Pelldea's stomach twinged. She ignored the hunger-pang, reaching for one of the bowls at her side and taking a careful handful of the bluish powder within. Letting it trickle slowly from her hand, she used it to draw small curlicues within a larger arc already inscribed in pale green in front of her.
The elven paladin sat cross-legged at the center of a curling, circular pattern drawn in three different colors, with bowls and small mirrors placed at significant points within its confines. At the edges of the room old, dusty boxes and barrels had been stacked up along the walls, freeing the smooth stone floor of the old storage room for her work; the pattern must be such a size, and drawn in such a manner, with such materials, if the prayer Pelldea intended to speak was to have any effect at all. The Lady of the Moon did not grant insight to supplicants who did not acknowledge its worth through their expense and obedience, no matter how great their need.
And Pelldea's need was great. The last three necromancers she'd pursued had been shadows; a local horror-story with no basis behind it, an eccentric wizard amusing himself with illusions, a perfectly mundane ring of grave-robbers who had invented a tale to cover their crimes. The other leads she'd had, connections that her initial targets had forged with others of their ilk, had faded into nothingness the farther she'd gone north, away from her own connections and sources of information. She knew that north was the way she had to go, but nothing more. She needed guidance.
So she had fasted for three days, and bought the powdered silver and jade and sapphire, and found the seven perfectly round mirrors, and begged this space from a local viscountess who seemed pleased at the chance to help a woman of faith. Pelldea hoped she could trust her, but she didn't dare risk the cost of praying for surety. The only prayer she could expend herself for was this one.
The last line was drawn, the last of the powdered sapphire spent, and Pelldea set her hands upon her bent knees and closed her eyes, murmuring the first words of a very long prayer. "My Lady, in whom all is reflected, that done in darkness and that done in light, let your power shine into me and reflect back that which is true...." Her breathing slowed, the words becoming a mumble, as she fell into a meditative trance. The stimulants she'd taken earlier coursed through her body, preventing it from being the full, restful trance common to her people; she could not rest during this undertaking, she must remain aware and constant within the prayer. Ignoring the twist in her stomach and the cold hardness of the stone under her feet, she fell deeper into her own thoughts until all she could hear was the prayer, pulsing through her, reaching the end at last and repeating over and over in her skull. It felt as if it had taken on a power of its own and seized her body, using her as nothing but a vessel for its own repetition.
---
When Pelldea roused from her trance, she felt wrung-out and raw, as if she'd been forced to sprint through a sandstorm. Her mouth and throat were painfully dry, but she barely had the energy to crawl to the pile of her things by the door and sip from her waterskin. She'd had a cheese roll set out and waiting for her, and she managed half of it, no more, before she found herself curling up against her pack and sliding away into another, more natural trance, so exhausted it came strikingly close to human sleep. If she was fortunate--if her Lady had listened to the prayer that had so consumed her--then she would dream, and those dreams would give her guidance....
The elven paladin sat cross-legged at the center of a curling, circular pattern drawn in three different colors, with bowls and small mirrors placed at significant points within its confines. At the edges of the room old, dusty boxes and barrels had been stacked up along the walls, freeing the smooth stone floor of the old storage room for her work; the pattern must be such a size, and drawn in such a manner, with such materials, if the prayer Pelldea intended to speak was to have any effect at all. The Lady of the Moon did not grant insight to supplicants who did not acknowledge its worth through their expense and obedience, no matter how great their need.
And Pelldea's need was great. The last three necromancers she'd pursued had been shadows; a local horror-story with no basis behind it, an eccentric wizard amusing himself with illusions, a perfectly mundane ring of grave-robbers who had invented a tale to cover their crimes. The other leads she'd had, connections that her initial targets had forged with others of their ilk, had faded into nothingness the farther she'd gone north, away from her own connections and sources of information. She knew that north was the way she had to go, but nothing more. She needed guidance.
So she had fasted for three days, and bought the powdered silver and jade and sapphire, and found the seven perfectly round mirrors, and begged this space from a local viscountess who seemed pleased at the chance to help a woman of faith. Pelldea hoped she could trust her, but she didn't dare risk the cost of praying for surety. The only prayer she could expend herself for was this one.
The last line was drawn, the last of the powdered sapphire spent, and Pelldea set her hands upon her bent knees and closed her eyes, murmuring the first words of a very long prayer. "My Lady, in whom all is reflected, that done in darkness and that done in light, let your power shine into me and reflect back that which is true...." Her breathing slowed, the words becoming a mumble, as she fell into a meditative trance. The stimulants she'd taken earlier coursed through her body, preventing it from being the full, restful trance common to her people; she could not rest during this undertaking, she must remain aware and constant within the prayer. Ignoring the twist in her stomach and the cold hardness of the stone under her feet, she fell deeper into her own thoughts until all she could hear was the prayer, pulsing through her, reaching the end at last and repeating over and over in her skull. It felt as if it had taken on a power of its own and seized her body, using her as nothing but a vessel for its own repetition.
---
When Pelldea roused from her trance, she felt wrung-out and raw, as if she'd been forced to sprint through a sandstorm. Her mouth and throat were painfully dry, but she barely had the energy to crawl to the pile of her things by the door and sip from her waterskin. She'd had a cheese roll set out and waiting for her, and she managed half of it, no more, before she found herself curling up against her pack and sliding away into another, more natural trance, so exhausted it came strikingly close to human sleep. If she was fortunate--if her Lady had listened to the prayer that had so consumed her--then she would dream, and those dreams would give her guidance....
At first, as the sandpaper feeling of breath slowly wore away, there was nothing. Only the distance of meditation. From moment to moment it could not be observed, the changing... and any time she looked for the subtle change in eyes-closed meditation, they would cease to be evident. Only when it enveloped her and went unquestioned would the change become clear.
A foglike haze. Its colours were difficult to observe. Like oil or mother-of-pearl. And hard to say if it moved and shifted or if the view upon it was what changed. But in that same slow manner it would shift, and tint -- blue fog, haze, indistinct -- a darker blue fog in the center of a paler --
An eye. The dimmed eye of a dead figure, looking as if iced over in its lifeless and directionless gaze. But there, too, was a wavering of colour, a warm, even hot light which flicked and reflected off its surface. The view slowly withdrew.
The dead face of a male elf with tan skin, paled out from blood loss. That light flickered continually and cast a redness and yellowness. The elf's throat was opened. The wound indistinct in its details. But something protruded out a side of the neck.
He was clad in blue from head to toe. Lying in a mud made of his own blood mingled with soil. There were more dead about him, hard to make out and vague and wreathed in flame. From his neck hung a chain. And from the chain, doused in his blood, hung loose and askew, an amulet depicting a full moon.
And then everything was a rush of fog and flashes of image.
