~*~

Raivaryn Roleplays - 18+

[muthologician]

A Chance Encounter

For once, Lockwood slept without dreaming. For so long now, his nights had been troubled, if just shy of being fitful as his unwaking mind was dogged by reminders of a war he had done his damndest to forget. There were some faces he would rather he never saw again, and some voices he preferred to remain forever silent– And for tonight, at least, these unwelcome memories were content to remain dormant.

A gentle blessing, the mercenary thought, and likely the only one he’d receive for some time.

Waking in dim tent without so much as a start, the Dog briefly wondered just how long he’d been out; the paltry glow of the fire still danced across the tent’s walls, though the warmth it offered against the bitter cold was found rather wanting. It was all the encouragment the sellsword needed to rouse himself and dress, the rattle of buckles cinched and armor donned likely all the notice his companion would require.

Pushing through the tent at a stoop, Lockwood paused at the mouth to stifle a yawn before moving to wordlessly take his place near the fire.

[rairoleplays]

After a few hours spent at the fireside in the quiet night, Thel had taken to pacing through her thoughts. It’s only when she begun to hear Jerrad stir that she came to a stop, standing between the fire and the horses as he emerged. She paid him a soft grunt of acknowledgement and moved towards the tent to complete their trade-off.

Rustling herself out of armor and leather bracings, Thelinia groaned irritably. The Golden Dove had spoiled her sense of comfort, turning armor into the burden it was as a novice. While the leathers were well broken into, there would be no sleeping in it that night. Even the suede binding left beneath was an irksome thing to constrict where she had been free before.

With the most cumbersome attire removed, the ranger settled herself into her bedroll, watching the faint glow of the fire through the canvas as she relaxed into sleep.

[muthologician]

Holding watch came as naturally as it ever had to Lockwood; settling into the rhythm of warming his hands near the fire, rising, tending to the horses, pacing out the camp’s perimeter where the edge of the firelight turned to inky darkness– It was second nature. Even the sharp chill in the air was familiar, burning his lungs with every breath. Holding watch was easy. A simple pleasure, in a profession that held precious few to begin with.

In due time, the sellsword found the need to pitch more wood on to the dimming fire. With a low grunt, Lockwood pushed himself to his feet and padded across the campsite to the pile of wood the two of them had hastily collected, stooping to inspect them for vermin before selecting a suitable log. As he did, his eye lingered on the tent where his companion had retired to, thoughts briefly returning to the time they’d spent together in Nimpeth.

Like a dream, he thought, frowning as his recollections turned back to his outbursts in town and the Dove. It wasn’t like him. Certainly, Raine knew that. Moreover, it was something else.

Weakness.

Anger churned the mercenary’s stomach as he turned from the woodpile and the tent, returning to the fire. Before he could excoriate himself further, however, Lockwood felt his body lurch to a halt, log still held loosely under his arm. Distantly, he felt an awareness of an electricity in his weary muscles. Increasingly wary, he tilted his head to one side then the other, listening with unwavering intent for something– Anything.

Then, distantly, he heard it. A snippet of speech, garbled and black like the speaker was half-choked with tar, or something equally vile. Even with the wind having picked up to an intermittent howl as it rushed through the trees, Lockwood recognized the tongue, though it was too distant to make anything out clearly.

“Goblins,” the sellsword grunted into the tent flap, scarcely a moment after the realization had hit him. Already, his knuckles were wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword. He muttered again, still listening to the woods around them for good measure, “Close.”

[rairoleplays]

An unwelcomed sound roused the ranger from her near-sleep, the beginnings of a dream dissipated by her companion’s voice. In begrudging habit, she reached for her weapons even before lifting her head.

She donned her leather vest and peeked out the gap of the tent flap. Quiet and still, she waited.

[muthologician]

Already taking his own cue to crouch low behind the brush near the tent, the Dog was silently thankful for the fire having burned itself low. Snuffing it would have been troublesome, and he didn’t fancy the idea of having to rekindle it from scratch.

As the two listened for further intrusion, the wind vacillated between fierce, whipping gusts and brief pauses of utter stillness. Then, before doubt could find it’s way into either of their hearts, the sound of faint chattering managed to carry itself to their ears. Only a sentence here and there, barely audible even when the air was still, but unmistakably inhuman.

Lockwood glanced off to where the kobolds still slept, relieved to see no signs of movement.

Over the next few minutes, the goblin voices alternate in intensity between distantly audible and dead silence. Wherever they were, it wasn’t close enough for them to have yet caught sight of the fire. After what might have seemed an age too long, the voices begin to recede, tracking across the treeline into the deeper woodlands beyond the road.

Subtly, Jerrad’s shoulders eased their tension, and he turned back to glance the tent without peering inside.

“Can’t hear anythin’.” He gruffed, as if to confirm with her.

[rairoleplays]

Thelinia grunted, but held her position inside the tent. Only after several minutes of waiting out the quiet does she relax, alongside the Dog who had raised the alarm in the first place. 

The hastily applied vest is eager removed, and everything is returned to where it was beforehand-- the ranger included. 

[muthologician]

A Chance Encounter

For once, Lockwood slept without dreaming. For so long now, his nights had been troubled, if just shy of being fitful as his unwaking mind was dogged by reminders of a war he had done his damndest to forget. There were some faces he would rather he never saw again, and some voices he preferred to remain forever silent– And for tonight, at least, these unwelcome memories were content to remain dormant.

A gentle blessing, the mercenary thought, and likely the only one he’d receive for some time.

Waking in dim tent without so much as a start, the Dog briefly wondered just how long he’d been out; the paltry glow of the fire still danced across the tent’s walls, though the warmth it offered against the bitter cold was found rather wanting. It was all the encouragment the sellsword needed to rouse himself and dress, the rattle of buckles cinched and armor donned likely all the notice his companion would require.

Pushing through the tent at a stoop, Lockwood paused at the mouth to stifle a yawn before moving to wordlessly take his place near the fire.

[rairoleplays]

After a few hours spent at the fireside in the quiet night, Thel had taken to pacing through her thoughts. It’s only when she begun to hear Jerrad stir that she came to a stop, standing between the fire and the horses as he emerged. She paid him a soft grunt of acknowledgement and moved towards the tent to complete their trade-off.

Rustling herself out of armor and leather bracings, Thelinia groaned irritably. The Golden Dove had spoiled her sense of comfort, turning armor into the burden it was as a novice. While the leathers were well broken into, there would be no sleeping in it that night. Even the suede binding left beneath was an irksome thing to constrict where she had been free before.

With the most cumbersome attire removed, the ranger settled herself into her bedroll, watching the faint glow of the fire through the canvas as she relaxed into sleep.

[muthologician]

Holding watch came as naturally as it ever had to Lockwood; settling into the rhythm of warming his hands near the fire, rising, tending to the horses, pacing out the camp’s perimeter where the edge of the firelight turned to inky darkness– It was second nature. Even the sharp chill in the air was familiar, burning his lungs with every breath. Holding watch was easy. A simple pleasure, in a profession that held precious few to begin with.

In due time, the sellsword found the need to pitch more wood on to the dimming fire. With a low grunt, Lockwood pushed himself to his feet and padded across the campsite to the pile of wood the two of them had hastily collected, stooping to inspect them for vermin before selecting a suitable log. As he did, his eye lingered on the tent where his companion had retired to, thoughts briefly returning to the time they’d spent together in Nimpeth.

Like a dream, he thought, frowning as his recollections turned back to his outbursts in town and the Dove. It wasn’t like him. Certainly, Raine knew that. Moreover, it was something else.

Weakness.

Anger churned the mercenary’s stomach as he turned from the woodpile and the tent, returning to the fire. Before he could excoriate himself further, however, Lockwood felt his body lurch to a halt, log still held loosely under his arm. Distantly, he felt an awareness of an electricity in his weary muscles. Increasingly wary, he tilted his head to one side then the other, listening with unwavering intent for something– Anything.

Then, distantly, he heard it. A snippet of speech, garbled and black like the speaker was half-choked with tar, or something equally vile. Even with the wind having picked up to an intermittent howl as it rushed through the trees, Lockwood recognized the tongue, though it was too distant to make anything out clearly.

“Goblins,” the sellsword grunted into the tent flap, scarcely a moment after the realization had hit him. Already, his knuckles were wrapped tight around the hilt of his sword. He muttered again, still listening to the woods around them for good measure, “Close.”

[rairoleplays]

An unwelcomed sound roused the ranger from her near-sleep, the beginnings of a dream dissipated by her companion’s voice. In begrudging habit, she reached for her weapons even before lifting her head.

She donned her leather vest and peeked out the gap of the tent flap. Quiet and still, she waited.

[muthologician]

A Chance Encounter

For once, Lockwood slept without dreaming. For so long now, his nights had been troubled, if just shy of being fitful as his unwaking mind was dogged by reminders of a war he had done his damndest to forget. There were some faces he would rather he never saw again, and some voices he preferred to remain forever silent– And for tonight, at least, these unwelcome memories were content to remain dormant.

A gentle blessing, the mercenary thought, and likely the only one he’d receive for some time.

Waking in dim tent without so much as a start, the Dog briefly wondered just how long he’d been out; the paltry glow of the fire still danced across the tent’s walls, though the warmth it offered against the bitter cold was found rather wanting. It was all the encouragment the sellsword needed to rouse himself and dress, the rattle of buckles cinched and armor donned likely all the notice his companion would require.

Pushing through the tent at a stoop, Lockwood paused at the mouth to stifle a yawn before moving to wordlessly take his place near the fire.

[rairoleplays]

After a few hours spent at the fireside in the quiet night, Thel had taken to pacing through her thoughts. It's only when she begun to hear Jerrad stir that she came to a stop, standing between the fire and the horses as he emerged. She paid him a soft grunt of acknowledgement and moved towards the tent to complete their trade-off.

Rustling herself out of armor and leather bracings, Thelinia groaned irritably. The Golden Dove had spoiled her sense of comfort, turning armor into the burden it was as a novice. While the leathers were well broken into, there would be no sleeping in it that night. Even the suede binding left beneath was an irksome thing to constrict where she had been free before.

With the most cumbersome attire removed, the ranger settled herself into her bedroll, watching the faint glow of the fire through the canvas as she relaxed into sleep.

[rairoleplays]

Wine and War - prt 4(?)

[part 3 link(?)]

It isn’t too long of a walk before the settlement becomes clear, its walls concealing a city already audible beyond them. [Perception DC 17] The ranger seems to hesitate as they close in, stopping quietly in her tracks as recognition finds her. A glance around their surroundings affirms the reviving memory, and it seems that perhaps for a moment, her breath is stalled. Uncertainty dampens her excitement, “Nimpeth,” as she names the city, and looks to her companion for sign of his opinion. [Knowledge Local/Geography DC 12] – Thelinia stands a little tense, though it could be seen as defying her own exhaustion. It was surreal still, to see familiar sights after so long, yet the gravity of her relief wavers in the face of her memories. [Perception DC 16] Stopping just short of his companion, Lockwood indulges in his own quiet observation of the city sprawling before them. He’d never heard the name, but judging from Thelinia’s hushed utterance, it couldn’t be too terrible of a place to end up. Certainly better than the Thaymount. The very thought made him want to shudder. Catching the unbidden question in her look, Jerrad let his shoulders do most of the talking, a small shrug speaking of his unfamiliarity with the name. “They got good drink here?” +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia blinks at the Dog, eyes widened in surprise. Unsure which factor was more shocking in his apparent ignorance, she addressed the one most relevant to his concerns. "Th'best wine in all of Chondath. Th'Realms!" She returns her gaze to the city, beginning to trek onward. The Boar considered sharing more of Nimpeth's reputation, but recalled that her absence from this place could have rendered those memories irrelevant. How many years had it been? She had hardly been beyond girlhood, and tried not to out stay her welcome. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood, on the other hand, had scarcely glanced the name on a map before. Were they north of the Sea of Fallen Stars, or south? He really couldn't say, but there was a niggling suspicion at the back of his head that told him he should have. Starting in the ranger's footsteps, Jerrad disposed of his worries for the time being; if his constant flitting  between planes had taken a toll on his memories, there was nothing to be done for it. Not now, at least. Passing Raine a questioning look as they walked, the mercenary gave a gruff hum. "I'll let'y'know if I agree, heh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The ranger gave a retorting scoff, assured that he'd soon find out for himself. That, and she'd need what remained of her stamina to make it to the gate. Nimpeth greets them with an elaborately decorated archway, flanked by four guards at its gate. Flowers of dark red and bright crimson dance through the gate's ornate iron, accented by yellow and white blossoms. The motif continues in the rose vines that trail around the wall amd twist around the arch in a grand display of druidic enchantment that borders on gaudy.

Thel does not recognize this expression of the city, and her heart sinks with worry that this was somehow not their home plane after all.

The guards, rather than eye them with dutiful suspicion, greet them with smiles and welcoming nods. One man even offers a saluting wave, "Long journey, eh?" Another guard, leaning a bit too much on her halberd, clears her throat and makes an effort to right herself, delivering another nod with an exhausted smile. "Blessin's, travelers."

Standing near the lot of them, both Dog and Boar would detect the strong smell of cider off their breath. The most sober seeming of the guards, a greyed man with sharp features, steps forward to address the two proper.

"Blessings and welcome to our city of Nimpeth!" The boisterous greeting accompanied by a flourish of rising arms and flicked wrists, "Here we thought we'd be forgoing the merriments in vain, held fast to our posts like Helmites in rusted plate!" The man projects as an overzealous actor, begging the question of his sobriety after all. "Hailin' from south of the Winterwood? Kagarr?"

"Yeh walked a long while," unnecesarily adds the fourth guard, a tall woman mumbling as she eyes them curiously.

