to action. They need to show his corpse."

"There is something else I need to ask you. If I were to need a crew of sailors, could you put one together? I don't need one yet, but at some point soon, if things go how I hope, it would be... beneficial. Please note, it would likely mean not returning to port here for some time.

Sorala pauses. If ever.

"At least not on the ship they would leave the city on. But it would mean money, and if they wanted it, fame of sorts. I can explain more later, but for now, if you can let me know, can you arrange a crew of sailors? Enough to sail, say a brigantine? And if so, how long would it take you to arrange?"

Sorala sighs and fixes Norintha with a serious stare. "There is one more thing I must ask, and it is not an easy question to ask."

"I need to make contact with a priest of Zon Kuthon, the Midnight Lord. I suspect, if any are to be found, they would be found among particularly cruel slavers; those that revel in pain, especially in causing it. They would be experts at doling out punishment, and likely have a disposition to receive it as well. They would enjoy the act, either way, and may have a fetish for whips, chains, and other devises of bondage and torture. Do you know of any Kuthites involved in the slave trade? Preferably priests?"

Sorala pauses again, and finishes her thoughts. "I cannot explain yet why, but believe me when I say it has nothing to do with you, your people, or enslavement."

Sorala approaches the bakery, stunned by the noise and light. Did the once-enslaved that lingered there not understand they were now targets? In such a lawless city, with so much uncertainty, among people with so little power... the bakery was like a flame to draw moths. Which then in turn would draw bats. Sorala's temper rises, she thinks of ordering the halflings to bed, but their warm greeting and the sounds of happy conversation draw some of the edge from Sorala's ire, and the White Squire realizes that much of the rest of her discomfort lies in hunger. She had once again neglected to feed herself for hours upon hours. While she waits, Sorala asks the halflings on the porch if there is any food, and then gives Norintha a short bow when the tousle-haired tailor arrives.

"Is that what the rumor says? That things are busy?" Sorala offers Norintha her wan smile, the one she generally reserves for obtuse underlings at court, but Sorala remembers her hunger and forces her smile into something more genial. "You can always ask what is on your mind. If I can tell you, I will. And if I can't tell you, I will tell you that."

Sorala fixes Norintha with an expectant stare, willing the tailor to speak up, and then after a beat starts in again before Norintha responds.

"And I have a question for you. Aren't your people worried to make a commotion? Surely this-" Sorala waves her hand at the light and noise, "- is attractive to ones like Divedi?"

A winged bug, plump and yellow, flipped through the air in a meandering circuit, buzzing Sorala's ear. Raising her hand in annoyance - there were little in the way of bugs in Irrisen, and nothing of the level of annoyance of the insects that buzzed, fat and looping, through the night here in Port Peril. Running her hand through her hair, Sorala marveled that she already felt damp. The pleasant cleanliness she had enjoyed after her Witchmarket bubble shower would surely be as distant a memory as her childhood in a matter of mere moments. Sighing, Sorala focused on her situation.

Three curses. The first would have to be removed first, and not soon after, the second. But before that, her escape would have to be secured, for there was no point in Sorala trying to kill Lady Riina. Even if she cold somehow get back to Irrisen, the White Squire would be dead in a matter of moments if she tried. No, Sorala would take the Hawkshaw's advice and run. But for that, she would need to have a ship secured in advance, as well as a crew, and the aid of a priest of the Midnight Lord. Valacus was a bad option, though they were one. Before resorting to that, Sorala would try to find a priest on the island, and secure their assistance. Which would also surely be no easy task, and was by no means a good option. Sorala sighed again.

At least the place to start looking for one was clear enough. There was likely not much of an organized church of the Prince of Pain in Port Peril, but there was a slave trade. If there was a priest on the island, they could likely be found reveling in the misery of Port Peril's, what was the word she'd heard them use, dalit? Turning slowly in place, Sorala looked to get her bearings, and set out for the bakery.

Sorala offers her hands in a final goodbye clasp, giving Halporhini a genuine smile, not the strained, wan, mirthless smirk she usually reserves for social encounters. "It would be my honor if it was used for its intended purpose, though if your husband would like it on your walls, I should be very pleased as well. Farewell, Master Halporhini, it has been a pleasure."