Bones. Human? Dwarven, elven, orcish, they were gone so quickly from view it could not be said --
A figure using bones like splintmail and brigandine, all woven together upon a mesh of flesh, a leather that seemed not to be animal in nature --
A red mist of blood --
A goat bleated a scream --
A blue ribbon tied about a wrist --
The elf in blue's bloody body with its amulet of the goddess --
The long-dead held together with sinew preserved through arcane method, shuddering as they moved --
Ash gathered as if by winds controlled --
An exchange of heavy arcane tomes, one for another, one bound in skin which bore a tattoo --
An exchange of smiles --
A pair of china-blue eyes, staring out as if in horror from within the mouth of a beast -- a horrible beast somehow like a bear with tendrils of darkness flailing from its back, an otherworldly wailing and screaming growing loud about it -- bone protruding in unnatural ways from the twisted and wrong shape of it --
A blue ribbon --
Became a blue scarf, about the neck of a young teenage lad, dirty and freckled --
The shadows dominated about him like looming animals and he skirted from them without looking --
A hand rubbed a white powder which looked like flour upon an already baked loaf of bread --
A man in an apron with a gentle smile carried a loaf --
Darkness cloaked around him and the smile became deadly --
The man carried what appeared to be a heavy sack of potatoes --
A hand writing in a journal -- the image gone too quickly to read --
A shelf of books --
A book exchanging hands once more, was it the same or different? --
The same boy -- he lay prone and barefoot in a dirt cellar, wrists manacled behind him, unconscious or dead, the shadows consuming --
The red tendril like a collection of veins, capillaries bursting off of it --
The monstrous bear again, bones burst forth where a bear would have claws, faces pressed screaming and moaning from its sides, and the only eyes it had were in its open maw --
A catacombs where light shone like pinpoints from the eyes of corpses --
A human man in an apron left his house, a book under his arm and a soft smile on his face.
A list, a record of various books, purchased over a span of months, was burned away.
The elf's dying throes, the grasp towards his amulet, the movement of his paling lips.
The man in the apron, his hair a straw colour, turned onto a city street from what must have been his home.
He passed a sign which read Finest Mead in Entomill 2sp.
The boy in the blue scarf took shaky, shuddering breaths -- his teeth ground into wood. A rung of a ladder into the dirt cellar. His hands manacled behind. Trying to climb nevertheless. To escape, desperation in every breath -- his head touched the trapdoor -- he straightened his shaking legs so much as he could on the ladder's rungs.
The trapdoor didn't budge -- and he fell down with a pained cry back to the dirt floor, as his balance failed.
The blue scarf turned to blue haze and mist. The vision, confusing as it was with what it had shown -- and why -- faded.
A foglike haze. Its colours were difficult to observe. Like oil or mother-of-pearl. And hard to say if it moved and shifted or if the view upon it was what changed. But in that same slow manner it would shift, and tint -- blue fog, haze, indistinct -- a darker blue fog in the center of a paler --
An eye. The dimmed eye of a dead figure, looking as if iced over in its lifeless and directionless gaze. But there, too, was a wavering of colour, a warm, even hot light which flicked and reflected off its surface. The view slowly withdrew.
The dead face of a male elf with tan skin, paled out from blood loss. That light flickered continually and cast a redness and yellowness. The elf's throat was opened. The wound indistinct in its details. But something protruded out a side of the neck.
He was clad in blue from head to toe. Lying in a mud made of his own blood mingled with soil. There were more dead about him, hard to make out and vague and wreathed in flame. From his neck hung a chain. And from the chain, doused in his blood, hung loose and askew, an amulet depicting a full moon.
And then everything was a rush of fog and flashes of image.
Bones. Human? Dwarven, elven, orcish, they were gone so quickly from view it could not be said --
A figure using bones like splintmail and brigandine, all woven together upon a mesh of flesh, a leather that seemed not to be animal in nature --
A red mist of blood --
A goat bleated a scream --
A blue ribbon tied about a wrist --
The elf in blue's bloody body with its amulet of the goddess --
The long-dead held together with sinew preserved through arcane method, shuddering as they moved --
Ash gathered as if by winds controlled --
An exchange of heavy arcane tomes, one for another, one bound in skin which bore a tattoo --
An exchange of smiles --
A pair of china-blue eyes, staring out as if in horror from within the mouth of a beast -- a horrible beast somehow like a bear with tendrils of darkness flailing from its back, an otherworldly wailing and screaming growing loud about it -- bone protruding in unnatural ways from the twisted and wrong shape of it --
A blue ribbon --
Became a blue scarf, about the neck of a young teenage lad, dirty and freckled --
The shadows dominated about him like looming animals and he skirted from them without looking --
A hand rubbed a white powder which looked like flour upon an already baked loaf of bread --
A man in an apron with a gentle smile carried a loaf --
Darkness cloaked around him and the smile became deadly --
The man carried what appeared to be a heavy sack of potatoes --
A hand writing in a journal -- the image gone too quickly to read --
A shelf of books --
A book exchanging hands once more, was it the same or different? --
The same boy -- he lay prone and barefoot in a dirt cellar, wrists manacled behind him, unconscious or dead, the shadows consuming --
The red tendril like a collection of veins, capillaries bursting off of it --
The monstrous bear again, bones burst forth where a bear would have claws, faces pressed screaming and moaning from its sides, and the only eyes it had were in its open maw --
A catacombs where light shone like pinpoints from the eyes of corpses --
A human man in an apron left his house, a book under his arm and a soft smile on his face.
A list, a record of various books, purchased over a span of months, was burned away.
The elf's dying throes, the grasp towards his amulet, the movement of his paling lips.
The man in the apron, his hair a straw colour, turned onto a city street from what must have been his home.
He passed a sign which read Finest Mead in Entomill 2sp.
The boy in the blue scarf took shaky, shuddering breaths -- his teeth ground into wood. A rung of a ladder into the dirt cellar. His hands manacled behind. Trying to climb nevertheless. To escape, desperation in every breath -- his head touched the trapdoor -- he straightened his shaking legs so much as he could on the ladder's rungs.
The trapdoor didn't budge -- and he fell down with a pained cry back to the dirt floor, as his balance failed.
The blue scarf turned to blue haze and mist. The vision, confusing as it was with what it had shown -- and why -- faded.
"Is there anything I can do for you, Sister?"
It was a sign of how exhausted Pelldea still was that the question startled her. She'd heard the door open, but it hadn't registered properly until the servant spoke, a round-cheeked young human woman who'd crept up on her with all the caution of a mouse. Pelldea checked the urge to reach for her sword, which wasn't at her side in any case. She'd begun the ritual four days ago, and even now her reflexes were so sluggish that she'd missed these things.
The viscountess had done as she'd asked, at least--no interference for the three days following, not even from helpful servants. If the household appeared to have timed those three days to a nicety, well, the servant looked concerned, and Pelldea supposed it must be well-meant.
"I need more water and food," she told the servant, leaning forward from where she was slouched and trying to look a bit more awake, to banish a look of growing anxiety on the woman's face. "Upstairs. I will come up- shortly. And pray ask thy mistress if she has a map."
She'd spent as much of those three days in trance as her body would allow, and in contemplation when she could not bring her mind back to trance. But of the few dreams she'd had, only one, the first, had seemed like it might be the Lady's answer. Pelldea could make no assumptions--that one had been vivid, dizzying, and full of strange imagery, while the others since had been misty, vaguely narrative, patched together from memories of her past and abandoned life. The first, though, had taken place in a state of deep exhaustion, a time when she could not guide her own dreams in the trance, and the others had been more natural. She could not swear that one was more likely to be goddess-sent than the others.
But if there had been a message in it, she didn't dare ignore it.
An hour later she had food and water (and wine, which she didn't dare touch) spread on one side of the table in front of her, a map on the other, and the flustered viscountess jogging her elbow. Pelldea was careful not to drip water or crumbs on the map; it was detailed and seemed, to her untutored eye, accurate in its scale, and maps like that were expensive.
"Entomill," she said, pointing at the small castle-shaped symbol on the map. The name had sent a chill through her when she saw it, but it made her more certain that she was on the right track. "How far is that from here? And how is the road?"