The Boar spends a moment to take in the encounter, before realizing she'll need to provide a suitable answer. Drunk or not, these guards were the last thing standing between them and a restful stay at the nearest inn. "Aye, th'Winterwood. Huntin' and empty-handed," she lies, trusting their road-weary state would be convincing enough. [18 > DC 11] The guard's wide smile softens at the corners, a glint of genuine sympathy in his grey eyes. "Ah, worry not, dear woodsmen. The gods are smiling today and have provided us a bounty." For the first time, he pays them some scrutiny as he steps nearer with practiced words, "We request your names and business in Nimpeth." Thelinia hesitates again, this time in full earnest. Certainly, any trace of her past thievery would've been forgotten. Had it really been so long ago? The walls did seem shorter than she remembered.. Exhaustion brought her response before she could think twice, "Thelinia Raine." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Lockwood." The larger of the two replied with a curt kind of fatigue. His gaze drifted between the collection of unfamiliar faces, discerning whether these guards were negligent, drunk, or both. Only one of those thoughts were comforting. "An' we're 'ere t'get sloshed." With Raine having spoken for their lie, Jerrad was left to account for the truth. They'd come a long way for a drink; just how far, their welcomers didn't need to know. Tipping a muddied chin up at the aging guardsman, Lockwood pressed his teeth together thoughtfully, "'Spect y'got somewhere decent t'get pissed?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The two women snicker at his response as the man before them heartily chuckles, seeming to have anticipated his answer. Bowing with more show than is ever warranted of a soldier, the guard steps aside as the taller woman lumbers over to the gate and cast it aside. "Alae! The revelry awaits you. Welcome to Nimpeth, Thelinia'Raine and Lockwood." The path now cleared of obstacles, Thelinia already starts forward, allowing a smile of relief to pass as one of thanks. "Lady Firehair's blessings," the man grins with a glint in his eye as Jerrad passes, lowering his voice to add, "I suggest the east ward's Golden Dove. You won't find a finer view of the vineyards, or warmer taeraths." The last comes with a wink. Thelinia misses the exchange, absorbed by her fatigued efforts to continue forward. [Perception 6 < 12] Inside the city walls are immaculate roads of cobblestone and modest buildings of stone. As they approach, they see that flowers of every size, shape, and color decorate the entire city. Sounds of revelry echo through the streets, which become more populated as the duo continue deeper into Nimpeth. Passer-bys greet the two with blessings of Lathander, Chauntea, and Liliira. Regardless of direction, the celebration's noise is inescapable, as are the bustling markets and crowds. The sweet scents of wine and cider perfume the air, along with the enticing smell of fresh breads and hearty roasts. Before long, Dog and Boar arrive at the heart of the festivities. Town square is densely occupied with merchant stands and eager customers, revelers in dance and song, and enough kegs to drown an army. Blossoms of every hue coat nearly every inch of the cobblestone, and music colors the air with gaiety. An excited whisper comes from a group of five, three women and two men dressed in red Cormyrian silk. Their attention falls on the newcomers and they hurriedly approach, smiling with genuine warmth, two of the women carrying wildflowers and roses in their arms. Their collective beauty is stunning to say the least, though the same could be said of the whole group. So alluring are their aesthetics and contagious their excitement, one might assume it could only be the work of enchantment. Sapphires and rubies adorn their sterling jewelry, the holy symbol of Lliira as their motif. Dog and Boar are showered in cocurrent greetings and blessings; "Joybringer's dance be in your heart!", "The Mistress of Revels welcomes you!" In only seconds, flowers cover the two mercenaries from head to shoulders, a wreath of burgandy roses even placed on the Boar's disheveled head. Without evasive maneuvers, they would find their cheeks kissed before they could return a single word of greeting. A remaining instinct held Thelinia's attention to her personal belongings as the beautiful woman came with her shows of affection, only to pull away with a simple smile and no stolen goods-- as far as the weary ranger could tell. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Niraya had been a far cry from the hustle and bustle of Faerunian ports, even excepting the relative desolation of the plane as a whole. Thinking back, Jerrad could scarcely remember a single settlement in the entirety of his travels that could have rivaled the swirl of frenetic merriment with which the two of them were now met. Certainly not any he'd visited, at any rate. It was difficult not to get caught up in the frenzy of it all even before they'd made their way into the heart of the celebration, if only for the sake of his growing thirst (and a not insignificant want for roasted duck). With as foreign as the scents and sounds of careless revel were to him, Lockwood was far and away too distracted by his own bewilderment to react to the accosting townsfolk beyond a quiet, 'Huhn.", though a sluggish recoil came to him once his cheek detected the intrustion. Casting a wide-eyed look about the square, the mercenary's gaze drifted from the flower bearers to the food stalls, off to the throngs of caroling revelers, hesitating briefly on the (many) kegs lining the square, before finally resting on the Boar at his side with a distant kind of caution. "Eh--" Lockwood cleared his throat, catching his gaze before it might become discomfiting, "Where's, uh.. Lookin' fer th'Golden Dove." [Sense Motive; 17] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar, similarily befuddled, can only blink at her companion. One of the men, a handsome Chondathan with bright green eyes and curly brown locks, approaches her and lands a kiss to her muddied knuckles before she could recognize her hand was taken. The woman beside him conceals a suspicious giggle at the display, while the other two nudge one another behind them. At Jerrad's inquiry, the revelers chuckled amongst themselves. The black-haired woman at his side scooted nearer to adjust the placement of flowers she'd assigned to his shoulder, and answered him with an assumptive smile, "Th'Golden Dove's down jus'eastuva square, love." She returns her hands to herself, and glances Thelinia as she politely steps back. "If yur prompt, y'may find a room 'fore th'evenin'." The shortest woman, a small blonde who had kept herself in the back, nods as well. "We see a lot of patronage this time of the season, but the festival's in full bloom. You may yet have time before the Sunset Dance." "Aye, though it would be a shame to miss the day," the man before Thel continues, his attention still held to her. [DC 9 < 17] Jerrad could detect that this man, much more than his company, had something he was looking for in this encounter but would not speak it openly. "If you've only just arrived, I insist you be certain to return once your room is securely your's. Nimpeth's Greengrass is truly unique, and my heart would break to hear you had missed it," he implored, dipping his head to Thel. The ranger tenses and nearly scowls before the Chondathan's words freeze her tongue. Greengrass! The stars had told her it was spring, but to have arrived on the day of the Earthmother seemed too uncanny to be true. "Eh.. Thank ya, miss," she gives a nod to the black-haired woman, glad to have anyone else occupy her focus. The Chondathan doesn't appear to take offense, and the woman returns Thel's thanks with a kind smile. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Paying little heed to the woman at his side past an admittedly awkward nod, "Greengrass? 'Ow long were we roughin' it?" He gruffed, passing another questioning look to his companion-- Though it came to linger pointedly on the Chondathan male as decorum demanded his attention refocus on the group. "Y'scuse us, we ought t'get movin' on that room. Lammath drios." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia moves past the man but affords the others a polite farewell as the Lliirans bid them good evening's blessings. The festival would continue around them as they move through bustling crowds and skirt the edges of dancing grounds, being prompted from the merchant stalls and carts with samples of food and drink, and the expectation of purchase. Once established on their route, the rose-crowned Boar glances her companion, and her tone carries something bordering on skepticism. "Never been t'uh Greengrass revel." Should the pair arrive at their destination without distraction [Will: DC 20], the Golden Dove awaits them with bright white and yellow flowers along its adobe wall and gate. The  structure itself dwarfs its humble store front neighbors, seated at the crest of a small hill with its back to the foothills and trees. Though the number of merchant stalls has dwindled, what few circle the cobblestone outside draw a crowd to rival the Square's. So enthusiastic are the customers, that the merchants needn't bribe them with offerings or even hail their attention. Each rosewood stall is lined with beautiful glass bottles, covering the tables, hanging from baskets, and filling wine racks by the hundreds even as they sell by just as many. Floral and sweet, the air is irrevocably delightful-- and perhaps, enchantingly so. [Perception: DC 12] [DC 20 > 11; DC 12 > 2] Thelinia, for all the weight of her fatigue, finds a second wind in the temptation of wine. She wanders her way into the crowd, curious for a closer look at a stall's goods. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a parting nod, Lockwood starts off into the square just far enough to curtail any further attempts at conversation from the welcoming Lliirans, stopping shortly to allow his companion to overtake him. He would draw up alongside her as they walked, weaving their way through the thronging crowds with as much grace as a pair of goblin-maimed adventurers could manage. It was only as they began to near their supposed destination that the mercenary was afforded his first view of Nimpeth in earnest; even with Greengrass helping put the city's best face on for her visitors, it was still a far cry from the streets of Suzail with Moonfest in full swing-- Though of course, as a son of Cormyr, he was perhaps a bit biased. Even so, the familiarity of it all was reassuring enough so as to be disarming, and before fifty strides had passed he found himself being lulled into a sense of contentment, if tinged by a healthy wariness. So distracted was he by the alien nature of it all that Raine's sudden departure nearly eluded the mercenary, a stall peddling some manner of particularly enticing drink being his only saving grace, "'Ey, Thel, y'see- Eh!" A glimpse of vanishing rose and muddied leather slipping into the press of bodies spurred Jerrad to alter his gait, swerving sharply to elbow his way through the crowd with his better arm. [DC: 20 > 19; DC 12 > 4; STR 18] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Jerrad's advance does not go unnoticed, several patrons of the market exclaiming confusion and surprise as they're displaced. One in particular returns the shove, an older man with yellowed eyes and surprising strength. "Ashes, son, mind yerself!" Thelinia, possessing the careful step of the ranger when she wants to, reaches her target stall and is already finishing her transaction by the time Lockwood finds her. The merchant, an old woman, examines the small gemstone Thelinia has paid with, seemingly curious about its authenticity but without much question. With her pack already well stuffed, the Boar takes her purchase up in both arms: A tall, thin bottle of dark burgandy resting in the bend of her elbow, and a short, round yellow bouble-like bottle held in a hand. The third bottle sits between them, the largest and most eye-catching with its silver filigree design and deep green color. Seeming to have anticipated his arrival, Thel glances Jerrad with an uncommon glimmer of excitement in her eyes before returning to the woman and offering her a dip of the head-- careful not to drop her crown. "Great Mother's blessing," she says, answered by an equally cordial and reassuring "Durgos." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Pushing through the crowd with as much care as a boulder might exhibit for a swath of wheat, Lockwood accepts a shove from somewhere within the group with a dull grunt, but otherwise retains his focus on locating the wayward Boar. On his emergence from the throng, a moment of tense staring elapses as Jerrad's eye come to rest on each of his partner's purchases in turn before he manages a proper reply in the form of a disbelieving grunt. They certainly looked like reason enough to nearly lose him in the festival's chaos, but he supposed that wouldn't be sure until there'd been a chance to sample it. The moment Thelinia has paid her words of parting with the merchantwoman, the mercenary moves to take her place, spurred by an abberrant whimsy to match the ranger's spending in kind. "What can I get fer fifty lions?" He demanded more than questioned, a dirtied fistful of gold coins deposited in a loose pile before the woman. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The token of Thel's payment is quietly secured somewhere under the sizable stall's countertop so the woman might provide Jerrad her full attention. Or at least his coins. A few are taken into her hands for inspection, clearing away the grime without a thought. The hooded green cowl she wears is lowered, revealing curly brown hair with striking grey streaks. When she seems satisfied, the coins are set aside to make room for his selection. "Alae, sir," she sounds impressed, but perhaps skeptical [scrutiny; DC 24]. "If it is something special you're seeking, I possess a connoisseur's library of experiences, as well as an exclusive count of imports." Something about her voice almost seems to sizzle, though the shadow cast by the stall's awning hides her expression. "I've Cherryfire and Suzale, of course, as well as Dragon's Breath and Sparkling Evermead.. Though perhaps you are bold, seeking something.. More." A brief smile flashes from the woman, returned to the shadows as quickly as it came, "I have a rare find of Stonesulder Wine, no more than a flask. Now, there is no shame in hesitation, though if it proves too much I might offer you a vial of Spellbane Wine to settle those nerves." The woman leans forward, her chin resting against the wrinkled back of her hand. Her eyes find just enough illumination to shine violet as they lock with the Dog's, "Should these not interest you, there is a modest selection of specialty brews I reserve for my.. Preferred patrons." [Perception, DC 16] As she speaks, the sorceress' free hand slides beside her, bringing a series of bottles out from under the stall and onto the counter without lifting a finger. The first choice is a milky white glass bottle, round with something green swirling inside behind the bronze label. The woman describes it as a popular new enchanter's wine for noble youth, which smells hellish yet tastes like ambrosia. The second choice is contained in a carved wooden flask, silver filigree decorating its seal. She names it a champagne and touts the delicate, honey-like flavor. The third almost appears as an illusion, its pearl and pink contents shimmering behind clear glass. Spherical and a treat for the eyes, the woman expresses a need for caution, particularly in the presence of the fairer sex. The fourth, contained in an expressionless bottle of black, is introduced as an exotic rum from south of the Shining Sea. So few find their way into the Vilhon that it is nothing short of a miracle that she has this only bottle in all of Nimpeth. How fortunate they are to have found it before others could! The fifth choice rests in a small barrel, levitated by the merchant to hover beside the other options. It looks to weigh at least thirty pounds, and wears a pristine golden label proudly assigning it as Vilhon's Finest Aged Cider. The woman insists that if he was new to Nimpeth, he owes his visit a try of their famous cider, and why not the very best reserve of it? And truly, she could not in good conscious allow him to leave without it. Thelinia lingers near the stall, an awkward distance that neither gave the impression of their relation nor offered explanation for her stay. She opts to approach, curiousity winning out over practicality. The Golden Dove's promise of rest and healing could wait. The old merchant regards her with a recognition that discomforts the Boar, but the mysterious woman's business smoothly reclaims priority. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [DC 24 > 23; DC 16 > 6] Perhaps despite his better judgement, the mercenary finds himself fully taken in by the sorceress' display after a moment's begrudging hesitation and leans in on his unsullied arm, each of her offerings observed with the exacting closeness of a dragon picking over it's hoard. In particular, the silver bottle's ethereal offering is viewed with an expression as close to avarice as the man was capable of displaying, though he was quick to pass his attention to the cask of cider with a much more personal kind of greed. When she had finished her pitch, Lockwood elected to withhold his response for a moment as the weight of the options laid before him began to settle. He'd only so much gold (even if it was quite a lot), and only one good arm to carry a load with, making buying up the whole stall-- as tempting as it was-- More than a little inadvisable. And so he would have to choose. With the knowledge that there was a crowd of revelers at his back waiting their turn, Jerrad chose to make said decision sooner rather than later and, with a series of terse nods, motioned to each of his selections in turn. "Two bottles've Suzale, if y'got it. Th'Cherryfire.. Eh.. All've that," A rough hewn swipe of the knuckles motioned vaguely in the direction of the more mundane offerings before dropping to his side. "Saerloonian Special.. Arabellan Dry, if ye've any. An', uh.. How much fer those?" Another, much more precise motion indicated the third, fourth, and most enthusiastically, fifth of the specialty offerings before falling away to rest at the stall's edge. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Scrutiny, DC 24 > 17 :: Knowledge Local, DC 10 > 6] [Perception, DC 16 < 21] Thelinia notes an unusual sparkle to the woman, and identifies her skin as something not quite human. The ranger tenses, paying more mind to the exchange. [Appraise, DC 20 > 16] Jerrad doesn't seem to notice the change in the woman's demeanor, which hardens at the request of foreign wines. Two sapphire bottles of Suzale join the table, followed by three blood-red bottles of Cherryfire. They're placed together apart from the others, and the old woman musters a smile despite the slight.  She answers with a terse  undertone of warning, which he might wonder is really there or not. Thelinia is uncertain enough of it to disregard the impression. "Our cider is valued at twenty pieces, however," she pauses for what may be dramatic effect, willing the small barrel to roost in front of its competition so he may take in its beauty, and ambient scent. "This blessed day, the Gods smile on us. I will take sixteen for this harvest we have so graciously been bestowed." "Now, as for the Chultan rum, I will part with it for no less than five coin." The black bottle is brought beside the barrel, which sees the shimmering pink vial hover above it in a position of honor. "Kiss of Firehair," she draws a sharp, well manicured nail over it, and gestures the vial tantilizingly closer. Indeed, its cork displays a branding of Sune's sigil. "Is alone fifty pieces. A very fortunate find in this time." The merchant makes no mention of the five more mundane options awaiting purchase. [Scrutiny, DC 18 < 22] Thelinia feels unconvinced by the merchant's pitches, but lacking familiarity keeps her quiet for the time being. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As tantalizing as the woman's offerings were, her prices were enough to give Jerrad pause, a wary eye edging it's attention over to the pile of coins swept to the side of their transaction. Perhaps for the first time, he turns to glance overshoulder, grazing Thelinia with a questioning kind of look-- Though it wears the faintest whisper of embarassment. Turning back, he takes a few more passes at the collection of bottles before rustling around in his pack. With an ill-fitting softness, a clump of coral roughly the size of a child's fist drops to the table. Tensing, Lockwood issues the sorceress an expectant nod. "An' one more thing, if that suits yeh, miss." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia returns the look with skeptical curiousity, an expression she hopes the woman wouldn't mistake for rudeness.  She adjusts her own purchase in her arms, feeling slightly inadequate with her meager supply next to Jerrad's order. The shiny vial is placed on top of the barrel, and both are slid aside with the rum to join the other five bottles. The old woman takes the chunk of coral in hand for a lengthy inspection, going so far as to whisper an incantation and allow the weave to confirm its value for her. Seemingly satisfied, her violet eyes flicker up to observe the Dog with little question. "And that would be, my good sir?" She fails to notice Thel's look, occupied with what was quickly becoming her largest sale of the day. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Pausing more for the purpose of taking in the (admittedly unexpected) size of his order in progress, the mercenary grunts, then nods when he remembers that not everyone was quite as skilled at discerning his meaning as his companion. "Wine. Yer best bottle." He issues the request with the earnest severity of a man who'd walked much farther for a drink than he would like to admit. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The merchant's expression admits a small measure of surprise, though it lasts only a moment before a hand is raised to summon his request from the stall's depths. A curtain concealing the top row of her wares is parted by a sizable bottle brought forth by her beckoning. It's red-violet color as dark and alluring as the wine surely inside it, the bottle is placed before him on the table. It's labeling reads in branded rosewood, Woren, dated by only two years-- At least as far as Thelinia might tell. On a closer inspection, Jerrad might note a group of grapes floating about their own exilir. "A fine Woren, hailing from a very popular year. It's floral bouquet reminds one of a rose garden in the peak of springtime, and you will find it possessing a rich, yet delicate flavor unlike any you've experienced." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Appraise: 17] Observing the bottle's lofty descent with a quiet intent, Lockwood displays a rare hesitation in taking it up for inspection, as though his sullied hands might threaten the character of the brew with an instant's contact. Before a heartbeat had passed, however, the glassware had found a place in his calloused palms, turned over and swirled with all the gentleness one might afford their own child. There is a heady silence before the mercenary speaks up, "How much?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Twenty-five coin, though.." she minds the coral still in her hand in private and brief consideration. "I would be willing to allow a discount, in honor of the day." The old woman looks up from the payment, "Eighteen." Thelinia looks between the two in anticipation, paying a glance to the crowd around them to be sure no one had taken note of transaction's value. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Whether possessed by a desire to preserve some of his coinpurse's integrity, or merely reminded of his dislike for merchants on a whim, Jerrad affects a low, throaty hum as he continues to look the bottle over, earnest in his interest but clearly playing at coyness. With little warning, he sets the wine aside (albeit begrudgingly), a careful lean placed to the stall at his hip. "'Ow about fifteen, in honor've th'day-- An' us doin' business again t'morrow." [Diplomacy: 18] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia steps nearer to the stall, uncomfortable with the distance that would've allowed prying eyes other than her's. The merchant regards her briefly again as she waits for Jerrad's rebuttal, scrutiny no longer required. [Scrutiny, DC 18 > 3 :: Bluff, DC 17] After a brief pause of feigned consideration, the merchant answers definitively, "Aye. And this would bring us to the final two gold owed for the remainder, square as a Turmian beard." For her part, the ranger endures the transaction without appearing as a gaping trout. Had she ever seen such a quanity of fine drink in one place? Certainly not in the context of its purchase, let alone with the expectation of being able to take them in her own hands, to taste with her own tongue. A part of her questions this reality, observing it with noticable disbelief. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Pleased enough with his successful negotiation, Lockwood seems content not to press the issue of price further and the coin owed is pushed across the table to it's fate. Stepping back to allow their collection, Jerrad took the opportunity to shuck his pack and begin the task of sorting it's contents to make way for his purchases, a quick look darted between the shopkeep and Raine. If it weren't for the uncertainty of their company, Jerrad might have offered her a word of inquiry, but instead encouraged the ranger to pile her purchases into the waiting pack as he rose, setting it aside at the table's edge. "Been a righ' pleasure, miss." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ For his convenience, a topless square crate is brought from under the stall, and each bottle is floated inside with light clanks. The gold is collected to a single satchel, disappearing beneath the counter along with the coral. The vial of pearl and pink is left to be collected by Jerrad's own hand. With a considerably more genuine smile, the merchant gives a satisfied nod. A somewhat stunned Thelinia glances the merchant and Jerrad in turn, giving a small nod to the woman before moving to fill his bag with her comparatively small purchase. "Durgos," and just as the two might turn to depart, the shop keeper stays them with a hand and gentle interjection, "And if I may, miss and sir. I encourage a visit to the Woren Vineyard proper, should you desire the quality wines unprovided to the lackcoin." Thelinia would pause at the words, looking back with momentary confusion as though mistakenly addressed. As they would re-enter the crowd, she'd glance the Dog without knowing what to say. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye. Gods bless y'miss." Came the mercenary's parting, an honest warmth lurking beneath the grit. Taking a moment to heft the better part of their conquest over his shoulder, Jerrad pushed into the crowd alongside the Boar with the remaining items tucked safely on his person. Moving to the fore in an effort to clear the way for Thelinia, Lockwood caught the look on instinct, mustering a careless shrug as he passed and headed for the Dove's gates. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Uncertainties kept to herself, the Boar would follow just a step behind her companion. The odd feeling of the flowers circled around her head brings her to adjust their placement, mildly surprised that she wasn't casting it away. Most of the wildflowers that had been scattered about her person were gone, though what few remained were paid idle attentions as the Boar thought to herself. Arriving after a significant uphill walk, The Golden Dove presents itself proudly, decorated with multicolored flowers enchanted with shimmering magic and alluring scent. The building's golden smooth texture is accented by pink-red brick, boldly standing out from its duller neighbors. Notably, its position on the hill surpasses its neighbors', its backside facing the building hillscape that formed into the Cloven Mountains. Thick oakwood doors open to into the tavern floor of the inn, which is immediately rucous and unconcerned with the duo's entrance. The interior is done up as beautifully as the exterior, flowers arranged from the walls to tabletops and the stone floor. From the second floor balcony, twisting grapevines hang just above head height, crawling up into the rafters where they bloom in enlarged luminescent white flowers. Few seating options are available in all the bustle, though the barkeep can be spotted merrily serving his patrons. [roll spot for seating?] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception: 19] Whether or not the Dog was impressed by the facade presented by the Dove as they approached, he elected not to display it-- Though his gaze fell to linger on the door's woodwork as they passed the threshold. Once he'd given the tavern a look over to assure himself of no glaring threats (as was his habit), Lockwood grunted an alert to his companion, indicating an seating arrangement. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Temporaily lost in her own observations, Thel's attention returns with a mirroring sound, though lighter than her usually gruff vocalizations. She'd head in the direction he gestures, habitually mindful of her belongings and weapons despite the innocuous merriment of what seemed like a rather well to-do establishment. Two fine wooden chairs adorned with blossoms are freed by their occupants, who wandered away to the stairs  hand in hand with telling expressions. Dog and Boar are lucky to arrive just in time to claim it, and enjoy the window's sights. Flowers again decorate the sill, climbing up the white stone border to frame a lovely view of the Woren vineyard, set behind the trees and bushes closer to the inn. Thelinia, however, would not be immediately aware of their good fortune, her body too eager for rest to do anything but submit to the comfort of sitting. She exhales her exhaustion, slumping against the chair's back. "Hhhhugh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Jerrad would drop to the opposing seat with a likeminded enthusiasm, though he had enough presence of mind to set the crate over his shoulder on the table beforehand. "Ungh." For several long moments, Lockwood sits quietly in his chair, eye fast shut, heavy breaths slowly easing themselves into a more stable rhythym. When he'd finally managed to compose himself, the fighter's eye flicks open to rest on the woman sitting wordlessly across from him. Rather than break the silence, Jerrad found his gaze drifting to the vineyards beyond the window at their side. It reminded him of the vineyards in Bogbrook, in a way. Of home.  It was difficult to remember precisely what it all looked like, despite the nostalgia. He had to wonder if it all looked the same after everything that had happened. "'Ey, Thel." Jerrad turned from the window, adjusting to better support his wounded arm against the seat's backing, looking the ranger over properly for the first time since they'd entered the city. Perhaps unsurprisingly, his gaze quickly came to rest on the flowers she wore in her hair, oddly pristine despite the tangle of dirt and grass beneath them. Perhaps even more strangely, Lockwood found himself staring, if not with terribly obvious precision. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar relaxes a while, briefly becoming so lost behind closed eyelids that she loses herself in the noise of the tavern. Clinking glasses, laughing voices, excited whispers, and admittedly enjoyable music dampen her awareness as her body finally eases. That is until the Dog's address draws her back, and she straightens just enough to see him past the crate. She assumes the man's stare begs a question of her consciousnes and grunts in answer as she rights herself. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Admittedly, despite being the one who'd roused her from her reverie, Jerrad was caught off guard with the speed with which the ranger straightened in response, irrespective of the speed with which she did so. Blinking a few times, he swiped the back of his hand across his eyepatch, urging a low grumbling from the back of his throat. Somewhere behind him, music floated through the air over the din. "..Y'want a drink?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her gaze instinctively sweeps the contents of the crate, momentarily taken by the window's view. She scratches at her head just under the roses, displacing it slightly. "Eh... what all did y'buy?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ His eyes follow her own, and at Thelinia's prompting turn to zero in on the keg of cider. Taking a moment to readjust into a lean, Lockwood begins sorting through their purchases with no small amount of jingling clatter. "Eh.. Suzale, Cherryfire... Keg'a cider.. Eh, this," With a mild degree of effort, the bottle of Nimpeth wine is produced, berries swirling about in the crimson murk. The Firehair remains untouched, and only vaguely mentioned. "Some, uh, Sunite swill. Jus' as a piece've table glim." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Hard as it is to take her eyes off the bottles, Thelinia takes a brief look around the room. They could've been invisible to the preoccupied patrons, were it not for the contrast of their dirtied, rugged appearance against the decorum and finery of the crowd's. The few glances paid in their direction were uncomfortable, something she hoped he might notice as well. Yet what draws her attention is the reminder of the unusual item in his possession, and her arms fold as she leans back in her chair. "Expensive glim," comes the skeptical, if not judgmental remark. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A creeping, inscrutable discomfort began to creep it's way into the corner of the mercenary's consciousness at Thelinia's remark, prompting a low grunt. Got to have something to remember all this by, he would have said, were he so inclined. He let a pause hang in the air for the sake of wary pragmatism and the composure of his own thoughts, following Raine's lead in parsing the room's inhabitants; indeed, their attentions, furtive as they might have been, could have been cause for concern-- Or at least the discomfort that came from being out of place in a strange land. He let his stare turn to a hard glare, discouraging several unwanted sets of eyes from lingering any longer. When he turned back, however, the Cormyrian's expression had softened enough to let the fatigue read in itself. "..S'pect Sunites use it fer.. Y'know." He let his shoulders rise in a shrug, uncomfortable with the thought. "..Eh. Didn't get it fer us anyhow. S'what everything else is fer." A rough hand found a roost atop the keg at his side, a small smack added for emphasis. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia lifts a brow, but either coyness or fatigue allowed her to readily slide attention back to the selection. Some small part of her feels an uncanny sort of comfort in his offering, distracting enough to linger on the bottles longer than she would in any other circumstance. Despite another odd and nebulous feeling, the ranger pays the keg her full focus. "Y'think that's honest Vilhon Cider?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The question, while not exactly taking Jerrad unawares, is enough to give him some pause. Lofting a brow, he offers a burly-shouldered shrug, running a hand across the keg's side. To be fair, he'd never sampled the Reach's offerings, so it was difficult to say one way or the other. He leaned up in his seat, chin in palm. "Cost enough coin t'be. S'pose we'll find out when we crack 'er open, eh?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Perhaps it was the exhaustion dulling her thoughts, but Thelinia found her eyes following his movements, and noting the uncommon way he held himself. "Thinkin' she mighta pulled y'more 'en its worth," she comments, but nods affirmingly, "Let's see it, 'en." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With eagerness taking precedence over caution, Jerrad flicked the satchel's latch and hoisted the keg from it's holding-- A simple motion swiftly made taxing by a heinous jolt of pain from the slash in his shoulder. [Fortitude: 15] Whether by good fortune, quick reflex, or simple hardiness of body, however, Lockwood holds his composure.. If only for the sake of avoiding admonishment by his present company. Lowered with a great deal more care this time, the cider thunks down with a muted slosh, watched by keen eyes. "So, 'ere or th'inn room?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia frowns, though privately satisfied that her companion hadn't wounded himself further. Looking over at the bar before getting to her feet again, she starts with a short growl, "If there's a room left." Unless halted, the ranger would wade through the crowd, nearly vanishing behind the bustle by the time she'd reach the barkeep. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Surprised by the agility with which the ranger rights herself and gets underway, Lockwood remains at the table for long enough to gather up their libations and heft them overshoulder before following after. For it's part, the crowd provides little hinderance to the soldier, those who don't make way being pushed aside with relatively little care. If his efforts were not impeded, the Dog would rejoin Boar shortly enough, though a few bottles would warrant readjustment, lest their safety be jeopardized. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar would need to wait a few minutes before the half-elf behind the counter had a chance to address her, which he does with a tireless smile and magically immaculate good looks. "Yeh th'innkeep?" A dip of the head accompanies a winning smile, "That I am, Rowan Greystag at your service." "'Ow much for a room?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Arriving with a rattle and a grunt, Jerrad's eyes fall to rest on the bartender in kind, brow set hard in an unimpressed line. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "You could be in luck, my lady," Rowan starts, but at seeing the Dog's approach and matching presentation, clears his throat and lets his grin close to a knowing smile. "Ah, luck indeed. I've one room left for a pair of accomplished hireswords, that is if you don't mind the finest view my Dove has to offer." [Diplomacy DC 13 > 12] Thelinia narrows her eyes a bit, not surprised that such a fancy establishment would want to wring the most coin they could out of seasoned vistors. "No other rooms, eh?" "'Friad not, my lady," the man conceals a scrutinizing gaze with a quick wink, followed by what he must think is a glance of inoffense towards Jerrad. "And what good fortune for you to have claimed it before another couple might! The entirety of the Woren Vineyard will be your view, a claim no other inn can stake. And.." he leans in close, lowering his voice just a touch, "I should offer that it is best enjoyed at sundown, as the day's last light streams from between the Broken Hills and glistens the Reach as well as your taerath." He smiles again at Thel, seeming to prefer her attention as he looks the road-worn ranger over again with the same self-assured look. A few of the patrons beckon him to their emptied flagons, but the half-elf's focused is happily occupied. "My lady, you have my word it will be an experience like none other. If I may be so bold, I can see you have more than earned a beautiful night of peace and drink." Rowan backs off, slowly rising from the counter. "A more alluring room you won't find, not if every inn in the city were clear. Your visit will assuredly be the envy of Nimpeth itself." [Diplomacy DC 24 > 20] The Boar grimaces, though that's the limit of her protest. An inn like this could be as comfortable as the Citadel, complete with warm basin and feather-down bed. Her aching bones demand a reach for her coinpurse, but not before she asks the obvious, "An' how much fer this room?" Rowan regards her with the look of a satisfied salesman, "On any other day, sixty gold. But today, ah. Tradition is generous, and it will be a mere thirty with the inclusion of a warm taerath." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As the half-elf prattled on, Lockwood felt his mind beginning to work through it's usual responses to glib-tongued winkers doing their best to work what he expected they called "magic" on his companion. The first, of course, was an irritation made mild through a thick disinterest. He was neither wooed nor impressed by flash without substance, and through his time spent with the Boar, it was plain that neither was she. The second was boredom, though perhaps a bit more urgent than he would have cared for. As though their injuries were not onerous enough, the walk through the Winterwood had turned out a sight longer than he had accounted for, and though he'd never dream to admit his fatigue, denial did not assuage the oily ache that coated his muscles and bones. It would usually come to be that his emotional response would end at the second item, but for perhaps the first time in his life, the Dog detected a third emotion; would that he could divine it's nature. As Rowan continued to talk, however, Lockwood found that more than simple agitation, the man brought him a peculiar discomfort. Why it was, he could not say. Perhaps it was the way he eyed them, predatory-- Like a coin hungry hawk, eager for an easy meal. No doubt he'd have one; there really wasn't any reason for them to seek board elsewhere, was there? Not when they'd already come so far. Putting his worries out of his mind for the time being, Jerrad elected to distract himself by edging nearer to entering the conversation in earnest, if only to spare his companion from further badgering. Leaning up hard on the counter, the mercenary did away with the slouch in his shoulders, squaring up to face the innkeep with the kind of severity befitting a brooding darkblade more than the tired old soldier. Grunting low, a telltale rattle spoiled the arrival of glittering gold in sixteen pieces, pushed across with a burly hand. "Fifteen, an' one fer th'Lady," He gruffed, ostensibly to honor the good fortune Tymora had shown them in getting here. "When's last call?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Rowan Bluff, 1] Before the half-elf could open his mouth again, Thelinia shoves a palm full of coin beside Jerrad's, "Can we expect th'taerath warm when we get ta it?" Whether it was the insulting manner in which the mercenaries paid for their stay, or the fatigue of a day only half done, Rowan clears his throat of an edge that still reads in his tone. "Not before the Dance comes to a close," he sweeps up the coins, counting them into a satchet with practiced speed. A key is tossed to replace them, golden in its own right and tied with a rose. "I'll send your servitor with fresh buckets quick as quickfolk." Rowan turns on a heel and departs, quickly re-engaging the patrons who had grown thirsty and impatient, but not before muttering something about catclaws and darkblades. Thelina takes the key for a closer look, dully skeptical of its fine appearence. She looks to her companion, "Bet they can send food up s'well." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Blinking once, then twice at the inexplicable agitation the innkeep had exhibited, the Dog's gaze lingered on Rowan as he quit their company only long enough for the question to show on his features before Raine's musing drew his attention away. "Think they got quail?" He prodded, pushing off from the bar with a grunt. It'd been a long time since he'd had a decent plate of quail-- Too long, really. "Or roast pork. Buttered noodles. Fritters..  Gooseberry jam an' brandied peaches.." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Were she less tired, the Boar's growl might've carried weight. She heads for the stairs alongside her companion, taking the lead as they reach the steps. The doors of the second floor are uniform in their oakwood frames, lovingly outlined with pink and white flowers on living vine. It could have been difficult discerning which room was their's, were it not for the one decorated in red roses to match the key in Thelinia's hand. On entering, the Dog and Boar would be welcomed by a bright window whose sheer curtains flutter in the breeze, a plush rug illustrated with Lathander's shining symbol, and a large bed set on a marble step, covered in more goose-down pillows than two people could ever need. Then again, the scale of the bed suggested space for more than two, as did the multicolored roses spread about its surface. Outside the hatched windows are their opened shutters, a bed of flowers, and the gorgeous view promised by the innkeeper. The deep blue of the Reach is even visible past the Broken Hills, trade ships and navy alike sharing the waters. A carved folding screen curled around a stone taerath, shimmering gems and wildflowers giving a redundant illusion of decadence. Within the basin lay more flowers, petals of roses and sprigs of lavender doused in an oilly disstilled floral essence. A complimentary bottle of Woren wine sat beside the basin on a cherrywood table, as well as a wax-sealed sampling of Turmish brick cheese. Two wooden goblets await as well, carved with images of the Morninglord's symbol, complete with inlaid garnets and gold flecking. The bedding is likewise valuable, its soft quilt and silk blankets far too alluring for the road weary and lackcoin. Tasked with taking in the ridiculous luxury of their purchase, Thelinia takes only two steps inside before she can absorb the room's presentation. Once she had, the hefty pack on her back is dropped with an awed sigh, "Hells." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With his injuries still dogging his every step, mounting the stairs to their room is something of an ordeal for the burlier of the two mercenaries, the steady, rhythymic thud of calculated footsteps and the telltale jangle of bottles the only indication of his presence at the Boar's back-- Forgiving a whiff of dried blood and sweaty dirt here and again. Pulling up to her side as they neared the door, Lockwood's attentions are primarily arrested by the floral arrangements decorating the (admittedly fine) woodwork lining the doors along the hall, leaving him unwitting and unprepared for the decadence past the threshold. Managing only one step less into their chamber than his companion, Jerrad's gaze sweeps up from the paneling of their doorframe to find a place to offload precious cargo, up along the rug, into the bedchamber, to the screen concealing the taerath, back to the bedchamber, back to the taerath again before finally settling on the view beyond the window. A moment of witless silence elapses before the breath escapes Lockwood's lungs with an audible puff. "...Uh.." He muttered, suddenly uncomfortably aware of the mud caked to the back of his boots. Transfixed, the Dog stands beside the ranger, idly shifting the crate on his shoulder as he calculated his next move. "..What, eh.. What?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Uh.." Echoes the Boar, before she nudges her pack out of the way and moves for a better look at the basin. The floral crown is delicately placed on the folding screen's end, as though it impeded her. Exploring the room almost with the care of a thief, Thelinia makes her way to the window and loses a breath to its view. This time, her voice carries an unheard of lightness, "Hells..." