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Hi folks - it looks like we have a consensus for high subtier. Willow, I'll have to take you up on your offer and stick with high subtier for this game. There are other games still on the GameDay VII thread that are taking players, though. Not to worry, and thanks for mentioning it! Happy gaming, everyone!
Willow narrows her eyes in mock displeasure, as if briefly considering… but no. There’s no polite way of forcing someone to accept their truly just deserts, speaking non-euphemistically. “Well, you know where to find me,” she says, conceding defeat, for now.
I'm interested, if there's still room at the table, but I'm afraid I've only got this 1st-level character available at the moment (and I need to apply her latest chronicle, though that shouldn't take too long to sort out). I know you said you'd prefer to play high subtier, so I don’t mind making room for someone else if you're finding enough people to fill out a table of level 3-5 folks.
Over the last part of the course to the Spire, Willow has ample opportunity to reflect on what makes a person a killer. Ambition, sometimes, and gold, apparently. It’s a sobering meditation to incorporate into her regimen of target practice as she gradually shakes off the lingering effects of Killik’s magic. Eventually, though, the sight of the Mordant Spire on the horizon is almost enough to banish such thoughts, if not for the loss of Sephriel. That is, until the canny devil reveals himself in the welcoming party. Willow’s jaw drops briefly in a most unflattering lapse until she remembers herself. The diplomat’s explanation only provides further fuel for the young Pathfinder’s curiosity about the Spire – which instantly climbs higher on her list of places to visit properly one day – and all things arcane. That’s beyond handy. I’m going to learn how to do that! … Someday, at least. After Sephriel steps out and explains the situation, William goes wide-eyed, and looks at the dead Sephriel, specifically at his coin pouch. Well... that is... less than ideal.
------------------ Later that night, Willow daringly nurses a whole two glasses of wine over the course of the evening , gossiping with the Mermaid’s hosts and catching up with members of the crew and her colleagues under happier circumstances than investigating a murder. She makes a concerted effort to track down Conig to make sure that he isn’t out of pocket after the division of the spoils, since Killik had had the audacity to charge for his misleading insinuations.
Willow looks the locker over, taking the captain’s words to heart. “Just in case, I don’t suppose anyone’s got nimble fingers for locks?” she asks. “Not that I mind trying, but otherwise I might ask one of you stout fellows to take the more direct approach to opening this.” This last to Karlos and Nino especially, before she gives the lid to the chest an experimental lift. As she does so, she looks up, adding, with a glance back to her colleagues, "Speaking of opportunity, Captain, I think you were probably right about Mallick. The last halfway to civil thing he said to us was a thinly-veiled suggestion of mutiny, wasn't it, Conig? I wonder if part of the whole mess was to undermine your command, not least among the guardians of the Spire, when they demand an explanation."
As the others bring Killik down, Willow stops overdriving her body, and immediately feels the electric tingle of all her muscles twitching as they relax to normal. Captain Veane’s appearance does not make the moments it takes to recover any more pleasant. Not this again, Willow thinks, as the captain voices his protests. As William and Karlos start to explain, despite herself – well, it’s a bit difficult to say whether she smiles as such or bares her small teeth. “We’ll have to search them, their hammocks, and their sea chests,” Willow suggests, primarily to the Pathfinders, and then she’s back to herself again. “We can explain most of it, Captain,” she says calmly , “though as I just said… At all events, these two attacked us as soon as the worst of the storm blew over. We were getting too close to realizing who must have killed Sephriel.” She takes a breath. If she’s wrong, things can still get even messier, but, “Both Azuretta and Velagon said they saw you and Mallick conferring in the hold just before we found Sephriel murdered. As you reminded us, that’s impossible. The timing, the probability that they would both be lying… Mallick would have to have been there, and I’m sure there are spells and such that would have helped Killik disguise himself.” She stops herself from an impromptu disquisition on magical theory that several of the others on deck would be better able to deliver anyway. She also has enough tact not to be too blunt in reminding the captain that it’s unlikely that she and the other Pathfinders, not being generally murderous lunatics nor sailors, would have killed Sephriel and then decided to start working through the Mermaid’s crew. “May we continue belowdecks, out of the weather?”