"Six or eight days, Sister," the viscountess said, her hands fluttering in the corner of Pelldea's vision. "Depending on the weather. It's four days by carriage unless the rain is quite bad, but you would have to go to Wolfhaven proper, and then catch the carriage there, and it's two days to Wolfhaven."
Which was a wash. A carriage would cost her in any case, and Pelldea had spent the last of the gold and most of the silver that her abbey had given her on the powders for this ritual; going forward she either had to earn more coin on her own, find another holding of her order willing to let her draw on their treasury, or lean on local piety. Not everyone would be as willing, or as able, as the viscountess to aid her simply because she bore the Lady's sigils.
"I'll walk," she said. Shifting in her seat, she felt another wave of weariness wash through her, and sighed. "Tomorrow, or the next day. Might I get a rough copy of this map, on paper? Only this road to Entomill, so that I don't take a wrong branch."
The map was provided, and a bed far softer than the storage room floor. She was rather glad that no more was pressed upon her, or she would have had to start suspecting the viscountess of ulterior motives--though the size of the woman's chapel was a reassurance. Thoughts about the ardent worship of the Lady and a town called Wolfhaven chased themselves through her dreams that night, but she woke with the first night's dream coming to her thoughts again, driving her onward.
Once she felt well enough to take up her pack, the road was easy under her feet, and the sky clear overhead, both of which came as a relief. Pelldea wore her splint mail as a matter of course, and there was no hiding that she was a fighter; for the first few days of walking she wore her emblems openly, the pendant at her neck and the insignia on her shield, so that those she met on the road would know she was peaceful. But when she crossed the river that she'd been told lay a day before the town, she stopped long enough to cover her shield, and wrap the crescent moon on the hilt of her sword, and tuck her pendant under the layers of armor and clothing, before throwing a cloak over herself and continuing on towards the town.
It was far from a perfect disguise, since mercenaries and adventurers preferred to travel in packs, but she hoped that would be a quicker conclusion for her quarry to leap to than the assumption that she was a paladin. She reached the city gates in the late afternoon, hot sun beating down overhead and sore feet flagging, but her step became steadier, quicker, as she passed inside, alert for any clues that would lead her onward.
It was a sign of how exhausted Pelldea still was that the question startled her. She'd heard the door open, but it hadn't registered properly until the servant spoke, a round-cheeked young human woman who'd crept up on her with all the caution of a mouse. Pelldea checked the urge to reach for her sword, which wasn't at her side in any case. She'd begun the ritual four days ago, and even now her reflexes were so sluggish that she'd missed these things.
The viscountess had done as she'd asked, at least--no interference for the three days following, not even from helpful servants. If the household appeared to have timed those three days to a nicety, well, the servant looked concerned, and Pelldea supposed it must be well-meant.
"I need more water and food," she told the servant, leaning forward from where she was slouched and trying to look a bit more awake, to banish a look of growing anxiety on the woman's face. "Upstairs. I will come up- shortly. And pray ask thy mistress if she has a map."
She'd spent as much of those three days in trance as her body would allow, and in contemplation when she could not bring her mind back to trance. But of the few dreams she'd had, only one, the first, had seemed like it might be the Lady's answer. Pelldea could make no assumptions--that one had been vivid, dizzying, and full of strange imagery, while the others since had been misty, vaguely narrative, patched together from memories of her past and abandoned life. The first, though, had taken place in a state of deep exhaustion, a time when she could not guide her own dreams in the trance, and the others had been more natural. She could not swear that one was more likely to be goddess-sent than the others.
But if there had been a message in it, she didn't dare ignore it.
An hour later she had food and water (and wine, which she didn't dare touch) spread on one side of the table in front of her, a map on the other, and the flustered viscountess jogging her elbow. Pelldea was careful not to drip water or crumbs on the map; it was detailed and seemed, to her untutored eye, accurate in its scale, and maps like that were expensive.
"Entomill," she said, pointing at the small castle-shaped symbol on the map. The name had sent a chill through her when she saw it, but it made her more certain that she was on the right track. "How far is that from here? And how is the road?"
"Six or eight days, Sister," the viscountess said, her hands fluttering in the corner of Pelldea's vision. "Depending on the weather. It's four days by carriage unless the rain is quite bad, but you would have to go to Wolfhaven proper, and then catch the carriage there, and it's two days to Wolfhaven."
Which was a wash. A carriage would cost her in any case, and Pelldea had spent the last of the gold and most of the silver that her abbey had given her on the powders for this ritual; going forward she either had to earn more coin on her own, find another holding of her order willing to let her draw on their treasury, or lean on local piety. Not everyone would be as willing, or as able, as the viscountess to aid her simply because she bore the Lady's sigils.
"I'll walk," she said. Shifting in her seat, she felt another wave of weariness wash through her, and sighed. "Tomorrow, or the next day. Might I get a rough copy of this map, on paper? Only this road to Entomill, so that I don't take a wrong branch."
The map was provided, and a bed far softer than the storage room floor. She was rather glad that no more was pressed upon her, or she would have had to start suspecting the viscountess of ulterior motives--though the size of the woman's chapel was a reassurance. Thoughts about the ardent worship of the Lady and a town called Wolfhaven chased themselves through her dreams that night, but she woke with the first night's dream coming to her thoughts again, driving her onward.
Once she felt well enough to take up her pack, the road was easy under her feet, and the sky clear overhead, both of which came as a relief. Pelldea wore her splint mail as a matter of course, and there was no hiding that she was a fighter; for the first few days of walking she wore her emblems openly, the pendant at her neck and the insignia on her shield, so that those she met on the road would know she was peaceful. But when she crossed the river that she'd been told lay a day before the town, she stopped long enough to cover her shield, and wrap the crescent moon on the hilt of her sword, and tuck her pendant under the layers of armor and clothing, before throwing a cloak over herself and continuing on towards the town.
It was far from a perfect disguise, since mercenaries and adventurers preferred to travel in packs, but she hoped that would be a quicker conclusion for her quarry to leap to than the assumption that she was a paladin. She reached the city gates in the late afternoon, hot sun beating down overhead and sore feet flagging, but her step became steadier, quicker, as she passed inside, alert for any clues that would lead her onward.
Entomill was a quiet sort of place. Full of life, to be sure, but it wasn't often frequented by adventurers -- or serious trouble, for that matter. It was, however, a sort of haven for druidic learning, and as she grew closer, strange plants too large and overgrown for their species, or animals who looked at her with just a little too keen of a gaze, grew more common.
The city was not heavily protected, and bore no wall -- more a thick winding of shrubbery and hedges, perhaps capable of controlling the movement to and from the city but not particularly protective under normal circumstances. It was, however, beautiful. Lilacs and privet, roses and honeysuckle and acacia all intertwining, carved a highly irregular shape around Entomill. Within, the structures seemed primarily built in the style of the Wood Elves -- though the living tree-scape buildings and housings were rare within, the aesthetics remained, and many of the roofs were covered in greenery, whether from branches sprouting from their eaves, or rooftop gardens.
Not entirely, however -- in approaching from a distance the segmented nature of the city was more obvious -- buildings more common among humans dominated one corner of Entomill.
To walk within -- the guards were few, all elven, all lightly clad and used to peace. The people gave her slightly odd looks, as if wondering what she was doing here. And there was no sign matching that which had been in her visions... until she got to the human-dominated quarter. A bit of a slum in comparison to the rest, but still comfortable-looking enough. A couple inns and a small market, a few smiths... and there it was -- that sign.
Finest mead in Entomill 2sp.