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Tentatively at first, the Dog follows his counterpart's lead, a careful boot carrying him forward deeper into the room, closer enough to get a proper look at the glimpse of the bay beyond the window. Well-worn leather, caked in dusted clay padded soft on the plush carpeting, a wisping trail of red-brown dirt and grass left in the wake of his stride. Instinctively, Jerrad brushes the curtain aside as it rushes to meet him and comes to a halt at the window's edge. Looking out over the Vilhon countryside, Lockwood unconsciously feels himself lean back against the warmth of the breeze rushing up to meet him. With his attention firmly held, the Dog is aware only of the wind running through his untrimmed scruff, and a foreign notion-- The notion that for once, if only for a time, the two of them could be at peace.. And even if they couldn't, at least they had enough coin to drink the Dove dry. A glimpse of rippling linen in the corner of his eye draws Lockwood from his reverie, and his gaze comes to fall on the flower-laden bed. He manages a light grunt that falls somewhere between surprise and consternation, prompting a furtive glance in Thelinia's direction. "Uh.. Think, uh.. They got a second bed in 'ere?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Called from her reprieve, Thel's attention turns from the window to her companion. Her response is delayed by the image before her: The muddied, rugged Dog standing in this room too fine for either of them. And the rose covered bed behind him, suggesting a context that required her to swallow before answering, "I don't, uh. Expect it." Thelinia's gaze drops from the confusing picture and returns to the beautiful view of the Woren Vineyard, briefly touching on the window sill where her own dirtied hand rested. The Boar moves towards the barrier partially dividing the room from the taerath. "Y'can claim yer half. I'm going ta, uh. Wait fer th'water." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A soft, grunted acknowledgement is all Lockwood offers for the moment, himself distracted by the notion posed by the singular bed-- And their reactions to it. His eye held fixed to the unruly mound of flower and cushion for a while longer before darting away to seek refuge in the vineyards stretching out beyond their window. He hummed dryly to himself. "I'll, uh. Yeh." It felt less like a response and more like a noise he'd made to avoid an uncomfortable silence. Shifting from one foot to the other, Jerrad found his gaze shifting focus in kind, sliding over to regard the road worn ranger with some modicum of concern. "How's th'arm?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia rounds the corner of the folding screen and privately begins investigating the wine and cheese set out for her. "Needin' a wash," she pauses, adding with some uncertainty, "How's.. your shoulder?" It dawned on her then that in all the distraction of Greengrass, neither of them had kept their priorities in mind. Their expended supplies required replenishing, and their bodies the healing of a cleric. The thought of their soiled bandages, particularly her companion's, was suddenly a disturbing thought. Hunger was also a concern, she recalled, as she cracked the sealing of the Turmish brick for a sampling. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Prob'ly do with th'same." He replied, resisting the urge to simply grunt the answer as the Boar slipped away behind the screen. Admittedly, he hadn't given the injury much thought beyond acknowledging the dull throb of pain radiating through his shoulder. As far as wounds went, it could have been worse-- But perhaps only if the hobgoblin's swing had taken the limb off entirely. He was lucky Raine had been there to stitch him up. Watching her stick a few of them had been nice too. Left to his own devices, the Dog takes to further exploration of their room, long strides carrying him to the bedside where he might kick the boots from his feet, which seemed in rather good condition, forgiving a few blisters. Unwilling to dirty their only bed with his clothing, Lockwood situated himself on the floor at the furniture's base, weary hands working filth-ridden garments from his person. If left be, he'd be down to his tunic and breeches before long, both of which were still in dire need of a wash. "What'd y'want t'do first, eh?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Coming full circle around to the other side of the screen, Thelinia munches on a small piece of crumbly cheese. "Y'mean th'drink, or fetchin' a high meal?" With a better look at the blood-ravaged garments of her partner, the ranger offers a third option, "Or maybe a cleric." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The suggestion wrests Lockwood's focus from the task of disrobement, lending the mercenary a startled expression that fades as swiftly as he can will it. Fighting in the inclination to cover his shame when there was none to be had, Jerrad stands with a neutral growl, hands dusting across his knees for lack of a better task. Turning away, the burly cormyrian momentarily considers something to himself before pulling the blood-spattered tunic over his head to be discarded in a crumpled square atop the rest of his attire. Beneath it all, the dull gleam of his breastplate caught the room's reflection, reminding him of a buried inclination to step aside out of view. "..Yeh, s'pose so. Meal couldn't hurt, though. Been walkin' longer than we ought." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Unsure of the Dog's uncertain behavior, Thelinia makes an effort not to linger on him, instead looking around the room and towards the window again. "Dun want t'miss the hot water. Y'should, uh, head down wit'out me." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Some distant thought brings Lockwood a moment's hesitation, but it finds itself swatted away along with a grunting acknowledgement. With his tunic set aside for the moment, he lets the cool air wash over his wound, the gnarled flesh hidden beneath his dressing turned away from his companion's field of view. Once he was satisfied that the wound hadn't become infected over the course of their trek, Jerrad seizes his folded tunic and pulls it back over his head. Pushing off his knee with a sigh, Lockwood sorts through his pack for a coinpurse, eventually selecting one of moderate size to fit to his belt. Satisfied, he makes for the door, but pauses to regard his friend. "Yeh be alrigh' waitin'?" He prodded, tone possessed of a neutral concern. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "S'long you leave th'drink." Thelinia replies over shoulder, only briefly glancing him. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ On his way down the stairs, two young women pass him, each carrying two hefty buckets of warm water. Their delicate frames don't look capable of the load, but not much complaint shows in their faces. Meanwhile, Thelinia occupies herself with removing her boots and taking another sweep of the room, checking for the usual traps and other red flags. She finds nothing of interest. For a short while, the grizzled Boar pictures herself living somewhere so fine. It wasn't unusual to fantasize, but the rarity of living it for a time allowed indulgance. Yet, it felt somehow different. As she paced, Thelinia found herself returning to the window at every pass, as though some part of her worried the Reach would vanish. This was her home, but she almost felt like a stranger. Maybe it was her lengthy absence; she had only been a girl when she was last in the Vilhon. Or maybe it was the absurdity of her circumstances, to return to this world with wealth enough to secure an inn room she'd never had considered otherwise. Let alone with a man, with a single bed to split between them. The thought was shaken from her shoulders, and released as a sigh. It was easier to enjoy the idea of a soft bed, more than large enough for the both of them to keep a good distance. She didn't know if she had it in her to force him to the rug instead, as alluring as its plush texture and beautiful colors were. Fortunately, Thelinia finds her thoughts interrupted by the door's beckoning. She permits the two servant girls' entry, and accepts the curtseys and bowed heads with respectful neutrality. They fill the tub one bucket at a time, a routine they knew well, as the mercenary fished for her coin purse. Before she had the chance to offer appreciation, however, one of the girls silently departs with a quick bow, taking her emptied buckets with her. The second girl remains by the basin, now steaming from its flower-laden surface and filling the air with a scent just as beautiful. Carrying two silver in hand, Thelinia approaches with the intention of tipping her, but halts as the girl is quicker to close the distance. "May I, my lady?" The girl is mindful to avoid eye-contact, but Thelinia notes her green eyes and sullen expression. It takes her a moment to respond, and a longer moment to understand the servant meant to undress her. "Eh, what d'yo- Eh.. I," she clears her throat, "No, uh, that's alrigh'." The girl swallows, shifting her weight in quiet concern. "Y-yes, my lady. You would have me leave you to your privacy?" Thelinia frowns a bit and makes some effort to soften the edges of her speech, "It's no offense, yeh? Erm, here," she offers the girl two silver in an opened palm, which takes the servant by surprise. Unsure of what to do, the servant hesitates. [Will; 16] Be it her fear or virtue, she shakes her head and curtseys, refusing the silver. "A fair evening for you, my lady. I will return for the water in two hours, if it suits you, my lady." It's a moment or two before Thelinia retracts the offer. "Aye.. um.." "My name is Nephira, my lady. I will be your servant for the duration of your stay here at the Golden Dove." The recited words, for all their evident practice, do not lack what sounds like genuine care. "You may send for me at any time, my lady. For any purpose." Though the girl kept her gaze low, Thelinia felt she could read her expression. There's a brief pause before Thelinia answers, not permitting her frown to read in her tone, "Thank you, Nephira. You ca'go 'bout yer business." "Enjoy your bath, my lady. Gods bless," the girl curtseys again, and departs without another word, softly closing the door behind her. A few moments passed before Thelinia returned the silver to her coin purse. Left to herself once more, she adjusts the folding screen to better encompass the basin. Most of the room, including the door, are easily blocked with slack enough to permit a view of the window if she wanted. And she did. Before long, her dirtied armor and clothing is discarded to a waiting basket, leaving only her bandages and necklace on as the ranger carefully sets herself in the water. A pleased, if disbelieving sigh escapes her as warm water embraces her body for the first time in too long. Immediately, the pristine water is muddied by the the blood and dirt caked to her person, but with her head back and eyes closed, Thelinia showed no sign of caring. Nearly stolen from her own priorities, the Boar's eyes flicker open and find the bottle of wine with cheese beside her. The waxed cork is peeled and pried from the bottle with a deep pop, the cork spit out somewhere beyond the tareath. For once, the mercenary opts to pour her serving into the waiting goblet, after minding it for poison residue. With a fine drink in one hand and a bite of cheese, Thelinia again relaxes into the bath, the window's pleasant light and breezy curtains providing a sense of serenity--Or, perhaps, this wine was finer than she thought. The first sip seems to stun her, and she licks her lips to be sure of it. Brightened brown eyes regard the goblet with an awed approval, and another mouthful is taken. Her vision momentarily blocked by the cup, Thelinia is unprepared for what appears behind it. Narrowly avoiding spitting the wine into the bath, Thelinia swallows hard and coughs on the alcohol's burn. "Hhrrgh! Wh-Hhkt!" The ranger has to clear her strained throat, continuing with urgent confusion, "What are you doing here??" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Ignorant of the goings on above him, Jerrad plods down the steps leading into the tavern with all the sureness of a falling oak. Halting near the bottom, he scans the room for an available seat, and with a small deal of effort, he finds and procures a vacancy for himself. While he waited for an unoccupied servant to present themselves, it struck the normally heavily-armed sellsword that he was largely unarmed, forgiving the sword and dagger that rested at opposing points on his belt. He'd spent so many years wandering in perilous uncertainty; always armed, always ready to fight, ready to kill. The breastplate he'd left propped at the bedside had become a second skin, just as the length of black iron at his hip had become an extension of his own body. Everything had depended on his ruthlessness, on his refusal to compromise safety for comfort, or loneliness for dubious companionship. And yet, here he was, readily compromising both. If he knew why, it might trouble him less. Perhaps he was simply getting sloppy with age. There had been a time when he would have scoffed at a bugbear's mace. Now it seemed a prideful luxury he could no longer afford. It wasn't just his life at risk. Not any longer. If he'd let it be at that, he supposed he could have blamed the fumble on his companion, on some supposed necessity for protection-- But the realization had already dawned on him that it was something else entirely. Loyalty. His loyalty to her. Whether the mace had been meant for her or him didn't matter; he'd taken the blow willingly. Every strike he took was an exercise in fealty-- an admission of his desire for a friendship that had been so long denied. It was something he'd keep to himself. Disturbed by his thoughts, Lockwood settled more firmly into his seat and raised a pair of fingers, signalling for a servant to assist him. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Is that any way to treat your superior?" The lilting voice feigned a haughty innocence Thelinia saw right through. Her heart still raced from the startle, and still readied itself for a fight. The creature took a sip from her own goblet, evidently having stolen it from the table, gazing across the room in distant approval. It sat comfortably in the taerath across from her, blocking the view of the window, nude and repulsively beautiful. "Oh relax, dahlink. I just wanted to stop by and tell you how proud I am that you're finally living up to your potential." Thelinia gave an irritated growl, setting her drink aside. "My potential?" It's then that she realizes a luxuriously soft touch entwining around her leg, sending a shiver down her spine despite the warmth of the bath. The creature turns to face her fully, feline eyes glinting in a light not present. "Of course, dahlink! Wine, a bath, servants willing to give you anything." The Boar kicks the eerily inviting tail off her leg, the action failing to phase the devil at all as it took another taste of the wine. She eyes it in accusation, "Where were you in Niraya?" Another drink, followed by an overly indulgent licking of feline chomps. "Please, having some faith in me wouldn't kill you! I knew you would be fine, dahlink." A glimpse of the broken canine that rested below her own collar provided a small comfort for the ranger, however frustrating the cheeky creature was. Her mind flashes to her companion, and she growls again, "Why are you here." Vessira's gaze finds Thel's, briefly piercing before it flits to the room again, "You're repeating yourself, dahlink, it's unbecoming." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "M'lord?" The handsome servant eyed Jerrad with a worrying look, quietly wondering if the man had heard him or not the first time. Content to allow the silence to persist a while longer, Lockwood raked his fingers through the thick layer of scruff that dominated the better part of his face. Were it not for the more pressing issue of hunger gnawing at his senses, he might well have marched back up to the suite to tame his whiskers before they became any more unruly. Thankfully, he had walked a long way on an empty stomach to get here, and now that he was it was difficult to deny that whatever it was that wafted from the kitchens smelled delicious. "Salted eel, if y'got it. Jellied yams, brandied peaches, two bottles've wine, loaf'a dark rye, an' gooseberry jam." The sellsword rattled off the list of requests with a speed and precision that seemed to take the already disconcerted servitor off-guard, though he was quick to dip his head in respectful deference. Seeing that there would be no issue, Lockwood slid a stack of silvers across to the man, wordless beyond a grunt intended to be thankful. Nodding once more, the man turned on his heel to leave, only to be halted by an interposing clearing of the throat. "An', uh. 'Ave somethin' sent up t'm'room. Roast chicken an'roast leek, yeh? An' a bottle've yer best Woren red. Once m'meal's half through." He delivered the request with his usual stoic neutrality, gaze already drifting off to a distant window. The server nodded once more. "Of course." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Despite the intrusion, the stubborn Boar disregards the option of leaving the taerath and instead folds her arms. "Get out of my bath." The wine bottle drifts over between them of its own accord, refilling Thelinia's on its way before filling the rakshasa's. Vessira swirls her goblet, and the wine bottle is delicately set aside without the creature lifting a finger. "Really, Thelinia. It's all in good fun! Besides! You're lucky I know you don't mean it." Thelinia glances the wine she'd set aside, undecided on accepting it. She found anger helped. "You need to leave. B'fore someone sees you." A smirk crossed the face of the devil, and in an instant she was transformed. Dark, impossibly perfect skin with brown hair to match, and smoldering eyes that set on Thelinia's. "You worry too much," the creature cooed, leaning forward, as her hands slide to cup her newly invented breasts above the water line. "What do you think? Too perfect?" Thelinia shuddered at the initial sight. The creature had morphed itself into what was nearly a mirror image of herself, without the imperfections of her own person and the added enhancements of every physical asset. Her skin, hair, and eyes seemed darker as well, every detail enchanting. At the rakshasa's approach, Thelinia pressed her back as far against the basin as possible. Unfortunately, it only afforded her a couple inches. She averts her eyes from the obnoxious display, "I said get out of my bath." The devil pouts, and folds her own arms in kind with a scoff. "You're simply no fun." The ranger presses her fingers to a temple, grimacing in agitation. "I just want t'enjoy this bath, in peace, and alone, Naussira." The rakshasa disregards the statement, further invading the woman's personal space. "Tsk tsk. I can help you relax, dahlink. I know you're lonely." The provocation brings Lockwood to mind, and Thelinia is quick to dismiss the thought in hopes it might escape the rakshasa's vigilance. She turns from Vessira, avoiding the sickening temptation the devil was clearly eager to thrust upon her. Either the steam, or the uncomfortable proximity casts a slight pink across her cheeks. "Jus' leave me alon--" A soft, delicate hand rests itself against the worst of Thelinia's wounds, and the familiar tingle of healing magic dismisses the blood and pain along with the ranger's words. "See? You can trust me, dahlink," Vessira coos, and positive energy flows through the Boar's body to heal it fully. The relief of sudden healing softens the disdain on her face, but Thelinia still regards her skeptically. Especially with the rakshasa's fleshy bosom nearly touching her own. "Eh.. thanks." Vessira smiles. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ In the time it took for his food to be prepared and presented, Lockwood had taken to little more than sitting quietly with his eye drifting between the view beyond his window and the staircase from where he'd entered. At first, he'd been occupied enough by anticipation for his first hot meal in at least a tenday-- Or at least the first he'd had that was worth remembering. Soon enough, however, he found his thoughts wandering elsewhere. The thoughts he found in his meandering were hardly comforting. Even with having spent the better part of several hours in the city, he'd yet to find out the year. He'd learned the hard way that time did not always flow as expected between the planes. Where he felt he'd been lost for ages, it could happen that he'd been scarcely gone half a season-- Perhaps it had been endlessly longer than that. He would have liked to say that it was simple laziness in the pursuit of expediency that had prevented his inquiring, but the reality was already apparent. He was afraid. For all he knew, Cormyr as he knew it could have disappeared long ago, changed in a way that he wouldn't recnognize it. And even if all was as it should be, there was no gurantee he'd be welcomed back. The price of failure had been paid by the people of Arabel, and the guilt rested on his shoulders. Even if he held his composure in the face of these thoughts, it was enough for him to admit that they'd rattled him. Hard drink would help steady his nerves for a time, to be sure.. But there was a notion in the back of his head that informed him that this time, it might not be enough. A genteel greeting carried over the tavern's din, wresting the sellsword back into the present, the serving man from before appearing less concerned than he had at their last meeting-- And he was not alone. A second servant, a younger woman with sharp eyes, toted a basket of uncut rye and the wine as requested, while the male doled his meal out on two separate platters, gleaming a resplendent silver. While the glimmer of the initial presentation was ostentatious enough to encourage a wary glance, it was the removal of their coverings that demanded his attention in earnest. Nested atop a bed of herbed noodles and fragrant cream sauce, a trio of Vilhon eels, fried, battered, and fat with a filling of eggs and cheese. Beside them, a row of jellied yams and brandied peaches, pungently sweet. The bread and wine was placed just within reach, along with a glass to match. Lockwood afforded the whole of it a sweeping perusal, then nodded his approval with perhaps a touch more enthusiasm than he'd intended. With scarcely a moment's hesitation, Jerrad palmed ten silvers to the each of them. "Hn. Send up that meal I asked fer, eh? This ain't lastin' long. An', uh, thank yeh." The sellsword ignored the alien inclination to affect a smile, dipping his head instead as the duo departed, leaving him to devote his full attention to the decadence laid out before him. None of it would last long. He only wished he were not dining alone. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Arms defiantly folded, Thelinia continues, "How d'you expect me t'explain you bein'ere?" A wandering hand invites a firm knee to the polymorphed rakshasa, shoving her back to her end of the tub. An admittedly alarming growl threatens the ranger's resolve, but the devil retains her own composure just fine. "You really must learn to relax, dahlink. I'm your sister," she casts her luxurious hair over her shoulder, "Vessira Raine. It's simple." An unexpected reminder sinks the mercenary's heart. She had tried not to consider her adoptive sister, left behind two worlds ago. As far as they could tell, they both had hailed from the same plane. And as far as Thelinia could tell, only she had made it home. "Oh don't dwell," Vessira enjoys another sip of wine, "The gnoll probably died in the plane's collaspe." If the rakshasa meant to be reassuring, she had failed. Thelinia pushes herself up from the taerath's rim, scowling at her, "How can you say that?! You were meant to protect both of us," her voice wavers, "She can't just be.. just be dead!" The rakshasa sighs, "Aah. This is the gratitude I get for rescuing you. Thelinia," the devil eyes her with piercing warning, "Here you are, so close to finally reaching your potential, and you don't want to see it." "Shut up about 'my potential'," Thelinia snarls back, "I want you to tell me the truth, Naussira. Did you let her die?" The devil rolls her eyes, " I just did. You mortals are the worst at listening. I did my best," her hand graces her chest in a show of sincerity, "And you just don't want to believe me." Thelinia, for all her anger, can find no retort and is forced to look away from the rakshasa. She knew, from her arrival in Niraya and her departure from it, that any hope of seeing her sister again needed to be lost. Holding onto hope would have only been a hinderence, yet even knowing that, there was no avoiding the pain Vessira's words inflicted. An insufficient silence came between them, cut short by a knocking at the door before Thelinia could wrestle her thoughts. The Boar growls at her false sister, "Get out of here, now!" Vessira considers her a moment, before humming and dipping her head as she rose from the taerath. "As you wish, mistress." Before Thelinia can realize her mistake, Vessira has already padded over to the door, fully nude with floral water steaming off her body. The ranger watches through the elaborate, many-holed pattern in the screen, as Vessira makes a gracious display of accepting a silver platter. At least until she unceremoniously slams the door on the servant. Returning from behind Thel, Vessira approaches the taerath with swaying hips and bends to offer the ranger the platter by opening it before her. The rush of warm, delectable air halts the protest she had been dwelling on, and even allows her to temporarily forgive the large breasts dangling over her shoulder. "Your meal, mistress," purrs Vessira, without a mind for their previous conversation, nor personal space. Thelinia, stunned for a breath at the promise of such a meal, is keenly reminded of her hunger. The rakshasa smirks to herself, and removes the lid fully as she rises. The platter hangs in the air above the water's surface as surely as though it were supported by a table. Resisting herself, Thelinia swallows. "This, eh.. this from downstairs?" Though no one would notice, Vessira rolls her eyes. "Of course it is." "An' y'didn't mess with it?" "No." This was enough to settle the ranger's concerns, aided by previous assurances that the rakshasa was somehow bound from doing her harm. Thelinia greedily rips a leg from the chicken and begins devouring it like a starved animal, much to the distaste of her infernal "friend". With a wrinkled nose, Vessira scoffs from behind as Thelinia grabs a leek to eat alongside the leg of chicken. "There is silverware, you know." The ranger grunts indifference, prompting an irritated glare from the rakshasa. "Well. I'll just leave you to it." Finally, thinks the ranger, this time not minding if Vessira could hear her. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Jerrad's eels would possess small treasures, including two gold coins and a large opal charm with a snake and the sun on the front, and the same on the back. The eels in question had presented one of the most thoroughly enjoyabe meals Lockwood had partaken in in recent memory, right up until the moment he'd bitten into the first coin. Lodged somewhere between a boiled egg, drowned in musky herbs, and an unhealthily large helping of jellied yam, the coin had gone unnoticed until it was far too late to do anything about it. Wincing in a not inconsiderable amount of discomfort, the sellsword slowly reached up a hand to pry the meddling currency out of his mouth for an incredulous glare. "..Zundle." He muttered, quietly pocketing the coin. Whether this was a sign of good fortune or ominous portents, he didn't care to know-- He'd much rather just get on with his meal and forget about it. To that end, a drained bottle of wine slid away to the table's far edge, yet another glass knocked back in the name of having a good time. Proceeding with a bit more caution than before, Jerrad messily slaughtered what remained of his eels before moving on to the peaches and jam. While the brandied fruits were certainly delicious enough, the combination of interdimensional travel and the indulgent nature of his meal combined to awaken a hunger in the mercenary that some more secular religions could very well consider to be profane. Acting on these dark impulses, Lockwood pursued the only logical course of action: he made a sandwich. Crammed between two hearty slices of moist, dark rye bread that had been obscenely saturated with glistening gooseberry jam, the helping of peaches heaped high above their platter, observed from above by an approving eye. He might have never been much of a hand in the kitchen, but Lockwood knew a good sandwich when he saw one. Of course, it was always easier to know one after you'd eaten it-- Which is precisely what he did, much to the dismay of the inn patrons unfortunate enough to be seated near the solitary Dog. When all was said and done, little remained to speak of the presence of a meal at all, save two solitary, jam-smeared silver platters and an empty bottle of wine. Rising with a self-satisfied hum, Jerrad took a moment to tighten the belt around his waist and tuck the surviving wine bottle under his arm. If his first dinner back home was any indication, things may have finally turned around for the better. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Uneasy with the idea of an infernal entity looming from behind, Thel brings herself to check and see if the creature remained. While she saw nothing beyond the wet footprints, it wasn't a guarantee of the rakshasa's absence. "Yu'd better not b'lurkin' 'round in th'shadows, Naussira," the ranger warns through a mouthful of chicken, "If y'can hear me, I'm orderin' y'ta leave." She watches the aforementioned shadows carefully as she chews, skeptical of the silence. Yet when she turns again to her meal, she feels it necessary to continue.. "Jerrad can't know about you." --- By time her meal is (rapidly) finished, the bath had lost some of its warmth as well as its luxury. The dirtied water, however, was still servicable, and after placing the platter aside, Thelinia removes her bandages and sinks beneath the water to give her hair a thorough scrubbing. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood's ascent back to the suite was made somewhat more troublesome by the unexpected burden of his late meal, his movements made sluggish as it settled in his gut, weighted limbs reminding him of his close call in the Winterwood. As revitalizing as it was to finally have eaten something substantial, the sudden lack of hunger left him more receptive to the other deficiencies he'd accrued over the course of his journey to Nimpeth alongside the Boar. For one, he stank. He'd need a bathing, to be sure. For the other, he was exhausted. Of course, Thelinia had been right; they'd need to find a cleric before they got too comfortable, to ensure they wouldn't be contending with infection later. Still.. A visit to the temple could wait at least until after he'd had a turn at the taerath. With this task in mind, the Dog arrives at the door to his shared suite with a welcome finality, though something gives him pause at the threshold. The thought of interrupting what he was certain to be a moment of private luxury on his companion's part didn't sit well with him. After all, she'd certainly earned that much and more for all she'd done to get the two of them here in the first place.. The sellsword hummed to himself, uncertain. He'd just need to be quiet.. [Stealth; 17] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception; 17 > 7] The trouble with baths, Thelinia now recalled, was that unlike a river, one's bodily filth stagnated around with no where to go. The ranger imagined this was less of a problem for the noblefolk who would typically keep this room, another reminder of the strangeness she felt. She grumbles to herself after rising from the basin, muttering longing for the Citadel's pools. It's not until she begins drying herself off that she realizes a problem. Her vanished wounds would be hard to explain to her companion, particularly when they arrive at the temple. No lie would make sense, but perhaps she could feign seeking healing seperately. Thelinia steadies herself with a worrying sigh, and sets to getting dressed in the dirty silk tunic the clerics would have to address as well. "Hells.." Thelinia steps to the window, standing past the screen just enough to be seen from the far end of the bed. She lifts a curtain and holds it apart from the window, and spends a few quiet moments to herself while her mind sorted out the many troubles occupying it. When fatigue can no longer be overshadowed, Thelinia turns to the bed in anticipation of a thoroughly relaxing nap. However, discovering the Dog's presence shot a renewed liveliness into her in the form of surprise, and a fair touch of outraged embarassment. "BWAh-When did you get back?!" Her arms instinctively cross her chest, though the same embarassment kept her in place, rather than allowing her to dart behind the screen again. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Not entirely unaccustomed to having to skulk about in order to avoid detection, Lockwood was still surprised by the fact that he'd managed to negotiate his way to the bedroom without detection on the Boar's part. He'd been glad for that much; if there was something his companion deserved, it was a decent bath left uninterrupted by an unwanted visitor. Padding up to the bedside, Lockwood cast a carefulk look overshoulder at the screen concealing the taerath where Raine presumably lounged. For a moment, his gaze lingered there, but he was quick to turn it away when his thoughts became troublesome. Moving back to the bedside, Jerrad found it difficult to resist the need for repose-- And more difficult still to resist the need for a proper shave. By the time Thelinia appeared in his view, half-clothed and framed in sunlight, the Dog was hunched over a comandeered bedpan with a waterskin and knife, hard at work at taming the unruly mass of scruff decorating his neck. While he'd anticipated that she'd eventually return, Lockwood hadn't quite accounted for the manner of her reappearance. Seeing her stand in the light streaming from the window, her hair a wet mess of tangled earth, Jerrad found himself transfixed nearly long enough to get caught staring. Thankfully, the distraction she provided worked in his favor. Startled by her sudden turn in his direction, Jerrad felt the knife jump in his hand, biting a shallow gouge across the back of his jaw. "Agh--!" He grunted his surprise, slapping his free hand across the wound. "Jus-- Jus' a minute ago! Hells.." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Only a slight alarmed by the self-inflicted wound, the Boar takes advantage of the distraction to slip back behind the screen, possessing enough outrage to continue, "Why sneak inta yer own room?!" Some rummaging of clothing and armor can be heard as Thelinia digs for her breeches and takes a belt for the tunic to cinch at the waist. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Moved to belated action by Raine's departure, Jerrad darts his eyes away to the wall nearest him, his injured arm fumbling for something to staunch his cheek with. "Dinnit want t'interrupt yer bath! Jus' didn't hear'y'get out." He grumbled, hoisting his legs over the side of the bed in pursuit of his discarded pack. He was mindful of his eye, keeping it set on the floor. "M'sorry." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar's growls are indecipherable until she emerges again, this time redressed in muddy pants and boots with a blade at her belt alongside a coin purse. "M'gettin' th'girl t'fetch th'water." As she reaches the door, she adds with lacking confidence, "An' I'll see t'uh a healer." [Bluff; 1] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive; 11] "Righ'.." Lockwood's brow arches in a show of rare curiosity, following the Boar's departure with his eye. "'Urry back, eh? Want t'crack at that cider." With that, he'd turn to focus his efforts on soothing his cheek, retrieving a tuft of cotton meant for cleaning weapons to dab at his wound. Once the Boar had taken her leave, however, Jerrad tucked the swab into a pouch at his belt and pushed himself to his feet. Moving to the dressing screen's side, Jerrad surveys the room as it was, taking note of the wet mess leading to and from the taerath and the door. He couldn't imagine her answering the door fully nude, but then these weren't exactly normal circumstances for the two of them. Skeptical, he gave a low hum as he peeked around the screen's side, immediately puzzled by what he saw there; namely, a pair of clearly used wine glasses, one still half full. Leaning over to down what remained of the glass, Lockwood debated following his companion until he was reminded of the wealth in their packs. Whatever it was that bothered her, it wouldn't do to exacerbate it by accusing her of lying, or allowing their hard-earned spoils to get fenced. And so, moving with an uncertain weariness, he returned to the bed to finish shaving. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia would locate the servant girl from before with little effort, as the inn kept her flitting from room to room with food, towels, linens, and drink. After putting her request for renewed water, the ranger departs the inn without another word to anyone. There were only two goals in mind as she left the Dove. First, she would replace her flithy clothing. And second, she would locate a cleric that might help Jerrad. It takes only a bit before she can find the path to her goals, but learns to head east for the grand market. It would be some time before she would return, and midday wanes. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As uncertain as he was, Jerrad knew better than to pursue the Boar when she'd set her mind to being alone.. And besides, running about the city streets coated in his own filth had gotten tiresome. They got enough prying looks between the two of them when they were at their best-- The highbrows would doubtless get to whispering if they showed to the Dance, as uncouth as they were unwashed. He needed that bath. Nephira would reach their room with a delicate knock, and with her is a servant boy, older than her by only a couple years. Both carry buckets, the girl first assuring that fresh water would be on its way once the basin was drained. Unless stopped, the two would quietly go about their business. The servants are greeted with a soft grunt, the door swinging away with a sharp tug, though the motion lacks any sort of malice. His eye locks on the girl first, then jumps to the boy, curious if not outright apprehensive. He'd never been comfortable around the servile class-- It was difficult to look at them and carry on as though their sullen eyes and false smiles weren't there. Lockwood knew he'd never be able to make things right for them; the least he could do is offer them a respectful distance. Allowing the two of them past, Jerrad took up post at the wall opposite the taerath, his attention kept evenly divided between the door to the hall and the servants as they worked. When they'd finally completed their task, he watched as they gathered their things and moved to depart, hesitating before stepping forward. "Ey." He called, perhaps a little too harshly. It surprised him, prompting him to affect a more gentle tone as he fished a pair of gold coins from his purse. "'Ere. Fer yer work." [Diplomacy; 16 < 17 ; 16 > 4] Both startle at his address, and again at his offer. They exchange worried looks with each other, and Nephira's downcast gaze leaves the obligation of reply to the Turmish boy; "M'Lord, it is honor enough to serve." A brief flash of confusion plays across the mercenary's features at the boy's response, though he is quick to recover, fingers closing over the coins to draw them back to his person. Giving a slow nod, Lockwood clears his throat, hoping to ignore his own discomfort. "Righ'. 'Pologies." He gruffed, drawing back to the wall. At first, it might have seemed he were content to leave the two to depart, until the jangle of coin again beckons their attention. This time, Lockwood extended a full pouch to the girl, a warning look paid to the boy. "Fetch me some clothes, eh. Breeches an' ridin' boots, an' a new tunic." Lockwood's instructions came across as more of a statement of truth than a request, though he was mindful to keep his tone kind, if not firm. His eye shifted between the two of them, gauging their response. "An' take as long as y'like." It requires a couple moments for the two to consider the request, the boy shrinking from the slight scrutiny as Nephira eyes the pouch. She wets her lips and swallows, double checking with a glance that she might take it. When the boy recovers enough to see the look on her face, however, he's quick to answer in her place, "Y-Yes, my Lord! We will return at once with your requests." He would step forward past her, lifting an open palm to accept the pouch. Despite his best efforts, his hand shakes and the nervous biting of his lip is telling. [Bluff, 6] Nephira, for her part, only looks between the two briefly before reassigning her gaze to the ground. [Sense Motive; 18>6] The coinpurse hovers mere inches from the boy's hand as a dawning suspicion sends Lockwood's eye darting between the two of them. He hesitates, lowering himself to a knee before the two of them that he might gain a better read on their features. If Nephira's gaze insists on lingering groundward, the sellsword whistles sharply to arrest her attention. Looking between the two of them, he questions them with a rumbling kind of softness, "Why're y'afraid?" [Diplomacy; 13] The whistle required to get the girl's attention causes both servants to flinch, and carefully evaluate each other, conferring with only looks. The Turmish boy, tawny-skinned with the musculature of a starved draft animal, shrinks like a mouse cornered. [INT 4, 6] "W-We haven't been out of the Dove, like that, my Lord--" the boy tries to smile but the wavering attempt is gone the moment it's seen. "We're only a slight nervous, my Lord," the girl continues for her fellow, dipping her head respectfully and inspiring the boy to the same. "It would be in Iniat's hands." The boy, at his mention, swallows but nods, "It would be an honor to fetch your purchases for you, my Lord." Something seems to change in Lockwood's expression at the children's responses, leaving him to regard them in subdued silence for long enough for his concern to read through. A frown forms, creasing his brow as he moves to rise. "..No.." The soldier's voice runs cool and distant, threatening to be lost in thought. "I, eh. Changed m'mind. Go 'head 'bout yer business. Fetch th'water in a half hour, eh." He glanced off to the door, reaching a hand to scratch at his eyepatch. "Didn't mean t'frighten yeh. Go on. Don't let that fetcher catch y'dawdlin'." Iniat gulps as he regards Nephira, both wearing looks of concerned confusion. As professionals, however, they are quick to recover in the absence of abnormality. Each dip their heads with a parting word in unison, and briskly depart as quickly as two young people can with buckets full of grimy water. As requested, fresh warm water would return to their suite as ordered. Iniat would seem especially silent, while Nephira does her best to avoid eye contact as always. -- Meanwhile, Thelinia walks the streets of the Northern ward, navigating only by the clamour of the market square. It was uncomfortable to grow distance between her and the Dove, but so was the pursuit of festival music and laughter. It was all simply something she'd need to endure; regardless of the need to cover for her "sister", her clothing demanded replacement. Between the infernal visit from that devil, and the flithy clothing on her freshly washed skin, the ranger's good humor had taken a hit. She wondered if another bath could be arranged, as the first proved insufficent anyway-- the basin had turned murky before she was fully submerged, leaving her hair heavier and greasier than was comfortable. The theft of what was going to be a well-deserved luxury was interrupted two-fold as well, both of her "trusty" companions managing to spoil her chance at tranquil solitude. She finds herself counting cobblestones as her mind replays Lockwood's intrusion, regardless of the effort to push it away. Had he been watching her in silence, or was he too preoccupied with his shaving? Knowing men, Thelinia laments that even one as subdued as he would still possess that nature, and already it brought tension to loom over their partnership. The Boar surprises herself with the decision to give him the benefit of the doubt, but not without trepidation-- A feeling she convinces herself will pass. As she makes her way into the busy streets, Thelinia keeps a careful mind for her personal space and coin purse. It takes some time before she finds the merchants and can begin shopping proper.. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Eh.. Thanks." Jerrad watched Iniat and Nephira as they went about their business, doing his best to avoid causing further distress-- Though the same couldn't be said for his own thoughts. They couldn't really be slaves, could they? Of course, he'd heard the stories in Cormyr; gnolls and orcs carting off naughty children in the night to feed to their pets, accounts of the Thayan courts and their multitudes of indentured servants toiling from birth to death-- But he'd always thought them tall tales, exaggerated for the sake of stirring patriotic fervor in the face of foreign threat. It'd never truly occured to him that someone might take it upon themselves to actually enslave a child. Looking about now, it left him to view the obscene luxuries Nimpeth afforded them in an altogether less positive light. Letting his arms fall from their lock across his chest, Jerrad strode heavily for the newly-filled taerath, a moment's appreciation afforded to the sheets of steam wafting up to greet him. The indulgence was mind-numbing. It wasn't difficult to see how the people of Nimpeth were able to look past the toil of slaves if this was the sort of luxury they lived with on the day to day. He couldn't say the same for himself, however. "Y'can go. 'Ppreciate yer help." +++++ The two seemed to have settled their nerves in the process of their task, offering courteous bows and appreciation for serving afterwards. They depart once confirming there was "nothing else" required of them, appearing more at ease in knowing their work at the suite was done. +++++ When he was finally left to his own devices, Lockwood was quick to strip the soiled garments from his person, casting them aside in a pile just beyond the screen that hid the taerath from the rest of the world. It was only when he felt the slightest touch of breeze against his bare flesh that he realized that he was nude in a room of his own for the first time in.. Well, quite a while. The idea itself seemed almost profane in how foreign it felt to him. It wasn't the same as having a home, renting an inn room-- He hadn't had a home for ages-- But it was private enough to recall the notion. It'd been so long, he'd nearly forgotten why it was he was so loath to disrobe, even in relative privacy. A reflection of the criss-crossing patchwork of scars that danced across his body were quick to remind him, however, urging him to step around the screen in a bid to better conceal himself. Suddenly rather conscious of himself, Lockwood was quick to submerge himself in the taerath's scalding waters, eager for a distraction from his own discomfort. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a stuffed pack, Thelinia is thankful as ever for her healed body. The devil's thorough magic even brought her a second wind, having done away with the ache of worn and torn muscles. It made it easy to carry the load, though she still considered buying a pack mule for another trip. Cautious as she was, there was nothing like a few small purchases to remind one of their wealth. It was a strange and foreign feeling, and it brought a giddy paranoia she felt was unbecoming; but the truth of the matter couldn't be denied. If she returned to the market, it wouldn't be a pack mule. She would buy a war horse. Thelinia returns to the Golden Dove after only a couple hours, but her hired healer would arrive sooner, knocking politely on the suite's door. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Predictably enough, the taerath's waters had been immediately soiled by Lockwood's introduction to them, a day and night's worth of accumulated blood and filth pooling out around his person to taint the water with a ruddy, brownish murk. If he were less exhausted, he might've taken exception to basking in it. With as foreign as the environment around him was, it took some time for Jerrad to adjust enough to absorb himself fully in the act of simple enjoyment; for a while, he felt himself sitting in place, a distant stare cast off into a distance that wasn't there. The events of the past day raced through his mind, from the initial moments following their screaming, tumultuous arrival, to the bitter combat in the weald, to later  that night.. Lockwood gave a low grunt to himself, sinking lower into the tub until it's contents had risen to consume his chin. It'd be easier to address those thoughts when he was clean-- And perhaps a touch less exhausted. The memories as they were stood hazy in his mind, clouded by fatigue, though.. There was one moment which stood out to him as clearly as when it had transpired. Shifting a bit, he wondered if it had meant anything more than what he'd first assessed it as; a kind of admission of shared suffering, finally put at an end. A cementing of friendship, maybe-- If he wanted to stretch it. Jerrad let out an uncommon sigh as he distracted himself with one of the wine glasses his companion had left unattended at the basin's edge, pouring himself a glass before dumping the bottle's remainder into the other glass. If Thel was going to enjoy herself, he might as well too. Eventually, after the glass had been drained and the majority of the filth had been scrubbed from his person, Lockwood was left to contemplate taking a nap until his partner's return when a knuck at the door roused him. He regarded the door overshoulder for a few moments in dull surprise before he began the process of extricating himself from the now lukewarm taerath. Towelling off as quickly as he could manage with his injury, he neglected to return his shirt to his person in favor of a pair of tattered breeches. Once he'd made himself somewhat presentable, Jerrad moved for the door and tugged it inwards, grunting a greeting. "Eh. Y'need somethin'?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Joydancer dips a head of dark brown in humble greeting to the mercenary. Her three-stoned holy pendant shines in silver and sapphire, glimmering above a matching gown of deep blue which risked a low collar in a florish of white ruffles. Her skin is eerily spotless, but undeniably beautiful in its earthy tone. Sky blue eyes lift to regard Lockwood with a gentle sympathy, and he'd notice the slightest freckles. "I'm to understand you are in need of healing services. You are mister Lockwood, unless I'm mistaken?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Blinking once in apparent confusion, Lockwood realized that he had not quite accounted for his healer being quite so.. Comely. If he didn't know her better, he might think this was some kind of joke on the Boar's part. Giving a low grunt, the sellsword dipped his head in a nod, stepping aside to allow the woman entry, doing his best to conceal his discomfort. [Bluff = 4+ ] "I, eh. Yeh." He gruffed, idly rubbing at the stitches binding his wounds. "'Ad some trouble in th'Winterwood. Eh. Bugbears." A light pause elapsed as his gaze darted over the woman, giving her a proper look over. "Y'already see t'm'partner?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive = 12] The woman gives a little hum as she passes him, answering, "I only received the directions." She stops at the rug in the center of the room, taking a moment to take in the room's presentation. The scented humidity from the bath leads her to regard the screen, briefly glancing the flower crown before returning her attention to her client. She smiles sweetly after a just a second's lingering on his figure, "Don't be shy! I promise I don't bite." She'd gesture him to sit at one of the chairs by the window, and stand behind him once seated to begin peeling the old bandages away with the help of some scissors. "My name is Marie. I hope the city has treated you better than the Winterwood," she says with an audible smile in good humor. Humor that dampens when the cleric is faced with Thelinia's handiwork. "Oh my. You really meant it, didn't you? Don't worry, I can handle this." Awkward as it might be, it can't be helped that the Joydancer's chest leans and brushes against him on occasion. ++++++++++ The heart of Greengrass, the Northern district boasts a loud scene of revelry. Several dances take place on makeshift stages, with spontaneous shows in the middle of crowds. Many performances are ritual celebrations of faith, with emphasis on Chauntean and Lliiran tradition. Flowers cover the ground beneath their feet and sprout from every building, from the well to the tallest estates. Attendants are dressed in their own finest, from the wealthy splendor of nobles to the working man's least stained garb. Music plays from every corner, lone bards to full bands, more or less with space enough to be enjoyed seperately. The crowd is almost dauntingly dense. With the Joydancers informed of Lockwood, Thelinia frees herself to explore the market in all its splendor. Thankful for her renewed energy, regardless of its patron, she strides through the crowds with care not to needlessly encounter anyone. Beyond the tables of rowdy cider contests and overflowing wine, the Boar scours the storefronts for a tailor. After several minutes spent in vain, it becomes clear that this is not the district one finds clothing and armor. At least, not anything road-worthy. A number of carts offer jewelry and dress, flamboyant fashions both local and imported-- Much of it Cormyrian and Shaaran. After some debate with herself, Thelinia decides she'd just have to make due. She finds a merchant at their cart and gets direction to their shop, though not without the insinuation that she might want to clean up beforehand. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The initial surprise now past him, Lockwood finds it easier to disregard the woman's appearance in lieu of the more pressing matter presented by his wounds. Seeming to miss the look she paid him in passing, he stepped after and seated himself at the Joydancer's instruction, eager to see the encumbering wound done away with. Pain lit up in a spiralling trail of white hot pinpricks along the mercenary's arm as Marie began the process of unwinding the wrappings from his person, the gauze soaked through from his earlier bathing-- Something that might have bothered him if he hadn't the notion that she'd seen much worse in her time as a healer. "S'been alrigh'." He answered her prodding, polite if not a touch gruff. Ignoring the inclination to wince as the last of the bandages were removed from his person, Lockwood felt himself breathe a bit easier without the (admittedly light) pressure about his chest-- Though the relief was short-lived with the woman's periodic contact across his person setting a distant anxiety in the man's gut. All the same, he sat patiently still, distracting himself with the increasingly familiar window view. "S'pose m'thankful fer it. Better me'n her, eh." He mused aloud, not wanting to be rude by allowing a silence to build. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie's voice smiles again, "You must be very close." Perhaps surprisingly, the haphazard stitching slides out of his ragged flesh without much pain; only a managable ache in the bones and deeper tissue respond to the shift. Its replacement is applied with similar ease, courtesy of the healer's patron, and it would only be a couple minutes before the new stitching is set. It's then the cleric feeds positive energy into his body, beginning from the terrible shoulder and collarbone injuries, working its way through until it reached his legs to cure them as well. The spell's work is topped off with a sense of renewal, some of his exhaustion lifted like fog in the warm sun. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Joydancer's magic brings a subdued sigh of relief to swell up through Lockwood's chest, a quiet appreciation grown from his renewed vigor. Forgiving his earlier discomfort, he was thankful for both Marie's expertise, and Thelinia's wisdom in seeking her out. Altogether more composed, he casts a quick glance and a nod towards the woman, "S'better. Thank yeh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mm. You're welcome," the cleric replies as she steps aside to give him a respectful distance to rise. "Your donation to the Church is much appreciated, if I may be so bold," comes the request for payment even as she dips her head. Evidently, Thelinia hadn't wanted to pay for services yet to be rendered. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With Marie absent from his side, Jerrad tested his newly-mended shoulder with a gentle rolling motion that saw only the faintest tenderness biting back against it. Though he might have liked to inspect the rest of his now absent wounds, the Joydancer's request arrests his attention and brings him to rise. "Aye, 'course." He nodded, moving to retrieve an appropriately sized purse from his pack. A distant smile affected itself on his features, overriding his usual aloofness in favor of genuine gratitude. "Hope that's enough. 'Ppreciate yer help." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The expression is genuinely returned, the Joydancer not bothering to check the contents before its placed in her satchel. The man's breeches catch her attention in the process, their condition earning a complimentary flourish of magic to dissolve the dirt and blood in a splash of shimmers. Marie  smiles to him again, dipping her head before departing, "Joy keep you, Lockwood." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye.." He managed, an inclination hinting at a nod paid in kind as she departs. Left alone as the door shuts behind her, Lockwood lingers for a moment to inspect the fabric of his breeches between pinched fingers. Giving a low hum, he turns and moves back to the window with a bottle of Suzale, draining it by measured degrees. When the task was done and the bottle set aside, he found his attention returning to the taerath at his side-- Still warm. Perhaps encouraged by his newfound health, the strength of his drink, or both, he disrobes and returns to it for a more thorough bath. Newly immersed and freshly mended, Jerrad felt himself relax in earnest for the first time since their arrival, even with the water having cooled a touch in his absence. It offered him an opportunity to reflect without the pain of his injury shadowing his outlook. Leaning back to touch his head at the basin's rim, Lockwood rested his eye on the ceiling above him, the wine's influence allowing him to forgive the lavish appointments that extended even there. Something heady swam about behind his eyes as what steam remained wafted skywards, shrouding him in precious heat. It wasn't something he was used to-- None of it was. Life in Cormyr had meant something different for him; it had meant a life of disciplined toil, where righteousness could be found in the simple act of following orders and getting through the day. Nothing had ever been easy, even when there was a family to coddle him. There certainly weren't warm baths, or even warm beds in leaner times. Now, he was here, and it wasn't easy to say how exactly he'd managed it. At least not at first. A flash of dirt brown hair and a glimpse of honeyed eyes darted through his mind, prompting a fitful turn of discomfort at the thought. He knew better than to forget the only reason he'd found his way home, Lockwood chided himself. The Boar had been the only one to recognize the struggles that'd dogged him, and the only one to accept him for it. They shared an understanding of loss, and he was thankful for it. He only wished he could admit it. What happened next would have been an embarassment if he'd ever admitted it, but the thick sheets of steam that concealed the room around him allowed the mercenary some measure of privacy-- As though the dressing screen did not already. What began as a begrudging curiosity grew into a quiet indulgence, shameful as it was. A tentative touch saw him stiffen and sigh, though his wandering thoughts lent him a measure of caution in what would have been a more fervent endeavor otherwise. Slow, rhytymic movements carried him along steady as a heartbeat, even as his own grew increasingly erratic, either sweat or steam beading at his brow. Before long, Lockwood found himself lost in a haze, the winespice still tasting hot across his teeth as he carried on, longer strokes and shallower breaths feeding each other in kind. It was easy to forget exactly why he'd started in the first place, for a time. As his pace quickened, however, the Dog's mind returned to trouble him with it's wanderings, altogether less tame than before. A long gaze travelled along tawny thighs, over a body that was all fire and sinew, and up to meet those same eyes beneath a familiar mat of straw-ridden brown hair. Jerrad felt his chest tighten at the thought. It seemed almost sacreligious, and yet.. A building pressure from somewhere beneath his hand killed the thought in it's place, sweeping through his legs and up behind his eyes. Waves of something he vaguely recognized as weary pleasure ran the length of his body and left him leaning spent against the taerath's rim, where he'd lay with a brooding sense of relief and wariness as consciousness slowly left him. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ After a long walk back to the Golden Dove, the uncharacteristically well dressed Boar returns up the stairs and to the shared suite's door in a soured mood. Had she only been more savvy in the plutocratic arts, perhaps she'd not be stuck in the (admittedly flattering) gown now in her possession. Thankful to at least have kept her boots in the storm, Thelinia laments the expenditure of her largely involuntary shopping spree. The last time she had worn something as fine was.. well, perhaps not as long ago as she remembered. An inexplicable haze clouded the memory, but the foreign feel of deep red fabric and black lace was clearest. That, and the dismay of her sister that she couldn't wear anything like it. Now, of course, the gown and bustier were something more familiar, at least in her experience. Though never having worn the stylings, she wasn't blind to Chondathan fashion. It just didn't have a place in the life of a roaming trail guide. Even her hair, now crafted into braids and cascades, felt cumbersome and strange. At least she blended into the crowd, she supposed. Opening the door to the suite with only minimal mind for possible intrusion, Thelinia enters the room to find it vacant. First assuming the Dog had only stepped out to relieve himself, she closes the door behind her and makes herself at home through the uncorking of a long awaited drink. The indulgence is worthy of closed eyes and a seat, which she takes by the window to enjoy the calm after the onslaught of liveliness. The mercenary begins to stratch at her head, made itchy by the floral adornments in her hair. She's quick to pause, however, and decides to stay her hand. Uncomfortable as it might be, there was no good in wasting her gold by unraveling the design. Though the reminder had her wondering, not for the first time, what her fellow mercenary might make of her in such a state. Considering the Dog, she wondered what might be keeping him. It's then she considers that he had long since locked himself out, or that perhaps he hadn't left at all. With her drink only halfway enjoyed, Thelinia stands to investigate the screen. With notable hesitation, she dares a peek around its end, just long enough to confirm Lockwood's presence as suspected. By the look of it, the healer had already come and gone, which was a small relief. Made slightly uncomfortable by the brief spying on his person, the Boar is further troubled by the desire to check on her companion again. [Will = 16] She refrains, opting instead to wrestle the notion out of her thoughts. Instead, she returns to her chair and drink. If he wasn't up by the time she'd finish, she'd wake him herself, just to be sure he was still alive, at least. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Beyond the steady rise and fall of his chest, Lockwood was content to lay unconscious and unaware of his companion's return. There and again, a sharp twitch of the leg or an involuntary shifting might tell of a dreaming mind and steadily pruning toes. As deeply entrenched in the realm of sleep as he was, the Dog afforded Thelinia ample time to finish her drink and consider checking up on him before the taerath's chill finally roused him. A bleary jade eye struggled for focus against the haze of fresh sleep, finding relief at the backside of his hand. Turning enough to catch the window's light in his field of view, the mercenary found that he couldn't quite judge if the room had darkened to any notable degree in his sleep, which was agreeable enough as far as he was concerned. The better part of his judgement would've been galled to see the Boar at the taerath's foot on waking. A less discerning part of it found less trouble with the notion. Troubled by the fleeting thought, Lockwood gave a low grunt as he sat up properly, a stream of lukewarm bathwater streaming off his person into the thin layer of muck that rested over the water's surface. Taking care to avoid knocking over the wine glasses that sat abandoned on the basin wall, the sellsword hoisted himself out of the tub in search of a towel on the screen's concealing side. Picking out a particularly plush specimen, he took to wiping himself down, glad to finally be clean. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her solitary reprieve was refreshing, a quiet time to take in the new reality of her home. Just about to have checked on him, Thelinia is content to let the Dog dress without interruption. Relieved that she hadn't needed to bother him, she is less comfortable with the anticipation of his seeing her dressed like a lesser noble. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Dried off properly now, Jerrad could take a moment to enjoy the feeling of clean hair on his head and clothes that weren't caked in filth. At least his breeches, at any rate. His shirt hadn't been quite so fortunate as to recieve the Joydancer's blessing, however, and was pulled over his head with some measure of hesitation. He'd need to see to his clothing before the day was out, to be certain. Stepping out from around the screen, Lockwood stopped halfway from tying off the last of the strings fastening his shirt's breast when his eye glimpsed a figure at the window who was at first entirely unfamiliar. "Wha-- What're yeh--?" The floral decorations that festooned the woman's hair nearly distracted the mercenary from her actual appearance as badly as did the fine dress she wore. It wasn't until his heart had a chance to beat and his breath a moment to catch up that he realized who it was he was looking at. Clearly incredulous, the Dog did his best to keep his brow in a straight line, doubtedly failing despite it all. "..What's all this?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Made predictably more insecure by her companion's reaction, the Boar crosses her legs with folded arms, and casts her gaze aside.  "I was assailed," she grumbles, "Couldn't get t' th'door without 'em throwin' more a'me. Lucky t'make it out alive." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Looks like y'made out pretty good fer gettin' assailed." The Dog quipped almost without prompting. Whether it was wise or not, he couldn't say-- Which meant it probably wasn't. There was no grey area with the Boar. He'd always appreciated that. Starting across for his pack, Jerrad swung it up onto his arm with a great deal more ease than he'd previously been capable of, clearly taking some pleasure in his restored range of movement. He turned back to her and leaned into the wall, uncorking another bottle of wine retrieved from the ruck and took a long pull. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia stubbornly upends her empty bottle of Suzale, briefly taking its last drop before landing its return to the table. She lifts a heel to place at the window sill, folding her other leg over it. Her boots, worn and dusty as ever, are at least proof that she had escaped before she was wholly consumed by finery. The Boar scoffs with a snort as she looks on the brightside; "Imagine I ca' sell it back once I've gotten t'buy what I need." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "'Magine so." Lockwood allowed himself an admittedly conservative pull from his own bottle before he set it aside, sidestepping into the bedroom for a moment. There was a bit of rattling that preceded his return, this time with more than just a bottle of Cherryfire; a keg would appear in Thelinia's field of view with little warning, an agreeable sloshing sounding against it's walls as it is set down on the sill in front of her. Jerrad resisted the urge to grin. "Y'want t'break this 'un open now, or we waitin' 'till th'Dance's up?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Much, though visibly not all, of her sour mood is alievated with the sight and sound of the cider. His question, however, gives her pause. She regards him with an almost inquisitive surprise. "Y'planned t'go?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As much as he might have wanted to answer with a firm 'no', it was easily apparent that Jerrad had been giving the decision more consideration than might have been expected. "Dunno. Figure there's fuck else t'do, eh?" He stated, admittedly subdued. "Need t'get clothed, at least." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Maybe they'll let y'go with jus' a shirt, eh?" She gives his breeches a look, "How'd y'get those clean anyway?" Perhaps surprisingly, she doesn't give the impression of meaning to skip the festivities. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Put more at ease by his companion's apparent complicity in attending the Dance, Lockwood turns briefly to drag a seat up to fall into before replying, "Ain't lookin' t'get mobbed again. 'Ad enough'a that in Niraya. Breanna was righ' twisted in th'head." The Dog leaned up as he spoke, adjusting his seating. A passing glance scanned over Thelinia's attire, outlandish as it was, and came away finding it agreeable. "An', eh. That healer y'sent cleaned 'em. Funny way t'spend a blessin'." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Could prob'ly smell yeh," she offers with a sidelong smirk, tempered only by the reminder that her old garb was less fortunate. That, and the reminder that he hadn't realized the time nor type of healing she received. Eager to evade that possible inquiry, Thelinia asks, "Y'want t'get movin', 'en?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The question caught Jerrad by surprise, though the nonchalance with which he replied hid it well enough. Giving a light shrug, he pushed himself upright in his seat, but neglected to stand. "S'pose we'll save th'keg fer later, eh." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ After gathering up their things and ensuring the room was locked behind them, the Dog and Boar set out for Nimpeth's Northern District, sans keg. While it might have been a short walk normally, the increasingly dense festivities hamper progress to their destination and sees the two arrive before sundown, but only just. The District is a swarm of activity, though Thelinia is perhaps less fazed by the chaos than her less finely-dressed companion; the wandering bards and bands are joined by street performers of all stripes, and the crowds have grown commensurately denser. With a little digging and a few well-placed elbows, Lockwood is able to locate the boutique that swindled his partner and the two come to a stop just outside. Lips pressed together, Jerrad comes away from the storefront unimpressed, his eye sliding over to meet Thelinia's. "This it then?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ On their way, the Boar noted wayward glances from the crowd's passer-bys. It was hard to say if they had been discerning her relation to the scruffy looking Lockwood, or discerning her form in the fancy new dress. Either possibility furthered her discomfort, only soothed by her decision to keep a blade at her hip. Somewhat uncomfortable showing her face near the shop again, Thelinia only folds her arms and grunts. "Aye, don't get t'close, they ca'prob'ly smell coin." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a telling glint in his eye, Lockwood affirmed both his skepticism and his intent to keep the playing field level between partners, turning back to the shop. "Eh. No gettin' that coin back just gawkin'. Jus' need a new shirt any'ow." He said, skeptical of the purveyor's ability to force any unwanted purchases upon him. If he'd the possession of both eyes, he might have winked, but in lieu of that elected a light shrug in it's stead before disappearing inside. Thelinia, for her part, would have perhaps fifteen minutes of uncomfortably silent solitude to herself, forgiving the ambient roar of Greengrass in full swing around her. When her companion finally emerged, he did so in garb so foreign as to render him nearly unrecognizable were it not for his characteristic bulk eye-patch-- Though his bewildered expression was perhaps a touch unfamiliar. As the shop's door swings shut behind him, Lockwood half-turns with a scorned glare, but the shopkeeper had already retreated deeper inside to see to another client, leaving the Dog to turn back and amble back to his companion. Staring off into the middle distance for a moment, he suddenly snaps to, a far away look of indignation darkening his brow. "I've been swindled." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia, having spent much of her time browsing nearby stalls and sneering at passing men (likely deterring customers in the process), is called back by her partner's emergence from the perilous boutique. With substantial surprise, she watches as he collects himself. Were the sight not so startling, she might have thought to find him fetching. A snickering snort is her best response. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The well-earned jeering is met with a deepened frown, though he doesn't bear any particular ill will towards the Boar beyond what is required by embarassment. Lockwood's cheeks redden just a touch, prompting him to look sharply off to the side, a hand shoved under either armpit. "Let's just go." He muttered, not entirely sure where they'd be going  in the first place. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Amusing as his indignation is, the Boar's vindication is tempered by some odd want to offer consolation. "It's not tha' bad." Somewhat off-put by her own mercy, Thelinia clears her throat and redirects her gaze to the festival. "Ye' uh.. wanna grab a somethin' t'eat?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The reassurance seems to fall on deaf ears at first, but as the late sunlight catches in his eye, some of Lockwood's bitterness seems to relent and he gives a small nod. "Yeh. Sounds good." Locating food is not particularly difficult, their efforts aided by the many stalls lining the squares and avenues of the district, all manned by shopkeeps eager to part festival-goers from their hard earned coin. Exotic ales and spiced meats accompany more domestic wines, imported ales, honeyed hams and sweetmeats and any number of edible sundries one could imagine-- All thronged by folk eager for refreshment. Left with the entirety of the festival at their beck and call, the Dog and Boar are free to peruse the many stalls for curiosities, food and drink to slake their needs, with Lockwood taking a particular interest in a spit of smoked elk rolled in local herb. As the two carry on, perhaps finding some solace (or even enjoyment) in the celebration's offerings, the sun continues it's steady descent towards the horizon, bathing the city in a crepuscular light that seems to set the world aglow. A murmuring begins to spread through the crowd around the mercenaries, and townsfolk of all stripes can be seen gravitating in the direction of the vineyards, though many remain engrossed in activities of their own. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It was easier to ignore her discomfort with the crowd as time went on, Thelinia finding herself ever more easily distracted. Between food and drink, she even opted for a few trinkets with only distant reservation, which found security in the bag adhered to her belt. A few of the curiousities even draw her attention in earnest, from acrobatic shows of dexterity to bizarre magical displays; though the staged swordplay performed on stage earned the most attention. On more than one occasion, the Boar found herself lingering on her companion. It was a simple thing to assume she was only adjusting to his new and foreign appearence, but even she had to admit it was a more challenging task than she would've expected. Hoping that he hadn't caught a glance of her consideration, Thelinia tried not to wonder if he faced a similar effort. Caught up in the festivities, she finds herself moving along with the flow of the crowd, provided the Dog was likewise inclined. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Likewise swept up in the spirit of celebration, Lockwood had taken time to enjoy the sights and sounds of his first proper Greengrass in nearly a decade. While the more arcane displays were regarded with dull interest at best (owing to his general disdain for magic), the shows of swordsmanship, feats of strength, and skillful archery were met with a more apparent appeal. It was just as well, offering him the opportunity to distract himself from his partner's change in appearance, difficult as it was. The task was made easier in no small part due to the variety of items up on offer beyond food and drink, though those treats were no less desirable for it. A fine silver dagger, a few choice trinkets, and an enchanted pouch to store them in were all selected with fairly little debate, though Lockwood always seemed quick to look to his companion for confirmation on the matter rather than risk the Boar's ire for frivolous spending. When crowd began to shift towards the vineyards, the mercenary seemed ready enough to follow Thelinia's lead, issuing a light shrug in response to any questioning looks he recieved. He could certainly think of worse ways to spend their evening. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The ranger's only reluctance is found when crossing the haybales catching arrows from an archery contest. Being late in the day, the event seemed to be winding down, most of the strawmen left without archers. Four women and two men remain, unleashing their shortbows in unison, each arrow striking their targets with varying accuracy. It's the jeering of one of the men after their volley, however, that brings Thelinia to stop. The braggart bests his male aristrocratic opponent in a brief verbal altercation, drawing a frown from only one of the women. Thelinia rolls her shoulders to stave off a growing tension. She scans the scene, finding the judge panel filled with noblemen too proud to show much interest at this point in the contest. One of the women finds themselves disqualified, which she takes well enough as she departs the straw-laden field. The Boar eyes her companion with more intent than question, but waits for his opinion nonetheless. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Not a stranger to the lure of a competition easily won, Jerrad regards Thelinia with an approving smirk. If anyone could put a contest of marksmanship to shame, he was certain it'd be her. As if to cement his answer, Lockwood gave her a nudge forward as he started for the venue, content enough to observe from alongside his companion-- Or wherever it was they'd stick him. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Under more common circumstances, she might have taken exception to his contact-- but the last couple days had been anything but. Instead it brings an encouraged smirk, and she makes her way to the judges' table to negotiate entry. [Diplomacy = 6] [Intimidate=20+4] Where talking fails, mild intimidation succeeds. The disinterested judges, revived by the usually pretty ranger's instistance, grant her entry to the contest-- much to the chagrin of the competition. The boastful male in particular lifts his nose in a sneer, which grows vaguely into a confident smirk. The other man eyes her in a decidedly different manner, which Thelinia either misses or ignores. She releases the graceful surcoat from her person and rolls it in her hands before handing it off to her companion, undoubtedly earning snickers from the men. She regards the Dog with confidence unphased by the others, and takes the provided shortbow in hand to assume her position. Before the judges can order the ready, she takes a moment to loosen the lacings at the front of her bust. Doubt crosses her thoughts then, and she regrets the lack of mobility it affords her shoulders. [[ Gaddo: Male Human Sorcerer, N. Str 7, Dex 7, Con 14, Int 9, Wis 8, Cha 17 - Gaddo has gray hair and brown eyes. He wears azure robes and wields a shortspear. Gaddo has an animal companion, a gray bat named Mella. He has a penchant for deception and cheating. Ghola: Female Human Adept (alchemist), LN. Str 13, Dex 11, Con 12, Int 10, Wis 11, Cha 10 - Ghola has uneven copper hair and amber eyes. She wears modest garments and a gold amulet. Setta: Female Human Fighter, N. Str 15, Dex 14, Con 8, Int 9, Wis 9, Cha 12 - Setta is disorganized and foolhardy. Setta has long red hair and hazel eyes, and a round nose. Apura: Male Human Aristocrat, N. Str 10, Dex 12, Con 8, Int 8, Wis 10, Cha 10 - Apura has a square face, with tangled gray hair and sharp amber eyes. He wears fine raiment and jewelry. Apura is bold and lewd. Lano: Male Human Warrior (soldier), CN. Str 16, Dex 15, Con 18, Int 15, Wis 8, Cha 8 - Lono has an angular face, with white hair and dark green eyes. Gadd  = 19 17 6 19 6 Ghola = 15 14 Setta = 19 14 4 Apur = 10 Lono = 10 14 4 17 Thel = 15 22 19 19 1 ]] By the fourth round, only Gaddo, Thelinia, and Lano remain. Lano's loss this round leaves him with a barely concealed, simmering rage seemingly aimed for Gaddo. Against him, Thelinia fares even worse, her arrow cast off course by some errant element. She curses her restraints (which have been stretched and loosened considerably), though wonders if the wind could've also played a part. Angry, she lowers her bow, too shamed to glance her companion or the victor. Lano, however, speaks up. With the full force of a noble's indignation, he approaches the judges with the accusation of Gaddo's cheating. An impromptu investigation is done, until the most magically attuned of the panel is decided. Gaddo is disqualified, much to Thelinia's surprise, and they approach to offer her reward.. But the bulky soldier speaks up again. He demands that with Gaddo's disqualification, he remains in the running and is entitled to another round with Thelinia. The judges seem amicable to the idea, and look for her agreement. Thelinia finally pays Lano a look in earnest, the pride in his face barely hiding the ire.. and an entitled plea that she accept. Despite a lingering doubt, the opportunity to take the braggart down a peg is too tempting. Thelinia = 11 Lano = 16 The unanticpated loss holds her captive as a breath passes, before Lano's victorous laugh brings her out of it. She looks at the arrows in an understated dismay, but as he continues, she turns to regard him with growing disdain. Lano struts closer to her, appearing more than happy to lord his victory over her, as well as use his substantial height to enjoy the view. A not so subtle proposition is offered as consolation. Glaring at the man, she suddenly moves to swipe up another arrow and takes aim at his target. More precisely, his last arrow. Thelinia = nat 20 To the amazement of the judges and some members of the crowd, her arrow flys impossibly true. Lano's arrow is shredded apart, its head replacing his at its mark. A sound of astonishment leaves the meager crowd breathless, a few clapping their shock. Lano can only stare agape beside her, first at the denial of his win, then again at the woman responsible. Thelinia is likewise surprised, but prideful spite keeps her expression stern. [Bluff=18] Turning to regard the man again, she spits at his feet before lowering her bow and returning it to the judges. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Proceeding after the Boar as far as he was allowed by the competition's dictates, Lockwood is more than happy to comply with the unspoken command that he hold her more restricting garment while she attend to her business. What snickering reaches his ears in regards to his partner is repaid with a withering glare that borders on outright bloodlust, dissipating the instant it quells itself. [Intimidate 17+10 = 27] Immediately enthralled the moment the contest begins in earnest, the mercenary watches each of the competitors with vacillating levels of interest-- Save for the display put on by Thelinia, each victory bringing a smile to subtly widen across his features. By the time of the fourth round, however, a hidden measure of agitation has burrowed it's way under his features; an expression that is only exacerbated into outright indignation at Raine's apparent loss in the fifth. The mercenary had half a mind to bend the smarmy man in half, but finds it unneccessary when Lano's outcry sees the sorcerer outed for his cheating. Cheating, Lockwood thought, he should have suspected from the start. Thelinia is afforded a final chance at the prize-- Whatever that might be-- Earning the whole weight of the Dog's attention. The draw of bowstrings find his eyes locked to marksman and ranger, waiting with bated breath that is only found once the arrows have been loosed. What follows brings a venomous ire for the nobleman to bubble up through his chest, and the inclination towards violence returns in full force.. At least until he finds himself nearly as stunned as all the rest of the onlookers when the Boar asserts her skill. His eye tracks first from his companion, then to Lano, and lastly to the ragged fletching that juts from what little remains of the burly soldier's shattered victory. There is moment of tense silence from the Dog. Then, like a faithful hound bellowing a greeting to a beloved keeper, Lockwood lets out a peal of howling laughter, heavy boots trampling their way to meet her as she takes her leave. Caught up in a swirl of vindicated elation, the mercenary thrusts his arms forward to scoop the ranger up and off her feet, holding the victor high for all to see-- Assuming she doesn't have the presence of mind to evade the gesture. "HAHAAAH! Y'RIGH' CREAMED 'IM!" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ After handing off her bow, Thelinia had barely turned to the eruption of laughter before she was  thrust into the air by an exuberant Dog. A startled noise is accompanied by a stunned look, likely the most genuine surprise he's seen from her. Fortunately, that surprise keeps her from kicking, and the Dog would survive the encounter unscathed. [Will = 5] Embarassment has reddened her cheeks by the time she's placed down, and the infringement earns him a reflexive strike to the jaw. However, the embarassment had also rendered her bones to jelly, substantially deadening the blow and resulting in what was almost certainly a silly display. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The blow strikes Lockwood dead-on, hard enough to pitch his jaw to the side and temper his exuberance with an apologetic sobriety, though a faint smile still lingered on his features for a few moments. Stepping back half a pace, the Dog allows his partner space to depart if she so chooses, though he's quick to offer a proper apology, "I, eh. Sorry. Y'did good." As honest an appraisal as he could give, at any rate. The better part of his attention remained focused on Thelinia in the hopes that she might forgive him, though Jerrad pays the emasculated nobleman a glance that smacks of pointedly misanthropic pleasure at his misfortune, prize or not. "We, eh. M'righ' behind yeh." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Further insult to injury, Lano's victory is awarded to him with little notice from the audience. The Dog and Boar proved better amusement, earning several knowing smiles and a few chuckles. He watches them all the while with disdain, returning Lockwood's glare with one of his own. Small as the crowd might've been, their response does little to abate Thelinia's embarassment. However, a brief smile after landing her fist to his face offers hope for forgiveness. It fades a little when he affirms her valor, the praise not landing as intended, but without robbing her of the thrill of victory. An effort to cover for her embarassment and see themselves out, she extends a hand to receive her garment rather than snatching it from him, and would quickly bring it over her shoulders. She gives a confirming hum, the tone behind it indecipherable-- though her blush might communicate it clearly. It wouldn't be until they had left the scene and in a few strides retreated to a quieter spot just a corner from the vineyard's court, that she begins redressing in earnest. Turning from him to do so, she tightens her lacings and forgives the torn portions of the bustier, compensating for it the best she can. The green outer piece is then fastened around it, and its about then the Boar thinks to check if her partner had kept his gaze at bay even with her back turned. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Some of the concern Lockwood feels fades with the Boar's smile, brief as it was, though what wisdom he has encourages him to hold onto the feeling until she'd confirmed her forgiveness. The crowd's praise is largely ignored for his companion's sake, as is Lano, his gaze darting away from the blush it encountered on Thelinia's cheeks. At her request, the garment she'd entrusted him with is handed back, a compliant nod accompanying the motion as he awaited her next move. Remaining otherwise stationary, the Dog waits in loyal silence until Thelinia elects to depart, following after her in lockstep the moment she'd started off. As they walked, Lockwood fell back into his usual stoic quiet, his gaze kept trained alternately on the back of his companion's head and the subtle change in their surroundings. A careful look is directed at his fellow mercenary as they come to a halt, curious at first until the ranger begins the process of reacquainting herself with her finery. Turning his eye elsewhere, Lockwood waits in patient vigil, a careful watch kept for prying eyes-- Or an unwisely vengeful nobleman. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A final adjustment to her blouse and fanged necklace, she clears her throat and turns again. A fair amount of pink remained on her cheeks, and she hoped it wasn't as visible as it felt. At least they were standing in shadow. Though still evading direct eye-contact, she's quick to steady her voice, "Think uh, everyone's headed t'the vineyard fer somethin'. Looks big." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception; 18+7 = 25] Jerrad turns at Thelinia's beckoning and finds that the color on her features stands out to him even through the alley's gloom, though he makes no mention of it through a twist of the lips or curl of the brow. If anything, she'd every right to be embarassed by the display she'd been unwillingly made a part of, bringing him an inkling of guilt that he did his best to dispatch with. A quick glance off to the alley's mouth ascertains the truth of her statement; indeed, the crowds continued to file past, murmuring amongst one another as all the festivities seemed to converge on the vineyard's walls. Giving a hum in concurrence, Lockwood nods, "Uh, yeh. Y'still want t'go? Drinkin' might be free, knowin' th'high an' mighties." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia gives an affirming noise, a grunt too soft to be one. She'd walk more alongside him as they made their way, only a courteous step behind. Her lips are drawn tight in a bid to reclaim her expression, some quiet steadying breath cementing the effort. By the time they'd reach the walls of the vineyard, she felt secure in her composure and could direct her attention to the relocated festivities beyond it. The spent cobblestone of the public domain is broken at the silver gates proudly displaying the Woren name, dark maroon and brillant white blossoms lining the pillars and weaving themselves through the bars. Silent though smiling house guards monitor the influx, of which the Dog and Boar trail behind. Flat, pristine sun-bleached brick guides the people through a winding path lit by faerie fire, though the sky still held enough light. At the trail's end is a courtyard, large enough for the ample crowd as well as a wooden stage where a lively tune played. Blooming trellises form a boundary between the precious crop and the people, arbors hanging overhead with grapevine lacing them together, dangling tantalizing fruit between vivid leaves. The crisp scent of the wine berries dominates the air, overtaking the varied flowers that coat the ground and adorn the tables. It could be mistaken for a high noble's wedding, were it not for the assortment of citizens present. The center of the courtyard is a large multi-tiered marble fountain with a wide basin, designed in the likeness of Chauntea's cornucopia. Most notable about the work of art, is the shining liquid it feeds itself is caught in flute glasses by the patrons at it's rim and enjoyed. "Galad.." Thelinia exclaims to herself. Despite her best efforts, the ranger is awed by the sight, looking about with care that she didn't seem as out of place as she felt. Her pace slows to better take it in, or perhaps with a measure of reluctance as they near the courtyard proper. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The trek to the vineyard had seen Jerrad keep more or less to himself, forgiving a handful of glances in his companion's direction in order to ensure her place at his side. Should she have caught his eye, he'd make no attempt to hide the scrutiny, likely passing as a typical gesture of one accustomed to travelling in potentially unfriendly territory. By the time they'd made their final approach to the Woren gates, Lockwood's worrisome nature seemed to have subsided enough for him to blend more naturally with the crowd around them. Habit keeps him by the Boar's side as the sweet sting of ripening grapes washes over the both of them and stops the fighter in his tracks. While he was perhaps a touch too stoic to allow his jaw to hang slack with awe, the courtyard's opulence is not lost on the mercenary; not since his confirmation as swordcaptain in Suzail had he laid eyes on the kind of splendor that threatened to make his legs quake. Perhaps it was the product of an unhealthy appreciation for fine alcohol that afflicted him with such a weakness, he thought-- Perhaps he was simply less averse to the trappings of noble indulgence than he'd wanted to believe. Whatever the reasoning, once Lockwood's gaze had time to focus, he was left just as stonewalled as the Boar. Inhaling deeply, Jerrad let a breathy sigh shudder between his teeth in time with his wavering heart, a careful step taken nearer his companion just to ensure she was still there-- And that she was seeing what he was. "Gods.. Y'ever see anythin' like it?