Trailing behind Falk, Sorala casts her eyes around as she leaves, as if hungry. It was likely she'd never see another place quite like this gambling den, and the observant squire made note of as much as she could as they left; a plume of blueish smoke coming from a large leaf-rolled tobacco-ish project, its smell at once pungent and surprising, like a bogland fart; the dangling shift of Falk's tentacles as he moved through the room; a squealing peel of joy as a lumpy four-armed creature apparently won a throw of dice around a crowded, bathtub-shaped table with a dizzying number of, well numbers...

And then Sorala is out the door, blinking in the Witchmarket's faded light, which was still surpisingly bright. Taking a moment to reaclimate, Sorala drew Eitleán from its scabbard and inquired, "So, how do I get back ho-- to Irrisier?"

Sorala accepts the book with a deep nod of her head, the Squire's face blushing red. She was of course quite pleased with herself, though a lifetime of carousing with metaphorical dragons left Sorala trained to show little joy in victory over peers and betters. Among the powerless, things were different of course, though Sorala never understood the need to be a "Jadwigan winner" in such cases. Regardless, she would give Master Halporhini the respect he was due.

"Thank you," Sorala whispers, marveling at the book's wood and wax pages. "This is quite a kind act. I have no books to give you, but--"

The White Squire slides the book into her pack and in return removes her fishing net. While most Irrisini nets were made of sheeps' wool, Sorala's was in a way a work of art, or at least a work of fine craftsmanship. The typical Irriseni wool was replaced with deep green silk, imported from over the crown of the world and alchemically treated for increased durability. The weights of the cast net were hand carved from volcanic stone into figures common in her country's tales; laughing, conical capped fey; plump, whiskered catfish with eyes that seemed to twinkle in the gaming room's light; and stout frost giants, their wiry unkempt beards trailing to their feet.

"Perhaps, if you return to your lands some day, you can use this net during the rainy season. I have caught many fine fish with it. And if you do not have a reason to use it, hang it upon your wall and think fondly of our game. It has been an honor to play against you."

"And if, for some reason, you ever find yourself in Irr-- Port Peril, ask for Sorala Ironeyes. It would be a pleasure to play again."

Turning to Falk, Sorala turns the die over the alien. "You are an exemplar to your profession. I appreciate your time in facilitating this game. I am afraid, alas, that I must leave. I am not much inclined to gamble, despite our game today."

Sorala's hand stretches out and hovers over the dragon, careful not to touch it, for in her homeland once a hand touched a piece on a Conqueror board, it had to be played. She had thought of using the hilltop dragon to strafe Mater Halporhini's defenses, another small grinding step in their war of attrition. But...

There was that square near to the tower, almost inconspicuous among the terrain and figures on the board, but it was there. A likely mistake, or forced gap that Sorala could exploit. Sorala's hand shakes slightly and she pulls it back to her lap and leans in closely, eyes darting around the board. It could also be Halporhini's own version of a Walking Hut Gambit, though Sorala could not discern where exactly the counterpunch would come from.

So, either a cleverly constructed trap or a mistake? The question then became whether or not the White Squire should stay her course, the slow attritional grind, or take the opening see what came of it. The purpose of her strategy had been just this; to create a mistake and capitalize upon it, and were the stakes not so high, she certainly would have already moved to exploit Halporhini's likely error. Still...

Sighing, Sorala closed her eyes for a brief second and committed. It was after all her strategy, and while any good commander should know when to change up their approach, it seemed that things had lead, as planned, to this moment.

Sorala opened her eyes and pushed her first footman into the grinder of Halporhini's defense. An intricately carved dwarf soldier with a fine plaited beard would be the sacrifice that would start the exploit. After he was traded for one of Halporhini's footmen, a wave of his fellows would follow, and then a second wave of cavalry, and eventually, a third wave of footmen, until Sorala owned her opponents defenses.

She hoped.

Sorala frowns, her flat pout slowly shifting to small smile as she studies the board. So, Master Halporhini was prone to assumptions, and had set his board in anticipation of her being reckless? It was a good assumption to make, honestly; most of her opponents had been reckless themselves, for it was a particularly prized style of play amongst the Irriseni. And seemingly, across her species.

"You have played my kind? Where, may I ask? I am sad to say that I've never met anyone like you, Master Halporhini. It seems it is very much my loss; I would very much like to see your homeland. It sounds lovely. Especially during the rainy season."