Burnt into wood, and swinging before a rather small brewery at the edge of the market circle. The humans looked a little less strangely upon the definite fighter than the elves did; those who could distinguish a high-elf and a wood-elf supposed she was an outsider here, just as they were. And those who couldn't, saw another elf in an elf-city before they paid heed to her armour and covered shield.
In the market stood -- among all the stalls -- a straw-haired human perhaps in his fourties or fifties, fit for his age and with deep laugh-lines etched upon his fair face. Smiling out at all the world as he visited the vendors, to socialize more than to buy. Clad in an apron over his poor-to-decent and utilitarian clothing.
The city was not heavily protected, and bore no wall -- more a thick winding of shrubbery and hedges, perhaps capable of controlling the movement to and from the city but not particularly protective under normal circumstances. It was, however, beautiful. Lilacs and privet, roses and honeysuckle and acacia all intertwining, carved a highly irregular shape around Entomill. Within, the structures seemed primarily built in the style of the Wood Elves -- though the living tree-scape buildings and housings were rare within, the aesthetics remained, and many of the roofs were covered in greenery, whether from branches sprouting from their eaves, or rooftop gardens.
Not entirely, however -- in approaching from a distance the segmented nature of the city was more obvious -- buildings more common among humans dominated one corner of Entomill.
To walk within -- the guards were few, all elven, all lightly clad and used to peace. The people gave her slightly odd looks, as if wondering what she was doing here. And there was no sign matching that which had been in her visions... until she got to the human-dominated quarter. A bit of a slum in comparison to the rest, but still comfortable-looking enough. A couple inns and a small market, a few smiths... and there it was -- that sign.
Finest mead in Entomill 2sp.
Burnt into wood, and swinging before a rather small brewery at the edge of the market circle. The humans looked a little less strangely upon the definite fighter than the elves did; those who could distinguish a high-elf and a wood-elf supposed she was an outsider here, just as they were. And those who couldn't, saw another elf in an elf-city before they paid heed to her armour and covered shield.
In the market stood -- among all the stalls -- a straw-haired human perhaps in his fourties or fifties, fit for his age and with deep laugh-lines etched upon his fair face. Smiling out at all the world as he visited the vendors, to socialize more than to buy. Clad in an apron over his poor-to-decent and utilitarian clothing.
It was clear as Pelldea entered the town that she'd been noticed as a stranger, but she was so caught up in looking at the verdant beauty around her that she paid the glances of the guards little heed. The style was familiar, from long ago--her own people had more regimented ornamental plantings in their public space, preferring to build and foster beauty in cities of finely-carved color-streaked stone and delicate structures of precious metal and colored glass, but she had walked in towns more like this one, long ago. The memories were distant, but not ones she wished to dwell on, so she picked up her pace until she reached the human quarter of town.
The sign stopped her short, the one from the dream, and any lingering doubt Pelldea had possessed about whether it was a message vanished. This was a real place, not something assembled from deep in her sleeping imagination. She walked on more slowly, looking around with a focused gaze for more that would match the fragments of that complex and confusing dream.
Because she'd already been startled by the sign, her step didn't falter again when she saw the man with the straw-covered hair. Her gaze did catch for a moment, but then she looked on, watching him only from the corner of her eye. Choosing one of the stalls near to him, she headed for it as if it had been the sight to arrest her eyes. Colorful fruit, some of which she recognized and some of which she didn't, seemed to be this vendor's wares.
She bent her head over a pile of unfamiliar produce and mouthed a silent prayer to herself. "My Lady whose light pierces the mists, show to me what is hidden from mortal hearts," she breathed in urgent hope, one hand tapping briefly at the covered sigil on the hilt of her sword. Then she gestured to the fruit and looked up at the vendor. Out of the corner of her eye, she could still see the man's profile. "Pray tell me, merchant, what is this?"
((If I roll 5 or lower, she'll only pick up a vague sense of taint if he or anyone around them has a good reason to be tainted by evil; if I roll a 6 the Lady will reveal any lies she overhears and will be much more revealing about nearby sources of malice or righteousness.))
The sign stopped her short, the one from the dream, and any lingering doubt Pelldea had possessed about whether it was a message vanished. This was a real place, not something assembled from deep in her sleeping imagination. She walked on more slowly, looking around with a focused gaze for more that would match the fragments of that complex and confusing dream.
Because she'd already been startled by the sign, her step didn't falter again when she saw the man with the straw-covered hair. Her gaze did catch for a moment, but then she looked on, watching him only from the corner of her eye. Choosing one of the stalls near to him, she headed for it as if it had been the sight to arrest her eyes. Colorful fruit, some of which she recognized and some of which she didn't, seemed to be this vendor's wares.
She bent her head over a pile of unfamiliar produce and mouthed a silent prayer to herself. "My Lady whose light pierces the mists, show to me what is hidden from mortal hearts," she breathed in urgent hope, one hand tapping briefly at the covered sigil on the hilt of her sword. Then she gestured to the fruit and looked up at the vendor. Out of the corner of her eye, she could still see the man's profile. "Pray tell me, merchant, what is this?"
((If I roll 5 or lower, she'll only pick up a vague sense of taint if he or anyone around them has a good reason to be tainted by evil; if I roll a 6 the Lady will reveal any lies she overhears and will be much more revealing about nearby sources of malice or righteousness.))
((And I forgot to set up the dice roll, whoops.))
rolled 1d6 and got 3
[And despite the Dick DM in me saying "have the merchant scoff and say, 'that's an apple'..."]
"That'll be a Gem-dollop," answered the fruit vendor. "They only grow where there's pixies... growing them is easy, harvesting them is extremely tricky, I'm told. But they're very good. Sort of tart-honey taste, extremely juicy..."
The straw-haired man exuded a feel of friendliness -- an amiable sort, with the air of a pensioner or one living sensibly off his inheritance, keeping busy by maintaining his connection with the gossip of the day, making smalltalk and keeping in touch with the news of the times through merchants. He went to lean with an elbow upon the stall of a fishmonger, discussing which fish dried better, and which were too oily and required alternate methods of preservation. Perfectly mundane.
Though... there was also a soft, vague sense... that he was a little too friendly. Too unselfish, too generous with his time. And perhaps a pensioner or whatever he was really did have so much free time. It was just. An inkling.
The straw-haired man purchased some strips of cheap dried fish. But he could certainly have afforded better, and afforded fresh. For he moved next to a stall of minor enchanted artefacts -- little trinkets, mostly. And though there was small-talk here -- "How's the wife" and "ever find that cat" -- there was also a subtle movement at one point -- the straw-haired man had moved as if gripping the man's stall with one hand, on the far side where none would see -- then his hand withdrew, and ever so subtly pocketed some small item. Either robbing him or a secret exchange.
And with this they made their goodbyes -- and the straw-haired man made one more purchase from another vendor. A few round loaves of bread. With that he'd head away.
"That'll be a Gem-dollop," answered the fruit vendor. "They only grow where there's pixies... growing them is easy, harvesting them is extremely tricky, I'm told. But they're very good. Sort of tart-honey taste, extremely juicy..."
The straw-haired man exuded a feel of friendliness -- an amiable sort, with the air of a pensioner or one living sensibly off his inheritance, keeping busy by maintaining his connection with the gossip of the day, making smalltalk and keeping in touch with the news of the times through merchants. He went to lean with an elbow upon the stall of a fishmonger, discussing which fish dried better, and which were too oily and required alternate methods of preservation. Perfectly mundane.
Though... there was also a soft, vague sense... that he was a little too friendly. Too unselfish, too generous with his time. And perhaps a pensioner or whatever he was really did have so much free time. It was just. An inkling.