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Preception = 17; 15] The mercenaries would notice a common thread with arriving guests as they enter; Regardless of sex, couples and triples walked with linked arms, escorting each other into the courtyard, as would be proper in any formal and noble setting. The only exception to the rules seemed to be sailors, whose sea-worn trappings seem to give them a pass in the formalities. Anyone in finer garb adhered to the social protocol. The Boar is made aware of this in her near slack-jawed observation of the courtyard and the path they walked towards it. It gives her pause, prompting an uncomfortable feeling in her gut. It was enough to have been covered in flowers again over the course of the festival, and while she had eventually accepted it, this asked a little more. Particularly after what just transpired. She swallows a bit, and dares a glance at her companion, only to check if he seemed to notice the same. If not, she'd continue along with the hope that their flowers and fancy dress would be enough to prevent suspicion. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood's awareness of the unnerving protocol is kept mostly to himself for the first few steps, the Boar's glance caught and returned with a look of kindred concern but little else. He follows her as before, with a minor alteration in stride serving to keep the two of them side by side. The last thing he wanted was for some presumptive noble to slither over and take her arm when he wasn't looking-- If only for the sake of the crowd's safety. As they forged further ahead, however, the mercenary's worries began to override his caution, and with a hushed kind of urgency he leaned over to mutter from the side of his mouth, "They're all holdin' arms." He meant it as a warning more than as a flimsy request to make contact. Hopefully she saw it that way. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Diplomacy 13 v DC 10] Without the incident that just transpired between them, Thelinia doubted she'd feel as apprehensive. The cause behind that doubt alone compounded her wariness, but the Dog had never given her reason to worry about his intentions. Even his earlier intrusion on her privacy wasn't accompanied by any indication of lust, was it? Uncertain if they'd be noticed or not, the Boar decides they could get away with it and continues down the path. Uninterrupted, she'd look around the party, but her focus would settle on the grand fountain of sparkling wine. Floating serving plates around it offer clean flutes, which Thelinia would regard with a growing thirst. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Whether or not Lockwood thought it wise for the two of them to break with the rest of the crowd in joining arms, he found himself without much complaint in Raine's decision to ignore it and followed after. Still, he kept an eye out, wary of any meddling from the onlookers around them. As they drew up before the fountain, the Dog's thirst would mirror the Boar's, his throat somehow suddenly parched despite the intermittent drinking he'd kept up throughout much of the day. A mindful glance scanned the rest of the partygoers briefly before he moved to pluck a pair of glasses from a nearby plate, offhandedly offering one to his partner. [Perception 14] With scarcely a sound, he eyed Thelinia disbelievingly as he leaned forward and allowed a stream of sparkling liquid to fill his glass. Staring down at the flute's spotless rim, he looked back to the Boar, pensively awaiting her to do the same. "This ain't real. Can't be." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thankfully, it'd seem few guests bother to notice the pair. The ones who do only do so with passing judgement, a couple prodding their partners with brief gossip to share. "Y'don't suppose it's poisoned, eh?" Her own glass filled just a step behind his, and swirled under her nose less for protocol and more for safety. It was sweet and crisp as one would expect, and she wondered if it could even be enchanted. Considering how many were partaking, she takes a longer a sip than wise for a poison test, and is encouraged enough for an even longer second when no strange taste is detected. What kind of nobleman would risk poisoning half his own city, anyway? This Woren family clearly ran the city, or at least owned the people who did. Whatever political leverage he carried, it'd make no sense to spend it all on poisoning hundreds of people at the heart of his property. The band's cheerful song comes to an end, making room for the arrival of a figure of great importance, evidenced by the sudden quieting of the crowd, murmurring in anticipation. "Well met and a grand welcome to the Woren Greengrass Soirée!" Begins a statement from a man in regal robes. He continues to profess the honor of hosting the event for many years running, each time greater than the previous. The esteemed friends, as he refers to the audience, are generously welcomed to partake in his wealth tonight, and enjoy the pleasures of the finest wines and delicacies in the Realms. He announces that the Sunset Joydance will commence as the sun's last rays dance between the boundless reaches of his great vineyard. Until then, he bids them a fair and beautiful evening, and departs the stage with a half bow and the approving applause of his guests. Thelinia, affording herself a second glass as she hears Woren out, appears neither interested or otherwise. In truth, were it not for the pompous display and obnoxious tone of voice, she might have felt a measure of excitement. She glances her companion to see if he felt similarly, or at least determine what she could from the stoic. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ If only just, Lockwood manages to allow some of the tension to roll off his shoulders at noting the apparent disinterest held by their fellow patrons, freeing him up to turn the full weight of his attention towards the resplendent fountain before them-- And the beverage that had so generously filled his cup. Of course, tantalizing as it was, his companion raised a fair point in pondering the safety of the drink; certainly a nobleman hosting a gala of this magnitude on such a pointedly auspicious day wouldn't dare to poison his own people? Most hardly had the stones to consider it in the first place. All the same, the suggestion was enough to plant a seed of doubt in the back of Jerrad's mind, and it bore fruit quickly. He gave a low hum, drawing the glass to his chest. [Stealth 17] "S'pose we'll found out, eh." He muttered, slipping off a fine brass ring from his right hand. Casting a quick look overshoulder to ensure none were observing them terribly closely, he paused a moment then dropped it into the champagne. Almost immediately, the violet dragon etched into the ring's surface begins to glow a brilliant azure, warning of a latent enchantment. Lockwood's mouth twists briefly into a scowl before he disposes with the expression for the sake of presentation. "Well it ain't poison. S'bewitched. Ain't that typical." The words threatened to come out as a growl, but the Dog managed to simmer down almost as quickly as he spoke them. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Wis = 12] [Knowledge = 1] Thelinia's first sip is accompanied by the viewing of Jerrad's curious ritual. Deterred only as far as his concern seemed to reach, she continues to drink it with an affirming hum of vague disparagment. With time before Woren's address, she asks, "S'what's that?" [Will = 18 vs DC 17] Thelinia is unaffected by Calm Emotions. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Will = 19 vs DC 17] Seeing his companion more or less nonplussed by the apparent ensorcelling, Lockwood shrugs his shoulders and knocks back a half of the glass before settling on savoring the rest. As Woren mounts the stage, he leans over enough to catch Thelinia's ear, "Looks like an arsehole." [Stealth 17] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 19 vs 17] Thelinia snickers quietly and briefly, as to not draw attention, and proceeds to hear Woren out, though not without regard for any more of the Dog's observations. However, a nearby patron catches Lockwood's comment, and stops in his pristine, suede-laden boots. "'Ey! That's Lord Woren, the baron whose land you happen to be standin' on and drinkin' from!" The man whispers in such a hissing manner that others around him take notice, and many find their attention drawn to the verbal altercation. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood hardly seems to bat his only remaining eye at the man, sipping thoughtfully from his glass before offering cooly, "Aye. An' I thank 'im fer that. An' I'll thank y'to piss off an' get bent, 'less I do it m'self." The mercenary's hand rests nonchalantly atop the pommel of his blade. It has clearly seen use beyond a nobleman's court. [Intimidation 28] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A perhaps too audible collective gasp breezes amongst the onlookers. It in turn garners more attention from others, creating a small though noticable movement in the crowd from the vantage point of the stage. [Will 15 v 28] The noble Jerrad shoots back at takes a literal step back. He stammers, looking aghast until he can only retort with a "Hrmph!" [Perception = 18 v 17] Once Woren leaves the stage, there would be only a minute or so before the crowd begins to part, and Woren himself emerges to regard the Dog and Boar in person. He is a stern looking man, standing around six feet with a lurking resentment in his otherwise chilled blue eyes. His hair is immaculately styled in long brown waves, and commands a presence somehow undue. "Is there some manner of problem here?" His voice is as cool as his eyes, though an unconvincing warmth attempts to conceal it. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A small measure of exasperation plays across the Dog's features as the precise meaning of the crowd's outcry dawns on him. Disposing of any pleasure he might have taken in the nobleman's cowing, he steels himself to recieve Lord Woren's address. At the baron's statement, Lockwood takes a step forward and bows his head in a motion that seems almost natural-- Or at least very well practiced. "None at all, m'lord. Jus' a small disagreement, but I'm quite willin' t'let it be in th'spirit o'th'holiday-- An' yer generosity, o'course." By all accounts, Jerrad might seem fully sincere. [Bluff 20+3] [Diplomacy 13] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmmm.." The baron hums a very gracious, and seemingly sincere understanding. "I see." The offending nobleman, wisely holding a distance between himself and Lockwood, holds himself at attention, after providing a respectful bow to the baron. Caught in a situation which quickly escalated, Thelinia had only watched from behind Jerrad with casual interest. At Woren's approach, however, she stopped short of finishing her drink. Following suit with the other guests, she likewise dips her head in respect. With a patient look paid to each of the men, the corners of Woren's lips lift in a measured smile. "I would be remiss to allow a misgiving to bear fruit at my soirée. Indeed, in the spirit of the holiday, you may carry your disagreement to the stage, and see the matter quashed once and for all." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood gave a stiff nod, glancing the nobleman from before for but a second. "'Course, m'lord. Be my honor." Turning sharply on his heel, the upstart mercenary issues a beckoning nod to the besueded noble, then turns to Thelinia. Still intent on laying it on thick, he dips into a deep bow, cape swept up from his shoulder before him. "M'lady." The Dog gruffed, an ephemeral flash of exasperation darting across his features. "Y'mind watchin' this fer me?" Coming out of the bow, he offered up the glass in his hand, the ring inside still glowing faintly. All his bases covered, Jerrad pivoted crisply on his heel and marched for the stage, gloved hand still wrapped tightly around the pommel of his blade. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Jerrad's abrupt change of character makes the Boar blink in surprise, unprepared for the sight. She swallows against a suddenly dry mouth, likely caused by the wordless parting of lips. Without giving away too much of her surprise, and reassured by the look he casts, she takes the glass without a word-- or much response at all, apart from a necessitated sound of affirmation. Were it not for the meek, visibly tense nobleman he'd be fighting, Thelinia might have felt nervous. But the Dog was proven in her eyes, and she shows no sign of shaken nerves. Woren himself, however, was an unsettling presence to be near, particularly as her partner made his way towards the stage. The noble pays Thelinia an almost pleading look, one evaporated by fear at a mere glance from Woren. He departs with a shaking hand following Lockwood's example, placed on the pommel of a sword worth more than is probably battle-worthy. Members of the crowd not already aware begin to take notice as the two men rise to the stage. The band exchange glances, themselves unaware of the turn of events, but would begin a lively tune once the swords begun to clash. Swords drawn and held at the ready, the noble's shivers, his stance likewise uncertain. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 13] [Feint - 16 vs 13] Once he'd mounted the stage and the two contenders taken their positions, the larger of the two dipped low into a duelist's bow, the motion providing cover to scan the crowd for the Boar. Spotting Woren at her side sent a jolt of agitation running the length of his spine, but it was ignored in favor of the task at hand. Regardless of whether or not the bow was returned, the scabbard at Lockwood's hip gives a cold hiss as black iron is freed from it's mooring, the bastard's surface glinting with an oily black sheen in the fickering magelight. The Dog's earlier show of wheedling sycophantry is all but disposed of, replaced with a familiar grimness that reads clear in the hard setting of his jaw. Taking the initiative with the practiced ease of an old soldier, Jerrad steps in a stride towards the worrying nobleman, but rather than attack he begins to circle the man, the jade of his eye gleaming cold against the sun's fading light. The Dog walks a slow circuit around the man, taking the opportunity provided by the moments before the opening exchange to size the noble's worth. Quaking legs and quivering lips leave little to impress him, coaxing some of the venom in Jerrad's stance to dissipate-- Even as he burst forward to strike. [Antone Atk 2] The unblooded nobleman, taken aback by the larger man's speed (and the prospect of being skewered), jumps away to the side of the stage in an effort to avoid the strike.. Only to for Lockwood to pivot sharply out of what revealed itself to be a false thrust, his blade given a swift twirl to reclaim his balance. By the time his opponent had recovered, the Dog was well ready to meet any attack. Perhaps disappointingly, the attack never came. Lashing out with a thrust of his own, the noble found himself stumbling over his own feet, limbs made fat and heavy with the weight of fear. His interest quickly dwindling, Lockwood capitalized on the man's fearful inexperience and struck him hard across the inside of the thigh with the flat of his blade, stepping aside to let him stumble past. A few quiet gasps from the crowd mirrored the man's own as he recoiled, staggering into something vaguely resembling a fighting stance. A scowl twisted the mercenary's features, pre-empting a barking command, "Get yer head together, boy. Yer s'posed t'kill me!" [Antone Atk 3] Emboldened (or perhaps incensed) by the sellsword's words, the nobleman lashes out in an arc with his rapier-- And very nearly loses hold of it in the motion. Leaning hard in an effort to reclaim the weapon from the tips of his fingers, he catches another movement from Lockwood out of the corner of his eye. "High, y'fool!" Jerrad growled, commanding his opponent to meet his strike. For the first time, swords clash, with the warrior's sheer weight nearly throwing the aristocrat off his feet; it's only through Lockwood's forcible advice (and a good deal of luck) that the man keeps his footing, pushing feebly back against the Dog's sword. Thankfully for Antone, his opponent seems to relent and backs off a step to resume his circling. The crowd about them is tense. As he circles the man, Jerrad catches another glimpse of Woren near the Boar, though he seems to resist a scowl. Returning his focus to the duel, Lockwood motions tersely to his opponent, "Quit shakin', an quit lookin' me in th'eyes. Watch m'feet! Ain't you learned anythin' with all that money an' all that time? Block low!" Dropping his sword flat across his knee, Jerrad darted in with a thrust set to skewer the noble from the groin up, only to allow a frenzied swipe to bat it aside. Antone seemed to not quite believe it himself, doubling back a step. "S'good. Y'ain't completely worthless. Now keep them ears open! Strike!" [Antone Atk. 12] [Jerrad Atk. 19 - 22 nonlethal] The man's next attack has a great deal more focus to it, perhaps driven by a growing humiliation at being chided by his foe. The thrust comes in fast from Lockwood's right, an admirable effort that is swept aside with a flick of the wrist that seems almost contemptuous. Rather than afford his opponent the sort of clemency he'd offered thus far, the mercenary twirls the blade out of the motion and whips it back at the nobleman's head, connecting the flat with a dull crack. Moving with an uncharacteristic swiftness, Lockwood steps in to catch the man under the arm as he falls, lowering him to the ground with at least a small measure of care. The sellsword regards the man's unconscious slump only briefly as he stands, then turns to face the crowd's appraisal. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood's taunt elicits jeers from the audience, his subsequent instructions beginning to earn light laughs here and there. At the duel's conclusion, there is a tense sort of murmurring before a few begin a meager applause. A distinct mixed opinion seeps through the onlookers, some still smiling with amusement while others appear confused or even offended. With the discomfort Woren's proximity created, Thelinia distracts herself with knocking back the remaining drink her companion entrusted to her. Setting aside her own half-emptied flute, she takes a finger to fish out the ring for a closer examination. As its glow fades, she frowns discerningly at the emblem. The Purple Dragons? Woren, standing stoic just beside the Boar as he observes the duel, passes a glance over the woman. [Perception, 1] He fails to notice the ring's iconic design, instead watching Thelinia carefully for a few moments. [Perception, 19] "I pray this indiscretion hasn't interrupted an important evening for you, my lady." [Sense Motive, 4] Not quite determining the suspicious undertone of the baron's words, Thelinia is quick to lower the ring and close it in a protective hand as she replies, "No more important than this affair, m'lord." She doesn't care to pay him the courtesy of eye-contact, instead watching as her partner makes a fool of the hapless sod. The baron blinks, mildly caught off-guard by the minor disrespect. The reaction is swiftly retracted into the tight and inscrutible neutral expression. "I see." His attention returns to the duel, without sign of amusement, nor disappoval. "Then, if I may request it, what is the nature of your relation? I had noticed your arrival without proper escort." [Perception, 18] [Sense Motive, 4] Thelinia quiets a chill his words send down her spine. [Bluff, 4] "We.." she swallows and clears her throat, and realizes too long has passed for an answer to have any weight. [Sense Motive, 17] "Don't worry, my dear," Woren reassures with a suspicious sort of warmth, "There is no need to explain." Unconvinced, Thelinia tenses with a heightened sense of the weapon at her side. [Sense Motive, 18] As the duel continues, Woren offers no further commentary or address. It's only after the disappointing conclusion that Woren speaks again, this time projecting his voice without effort after allowing the audience their reaction. "A fine performance, my good sir," The baron congratulates with feigned conviction, "Though perhaps a warrior of your skill might appreciate a satisfactory challenge." Though it doesn't sound like a question, he seems to wait for Lockwood's response. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Ignoring the crowd by habit more than directed contempt, Lockwood returns his sword to it's scabbard with a hollow rasp. From his vantage point above the stage, he watches the baron's placement carefully, and with not a small deal of suspicion. The Dog found the baron's proximity to his companion almost as disconcerting as his own distance from her, though he'd be damned if he let it show. Twitching an ear at the address, the sellsword gave a slow nod, though the shrug at his shoulders seemed to mark the gesture as indistinct. "I'd rather get back 'round t'enjoyin' th'festivities, m'lord," He started, some of the earlier goodwill he'd held sullied by the duel's one-sided nature. The man hadn't deserved that kind of humiliation, even if he had put his nose where it shouldn't've been. Still, it would behoove no one to slight a baron. Lockwood dipped into another bow, more conservative than before. "But it'd be m'honor t'fight, if that's yer inclination." [Diplomacy 11] [Sense Motive 15 - Why he be by Thel] [Sense Motive 7 - Why he want fight] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Nowhere to go between fountain and host, Thelinia's instincts begin evaluating potential outcomes and escape routes-- particularly at the duel's end, and the following call for an encore. Likely to some relief of both Dog and Boar, Woren steps forward and begins an approach towards the stage. "My inclination, is for all my guests to be paid their due respect." The movement sends an excited hush rippling through the crowd, but the baron stops short. From the sleeves of his robe he draws forth a black candle, its wick cloaked by a small suede pouch. Several onlookers gasp with alarm this time, and the crowd provides Woren more space. An incantation is whispered, and an arcane sweep of the hand seperates the two components, the candle lit and the satchet catching a wisp of its smoke on its abrupt way to the stage. Breaking forth from the miniscule bag, a roaring beast rises in an instant's flash of claws and feathers. The band, still regretably present, scramble to evacuate as the audience shrinks back in fright. One member, thinking only twice, doubles back for the unconscious Antone to drag him by the arms. Their ethereal instruments dispel themselves as the bards rejoin the crowd, sharing their fright and awe as the beast screeches its challenge to Jerrad. [Deinonychus : Intimidate 18+2; Init 19] Thelinia stiffens at the summon, tightening her fingers around the glass before its abandoned on the fountain's rim. The creature was like none she'd ever seen; a bird with shruken, clawed wings and an enlongated, toothy beak, standing at the height of a man with a body almost twice as long. The monster's tail extended almost beyond the stage, its swaying scaring the audience back even further. Without thinking, the Boar steps forward, stopping just short of closing the gap Woren had afforded her. Her eyes take more than passing notice of his unarmored back, but her attention is called to the stage. An instinctive hold on the pommel of her sword is as far as she realizes she can risk. Fierce as this beast was, she had seen the Dog survive much worse. That comfort would have to suffice. For now. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The deinonychus leaps at Jerrad, forminable talons leading the creature and raking across the Dog's chest. Fortunately only one claw finds purchase, the other flailing harmlessly to the side and allowing the dinosaur to catch itself without problem. [Attk 19, dmg 7] The burning sting of a claw diggiging into his chest snaps Lockwood out of the stunned silence the deinonychus' abrupt materialization had afflicted him with, prompting the mercenary to stagger backwards with a grunt. Now aware of the fully real danger he was in, the Dog wastes no time in retaliation. With his sword taken in both hands, Lockwood lashes back at the bizarre creature, opening up a long, shallow wound across it's side that weeps crimson. [Attk 20, dmg 9] [Attk 20, dmg 7] Eager to get back at the featherless humaniod, the flightless bird takes an easy bite of Lockwood's arm before it can be retracted from his attack. The first landed attack tightens the Boar's jaw, somewhat abated by its counter. And as though the wizard sensed her ire, Woren's voice enters her mind: 'You and your companion would fair best if you were to tell me who you are, now.' Lockwood meanwhile struggles with the creature in an attempt to break it's grasp, but it remains firmly entrenched despite his best efforts, though the sword in his hand finds purchase against the side of it's jaw. [Attk 21; dmg 5] [Attk 7] A wayward talon falls short of kicking its prey, the head of the bird thing turning away from the sword without releasing him in the hopes of knocking him prone. Startled by the voice, though not its intrusive nature, Thelinia takes a moment to recognize its origin. She glares at Woren's backside as the crowd goes between tense silence and shocked gasps. As with her rakshasa, she tries shooting a message back, unable to keep it free from her distaste, 'We're no one. Why are you doing this?' [Sense Motive, 5] 'It won't prove wise to lie to me.' [Grapple Break; 18 vs 17] Roaring his defiance, the mercenary pushes back against the feathery reptile's bulk. Hitching a knee between the two of them, Lockwood delivers a sharp kick to the dinosaur's gut, sending it sprawling away with a shriek; he makes the most of the opportunity while he has it, hopping backwards to drop into a defensive stance. The wounds on his chest and arm throb awfully, soaking the fine silk around them dark red. [Fight Defensively; AC 18 until next turn] [Sense Motive, 18; Diplomacy 21] 'We're no one. There isn't anything else to tell you!' She hoped there was enough confidence to sway him, but no so much that it read as defensiveness. [Sense Motive, 3] The voice returns with a venomous warning, 'Tell me who you are.' Assuming this mage could find out for himself if he wanted to, Thelinia assumes there'd be no good in lying. 'Thelinia Raine. I'm from across the River Arran.' Her attention is taken by the narrow escape of her partner, the sight of blood as he reclaims himself nonetheless worrying. For what it was worth, the poor creature didn't seem to be fairing any different. The crowd cheers at Lockwood's escape, revived in full from their cowed state. The raptor screeches and comes at him again, this time in a full pounce with wings splayed as both sets of talons make aim for his upper body. Its tail feathers and crest flare with intent, iridescent blues and greens catching what's left of the sun. Unfortunately, it misses, only landing in front of the evasive human. [attk 12] There is a strange silence from the wizard, but he makes no further action. With the deinonychus' poor aim, Thelinia is heartened just enough to let the wizard mull her answer over without demanding he call off his bird. [Trip - 17] [Attk 19; dmg 3] [AoO 19; 20] With the creature left wide open, Lockwood seizes the opportunity and swipes it's legs with the flat of his blade, though not without a retaliating graze from it's fangs at his hip. Woren's pet hits the ground with a shriek, flailing to right itself. The Dog responds with a vicious snarl and the full, crushing weight of his boot atop it's back to pin the animal in place before driving the point of his blade home into the fat of it's throat. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A cautious cheer from the audience begins as the trip attack hits, rising to a thorough applause that captures all present as the final blow is struck and the creature's throes play out beneath their uproar. Thelinia, while not in a cheering sort of mood, looks up at her partner with an undaunted smirk, nearly a grin. She realizes her feet had almost stepped into a lunge during the tense fight, and makes a small correction to her stature just in time for Woren's address. The baron joins late to the applause, but at his clapping, the rest begins to die down. "Zelzing, my good warrior," the baron congratulates with the most emphasis his voice has shown. He rests his hands, the candle already gone. "Well fought indeed." The body of the deinonychus stains the stage with blood-soaked feathers, lifeless eyes still trained on its slayer. The crowd remains quiet as Woren continues, "May these salved wounds heal without scars. Tonight, we drink, to celebrate the mending power of compassion, and mutual respect! SERVANTS! Bring the vintage!" His declaration earns a resounding cheer, surpassing even the one Lockwood had earned. Voice projected just over the excitement, Woren shouts with glee, "BARDS! The music!" As ordered, servants scramble to appease their command, and bards rush to resume their roles. Despite the sizable corpse of the raptor, the bards only must mind the tail, arranging themselves around it as quickly as they can to satisfy Woren and begin another upbeat tune. The party returns with a renewed excitement, guests exchanging breathless commentary on the handsome victor and ferocious beast, with time to find humor at Antone's expense. Should Jerrad leave the stage, he would be met by a small a rush of faith performers, clergy including Joydancers and Pastorals of Chauntea. Their worried faces hide some measure of awe, but a few show crestfallen looks of disapproval. Marie, front and center, would reach for his hands and scan frantic eyes across his wounded body. "Mister Lockwood, are you alright? That was horrible! It bit you on the arm, and-- Come, sit, sit down!" She'd attempt to guide him along, the others beginning to circle the mercenary with similar though less intrusive concern and helpful intention. Woren, no longer a focal point, turns to face Thelinia directly for the first time. "Your companion is skilled," he begins, previous bravado evaporated, "Skilled enough, perhaps, to suit a service to me. I trust you may be similarily inclined, Miss Raine? Provided, of course, you are who you claim." [DC 22 v 15 Will] A feeling like that of a dagger thrust through cloth forces itself into the Boar's mind, one that swallows whole the answer to a wordess inquiry: 'Who has sent you to my city?' Wincing with a revived disdain, Thelinia forces away a scowl with visible effort, responding by her own will to the verbal question, having lost dominion of her own thoughts. Finding it as good a time as any to take after the Dog, she replies through tight lips, "I am. My lord." Seemingly satisfied, the wizard continues to pry; 'And your friend?' [DC 22 v 16] Again, the answer arrives without struggle, providing Jerrad's name and association of arrival. For appearances, Woren continues aloud, "Then I extend an invitation to you both to join me at the Citadel tomorrow evening, and receive my proposal." "Understood, my lord," the Boar's grimace is better controlled, unlike the agitated beating of her heart against simmering blood. The wizard smiles, a surperior though not wholly unkind expression."I apologize for my indiscretion, my lady. I am Kerle Woren, Lord of Nimpeth and, your host." He dips his head, only enough to appease social necessity. "I warmly and graciously welcome you to my Vineyard." With great effort, Thelinia conceals the resentment with which she curtseys, "It is an honor, my lord." [Bluff, 18] [Sense Motive, 12] Pleased with the woman's social skill after a tense altercation, Woren smiles in approval. "I pray you and your companion enjoy the rest of the evening. My servants will round with a fine 1371 vintage red, and I have it on best authority that the Call to Flowers will be especially beautiful this year." "Thank you, my lord." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As the roar of the crowd peters off into a more tame revelling, Lockwood is left to collect himself for a moment before stepping down with a grimace-- Though not before plucking a handful of feathers from the exotic corpse at his feet. The whole of his attention focused on the erstwhile Boar through the crowd, Jerrad has enough time to wipe the blood from his blade with a kerchief from his coat before he is swarmed, an expression of vague bewilderment briefly marring his features as Marie materializes before him. Darting a look from the Lliiran off to where he'd last seen Thel, Lockwood gives a quiet grunt, "I-- There's someone waitin' fer me-- Where, eh--" Despite his protests, the mercenary is likely lead away to sit, though once he'd been situated a request would be made that his companion be retrieved. As much as it might bother his pride, the raptor had given him more trouble than he'd expected to contend with; his arm burned like an archdevil's teat, and the gouges across his chest continued to throb unceasingly. Between this and the bugbears, he wasn't entirely certain which was worse. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Woren offers the Boar a farewell nod as he moves past her, and she's made aware again of the object held in her protective fist. The ring raised questions, but ones that would wait. It's dropped into her coinpurse and hidden away, freeing her hand to grab a wine glass from a floating platter as she makes her way to the stage. Lockwood is doted on by Marie, aided by a couple Pastorals who handle and inspect him for a better look at his injuries. He'd be fortunate to have them, as not only does their magic heal him in tandem, but the stains wrought through his new clothing are removed courtesy of the Great Mother. "This is awful.. I've never been to a Greengrass that shed blood," Marie laments, kneeling still in front of him. In the time it takes for Thelinia to find the huddle behind the stage, the Pastorals had done their work, and offer short prayers of good health, going as far as casting a blessing. The ranger approaches them from the side, coming into view near the faerie fire that lit the shadowed end of the stage. Not having anticipated the amount of aid he'd receive, Thelinia hesitates before speaking up and continuing towards them, focused on her friend. "Y'alright?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie's lament is met with a sympathetic frown as Lockwood allows the Joydancer and her colleagues to go about their work. Feeling the flow of positive energy wash over his wounds, the mercenary gives a rare sigh of relief, "Ol' Woren there 'ad me thinkin' it was normal.." Precious few glances are spared to the healer, though he thanks her earnestly for her efforts for the second time in a day. Despite his newfound vitality (and the admittedly pleasant company he kept), Jerrad fails to find it in himself to fully relax until his companion pushes her way through the crowd to the stage's rear, prompting a tense smile from the man. "Yeh, thanks t'these lot," He nodded to the gathered healers, sitting up straight. "You good?"" The Dog added, a clear concern reading on his features. [Sense Motive 22] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Speaking with more care, Marie admits, "It isn't, but this is my first at the Vineyards.. I usually perform in the southern ward." She gazes at his hands for an odd moment, and brings herself out of it with an embarassed look to the grass beneath them. The Pastorals and other clergy affirm with themselves the necessity of other pressing duties and begin to carry on, though Marie doesn't seem to share their rush, and rises along with Jerrad at Thelinia's approach. The Boar seems disconcerted, though it's not read as well in her voice as the genuity of her inquiry. She glances Marie as she approaches, not sure what to make of the girl and having larger priorities. "Uh, yeh," she replies, a bit confused by the question as she offers him the wine, "'Ere." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie's movement at the corner of his vision lends Jerrad some pause as he and Thelinia rejoin one another, though he puts the oddness out of his mind just as quickly as it comes. The wine is welcomed with a thankful grunt and a rejuvenating tasting, fully reminding the sellsword of the reason for their foray into the festival in the first place. "Saw y'ad some company while I was muckin' about." Lockwood nodded off towards the stage as he spoke, mindful of his words in the Joydancer's presence. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Yeah.." Thelinia looks off in the direction, though not for long. The uncomfortable look she had rekindles some of its earlier ire, but she doesn't elaborate. Marie clears her throat and takes a step back, bowing her head to Jerrad, "Joy keep you, Mister Lockwood. It was a pleasure to see you again, even if the circumstances were.." She trails off, but catches herself, "I hope you enjoy the rest of your evening." And with that, the Joydancer moves to rejoin her fellows. Thelinia watches her leave, a little puzzled. "Again?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The brow above Lockwood's intact eye jumps up at Marie's announcement, and after a pause the mercenary nods respectfully in reply. "'Course, miss. Thank y'again. Good dancin' to yeh." When the Lliiran gone, Jerrad shifts back to Raine, shrugging his shoulders quizzically. "She's th'one y'sent t'heal me before. 'Least th'one they sent." He frowned briefly at something, moving to dismiss the expression with another sip of wine. "What 'appened with ol'Woren?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie pays him a brief smile before leaving, with a hum of reciprocated thanks. Thelinia eyes the crowd again, and deigns to take a step closer to the Dog to better evade their line of sight. Lowering her voice, she answers, "He wanted t'know who we were. Think he 'ad us figured for spies." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Jerrad's brows knit together with muted worry at the information, a skeptical look paid overshoulder before recentering on the Boar. He grunts, clearly uneasy with the notion of noble scrutiny. "He still got us figured fer that? Y'don't look like y'exactly got good news." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She hadn't whispered before, but the sensitive nature of the information now requires it. She folds her arms, discretely looking about at the nearest people as she answers with disdain, "He got 'is answer. Didn' listen 'til he pulled it outta m'head." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 25] The Dog grunts indistinctly at the news, shifting uncomfortably in place. Mirroring his companion's caution, he scans the area about them for potential eavesdroppers before replying with hushed urgency, "Y'arigh'? He dinnit do anythin' else, righ'? Th'War Wizards.." He stopped just short of elaborating on the finer points of mind reaming, but enough discomfort read in his features that Lockwood imagined she'd get the point. After a beat, he added, "Y'want t'kick 'is arse later?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ No individuals seem to notice the two, the majority of people backstage being performers too busy gossiping as they prepared for the show. Lockwood would notice the Lliirans readied first, making final touches to their hair and dress and collecting bushels of flowers from their Chauntean counterparts. Two figures robed in brown scurry off the stage presumably after dealing with the corpse, quick to get out of the way of the upcoming performances. After a distinct change in song begins, they'd start for the stage one by one, along with a well-trained troupe of multi-hued tressym marching alongside. Noticing his apparent distaste and concern, Thelinia averts her eyes, reaquainted with her own disturbance. "Don' think it'd b'in our favor. Says he's got work fer us." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Not quite able to relieve himself of the worry that creased his features, Lockwood crosses his arms over his chest in a bid to give them something to do. "Yeh think he's even worth th'time?" He wasn't able to keep the skepticism from his tone, though another taste of wine tempered the simmering anger in his heart somewhat. "I got nothin' kind t'say t'a man what.. Violates someone like that." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia takes a moment to wrestle the thought away and shrugs, allowing a good amount of her distaste to fall off her shoulders. "D'we even need 'im?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Watching his companion wrangle with her thoughts, Lockwood himself works to quench some of the fire in his blood with the prospect of the night ahead of them. Giving a more amiable kind of grunt, "What'y'say we hit th'fountain again an' figure it out in th'mornin', eh? Fuck th'old winker." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With brief consideration, she nods with an understated "Aye," and begins to turn. Midstep she pauses, paying him a passing scrutiny before continuing. "Y'sure ya'lright?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Hesitating only briefly in his stride after the Boar, the question strikes a quiet gratitude with the mercenary buried beneath his resuming stocism. "Aye." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Satisfied, Thelinia rounds the corner of the stage to return to the party, sights set on the fountain. As promised, plates of wine glasses and Turmish brick float amongst the crowd, but unlike the offerings in orbit around the fountain, these are proudly carried by well-dressed servants with bottles cradled in their arms. Looks of recognition are paid to the Dog as he re-enters the crowd, ranging from nods of respect to more flirtatous glances. Were it not for the activity winding up on the stage, some might have found no distraction from him. A sudden string from the bards punctuates the dropping of weapons from performers, a mock battle halted. Swords and daggers clatter where the raptor's blood still stains the wood, and knowing anticipation reclaims the audience. A flurry of feathers raining flowers across the stage with a flourish in song, earning applause and awe from the crowd. Tressym sweep in looping circles high and low in harmony with the music, dropping wildflowers from their mouths onto the Joydancers below. Should the Dog and Boar mind their surroundings, they'd see a migration of folk to the bottom of the stage, smiling faces lining up to dance with one another in a a traditional arrangement everyone seemed to know by heart. It mirrors the dance above them, and the tressym flock likewise rains flowers on the participants, a few straying to trickle a few blossoms further into the crowd. Wildflowers and their petals fly about in the air, some landing in the fountain to accentuate its appeal. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The looks garnered from amongst those in the crowd that might take notice of him are repaid with intermittent nods of demure respect from the Dog, though it is perhaps more clear than he means to make it that his attention is largely focused on involving himself with the festivities alongside the Boar. Keeping pace with his companion, Lockwood plucks the odd wedge of cheese from an open plate as he passes, offering one over to his fellow mercenary as their way is made to the object of their desire; indeed, the fountain's sparkling waters seemed all the more alluring now that he'd been forced to fight for his right to it, leaving his throat feeling parched and eager for something to wet it. Though they'd made good progress to the fountain in question, the sudden flurry of activity at the stageside puts a pause in the warrior's step, his head turned sharply to scan for the source of the disturbance. While the dances forming at the stage's foot seemed to hold relatively little interest for him, it was the flash of feathers and the telltale chirping of tressym's that put a proper halt to Jerrad's advance. A dawning look of recognition spreads across his face, almost bordering on disbelief, and he looks to Thelinia for confirmation that what he saw was indeed real. Unless prompted to pull himself away, the mercenary would linger for a few long moments before a look of consideration is paid to the wedge of brick in his hands. Seized by some bizarre inclination, Lockwood lifted the sumptuous cheese overhead, hovering it in such a way that he hoped it might attract one of the airborne felines. [Handle Animal 15] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The cheese Lockwood offers the Boar is taken with just a moment's surprise, but is enjoyed nonetheless on the way to the fountain. She's had just enough time to settle with a new flute of sparkling wine when the stage beckons their attention and the tressym burst forth. The drink, paused at her lips, is almost forgotten in the moment. She'd never seen so many so near, and never performing such aerial stunts. They hold her attention enough that the wine is merely sipped under a scarce whisper of awe. [Perception, 2, 5, 20, 3] Two tressym fly closest in range of Jerrad's offer, but they either neglect his offer or simply don't notice it. It'd seem that his is not the only cheese available to them, several raised hands in the audience also pinching pieces of food. One might even suspect this was part of the motivation that led them to stray from the stage to begin with. Before Lockwood might give up on the effort, however, a smaller one swoops in to land delicate paws on his hand and arm and plucks the cheese between small sharp teeth. As quick as it came, it's gone, the whoosh of its wings sweeping across the Dog's face as it rejoins its fellows. The scene brings a rare smile to the ranger's expression, though it holds less surprise than one might expect. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Valiant as his efforts to attract one of the tressym are, Lockwood's expression falls in such a way that only the Boar might notice enough for the shift to impart any meaning-- That is, at least, until the touch of soft, velvet paws and a firm whack at the chin from feathered wings alerts him to the presence of one of the creatures at his wrist. As swift as the tressym is, Jerrad barely has time to glance it before a flap of it's wings carries it off and away, leaving a worn old soldier with an expression of uncommon warmth to remember it by. Still struck by the encounter, he watches the swooping beasts for a time before turning to fill his glass alongside the Boar. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia offers a snicker, though its lightness might betray it as something else. Sitting at the base of the fountain,  she crosses her arms and lets her weight rest on an arm while the other keeps her glass filled. "Y'caught one." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Some color makes it's way to the Dog's cheeks his partner's jeering, though the chuckle he provides lacks anything in the way of venom. Dropping to Raine's side with a weighty thump, Lockwood lets out a ragged sigh of relief as he kicks back his drink and relaxes into the stonework at his back. "Funny that. Always wanted one've the little buggers." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "A tressym? Didn' y'say you wer' from Cormyr?" She eyes him with harmless skepticism, taking a long draw from her glass for the first time since Woren showed up. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The question earns a squint in her direction, though the expression is curious more than pointed. Shrugging it off, he nods with good humor in time with a drink of his own. "Mhm. 'Oly creatures there, y'know." He hummed, framing his words with a gesture of faux grandeur. "'By decree of 'is most honorable majesty, King Azoun IV.' Never 'ad one though. Didn't know they kept 'em this far south." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "S'course we have 'em," she takes a quick and sizable mouthful, hardly skipping a beat, "Jus' not ev'rywhere. Never really seen 'em much, though," she nearly frowns, but the stage keeps her attention and spirit. "They really th'only things th'ol'king allowed?" This time her skepticism carried honest intrigue, though she couldn't quite recall much of Cormyr from her brief time in its periphery. [Knowledge, 7] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Another grunt from Lockwood, more invested this time-- Though it's muffled by a healthy draw from his glass that sees it spent and quickly replenished. "Mmh. 