So, Halporhini was an overly defensive Conqueror player; the kind of player that lures the attacker into a mistake via frustration. It was an effective strategy, and its counter was patience. Its foil, however, was that in Conqueror, one had to move. So, Sorala would use the board to her advantage, and slowly spread her army through suitable terrain while limiting the expansion that Halporhini could make; her trebuchets would go to the hillside, accompanied with a small contingent of footmen. Her boats would patrol the river, and of course, her calvary, a tower, and many of the remaining footmen would occupy the open plain. The remaining footmen would remain with the queen, er king, while the queen accompanied the calvary. Of the two dragons, would sit with the trebuchets, in range of the boats, and the other would remain with the king and his contingent, just in case...

Eventually, by keeping pressure on the defensive player from a few different placyes, Halporhini would have to move a piece into a trap. Sorala would not be afraid to trade pieces of equal value, if need be. It would open the board up quite a bit and Halporhini would have a great amount of board to cover to get to her king.

But, that was if things played out perfectly, which they rarely did. And besides, there was an important detail that Sorala was missing. One that she was unsure of, given the rules of the game here at the Witchmarket could be different from her own.

"Which of us moves first?"

"Ah, very good. A fine board," Sorala comments, her voice idle, conversational, as she sits and thinks. She did not know if there was a custom among Master Haplorhini's people of table talk, but amongst the Irriseni, it was a second game within the game. Sorala figured she would be remiss to let this part of the game go unplayed, and if she overstepped the unspoken rules of this gambling den? Then surely Falk would let her know.

"I learned Conqueror from my father," Sorala mused, "though his board was handmade and rough-hewn. He was a fisherman, not a wood-worker. And I'm afraid his game was as mediocre as his handiwork. By eight, I could beat him soundly. Still, I didn't really learn to play until I came under the tutelage of my mentor Tikhon. A master of the game, truly. Like all Irriseni, he loved his frost giants. Though I see that is a galleon on our board..."

This was not a lie, and rather an attempt at misdirection through truth. A blatant declaration of what her setup would like, one that perhaps could be read as misdirection when it was truly not - except that in intent, it was, of course.

Sorala would open with a setup that utilized the frost giants, er galleons, as the end piece to her victory. Called The Walking Hut Gambit, Sorala would leave a tantalizing pocket for Halporhini to flood his forces into, one that put her king at risk, but in the hands of a skilled player, could be closed into an encirclement. While the opponent's forces were encircled, the galleon and a few footmen on the other side of the board would work through the remaining defenses and take the king. Of course, in true Irriseni fashion, most - perhaps all - of the footmen would be sacrificed.

Sorala began moving her army onto the board, her voice still idle, almost languid. "It is interesting that the queen and king's roles are reversed here. My liege would surely fly into a rage, if she were here... Anyways, how did you master the Finest Game, Master Halporhini?"

And so, Sorala takes her time, engaging the ape-man in whatever conversation she can wheedle from him, trying to gather as much information from what his playstyle may be from his answers...

sense motive: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (14) + 10 = 24

Sorala nods, her eyes darting between Falk's multiple inky orbs, a sardonic thought passing through her mind. Yes, I know too well of stolen fruit. The White Squire's memory flits back through the events of the what was quickly becoming the longest day of Sorala's life; losing the Pirate Captain Janis, and then - even with that set-back - negotiating a deal that could keep her nascent and evolving plan to claim her freedom alive... only to find that she was thrice-cursed and likely doomed to die in service to her Jadwiga master, no matter how clever she attempted to be, no matter how well she kept her balance atop the pitching ship's deck that was metaphorically becoming her life.

Nodding again, this time to the departing contestant of Master Haplorhini, Sorala slides into the vacated seat, relishing the feeling of warmth left behind by the departed Conqueror player. For a moment a powerful sense memory grips Sorala, or more precisely an amalgam of memories as seat warmers were - quite literally - one of the great pleasures of being powerful in Irrisen.

Placing the cube upon the table in front of her, Sorala smiles.

"Please tell Master Haplorhini he is too kind, and that if I win it would merely be luck; the Master is a finer player than I. And please let him know that in addition to our friendly wager over linguistics, I'd like to add this cube to the mix. I win, I get my reflexes back. If Master Haplorhini wins, he gets the cube. Deal?"

"Please convey to Master Haplorhini that is an agreeable bet. He is quite skilled; I imagine he will have mastered something new in short order."