Willow is, to put it mildly, not best pleased by Mallick’s assessment of her character, nor his surprising speed as she narrowly avoids being disembowelled by his sudden strike at her instead of those who’ve managed to fill their hand with steel already. “True,” she quips, but before she can further annoy the mate by explaining, But only because someone on this ship seems obsessed with stabbing elves, and no one wants to talk about it, Karlos’ quick reflexes save her. Nodding her thanks, Willow slips around the huge man, drawing the knife at her hip as she goes to join the others surrounding Killik. As the pirate invokes his goddess, Willow grits her teeth against the wicked energy Killik channels, feeding the pain to fuel a desperate lunge.
Willow listens attentively to William’s theory. “I like that quite a bit, but…” She gives the pieces of the puzzle another quick mental shake to see where her own instinct is leading her. Spoiler:
Why, though? Ruling out the captain and Ulamon, two fictitious sightings would be really risky. Possible, of course, but what’s in it for them? Set Azuretta and Velagon aside for now, then. Snig and Thanzeril would also be enough of a distraction, surely, perhaps even agreeably hopeless. Shira was running scared, but if she wasn’t asleep – and we could try to check – it was a very, a needlessly weak alibi. Likewise, Anera. But the person we would ask if she even so much as got some sort of decoction, let alone took it, would be… Perhaps it is the way Killik closes the door behind him, stepping out with crossbow swinging behind his back --- or the way Mallick steps aggressively towards Azora and Willow, but something is clearly not right in the rain. Her gaze flashes back to the door belowdecks, seconds too late. … someone tricky, with some magical talent, a friend who hinted at mutiny, and an opportunity with the storm to soften us up! “Savoured Sting save us all,” she breathes.
Willow gently waves Nino’s wand away, demurring politely, “It’s kind of you to offer, but I’m fine. Honestly! Maybe if it blows up again, and we get knocked about some more, but for now time and a careful stretch is all I need, I think.” As she demonstrates, gently testing her bruised limbs, she smiles with the infuriating cheerfulness of a sapling who hasn’t even made it halfway through her second century. In the middle of a form, she considers Killik and Mallick, and wonders. Coincidence, or are they getting cosy? She recalls that Velagon is still sticking to his story, but it can’t have been the captain, at least, and she’s not sure about the others. Question Azuretta again? Or Shira or Anera, if either of the latter is inclined to talk to the Pathfinders again. Especially the cook. One thought leads to another. Killik didn’t say that Anera didn’t come to get something to settle or sleep off an upset stomach, did he? Not that she couldn’t just not have taken it, but could someone else have seen her if she actually did? Aloud, Willow says, noticing that poor Ulamon is much the worse for wear, “Before worrying about me, perhaps the poor navigator could use your help, Nino?” She pitches her voice so that the solicitous ship’s doctor can also hear.
Willow manages to stay on her feet as the wet deck rolls under her, but it's a near thing, and it will take her another few heartbeats to get anywhere near the wheel. She pauses just past the mainmast to take a look around , trying to see if there's anywhere else she can help, and trying to keep track of everyone on deck. At least she's in a place that she could conceivably get to most anywhere soon, if she can just keep her footing.
Any relief that murderous cousins don’t seem like to be going anywhere anytime soon quickly evaporates as the storm hits and lashes the ship with wind and rain. A wiry elf is no match for the wave that breaks over the deck, and Willow goes sprawling. She manages to skitter to her feet on the slippery deck before she gets dragged too far, and heads over to the nearest bit of loose rope that needs tying down.
Willow takes a moment to peer into the rust monsters’ cage, looking for anything suspiciously like a half-eaten dagger. Then again, she knows that she has no idea about the dietary habits of the beasts, so she waits another few seconds to ask and warn Velagon, “What do your creatures’, er, castings? look like? Or what sort of food scraps do they leave? Never mind – just let us know if anyone else comes prowling around while the storm blows over!” She rushes to the main deck with the others, wishing she knew how to whistle the wind down, or however wizards do it. If the killer decides to strike again, Willow’s chosen weapon is not ideal in a howling storm.
“We certainly intend to,” Willow says dryly, focusing on the last of Killik’s wise suggestions, her tone indicating that, on some level, she aligns herself with them other elves almost as much as the Society, and certainly more than a bunch of cut-rate pirates. “The problem is – or rather, the two problems are,” she continues quickly, “that while I presume we all want to get there, first, someone on board has made it abundantly clear that they don’t mind making sure that not everyone does, and there’s no guarantee that they won’t strike again.” “Secondly,” and she toys with the ring she charmed from Ulamon, “the Spiresworn in particular tend to take a ... vigorously comprehensive approach to self-defense.” The unspoken implication, of course, is that the elves’ aggressive defense would happily condemn the entire ship without a qualm.