The straw-haired man purchased some strips of cheap dried fish. But he could certainly have afforded better, and afforded fresh. For he moved next to a stall of minor enchanted artefacts -- little trinkets, mostly. And though there was small-talk here -- "How's the wife" and "ever find that cat" -- there was also a subtle movement at one point -- the straw-haired man had moved as if gripping the man's stall with one hand, on the far side where none would see -- then his hand withdrew, and ever so subtly pocketed some small item. Either robbing him or a secret exchange.
And with this they made their goodbyes -- and the straw-haired man made one more purchase from another vendor. A few round loaves of bread. With that he'd head away.
When the Lady didn't answer a prayer, it always felt to Pelldea a little bit like being kicked in the stomach. A tight muscle-clench of anticipation, her breath stalling out as the blow landed, the wave of vague nausea afterwards--lacking everything but the pain of impact itself. She gripped the edge of the stall to steady herself and shook her head at the vendor's answer, and breathing in deep through her nose. "Perhaps too rich for me," she demurred, pushing back and stepping away.
She turned, looking at the rest of the market, and also the man. Without the Lady's assistance, there was only the subtle sense that there might be something off, something wrong with his behavior. The dream had seemed to point to him, but she couldn't challenge a man in the street on the strength of a dream. Besides, she wanted to get her fingers hooked back onto the web she'd found traces of before, and if he was connected to it, she should see where his connections led.
Subtlety had never been her strong suit. But she knew that if you took a fox as soon as you found it, you couldn't trace it to its den. And she was determined not to lose the trail this time.
Pelldea had turned in time to see his exchange with the trinket seller, and she took a moment to look that man over, her gaze sharp, and then his wares. She drifted towards the stall, eyeing his goods from a distance with a slight frown on her face, trying to split her attention between them and the straw-haired man.
When he started to head away, she hesitated a few moments more, still looking at the enchanted trinkets from a short distance like someone trying to avoid a vendor's spiel, then shook her head and headed after him. A vendor's natural place was at the market, but she knew nothing of this man's likely movements, yet.
She turned, looking at the rest of the market, and also the man. Without the Lady's assistance, there was only the subtle sense that there might be something off, something wrong with his behavior. The dream had seemed to point to him, but she couldn't challenge a man in the street on the strength of a dream. Besides, she wanted to get her fingers hooked back onto the web she'd found traces of before, and if he was connected to it, she should see where his connections led.
Subtlety had never been her strong suit. But she knew that if you took a fox as soon as you found it, you couldn't trace it to its den. And she was determined not to lose the trail this time.
Pelldea had turned in time to see his exchange with the trinket seller, and she took a moment to look that man over, her gaze sharp, and then his wares. She drifted towards the stall, eyeing his goods from a distance with a slight frown on her face, trying to split her attention between them and the straw-haired man.
When he started to head away, she hesitated a few moments more, still looking at the enchanted trinkets from a short distance like someone trying to avoid a vendor's spiel, then shook her head and headed after him. A vendor's natural place was at the market, but she knew nothing of this man's likely movements, yet.
The stall of enchanted items was small -- really one might have called it an end-table for all that was upon it. But that meant it was more likely to be legitimate. Enchanted items were not easily found and frequently stumbled upon; some might sell objects with no enchantment at all, merely the claim of magic on some likely-looking trinkets, and thus have quite a lot of merchandise to offer. But here -- there were seven items total on the table, and many of the enchantments claimed were petty indeed. A wooden spool which made thread placed upon it stronger -- a quill which helped ink to dry faster? Hardly grand sorcery at work. Some items had no card describing them. Presumably these might be stronger, more expensive.
The man at the booth was not as outwardly friendly as the straw-haired customer in the apron. Indeed he did not try to grab Pelldea's notice. He seemed to wait for customers to come to him -- and just as she watched, he watched -- watched Pelldea and everyone around. As if waiting for those who would actually seek his wares. He was dressed richly enough that perhaps he could afford to; perhaps now and then he got in something of absurd worth, which sold quick and high. Still there was a certain disdain to him.
The straw-haired man moved without paying much heed to his surroundings -- automatically, a hand in his pocket and a smile on his face. He didn't go very far. A few streets down where there were houses -- one on the corner was his, a small place that seemed to have been built in bits and pieces, here a second story, there an expansion out to it, there a shoddy balcony. A lot of the houses here were like that. He'd take his key, unlock the front door, and step inside. Whistling as he did so, in the way one might call their pet to greet them.
The man at the booth was not as outwardly friendly as the straw-haired customer in the apron. Indeed he did not try to grab Pelldea's notice. He seemed to wait for customers to come to him -- and just as she watched, he watched -- watched Pelldea and everyone around. As if waiting for those who would actually seek his wares. He was dressed richly enough that perhaps he could afford to; perhaps now and then he got in something of absurd worth, which sold quick and high. Still there was a certain disdain to him.
The straw-haired man moved without paying much heed to his surroundings -- automatically, a hand in his pocket and a smile on his face. He didn't go very far. A few streets down where there were houses -- one on the corner was his, a small place that seemed to have been built in bits and pieces, here a second story, there an expansion out to it, there a shoddy balcony. A lot of the houses here were like that. He'd take his key, unlock the front door, and step inside. Whistling as he did so, in the way one might call their pet to greet them.
Pelldea followed the man without too much subtlety; she knew how to be discreet, hence her covered emblems, but she'd never been stealthy, and she felt sure it would draw more attention to try creeping about than to walk at a normal pace. She stayed a bit behind him and on the far side of the street, looking around at the architecture, less elegant and often more ramshackle than the elven homes, walking like a stranger exploring the place. In the back of her mind she made notes of the turns, automatically starting to build a mental map of the terrain.
The house he stopped at was a piecemeal house, clearly not planned from the beginning, but she wasn't here to judge human architecture. Pelldea stayed on the far side of the street, and as he unlocked the door, she moved to linger behind him at a distance, trying to find the best angle to get a glimpse of what lay inside. Not that she would necessarily see much from the entrance, which surely would be fit for neighbors and acquaintances to view, but there might at least be be unobtrusive defenses. Her attention sharpened when his whistle caught her ears, and she watched to see what would respond.
((I'm sorry there's not more to go off of than this!
I spent two days trying to think of something more to give you and finally decided it was better to give you not-much than to take forever. But let me know if it's a problem and I'll try again!))
The house he stopped at was a piecemeal house, clearly not planned from the beginning, but she wasn't here to judge human architecture. Pelldea stayed on the far side of the street, and as he unlocked the door, she moved to linger behind him at a distance, trying to find the best angle to get a glimpse of what lay inside. Not that she would necessarily see much from the entrance, which surely would be fit for neighbors and acquaintances to view, but there might at least be be unobtrusive defenses. Her attention sharpened when his whistle caught her ears, and she watched to see what would respond.
((I'm sorry there's not more to go off of than this!
I spent two days trying to think of something more to give you and finally decided it was better to give you not-much than to take forever. But let me know if it's a problem and I'll try again!))
((I do not use post length minimums. Long posts don't always make sense. There are many situations where a longer post would almost certainly be mostly filled with pointless information; this is one of them. You're fine.))
Nothing was responding to the whistle, curiously, at least nothing that would be visible. The entrance to the house looked plain enough -- what little of it could be seen, much the same. Cluttered and... typical. The man pulled something from his pocket. Some sort of pendant -- or rather, something on a string, carved of bone. He waved it, swung it merrily from his finger like a pendulum -- listening for some response. No doubt of whatever he'd whistled for. He chuckled to himself -- turned to close the front door -- and frowned deeply, seeing what looked to be a sellsword standing practically upon his porch.
