dien's page

Majara is pleased enough with the conclusion of matters.. she had had no particular joy in her heart at the thought of trying to bomb a flying devil. That's a test of her skills she's happy to put off until another day.

They have sold off some of their spoils in Umok-- especially the small-sized things, likelier to find appreciative buys there than back in Saringallow-- and Majara has found herself the de facto treasurer of the group, given she handles sums on a regular basis with her business. She duly presents Hawkren a tidy sum of gold before he manages to skip town, with an assertion that should he need more coin, she's almost confident the Saringallow Seekers will have space in their midst for a few more of his potent fire spells, as well as his skill with people. And of course his tattooing prowess.

She hands the same amount of gold out to each-- Roger, Nerissia, Emma-- with different exhortations: she advises Roger not to spend it ALL at Alcie's; she advises Emma to buy something 'fun', and for Nerissia, she suggests 'some excellent raw meat for Alocer, he's learned it.'

The gnome lingers a moment near Nerissia. "Saringallow has no shortage of things in the woods that need hunting," she says after a bit. "Especially as the town's resident ranger is recovering from an incident with demon possession. This group here has a manor near the town with more than enough space for you and Alocer to stay a bit, if you like."

Majara purses her lips a moment. "Though if you do, while in town you might want to be... circumspect? About your order. Asmodeans are not necessarily overly-loved in Saringallow."

The gnome shrugs. "For myself, I have a shop I need to ensure my apprentice hasn't destroyed."

Majara smiles a bit to herself at having tweaked poor Emma, then chuckles aloud at Roger. "I won't be taking that bet, Roger. I'm a gnome, not an idiot."

Awk-ward.... Majara is happy to let Hawkren do the talking; he is much more diplomatic about it than she would be. She spends the time looking around the room, keeping an eye on the bound guard, and resisting the gnomish urge to whistle.

Majara lets out a low sharp whistle at seeing Emma's highly effective attack. "Not bad, Blackford."

But it doesn't end the fight. As Majara's already thrown a tanglefoot bag at the bodyguard, another one won't do much else.... and she has few non-lethal options at her disposal, so Majara darts towards the struggling daughter to see if she can be of assistance there-- drawing her own dagger as she goes.

Disarm attempt! My CMB vs Andama's (grappled) CMD: 1d20 + 2 ⇒ (12) + 2 = 14

Technically, this provokes from Andama because I don't have Improved Disarm, but since she is grappled, she cannot take such an attack. If 14 beats or ties her CMD, she drops the dagger.

Majara blinks, having truly not expected the transformation, though she then smacks her thigh with her hand.

"THAT'S WHY THE ACID AND ORBIES!" she exclaims, then shakes her head in something like appreciation or 'I shoulda known' or both.

"And I was right to think the treasure was practically a hoard. Well! A fine game you played us, Ladunappindon, but it was a worthy one. A pleasure to meet you properly, as it were."

Majara chuckles, giving another headshake. "Too bad Miss Venator missed this one-- that'd be a story for her little books, eh? Though I suppose you don't want that particular story getting out... would rather ruin the Nappin-sona."

Majara notices the toll the fire's taken on Hawkren and hurries forward to take the edge off his burns using their wand.

CLW: 1d8 + 1 ⇒ (1) + 1 = 2 Ha. Ha. Ha.

"--is this thing broken?" she mutters, gazing down at the stick.

Pick is skeptically silent to Ialia's assertion that people rarely look up. In his experience of farmers and their ilk, checking the sky to assess the time of day by the sun, or to see if the rainclouds look like they might be clearing up, or to check if that shadow on the ground is a bird overhead or a wyvern... is frequently enough done. But he does not speak his thoughts on this aloud. This is possibly because he is a dog and cannot talk.

Instead, when Veil offers to use the wand on him, his canine head tilts to one side, curiously. He had not understood that the 'yizard armor' could be cast on others. Interesting. The dog gives a single bark of assent, and holds still for the casting, before the aforementioned trot back towards the village goes as mentioned.

Once back to Umok, Majara bustles towards the part of town where the air smells of things burnt and smoking and ozonoic. Here is where magic is going to be practiced! A bit of haggling later and she is setting her formula book down to a wizard's spellbook, the wizard being a gnome who is green from head to toe to her emerald-like eyes.

"They call me... the Sorceress in Green," she says when Majara asks her name. It earns a nonplussed look from Pricknettle.

"--but you're a wizard."

"Yes, I said it's what they call me, not that it was accurate..."

Forty gold coins worth of magical inks later, and Majara is ready to scribe... or try to.

Spellcraft for Resist Energy, DC 17: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (19) + 9 = 28

Nice work, if she does say so herself. Majara lightly sprinkles the fresh ink with fine dust to blot it, blowing the dust free before closing it. She shakes hands with the other, and goes off to brew up anti-incendiaries, for once.

To the dwarf Cariamma says, ”Thank you for coming into town, Pick. Usually when we bump into each other it is in much wilder places.”

He nods once in acknowledgment of the priestess's words, a deeper nod than he gives most people-- not a bow, but what passes for a respectful gesture with him. She has always been pleasant to him in the past, accounting for at least half of why he was willing to answer Morn's call.

Samara accepts the stick delicately, with a smile. This was well within her practiced skillset, even knowing many of the correct terms in the outlander tongue. She weaves a simple spell (Detect Magic) and regards the aura of the object briefly before returning it to Pick. ”This is wand of… wizard’s armor.”

She rests her right hand flat on the table before pulling a curiously-shaped blade from beneath her robes with her left. Samara expertly stabs at her hand. The blade is turned aside by an opaquing field of energy against her skin. She twists the blade away before it scratches the table. ”Wizard’s armor.” She taps the dwarf’s armor with a finger, "Not work with this.” As an afterthought, Samara lays the blade down on the table. She had learned that holding a weapon at a dinner party was considered poor manners. "Sorry.”

Wizard's armor... Pick grunts once as he takes the stick back, turning it over in his hands with a frown. He is not a wizard, therefore: it's useless to him. Though at least it's clearer how the last bandit he had fought had seemed to have an unseen barrier around him, blunting the effect of Pick's own claws. Perhaps such wizard-armor could be useful when he wears beastskin, but he still cannot make the wizard-stick work, so: it is still useless to him. The dwarf puts the stick down on the table next to the curved blade, dismissing it from his further attention and his possessions. The knife looks well-made... for a human-forged blade, at any rate.

He misunderstands the woman's apology as being for the redundancy of the wizard armor with his own (somewhat nonsensical that she should apologize for that, yet it would much more nonsensical to Pick if she were apologizing for drawing the blade) and shrugs at her. "I am not wizard. Your steel is sharp."

The dwarf is distracted from further conversation by the sudden motion of the bat. He smiles a little to watch it go, smiles slightly more to see the red-armored man's reaction. A bat. An owl. There are two people* of interest in this group, then. That bodes well.

Kn Nature to attempt some friendly owl hooting at Lunaris: 1d20 + 12 ⇒ (11) + 12 = 23

The dwarf purses his lips carefully before issuing a series of noises at the owl -- a soft clicking and hoo-hoo-ing at the magnificent owl-- general noises of 'I am also here, we can share this territory perhaps?' It is not actual bird-speech, but at least conveys general non-threat from the dwarf.

*by which he absolutely means the animals themselves

Pick's entrance is the diametric opposite of Joreld. Where Joreld's striking red armor draws every eye, and the gleaming symbol of Lathander shines on his breast, drawing respectful and admiring nods, practically nobody notices a somewhat dusty and shabby dog that ambles through the yard, stopping occasionally to sniff at the ground.

However, the difficulty of not being able to knock with a paw becomes evident, and the dog pads off to a nook by the wall that seems unobserved. In the space a few breaths, the dog's legs thicken and its torso fills out. (The dust remains.) A dwarf is crouched on the ground on all fours where the dog previously was. He stands, brushes his hands off perfunctorily, and proceeds towards the door...