Sorala pauses, wondering just how much more she is going to offend Falk, and then lets the worry go. It was impossible to navigate this situation without any understanding of the gaming house's culture, and previous experience there. She would simply have to embrace her ignorance. Holding the gaming cube up so they both can view it, Sorala shrugs.

"I believe I do misunderstand, Mr. Falk. I have already lost my reflexes and understood that I can win them back. Are my reflexes contained in this die? Did the one that took them, deposit them here somehow? Is it as simple a matter as picking a game and offering the cube up as a bet, to win - or lose, once more - my quickness?"

"Friendlies," Sorala murmurs, half-distracted by the game in front of her. "We call them friendlies. Games without wagers. At any rate, I would argue the opposite of your question, Falk. A game with the chance of loss and the lure of gain is no game at all. It is a scheme or a fool's errand, depending on what your odds are. These gentlemen, Master Haplorhini and friend - they are better players than I, and so it would be foolish of me to bet this cube."

Sorala rolls the dice in her hand, a small frown gracing her face. "I lost something near and dear to me in an agreement - a bit of quickness in the face of danger, a split second of time here and there, when needed in the future. This cube was given to me to try and win them back, and so that is what it must be used for. Is there somewhere I can play for my lost reflexes?"

"Please let Master Haplorhini know I would be pleased to play a friendly with him, or if he insists on a wager, I have a few coins I can put into the mix. But this cube is reserved for a very specific fool's errand."

Sorala pauses near the Conqueror board, taking in the game, trying to gauge the skill of the ape-like beings that are playing. What a curious thing to see this game, like the limericks earlier, had life beyond insular Irrisen. And it begged the question of course, just how the game had migrated from - or to - the Winter Kingdom. Baba Yaga was the most likely answer, of course, but that still raised a great deal of additional questions.

perception to gather the skill levels of the ape Conqueror players, ioun stone: 1d20 + 6 + 2 ⇒ (15) + 6 + 2 = 23

A match of her old, favorite board game is intriguing, but she'd prefer not to bet anything. "Are all games played here contingent on bets, Falk? Or do people play for the thrill of playing along?"

Sorala must admit the gaming room is interesting; the press of sentiency, the varied and often flashy in their ways games designed to pull things of import from their owners. The strange machines are especially interesting; whirling, noisy things with sounds unlike anything Sorala can provide as a comparison. She thinks briefly of sitting at one, lingering at a seat, when an arm reaches over - one of four attached to a grey-skinned, vaguely womanish creature seated at the next machine over, smelling faintly of sweat of feces. The creature hisses something at Sorala and pulls the lever, and then bears two rows of wicked teeth again, the meaning of her actions clear despite the language barrier. My machine! Don't sit here!

And therein lied the issue with any games of chance. The people that played them rare won, and the more desperate they became, the more they sunk further into another's pocket, the more volatile everything around them became. Hence, the roomful of oreads on hand.

Tikhon had introduced Sorala to the games commonly played in Irrisen, of course; mostly dice games, played on warm days in back alleys of the cities, or in the occasional taverns by Irrisen's small middle and upper classes (the upper classes, it should be said, generally preferred more subtle - and ultimately impactful - games). For the serfs, there were no gaming houses, for the Jadwiga were the serf's house in every sense of the word; they took what they wanted, and left the serfs with nothing to actually bet. The serfs had their own games based around chance, but there were usually based off of external factors with little control - things like betting on which bird would alight to a specific branch, or which fishing pole would first yield dinner.

Which was all a long way to say, Sorala had never been a gambler, for there was little opportunity to partake in games of chance in Irrisen, and for what little there was, Tikhon's warning was salient: the house always wins.

Sorala held the die in her palm and shrugged. "I am afraid the only thing here that interests me is where to cast this die, Falk."

"Of course, no cheating." Sorala says, adopting a more imperious attitude in the presence of Falk's obsequious nature, a role as easy to slip into as a fur robe after a trip to the Morgannan saunas; natural to the Squire, to the point of danger perhaps, for Sorala does not realize she is even doing so.

"Tell me, Falk, where are these rules? I should like to see them before taking part in any gamble. I do not enter contracts blindly. But you should not worry, regardless. I merely wish to know where the boundaries are between cheating and not, so that I don't inadvertently offend the house."