"Can I... help you?" He seemed confused, but soon that broad smile would return. Lines by his eyes crinkling. It did seem genuine, but then, if it was genuine why smile at everyone like this -- even perfect strangers? "Didn't I see you at the market?"
There was no clear evidence of any magical defenses or mundane traps at his door -- but there were a few locks...
Nothing was responding to the whistle, curiously, at least nothing that would be visible. The entrance to the house looked plain enough -- what little of it could be seen, much the same. Cluttered and... typical. The man pulled something from his pocket. Some sort of pendant -- or rather, something on a string, carved of bone. He waved it, swung it merrily from his finger like a pendulum -- listening for some response. No doubt of whatever he'd whistled for. He chuckled to himself -- turned to close the front door -- and frowned deeply, seeing what looked to be a sellsword standing practically upon his porch.
"Can I... help you?" He seemed confused, but soon that broad smile would return. Lines by his eyes crinkling. It did seem genuine, but then, if it was genuine why smile at everyone like this -- even perfect strangers? "Didn't I see you at the market?"
There was no clear evidence of any magical defenses or mundane traps at his door -- but there were a few locks...
For all her keen attention, Pelldea could see nothing responding to the man's whistle. She saw no defenses of his house but the locks. Her gaze was caught by the pendant he pulled out of his pocket, and her eyes narrowed as she tried to catch the details on it. What he might be doing with it, Pelldea had no idea; if it was magical, it was a spell she didn't recognize. She was distracted by that, still trying to make out the pendant, when he turned, and she took an unthinking step back as he did so, right hand dropping to the sword at her side.
She'd known it was possible she'd be caught following him, but she'd only briefly considered what to say if she was--oh, she was going this way, or she thought she'd known him from somewhere--and for a moment she faltered. "Ah," she began, paused, and then straightened, pulling her hand away from her sword and giving the first lie that came to her mind. Pelldea's vows did not stop her from lying; the Lady was a mistress of secrets as well as clarity. The only thing that had ever stopped her was that she simply was not very good at it.
"I saw you at the magic-merchant's stall, and thought perhaps you were, or you knew, a man I was looking for. I have a message for a- a wizard, a human wizard, in Entomill. From Solasine." She named the last place she'd found a true necromancer, a woman who had brought her own lair down atop herself when she found she'd been discovered, before Pelldea could drag any knowledge from her. "The description I was given dwelled overmuch on his being human, not upon his face. Are you, or do you know, pray tell, a wizard?"
She'd known it was possible she'd be caught following him, but she'd only briefly considered what to say if she was--oh, she was going this way, or she thought she'd known him from somewhere--and for a moment she faltered. "Ah," she began, paused, and then straightened, pulling her hand away from her sword and giving the first lie that came to her mind. Pelldea's vows did not stop her from lying; the Lady was a mistress of secrets as well as clarity. The only thing that had ever stopped her was that she simply was not very good at it.
"I saw you at the magic-merchant's stall, and thought perhaps you were, or you knew, a man I was looking for. I have a message for a- a wizard, a human wizard, in Entomill. From Solasine." She named the last place she'd found a true necromancer, a woman who had brought her own lair down atop herself when she found she'd been discovered, before Pelldea could drag any knowledge from her. "The description I was given dwelled overmuch on his being human, not upon his face. Are you, or do you know, pray tell, a wizard?"
The man's smile faltered in that same moment Pelldea's defenses and ability to anticipate faltered -- that moment her hand went towards her sword. Though a moment later it had all clearly been some sort of mistake -- and the smile returned. He was already beginning to shake his head, as she spoke and stumbled over his words. A thousand possibilities came easy. One could almost see a wistful sort of denial, a little wave goodbye coming, hear the tone of his voice before he said anything, the way he looked at her with an expression of regretful ignorance and a slight smile, his shoulders already hunching.
And then she said Solasine and something clicked. Something in his pale grey eyes sharpened and fixed more fully upon her.
He did not want to let this sellsword-messenger get away. And moments ago he had been eager to brush her aside, though as friendly as possible. Hard to justify the expression, the head-shaking. But he was quick to do so.
"Oh, my dear, I'm afraid I'm not a wizard... If I were I'd use some magic to buttress up this old shack. But --" Quick now to keep her from leaving, even stepping forward and out his door a little. He didn't pocket the amulet again, it was dangling from a wrist a little absently. "I see you are a stranger here. If you like, you could leave your message with me. I know everyone here -- well, everyone in this quarter of the city. Your wizard's bound to be among them. I'm sure I could get your message to them, if you like -- even let you know once it's been received by the right person."
"But then --" He seemed to consider, thick eyebrows drawing close together in thought for a moment. "I suppose maybe whoever sent you might not want every Tom, Dick and Harry to have a message for some... important wizarding type. If you like, you could write your message down, if it isn't already, and I could still make sure it found its intended recipient. I have writing supplies inside," he suggested amiably -- "And wax to seal it with."
He might have suggested -- or asked -- if she'd inquired with the merchant he'd been speaking to. That might have been a logical step.
But the man wanted to know what her message was -- and he didn't feel much like sharing that information.
A closer approach would show her the pendant. It looked to be carved out of a thick and flat-ish portion of bone -- possibly a shoulderblade or a pelvis -- its shape was abstract, but there was some form of rune upon it in what looked like terra-cotta paint. A very old language.
((No idea if she should be able to recognize/read the rune; possibly roll for it?))
And then she said Solasine and something clicked. Something in his pale grey eyes sharpened and fixed more fully upon her.
He did not want to let this sellsword-messenger get away. And moments ago he had been eager to brush her aside, though as friendly as possible. Hard to justify the expression, the head-shaking. But he was quick to do so.
"Oh, my dear, I'm afraid I'm not a wizard... If I were I'd use some magic to buttress up this old shack. But --" Quick now to keep her from leaving, even stepping forward and out his door a little. He didn't pocket the amulet again, it was dangling from a wrist a little absently. "I see you are a stranger here. If you like, you could leave your message with me. I know everyone here -- well, everyone in this quarter of the city. Your wizard's bound to be among them. I'm sure I could get your message to them, if you like -- even let you know once it's been received by the right person."
"But then --" He seemed to consider, thick eyebrows drawing close together in thought for a moment. "I suppose maybe whoever sent you might not want every Tom, Dick and Harry to have a message for some... important wizarding type. If you like, you could write your message down, if it isn't already, and I could still make sure it found its intended recipient. I have writing supplies inside," he suggested amiably -- "And wax to seal it with."
He might have suggested -- or asked -- if she'd inquired with the merchant he'd been speaking to. That might have been a logical step.
But the man wanted to know what her message was -- and he didn't feel much like sharing that information.
A closer approach would show her the pendant. It looked to be carved out of a thick and flat-ish portion of bone -- possibly a shoulderblade or a pelvis -- its shape was abstract, but there was some form of rune upon it in what looked like terra-cotta paint. A very old language.
((No idea if she should be able to recognize/read the rune; possibly roll for it?))
Though the deception had been hasty and improvised, Pelldea was pleased to see that it hadn't gone entirely amiss. She noted the moment when his eyes went sharp, and she knew she'd hooked upon something. Her eagerness matched his, and it took some effort to keep her expression calm, to conceal the way that her heart sped up when he began to show interest. His offer would have been a questionable one if she'd really been what she'd claimed she was, since she, too, knew that enquiring with the magic vendor would have been more sensible than following a single man.