He enters the meeting room a few minutes later. Like most dwarves, he is bearded and armored, but his beard is a wild thing that barely tolerates being bound into a leather tie, and his thick red-blond hair reaches down to the middle of his back, with only a few perfunctory braids to suggest order. His armor is no gleaming masterpiece of steel but instead a leather surcoat sewn with thin horn plates, dull with road-dust, not appearing terribly well-maintained; the rest of his plain leather clothing is similarly dusty. His feet are bare on the stone floors. From beneath thick eyebrows a pair of bright green eyes gaze warily at the others already assembled on his entrance; he shifts uncomfortably from bare foot to bare foot at the eyes that have swiveled his own way.

"'M called Pick," he rasps after a few seconds of silence. With no further introduction he pads on into the room, hugging the walls on his way to the sidetable. A sniff of the table's bounty earns an approving grunt from the dwarf, and he picks up a mushroom-and-cheese tartlet before turning to keep an eye on the strangers again.

He eats his tart in silence observing the man in pristine red armor, the woman in her long robes, the man with his owl (ooh, owl)...

Only once his tart has disappeared into his mouth and he has brushed his hands off again does the dwarf say more-- a few words to the veiled woman.

"Lizard's an animal." This is said with a note of question to it, as if to say, you do not much look like a lizard to me but I'm open to being proven wrong.

Purchases: I'll probably be replenishing some splash weapons, but I'll retro-figure that out tonight

Trusty Blue the mule is loaded with those supplies that some might find too burdensome for the day when they set out. The journey is uneventful as far as trouble goes-- Majara finds ways to make the time go faster by challenging the others to pebble-throwing competitions as they walk, aiming for this or that tree stump, knothole, or other choice target. She cannot help but think of a prior journey, where she and Hannelia and Constantine had bantered in gnome-speak. Now, Hannelia is off pursuing further skills, and Constantine is... well.

Alocer's antics prove a welcome distraction from the oppressive heat; Majara spends some time trying to convince the fox to play fetch with a stick. She also interrogates Nerissia as to the biggest monster she's ever destroyed, Hawkren and Roger as to their furthest travels, and Emma as to the Acts of Iomedae (something the gnome has zero interest in for its own sake, but there's a mild trolling pleasure for her in quizzing the young paladin on them).

At last they are within sight of Umok. Majara brightens slightly. While she finds many of her kindred too.... flighty... to spend time around for extended periods, a short visit is pleasant.

Local: 1d20 + 5 + 2 ⇒ (16) + 5 + 2 = 23

"Oh, while I remember-- no fire, Hawkren. In or near the town. Actually, no fire for any of you."

She raises a hand in greeting to the warden. "Ho-a! Sunny-money. Eez folken'n'me be on preyday, greenseeking."

Rough gnomish translation: 'Hello, good day to you. These people and I are hunting goblins!'

Majara switches back to Common for the sake of her companions. "The Scorchfeathers tribe, specifically. We saw sign they ransacked an estate where we'd been hired to retrieve items. We're chasing the snipe of the hypothesis of the possibility of the untamed goose that perhaps they took the bounty and bounded back to a boreal base. How stand things in Umok?"

Hi team!! OOCly, I'm Dien, I'm the lucky sap who didn't have to apply ;) (due to Drifter's kindness in feeling they 'owed' me a game, which I dunno about, but I'll never turn down a free spot in a game).

Pick here already lives in Daggerdale, albeit at the very southern edge of it, and wanders around a fair bit inside the Dale engaged in things like beating up bandits, convincing a wolf pack not to eat ALL of a farmer's sheep, and being (depending on who you ask) either a boon to travelers or a pain in the ass to industry. I wouldn't say he's a local legend or anything, but there's definitely rumors of someone active in the Dale's wildlands. It's possible that many people don't know it's a dwarf, however, since he is often in animal form when doing things.

Anyway, he's well positioned to have the call from Randal Morn. His people have a rocky history with the Morns but Pick has less prejudice on that front and sees answering-the-call as a way to potentially try and make things better.

In combat.... uh... well... we'll see. I took advantage of the generous build rules to try and explore a concept I've wanted to play for a while of a wild-shape focused melee-capable druid. Right now, I'm still not terribly impressive in combat, but I hopefully make up for that with all-around utility and the spells of a full prepared caster. As wild shape scales in power, I hope to be useful as a frontline damage dealer. Beyond that, I have lots of wilderness-oriented skills, scouting utility, decent spells, and so forth.

"None of us were terribly lucky," Majara points out crisply in response to Nerissia's words, coming over to hand her a cup of the tea.

"Drink. It's rather good. And if decades of tromping around in dangerous situations have taught me anything, it's to not turn up your nose at the gifts of fate."

That said, Majara turns her attention to the gleaming stones, pleased that her middling roll still resulted in a victory of sorts. She hums to herself as she admires the shining tiny rocks, fingers drifting over them before she picks out the dark green one.

"I've always liked green. And knowledge is never a bad thing."

Taking the mossy disk ioun stone!

She looks to Hawkren, rather wryly. "Your 11 is technically the next highest. Why don't you pick one?"

Pocketing her new treasure, Majara returns to the counter, near to Shel, and has another sip of tea.

"I'll be busy with our current endeavor for at least a few more days, I shouldn't wonder," she says brusquely to the Ravensmoor girl. "But once I'm back, you can report to my shop and we'll see what you know so far. Actually... hmn. Actually, you can go there tomorrow, if you want, and Gellion can show you the basic brewing equipment, at least. And tell you a cautionary story about not ingesting strange liquids."

"Owls are among the more stupid of the larger birds," Majara says crisply. "Corvidae are the most intelligent-- your crows and ravens and such. Which is why fox's cunning really ought to be crow's cunning, foxes aren't particularly intellectually advanced. See also: owl's wisdom."

The mention of the lock earns a frown from Majara. "My skills at this are rather rusty. But unlike the question of avian nomenclature, the lock cannot wait for Hannelia's return. I'll try."

Rummaging in her many pockets produces her picks, and the gnome looks the mechanism over before beginning to work....

Ideally I'd wait to see if Hawk or someone sees magic on it before proceeding! And I want to check for traps before trying too:

Perception: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (5) + 9 = 14
Disable Device: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (4) + 10 = 14 Wohhn wohhn

Boo. Well it looks like I can try again on locks, I don't see anything about them jamming on failures

After a minute or two of fiddling, Majara exhales and withdraws her lockpick, and selects a different one, and tries again.

Disable redux: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (6) + 10 = 16

Majara continues to hunch over the lock, manipulating the tool back and forth as seconds tick by... and by... and by...

Emma* clears her throat and says, "Er... do you want me to try to just bash it--"

"Engineering isn't quick!" Majara snaps. More fiddling goes on.

Disable retrux: 1d20 + 10 ⇒ (19) + 10 = 29

....Eventually the lock opens. Majara shoots Emma an insufferable look, before opening the door.

*Emma exploited with permission~

"Because there is a common perception of eagles as majestic creatures, I suppose. I don't know. Ask a bard."

Majara looks down at the ashes of the lutist-chieftain.

"Perhaps not that one."

Majara has satisfied herself the room has nothing else of apparent interest, so brushes off her hands and turns to start the way back to the stairs.

"......peacock's splendour really would be better, wouldn't it..." she mutters to herself as she climbs.

Craft Alchemy: 1d20 + 13 ⇒ (2) + 13 = 15 Ha! well, not a 1.

Majara crouches down to consider the floor and the 'basin' with the thick liquid, lips pursed.

"Blood. Perhaps some other liquids mixed in. It's partially congealed. Interesting. I wonder that it's not wholly congealed, unless it's fairly fresh, or that it hasn't drawn numerous bugs. One moment."

She retrieves an empty vial from her pack and will carefully collect some of the blood-and-whatever-else into it. "Perhaps some sort of anti-coagulant was added, but even if so, it must be... relatively fresh, or sheer evaporation would have eventually dried it out. Depth of the basin is currently unknown, ergo total fluid volume is currently unknown, however this would not overly influence evaporative rate given that the surface area exposed to the air is the same whether this pool is an inch deep or a foot. I need a...."