Willow pinches the bridge of her nose as Mallick saunters off and her own colleagues murmur among themselves about the remaining possible explanations, on their way to the next round of questioning. She catches herself indulging a pang for the time the most she had to worry about on this trip was her own slow progress in her self-directed studies. Still, by the time everyone’s gathered around Killik, she’s been able to gather a few thoughts. “So it seems. It turns out a couple of people we thought we could place can’t have been where we first thought they were. You mentioned that you thought you had heard a woman’s footsteps, and that Anera’s been acting suspiciously. I’m hardly an expert in these sorts of things, but could it have been someone else, maybe using magic to disguise themselves and their movements?” Her first love is and will always be transmutation, but recent events suggest the value of making a bit more room for illusion, and, even more so, divination in her studies. The sooner Willow can call herself a wizard, the better! For now, her thoughts tumble around more mundane speculations. Either Velagon or Azuretta, or both, are lying or mistaken about what they saw. If lying, why stop where they did? Why not send us after someone more directly, like this one and Mallick did? And why not Anera? If just mistaken, who or what did they see? If Mallick was telling a half-truth, could he have met someone else before reappearing, while the captain was sorting out his armour?
It occurs to Willow that a more direct approach would probably work better with the abrasive mate. She ignores the bait about Spire politics for now – they’re a bit removed from her and Kyoni concerns generally – but is a bit more pointed as she shrugs and observes, to Mallick’s latter suggestion, “Oh? She’s always been civil with me.” Not more than that, but that might explain it. “Politics and personal differences aside,” she continues, “do you have anything more concrete? Perhaps something you noticed while we were fighting off the boarding party and you and the captain were prowling about in the hold with Velagon’s little monsters?” She's blunt, but then the mate doesn't seem to care for any of the niceties, and over the course of the whole voyage so far Willow can only imagine he's probably not doing it to push her buttons particularly.
The captain’s doubts and Azora’s reminder set Willow’s thoughts awhirl. She immediately starts trying out permutations of lies and errors. Mallick will need to be questioned as soon as possible, but that prompts another question to add to the balance: if either Azuretta or Velagon (or both) were lying about seeing someone in the hold, adding a second someone would seem to be unnecessarily risky. Tentatively, then: Mallick and someone disguised as the captain? If only one of them is lying, which, and why? Unhappily, it occurs to Willow that rust monsters onboard, if one knew to head for them, would provide another way of disposing of a weapon instead of risking being caught throwing something overboard. “I’m sorry, Captain. We’re still, as you can see, comparing several accounts, and it was a harrowing moment for everyone,” she says aloud, trying to allow for a tactful exit while the Pathfinders give the pieces of the puzzle another shake. As Azuretta makes another appearance, Willow tries not to give a start. Was she listening at the door? She says, starting off darkly before her naïveté trips her into a solecism that spoils the effect, “There are a few too many secrets for comfort aboard the Mermaid, and I say that as someone who prefers to keep to herself … well, er, myself.”
Willow raises an expressive eyebrow at William’s suggestion. They’re really not her thing, since she’s had her more than her share of disastrous parties before she left Kyonin (not incidentally), but even Willow’s heard of the Paracountess’ entertainments since she’s joined the Pathfinders. Still, despite the usual skullduggery, she does enjoy the company of her associates, especially when everyone’s as obliging as they’ve been this trip, so she tries to pay it forward. “That is, the Paracountess is a woman of wide-ranging interests, and I’m sure she’d be delighted to meet someone as well-travelled as yourself. I’m sure William and some of our friends could arrange an introduction? By all accounts, her parties are unique and unforgettable, ” Willow adds faintly, trying, in her ingenuous sort of way, to echo Azuretta’s own banter. “Not that we would dream of suggesting she should … jump ship,” she hastens to reassure the captain. “And you oughtn’t sell yourself short, sir. Your zeal to secure the ship from all possible dangers at the first sign of trouble is commendable. Would you have a moment? I’m sure you would be relieved to hear some of what we’ve learned.” The young elf does her best to both flatter the captain and drop a tactful hint that the Pathfinders are curious about his visit to the rust monsters just before Sephriel was found murdered.