But if she guessed his friendly helpfulness was a lie, well, she knew that her own tale was, and that wasn't the important part. The important part was that he was inviting her into his lair--his house, she reminded herself, though the certainty she'd felt upon recognizing him from her dream overwhelmed the sense of caution that might have otherwise kept her from assuming malice.
"That would be most gracious of you," Pelldea said, stepping forward and smiling gratefully at him. The relief in her expression wasn't feigned, for at last she had hold of a thread of this net again. "In truth, I had not known there would be so many of your folk here, to make this a more difficult task. I will pay you for your trouble, of course." She approached his door, willing to take on any risks of being lured inside if it would get her closer to her prey. She glanced down at the pendant in his hand as she drew closer, wondering if a close look might aid her to recognize the runes upon it.
((Sorry for the delay, RL reared its ugly head unexpectedly. I am gonna roll for it, and you can decide if you think the roll's high enough! She knows several of the common sigils of the network she's fighting, and she's seen some stuff she'd recognize again but might not actually understand in the lairs and effects of necromancers.))
But if she guessed his friendly helpfulness was a lie, well, she knew that her own tale was, and that wasn't the important part. The important part was that he was inviting her into his lair--his house, she reminded herself, though the certainty she'd felt upon recognizing him from her dream overwhelmed the sense of caution that might have otherwise kept her from assuming malice.
"That would be most gracious of you," Pelldea said, stepping forward and smiling gratefully at him. The relief in her expression wasn't feigned, for at last she had hold of a thread of this net again. "In truth, I had not known there would be so many of your folk here, to make this a more difficult task. I will pay you for your trouble, of course." She approached his door, willing to take on any risks of being lured inside if it would get her closer to her prey. She glanced down at the pendant in his hand as she drew closer, wondering if a close look might aid her to recognize the runes upon it.
((Sorry for the delay, RL reared its ugly head unexpectedly. I am gonna roll for it, and you can decide if you think the roll's high enough! She knows several of the common sigils of the network she's fighting, and she's seen some stuff she'd recognize again but might not actually understand in the lairs and effects of necromancers.))
rolled 1d20 and got 9
There was the entirely uncomfortable possibility that both here were regarding eachother as prey simultaneously -- he looked cordial and friendly enough, but if that were a ruse, as seemed increasingly likely... who knew his intentions.
The amulet. It was not a symbol of necromancy, or if it was, not one she recognized. It was, however, something the paladin might well have spotted once in the lair of some necromancer... perhaps amid some text or collection, a full writing of runes.
He invited her inside. The place was... cozy. Friendly, just as the apron-clad man appeared to be. Filled with bits and bobs, potted plants and carved animals, bits of embroidery hung up on the walls. Books, here and there, as well. Just small ones, cheap things -- guides to the city, recipe books, common texts.
"Yes... well, there has been a human quarter in Entomill for some time, but it's not ... one of the main attractions, and I suppose not common knowledge." Waving her in, and through to a room with little more in it but a bookshelf, table and chairs. Fetching things from the shelf. Ink, paper, a quill -- he'd set them before her.
"I can take it down, if you'd like, but I don't know how much privacy you might require." (Or whether she could read and write. Though with elves, literacy was usually a good bet.)
There was a subtle sound beneath them. It was hard to make out. Muffled. It was a voice, just brief, and quiet. ((I rolled for that ahead. Many derps occurred in my brain.))
The amulet. It was not a symbol of necromancy, or if it was, not one she recognized. It was, however, something the paladin might well have spotted once in the lair of some necromancer... perhaps amid some text or collection, a full writing of runes.
He invited her inside. The place was... cozy. Friendly, just as the apron-clad man appeared to be. Filled with bits and bobs, potted plants and carved animals, bits of embroidery hung up on the walls. Books, here and there, as well. Just small ones, cheap things -- guides to the city, recipe books, common texts.
"Yes... well, there has been a human quarter in Entomill for some time, but it's not ... one of the main attractions, and I suppose not common knowledge." Waving her in, and through to a room with little more in it but a bookshelf, table and chairs. Fetching things from the shelf. Ink, paper, a quill -- he'd set them before her.
"I can take it down, if you'd like, but I don't know how much privacy you might require." (Or whether she could read and write. Though with elves, literacy was usually a good bet.)
There was a subtle sound beneath them. It was hard to make out. Muffled. It was a voice, just brief, and quiet. ((I rolled for that ahead. Many derps occurred in my brain.))
((Actually... if it's OK it's more efficient to roll real quick here and then add to reflect what was heard? Gonna edit it into the post now.))
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 13. After the modifier of +1, got 14
For pointy ears
There was something vaguely familiar about the runes inscribed on the pendant, as if Pelldea had seen them once, someplace else, but it was not a familiarity that she could place for certain. Despite the bone it was carved upon, she didn't recognize it as a necromantic sigil. Which didn't make it innocent, merely unknown in purpose.
After six days of reflection on the road, Pelldea trusted the dream, perhaps more than she should given all she'd been taught about the uncertainties of the Lady's messages--but then, it had been a very notable dream. So she didn't doubt that she was being led into a potential trap as she entered his house. But her very certainty, still, made her less cautious. She didn't feel she had to worry that he was innocent, and so she could be fully on guard around him, and strike out in response to any questionable action without having to give him the benefit of the doubt. (The city guard might objecti, but Pelldea didn't consider that so serious a concern as perhaps she should.)
She scanned the interior as she entered, noting the plants and books and bric-a-brac. There was yet again no evidence that this man was anything but what he seemed, but if he was clever, then there wouldn't be. Her eyes sharpened as they entered the second room, clearly a study of some kind. She hesitated at the man's offer, not sure what the best course would be; her paltry skill at lying wasn't enough to produce a message out of thin air.
In the pause before her response, she heard the sound below. Faint, and muffled--it was a voice, but she couldn't make out the words. Stepping forward, Pelldea seized the quill. "I shall write it down for you to pass on. A moment of quiet? I should write it in Common, of course, and I have to think on that." It was a thin excuse, but she wanted silence if she could get it, to see if she could catch that voice again. She bent over the table, instead of sitting; it was still a vulnerable position, but less so than sitting with her back to this man, and she could straighten more quickly and go for her sword. Though she held the pen over the paper, she didn't make a mark on it, instead straining her ears for another thread of sound.
After six days of reflection on the road, Pelldea trusted the dream, perhaps more than she should given all she'd been taught about the uncertainties of the Lady's messages--but then, it had been a very notable dream. So she didn't doubt that she was being led into a potential trap as she entered his house. But her very certainty, still, made her less cautious. She didn't feel she had to worry that he was innocent, and so she could be fully on guard around him, and strike out in response to any questionable action without having to give him the benefit of the doubt. (The city guard might objecti, but Pelldea didn't consider that so serious a concern as perhaps she should.)
She scanned the interior as she entered, noting the plants and books and bric-a-brac. There was yet again no evidence that this man was anything but what he seemed, but if he was clever, then there wouldn't be. Her eyes sharpened as they entered the second room, clearly a study of some kind. She hesitated at the man's offer, not sure what the best course would be; her paltry skill at lying wasn't enough to produce a message out of thin air.