Majara's words, which were only debatably meant for the others versus just her vocalized thought process, trail off into truly inaudible muttering as she retrieves some twine from her pack, twine with interval measuring knots, and a copper coin adhered to one end to provide a weight. She lowers it in-- and then blinks as she finds the bottom rather quickly, all told. (Quicker than she'd expected.)

A few test dips in other areas confirms that the "pool" of blood is only a half-inch deep. Majara clicks her tongue once and pulls out the now-bloody-icky string.

"Hrrrmmnnnn.... about... forty ounces, give or take, or ...two and one half pints.... we've had both high heat and high humidity the last few weeks..."

Majara rocks back on her heels, small face scrunched up in concentration, blodoy string dangling from her fingers.

"It should be evaporating at a rate between one and one point five fluid ounces per hour," she says after a moment's thought. "I cannot be more exact without knowing the environmental conditions here within the house for the time period in question which is of course impossible. But as an estimation. This blood cannot be more than, say, 48 hours old at the most, barring some sort of magical interference or as-yet-unknown alchemical interference. I could analyze the sample fully, as well as determine if it is human or mammalian, if I set up my full lab and...."

Majara possibly notices the glazed-over-eyes or impatience of someone or other in the group.

"..............or I suppose we could continue the immediate exploration," she says with slight grumpy pique. "Master Hawkren, do you know that small spell for cleansing? I'd rather not put my string back in my pack like it is."

Knature?: 1d20 + 11 ⇒ (5) + 11 = 16

Majara flicks an absent look at the feathers as she stands up, but is admittedly much less into birds than blood.

For s&*$s and giggles...

Aid: 1d20 + 0 ⇒ (18) + 0 = 18 Ha!

Majara's stature might not suggest her as the most obvious door breaker, but, you see, it's all about distributive force-- multiple impacts both high and low.....

Whunch!

At Park's question of if she's a 'regular cleric', Mila looks a bit sheepish, or perhaps uncertain, and rubs at the back of her neck. I don't know altogether what I am...

"Well," she says after a bit of a pause, and after Zhandar's intrigued comments, "I mean, I don't know as I could say I'm a 'regular cleric' but, I mean, he lets me do some healin', yes. I can call on him and that livin' light will come out from his symbol, fill a room's worth or so, I guess. You say you got some way to make it better? Huh."

Thanks for the vetting! MUCH DISCUSSION OF MATH AND FLURRIES HAPPENED IN CHAT

Eyyy! Thanks, GM. Good luck to everyone else finding homes for your great characters!

Full app, as promised.

High summer, and the shop is restocked, and Gellion is proving more capable, and she finds herself mostly sitting at the counter doing little enough while Gellion pitches the wares to those who come calling.

Very well, Majara thinks, sliding off her stool and taking herself to the back rooms where the equipment is. Time to experiment properly.

Some of her brewing is done with an eye to future needs-- whether adventuring, or otherwise. Some of it is done merely for the sake of concocting-- for the pleasure of experimenting.

"Ma'am, you should really take a break," Gellion says to her the next day, whether out of concern for her or just out of the desire to be unsupervised for a few blissful hours being up for debate. Majara considers this, then nods, and heads out to see the status of Saringallow.

She doesn't receive the same nods and recognition as the other 'Seekers', which is fine by her. The others are the ones who saved the town, and stood before the mayor. Majara only helped save a different town (and she muses at points whether they did in fact 'save' it. Oh well). Still, she is a recognizable face around town regardless-- Saringallow doesn't have THAT many gnomes, and she's been here more than a few years, now, running a business. Pricknettle greets those who greet her, reserved but polite, and eventually winds up at the door of Quill.

"Care for wine?" is her perfunctory greeting when the elf opens the door of his lodgings; she offers up a bottle that used to be Mayor Kriegler's.

"Ah. Well by all means, come in. I understand you went on a trip."

"I did. I have the remnants of a cythnigot for you, if you'd like."

"Oh, really? That would be interesting. Well come inside-- I have some bread from Gunty's, and apple butter, and that and the wine, will, I think, make a satisfactory repast."

The rest of the afternoon is spent in what counts as pleasant socializing to Majara-- a great deal of discussion of plants, herbs, and showing off the tick antennae and extraplanar horror she brought back from her travels, all lubricated with wine and helped down by nine slices of bread liberally smeared with sweet apple honey butter.

The rest of their journey is uneventful, which a part of Majara appreciates even as another part of her can't help but ponder that she feels she has improved the formula for the powder of her incendiary bombs and it would be convenient if something would appear to give her the chance to test that...

The shopkeeper part of her savors stability and mislikes interruptions and chaos. The adventurer in her, even if it has lain somewhat dormant for twenty-odd years, craves excitement-- as all gnomes stereotypically do. The alchemist in her falls somewhere in the middle... the scientific process requires a certain base level of stability, in order to reproduce experiments without too many variables; documenting one's progress becomes very difficult if one is, say, constantly getting attacked. On the other hand, necessity is proverbially the mother of invention, and she certainly has had breakthroughs that were spurred by the need to stop someone constantly attacking her.

It's a bit of a conundrum.

But when they reach Saringallow Majara is pleased enough to let the shopkeeper have free rein for a bit. It is time to see what sort of muddle Gellion has made of things...

Beelining for her apothecary, Majara is consoled that, from the outside, at least, it's still standing.

"Aches like the Abyss," Majara says nonchalantly when Hawk includes her in the conversation. "Though less so than getting splashed by boiling oils or burnt by quickamber. Itches, though. I've my own tinctures and salves to manage it, however, thank you."

The line is cast out again into the water and Majara turns her head over her shoulder to give Shel a blunt, unblinking, violet-eyed gaze.

"I think you should do it. Life is for the living of it. Regrets are inevitable. On the other hand, many tallfolk seem to think that whatever a gnome might advise, you ought do the opposite. Tcha."

Majara looks back to the waters.

Conditional posts based on whether or not a swarm still exists after that BOOM from Hawkren. Actions A if swarm still exists! Actions B if swarm doesn't!

Actions A:

With a glance over her shoulder at the sudden flare of light and roar of flames, Majara notes that the spiders are badly smoldered but still extant. Still, that was quite the blaze...

"You seem to be rather less flammable than the spiders, Mr. Hargraves. I hope you won't mind some additional fuel to the fire."

Taking one more careful step down the stairs, Majara lobs another vial of flame towards the prow of the boat- in an upwards arc to clear the vertical distance that now exists between her and the swarm-- mostly just trying to not directly hit Hawkren.

Attack vs touch AC of the swarm in the indicated square, proooobably second range increment? Might be third. If so, add another -2 to this.: 1d20 + 8 - 4 ⇒ (19) + 8 - 4 = 23
Damage to swarm: 2d6 + 4 ⇒ (5, 3) + 4 = 12 +50% for swarm; DC 16 Reflex save for Hawk for either 3 damage (0 with his resistance) or 7 (2 after his resistance)

****

Actions B:

With a glance over her shoulder at the sudden flare of light and roar of flames, Majara notes that the spiders are no longer an issue. She gives an approving nod. "I appreciate someone else who understand fire solves many problems," she calls drily to Hawk. Then she turns her attention back to the lorge waterbois.

Taking one more careful step down the stairs, Majara lobs another vial of flame at the just-visible shoulders and neck of one of the creatures-- ideally far enough back to catch the other, as well, and not Roger.

I'd love to be able to use that roll from 'Actions A', haha. :P In which case, damage to blue is 13 (Point Blank Shot), and damage to red is again 3 on a successful save, 7 on a fail, DC 16 Reflex.

What Majara wants to do is fish. There are night-fish in the river that she'd like to catch at least one or two of (her conversations with the dwarf regarding possible fertilizers have led her to want to try out fish, if nothing else) and it's a quiet enough night, good for it, Miss Blackford and Mister Hargraves far enough away at the prow of the boat that she, fishing at the stern, is not bothered by their conversation.