So that's what that was, Willow thinks, grateful for Karlos' sharp senses. She wouldn't have been able to place the scent herself. “It was unfortunate timing,” she observes, mildly. Is it all a bit too … convenient? Could someone have given this particular assignation a little nudge at just the right time, somehow? Now she’s being paranoid, she knows, so setting her inner thoughts aside, she continues as easily as she can, under the circumstances, “But if you were ‘much up and about’ earlier in the night, would you happen to have noticed anything else strange before you ran into the captain? That would be a stroke of luck.”
Willow considers Azuretta’s words in light of all the other stories the Pathfinders have gathered so far. No Mallick with the Captain, by the time she got to the main hold, it seems? Is that important? “I hate to ask, but since you’re being so generous in your vouching for various movements,” Willow chimes in, “was that the only occasion you had for … padding across the hold during the night? Some of the others we’ve talked to were sure they heard the same set of footsteps crossing the ship back and forth, and it would be very helpful for us to make sure whether or not that could be right.” Willow’s words don’t quite work out the way she meant them to, and she rather hopes she’s not blushing too badly. As a bookish herbalist still studying to figure out cantrips, she is far too unworldly to meet Azuretta’s arch demeanour on equal terms.
While Velagon’s information is thought-provoking, his disturbing lingual performance is disconcerting, and Willow is confirmed in her opinion that she made the right choice in not spending any more time with him on the voyage so far than necessary. That’s revolting, but he might be enjoying himself too much to be lying? If he’s telling the truth about what he heard, and he heard toings and froings to the sail locker especially, than maybe what Killik actually heard was Azuretta and not Anera? She’s not looking forward to the thought of having to ask Azuretta where she normally takes people, but it looks like that might be necessary. As Nino calls attention to Velagon’s remark about the captain and mate, though, she gives a slight shrug. “That does sound a bit strange, but we may have sounded like we were holding our own, and we would have headed to the hold next ourselves to see if these fellows might have got loose.” “I don’t think Mallick likes us very much to begin with, and the captain’s probably not warming either. Still, them next unless we find Azuretta first, and then I can brave my watery cousins, I suppose.” As she gets ready to move on, Willow spares a moment to checking her instincts for how far Velagon can be trusted, his squickiness aside.
“I’m sorry, I do get carried away, I know. Too many priests and paladins in my life, some might say. But thanks so much for this!” Willow says, sheepish for only a moment before her excitement bubbles over again, though she’ll leave the navigator in peace for now. “Velagon next?” she asks the others.
Seeing no new insights immediately forthcoming, Willow cuts herself short before she rambles too much further, taking a moment to choose her next words carefully. “Just one other thing for now,” she adds, turning back to Ulamon. “The circumstances are not what I would have wished, but neither are they entirely irrelevant. I couldn’t help but notice your ring…” She continues, “And it strikes me that, even without putting in at the Mordant Spire with a dead envoy, the Spiresworn are likely to look askance – at best – at veterans of the Polished Barnacle. That said, my people, and many among the organization to which the present company belong, are more than sympathetic to efforts to quell the influence of the devils of Thrune around the Inner Sea. Such a signet would help us reach out to and build alliances with other interested powers, since the Chelish are, I hate to admit, a damn strong navy.” “That said, I’m sure not all the memories attached to that ring are painful, but proud too, at the very least, and I certainly don’t intend any chicanery. Beyond my word to see it returned to you as soon as possible, would you be amenable to accepting a surety as a pledge of good faith?” I'm sure Ollysta can find someone to copy the ring, if it comes to that, so we can return the original all the sooner, Willow thinks, nonetheless hoping the reference to sureties isn't too bald and mercenary.
“Thank you. It’s a start, at least,” Willow says. To Azora’s thinking out loud, she adds, “That’s the thing, isn’t it? I would guess it almost certainly has to be something hidden and personal, since trying to embarrass the Society on a ship full of Pathfinders would take a lot of nerve. On the other hand, the only person we know had a distinct grievance with Sephriel is Thanzeril, and he admitted to it. It could be false show of candour, of course, but then…” Her brow furrows briefly in frustration. Then we chase rabbits into holes of, ‘But he knows that we know that he knows that it would look good if he admitted his political differences with his charge,’ and heigh-ho!