In the pause before her response, she heard the sound below. Faint, and muffled--it was a voice, but she couldn't make out the words. Stepping forward, Pelldea seized the quill. "I shall write it down for you to pass on. A moment of quiet? I should write it in Common, of course, and I have to think on that." It was a thin excuse, but she wanted silence if she could get it, to see if she could catch that voice again. She bent over the table, instead of sitting; it was still a vulnerable position, but less so than sitting with her back to this man, and she could straighten more quickly and go for her sword. Though she held the pen over the paper, she didn't make a mark on it, instead straining her ears for another thread of sound.
The man had a certain sort of patience. "Of course, of course." He'd lean against one of the shelves in this little room, not quite watching... but waiting. Waiting for her to write. She wasn't the only one aware of the muffled sound -- he relished to listen for it, but wouldn't aknowledge it was there, didn't give excuse or mention it at all.
It was a noise muffled by too much -- too much dirt and floor between cellar and where the man and Pelldea sat. If there were words they were indistinguishable still. Only a distant sound, a pleading tone. And growing more distant. It wasn't directly underneath. Somewhere diagonal -- growing further.
The straw-haired man kept fiddling with the little pendant. Toying with it, fingering it, swinging it to and fro. As if he was in on some private joke. But as the elf paused so long in writing that one amusement overwhelmed the second definite interest... and the man considered. "Here. I'll let you think..." Leaving the room. Crossing the breadth of the house with the little bone trinket in hand, chuckling softly -- for he, too, could hear the muffled sound. The sound fleeing beneath him as he moved, away from where he tread -- over to the other end of the house again. Directly under Pelldea.
There was a sound like something trying to dig beneath her. Not scrabbling paws or hands scratching away. A desperate and uncoordinated shuffling of dirt.
It was a noise muffled by too much -- too much dirt and floor between cellar and where the man and Pelldea sat. If there were words they were indistinguishable still. Only a distant sound, a pleading tone. And growing more distant. It wasn't directly underneath. Somewhere diagonal -- growing further.
The straw-haired man kept fiddling with the little pendant. Toying with it, fingering it, swinging it to and fro. As if he was in on some private joke. But as the elf paused so long in writing that one amusement overwhelmed the second definite interest... and the man considered. "Here. I'll let you think..." Leaving the room. Crossing the breadth of the house with the little bone trinket in hand, chuckling softly -- for he, too, could hear the muffled sound. The sound fleeing beneath him as he moved, away from where he tread -- over to the other end of the house again. Directly under Pelldea.
There was a sound like something trying to dig beneath her. Not scrabbling paws or hands scratching away. A desperate and uncoordinated shuffling of dirt.
rolled 1d20 and got a natural 11. After the modifier of +2, got 13
Pointy ears + rapt attention
The sound was a distant one, seeming almost to fade as it moved in another direction, and Pelldea couldn't swear that it was even a voice. But to her relief, before her failure to write stretched on too long, the man moved away from the room, leaving her free to strain her ears further. And now, as he walked away, the sound grew closer again--that sound, that she fancied sounded unhappy, perhaps animalistic, and then another.
Images from her dream were recalled behind her eyes: a figure in unnatural armor, a monstrous creature only barely like a bear, desiccated bodies held together with sinew and filthy magic; creatures that might scent living flesh and claw to reach it. Her thoughts were all of challenges to be met, unholy beings to strike down, and she thought only briefly of the ragged boy. There had been enough monstrosity in that vision to set her darkest imaginations at play.
This was enough of the ruse. She wouldn't hear whatever was below more clearly than she already did, that was certain; her strained deception held no more purpose for her. Pelldea set the pen aside, straightened, and turned, moving to the doorway of the small study. One hand on the hilt of her sword, she called out to the man, her voice hard. "There's someone beneath us. Or something. Where is your cellar, and what do you keep in it?"
If he felt like extending his own false narrative, he was welcome to read her reaction as a seasoned fighter's wariness. She'd let him keep weaving a trap if he wanted to, and felt confident in her readiness when it sprung. But she was filled with enough certainty to be ready for a fight now, if she'd drawn it.
Images from her dream were recalled behind her eyes: a figure in unnatural armor, a monstrous creature only barely like a bear, desiccated bodies held together with sinew and filthy magic; creatures that might scent living flesh and claw to reach it. Her thoughts were all of challenges to be met, unholy beings to strike down, and she thought only briefly of the ragged boy. There had been enough monstrosity in that vision to set her darkest imaginations at play.
This was enough of the ruse. She wouldn't hear whatever was below more clearly than she already did, that was certain; her strained deception held no more purpose for her. Pelldea set the pen aside, straightened, and turned, moving to the doorway of the small study. One hand on the hilt of her sword, she called out to the man, her voice hard. "There's someone beneath us. Or something. Where is your cellar, and what do you keep in it?"
If he felt like extending his own false narrative, he was welcome to read her reaction as a seasoned fighter's wariness. She'd let him keep weaving a trap if he wanted to, and felt confident in her readiness when it sprung. But she was filled with enough certainty to be ready for a fight now, if she'd drawn it.
Could the ruse sustain for any longer? It was wearing thin on both ends. He could not conceal the noise, as soft and muffled as it was, if he could hear it, she could hear it. And she hadn't written a thing. Not a single word. The man was beginning to suspect she'd not write at all -- but had left to give her the opportunity to do so, if she didn't wish him to see. There need not, after all, be bloodshed... if she could write down her message, he could simply read it once the elf had left, and none the wiser. But if she would not... well.
He spoke from the other room. "Kind of funny question. I haven't got a cellar... maybe some mice under the floor boards?" An outright denial of having a cellar at all was different -- very different from saying there was no noise... he was a skilled liar, knew how to put people in a damned awkward position. How could she prove it, after all? It made the accusation absurd.
He turned to her, drew nearer. A little more suspicion. Saw the hand on the hilt of her sword -- and the paper bereft of words. His smile turned upwards. The man moved to one of his shelves, grasped up a bauble -- a hollow ball of glass -- and taking it thoughtfully into his hand smashed it upon the ground.
There was a feeling like wind -- but -- nothing? Was there nothing? No -- there was silence. Not within. But without. Sound kept within the bounds of the small house. A soundproof, if temporary, barrier erected -- so no one on the street would hear. And without a further word he would point -- a gleam to those grey eyes -- directly towards the elf. This time the blast of magic was more palpable -- for he meant to hold her there. To paralyze. The moment he'd seen the hand on her hilt and the page yet empty, he, too, had run out of patience.
"Now what is your purpose here! I believe you've been lying to me!"
((Roll to resist, I suppose?
))
He spoke from the other room. "Kind of funny question. I haven't got a cellar... maybe some mice under the floor boards?" An outright denial of having a cellar at all was different -- very different from saying there was no noise... he was a skilled liar, knew how to put people in a damned awkward position. How could she prove it, after all? It made the accusation absurd.
He turned to her, drew nearer. A little more suspicion. Saw the hand on the hilt of her sword -- and the paper bereft of words. His smile turned upwards. The man moved to one of his shelves, grasped up a bauble -- a hollow ball of glass -- and taking it thoughtfully into his hand smashed it upon the ground.
There was a feeling like wind -- but -- nothing? Was there nothing? No -- there was silence. Not within. But without. Sound kept within the bounds of the small house. A soundproof, if temporary, barrier erected -- so no one on the street would hear. And without a further word he would point -- a gleam to those grey eyes -- directly towards the elf. This time the blast of magic was more palpable -- for he meant to hold her there. To paralyze. The moment he'd seen the hand on her hilt and the page yet empty, he, too, had run out of patience.
"Now what is your purpose here! I believe you've been lying to me!"
((Roll to resist, I suppose?
))
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