That doesn't preclude being bothered by Sirio.

It is reasonable (Majara reminds herself) that he is concerned over Constantine. It is reasonable that he has questions.

It's just that she's answered them all, ad infinitum ad nauseam ad taedium, and comfort is deeply not her strong suit.

"Yes, Mr. Regilianus, no doubt there are divine petitions that can be made to your patron, but that is much more your area of expertise than mine, and--"

She and Sirio both stop, heads snapping around as two-- rather large shapes join them on the aft deck.

What are they?: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (5) + 5 = 10

She wrinkles her nose as she doesn't recognize the specimens in front of her. Well, no matter. She is fairly sure they are not supposed to be on the boat, regardless.

Even as she's making this observation, Majara's fingers are moving for one of her extracts, and a light shimmer of force emerges around her as she guzzles the small bottle.

Extract of shield as standard action, +4 to AC

Majara sniffs at the comment that she needs to hydrate for the sake of her skin. "Master Hawkren, I'm a hundred and twelve. Your skin won't look as good when you reach my age, I daresay. But I can certainly make no argument as to your price."

She shows no sign of hesitation at the needle, merely sets her hand flat on her knee and gives Hawk the nod to go ahead. Through the initial drawing she tilts her head but seems content to accept it however he draws it. The white highlights earn a brief flick of a smile across her sharp face.

When it comes time for the needles to make permanent what was temporary, there's only the occasional minimal wince from the gnome; she never takes her eyes from the process, seemingly intrigued by the sight of the needle's progress.

She takes her time answering Hawkren's question, spreading her fingers wide and observing the reddened flesh, gleaming slightly with the liniment, and the stark black of the moth atop it.

"It's a good souvenir," she says eventually. "An indelible record to travel with you, hmn? Well made. You could probably ply a very brisk trade by Saringallow's docks, if you wanted to. Thank you, Master Hawkren."

Without much in the way of detectable optimism, Majara duly wishes 'luck' to Hannelia as the other woman heads out the door...

It seems they're spending the night, which despite her objections, Majara is tired enough to not object again. At least the house is defensible; a camp on the open road is less so. So now the question becomes one of caring to their walking wounded.

While Hannelia has a heart to heart with various Lupescus, Majara deals with other logistics: ushering Elias into the manor's bathing chamber to wash the filth and grime of his imprisonment from him, and coaxing Constantine to sit in a chair at first.

While Kyle cleanses at least physical filth from his body, Majara takes advantage of the manor's actual kitchen, to be preferred over an open flame at the least. Alchemy and cooking are related disciplines. She'd hardly call herself a chef, but she can make something palatable, and after some musing decides soup is the way to go. She has no compunctions about raiding the manor's cupboards for ingredients, and sets to dicing and slicing while her mind wanders.

Spring onions - garlic cloves - hearty chunks of meaty mushroom - into a large pot with oil, to saute down and release their fragrance into the room... the chair that she led Constantine to is here in the kitchen, and she speaks to him, absently, not truly expecting a response, as she works.

"Good produce hereabouts, these onions are almost as big as my head. I wonder if the fields will stop yielding such bounty with the cult broken. Perhaps it's the last year the onions will look like this."

Digging through the kitchen produces some smoked ham. Majara slices off strips of it and tosses them into the hot oil, the sizzle briefly overwhelming her words.

"But the ends don't justify the means. Supposedly. That is what we are supposed to say, isn't it. Ethically. I'm a businessgnome, not a hero; I often do justify the means. I have lines I don't cross, certainly, but... I have, traditionally, felt that some losses were acceptable."

Salt, pepper, parsley... an opaque bottle is opened and sniffed-- ah, paprika, yes, that can go in-- a generous pinch of sweet basil...

"It comes out to sums, doesn't it. This life for the greater good, or greater survival, or what have you. One person dies so that everyone else might live. Unpleasant arithmetic but necessary. Calculated losses-- or at least calculated risks."

Her small hands stop fiddling with the spices while Majara stares off at nothing in particular for a dozen seconds, an unusual pensive look upon her face.

"I performed that math once upon a time and we... our group... Kyle and Zuke and I, and there were others-- well, my math was wrong. I thought the risk level was acceptable. Miscalculation. It went poorly. We lost-- mnn."

Majara clears her throat then hops down from the stool she is using in the human-sized kitchen to rummage for more ingredients in the stores. A trip into the cool root cellar turns up heavy cream, and cheese, and some of the tick meat common to the region. Majara shrugs and returns to the kitchen with these things in hand, where she saws off a bit of salted tick to taste it on its own before nodding and cutting it into chunks for the stew-- in goes the cream, the cheese...

"Hopefully your being in this state won't mean the end of your group. And hopefully you'll heal. This is a dangerous sort of life.

"...though I suppose I've missed it, in a way. Certainly more interesting problems to resolve than balancing the shop's accounts. Perhaps once back in Saringallow, I'll leave Gellion to manage things at the shop for a bit and... hrmf, well, we must get back to Saringallow first. I don't enjoy the thought of having to manage YOU the entire way back, but you'll need feeding, and washing, and so forth. It would be helpful if your head clears before someone must do those tasks for you, young man."

The last is said sternly, with Majara side-eyeing Constantine for a reaction that doesn't come. She sighs a little, and stirs the stew, and decides that it can bubble away on its own as she hunts some replacement clothes for Elias in the erstwhile mayor's wardrobe.

Everyone will be the better for some food in them. She's surprised Kyle's still on his feet, but she won't have him stand a watch tonight, certainly. The man needs rest, and Constantine as well.

Majara keeps busy, bustling around the house and thinking about preparations for travel on next-day. Keeping busy has always helped her.

If Roger or Emma seem to need tasks to do, she has no shortage of duties to assign them...

"We have to tell them something," Majara says with a shrug. "A version of the truth, probably. 'Your mayor plotted to sacrifice people-- strangers, preferably, to keep your village thriving. But he, and the rest of the cult, weren't above sacrificing your own-- like Shel. Decide for yourselves if that's the sort of prosperity you want-- bought in the blood of innocents.' We won't be here to stop them trying to restart their cult, but they ought to at least know what it was."

Majara testingly wiggles an arm that had been trampled earlier by the mob-- magic has helped but phantom twinges remain. "I say we leave town immediately after that speech, though. I don't want to give any of them the time to summon up the bravery to try to claim vengeance for their dead family members. Yes, we could hole up here-- but I don't think I need to remind all of you what happens when a mob of townsfolk decides to attack the richest house in town, hmn? These fine walls will burn."

Saringallow's shadow is long, Majara supposes. She muses briefly on the dark irony of it, especially with Constantine in his current state; if she were more superstitious she might wonder if the current situation is some lingering echo of a familial curse.

"I don't like the idea of traveling now-- we are all tired, injured (or at least we were), and both Constantine and Elias need proper rest and physicker attention-- but I like even less sleeping in the town full of people we just deprived of a faith, a mayor, and twenty or so of their kin. It might be worth putting distance between us and the town before sunset.

"If we do sleep here-- we lock the doors, block the windows, and keep watch. And leave at first light."

"Ah, there we are. See? Wouldn't have wanted that to get singed," Majara says with a dry half-smile as she peers into the chest of goodies that Hannelia has discovered. "Zuke would be proud of your eyes."

Kn Engineering on ladder: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20

"It's not the strongest, but safe enough. Here, I'll go take a peek, if nothing else I'm light."

Majara scrambles up nimbly, then her voice calls down, "I doubt Roger would be able to stand upright here, anyway. Junk. Dust. Cracks in the boards of the walls to peer out through..."

Which she does, checking to make sure all still seems quiet outside. That done, she glances briefly around in the loft.

Per: 1d20 + 9 - 2 ⇒ (8) + 9 - 2 = 15

"Hrmmn... what's this..."