'Course not. We 'ad t'ave horses, dinnit we?" He paused, expression souring for a moment before sight of the tressyms bounced it back. "Never 'ad one've those neither. Not much use over'n Suzail. Ol' Azoun 'ad a good 'eart. Bit like them tressyms. 'Course, ain't no one perfect. 'E kept th'Chasin've th'King 'round. Never much cared fer that." [Knowledge Local 16] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Knowledge 13] "Chasin' of th'King?" It sounded familiar, but she found little recollection. From the way he said it, she wondered if there was good cause for it. She refills her own glass, taking another sip as she watches him. For some reason, she's reminded of the ring in her pouch. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh." Jerrad gulped more than sipped his wine to keep the unfavorable memories at bay, relaxing further against the slope of the fountain wall. "S'posed t'be a tradition. Once ev'ry Marpenoth, th'King 'as a criminal dragged out an' dressed up like ol'King Boldovar. 'E's given a 'orse, a sword, an' some armor, then set loose. Whole city comes out t'unt 'im down, an' if 'e makes it t'sundown, he goes free." Lockwood tried to purse his lips at the thought, but found more enjoyment to be had in licking them clean of errant wine. For the first time in a good while, he finds his gaze wandering over to meet his companion, brow raised as though questioning whether she'd judge him for the Forest Kingdom's traditions. "Ain't exactly m'favorite holiday, eh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She instead watches the wine in her glass swirl, and gives a small, tepid grunt. "S'that's what they call it." Missing his expression, she only takes another drink, and watches the dancers. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Uncertain as to whether or not her response was heartening, he gives a low grunt in kind and continues to nurse his drink, gaze drifting to follow her own. After a while spent watching the stage, he hums quietly. "Y'know what dance that is?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Knowledge, 16] Another refill is required, even as she feels the last couple start sinking in. "Know it's some Lliiran ritual. Had 'em a jus' a couple times where I grew," the recollection of her childhood Greengrass gives her a moment of pause. "Mostly, we 'ad th' Pastorals come through, 'old a ceremony fer th'crop." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The explanation takes the course of another glass to sink it's meaning with the mercenary, but when it does he gives another small nod, grunting belatedly. "S'pretty." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She grunts indistinctly. Encouraged by the subtle influence of wine, she shares a bit more of her knowledge. "Th'weapons s'posed t'symbolize an end uh war or somethin'," she waves vaguely at the stage as she speaks, then takes another sip. "Doesn't 'splain th'dress, 'ough." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As he listens, Lockwood finds he must correct a telling slouch in his posture that brings him to consider cutting back on his consumption of the fountain's bounty. The motions of the dancers both onstage and off blur together for a fleeting moment, but the mercenary writes it off as a trick of the light and shifts his attention back to the Boar. "S'pose all them highbloods wouldn't care as much if it weren't gaudy." He shrugs, taking a cue from Thelinia to observe the swirling contents of his glass before another, more conservative pull. "S'a nice idea, though. Don't s'pose they're mad at me fer.." Jerrad circled his hand around his head, searching for the words, "Killin' that.. Thing. Eh?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Y'were talkin' t'one, figured y'smoothed et'out." This time she does eye him more carefully, wondering if she might discern an answer apart from his words. The cleric she saw with him hadn't seemed irrate, and he had been healed up pretty quick. Now that she thought about it, the girl had been rather close to him.. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Eh. Didn't say much t'er. Think she's keen on me." He shrugs again, popping what remains of his Turmish brick into a cheek. Chewing thoughtfully despite not thinking much on the matter at all, he continues after a beat, "Don't much care fer that. It don't mean nothin' t'them." He paused long enough to consider another pull from his flute, but passed it over in favor of a look in Raine's direction. "Th'Pastorals weren't lookin' too 'appy." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Something brings her to look away again, and in doing so she can notice the same healer on stage. She watches her in the brief time before Lockwood speaks again, where he reclaims her attention. "Wouldn't worry, eh. S'not like it was yer choice." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood grunts in reply as he sets his glass aside, enough wine for a sip still lingering near the bottom. The stage occupies less of his time than it had previously, seemingly uncertain of where to divide his attention. "S'pose so." It's another pause before he asks with cautious honesty, "What else they got t'do 'round 'ere?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Without thinking much of it, she shrugs, "Dunno. Never been t'many uh these.. soirées." Another dip of her glass under the winefall, though this time it's only to top off the drink. "Think it's jus' drinkin'." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The swirl of wine behind his eyes leaves Lockwood a touch more tentative to seek a filled glass, though he does when he sees his companion do so. When he has it, the Dog looks off around the room as though the answer to his own question might leap out to him, but nothing seems to come of it. With a vague hum, he offers an answer that sees a shade of color leap to his cheeks almost immediately-- Though it could just as easily have been a trick of the light, or the wine's heady encouragement which caused it. "Eh. Looks like it, 'less y'fancy dancin'." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ At first she snickers into her glass at what sounded like a jab at the nobleman's version of dancing. It takes just a moment, and a quick glance to her companion, to hear the actual meaning. Seemingly a little stunned, she swallows and tries to make sense of what he'd said, noting the questionable look on his face. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Catching the look from his partner was easy enough, even with the dwindling twilight shadowing them both, and it urges him to offer some kind of an apology. "I, eh. Sorry. That dinnit come out righ'. Don't mean nothin' by it." A rough hand cups across his forehead, sweeping back into his hairline in a bid to claim some kind of clarity from the wine-- All the while another sip is taken to help ease his fraying nerves. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia looks on for a few more seconds, wondering if her companion was wholly alright before determining his misstep was more wine than imposition. "Eh.. s'alright." She checks on the dance again, if only to give her partner a moment to compose himself. It was near its peak with participants loud and raucous, no doubt due in part to their own drinking. The uncertain air following the Dog's performance seemed forgotten, in its place a carefree vigor and cheer. It wasn't something she'd seen, nor felt, very often. The last of her drink is upturned and finished, by her count, her third. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The scrutiny from the Boar sees Lockwood rub at the bridge of his nose and cast his eye back off towards the stage, doing his best to find his way back towards relaxation. He nods with the faintest hint of thanks hidden behind a briefly tightened jaw, not entirely certain of he should entertain the idea of another drink. All the same, he finds the dazzling chaos at the stage is sufficient enough distraction to ease his mind somewhat, and by the time Thelinia had turned back to him, he was a bit more at ease.. Though some of his embarassment still lingered in the deepened hue at his cheeks. If nothing else, the dance was pleasant to watch, and the tressym served as an ever-present reminder of home; something he'd sorely lacked in the years away. It was reassurance enough that things had to be looking up. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Allowing herself to feel only a touch bad for Lockwood's blunder, it was thanks to the Dog that the idea of dancing was now swirling around in her head. An idea she'd never have come to on her own, let alone consider, as she did now. With all the disdain she usually reserved for such events, there was no denying the near miraculous fact that she'd finally made it home. They both had. The wine must have made it easier to see her own joy in the song and dance in front of them, which could have been a less comfortable feeling were it not for the wine in the first place. It brought to mind a feeling even less discernible, adhered to the memory of the constellations from the night before. When had she ever been so happy before? As far as she could tell, she owed the gods thanks-- Toril herself in particular. There was more than Greengrass to celebrate, but it would have to suffice. "Yeh..Yeh wan'ta?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As the partygoers carried on with their dancing, Lockwood felt well enough with resigning himself to an evening of quiet apology for his error. It was about as much as he felt he deserved; between startling her with his unannounced return to the bedroom, the embarassing incident at the archery contest, and this most recent misstep, he'd done more than anyone else should have any right to get away with on the matter of flustering the Boar; not to mention he'd put the both of them in very real danger with his poor choice of words in the midst of swordbearing nobility. It'd be a fortunate thing indeed if she didn't up and take her leave of him for the night-- And that normally wouldn't be too terribly much of a trouble to consider. Now, however, the idea of her departure was uncommonly upsetting. With all this in mind, he had nearly made up his mind to quit the festival for the night when Thelinia's question catches his ear, prompting a small hitch in his throat that struggles to be corrected. Finding his voice, Jerrad shifts a look to his companion, questioning whether or not she'd really asked him what he thought she had. "I, uh. Yeh." He hesitated to look at her directly, only glancing her out of the corner of his eye at first. "Yeah." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Don't get th' wrong idea," Preempting his response without being too austere, she's quick to avoid his eye, standing with her glass left behind where she sat. It suddenly felt awkward, spoken aloud. Without looking back at him, she clears her throat and continues. "Jus'.. We made it. Greengrass, a'all days." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Pushing himself upright with more caution than urgency, Lockwood nods his acknowledgement of the Boar's warning. "Aye, that's 'ow I figured it. S'jus' a dance." While he neglected to avoid attempts at eye contact, he wasn't quite able to evade the latent awkwardness of their situation; he'd never thought to imagine the Boar might invite him to dance, Greengrass or no. The dance is well in full swing as the Dog and Boar make their approach, the Lliiarans making full use of their skills to lead the congregation; the effects of the Joydancers' prowess is further accentuated by the effortless grace of the twirling tressyms that dart and wheel overhead, errant flower petals still showering down into the dancers' midst. As they draw properly near, Lockwood shows enough hesitation to draw Thelinia's attention, eyeing her with as close an approximation to anxiety as she might have ever witnessed from the man. Turning his gaze forward, he slowly lifts a palm in plaintive offering, and should she accept the two of them would forge on ahead into the crucible of dance together. The moment they'd entered the crowd's proximity, a pair of hands would shoot out to seize the unsuspecting Dog, drawing the both of them deep into the midst of rhythymically stomping feet and swinging arms. Placed directly across from one another, the two mercenaries must adapt quickly to match their fellow revelers, or risk looking like fools. [Jerrad; Dance 15] [Thelinia; Dance 17] The dancers at their sides seem to take notice of the Boar's performance in particular, though Lockwood's is likewise afforded a few approving nods accompanied by goodnatured laughter. Jerrad had only been party to a dance like this on a few occasions, the majority of them clouded by a haze of strong drink and good food-- Not unlike what he was feeling in this moment, really. Forgiving the awkwardness of their predicament, Lockwood performed quite admirably despite himself as he matched Raine's movements step for step and clap for clap. Part of it was decorum, of course, but there was a small piece of him that nudged the mercenary to put on a good showing for his partner's sake as well. Certainly, he couldn't be trying to impress her-- After all, she seemed to be even better at this than he was. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ At the offered hand, Thelinia hesitates only a second before accepting it with a light touch. It helped to find her own uncertainty reflected on his face, but she only afforded him a quick look for fear of him seeing it. The Boar worried her cheeks already betrayed her trepidation, despite having decided this herself. Suddenly, the hungry hands dragged Lockwood into the dance and her hand instinctively locked with his, and before she knew it she was quickly compensating for the missed steps in the dance. She surprised herself with her own vague memory of the footwork, improvising where needed with unexpected success, especially considering the wine. Thankful he hadn't been dragged so far as to lose her, Thelinia still keeps an eye on the Dog within the pace of the dance. At each pass where linked arms were formed, however, her eyes dart from his whenever caught, particularly if the contact held for any length of time. Strangers were similiarly acknowedged, though with never more than a single, almost blanked look. The dance itself was enough to color her face, worsened by the knowledge that she had no means of hiding it. Comfortable in his proximity and her own footwork regardless, she watches the rest of the line at each pass, and the sour ranger almost begins to smile. Should she see the Dog notice, it'd only serve to redden her cheeks even more. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Queen's Gambit. That had to be it. Lockwood had nearly forgotten that day, seeming so long ago now. He'd been alone then, unescorted, save for the company of his fellow Purple Dragons celebrating a successful first year's service. That was the last time he'd danced like this, and much like then, he'd felt a certain kind of anxiety welling up in the pit of his stomach despite a complete lack of ridicule from his fellow dancers. He'd felt out of place then, and he certainly felt out of place now-- Save for those sparing glances exchanged between fellow mercenaries that saw a contagious warmth creeping it's way onto their cheeks. Each time they passed one other, locking and unlocking arms, stepping about and twirling past, the Dog found his eye drawn to his counterpart at the very last moment of parting. She danced better than he'd expected; far better than he believed he could. The errant glances made him mindful of his hands, touching lightly here and again where they met, but not devoid of the kind of warmth that might pass between close friends. The other partners he met along the way were met with more of a distance, though he was no less respectful-- And no less bewildered by the outlandishness of it all. It was all very strange, to be sure, but the fleeting smile he witnessed on the Boar's face was far stranger still-- And encouraged a faint smile of the Dog's own, however tinged by embarassment it might have been. [Perception 18] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With only the clarity of a drink-laden mind, it's difficult to camoflauge the reciprocated embarassment on her face. His look provoked a further smile before she could think better of it, but fortunately their twisting and turning allowed her the chance to compose it. Another stranger cuts in to partner with her, however, robbing the Boar of some mirth until she's managed to return again to her regular set. She realizes then that much of the line is likewise tipsy, and the poor bastard who'd intercepted her was more harmless than his firmer grip may've led her to believe. On the following pass with the Dog, she'd try to assure him with a look that it was alright, despite the uneasy feeling she supresses. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 18] It takes only a moment for Lockwood to realize that his partner had been exchanged for another, leaving Dog and Boar with foreign pair of bodies separating the two of them. It takes another moment still for him to recover from the shift, a vacillation in composure reinforced by his overindulgence over the day's course, but Raine's unspoken encouragement tempers any worry he might have harbored and moves him to repay the look with one of his own. Taking pains to retain his balance amidst the chaotic press of bodies, Jerrad feels himself beginning to slip into the swing of things, each further step and pivot taken growing more and more natural, though never quite enough to be fully at ease. It fails to dampen his enjoyment, at the least. Having the Boar near, even if they were separate for the moment, was reassurance enough. A few furtive looks are paid in her direction, catching the telltale shimmer of sweat on her forehead and at her collar. It was enough to assure him that at least for the moment, the two of them could have a good time. As they again swapped partners, Lockwood felt his head pitch back against his shoulders, and almost without bidding it a small laugh jumped from his throat-- Though he was quick to recover his composure, another glance shot in Thelinia's direction with an uncommon shyness. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia regards the outburst with surprise, then what was meant to be a snicker at his expense actually comes out as a light-hearted chuckle. Encouraged, however, she allows herself to fall more easily into his step, linking arms with less trepidation and a less hidden smile. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A flash of spiteless venom crosses Jerrad's face at the Boar's jeering, quickly melting into a good natured acceptance of a well-earned ribbing at her touch; he takes her arm with a like measure of comfort, leaning into her weight as they wheel about for another rotation through the crowd. An air of contented ease worms it's way into Lockwood's movements as they keep up the dance, a sheen of sweat beading at his brow-- Though whether it was the fault of exertion or an excess of drink was difficult to discern. In this way, the dance carries on for time enough for most folk to exert themselves. Just as it seems that the number might go on forever, the music on stage begins to wind down, the strings winding down by degrees until the last of the dancers have had their fill. As the opposing lines step apart, an announcement rings out from the bards proclaiming the beginning of the Call to the Flowers, as well as the imminent prayer to Chauntea in the adjacent vineyards. With a rush of leathery, befeathered wings, the well-worked tressym flock swoops over the crowd, and the musicians draw their bows tight over their strings as all who know the words are invited to sing along. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With the song's ending nigh, Thelinia waits until the majority of the dancers had ceased before she stops to finally catch her breath. It's only then she realizes the soreness of her body, some of the fatigue from their travels returning from their dormancy after the rakshasa's spell. She looks up at her companion with the same sweaty breathlessness, the dance's enchantment giving way to a look in her eyes more akin to her usual self-- albeit a certain glint of happiness still resides in the Boar's brown eyes. It wouldn't be long before she breaks eye-contact to shake her hanging head, embarassment winning out past slumped shoulders. She covers her bashfulness with an exhausted laugh as she catches her breath, "Eheh.." Thelinia would perk up at the announcement despite a lingering, near-drunken fatigue. Milil's Sorlyns take the stage after a short reprieve for the crowd, and the ranger has regained the strength to stand straight again by the time their song begins in earnest. While many of the dancers around them begin to go about their own quiet conversations and return to the flock of guests, there's a fair count of those who remain to hum and sing along, and even begin a new dance to meet the slower, more reverent tempo. Not allowing their indulgant drink to stop them, the guests who remain seem enthralled with the music on a more spiritual level than the previous. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With the song's conclusion, Lockwood feels his body wind down to a gentle halt along with his partner's, the same breathless contentment she displays coming to wash over him in kind. The sensation makes him immediately thankful for the mending magic of the Lliiaran faithful, for which he pays a nod of quiet gratitude to Marie out of the corner of his eye. It's clear that the better part of his attention is held by the Boar, however, as he turns smoothly back to meet her laughter with a weary chuckle of his own, "Heh.." As they catch their breath together, the crowd around them thins, and he takes note of the slowed tempo and more personal nature of the dancing that persists. The observation lends him some pause, though it's gently pushed aside by the good humor the uncommon festiveness he's shared with his companion. His shoulders still heaving in time with tiresome breaths, Lockwood feels an irregular flutter in his chest that is quickly written off as a product of fatigue, his eye trailing up to meet the Boar's, possessed of a tired kinship. "That, eh.. Heh. Tha'was, uh. Fun, yeh?" The smile he offers is perhaps foreign in it's softness, warmed and cushioned by drink. "Y'figure f'another drink, or.. Eh." Lockwood's eye glances the dancers around them in a way that might be a question, were it not for the shake of the head that seems to write it off. "Whatever y'want t'do, Raine." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Loosed strands of hair fall off the Boar's shoulder where they don't stick to her collar, but she doesn't seem to notice. "Heh.. yeh," she'd reply to his first inquiry between breaths, relieved to think the red on her face could easily be induced by drink and dance. His smile serves to further put her at ease, as unique as it was, and some of it its warmth is returned for a moment before she too checks on the revelers. If a similiar consideration crossed her mind, it's too brief to read in her features before she turns to the Dog again to assess his opinion. [Perception, 13] "Could use uh drink, eh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A slow roll is put to his shoulders, freeing the gathered tension there with a satisfied (if muted) sigh, followed shortly by a comparatively lazy nod. "Me too." Stepping forward to side with the Boar, Lockwood follows her gaze back to the remaining dancers one last time before drifting off in search of the fountain once more. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It's not until they're almost to the fountain that Thelinia realizes the close proximity she shares with the Dog, an observation she doesn't think to put much thought into. After some extra looking, she locates some water to have before taking a glass of the vintage red at last. It was just as well, seeing at her previous glass failed to save her spot, or itself. Instead she stands with the Dog past the fountain, nearest to the offerings of food, and the quieter part of the courtyard. The dimming sky takes her attention when their surroundings lose her interest, and lead her to gaze down the vineyard's hypnotic rows to the sunset across the Vilhon. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As the two of them retrace their steps through the courtyard to the fountain proper, Lockwood plucks an empty glass for himself that is filled with water, then with wine, though he leaves the wine untouched until the two of them had come to a stop at the edge of the festivities. While he'd at first been mindful of the closeness they'd shared since the dance's end, the matter slipped gently from Jerrad's mind at the subdued beauty of their surroundings finally began to dawn on him. It'd been hard to appreciate it at first, with the gaudy chaos of the celebration in full swing clouding his perception; in the relative seclusion they enjoyed, however, he found himself relaxing more fully, eyes turned to the countryside that stretched out before them. He recalled his mother regaling him with vivid tales of her life in Tethyr, before she'd left for Cormyr. Though she'd only been once as a young girl, by her account, the vineyards of Vineshade were among the most beautiful places in all the world. Standing here now at the edge of the Woren fields, he wondered if this was something like what she'd experienced. With his mind so occupied, an expression of absorbed fulfillment played over his features, eye turned towards the fading sun's glow. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Watching the sunset through the growing haze of drink under the Solryn hymn was increasingly surreal, ever more so when she contemplated the fine drink in her hands or the dress she wore. The faerie fire bringing soft blue illumination was almost as strange, especially to be seen in Chondath. If it weren't for the Reach in her sights, she might have wondered if this was even her reality at all. But this was an unsettling thought, one she cast aside to address at a later date, if ever again. With a small realization that she could drink as much as she pleased, she downs what remains in her small goblet and turns again to check on the stage. The song was familiar now, vague memories of a childhood that took place mere miles from where they stood. Her mind walks a precarious line, blurred images that before this Greengrass seemed impossibly distant. For the first time in a long, long time, she felt the weight of her past life as all too real. Her lips tighten, but a bite of cheese distracts them as she glances the mercenary beside her. Unsure of his expression, she tries to bring him from his thoughts with a subtle softness to her usual gruff, "'Ey.." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Distracted as he was with the uncanny beauty of the land around them, it's a moment before Lockwood turns to his companion with almost a vague surprise. He had neglected to touch his wine in the idle moments they'd spent looking out over the rows of wine berries that stood to attention in the orchards below, well-ordered lines facing the falling sun like soldiers at attention. It'd pushed his mind to wander further towards his homeland, only a boat's ride across the Sea of Stars. With all the wine he'd indulged in over the day's course, he doubted that anything could have wrested him from those recollections, other than the unfamiliar softness with which Raine had addressed him. Turning to her almost dreamily, he blinked twice to force away most of the haze, regarding her as she was cast in the soft violet of faerie fire at dusk. Humming an acknowledgement at first, Jerrad corrected himself with a lofted brow and a wine glass brought away from his lips before he could distract them with a drink. "Yeh..?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A bleary sort of look to the Boar also softens her, a pointed intellect shrouded by wine but nonetheless present, for the time being. After all, it was only her fourth or fifth drink. It wasn't the first time she'd seen the Dog acting strangely, and though she wasn't sure what she'd intended to say to him, it came out as a simple and general question anyway. "Yeh alright?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Unexpected as it was, Jerrad knew somewhere in the back of his mind that it shouldn't have been, some of the fog cut from his mind by it's logical nature. Bobbing his head in a nod, Lockwood smiles only faintly. "M'arigh'." He offered, swirling the glass in front of his chest, though his eye remained on hers without insistence. "Been a busy night, eh." After a beat, he glanced off to the vineyards again before returning to the Boar. "You?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She seems confused for a split second, delayed in putting the conversation together. Looking out at the gently swaying, clearly intoxicated crowd she answers, "Uh, yeah.. Oh. Righ'... I still, got yer ring." [Bluff; 21 -1] Not really caring where she places her emptied drink, she sets it aside to dig for the item in the pouch at her hip. The small object is offered with honest curiousity, "How'd ya.. I mean, were ya.." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 18] A slow blink elapses before Lockwood thinks to pluck the ring from between Raine's fingers, held up for a brief inspection that seems to disbelieve the thing was ever absent from his person. Slipping it back on beneath his glove, the warrior has to re-evaluate his companion's half-aborted question before he's able to offer an answer, "Eh..? Oh." He grunted indistinctly, finally tipping back his glass for a hearty pull that leaves it halfway drained. "Nah.. Made Swordcaptain jus' before.. Eh.." Jerrad lingered on the statement for a moment, struggling to wave off a brooding memory with the wine's aid. "Never got knighted. Was a friend's. Been meanin' t'find 'is family, pass it on.." Letting his hand hover about his waist, Lockwood resisted an urge to sigh, instead distracting himself with their conversation. "Dunno why I never said anythin' abou'it." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia watches him replace the ring as she waits for the answer, listening as the heady wine sinks its teeth further in. She makes an acknowledging sound, "So y'plan t'ead back t'Cormyr?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The question again strikes the Dog momentarily stupid, his struggle against the wine's influence proving increasingly troublesome. Giving a shrug that threatens a yawn for a moment, he leans into the trellis at his side. "May'aps." A scarred hand drifted up to run through his hair, damp with sweat as it caught a heightened crimson hue in the sun's last rays. "Figured.. I'd stick 'round. Ain't got much t'go back tuh." The statement made him feel foolish, even as he said it. "Wha'bout you? Y'still.. Figure on stickin' t'gether?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Looking at the Dog in so surreal a setting was enough to take in without the unusual question. It pauses her, but when her answer arrives it sounds unduly nonchalant. She shrugs with folded arms, glancing the ground before she can redirect her gaze to the stage again. "Ah don'ave anythin' either." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia's response puts Lockwood at yet another pause, though this one is mercifully short compared to the others. Dividing his attention between his companion, the stage, and the darkening vineyards, the Dog feels something like relief ease an unknown tension from his person. In an effort to lift what he saw as the Boar's falling spirits, the mercenary offers over the remaining half of his wine glass, though his expression seems to convey an understanding if she might not neccessarily want it. "We got this though, yeh? I got y'back, 'long as y'ave mine." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Regarding him through her increasing stupor, the Boar considers his words and offering for longer than should be necessary. She recalled already providing him an answer, back in the forest she could now name as the Winterwood. When she found the constellations that brought her to embrace him in joy. So unique was the whole event that she hadn't found a context for it, nor could she determine how she felt about it. After a few moments of staring with a dulled expression, she takes the glass and stares at the liquid inside. With the alcohol clouding her thoughts and behavior, she gives an unclear, "Yeh.." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As the mercenaries linger at the fringes in their increasingly addled state, a low murmur rises from the dispered crowd at their backs. Slowly, a number of festival-goers congregate about the stage as the platform finds itself once again occupied; this time by a group of Chauntean Pastorals, who begin by thanking the revellers for their attendance before moving on to elaborate that with the sun having almost fully set, the time had come to offer their thanks as a whole for the Earthmother's bounty. Those who know the words are invited to follow along quietly, while those who might be unfamiliar (or just too drunk to properly speak) might listen in reverent silence. When all was said and done, most of the clergy would turn to depart, though the speaker would remain briefly to extend an invitation to the faithful's celebration elsewhere to any who would desire it. Some of the patrons exchange knowing glances and furtive smiles, even as Lord Woren in turn comes to mount the stage, speaking his blessings and utmost thanks for the Pastorals' services and the good fortune granted to his city by the Great Mother. As composed as he has ever been, the venerable baron holds his hands clasped before him in the sleeves of his robes, bowing crisply before moving forward into the usual platitudes of thanks towards his patrons for their attendance accompanied by the hope that none had gone unentertained. His hands still shielded from view by the fine fabric of his robes, Woren flashes a smile that seems almost somber for a moment as he nods his acknowledgement of what they all certainly feared; an end to the night's festivities proper. Of course, he regretted that the show could not simply go on forever, as they all did, but he was fully prepared to offer them a gift in parting. Suddenly, moving with the sort of alacrity unbecoming of most men, the baron's hands are freed from their concealment, and with them a brilliant prism stone accompanied by a glossy crystal that seemed to exude a pale light from it's very core. A pre-emptive gasp escapes the collective crowd-- One that escalates to outright applause as Woren strikes the two objects together and ignites the evening sky with an explosion of scintillating light. Any color one could imagine (and a few that one might not) dance across the sky, blotting out the stars above the courtyard in a storm of impossible beauty that threatens to leave all present transfixed. Some find themselves unable to even speak, while others cheer wildly, and others still simply faint straight away. For his part, Lockwood finds himself stonewalled into awed silence, the combination of powerful drink, impossible arcane showmanship, and a trusted companion close at his side leaving him at a loss for words or motion. Consumed by quiet stoicism, he sways gently beside the Boar, distantly aware of and comforted by her presence. He barely manages a whispered, "Brilliant.." [DC 18 v 9 Will] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Allowing her reverence and earnest thanks to revive her knowledge of the traditional prayer, Thelinia whispers along as well as a half-drunk ranger could manage. Memories of old barns, plowed fields, mud up to the waist and fatigue through every muscle flash through her swimming thoughts. Though had she often evaded ceremony in favor of rough-housing and lone scouting, the prayer was still well ingrained in the heads of every child through repetition. It seemed almost impossible, that where she stood now, the very same prayer would be shared in such a community. [DC 18 v 5  Will] At the clack of the spell's summoning, Thelinia's eyes widen in fascination. Made breathless again, she leans back against the trellis beside him to take in the sight. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As the crowd gawks at the display in the sky above them, Woren stands with a self-assured grin plastered across his face, watching pridefully for a moment before a sharp flick of his wrist sends the prismatic display dancing across the stars. The crowd below 'ooo's softly, swaying to follow the nebula's brilliance as Woren quietly fades from the stage. Given time, the rainbow lights would eventually begin to fade by degrees, melting away bit by bit to reveal more and more of the newborn night sky beneath it. Over the display's course, Lockwood finds himself bobbing from side to side in time with the shifting colors, the flashes of blue and red and purple catching in the cool jade of his eye. Here and there, it can't be helped that he sways, until the crux of the show brings his shoulder to brush across the Boar's. While he notices, he glances her a moment before muttering a whispered apology, mindful of her even through the haze of drink and the fading magic. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia only just notices the contact, as though it might have been a phantom sense brought on by the waning enchantment and wine. Though she doesn't move, she offers the slightest nod to indicate forgiveness, appreciative of his consideration in light of his earlier faux pas-- all three of them. When the lights are faded, and all that remain are the faerie fire lights in the dimming twilight. With the rainbow of magic gone and her eyes adjusting to the honest evening, the brightest stars begin to show themselves. Again with her world confirmed, she sighs in another bout of relief, and a measure of fatigue. [Con/Will DC 8 v 6] With the whole of the experience draining her to leave only a sense of contentment, her body relaxes so that her shoulder leans against him for a few moments before she realizes it, and retracts. As her mind clears fully from the magical display, only the wine is left to contend with; a much more familiar struggle. To cover for her indiscretion, she takes another drink, seemingly in no hurry to retreat from the festival. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The forgiveness offered to him is enough to see Jerrad relax fully into the trellis at their backs, compelled by his inebriation not to miss a moment of what remains of the light show if he can manage it. Though he feels a vague regret at not having ready access to a drink in hand, the show overhead engrosses him so that he's able to relinquish that small disappointment. When the magic has faded, he feels his eye fall shut against the growing night so that he can better absorb the atmosphere of it all. As tipsy as he was, the fact that he had finally made his way home to be greeted by such a day failed to elude him; that he had enjoyed the blessings of the gods-- his gods-- was all the confirmation he'd needed to know that this was where he belonged, at long last. The sudden weight at his shoulder rouses the fighter from his reverie, eye drifting over to catch a glimpse of the Boar as she rested against him. As brief as the contact was, it was enough to threaten another bout of warmth at his cheeks. He might have worried for it were it not for the darkness shrouding them and the wine offering an easy way to explain it off. Watching her for just a moment as she withdrew, the Dog leans off the trellis to observe the odd patron filing out of the courtyard after a night well-spent. "..So, where we 'eaded?" He asked finally, uncertain of her intention to remain at the festival, or if she was considering departure. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia can only offer a vague shrug, noncommital. "Whe'else there t'go?" Her mind drifts dizzily to the cider, and a little sparkle of life returns to her wine-addled expression. "W'got th'cider." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The nod Jerrad gives in reply is much too dull for his liking, considering the percieved brilliance of the suggestion, and is quickly corrected with a much more vigorous motion that shows clear signs of a deepening wine stupor. "We do, don't we..?" He paused long enough to rub at the bridge of his nose, evening his vision out. "S'a righ' brilliant idea.." Hoisting himself up off the trellis, Lockwood finds himself needing a moment to steady himself before he can turn to ensure his partner isn't have similar troubles. Should she need it, he'd offer a steadying hand, but otherwise makes no motions beyond waiting to leave. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Were she not so tired, the ranger might have weighed more heavily on the more spiritual options for their evening. Apart from the traditions of the Pastorals, she wondered if any of Mielikki's rangers were out riding in her childhood forest of the Chondalwood. An old and too familiar feeling of being mislaid begins to creep from those memories, uncomfortable in the midst of such unfamiliarity. It's this distraction that delays her own rise from the trellis, yet thoroughly encourages it. Shoving herself off the trellis with only the slightest sway [nat 20], she pushes past the dour thoughts in strong favor of well-aged cider. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Dex 11] The first step Jerrad takes halts his advance entirely for a moment as he has to catch himself against falling, a day of uninhibited drinking finally catching up with him. Steadying his weight against a trellis post, the Dog darts look in his partner's direction, suspicious that he might find her snickering at his expense. Regardless of her reaction, however, he presses forward once he's collected his bearings, and the two depart past the gate guards into the cool city night. While progress is easy at first for the duo, the rapidly darkening night combines with the disorienting haze of inebriation to lead them astray more than once through the unfamiliar streets. Thankfully, there is no end to the helpful (if similarly tipsy) cityfolk who are willing to redirect them back onto their path. All seems to be working out well enough to allow them to make their return to the Dove before the moon is fully risen in the sky, until the telltale rasp of chain against leather and a familiar voice barks out at their backs, "Hold!" Comes the command as a man steps from the alley of a shuttered corner club. As he strides into view, the two might be struck by recollection at the indignant self-assurance the man wears on his face. Lano leers down at the Dog and Boar with imperious anger, though the greater part of his ire is centered on Thelinia. In the path behind them, two men, one rather tall and one rather short, appear to bar their path back to the Dove. Both bear arms. With a sneer that could curdle milk, the slighted nobleman takes another step forward, hand on his weapon, "I hope you did not think your disrespect would go unaddressed, wench. You and your ugly little suckwort of a manling are going to get what's coming to you." [Might add more for Jerrad at the end, or alter Lano's stuff if needed. Change it up or add actions wherever, if u want] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It's with a bleary distaste that Thelinia turns to squint at the man, recognizing his tone of voice long before his appearance. A vague grunt of recognition is offered. Lockwood grumbles in his partner's ear, bumping her shoulder with his own. "Go'an kick'isarse.." He slurs. "S'already did," The Boar replies, watching Lano with a tired skepticism. "Th'orc's arse doessn take a'hint." Having already bested the man and enjoyed a satisfying Greengrass, Thelinia lacks her usual fiery interest in accepting a challenge. The man unsheathes a raiper, gleeming sharp in the dim lamplight. His lackeys follow suit, a mace hoisted with eager confidence and a falchion much less impressively drawn by clumsy hands. Approaching with measured strides, the nobleman levels the blade with Thelinia's eyes from his safe (for now) distance. "I am Lano Evenwood, firstborn and heir to the Evenwood orchard, warrant officer of the guard." He speaks the last title with malice, and lowers his voice accordingly. "When you insulted me, you insulted my city. Insults do not go unpunished," he hisses. [Intimidate, 25 v DC 15/14 - Thel and Jerrad are shaken for 2 rounds] Lano assumes a well practiced stance, unafraid to eye Lockwood as well, sure to hold his blade at the ready, should either of them answer his contemptuous demand, "Draw." Thelinia, aware of their disadvatage both in numbers and sobriety (and dress), grips the pommel of her sword as soon as the others had drawn their's. She takes a half step from Jerrad, a tactical precaution as she draws her sword in reply to his pointed at her face. "Lissen, lackwit. If y'can't take ah fair loss, y'ave nah biz'ness inna contesst. S'back off, or I'll havta do it 'gain." [Bluff, 2 v DC 13 - Intimidate, 13 v DC 10] Made uneasy by Lano's pronouncement of his title (as well as the obvious disadvantages the faced in their being entirely blitzed), Lockwood growls low in an effort to conceal his alarm. With a hiss like ice, the blade at his hip is freed to taste the night air, it's wielder shifting unsteadily to cover the Boar's flank. "'Ope yer'boys're ready t'see wot makes uh bloke tick, yuh zundle lovin' pisser." The Dog rumbled, bleary eye holding fast on the two hirelings. [Bluff 17 v DC 19; Intimidate 21 v DC 10] The noble guard raises his voice, loud enough to have disturbed any nearby residents in their dwellings. [Bluff, 16 v DC 18 - Thel sees his concern] Detecting their worry and believing his own concealed, he lifts his chin with great hubris, "I declare your actions as evidence of unlawful witchery, wielded against the citizens of Nimpeth! And for that I will see you arrested, or dead!" [Shaken for 2 rounds] [ Initative - Lackeys enter next round ] Thel - 20 Jerrad - 20 Lano - 17 ------- [[[[[ LANO = CR 1; Size M (5 ft., 8 in. tall); HD 1d8+4; hp 12; Init +6; Spd 30 ft.; AC 12; Attack +4 melee, or +3 ranged; SV Fort +6, Ref +2, Will -1; AL CN; Str 16, Dex 15, Con 18, Int 15, Wis 8, Cha 8. Languages Spoken: Auran, Common, Halfling. Skills and feats: Climb +7, Diplomacy +1, Handle Animal +3, Hide +2, Intimidate +3, Listen -1, Move Silently +2, Ride +6, Spot -1; Improved Initiative, Track. ]]]]] --------- THEL AC : 13, at -4 from Shaken+drunk JERRAD AC : 12, -4 shaken and drunk, 13 w/cmbt exprts Thel attempts a disarm, provoking an attack of op. and failing. 