Willow meets Ulamon’s grimace with what she hopes is an apologetic grin. “Sorry about this,” she offers. “We’re just trying to get a sense of where everyone was when Sephriel was attacked. Two quick questions for now, one more tangentially related. First, were you anywhere that you could notice anything strange before we were boarded tonight, or, for that matter, did anything jump out at you about how anyone else acted with Sephriel before tonight?”
Willow waits for Killik to slink off, sure that the scoundrel must be well pleased with himself. “He may just be guessing, and settling a score we don’t know about by stirring up trouble at the same time?” Willow speculates. “Suppose he did hear what sounded like a woman’s steps to him. Since he didn’t actually see anyone, he tells us what he thinks we want to hear and that he wants to believe. I’m not entirely convinced that he didn’t just hear someone treading lightly and quickly, or perhaps even trying to sound like someone else.” “Also, if Snig is ‘in on it too’ with Anera, he wasn’t quick to offer her an alibi. Because he knows we might be suspicious once we talked to other people?” She shakes her head. “One way to find out, I’m afraid. I’m particularly keen on talking to Ulamon, then perhaps Velagon and Azuretta? Or whatever order suits everyone. Though the captain and that unfriendly first mate might be best left last.”
Perhaps surprisingly, Willow’s heard of the game. Not her sort of thing at all, but it’s popular in one of the cities along common routes between home and other elven settlements, so… Barbaric. But surely it would be extraordinarily unlikely that the loser would be killed outright in all but the most blatantly unequal matches? Seems like a rather unnecessary risk that would only draw more attention to oneself. Still, the footsteps are something to bear in mind, unless the entire thing is a fabrication, in addition to tendentious. She glances almost doubtfully at her own feet – maybe it’s more of a thing among non-elves? – before smiling her gratitude at Killik, “Well, a lady must carry herself accordingly, mustn’t she? Anyway, thanks for being so forthcoming: we’ll certainly bear what you’ve told us in mind.”
Noting your reluctance, he turns to Willow. "I did notice some odd things before closing my eyes." “By all means, then, please continue: we prefer to look into than to cause odd things,” Willow encourages, reminding herself to chip in later for getting Killik to talk. “Normally, at least,” she adds, trying to nudge the room into a marginally friendlier mood. Bantering and bartering with a Besmaran for information, she muses. Who would have thought? The experience might come in handy if I ever visit the River Kingdoms.
"Asleep in the cabin, with the rest of the crew. You want to know more, it'll cost ya." In for a copper, in for a platinum, Willow thinks, as she watches, startled, while Killik brazenly scoops up one of Shira’s potions. If she needed another reminder of just how shady her current means of transportation is, here it is aplenty. Her surprise does make it easier to settle into the role of a naïve innocent. “How so?” she asks, with a show of a tiny, confused pout. “If you were asleep, what more is there to know?” Privately, she surmises that 1) he’s offering to trade his piratical magic for coin, 2) if he has spells that would help and isn’t offering them gratis he’s not personally worried about the murderer on the loose, and 3) he doesn’t seem to much care yet whether the assembled audience finds his alibi convincing.
“Everyone’s on edge or over it, right now,” Willow agrees, joining the effort to smooth things over. “It came to words about heritage, and then got worse. I’m only glad that we were able to stop things before they went any further than they did.” “Um, incidentally, we were planning on talking to you next in any case.” She tries her best to look abashed and ingenuous, but it's harder to pull that off standing next to a man with a bloody greatsword than one might think. To Nino, in an undertone, she adds, “I might be able to help with raw herbal materials, but not alchemy as such.”
Seeing Shira turn at bay after taking a swing at Nino rather than try to bull her way through to where she could cause considerably more trouble, Willow pointedly sheathes her dagger even as the warpriest levels another brutal strike – though this time at least with the flat of his blade.
The elf holds her hands up cautiously where she hopes she’s at least risk of getting any fingers lopped off by an errant swing on either side. “Everyone, stop this before it’s too late! Whoever’s lurking out there would kill themselves laughing right now!” And not like in some of the stories they tell in Omesta, either. Of all the gormless Gorumite things… She tries not to judge other people’s religious convictions too harshly, and as at least a partial Calistrian, Willow’s somewhat sympathetic to a … vigorous self-defense, but the Savoured Sting also enjoins some style and subtlety. She tries to catch Azora’s eye, as if to ask, silently, if there’s any hope of magic to patch the bloody mess up once everyone settles down.