Majara tugs something free of the rest of the clutter, and then promptly sets to coughing at all the dust she just loosed into the air. Grimacing at her own lack of foresight there, she yanks the collar of her shirt up over her nose as impromptu filter, then squints at a quilt.

"....charming. A handmade quilt lovingly depicting villagers subsuming themselves to the evil we defeated here. And making sure they get a good harvest out of it. You know, I think I generally prefer it when the evil cultists don't pretend that what they're doing is not evil. Here, it could be a useful record or... I don't know, someone might want to buy it. Watch for the dust."

She rolls it to the edge, trusting Roger's height can grab it and take it down to ground level. Down the ladder after it.

"Next door, I think. That one Hannelia's cleared of trouble. Roger or Emma, do the honors?"

Elias puts a hand on Majara's shoulder, kneeling to get low enough. "Yes, still here. Thank you, old friend." He tilts his head, "Let me help you up, please." Though weakened, the man is still much larger than Majara and lifts her up in his arms. Should she object, he'll argue, he is trying to mend his own pride, but he'll respect her wishes.

"--"

Majara opens her mouth to protest, probably loudly, as she is scooped up...

Will save?: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (13) + 4 = 17

...but manages to click her teeth shut on what she was going to say. Instead she exhales. "Yes, thank you, Elias. You were invaluable during that, you know. Getting Roger on his feet, waking me up-- Thank you."

As soon as she feels she can do so without wounding his pride, however, she slithers out of his grasp to stand on her own again.

"Is anyone very badly hurt? I can't say I feel fully fantastic and fine, but I won't fall for a feather."

With one hand on her side at the worst of her wounds, she gingerly pads over to Constantine, gazing up at him with furrowed brows.

"Constantine. Fioritura. Sarini. Are you in there?"

The lack of response makes her frown segue into a scowl. Majara is currently considering the logistical hassles of taking a brain-damaged person all the way back to Saringallow.

Enjoy your level up! Pick feats wisely

"Oh no, Mr. Jaxom, you're one of our warriors, if anyone needs to be on their feet and fighting it's you, not me," Rabbit says with a flutter of his hands.

As goblins fall one after the other to the group's attacks, Rabbit is torn. He doesn't care for the violence-- were it up to him, he'd be hiding safely away from it all-- and he wishes that talking had been an option, but the elderly matriarch had thought it laughable. But so much death, so much blood... over what? Over who gets to be 'dominant' over a tiny tiny part of the world, cut off from all the rest of it?

It seems pointless, and tragic-- but tragedy in the grand scale evaporates when Rabbit sees Alden go down.

Oh no. He can't heal anyone else today, and he can't let Mr. Cooperson die...

"Leave him alone!" he shouts at the big brute that still menaces Alden. "Go away! Just go away and leave all of us alone! I hope-- I hope you get too weak to even lift your club!"

Ray of Enfeeblement, targeting brute's Touch AC: 1d20 + 4 ⇒ (5) + 4 = 9 Well that seems unlikely, unless they have severe penalties. I do have precise shot so no penalty for firing into melee. If the brute currently has cover from me, Rabbit would try and move in such a way to have a clear shot. If, somehow, a 9 hits its touch AC: 1d6 + 1 ⇒ (4) + 1 = 5 Str Damage, Fort DC 15 for half

What looks something like a leaping hare made out of shadows bounds from Rabbit's hands towards the big goblin brute...

The fire hurts but Rabbit supposes he's riding adrenaline or something similar-- the pain seems distant, and he's more focused on Jaxom. He is chagrined when all the healing he can bring to bear barely wakes the other man up-- not very impressive.

"Mister Jaxom! I have a potion!" he babbles hurriedly, and reaches into his pouches and pockets to retrieve it.

Move to draw potion of CLW, but I think it takes a full round action to administer it to someone else? So I'll use my standard to give Fortune to Alden

Looking up worriedly from Jaxom to the rest of the fight, he sees Alden is engaged close with the goblins. Rabbit squints hard that direction and mumbles something under his breath; Alden feels... luckier?

Fortune hex- reroll 1 d20 of your choice, Alden, lasts for 1 round

Majara's eyes slit as she regards the horror coming closer, but she ducks the claws easily enough. The damn thing's long arms are a great inconvenience, she muses. In order to clear a path for Elias, she'll need to pull back to the center of things herself....

Provoking AOO by moving as shown on map

With some distance between her and the stalker, Majara hurls not directly at the monster, but at the ground near its feet. Roger is too close to risk a direct attack.

vs AC 5, square to the south-east of the stalker: 1d20 + 7 + 1 ⇒ (11) + 7 + 1 = 19 Not a 1, so I hit the square; stalker gets a DC 14 Reflex save to halve the 6 splash damage. (No splash to Roger)

"Come and get me, you.... woobly wavy wacky faceless freak." She'd liked that, from Roger. It had almost sounded Gnomish.

Oops, I forgot to attempt the Per check

Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (1) + 7 = 8 Hahaha

"If we don’t get that ugly, red-headed, dog-mannered cityboy back, my Shel will have to take his place. So sayeth the Dream Tender. I do what it takes to serve. I done it many times before. But I will not give up my Shel, y’hear? If you give me the redhead or go into the maze, you can save my daughter.”

Majara looks unimpressed. "Dog-mannered cityboy? You mean, the person I came here looking for? A man I've known for some thirty years? For a woman petitioning us for assistance, you're remarkably poor at attempting to be conciliatory."

Even if he CAN be a self-righteous prig, she thinks inwardly. And even if she's bracing, right now, for Kyle to make some nasty comment to her about Sacrificing a life for the greater good is up your alley, isn't it, Pricknettle?

She shakes her head to dislodge the annoying thoughts, though it could be taken as a head-shake at at Anya.

"If this Shel is a decent sort," the words are aimed more at the others in the party than at Mrs. Lupescu, "then I'm not opposed to attempting a rescue, but point-the-first: Kyle is hardly well enough for rigorous travel or journey into danger, and she's just proven we can hardly assume he'll be safe if we leave him here. Point-the-second: I propose Anya be left restrained so we know she's not running to tell some other cultists we're coming. Point-the-third: we still have that other essence Emma detected here. I dislike leaving it at our back. Again, we are on our own timetable, not hers."

Majara barks a little laugh at Roger's extremely ... pragmatic take on the chances of walking into am ambush. "Your confidence charms, but sometimes a trap can't be cut nicely in twain, boatswain."

She watches Anya expectantly, and Emma, to see if Emma has any verdict to give. And there's Kyle. Elias Kyle.

It's not possible not to glance at his missing hand, the bloody stump. He was... he had been.. quite the swordsman. In his youth. Twenty years ago for Kyle has been twenty years for her as well.. but gnomes reckon them differently. Majara's suffered no graying, no weakening of the body in the years since. She has full command of her faculties and both hands, which she appreciates, as alchemy would be much, much harder with one only. There's a moment of mental diversion in considering the possible devices that might be engineered to assist with the hurdles, but--

Elias Kyle has his life. She was here in time for that. There is no greater haste that could have been made-- it was Elias's absence in the first place that prompted her mission, so he was already in the filthy basement even then. There is no blame here for Majara Pricknettle in the loss of Kyle's hand; no, none, not even with the harshest math. That's satisfying; she gives a firm little nod to herself. The hand's not my fault.

Leaving only the matter of things from twenty years ago.

Tch, one thing at a time; mercury before sulfur! They had to survive this cult mess and then guilt could be brewed fine and fizzing. Until then, it was to be placed upon the back burner.

The last remaining stirge is quickly dispatched and Majara nods in satisfaction for the effiency of it, flicking a glance at Emma's hack that nearly kills a beast but doesn't.

She observes the sword in Emma's hand a moment, then says brusquely, "You might use Kyle's sword," she says crisply. "Yours isn't enchanted, I assume? It would be an improvement, and--"

Majara cuts off as her peripheral vision notes Constantine's rush to a downed stirge. She stops speaking, looks over to see Constantine's deranged grin as he finishes the stirge off, then starts to speak....