Taking the bracelet from Falk, Sorala turns it over in her hand. The bracelet is bland and featureless to a fault - or really, to not a fault, for though it is hardly flashy, its symmetry is perfect. Sorala tosses it slightly in the air, and marvels as it lands in her hand; the bracelet was almost weightless, as if it were more idea than object.

"I apologize, Eitleán. It seems as if our bond will be severed for a bit."

Sorala slips the bracelet onto her wrist and nods to Falk. "Lead on, dear Falk, and if you would indulge me; you say you are not fey. What are you then? You are unlike anything I have ever seen - or heard of."

Sorala nods to the oread and steps to the side, allowing the translucent man to move uncontested past her. "No desire to see what happens if he goes through us," she murmur-thinks, and then finally ducks into the tent to come face-to-beak with Falk.

Sorala blinks, and blinks again, running through the catalog of lore that she keeps in her mind and sighing, gives up. Whatever this being was, it was likely not of her world. Perhaps it was from one of those other "planets" that the Hawkshaw mentioned. A planet is probably another word for demi-plane, Sorala decides, and coughs politely into her arm, a poor attempt to conceal her gag reflex kicking into gear. She responds in sylvan, at once soft and silibant.

"Sylvan or Aklo will be fine, good Falk. I am Sorala Ironeyes, and the Hawkshaw has sent me here to... gamble for my reflexes. Sorala returns the creature's bow before responding again in Sylvan. May I ask, where are you from?"

"Would I wager you? Absolutely not!" Sorala exclaims, her mindvoice tinged with a mix of amazement and horror. "Your previous Squire was... how shall I put it? It seems he was an a%+*~+~, and at the very least, that Baba Yaga's riders made a poor assessment in their selection of him for bonding with you. What I would give to see the moment he woke up, and accompany him to the point that he found you again! I can only imagine he did not tell anyone of your loss! That he scrambled in a panic for three days, hardly any sleep. The scrambling, it must have been epic. One worthy of a fool's saga." Sorala's mindvoice laughs, a low chuckle that tails off. "I assume you did not spend many more years in his service? His judgement must have cost him his life before too long?"

"Regardless, I've never understood the thrill of gambling. A stupid pastime for stupider people..."

The White Squire's thought trails off as another thought barges into her mind, one not directed at Eitleán, but rather a dismissive, reproaching question directed at herself.

Aren't you gambling though? This venture is more foolish as any card game, girl.

Her mirth gone, Sorala silently curses and lets her gaze wander upwards towards the inverted cake of a tent. "We're here, I guess," she thinks, her thought less word than a sigh, and flings open the door to the tent and breathing deeply, steps inside.

Sorala flexes her sword arm, slips into a sideways stance, envisions a glimmering, green-tinged woman wearing a white ballgown moving towards her down the Witchmarket street as an enemy, playing out a duel with the woman in her mind. Sorala would step towards the right, bringing Eitleán forward, and plunge the blade into the woman's side. Sorala shuffles her feet in concert with her plan, and they don't seem to move that much slower. Well, she still had some of her reflexes at least - it seemed as if she would not be too disadvantaged the next fight she was in. Of course, any duel could be a matter of a slice of second, Sorala reminds herself.

Slipping the die into her bandoleer, Sorala surveys the street, and decides to walk in one direction down the street, trusting that the Witchmarket would provide.

"Have you been there?" she muses to Eitleán. "To the Witchmarket?"

"Can you feel?" Sorala wonders, her mindvoice lilting with curiousity. "I assume if so, you've only felt the touch of the hands that hold you and the bodies you've been plunged into. And of course, the doors I've opened you with. I shall have to get you more experiences, Eitleán. I am sorry to say I always figured you'd prefer to be in your scabbard. Being more present, experiencing more... that seems like something I can - and should - do."

As she banters with the sword, Sorala's mind turns through her options. Not many. So, it was to find a priest of the Midnight Lord in Port Peril, or to force Valacus to remove the curse. She would start, discreetly then, with looking for a cleric of Zon Kuthon native to the city.

Standing, Sorala nods. "I have but one more question, Hawkshaw. Just to clarify, when you speak of the clerics of the faith, you are speaking of the Midnight Lord, Zon Kuthon? I ask because we have not stated him by name. If it is not him, then I'd best not contact his priesthood."