That escalated quickly. The flippant thought flashes through Willow’s head irresistibly, all the more so because of how true it is, even by the standards of a woman who’s sometimes had to struggle to keep her own temper in check: such as at the moment, for instance. “Enough!” she snaps. “Could we try not to kill any more of one another tonight?”
If an attack is necessary:
Willow almost drops her knife, and that’s saying something. I really didn’t need to know that. Though I guess it explains a few things. She reconsiders how useful some of the parlour-trick cantrips that she's slowly working her way towards learning might really be. Concentrating on the task at hand, she adds, as kindly as she can, “Better you hear it from us than some of the crew. We know it’s hard, but you can tell us anything. We won’t gossip, and maybe we can help.”
“Sorry about this,” Willow says, with a grin and a shrug that she hopes are endearing. After all, knowing how she herself would react if her workspace were invaded, she can’t really blame the cook for being annoyed with a bunch of gawkers in her galley. “How’s this sound? I’ll help, balance the distraction either side of the table while we talk so no one really loses any time.” She can’t really blame Shira, but surely it’s a bit callous to take a murder so lightly. As she pulls a couple of onions towards her, Willow looks around discreetly to see if any knives are obviously missing, remembering the pattern of Sephriel’s wounds. Though didn’t Azora say something about Shira being skilled in … poisons? How did she know? Anyway, assuming the worst, if I were a poisoner, I would find a way to make it work, look like an allergic reaction, really cruel indigestion, something, out of professional pride, at least, before resorting to a blade. The elf’s nimble archer’s fingers are mercifully not unhelpful in chopping vegetables quickly and neatly. As she sets to, she promises, “We’ll be quick. For now, we just want to check where everyone was, in case there’s something else we should worry about. I mean, if you saw anything strange before tidying up for the night, say, before all hell broke loose?”
“I thought the grog was a bit heavy, but then...” Willow gestures self-deprecatingly. She likes to think that she’s fairly tough for an elf, but that’s not saying all that much. Her Common nickname fits her well enough, with all of the attendant consequences as to how well she holds her liquor. “Maybe we should all go easier tonight. Or see if she has a bit of wine, instead, even if we have to water it?” Willow wonders optimistically, before addressing Anera more seriously. “Keep safe. I’m afraid I’m not sure I’d want to sleep deep yet.”
Conig makes sure to keep a safe distance after the knife trick. Might as well start from the start. Would you describe your whereabout through the evening, then? Willow remembers now why – or so she suspects – her attempts to break the ice with Anera fell somewhat flat. A certain amount of restlessness and preference for the fresh air abovedecks only goes so far in bridging the gap between an experienced sailor and a timid, if excitable, thing with a dream of wizardry and, on a good day, a bit of an eye for archery. She tries her best to match Anera’s breezy tone. “That, trying to make sure everyone else is safe, and whether anyone’s noticed anything suspicious or anything else has gone wrong. Those rust monsters in the hold getting loose would be a nuisance, I bet.” It’s a strange idea, but it’s what springs to mind as she waits for Azora to step forward. She was asking if any of us had seen Anera, right? Meanwhile, as Willow’s gaze sweeps over the deck, she spots her own contribution to redesigning the ship’s trimming. She makes a joke of it, trying to help everyone keep calm when everyone’s nerves must be on edge. She gestures with her head towards the arrows decorating the wall of the aft cabin, the stern rail… She’ll have to see if she can recover any of them later. “I think I’ve done enough redecorating this evening. No need for you to annoy Captain Veane too.”
“Thank you, Mr. Lacorse,” Willow says, holding up her hands and trying to keep her tone measured to show that she’s not being mean-spiritedly facetious, and trying to ease the tension in the small room. “You look like a man who knows the score,” she continues, adding just a bit of flattery. “Something’s off about this whole operation, and we’re going to get to the bottom of it. That said, this is hardly as tight a ship as it could be, right? You’ve been a great help already with what you’ve just told us, and we’d appreciate it if you could keep your eyes open.” “In fact,” she adds, leaning just a bit closer, conspiratorially, “people I know in our Society have let me know we could use your eyes elsewhere. We could hire you for a place on another ship when we get to Riddleport. Steady work, somewhere captain and crew don’t leave it to landlubbers and honest folk to keep all the daggers from their own backs. How does that sound?” She lets the offer sink in for a bit. “And like I said, thanks for what you’ve already told us. I’ll be sure to pass on how helpful you were.”