The gnome takes a wary step backwards even as Emma runs forward to assist. She keeps a chary eye on Constantine as Emma tries to restrain him. But she does listen to his rasping chant.

When he finally gasps into silence, Emma trying to help him out of it, Majara looks to Roger and Hannelia with a blank stare.

"Does he do this often?"

"Yes, that suffices, Miss Venator. And Miss Blackford has stayed with you, hasn't she? So I think we're all ourselves, allegedly. 'Nuffikeen' could do a signal word if we need to verify again-- and counterword Anilda?"

Majara speaks in her brusque manner; even while she is talking she moves closer to Constantine and to the gleaming sword he has identified. Not saying anything in the moment to answer his question, she picks it up-- it looks comically oversized in her hands, yet still is not so heavy that she cannot hold it, albeit as a greatswords. Majara scrutinizes the blade, the guard, the light etching of runes along the gleaming steel, with her face scrunched up in concentration. Or perhaps scrunched against some sort of emotional response.

"It is his sword," she says after a long pause, her brows beetled. "The wing-hilt is new. I'd wager new enchantments too. He..."

Majara grimaces at the blade, then sets it down to lean against a wall, brushing her hands off. "Elias once had a sword named Retribution. Not Redemption. He took justice...." Another pause. "...seriously. Once upon a time. Less so when last I saw him."

Frowning, Majara tucks her hands under her armpits and rocks a bit on her feet. "Perhaps he renamed the sword," she offers.

"And perhaps-- probably, judging by the mongrelmen words-- he's dead now." The gnome exhales but shows no great grief beyond that huff of breath. After barely a beat she says, "I'll hold that hand if it's helpful."

"Oh aye! Keen thinking Majara. And I remember something nothing but us should know, there was that fae what borrowed Hannelia's eyes and had a centipede for a babe back in the ole mansion!"

Majara pauses.

"...I see I missed exciting events ere I entered into this enterprise."

Rabbit smiles crookedly at Kras'tak's confident statement of shredding goblins. He wishes he had her assuredness. "Yes, I'll just follow you if it all goes bad again," he agrees.

He knows, intellectually, that many here in the little village chafe at the loss of the rest of the world. For Rabbit, this tiny pocket of village is the happiest he's ever been. The only threat to speak of is the goblins-- and while it's certainly a threat, and a real one, he'll take goblins over Thracia any day. The thought of his old mistress causes him to scoop Mr. Whisper up into his arms (to Mr. Whisper's annoyance) and stroke the rabbit's silky ears.

There's no need to think about THAT, not on such a nice day as this...

...and then, of course, the nice day gets interrupted.

Rabbit's eyes go wide as he looks towards Alden Cooperson and his quick, panted message. "...today? Here? More goblins? Oh no..."

Rabbit is still and pale for a moment, then gets to his feet, the un-capitalized rabbit still in his arms. For a moment, it looks as if he'd like nothing more than to flee. But he finally just nods, swallows once, and then turns quickly to the inn.

It takes him almost no time at all to grab his crossbow and bolts. Unlike Alden, there's no armor to encumber him. Just a satchel that goes across his shoulder, and into which he stuffs a madly-kicking Mr. Whisper.

"No, don't argue with me, it'll be safer for you in there, please..."

Crossbow. His new darts. The dagger. His... oh yes, the little bag of herbs.... and then he's back rejoining the others, nervous energy clearly permeating his small frame, one hand resting on his animal satchel for reassurance.

"We should go as a-- a group?"

The chickens were laying well, and Rabbit couldn't be happier about it. He's named them all-- private names, things he only calls the chickens when it's just him and them, in case Milana would take exception to his presuming to name them-- and he beams like a proud papa as he picks several eggs deftly from Rosebud's nest while the plump hen is distracted by the handful of food he's strewn about.

"This'll be a fine breakfast, Mr. Whisper," he murmurs to the white rabbit that is nosing around at his feet nipping at a few tender springs of grass that have somehow escaped the chickens' tread. "Mistress Milana will be pleased, don't you think?"

The rabbit favors him with a look up, a twitch of one ear that somehow appears sardonic. Rabbit frowns down. "Well, yes, she will. I mean... I think she will. You don't have to act like that, you know. It's not very nice... oooh, look how many Sunbeam laid! Golly! Omelettes for days! Or-- or maybe she'll bake a cake again! If we can get enough flour. Wouldn't that be something! Oh, hello Princess Featherbutt, my, aren't you looking fine today, yes, it's beautiful weather, and you are absolutely gleaming... you've healed up from those down mites just beautifully, yes, yes you have..."

It's rare that the non-animal inhabitants of the village get as many words in one go from Rabbit, at any rate. But who knows. Today seems like it's going to be such a good day, Rabbit thinks, humming snatches of a Chelish ditty beneath his breath.

As he moves among the fowl, Rabbit's newish dagger bumps annoyingly against his thigh where it dangles from his belt. He doesn't much like it, and to date has never used it for anything more than cutting up bread, twine, or barking some twigs. But the men here in the town who know about such things have told him that he has to get used to keeping it on his person. Even Mistress Milana, sweet as she is, has soberly reminded him about the ever-present threat of the goblins.

As if he could forget. Rabbit grimaced as his happy thoughts were momentarily interrupted by recollections of the chaotic fighting that had come a mere six months after his arrival in Passbog. Reflexively, he straightened up from dealing with the hens and scanned his surroundings, nervously.

No goblins. At least right now....

Perception: 1d20 + 7 ⇒ (6) + 7 = 13
Kn Arcana: 1d20 + 9 ⇒ (19) + 9 = 28

There is a lot going on to try and notice... everything. Majara's violet eyes narrow at the sight of the spider creature, and she raises a hand to point up at it.

"Aranea. Can shift to look like one of you. And sling spells. Somewhat to be selected over strength-sapping stinging. Fortunately the roofs are flammable."

Majara pauses, to perform a calculation. Yes, the roofs ARE flammable. Wonderful for killing spider creatures.... but less than ideal for not being lynched by a mob, if any of the villagers here aren't part of this strange spider cult. Majara does math in her head.

She does not like the total of her equation, judging by the way her smile changes to a small frown. "UN-fortunately. I meant UNfortunately."

She promptly steps behind Constantine's protective bulk and quickly knocks back the last of the row of four flasks that she started the day with.

5-ft step, drinking an extract of reduce person. Majara is now Tiny, I'll update statline to reflect that

Westiron merely nods in answer to the skittish man, though he does glance around a bit to see if anyone else seems to be watching the half-elf, to justify his wariness.

Perception?: 1d20 + 5 ⇒ (15) + 5 = 20

If he sees nothing of note, he lengthens his stride on the way out of the square. The sun is moving on, and he still has much to do...

At the Lament, a grey-haired human man enters carrying a suitable number of weapons-- a crossbow, a dagger, a sap, and a shortsword are all visible on his person, as is a gold-painted key of Abadar around his neck. The armor that recalls Lastwall iconography now looks much more scuffed and non-descript-- generic armor, such as might be issued to any military grunt. Gone too is the prominent scar on his face. Without those things, he looks much less distinctive and less like a man of any rank. The clothes make the man, they say.

He nods to the bartender and approaches to trade a few coppers for a drink-- "Encarthan Lakewater, thanks--" and then makes an unhurried way over to Senrin, wherever the elf has taken up position.

"Seems we're early," he deadpans to the other man as he settles next to him.

Bluff: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (5) + 1 = 6 Looool.

Majara gazes unblinkingly up at the man and his wary question.

"No. Clearly not."

Even odds as to whether she means that with extremely deadpan sarcasm, or if she actually thinks she has a chance of being believed.

(This should be fun~)

Though she'd been the one to start the discussion of faith, in a way, Majara doesn't contribute to it as they progress to the mayor's home. She contents herself with her frequently-handled piece of string, and, occasionally, with snatching up a flower or blade of grass from besides the path.