Sorala crooks an eyebrow and reaches out, tentatively taking hold of the gaming die, and then holding it in her palm. Conqueror was the most popular game in Irrisen, and it was a diceless game, played with a board and carved figurines. The lower classes were known to gamble with dice, and Sorala had dim memories of her father tossing some dice with his fellow fisherman, but Sorala had never actually done so. What was the proper term? Roll a die? Throw a die? Toss it?

"Thank you, Hawkshaw. I admit, I feel a kinship to you, and I appreciate your gift. Perhaps someday I can return to tell you of my story, once I am a few woman?"

If I live through the attempt, of course.

"I am ready."

"We can be free together," Sorala muses. "I shall not take your memories. There is freedom in having your thoughts to your own, and your future as well. And who is to say that a tool can not be free, anyways? This shifting ball of glass has made its own heaven - or a version of it anyways, that works well for it. Its heaven, minus the constraints of its former world. If an archon can be free, surely a sword may as well. What would you do, if you had the freedom to choose your future, Eitleán?"

Turning her attention to the archon, Sorala snorts, a derisive and short almost-laugh. Insurmountable? This whole day was one series of seemingly insurmountable, cascading problems, stacked atop each other like detritus at the bottom of an avalanche. Unless...

"An insurmountable problem? No. Easy? Also no. I do have a question, Hawkshaw. What does this removal look like? Is it a ritual, a prayer, a spell? How would a cleric of the same faith know what to do? Are there..." Sorala tailed off, feeling sheepish at the thought of asking the next part of her query. "Are there instructions for how to do this?"

Assuming there was someone that knew how to do this, or that Sorala could find a way, there was still the matter of finding a willing priest. Valacus would of course not be interested in helping her, unless they could be cajoled by an immediate fate worse than removing the curse. Another option could be a rival. Perhaps Valacus could be deposed, and Sorala could help an upstart under the condition that they remove the curse? Did she know anyone suitable for such a scheme? Someone who was a near-peer, a rival, and approachable?

Sorala has neither local or religion, so unless she has personal knowledge from her working in House Morgannan, this question will probably not be answerable. I'll roll some untrained checks, but I think the only DC she can answer is DC 10 untrained. Maybe nobility would work? I'll roll one just in case.

local untrained: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (12) + 5 = 17
religion untrained: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (1) + 5 = 6
nobility: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (3) + 12 = 15

Sliding Divedi's ledger back into her pack, Sorala waits while Hawkshaw undergoes his seemingly very thorough examination, wondering how she will feel the loss of her reflexes. Will it be noticeable, like the sensations warriors report upon losing a limb, the flexing of muscles no longer in existence? Or will it be something that surprises her at the worst moment, a failure a week, a month, or a year from now that costs her dearly, a dying thought escaping her lips, a ruing of this moment as her atrophying mind grasps to make sense of her last moments?

Eitleán's answers to her - or its nonanswers, more aptly - were added discomfort. That the Jadwiga could obscure or erase the memories of an artifact, and that there were Squires now lost to living and written memory... A worrisome feeling settled into Sorala, a feeling as if she were as ephemeral as a melting icicle, destined to be erased by the blinding wrath of her masters. "Does it make you angry, Eitleán? That they have taken your memories and experiences from you?"

And still she waits, the simulacrum garden growing dark within Sorala's brooding mind, a gentle trees and flowers appearing to the Squire a mere gilded cage rather than anything tangible, real. We are all enslaved, in our ways, the White Squire muses, as Hawkshaw shifts and clicks and whirrs around her. I wish my cage was as pleasant as this one's.

And then the diagnosis. Sorala sits upon the stage, and her world tilts, and still she listens, each revelation more dire and desperation rises in proportion to her deepening depression. It was all so... perfectly Jadwigan, a cage constructed of sharp edges and pain, insufferable, unbearable pain, for stepping outside of it. And yet, it was a cage that was heretofore unviewable, walls that just dared one to step outside of them, as if to tempt one into action. Just earlier this day, Sorala was ready to spring into action, to freedom, had things gone more her way. Janis's escape had in its way kept her alive, if caged. She was fortunate, in a way, that her blade had not struck more true.

The simplest action would simply to live a happy slave until her inevitable demise. Sorala told herself this, but some part of her struggled against the idea, the wings of hope beating useless against the metal teeth of a hunter's trap. Sorala nodded to Hawkshaw, a meek sign of assent.

"Yes, I understand," she mumbled. "The second curse. The pain curse. You say removal is not impossible? How? How do I remove it?"