I would be happy to assist, Willow. Conig ventures into the ship with Willow when she's ready. “My thanks,” Willow says with a small smile. “Apparently one of my mentors thinks Snig could be a useful asset for the Society on another ship as well, so I ought to make a suggestion… Of our most immediate concerns, though, he might have seen something, I suppose? He seems to get about a bit without drawing too much attention to himself. Let’s hope there’ve been no other surprises tonight in the lower hold!”
Despite the circumstances, Willow has to remind herself not to grin ruefully as Thanzeril hands out the wrongfully delayed letters. They could be anything, she knows, but from what little she’s learned of the Society so far, she’s not entirely surprised to learn of Sephriel’s meddling. Wheels within wheels within wheels… Better late than never, she supposes, but the unpleasantness of the evening will certainly complicate her ability to pursue the suggestions in her missive. Willow looks up in time to catch the last bit of an exchange about a pipe, which brings home just how much Thanzeril is hardly less strange than his former charge. She settles on an indirect, multi-pronged approach. “Forgive me, Conig, I certainly don’t mean to assume – and please correct me if I’m wrong – but when we have a moment, I think I might appreciate your help interviewing a certain stowaway. In any case – even if that interview’s not something you’d care for – I’d be happy to try my hand at a bit of climbing for you. I don’t have much training, but I could push myself a bit, or at a bare minimum hold a rope or two.” She turns abruptly to Thanzeril, responding mildly to his suggestion that he’s already done enough to get on the wrong side of Hellknights (not that that’s too difficult, Willow imagines), “Oh? Do tell. And whose are our interests that you mentioned, that Sephriel didn’t represent? Please, speak freely. Even in Kyonin, there are those of us who would agree that our responsibility is not to let the wider world simply pass us by. And now especially, when someone has been bold enough to strike at your charge…”
Forcing herself to concentrate through the appalling sight of the state of Sephriel’s body, Willow tries to formulate a first few tentative hypotheses. Given the number of wounds, even if he was surprised, it wasn’t badly enough that he couldn’t defend himself, which fits with him being still in his mask and presumably up and about when it happened, albeit in his dressing-gown. A small blade, so the murderer would have had to get quite close… The slimy first mate’s sneering remarks jolt her out of her speculations, and she glares back at him as his words provoke an unwelcome response in the captain. The impulse to give Mallick a vicious shake is almost as strong as her curiosity as to what the rascal’s problem is, exactly. Willow joins her voice to the chorus of protests as the ship’s officers leave. “As opposed to finding our moment in the bustle of resupplying at Magnimar, for example. Or just arranging a convenient, quiet accident at the ship’s railing one evening. Clearly, we suffer from obsessive over-elaboration,” she elaborates on Conig’s point, with dry sarcasm. She subsides as the captain and mate sweep off, watching curiously as William questions the corpse. Although she would normally be fascinated by any magical working, she is distracted by the urgency of working out possible next steps, taking her cue from Azora’s question. Who was where, when?
Willow nods helplessly at William’s pronouncement, joining him to at least take a quick look at the scene to try to get a sense for what could have happened before all hell breaks loose, for which she braces. For now, an absurd detail bothers her, a marker of her cultural distance, as a native of Kyonin, from the elves of the Mordant Spire. They can’t really sleep with their masks on, can they? So he must have been awake, and then…
“I don’t like this,” Willow says, with a glance back up the dark stairs towards where William watches. She knows their mysterious charge asked not to be disturbed, but that was before the ship was attacked in the night, and the silence belowdecks is unnerving. And, to cap it all, the archer knows she’s not going to get anything done without some more light, so she heads for the candle, hoping to find a lantern about that she could light from it.
Willow follows William below decks as quickly as she can, heart racing, her agitated glance skimming over things as they enter and leave her field of vision, as her body protests her misuse of its adrenaline surge. Slipping past the spiritualist, she adds her voice to his as she tries to get her pulse under control, calling out, "Sephriel! Are you safe?"
"I have betrayed no one! Nor do I skulk on to ships in the night...like a drow."
Willow is certain she’s never betrayed anyone, let alone all her people, in her life. She doubts any words she could throw in would add to Azora’s rebuttal, so she contributes an arrow instead. She takes a breath to control her anger, adjust for the pitch of the deck, and fires. |