At the mayor's house, she looks first to Constantine, then to Hannelia, her small features indicating a certain wariness at their speech. She then looks to Emma with an unspoken maybe you'll have more luck expression. If the young woman hesitates at all, Majara steps forward and gestures to Emma.

"She's a champion of Iomedae. I've never known a mayor of any town who would be too busy to hear about potential threats-- or protection-- to their town. Do you really want to be the one who stopped your brother seeing a paladin of the Inheritor?"

Attempted Aid Emma's Diplo: 1d20 + 1 ⇒ (19) + 1 = 20

Emma blinks a few times in response to this, and then nods absently. "Well...yeah. I suppose that's true." Emma blinks a few more times. "Er, on several counts there. But you know, don't sell yourself short Majara - you never know what's going to be needed to reach particular people - I've found that it never hurts to have a wide variety of approaches on hand should a situation call for it. That's been one of our groups strengths so far I think."

"I'm not," Majara says bluntly to Emma's wholesome words. "Stating fact. Not a value judgment. I comprehend the idea of specialization and teamwork to accomplish disparate goals."

A moment later, she comes hustling back to the group, a stricken look on her face. "Wait, wait! When I said, don't sell yourself short, I did not mean it as a pun!"

Majara gazes up unblinking at Emma for a long moment, staring into the paladin's earnest, apologetic face for what might feel like forever to the young paladin. Then the gnome just starts laughing, soft and soundless, shaking her head as she turns away to go back to her work.

Feel free to continue to stick in posts that are set the day of the town meeting if you want, but I'm just gonna putter on forward here.

The days immediately following your recognition in the town hall are busy ones. There's a property to have assessed-- and bolder gawkers to dissuade, as more than a few souls from Saringallow are eager to traipse up the hill and see the old estate now that it's generally considered safe... or at least safer. Conscious of the broken glass, the poison garden, and other possible dangers, you have your hands full keeping them out.

There are surveyors you do allow in-- to provide you with quotes for a proper cleaning, replacement of the windows, and so forth. Several companies offer you an assessment free of charge, at any rate.

The gleaming, glorious bathtub fared through the explosion surprisingly well. A dwarven tradeswoman strokes her braids as she looks over the object and nods-- aye, her crew can get it out, intact, and will pay you a decent sum for it-- minus the cost of their removal fee, of course.... Gold coins change hands, and the ungainly majesty of the tub is wheeled off down the hill, to be loaded onto a barge bound for some larger city, no doubt.

Bravoni's warehouse and business affairs prove more lucrative. Almost a week after the town hall, the mayor and a smiling, somewhat weasel-featured man from the merchant's consortium offer over a writ to be drawn at the local Abadarian changehouse to the tune of fifteen-hundred gold-- a tidy profit indeed!

Majara Pricknettle takes a number of potions and other objects off your hands, paying you more than you expected from them. The reason becomes more obvious when she clears her throat and asks if it's true there was an alchemy lab found upstairs...? Might she look at it.......?

Surprisingly, the bottles and beakers survived the explosion-- though Pricknettle nods sagely. "Good, he tempered them for heat and pressure changes! I'll buy the lot it from you if you're willing, hard to get glass like that these days from anyone save the dwarves..." More coins are passed into your hands.

Promised herbs are delivered to Quill, who pays well for them. Gear that you no longer need is traded in for coin, at the Sundries, and new gear is in turn purchased, at least by some of you.

The eternal question of a curative wand is once again posed to Father Ruvarra as well as the Sundries merchants....

High is good: 1d100 ⇒ 80

...and this time, the merchants have something for you! A carved stick, simple enough in appearance, but it truly can save a life.

A wand of CLW is normally 750; with your 5% discount, that would be 712.5 GP, and split 6 ways, that's 118.75. Six is counting Majara-- it's hardly fair if I don't contribute to the wand that I'm about to benefit from in our next adventure. We can say she contributes that gold after she joins the party, etc etc, no need to get too hung up on the details. So if you all do want a CLW wand, now's your chance.

As a reminder, any item under 4K, including magic ones, you have a 75% chance of it being available in town, so now's a good time to shop if you want to. Any mundane items under 4K are always available here.

****

Not all your time is spent at the old manor, of course. In town you have your share of eyes on you, as well as those who don't stop at eyes and come up to greet you, shake your hands, ask endless questions about the goblins, the manor, ghosts, so forth and so forth. People hesitate only briefly before greeting Constantine-- either the mayor's words did their work, or those who have less favorable views are simply choosing not to approach him at this point.

If anything, Constantine gets less slight hesitation than Sirio. He has hardly kept his faith a secret, though he has had the sense to be discreet about it; but there are still eyes that regard him with wariness. No-one is anyone but polite to his face, but behind backs there are still uncertain mutters about devil worshipper and Chelish provacateur...

Sirio sees Scrent only once during the week that follows-- the day of the meeting itself, before the Escoros return to their farm. The gangly youth gives him a measured nod, a mixture of admiration and wariness, and comes over to mumble that his family is curing some prize mutton just now that they will send along as a gratitude and housewarming gift to the manor when it's ready.

Hannelia finds that more people knew her name than she ever guessed-- or at least they claim to, now. One of the neighbors on her father's street gushes about how they always knew she was destined for great things, even from a little girl.... Whether this is truth is, perhaps, a question for the philosophers. But her father is proud of her, and Zuke gives her a wink and a grin and asks that shouldn't he have a mentorship cut of your treasure, then...?

Roger enjoys a singular benefit... his tab at Witch's End completely paid off by the number of townsfolk suddenly willing and eager to buy him a drink! After years of being something of a sea-salt-encrusted punchline at Alcide's tavern, he abruptly has become something like a guest of honor. Alcide looks somewhat resigned to it all, but does not turn away the coin of those who come to ask the old salt for a tale of either his pirating days or more recent adventures. His cup is never left empty and he has a comfortable seat by the roaring fireplace.

And Emma Blackford...? The townsfolk greet her with no hesitation at all, the symbol of Iomedae hung around her neck the only token most need of her goodwill. The guards at the bunk house are getting to know her well, and perhaps there, in the ordered lifestyle of drill and practice, weapons maintenance and rising before the sun does, Emma feels something of the home she's left. The temple of Erastil welcomes her with goodwill anytime she chooses to go there, and Nolaria asks shy questions about the goddess of honor.

What can be tidied of the manor by your backs and hands alone, you do; though full repairs will require skilled laborers. But the glass can be swept up, the stains scrubbed. Life goes on, busy with cleaning, with gossip, with haggling, with practice and training to keep your skills sharp...

******

Sirio

Nighttime, midnight, the darkest hour. A small banked fire in his room at the Witch's End to keep off the chill of the night. It flares to reddish light.

You have done well.... my faithful servant.

Take your reward for your service, my warrior: skill and power alike.

***

Emma

The sword, the sword, it always comes back to the sword. Muscles aching and there is the sword to be polished, the scabbard's straps to be checked that they need no oiling, the armor to be looked over, the blade to be sharpened....... there is always something to do, for a champion of Iomedae, even when evil is not at immediate hand.

The whetstone glides down the blade over and over under Emma's callused hands and she finds herself sliding into almost a meditative trance, seeing shapes and images reflected in the sword's gleaming metal. Fire. Battles. Past, present, or future? Hard to say. Iomedae's pennant flying ragged and singed, but triumphant... and her mother's face, eyes, smile.

You're doing so well. You're being tempered for all the battles yet to come. Emma: I am proud of you. Walk tall. Find your place here. My gifts travel with you.

***

Roger

It's strange, how much younger you feel today than you did, say, a month ago. It's good to get the open air in your face, and good to see coin, win it fair and square (or maybe not so fair), and be able to get your hands on it, have a clinking purse for a few days' time, and good to be able to spend it too-- to freely toss a coin to children on the street, to order what drink and meat you like, without fear that it'll run low. Work hard and play hard-- maybe someday, get that little boat you've dreamt about, sail down the Conerica and all the way back to the great blue Sea.... but little voyages first, aye?

But more and more comes back to you. You remember old maneuvers and twists of a boarding pike, and you think of how you might be able to use them now...

***

Constantine

The manor is... quieter than you expected. Oh, there are spirits, to be sure, but after the priest conducts a ceremony to put their remains at rest, nearly all of them fade to nothing. To true and peaceful rest. Almost to be envied, perhaps.

But the past never entirely stops whispering to you. Secrets, magic, war and more. Yet on the subject of your parents.... they still tell you maddeningly little.

***

Hannelia

One night, you are roused by the flick of pebbles against the small window of your upstairs loft bedroom. Groggy, you crack it open to see Zuke grinning up at you.

"Come on then, Hanny-- what are you doing in bed at this hour! It's barely two in the morning. Slither out down here with your kit-- I don't have that many more tricks left to teach you, soon you'll be passing me up, but until then you're wasting a perfectly good night of sneaking around and seeing what locks we can crack! So let's get at it!"

Welcome to level 3, everyone!

"I'm an orphan of the Goblinblood Wars. Sirio and I grew up together, actually. I found out when I was older that my parents had fought in the war and died protecting Isger. I also found out--" one more deep breath, "--that they were Sarinis."

Mayor Sandra Trinelli blinks. And blinks again. "Oh," she says after a moment. "Oh dear."

Hannelia is quick to speak up, and point out all that Constantine has done and proven himself. The mayor listens in silence, staring into her wine glass, her brows lightly knit. When Hannelia finishes her impassioned defense, she looks up to Father Ruvarra, a gaze passing between them that speaks to a long partnership in the civic matters of the town.

"Hrmn. You aren't shocked by this, I see."

The Erastilian spreads his hands with a little shrug, which earns a snort from the mayor. She places both elbows on the table then presses fingertips to her forehead in thought for a few long moments.

When she lifts her head again it's with a set jaw. "Thank you for the confidence. I will admit I wish that this secret was... something else, but not because I mistrust you, Mr. Fioritura, but simply because... it is a complication. This town-- our history-- well. You know. You all know very well. I do not know how people will react to this. I would ask that you not pass this around to the populace tonight, at any rate. Let me do a bit of getting ahead of the storm, as it were."

Sirio seizes the moment to bring up the matter of the property, which earns another brooding silence from the mayor. "That... is an interesting suggestion, Mr. Regilianus. It might help matters. Or it might not. I can add it to the questions to keep me up tonight.

"But regardless, you have all earned your rest and then some. I will see you on the morrow.... 'Friends' of Saringallow.'

****

The next day, at the ceremony to recognize your deeds, the mayor says her bit about a boon-- and the Friends* demur, taking their cue from a tiny headshake no that Trinelli favors you with.

*at least for now

"You will all note these brave souls refuse any further reward, despite their service," Mayor Trinelli says to the gathered crowd. "And yet, I think they are owed more, though they may be too modest to claim it.

"The property of Marcius and Sadira Sarini has stood absent since their execution at the hands of Saringallow's citizens, a hundred years ago. We all know the rumors: dark spirits and cruel murders, unspeakable deeds. Even our own town guard, ready to raise steel against any other sort of invader, have given the manor a wide berth-- and justifiably so.

"That we no longer have to fear what may lurk within an hour's walk of our walls is only part of what our friends have done for us, but to me it speaks with the loudest voice. I propose that the manor and its grounds be bequeathed to our local heroes, as a residence if they so choose, or in whatever manner seems best to them to continue to aid Saringallow."

A wave of murmurs spring up from the crowd, but it doesn't seem displeased or unhappy-- mostly just the noises of merchants and guild leaders considering that renovation of the old manor will no doubt require goods and labor, and, well, you all just were given a good sum of gold by the mayor. Trinelli pauses a moment to allow the crowd to perform this math, then continues in a clear voice that quiets the murmurs.

"Besides-- even if it were not theirs by claim of eradicating its troubles-- our friends have another claim. Mr. Fioritura-- will you stand forward, please?"

Constantine might or might not hesitate, but the mayor doesn't. She says, simply, "This man has a claim by blood to the estate and its grounds."

The hall is silent only a moment before erupting again in noise-- this time less quiet, and certainly less happy. The mayor lets the noise build for only a half a dozen seconds before she lifts her hand and speaks sharply:

"Yes, you do take my meaning. But let us discuss this in an orderly fashion. I would hear from-- Steader Jarn Escoro."

Some of the muttering subsides as heads crane to look for who that might be-- and there is Pa Escoro, standing, clearing his throat, wringing his hat in his hands.

"Er-- good day, goodfolk. I am a simple man. I farm the earth and keep my animals. I don't know much about names and history. What I do know is-- those fellows and lasses on the stage there, they saved us. My farm. My wife. My children, my boy. They bled on the earth I work to keep it safe. They ran forward when goblins would have killed my boy. That is all I need to know."

"Thank you, Steader Escoro. I would hear from the Vazarros."

And Gellion's parents stand, still looking shaken from their experiences but better than you last saw them. "We would surely all be dead now if not for these people," Betrana whispers. "They slew the spiders that poisoned us. They rescued my boy from the... the madness that took him. The ladies there-- they came and cleaned our house, though no coin or reward waited. If those two vouch for him, then you'll hear no question from us."

The mayor gives a brief nod and quickly points to a big young man and a red-headed girl standing at the back of the hall. You realize that this was all at least somewhat planned by her-- the people you have helped are scattered through the crowd just dispersed enough that everywhere she points, one of your staunchest supporters is already there. This time it's Morvinnar and Nolaria.

"I bit off more than I could chew and they saved us. They cut us from terrible cocoons," Nolara announces, Morvinnar nodding earnestly ins support. "We'd be dead if not for them, including Mr. Constantine."

Mayor Trinelli coaxes a few more statements from people, but her ploy seems to be working: the grumbling is quieting down. If there is still resentment for Constantine's identity, then those who hold it are choosing to keep their peace in light of the changing mood in the room.

The mayor nods slowly. She looks around the room steadily, meeting eyes of guild leaders and rich merchants before she continues:

"Saringallow has lived the last century in two shadows, not one. The shadow of the manor has stretched long over our town, yes. But no less dark is the shadow of what our grandparents and great-grandparents did in the heat of revenge. Innocent people died then in the name of mob justice. Evil compounded upon evil.[/b]

"As we throw off the one shadow, let us also be rid of the other. We are known throughout Isger for our high walls, our fair merchants, and that we walk with our heads held high-- subjects, but not serfs, of Elidir. Saringallow is a town for those who would be free, in body and soul.[/b

[b]"So then, let us not be slaves to old fears. Let us extend the fairness of our trade practices to the judging of a man's soul as well, and judge him how each us of would wish to be judged: by our deeds."

There is no applause, but there is slow nodding around the room. Father Ruvarra, silent until now, takes the chance to stand and clasp Constantine's forearm roughly. "Erastil welcomes you to his temple, Constantine-- whatsoever your surname may be."

****

When the crowd disperses, the mayor sits down in a chair with a bit of a whuff, gesturing a servant over for wine.

"A fine speech, Mayor," says the priest.

"Ought to be, I was up half the night writing it. I apologize for putting you on the spot there, Mr. Fioritura-- or Sarini... --but it seemed best to get ahead of the rumors before they could fester. It's hardly true that truth is the best policy in politics-- but lies are dangerous, at any rate. I think that the gamble paid off.

"Don't be surprised if the same people who were just muttering darkly about your Sarini name five minutes ago are some of the first to come to you and offer lumber or manpower. The true faith of Saringallow is a gilt one," she finishes drily.

"I suggest you rest while you can, as well-- after this presentation of you, it won't be long before people up and down the Conerica know that your group may be able to solve their problems. You may soon have much to keep you busy."

****

Majara Pricknettle was one of the assembled crowd, though not called upon to speak by the mayor. Leaving the assembly, she heads home with her head down in deep thought, one hand resting inside a pocket of her clothing, where her restless fingers drum against a recently received missive....