3 v 7 (If he takes the AoO, jerrad gets one) Thelinia's attempt to relieve Lano of his weapon ends with the tip of her blade slipping under his wrist, leaving the ranger dangerously overextended-- An opening that the nobleman fails to take advantage of properly. His rapier whistles sharply past the Boar's ear, forcing him to pivot awkwardly around her or risk losing his balance, a task which is further complicated by a menacing thrust from Lockwood. While he manages to twist away from the strike, Evenwood's heir is not so fortunate in evading the mercenary's backswing. The blade catches Lano just under the ribs, and a foul curse erupts from the man's throat as Lockwood backs just out of reach. "Call yer boys off'n quiddit while yer still breathin'." Jerrad barked, shifting his back foot to allow him a quick response to the hirelings' (doubtlessly imminent) attack. [Lano AoO; 8 - Jerrad AoO; 11 - Jerrad attk; 13, 4 dmg] [Initative Dog/Boar - 20 Lano - 17 Araros - 12 Dimble - 6 [Thel - 14 v 7] Thelinia, in a risky move, steps in close after the Dog's strike. She swings a leg for the back of Lano's knee, catching it in the crook of her ankle and swinging into his other leg. Lano lands on his hip, prone. Acting almost in tandem with his companion, Lockwood pivots sharply on his heel to place the nobleman's lackeys in his field of view. Quick as a whip, the point of his blade is levelled at the now prone Lano from over his shoulder, a silent warning against further resistance. Lano looks up with disdain at the Dog, after an initial startle at the arrival of his blade. He's bright enough not to move. [Int - 6, 8 v DC 8] Araros stands down, understanding the check. Dimble however, never a quick one under pressure, starts for Lockwood. [Attk, 3] --- [Shaken Ends] Thelinia's attention snaps upward at the movement, but with Lano in her path she doubles down on Jerrad's threat in an angry attempt to pin the noble. [attk 8 v 7] Her boot collides with his torso, forcing him flat against the ground with a scowl, in an ultimately unnecessary show of dominance. [Attack, 20+7; gauntlet nonlethal dmg, 14] With a sigh of exasperation, Jerrad steps away from the clumsy strike and delivers sharp backhand to his attacker's jaw. A puff of air escapes Dimble's lungs as he lands on the ground in an unconscious heap, a nasty looking welt already swelling along the side of his face. Araros is paid a passing glare of warning as the mercenary steps back in to plant his foot atop Evenwood's sword hand, awaiting the Boar's next move. [Pin assist, 1] [Lano escape artist, 20] The nobleman swings his arm out from under the Dog's, and uses the momentum to roll himself free of the Boar. [Thel AoO 15 v 10] Again with kicking, she slams her boot into his backside mid-roll, knocking him forward and flat again. "Quit yer wrigglin'!" Araros, uninterested in dealing with being outmatched, holds his hands up in surrender and backs off. The Boar continues berating the warrant officer, "Stan' down an' stay down, or ah'll skewer yer arse!" [Intimidate, 20 v 12 - Shaken 2 rounds] This would give Lano visible pause. A low growl rumbles up out of the Dog's throat at being eluded, the ease with which he is duped serving a bitter reminder of his disadvantage in being drunk. In retributive irritation, the fighter lunges in to seize Lano by the collar. In the ensuing scuffle, the spiteful nobleman manages to slash Lockwood across the cheek, but quickly finds himself struggling to unpin his arms from behind his back. [Jerrad Grapple DC 7 v 8; Lano AoO 15, 3 dmg] "Tluin! Give'et up, ya fetcher!" [9 v 20] Lano attempts to slam his head into Jerrad's face and fails to make contact. "Agghh! Unhand me, you suckwort!" Rather exasperated, Thelinia lifts her blade to point at Lano's neck. Araros takes his careful leave, briskly walking away. "Yer friend s'got th'right idea. Y'lost." With a better mind for Lano's strength, the Dog handles him with an ease that seems fit more for a child than a full-grown man. As if to accentuate this point, Lockwood gives the arms bent behind the nobleman's back a painful twist, bending them in such a way that they likely should not. "AaaAAAGH!" Lano cries out, though he has enough mind about him not to lash his throat into the blade hovering before it. Relenting before any true damage is done, Lockwood spits his contempt into the cobbles beside them. "Bes'givet up, mate. Y'nearly go'yerself cut, an' we ain't even sober." The sellsword grumbles in the man's ear, an unimpressed kind of derision reading in his voice. More incensed than ever by his new defeat, Lano hisses at the two but the slump in his shoulders speaks of his submission. "You'll regret this. You and your ape, both! I am not a man to be crossed." The Boar lazily lifts her sword's tip just under the man's chin, a movement requiring a bit more focus than is probably safe. "Y'come aft'us 'gain, ya'gun regre' it." [Intimidate, 19+5] Made increasingly nervous, he tenses in the Dog's grip and swallows. When the point has been made, Lockwood releases Lano with a rough shove-- And a swift kick to the back for good measure that sends him stumbling away. Once he'd assured himself that he wasn't going to recieve a sword in the back, the shamed noble composes himself as best he can before taking off at a laboriously swift walk. As silence settles back over the street, Jerrad steps over the less fortunate of the hirelings and reclaims his sword from where he'd dropped it. With an expression of lazy contentment, he looks to the Boar. "Wanker." Thelinia gestures with her blade to the downed hireling, "Y'oughta prop'im 'gainst a'wall or somethin'.. Get'im outta th'road," she suggests, and turns to watch Lano's retreat with a bleary gaze. She rubs a temple, a headache's warning setting in. "S'better be th'end uh'it." "Ain't countin' on'et." The fighter grunted, dusting his hands. With the rush of battle already fading, Lockwood nurses his own headache with a low grunt, his head swiveling to face Dimble's unconscious form with a painful slowness. After a dull pause, he gives a shrug and hoists the sad little man against the nearby wall. Straightening back up, the Dog looks to his companion with just the faintest indication of a grin. "S'les'ave that drink, eh?" "Heh," is her affirmation, and she places the bloodless sword back in its sheath. A couple adjustments are made to her gown, fixing what was displaced during the fight, and she would carry along with her companion. The rest of the journey to the Dove is peacefully uneventful, with the moon drawing high in the sky as the two mercenaries surmount the hill leading up to the familiar sight of the inn's gates. Here and again, there are the sounds of distant laughter and echoing revels, but the streets are largely silent-- particularly in the vicinity of the Dove itself. As Dog and Boar push past the gates, a thin layer of evening mist rises from the ground around their ankles to be swept away by their approach. Inside, precious few patrons congregate in quiet circles about the tavern room, though no servants mingle among them. Rowan himself is nowhere to be seen, presumably absent given the conclusion of the day's festivities. Beyond a sparingly coarse jab at the unseen proprietor, Lockwood offers little commentary on the matter. Mounting the stairs, the two slip past a few stray servitors here and again before arriving at their room, and with only a minor bit of drunken fumbling the key is fit to the lock and entry granted. Moonlight waits beyond the threshold, a pale silver glow streaming through the still open window to do battle with the soft orange of lantern light that creeps in past the open door. For his part, Jerrad displays only a mild instance of suspicion at the seeming serenity of the room in front of them before he pushes through to inspect their things. The keg of cider waits patiently for the duo where it was left, sitting stoic and proud beneath the windowsill. Besides the noise of their own movements, the room is silent, save for the gentle flutter of silk curtains in the night breeze. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Tempting as the sight was, Thelinia has enough mind to aid Jerrad in ensuring their possessions were present. Once convinced they hadn't been robbed, she rises and gives a stretch before taking a seat by the window in something of a slump. "'Ow's yer cheek?" She asks overshoulder, just before leaning down to investigate under the small table for fresh goblets. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With enough poking about, Lockwood's suspicions are satisfied and he moves to join his partner in a lazy slouch near the window. Shucking his pack from his shoulders as she spoke, the question prompts a low grunt that seems agreeable enough. "S'alrigh'." He replied, smearing the injury a pinch of some gooey pink liquid retrieved from a vial in his pack. Almost immediately the bleeding stops, and the injury is left looking far less unpleasant. [Heal 14+5 from Bloodblock] When the issue is settled, he gives another small grunt, reclining to face the Boar. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia draws up two clean polished wood cups, engraved with holy symbols of Lliira and Lathander. She grunts in the direction of the cider as she does, indicating the Dog was slacking on opening it. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Something that might have been a groan of protest starts at the back of the Dog's throat, but it fades as quickly as it comes, his body already in motion. Weary as he was from the day's events, Lockwood still manages the barrel with ease, hefting it up onto the table and extracting the cork stopper as though it were only a minot annoyance. With a weighty 'pop!', the cork comes free, the air about the two quickly becoming perfumed with the keg's contents. Visibly excited, Jerrad fishes around for the accompanying spigot, fitting it to thehole as quickly as he's able. "Can't buhlieve we'ad t'wait this long t'crack'et open." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar doesn't wait, reaching for the spigot as soon as the barrel is in position. Her cup fills with the most enticing nectar, and she shoots back a greedy mouthful to savor. So fine is the cider however, that her head tilts back against the chair, and the Boar relaxes into it with closed eyes; a long, long awaited moment of tranquility and indulgance in the moonlit night's breeze When she finally swallows, she is nearly breathless. "Gods..." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood is not far behind his companion, leaning in to fill his cup nearly to the brim with the life-giving drink. Taking a moment to bring it before him, Jerrad savors the anticipation a few testing sniffs builds before he puts the goblet to his lips and knocks back a swig. A faraway look of deep contentment spreads across his face. The mercenary nods approvingly. "Yeh.." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her second go at the cider is tempered now that her eager curiousity is sated. With honest interest, she takes a moment to study its aroma, trying just a sip this time. The sip quickly grows however, but there would be plenty of time to enjoy the subtleties at breakfast. For a while, she is too consumed with the experience to speak, instead finding herself gazing out the window, seeing her homeland with a perspective she'd never imagined. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia's quiet reflection is an uncommon enough sight for the Dog that he finds himself struck by a similar vein of subdued silence. Nimpeth by moonlight was not something he'd ever have thought he'd have the opportunity to enjoy on his own, much less with the company of a trusted comrade. There'd never been much space for that sort of idleness in the Purple Dragons. Now, with good drink in hand and the stout company of the Boar, he wasn't sure he missed it all so much. "Hmmh." The sound squeezed it's way past the corner of Lockwood's mouth, muffled by another sip of fine cider. It was too early to make the call, but he might have to put it in the running for one of the best drinks he'd ever had. Raine seemed to agree, at least. The thought saw him shift slightly in his seat, just enough to put his partner within his field of view. She seemed more content than he'd witnessed in a tenday-- And that was saying something, given the wild indulgences they'd been privvy to over the festival's course. As if to confirm the thought with himself, Jerrad gave a soft grunt past another gulp of cider, "Good day, eh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar returns the grunt in kind, beginning to slow down as she is better aquianted with the cider--just in time to require a refill. Helping herself, she savors the freshly released aroma before confirming its flavor again. Her eyes catch his a moment, which draws a small, albeit intoxicated, smile from the ranger before she can redirect her gaze out the window with another drink. Despite the day's fatigue clear on her features, she looks out at the moon with a vibrance telling of something akin to happiness. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ For a moment, Jerrad's eye lingers on his partner curiously, the honesty un her expression seeming to bear comittment to memory. He wasn't sure when he'd see her smile like that again. If it'd happened just a few months ago, he'd he thought it bizarre. Now, it merely encouraged the mercenary towards his own levity-- and another sip of Vilhon's best. Turning back to the window, Lockwood sprawled out in his seat and let his head rest easy. For as long as the cider held out, he was happy to share these moments in silence. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ After a fair while, the Boar breaks her silence. "S'we really back," she slurs, no more a statement than a question. "Dinin' think I'd ever ge'back." Pausing a while, she begins to appear almost pensive as she looks out at the sea beyond the vineyard. All she left behind felt more like a dream than ever, but the silence and cider shone light on what she'd lost, in a way she had long ignored. The next cup is finished swiftly, soothing a warning ache in her chest, for the time being. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a telling pause, Lockwood looks up from his second (or perhaps third) cup to reply, but finds his thoughts wandering off before he can reclaim them. The Boar's words spoke true to his own doubts, harbored over the course of the long days and nights they'd spent in Niraya, agonizing over a return to home that seemed impossible; a figment of the mind, even. A hurtful fantasy better forgotten. So many times he'd wondered if pain of loss was worth clinging to the hope for return. He'd persisted all the same, too stubborn to give up and too loyal to let Raine go it alone. He had to wonder if that resolve stemmed from a fear that she might find the way without him, or that she might come to harm without him there to take the blow. Looking over the contents of his goblet, the Dog realized that if he hadn't been able to figure out the answer when he was sober, he certainly wouldn't find it at the bottom of his cup. And so, he drank. Tipping the spigot back to fill his cup with it's issue, Lockwood thumped back into his chair with a grunt. Shifting unsteadily, the fighter dragged a swaying arm out from his side to offer up his cup for a toast, a soft curl lifting the side of his lips. "Ah dunno'ow we dideh," He nearly muttered, words blending together, "Buh we're 'ome. An' ah got yeh t'thank fer it." A small pause filled the air as Lockwood looked between her and the window, until a quiet hum freed him from it. "Suh thank yeh. Fer stickin' wi'me." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Seemingly reminded of her own emptied cup, she renews it after his. With a measure of detachment she hides behind a drunken smirk, she clacks her cup to his in an accepted toast, and proceeds to drink beyond a sip. [Bluff 16] She slows at his words, however, bringing her to pause. She watches him through a haze of drink, aware of subtleties that seem to swim away as soon as they're caught. It's at his thanks that the words are finally coherent, their meaning casting her eyes to the darkened horizon with an uncomfortable sensation at her cheeks. There was a dull realization that she had stuck with him, but out of a necessity his words hadn't expressed. He was grateful. For her. If cider and wine were anything, they were truth-tellers. She knew their power over the honesty of man, freeing the deepest and worst attributes of even the most outwardly kind. Now she saw a truth in him, one alluded to in his natural disposition, and seemingly confirmed, in the comfort of drink and security. It brought her to sip again, uncertain of how to hold these thoughts in her blurred mind, much less make sense of them. "Yeh... you too." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh." Lockwood mumbled from behind his cup, the swirling warmth of drink helping him elude recognition of the Boar's troublings. Caught up in the simple joy of the moment, the Dog could only be bothered to enjoy the cider alongside the company of a trusted friend. Of course, if he was going to enjoy it properly, he'd need a fresh cup. Leaning in with an exerted grunt, Lockwood tipped back the spigot for another go, a persistent smile dogging his features. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ After a few moments, Thelinia finds herself relaxing again, melting into the chair with every sip. She further ruins the delcate designs of her hair, scratching at the last few blossoms which somehow still clung to her. Braids breaking and bedraggled, she takes a lazy hand to flick the tangled mess comfortably behind a shoulder. Recognizing the difficulty in such a simple action, Thelinia deigns the chair her bed for the night. Feeling her blinks soften and disguise the passage of time, she lets out a long, calming sigh as she sinks comfortably into the chair. A small splash on her deshelved dress stirs her, and she laments the waste of drink with a remorseful groan. It prompts her to take the tipped cup to her lips again, this time appearing more as habit than anything. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Between a long cultivated fatigue and an imbibement of far more drinks than is wise, Lockwood too finds himself succumbing to a hazy sleepfulness. However, the weight of the cup in his hand, coupled with the soft touch of wind at his cheeks lends him enough presence of mind to muscle his way through the murk and remain alert, for a time. As the moments pass in comfortable silence, his gaze drifts in lazy circles about the room, settling on the window here and there before wandering off to inspect his companion's progress in her own battle. A cursory glance informs him that she was faring little better than he, though the fighter makes no mention of the humor he finds in it beyond a tired grin. Before long, however, even smiling proves too great an effort for the Dog, and with the last of his energy his drink is emptied and put to rest, along with his consciousness. If it weren't for Thelinia's startling mishap, he might well have remained slumped in his chair until the morning sun woke him; instead, he finds himself with enough wherewithal to muster a throaty chuckle at her expense-- an act that nearly sees him tumble out of his chair with a surprised grunt. Unaware of the embarassment burning his cheeks, the drunken Dog struggles to keep from toppling off the side of his seat, eventually coming to rest at an awkward, sidelong slump. More tired than ever, he lets out a long, sighing grumble in protest. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Before the instinct to respond to his humor finds her, he's titled nearly out of his seat. It's her turn to snort and chuckle at his expense, enough energy replenished to manage the effort without the clumsiness of the Dog. Still, the effort is enough to make her dizzy, and she's forced to recline her head again against the chair. She rests with both the Dog and the night sky in her field of half-lidded vision. With what might be a smirk at the corner of her lips, the Boar watches him a moment, before her eyes drift to the moonlight again. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As much as he might have liked to protest her amusement, Lockwood can barely find it in himself to move for the moment, much less growl his defense. Instead, he lets out a defeated grunt as his head falls slack to hang off the side of the chair's backing, the Boar, the ceiling, and a sliver of the world beyond their shared window his only view. From here, he sees little at first as the room blends together under the cider's influence. As his vision begins to steady, however, the image of the Boar sitting slouched so serenely in the dim moonlight coalesces, and for a heartbeat, he feels the breath still in his chest. Even with the familiarity of her bedraggled brown curls and ragged dress, once fine, the Dog is struck by her appearance; sweat catches Selune's light where her skin meets the night, shimmering in a way the old soldier had never seen it. The reek of sweet cider and earth hangs in the air, cloying in it's appeal. And, as his eye traveled up to search her own, he glimpsed the part in the hem along her dress' bust. Only a glimpse, but enough to compel his gaze elsewhere, shamed by it's error. And yet.. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It isn't long before her eyes close, and her head falls slack against the cushion. A gentle sigh escapes her, made shallow by the slow onset of sleep. [Perception DC 14 > 9] Thelinia fails to notice the Dog's gaze in this state, content to float in semi-consciousness, though her companion may be hard pressed to notice as their struggle for coherence slowly overwhelms. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Working up the courage to speak, Lockwood let his head fall back again, and his mind returned to the tub. Had he really..? An angry disapproval snapped at the back of his thoughts dismissing the episode as the wandering of a lonely mind. He would've winced at the turmoil, if it weren't for the cider's heady work. But.. It had meant something to him, hadn't it? He knew better, didn't he? Now, he wasn't so certain. But, he was certain of one thing. "'Ey.." It was a struggle to get the words out, much less to keep from stumbling over his own tongue. "Y'look.. Eh.. 'Mean th'dress.. I, eh. Yuh.." He stopped just short, eye swaying slightly against the liquor's influence and his own apprehension, and instead he fell silent for a long moment. When the Dog finally found his voice again, there was a softness to it that he didn't intend, and failed to notice. "Yuh look good. Eh. Looked good.. all day, eh.. I, eh. Sorreh.. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A sound reaches her through the dimming haze in her head, a ragged and familiar mumbling she could identify even sloshed. It beckons her attention, lifting her mind just above the swimming sea of sleep to hear. Unsure of the words that follow, she does her best to make out what is said, but it's a fruitless task. [rolled two 4's..] [and a 10] Still some intent reaches her, an element to his voice she is less familiar with. Though his slurs conceal his speech, she dreamily wonders if it's meaning warranted the small touch of warmth it provided nonetheless. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 2] In the face of sleep's encroaching embrace and a steadily deepening drunkeness, Lockwood misses the telltale shifting that betrayed his companion's consciousness and starts to continue with his rambling confession. "Yer th'besst par'ner... Bess one ah e'er 'ad, yeah..?" He paused, shut eye straining against some unspoken thought. When the Dog continues, he's quieter, slurring heavily. "An' tha's th'truth. Woulden want'figh' wi'.. No one else.." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Unclear if she was dreaming, the Dog's subdued rambling lulls the Boar back to sleep. Left alone, Thelinia would sleep for a number of hours, until waking with what's at first a startling situation. It wasn't often she'd fall asleep in the privilege of a chair, but once her memory reestablished the inn, and the presence of her companion, her breath calms. [[if he is awake here I can roll perc}} The need to remove the mericfully small surcoat is realized as the discomfort stirring her, however Maneuvering it beyond her shoulders asks too much-- But the true culprit was now in reach. The Boar pries at the lacing of her bustier until its forced to loosen, cooling night air and a welcomed full breath rewarding her effort. Greengrass evenings had a way of unseasonably comfortable weather, a thought which encouraged serenity, and she closed her eyes again. With just enough mind to adjust her gown and ensure propriety, Thelinia soon drifts off again, praying that her growing headache would somehow improve before waking. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Put to sleep by the rumble of his own voice rumbling against his chest, Lockwood's awareness falls away to the intangible murk of dream. Stirring precious little over the course of the night, the Dog slumbers placidly alongside Boar, the depth of his sleep insulating him against his partner's waking movements. Beyond a vague murmuring, Jerrad responds to Thelinia's rustling with little more beyond a faint twitching in the leg. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Though the sun begins to rise, it's not the growing light which awakens the Boar. Forced before to ignore her bodily needs, this time there would be no waiting. With a tiresome urgency, she manages to wriggle out of her surcoat and stumble about, though perhaps none too quietly. A fair while passes before she returns, markedly more comfortable.Moving about offered little in the way of lucidity, but just enough awareness to recognize the untouched, luxurious bed. Stumbling her way through a pounding headache, less than deft fingers undo the bustier in earnest, just barely enough to free it from her waist before she collasped onto the bed. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Left to his own devices, Lockwood might have slept well into the late of the day slumped across his chair until shaken or otherwise bothered to wake. Fortunately for his spine, however, his body alerted him to a particular need that required satisfaction. With a muffled grunt, the Dog drags himself from the chair that had served as his bed for most of the night and draws himself up to stand-- an effort that sees him groan against the discomfort of his evening spent slouched at odd angles. Once he's satisfied of his ability to hold upright, Lockwood starts for the door to the hall, though not without an absent, bleary-eyed glance paid in his companion's direction. When he returns (after quite some time), Jerrad seems to at least be more comfortable if not more aware of his surroundings. His every step seems harried by the throbbing pain of the previous night's excess, requiring a tentative step and a warding hand placed at the side of his head as the mercenary shambles up to the window side. Drawn by the allure of the brightening world beyond in his trancelike daze, Lockwood makes the ill-advised decision to look beyond the curtains and is rewarded with a jolt of pain that darts behind his forehead as the light blinds him. Staggering away from the offensive fixture, the Dog instinctively moves to join the Boar in the comparative dimness of their shared bedroom-- Though despite having looked to her previously, this is perhaps the first time he truly takes note of her presence there. Seized by a vague concern, Lockwood lingers at the threshold as a pregnant lull takes hold; at least, until his headache and fatigue overcome the unknowable worry bothering his hungover conscience. [Int nat 20!] With great difficulty, he moves to the bed's vacant side to camber in for a well-deserved rest, when the gentle rise and fall of his companion's breath catches his attention. Seemingly without prompting from his own thoughts, the fighter wanders over to her side (quietly) and gently folds what blankets aren't pinned by the Boar's body over her. He barely manages an absent smile before returning to the other side of the bed and pulling himself in, dead asleep nearly the instant his head hits the luxurious pillows. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Sometime past midday, The Boar awakens in a blanket, still wearing her gown and enduring a horrific headache. An hour or so is spent in the struggle of waking, until her dehydration from a night without water forces her to action. It's a great feat for the hungover mercenary to crawl from the bed and search for her pack, shuffling on all fours like a wounded animal. Praising the gods, she finds her waterskin in easy access, and drinks greedily-- only to choke on the salty Nagaflow she'd gathered in a desperate bid for water the day before. Between the salt, shock, and nausea, the hardy Boar coughs it back up, the saltwater now infused with the fruity aroma of last night's excess. [Fort 10 v 13] Thankfully managing to avoid her dress and pack, Thelinia still groans, and proceeds to scour the room for fresh water. [Perception 22 v 10] Her prayers are answered by the same cabinet which acted as accomplice to the over-indulgence of cider. Behind where she'd located the goblets rests two full serving bottles of what certainly looked and sounded like water. Uncorking one as she sat before the end table, she cautions herself to take a sniff before a taste. The bottle is then depleted to half its capacity, and a relieved gasp follows. With thirst sated, the ranger takes a peek out the window, first to bring her eyes to adjust, and a few minutes later to check the time. She almost surprises herself with the habitual ease of measuring the position of the sun over the Reach, as though she had never lived under an alternative arc. The kind reminder of her home renews her comfort, even with the sickness of alcohol. After spending a while under the window, Thelinia decides to get her footing for the first time since waking. With aid of the table and chairs, she lifts herself to slowly stand against the protests of a migraine. It's only then she considers the lump in the bed. [if her stirring would've woken him, its prolly a fair DC for him to actually wake up so lmk] Had she noticed him before? She felt his presence, or so she thought, but it hadn't connected in her hungover state that he was beside her. Before searching the room, she'd even thought he might've gone out already. Still fully dressed, the Dog appeared to have collasped in a similar fashion as she had, though the memory is scarcely present. There is a moment her heart jumps with anxiety, but a quick assessment of herself abates the concern. Come to think of it, how was it that she awoke wrapped in blankets? Carefully, for her sake and his, she wanders closer to examine him from the foot of the bed. From the looks of it, he'd paid enough mind to fall a respectful distance from her. Thinking back, her last memory was sitting, presumably by the window, and watching the moon with him sitting across from the shared end table. [Int 7 v 20] It was then difficult to blame Lockwood for his relocation, when she considered the uncomfortable position he must have fallen asleep in. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 14 v DC 18] The subtlety of the ranger's movements are lost on Lockwood, his head still firmly buried in the pillow where it'd landed with no indication of shifting. Sleep has a firm hold on the man, no doubt in no small part due to the aid of their exhausting night spent on the town. The wound on his face has visibly healed over the course of the night, though the flesh around it remains pink and raw, a fresh scar left behind as a reminder of Lano's ambush. The fighter's chest (or rather, his back) rises and falls in a steady rhythym, arms splayed out at his sides as he lays ignorant of his companion's scrutiny. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia watches her companion for longer than she realizes necessary, and takes a last swig from the hefty bottle before moving in to prop it against a pillow beside the man. [Dex 20] It's easy enough to take one of the many plush pillows and bring it within his reach, the recorked bottle quietly placed against it. She backs away to confirm its position, and briefly considers helping him untangle from the coat he'd failed to remove. It takes a moment for her to decide, ultimately letting the worry of waking up in a compromising way decide for her. Thankful for the servant bell's string near the head of the bed, she gives it a tug to summon someone. It's not a long wait before a servant arrives, one she didn't recognize this time. She places a request for quail, eggs, and bread enough for two, and something to ease a headache. The servant nods and obediently waits for her to retrieve her coin purse. With her dulled dexterity and bleary eyes, Thelinia thinks little of overpaying the boy, telling him he can do as he wants with it. The boy thanks her with either surprise or nervousness--perhaps both--and bows before carrying off to fulfill her order. Checking again on Lockwood, unless he had stirred she'd settle herself by the window. Not bothered, and in fact thankful for the stick of cider still in her cup, she replenishes it with water and enjoys the latent sweetness. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The bottle placed at his side goes unnoticed by the mercenary, a quiet hitch in his breath the only indicator of any sense of awareness. Even as she summoned and dealt with the servant, Lockwood remained unconscious and inert, save for the odd grunt muffled by the pillow cradling his face. It's only when the Boar returns to check on him that her companion has started to stir, [Perception 21] having rolled onto his back at some point and located the bottle at his side. His eye remains shut, however, either against pain, waking fatigue, or both. Apparently unaware of Thelinia's presence, Lockwood tugs absently at the cork stopping the bottle, rough fingers fumbling at it for a proper grip. Eventually, he succeeds, and the bottle is placed to parched lips for a conservative gulp. "Rrnn." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "S'mornin'," she replies, mindful of her volume before moving off to the window and leaving him to the task of waking up. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Raine's voice prompts the Dog to tip his chin in her direction, acknowledging her as best he can without aggravating the pounding at the back of his skull. As her footsteps recede across the soft carpet, he does his best to ease himself against the headboard while keeping the bottle close at hand. [Intelligence 18] At first, it's all Jerrad can do to keep a hand to his head to ward against the pain-- Not that it'd do anything meaningful. Still, the gesture was comforting enough on it's own that after a few minutes of agonizing quiet, the fighter manages to sift through the blurred memories of the night before, albeit with some difficulty. Most of what he recalls is hardly helpful. The festivities at Lord Woren's reception leapt most immediately to mind, particularly the unexpected duel with.. Whatever the damned wizard had summoned up. Even if the wound on his chest had been mended, he could still vaguely recall the sting of it's claw across his flesh. He'd be happy if he never had to tangle with one of those again. Marie, too, danced across his memory. The girl had been nothing but kind to him, tending his injuries more than once over the course of the day. She'd been affectionate, even. That must've been why he felt so poorly in recalling her.. He hadn't been too brief, had he? Too brusque? Quietly, he had to admit that he'd never been very skilled at gently rebuffing a woman's advance. Pressing forward, he found there was precious else he could recall past the point of the dance. He remembered looking up at the moon, the Boar's presence at his side.. Rare smiles exchanged between friends. The impromptu duel with Lano, too, brought a smirk to his lips, though another flash of pain through his head turned it to more of a grimace. [Intelligence 5] Once they'd gotten back to the room that night, though, the memories ran together. He could remember the taste of cider on his lips, and Selune hanging low in the sky. Raine's smile, too, stuck out in his mind. The image stoked a strange warmth in his chest, but the sensation was again stifled by the pain of the ever present hangover-- Which reminded him.. "O-- Auunngh." The attempt to speak sent lightning pounding across the inside of his skull, prompting a hiss. Forcing himself to talk through the pain, Lockwood raised his voice to catch Raine's ear, "'Ey.. Thel-- Check m'pack. Two vials'a-- Urrgh. Gold powder. Put 'em in some drinks an' mix 'em." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Eh..?" Comes the distant answer, and it's with a subdued groan that she lifts herself from the chair once the implied promise of relief convinces her to. Shuffling to their packs like an undead bride in her dirty white gown, the Boar finds her earlier expulsion just where she left it. Fortunately the saltwater kept the bile scent at bay, but the sight of it turned her stomach. She imagined her partner might feel similarly, so she takes a detour to the bath to take one of their towels and apply it to the puddle. More or less cleaned up, she digs through his belongings until she finds what must be the vials, and returns to the table to mix them as instructed. Without much thought, she brings both potions over and sits at arm's reach to pass his over. She'd wait for him to drink, or at least explain more of what it was. Still speaking softly enough to avoid aggravating their migraines, she fills him in simply. "Ordered some food." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ When his attention isn't occupied by tending the pain running the length of his skull, Jerrad manages to open his eye enough to squint over at Thelinia, though his vision is still too tender to pick up on much beyond vague movements until she draws nearer. Once she'd joined him at the bed, he accepts the offered drink and brings it up before him for inspection. The powder disperses smoothly through the water, fizzling and spitting aggressively on impact. A faint smell of ozone wafts up from the yellowish fluid, making for a less than appetizing picture, though Lockwood seems undeterred. He pauses at her words, offering a smile restrained by the hangover's influence. "Righ'. Thanks." He murmurs his reply before knocking back the drink in one go. Whether the effects are instantaneous or not, Jerrad leans back with a sigh that seems pointedly less distressed, even managing to open his eye to meet Thelinia's gaze. "It 'elps." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia takes a look at the cup in her hands, and gives it another sip. Trusting her companion's assessment, she follows suit with a breathy sigh in expectant relief. It's then tempting to lay back, but even at the fair distance between them, the idea is uncomfortable. "Hhngh." After a minute or so of letting the liquid sit with her, she dares to give her neck a stretch, and yawns, groaning again. She considers the previous night again, attempting to recount the party she'd attended, but it strains her thoughts too much than is comfortable. "Sso how long's it take?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Not without some discomfort, Jerrad lifts a hand to run through his bedraggled hair, a few errant dirty copper locks pushed back into place while displacing several more. Though the harshest edge of the migraine had begun to fade, Lockwood finds that care in his movements is still advisable while the tonic does it's work. "Nnh. Jus' a bit." Able to keep his eye open for longer than just a few moments now, he sits up a bit straighter to give his back a proper stretch. Though his vision still requires a few steady blinks to recover, the room's image starts to solidify, with the Boar taking precedence. The emptied cup is set aside in a test of the mercenary's dexterity, and only a distant jab at the base of his skull responds with protest. "Never'ad a Greengrass like that, eh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A weak smile forms in spite of the headache, "Heh. Nuh.." The Boar rolls her shoulders, and reaches her arms forward with fingers locked,  in a long, indulgent stretch. "S'always borin' back 'ome. Hymns an' fieldwork, some weddin's." Releasing the stretch with some renewed vigor as the potion begins to work, she relaxes some. "Usually stuck t'the woods." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The expression is returned with little apprehension, encouraged by tincture's steady aid. "Actually sounds sorta nice." Lockwood offered, putting a palm to the side of his neck in an effort to work out the pressure built there. "Never'ad many, m'self. Can't remember th'ones I'ad with m'ma an' da." Coming out of the stretch, he gives a neutral hum, though the recollection doesn't seem to bother him much. "Once they wen'an' passed on, I 'ad t'look out fer m'self. Y'ought t'seen th'parades, though. Swear I seen a 'ippogriff once." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia shook her head, finding the gesture much easier than expected. Imagining the man as a child was one thing, but the idea of an extravagant Greengrass was just as strange. "Always 'eard th'Greengrass cross th'Reach was glim. Our's jus' mud an' prayer." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mhm," Jerrad hummed an agreement, taking to popping his knuckles to further test the potion's worth. "Never'ad much taste fer it. Too busy makin' trouble, I s'pose." Really, he'd never had much care for holidays of any sort, though the feasts of Deadwinter had always held a certain fondness in his heart. Thinking back, it was difficult to recall even that holiday; something that unsettled him when he knew he should. Excusing the lapse in memory as a consequence of time and too much drink, the Dog arched his back to give it the stretching it so direly needed. A series of loud pops brought a look of tired relief to his features and allowed him to settle back to the headboard with a great deal more ease. "Always though' maybe farm life might'a suited me, yeh? But then, I'd'a missed out on gettin' pissed on cider. Heh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar hums a muted chuckle, mostly to keep her good humor. Thoughts of home gave her a somewhat troubling idea, mixed feelings threatening to preoccupy her. Fortunately, the tonic was doing its job well enough, and the promise of breakfast was enough to look forward to. "'Ow much we drink uh'it anyway?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The question gave Lockwood a moment's pause to consider, his gaze darting off to where the much-abused keg still rested by the window. Shrugging his shoulders uncertainly, he took advantage of his increased mobility to shuck off the jacket that still clung to his arm. "Well we ain't dead, so jus' enough, I think. Migh' need t'pick up another 'fore we 'ead out though." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The notion of leaving Nimpeth and all its fine wine and cider behind sunk something inside her. Though, it also begged a question she hadn't thought much of since their arrival. In an honest inquiry, with perhaps just a hint of apprehension, she asks, "Y'have somewheren' mind?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A light grunt seems to acknowledge his partner's concern, Lockwood being none too keen on going without the indulgences they'd been afforded seemingly nonstop since their arrival. It was, admittedly, the one of the best nights he'd had in years. Leaving it all behind almost seemed a crime. Sitting up a bit straighter, the Dog gives an honest hum before replying, "No'really.. S'pose ol' Woren'll want somethin', though." Uncertain of just what that could be, he distracted himself from the hidden worry it invoked by keeping his attention centered on the Boar. "We don't got t'leave th'Reach. Figure we got a good bit've gold. Could even start uh company proper, eh? Not in any rush t'sort it all out if y'ain't." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar seemed to follow his thinking as she set her cup aside on the bed, until his last suggestion gave her visible pause. Hadn't their need for men passed when they passed through the wizard's portal? After all, they even returned with gold and gems to spare. Even if they weren't as prosperous in the Realms, they were capable enough as a duo. Strange to think she had once been so apprehensive with the idea. She looks to him, almost incredulous but with earnest curiousity, "Y'still wan' ta expand?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Sitting forward with a shrug, he considers the question over a careful moment before adding, "Well, we don't got to. Bu'it's an idea, righ'? Could make us s'more coin." Truthfully, he shared her own opinion on the matter, even if unknowingly; now that they'd made it home, what need was there for more men? The wealth they'd acquired was certainly enough to set them up for life, and the Reach was as good a place to set down roots as any. All the same, he couldn't be certain he was ready to do so. Wandering had become second nature to him, and now that he'd had the Boar to accompany him, doing so with her by his side felt natural. He wasn't so sure adding another body to the mix would be preferable to their current arrangement. "Truth is, I ain't got an idea what t'do with it all in the slightest." A rough hand ran across the fresh stubble forming across his jaw, scratching idly for a moment as he weighed their options. "Y'figure we ought t'set ourselves up, though? Get a place t'gether, even if it's jus' fer comin' back t'get pissed when we ain't roamin'." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A light touch of pink colors her cheeks and her expression winces in embarassment for just a second. Understanding (she hoped) his intention, however, she clears her throat. "Eh.. Dunno. Never really considered it." It was true enough; settling anywhere rarely crossed her mind, though she'd wonder if it were only due to the forced wandering her life had become. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The fleeting glimpse of bashfulness that slipped through the Boar's facade urged Jerrad's eye to dart away for a moment, though he wears an expression of lax reassurance when his attention returns to her. "Well, ain't any need t'make a decision. We got th'gold, an' we're 'ome. S'what matters, righ'?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Righ'," she affirms in kind, looking away and hoping to conceal the awkwardness of his suggestion. His seeming lack of reaction wasn't as comforting as he might've thought it, but it was a relief to see a lack of disappointment. He brought up a good point, however; What was next? A knock at the door summons her, and she rises with thankful ease. The few steps of distance would hopefully cool her cheeks, as well as the anticipation of food. She opens the door to a rolling table helmed by the servant boy from earlier, who bows again before wheeling it in. He only briefly glances Lockwood, giving a habitual dip of the head, and again to Thelinia as he'd take his leave, if uninterrupted. Not one for waiting, the moment he's gone Thelinia lifts the lid of a platter to unleash the mouth-watering bouquet of roasted bird and herbs glazed with butter, and the warm undertones of fresh bread. A pitcher of sparkling water rests between the dishes, along with two simple wooden cups. The Boar treats herself to a deep whiff of the meal, before replacing the lid and eagerly rolling the cart towards the window, expecting the Dog to soon follow. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As much as he might've liked to reassure the Boar that his intentions weren't as intimate as he'd made it sound, the words simply don't come to him either due to the embarassment inherent in his reaction or her own. Perhaps thankfully, the knock at the door bids her to rise, giving the both of them time to compose themselves-- As well as heralding the arrival of an unexpectedly lavish meal. With a near instantaneous shift from uncertain to ravenous, Lockwood's expression lifts significantly at the aroma that fills the room with their banquet's reveal. Not one for needing encouragement to indulge himself, the Dog eagerly joins his companion at the window. The man's anticipation is nearly palpable. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ In one swift movement, the Boar is seated before the window with a torn leg of quail in her mouth. Holding it there, she breaks her bread and pours her cup of sparkling water before ripping half the leg to chew on with a thankful grunt. She leans back long enough to finish the leg off in just another bite, and it's placed aside in favor of her cup and bread. Left to it, the Boar would devour the entire bird, its eggs, and most of the bread. The water, infused with stomach-soothing medicinals, is both refreshing and relaxing. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Not one for needing prompting on this sort of thing, Lockwood has a haunch of quail between his teeth almost as quickly as Thelinia, impeded only by the need to situate himself in a chair. Gnawed down in short order, the bones are cracked open and sucked dry of marrow, then discarded. It'd been ages since he'd had the luxury of dining on a bird so needlessly fat. Content to eat at a more measured pace once the initial excitement had mellowed, Lockwood shoveled an egg onto his share of the bread before popping the impromptu sandwich into the back of his mouth. An approving hum speaks his opinion of the Boar's choice in order readily. Past an eager swig of sparkling water, Lockwood gives his companion a thankful nod, "Good choice, eh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Not unlike the night before, the gluttonous though satisfied Boar rests against the back of her chair, content to stare out the window at what was fast proving to be a beautiful day. She hums in return, a vague sound she follows up with words; "Heh, nev'r knew th'Reach 'ad so much t'offer." She had been so young. So rash and single-minded, had she really not considered that her homeland might be worth more than a broken heart and betrayal? ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood grunted his approval, shifting his attention towards finishing off the savaged quail sooner rather than later. "Helps we're loaded. Heh." He mused aloud in response, tearing into the roasted bird shortly after. Money had been hard to come by, even after he'd made the change from maligned urchin to respected soldier. To him, the sort of opulence they'd indulged in over the past day was something of a fable; a passing fancy he'd never had the time or the coin to entertain. Now, it was different. They could afford anything they wanted, and he wasn't entirely certain he'd give it all up just to go home again. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She affirms with a slight grin and snicker, "Nev'r woulda dreamed it." Idly picking at her quail's ribcage as she watches the clouds, she'd allow some time to pass before speaking again. "S'now what, eh?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Sharing in his partner's mirth, Lockwood allows himself a concurrent grin before pausing to finish off the quail. With their breakfast settled, Jerrad leaned back in his seat with a contemplative fullness, eye set off to the city past their window as he considered an answer. What was next? "S'pose we could 'it th'market proper. Been needin' a new blade."  His belt straining against the sudden shift in volume it was forced to contain, the Dog tossed one leg over the other to give it some breathing room. "Maybe pick up some horses, 'less y'want t'leg it wherever we end up goin', eh?" That last statement was spoken with a touch more enthusiasm than normal, the grin from earlier softened by camraderie into a quiet smile. Wherever they were headed, he wouldn't have wanted to make the journey with anyone else at his side, whether he knew it or not. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The idea of shopping hadn't occured to the Boar, a look of enthusiasm lighting up her eyes. She regards him with a nod, "Y'ready t'go, 'en? Assuming he agrees, she'd stand and look down at her dress. "Oh." Suddenly aware of her attire and, in the same moment, reminded of the previous night, she awkwardly clears her throat. "S'pose I need t'change." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh." Came the according grunt, a more subtle excitement brightening his features. At the Boar's hesitation, however, Lockwood seemed to mirror her reaction. Prompted by a shared discomfiture, the fighter scratched at the back of his head for a moment before the notion to nod his agreement came to him. "S'pose we both do, eh. Y'wan' th'screen?" He prodded, tipping his chin at the taerath. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Eh.." She looks past her shoulder at it, reminded in her deshelved state of her cheated bath. If her dress was anything to go by, she reeked of sweat and cider. "Y'can get a'head start. I'm owed a'bath." While he might not have known what she meant, Thelinia was too at ease to watch her words. She looks to him again to confirm whether or not he'd be willing to go on without her, even as she realizes what she might have carelessly implied. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Despite the faint concern her words engendered in him, the Dog gave a dull nod of agreement-- Though the accord wasn't without it's caveats. Moving to gather up his discarded coat from the bed, he slipped it on with an unintended flourish and set about straightening the facings that had been so horribly displaced over the course of the previous night's revelry. "Eh.. I'll wait downstairs, eh? Dunno if that 'ighblood twit is still nursin' a grudge." Once he'd fixed the wrinkled sash in place across his vest, the fighter gave another hum, looking to Raine for approval. "Figure ah can keep watch, yeh?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ At first she lifts a brow at his concern, and something about it causes her to look away. Arms folded in casual defense, she answers,"Doubt he'd get in, the lackwit." While their exchange of vigil was an expectation of travelling together, she felt a difference now that they were safely in town, and in such a fine suite as they were. Certainly, she had faced threats while under a roof, and the uneasy nights of those times in Santa Lucia and Niraya both came to mind. Yet, Nimpeth felt different. Even with Lano swearing his vengeance, it was harder to feel threatened now that they were home. Yet, Lockwood kept to the habit, to watch out for her despite the locked doors and patrons of the inn, and the town guards. Nobles could never be trusted though, and his point in that regard helped put to rest the feeling that he was being overly cautious. Reluctantly, she concedes. "Though y'may have a point." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Jus' sayin', eh. Woulden put it past th'winker t'ire someone on." It was an honest enough concern, as far as he could tell. Even if the king had kept the nobility mostly in line back in Cormyr, there had been troubles. Highbloods couldn't be trusted in the best of times-- That was something he'd learned the hard way-- And given their humiliation of the man twice over now, it was safe enough to say that these times were from the best. At least the idiot hadn't the slightest idea how to hold a sword, much less handle a couple of drunks. Still, the last thing he'd want was to cause the Boar undue discomfort.. A notion that was, in and of itself, a touch worrying. "Jus' 'ave th'servin' girl tell me t'sod off if y'feel like. I'll be waitin', otherwise." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye, tell'er t'ave y'meet me at th'damn tailor's," she suggests with a shrug. She thought the idea felt awkward, but instead it came with a sort of comfort. He'd still have to know she'd be a while, didn't he? That Lockwood would wait and stand guard even in these circumstances was something she respected, and appreciated. Once he'd taken his leave, the Boar would tug the service bell again. When the servant arrived, she'd make her request and have her bath, this time permitting the water girl to stay. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh," comes his answer, grunted with a nostalgic kind of familiarity. Satisfied with her answer more or less, the Dog straightened his collar and headed off for the tavern floor. Descending the stairs, he noted the more subdued activity compared to the frantic calamity of Greengrass the day before; here and there, groups of people milled about, most keeping to themselves, some drinking. Not quite as many as yesterday, he noted. Perhaps with good reason, if the agony the two of them had endured that morning was any indication. Rowan, for whatever reason, was absent-- Though Lockwood supposed he couldn't blame the man. At least it meant he wouldn't have to endure the awkwardness of feigned familiarity. Pushing on to a seat at the windowside, he settled in to take stock of the day that laid ahead of them, though not without first placing a quiet order for another glass of the tonic that had accompanied their breakfast. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia enjoys, at last, a fine bath complete with a soothing head massage and back scrub courtesy of the servant girl. She looked about fourteen, black hair and dark amber eyes. She was certainly pretty, and it gave the Boar pause, aware of what horrors were meant for a girl like her. "Hey.." "Yes, my lady?" The answer was as sweet and alluring as she feared. "How do they treat y'here?" "Very well, my lady. I've my own bed and a full meal each day." She was awfully well spoken, which gave just a speck of hope for the Boar. "Do y'like serving?" "Yes, my lady. It is my pleasure to serve you." "Is it a pleasure to serve everyone?" [Will, 2] The girl's minstrations paused, which was answer enough for Thelinia. "You don't have t'answer me. But y'can change it, if y'needed to." "M-my, my lady?" "It's alrigh'," she hoped to soothe her fears, and quieted for her to settle back into her work. As the girl rinsed her hair with utmost care, Thelinia continued, "How many girls like y'are there 'ere at th'Dove?" She paused again, considering her answer, opting to risk no longer playing dumb. "Four of us, my lady. And the boys, too." The Boar frowned, "How many boys?" "Four the same." It was troubling enough, but the girl continued, "Any of us can be called on at any time. Most days, it's only me and Nephira." Another rinse paused Thelinia, and the girl begun brushing out her hair. Unable and unwilling to conceal the somber tone in her voice, the Boar requests a braid while she mulled over her options. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Once he'd been served, Lockwood had decided to get right to work on a matter that he felt he'd neglected for far too long. Rifling around in his pack, he pilfered a worn journal, solidly bound in old elkhide and badly dog-earred. Setting the book aside, the mercenary considered it with a wary distance between sips at his goblet. It wasn't lost on him that he hadn't wanted to touch the journal for the better part of a year; not out of cowardice, he reasoned, but out of pragmatism. Before Niraya and even a bit during their stay on that plane, he hadn't held much hope for coming across a way home, much less something worth writing about. Now, though, he'd feel he was missing out if he didn't put something to paper. Would that he were the writing sort. Roughly by the time of his second glass, the Dog had accomplished little beyond waste good ink. At least the view was pleasant. "DR 1371.." The date came naturally enough that the error nearly slipped him by. It gave him a chilling kind of pause. It couldn't possibly be the same year; not with how long he'd been gone. Not with Greengrass having come and gone. In all the excitement, he hadn't stopped to consider the ramifications of their return so many years later. He might've blamed the wine he'd partaken in for the oversight, but a grave worry pulled at his heart to argue otherwise. Still, it was something that bore rectifying. He'd have to face it sooner or later. Signalling for one of the serving girls, the woman sauntered over with a sweet kind of smile-- The kind he was steadily growing used to, unnervingly enough. "Yes, m'lord? More to drink?" She offered the pitcher, which he accepted with a small nod. Giving another smile, she turned to attend what few patrons still populated the Dove, only to for the Dog to stall her with a questioning grunt. "Mm?" "I, eh. Wha's th'date?" She returned with a knowing smile, "An enjoyable revel last night, my lord?" She dips her head respectfully, "The first of Mirtul, thirteen seventy-four by Dale-Reckoning." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia dries herself, mindful not to insult the girl in doing so. She asks that the servant see to laundering the soiled clothing the two mercenaries had accumulated, leaving the dress as the Boar's most feasible option. However, before the girl departs, Thelinia stops her, tossing a few more coins into her sachet. "Tell th'keep we'll be rentin' th'room another night. I'll be callin' on you and yer friends b'fore daybreak." With great apprehension, the girl eventually nods. "Yes my lady." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ In retrospect, Jerrad felt a bit bad for the blank look he'd given the woman, even if she hadn't seemed particularly bothered one way or the other. He'd asked her again to reiterate the date, just to be sure, and again the answer had been the same. It wasn't until she'd gone that his blood had properly chilled, leaving him to stare at the date he'd left written on the page. Three years. He'd only been gone three years. The revelation left him clutching the pen whiteknuckled, what agency he could summon leaving him staring blank into the contents of his refreshed glass. The lines on his face had become increasingly familiar over the years, to the point that he'd grown to accept them without question. Foggy as his recollection of his exile was, it couldn't be argued that he'd been gone far longer than three years. The servant had seemed sure enough, however. It left him rattled, to say the least.. But Hells if that would stop him from trying to enjoy himself. Steeling himself with another drink, Lockwood tugged the seat closer to the table with a defiant grunt and put quill to paper. 'DR 1374, 1 Mirtul Pretty day today. Don't get many of those lately. Been a while since I wrote. About a year, if I'm judging right. Not that years count for much. We got home yesterday. Greengrass, of all days-- Thought it was too good to be true, but sure as a goblin shits, it was. Raine says we're in Nimpeth. Never been, never heard of it. Now that I'm here, guess I know why; city's crawling with slavers. Scum, all of 'em. The innkeeps are even in on it. Didn't suspect a thing at first, 'til I saw the kids. They all got the brand, I'm sure. Suppose they hide it so the highbloods don't feel bad when they're busy having them wipe their useless arses. I'm keeping my head down, not making a scene.  Don't know if Thel's noticed. Hope not. Been causing her enough grief. I don't know what's wrong with me. Can't keep my head straight, sometimes. Greengrass was.. The best I ever had. We got pissed out our gourds, put the squeeze on a noble what deserved it, and we're touting more coin than I've seen in twice a lifetime. And the wine.. The cider. Ilmater's Mercy. Like the gods are trying to make good for the past.. I don't know how long. Almost enough to make me forget. ... I keep worrying about that girl, Nephira. The boy too. I know they're not the only ones. Won't even look me in the eye. Want to do something. Helm knows I could afford 'em. Raine wouldn't go for it, don't think. Wouldn't want to heap that on her, either. Been odd for her to be home, I know. She's got no reason to stay. Don't need me anymore. Only a matter of time 'til she realizes that. She'd laugh if she knew. I got nothing left. No one, nowhere to go, nothing to serve. The work we do's all I got. Going back to Cormyr doesn't feel like an option-- I failed, and that's that. If they're even still standing, what'd they want with a Dragon that let all those people die? They need heroes, not a bitter old man with nothing to offer. They'd muster me out if they didn't hand me the noose for deserting. I got Raine, at least, for now. And she's got my blade, 'til she figures she don't need it anymore. That's alright with me. 'Long as we're partners, I'm good. Whatever happens after, I'll take it as it comes. - Lockwood +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It'd be some time before Thelinia made her way down the stairs, dressed as she was the previous night with a woven braid neatly keeping her hair out of her face. Lockwood is easy enough to locate. "'Ey." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As lengthy as the entry was (and as terribly slowly he'd penned it), Jerrad had clasped the journal shut and slipped it neatly into his pack by the of Raine's arrival. His eye catching on the braid that bound her hair for only a moment, Lockwood noted that he was growing increasingly accustomed to seeing her in a more feminine light-- Something that unsettled him for some reason he couldn't quite grasp. At least his pause was brief. "Ey." He parroted, downing what remained of his drink as he rose. "Y'ready, eh?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye, 'ad a servant girl keep our room 'nother night," she glances the keeper only a moment, and moves to head out with the Dog. "S'where t'first?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "First thing," he gruffed with fair humor, "Figure we ought t'get some proper kit." The noontide sun burns brilliant in the sky above as the two exit the Dove, only a thin ring of clouds to mar the crisp blue that stretches out overhead. Crisp spring air bites playfully at the nose, and the townsfolk seem in good spirits in light of a successful Greengrass. Here and there are the signs of picking up after the night's wanton revelry, with bannerets unpinned and detritus shuffled away into neat bins by dutiful laborers-- Both freemen and otherwise. Perhaps in spite of the weary contentment witnessed elsewhere in the city, Nimpeth's market squares are rife with activity as frantic as it's ever been, with merchants and barkers noisomely hawking their wares and most storefronts flung wide open to welcome the spring breeze as much as potential customers. Once they'd found their way to an appropriate landmark, Lockwood would direct them off towards the least tiresome of the steel merchants; a thin, cleanly man who greets them affably from behind his counter. "Alae, goodfolk! Looking for steel, mmm? Terryn Keenseeker has what you seek, I assure you. Heh-heh. Eh." The man's shaven head catches the sun in a rather unkind light, though he hardly seems to notice. "Sorry about that. Little joke. What can I set you up with, hm?" Perhaps thankfully, Lockwood seems content to keep their visit brief, and the two of them are fitted and equipped before the sun has had much time to drift further on it's arc. An enchanter's shop is the next stop, with precious few items purchased for precious coin. From there, a number of stalls and outfitters are darted between, filling out the Dog and Boar's admittedly lean packs with all the essentials for adventuring, plus a few more things to ease their travels. By the time the two make their way to the stablemaster, the sun has dipped markedly lower in the sky, though not so much as to signal eventide. Perhaps surprisingly, perhaps not, a heavyset woman with fair skin and a head of unruly red hair greets them as the proprietor, seeming eager to make a deal-- If not entirely present. "Mmmmh, oh! Eyel Darkdraft, at your service." She curtsies neatly, a pair of apprentices not more then thirteen seasons old scurry about to tend the horses, mindful to stay out of their mistress' way. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia's attention almost immediately drifts to the horses, and the children running about to keep them presentable. Indeed, the horses looked better kept than they did. "Mind we take a'look at th'horses?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Eyel holds her head at an uneven cant, eyes locked onto some distant object over the Boar's shoulder with an almost childlike kind of fascination-- If there were anything there to lock to. By all accounts, the woman is staring at a blank stucco wall. At the least, she snaps out of it quickly enough and seems to catch the general gist of the inquiry. "Oh, of course, of course! I've a splendid selection; come-come!" She motions for the two to follow with a twirl of the wrist that seems well-practiced, sauntering off towards those horses ready for showing. The display has Lockwood caught with a flat expression that might read as disbelief. He regards Raine with a vague shrug as he starts forward, bumping her shoulder with his own in a grab for her ear. "Dun think she 'as all 'er bits in order, eh?" He mutters, eyeing the children as they dart between the hay. Once joined, Eyel motions grandly to the mounts on display; five horses of roughly the same age. A dun colored mare lingers near the far side of the dusty yard, more or less aloof to the newcomers brought to the side of her pen. Another mare, a dappled gray and blonde, stamps at the ground excitedly in response to something outside the yard. Elsewhere, a male with a bay coat brushes his hoof idly at the ground, accompanied by a light brown female, her mane a striking black. Two others wait in their stalls, a male with a dirty red coat and white boots and a female with a smoky grey coat. The stablemistress makes a sweeping gesture towards her menagerie, yielding authority for the two to have a look about. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Not waiting out the flourish once permission is granted, Thelinia approaches the yard with no mind for anything but presenting herself calmly and confidently to the horses. First were the two stabled mounts, and she moves to greet them as any practiced rider--or ranger--should. [Wild Empathy 14 v DC 15] The red gelding shows little interest in meeting Thelinia, the two only glancing each other before she moves on. [Wild Empathy 1+4  v DC 15] The gray mare immediately sets her ears back, anxiously stomping the dirt under her hooves and backing away. Thelinia dips her head and backs off, not wishing to upset the mare any further. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Markedly more pensive in his dealings with the horses, Lockwood waits to measure the Boar's etiquette before mounting the fence. It wasn't that he was afraid of the horses, really.. He just found the idea of traipsing about in front of their teeth a bit unsettling. With his anxieties holding him back, the Dog merely observed as his companion approached the horses only to be rebuffed, much to his concern. If the best ranger he knew wasn't have an easy go of it, what hope had he? All the same, he needed a horse... But maybe he'd just leave all that to Raine-- At least for the time being. "Y'eh good in 'ere?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia grunts acknowledgement, concealing her embarassment even from herself. Maybe they were sensing her own nerves? In the bounds of the yard, she waits to be acknowledged by any of the mounts before moving in to meet them. The black-maned female is first to casually approach. [Wild Empathy 11 v DC 15] She gives Thelinia a sniff before heading off. The bay male she was with follows, curious now about the stranger in the green dress. [Wild Empathy 18 v 15] The horse bends down close enough to sniff her face, and allows the ranger to place a gentle hand under his chin as she strokes his forehead. Thelinia parts amicably with the bay, and looks now to the excited dapple gray. She doesn't mind the walk to the end of the pen, and makes certain to approach plainly in its sight. [Wild Empathy 20+4 v 15] The enthusiatic mare, drawn from her distraction, canters around the ranger with attentive ears and eagerly inspects this new human with equine excitement. The mare seems very happy to meet her. Almost taken aback by the horse's enthusiasm, Thelinia reciprocates with pets and scratches along its head and neck. Up-close, she sees the grey of the mane is more of a lavender, and contrasts beautifully with the blonde. The nose is gray and just barely tipped with apricot, framed with darkening gray into white. Black streaks the face not unlike a badger's, reaching the tips of the ears. She's a beautiful young filly, and eager to associate with her. Nevertheless, Thel moves onto the last horse. The dapple gray follows Thelinia, tail raised and swishing, a plume of white blonde under a streak of lavender to match her shaggy boots. [Wild Empathy 10 v 15] The dun mare doesn't seem to want anything to do with anyone, and is particularly troubled by the excitable horse hovering around the ranger. As though she anticpated it, Thelinia watches the dun mare wander off, understanding her apprehension without qualm. She turns to the culprit, who gives an eager stamp of her hooves and a nudge with her nose against Thel's shoulder. Accepting her fate with the animal, Thelinia simply returns to the stable mistress and Jerrad, her new friend in tow. "Guess this one's mine." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Unsurprised by the Boar's success in attracting a mount, Jerrad gives an approving grunt as she approaches, the horse's apparently amicability relieving him of most of the anxiety he'd hidden away while watching. If the mare was this enthusiastic about his companion just on the basis of their first meeting, then she could probably be trusted well enough to keep her teeth off of him. Emboldened by his companion's success, Lockwood lifted a palm for the animal to inspect, though perhaps not without worry. The mare, either due to the man's foreign nature or his lack of offered treats, issues a disinterested snort at the top of his hand before turning her attention back to Raine. Again seemingly lost in a dreamy haze, Eyel snaps back to reality with a sigh. "Ahhh~! A fine choice, yes, indeed. Only six seasons aged, that one." The stablemistress saunters about, holding an arm under her not unimpressive bust. "Mmm. And a fine pedigree, too! She traces her lineage back to Lord Kasorin! A fine destrier, that one." Halting her rounds at the pen's corner post, Eyel bats her eyes at the two of them as she reaches a hand to stroke the mare's chin. "And what about you, my lord? Any of these stock catch your fancy?" Her voice is cloyingly sweet, almost to the point of falsehood. She seems earnest enough, at least. Putting off his own reservations, Jerrad gives a hum and motions vaguely towards the pen with a nod. "I'll take th'bay. Seems nice enough." Not his first choice, certainly, but it only made sense to choose a mount that his companion could rein in if the need arose. And besides, the horse seemed calm enough. Maybe they'd get along. Eyel certainly seemed to think so. "Splendid! I'll have Lander draw up the papers." Madam Darkdraft hummed, wheeling about on her heel to face the two of them proper. The smile that splits her features is nearly as broad as the horses she's prepared to sell. "Of course, they're all trained for proper combat. This is Nimpeth, after all! 'Preparation pays', I always say! It'll be the going rate," She tuts, beckoning them off towards where they'd first entered the area. A sharp whistle sends one of the children rushing through the yard for what is presumably the door to an office, where he disappears inside. "That'll mean three hundred gilders for the two of them. I'll provide a saddle, of course-- A courtesy, on my part." Her eyes seem to sparkle at the implied generosity, though she doesn't dwell on it. "Though, if you'd prefer to select something more fitting to your tastes, I'm quite open to negotiation. And, of course, I'm fully willing to provide stabling until you're ready to set off! Does that suit the two of you, mm?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye," Thelinia affirms, as she sates the horse at her side with pets. "Fair. An' I'll take a look at th'tack m'self, if y'don't mind, miss Darkdraft." Once permitted to view the selection, she would take more time than might be neseccary to make her decisions. In truth, it was an engrossing distraction; never before had she seen so many artisan saddles, bridles, even girths and breastcollars. Some of the more ornate pieces betrayed their practicality for bejeweled accents and precious metals, but the newly wealthy ranger had to admit they were alluring. Ultimately she decides on a riding kit with a pale motif of light rosy leather with bright sandy browns. The bitless bridle offers some extraneous nouveau designs at the throatlatch and cheekpiece, and a crisscrossed headband matching the saddle and breastcollar's accents of light topaz. Saddlebags, and an attatchable head protector are also purchased, and Thelinia tries not to feel embarassed for affording an aesthetic-- one she hadn't known an attraction to, until now. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a wary look at his new mount, Jerrad dips his head to Eyel and follows after his friend. As quickly as Thel loses herself in the sheer breadth of tack options available to her, Lockwood is just as quickly left at a loss. The gold they'd accrued left him with almost as much question as to what he should buy as his general inexperience with the stuff; there hadn't been a whole lot of time to dedicate to personal riding in Cormyr, after all. Confused as he was, the fighter feigned deliberation as the Boar carried on, only coming out of it once her selections had been made. "Ey," He gruffed, clearing his throat, "What y'figure I ought t'get?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ He successfully captures her attention, the ranger thankful for a reason to stop staring at her uncharacteristic purchase. It's only a couple moments before she recognizes the place has left Jerrad at a loss. "Oh. Eh, 'part from yer saddle, y'want a-- Wait," she studies him with genuine curiousity, realizing his inexperience might go further. "Have you ridden b'fore?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The question prompts an uncomfortable grunt and a scratching at the back of his head, unsettled to have his ineptitude put on display. All the same, he gives an affirming grumble as he crosses his arms. "Never 'ad one. We used "em fer patrols, but that's, eh, Crown property." As thoroughly embarassed as he was, the Dog had to admit it'd be more than a passing interest for him in learing a thing or two about caring for a horse. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Saddle shou'be more comfortable fer th'horse, nothin' fancy. Then y'need a bit'n'bridle," she frowns at the options, never liking the idea of a bit. At least these horses were already trained and wouldn't fight one. Still.. "Take one've 'em with th'full harness, and doubled reins." She scans the wall for suitable pieces, gesturing a few. "Find out yer measurements from Darkdraft an' jus' take what she gives you for th'rest of it, yeh?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Rrrm." It's as much of an acknowledgement as he feels like giving. Not that he wasn't grateful for the advice. Though it takes a considerably longer time than Raine's go at selecting tack, Jerrad eventually comes to a decision on the matter. For the most part, he was pleased. A matching affair of dark cherry leather ringed with swirling sterling filigree, the saddle boasts a comfortable fit and accents of deep red cloth around the bracing. On a rare passing fancy, he selects a head cover to match, inlaid with a sun and sword. In all, the Dog comes away pleased with his selections, though no less embarassed for the opulence of it all. Reconvening with his partner outside, Eyel shimmies up to the two beaming eagerly. "Ah! Picked it all out, hm? Very good! Here are your papers, as promised," She clicks her tongue, presenting a pair of scrolls tied off with twine. The stablemistress holds them close enough to catch the eye before snapping them up behind her back, flashing a wink between the two. "Pending payment, of course." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia offers her payment in gems, and would accept the stablemistress' want to use a scale. It requires giving up one of her favorite stones, but she reckoned it was a fair enough trade for a war-ready mount with a beautiful set of tack. Once that payment is squared away, she'd pay in coin for basic grooming tools. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Once Lockwood's payment was likewise sorted, Eyel spares no hesitation in pushing the documents into their hands, adding with an eager grin that should they require baggage to lighten their load, her selection of mules is nearly as splendid as that of her steeds. As the two part company with the stablemistress, the two child apprentices from before dart across their path, one of them struggling to tote an assortment of tools necessary for the grooming of horses while the other follows closely with a wheelbarrow of bagged feed. Off near the end of the stables, their mounts wait patiently to be called, grunting and chuffing amongst one another. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The mention of mules reminds Thelinia of something she chooses to discuss only after departing. But first things were first. [Perception 16+7] Taking a detour around the stable, she glances around for curious eyes before speaking, "So what d'you make of Woren's offer, eh?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 13+7] Quick to pick up on the tell, Lockwood scans about before deign i to reply, "Can't say I'm fond've 'im." The amount of effort it took to suppress a scowl at the understatement contained there was telling. Still, he elaborated, "An' 'e's paranoid. Be a bit 'ard t'stay on his good side fer long, even if th'coin's good." Turning his gaze forward, the Dog mulled over his own concerns for a moment before prodding the Boar for her own. "You?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She grunts disdain, "More worried 'bout how he'd take us sayin' no. We could always run if things turned sour but eh.." The Boar frowns in thought, and soon scowls. "Las' thing we need is another spiteful mage on our arses." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Rather than offer the usual bit of tight-jawed growling, Jerrad gives an unusually thoughtful hum before responding, "Less we run somewhere he'd be a fool t'chase us. Cormyr ain't that far, an' it's crawlin' with War Wizards." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her scowl fades to a more troubled look as his words sink in. Something about making enemies this soon on her return--in her home country, at that--brought on an apprehension she tries not to betray on her features. [can roll if u want] Instead she folds her arms, "Eh.. s'pose we could." She pauses, and lowers her voice, "Might want t'curry favor wit'him, though. I uh," the Boar watches the dust at her feet, "I plan t'do somethin' 'bout those kids at th'inn." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 12+6] Raine's shift in demeanor begs an arched brow and a hum to affirm the righteousness of the ranger's plan-- And as a means to help conceal his surprise. [Bluff 10] Up until now, he hadn't been certain if Thel had caught on to Nimpeth's true nature, even with the evidence all around them. Then again, she'd have noticed before he did, by all accounts, given her vocation. A ranger that missed the little details wasn't much of a ranger, and as far as he was concerned, the Boar was one of the best there was. He was a bit biased, granted, but that really didn't matter all to much to him. What mattered was that she'd begun working out a plan. "Aye. We ought t'get to plannin' then, eh? 'Less y'figure t'buy 'em." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Int 18+2] [Sense Motive 19] She stops where they are, before getting too close to the main road, and turns to regard him with only a glance, wondering if she should be offended by his concealed surprise. She sets her gaze sidelong with an uncertain shrug. "Y'have tha' ring, righ'? Think it might give 'em passage t'Cormyr b'fore the traders ship out?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Int roll, nat 20] Halting in time with the Boar, his eye darts up and down the main road in the even of any unwanted ears. Setting his jaw, Jerrad needs only a moment to wrack his brain before the memory comes to him. "Aye, should. Goin' t'need a letter, too. Ol' Azoun set up an order've sisters t'take care've them children th'old war orphaned." It was a long shot, certainly, but a letter introducing them as charges they could not care for would be their best bet at ensuring they were cared for without suspicion.. And it'd mean he could check up on them, at least now and again. "Shouldn't be 'ard. I remember th'old seals an'such. Still got m'signet." As assured as he tried to be, he still couldn't help but fear for their safety. Drawing his lip between his teeth, the Dog grunted once to alleviate his concern. "We're goin' t'get all've 'em, righ'?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia nods, still looking off down the road at nothing in particular. "There's eight of 'em, four boys, four girls. Told th'girl t'meet me at our room t'night when everyone ought t'be asleep." Then she confesses with a tightness to her jaw, "Not sure how I'm gunna get'em all out." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With as much there was left to question, Jerrad had to admit his own reservations with their nascent plan. It wouldn't be easy; the city, even at night, would have eyes everywhere. Proud people were often the first to pry, he'd found. They'd have to be quick and careful, and even then it'd be perilous, but what else was there to do? Helm would look on him none too kindly if he left these children to their fates, of that he was certain-- and the ire of a god was by far the worse option when confronted to choose between it and a slighted noble. Lockwood gave his companion a bump at the should, a firm grunt jumping from his teeth. "We ain't leavin' 'em. We seen worse, eh? They're gettin' out. Woulden' please Helm not tuh." He seemed convinced enough, though there was still a question the begged asking.. "Y'figure we could get'uh schedule fer th'staff? An' it could pay t'watch th'guard patrols, figure ou' a route, eh?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia hums an affirmation, still in troubled thought over the task. "Th'girl might know. Seems sharp. Should check th'docks b'fore we go ahead with this." Smuggling one or two of them out could be done, but absconding with what she imagined was the inn's whole crew would require a swift plan with exacting execution. With so many risky variables, her concern would read clear enough for the Dog. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Righ'. Might need more'n a day t'get it all sorted. S'pecially with that noble lout wantin' yer blood, eh." Nodding along, Jerrad stepped nearer the alley wall in order to give himself a better line of sight on the main road, arms rising to cross his chest. With his ruse unknowingly seen through, the Boar would likely have little issue in reading the worry that creased his features. At least he wasn't alone in his reservations. "Y'wan' t'do this tonigh', or are we meetin' ol' Woren? Can't know fer sure he ain't watchin' fer us to show." He cautioned, not without some venom spared for the man. "Figure gettin' 'em out th'window ain't a bad plan, though. 'Aven't seen any guards in th'place." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia leans back against the corner of the horse yard's fence, arms still folded with the same look. "Girl's meetin' us t'night, she might know more.." she frowns. "Don' trust Woren. But don't if it's wise t'just stand'im up." She shrugs more carelessly, irritated with her own indecision. "What could he want us for, anyway? Didn' get th'sense its anythin' too personal." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Migh' be work." Lockwood shifted against the wall, raking an ungloved hand across his cheek where the stubble was thickest. It was just a guess on his part; there was really no telling what a noble wanted with anyone until they had a knife at your throat or a hand in your coinpurse. Still, work would mean more coin-- And that was harder to turn down than he'd like to admit. "We got time t'hear 'im out at least. Then we meet th'girl and figure out what she knows, go from there." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "S'course it's work," though a flicker of doubt crosses her features. What kind of work would be offered to the likes of them, if not something underhanded or otherwise unsavory? "Should, eh.. be prepared t'turn'im down." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The idea of turning down (presumably) easy coin was hardly a welcome one; then again, Jerrad reflected, seeing the look on the old rat's face if they did refuse might just be worth it, even without the children to account for. Passing a quiet look her way, Lockwood paused visibly before affirmation came to him. "Aye. I ain't snatchin' more kids fer him or summit." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Yea," she nods, still evading his eye for the most part. "We'll 'ead back t'the Dove, get our gear jus' t'be safe." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh." Came his reply, a stiff shoulder pushed to the wall to get moving. She was right; it'd pay to be prepared, just in case. Nimpeth's shadows grow long in the waning sun's light, and all her citizens seem to be in a hurry to finish out the day's business before darkness falls in full. Criers bark reminders of the oncoming curfew, warning against the punishment for any vagrants caught out after dark, as well as the last of the day's deals from merchants eager to squeeze coin from the citizen in a hurry. Worried apprentices and grim-faced slaves hurry about from their errands, a quickness in their steps telling of the punishment awaiting them should they fumble their masters' tasks. All around them, the Dog and Boar are confronted with the signs of a city preparing to shut her doors, with most shops already shuttered for the night and guards congregating about the town gates in an effort to lock them down against intruders. Coming from somewhere as comparatively secure as Suzail, Lockwood wasn't sure what to make of it. Despite the frenzied activity of the city's inhabitants, the two make good progress and manage to make it back to the Dove just before dusk. Behind the counter, Rowan hums and struts about, fussing with unused glasses and what few customers remain so late in the day. In all, an air of welcome laxity hangs over the inn after the chaos of Greengrass, though the Dog was far too occupied with the details of their plan to share in it. At the top of the steps, the hall is empty, and once inside their room the mercenaries would see it much as they'd left it-- Forgiving the absence of Thelinia's earlier mess near the window and a newly made bed. "Righ'. We pack up, then what? We stiffin' Woren, or..?" Lockwood asked without judgement. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "We 'ear him out like we said," she begins as she gathers her new goods to change, just behind the screen. "An' we check th'docks b'fore mornin', assumin' he doesn't 'ave us locked up." Soon enough her dress and other pieces are flung over the top of the screen, covering the decorative stippled holes, though not before she takes a peek through; just to be sure his back is turned regardless. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "An' if he does, we break out. Again." Left alone, Lockwood serves sharply into the bedroom to gather his things and ensure his kit was in order. Not that he really needed to; he'd gotten good at packing to go on a moment's notice over the years, but it always paid to ensure all was in order even when you were certain it already was. That, and it offered a reason to keep turned away from his partner while she tended her business. He'd had enough slip-ups for the time being. Dropping his trousers and jacket in a neatly folded pile, the Dog quickly drew a fresh pair of breeches and tugged on his gambeson with long practiced movements. In nearly no time at all, he stood fully-clad, pinning the last buckle on his breastplate and cinching it tight against his chest. It was an odd feeling at first, given the lightness of mithral-- Nearly nothing at all, really. As much of a boon as it might have been, the sensation still brought a grimace to curl the warrior's lips, so used was he to the reassuring weight of steel. Tugging on his gloves, Lockwood called over his shoulder as he worked to ensure their fit, "Y'good back 'ere?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia adjusts the final pieces of her garb, going as far as to test the sway of the thick leather coat's tail. Her vest fit snug, protective but without the feeling of restriction. Leather padding disguised into her leggings were warm but not overly suffocating, though the ranger was confident they'd serve better in a more natural setting. The new boots and woolen socks in particular offered a thankful, and surprising relief, even if the hard soles would need wearing down. "Aye, y'ready?" She steps out from the screen, moving to collect her equipment belt and sword. Her braided hair has scarcely begun to fray, holding practical and tight. A more comfortable expression rests on her face as she moves about without the limits of a dress, until she looks in his direction with a blink. Though she had been perfectly present when he'd purchased it, the Boar hadn't realized the image of the Dog in shining new mithral until now. Avoiding the risk of staring, she only clears her throat against a smirk. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Freed of his self-imposed confinement by his companion's call, Lockwood slipped his dagger into it's scabbard at his belt as his eye met hers. Something in the familarity of the Boar's attire nearly brought him to pause, only avoided through the interposition of a quiet grunt. "Aye." He gruffed, glancing to ensure the dual swords were strapped properly to his hip. It wasn't often he'd had the luxury of a second blade, much less an enchanted one. Looking back up, it struck him that the both of them had an uncommon look between themselves; crisply-attired, clean, but fierce. Competent. It certainly didn't hurt anything that the coat fit her so precisely. Clearing his head, Jerrad took a step forward to join Raine, quirking a brow at her odd expression. "Got shit in m'hair or somethin'?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Heh, it'd help. Y'look glim'nough t'be a Dragon," she playfully jeers, quickly diverting her gaze for the task of verifying her equipment. It seemed paradoxical to find the rugged, stoic Dog so well-groomed, adorned in pristine mithral. She didn't know quite what to make of it, so fun would do. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Pfft--" He gave a hurried scoff at the jibe, an adjusting tug paid to his sword belt. "Jus' dinnit want t'look like an ogre next'a th'runaway princess 'ere." Distracting himself with a final adjustment to the straps mooring his shield over his shoulder rather than to see if the blow landed, Lockwood gave a belated grunt. Her point was valid enough; Dragons were young, dashing, well-groomed and better mannered, and always ready to fight. There'd certainly been a time when he'd looked the part, he supposed. But that was a long time ago, indeed. And besides, what was she doing looking him over, anyhow? +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Pfft," her retort is an easy dismissal. She grabs the key to the room, finding satisfaction in the ability to place it in a breast pocket on the inside of her coat. Moving to the door without a second look back, she adjusts the gloves on her hands. "Let's get this over with, eh." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh." The horizon has very nearly eclipsed the sun by the time the mercenary pair push past Rowan's tepid greetings and into the darkening city streets. All around, the sounds of Nimpeth's residents returning home to rest sound out, and patrols of guards three to four men strong begin their rounds about the city and atop it's walls. Beyond any idle small talk between the two, the trip is mostly silent, until Lockwood suddenly speaks up after a few minutes of walking. "Ey," The mercenary rumbled, searching the pouch at his belt for something. "Eh?" Thelinia looks over to eye whatever it was he was doing. After a bit of fumbling, Lockwood produces a set of rings and offers two of the three over to his companion; a brass ring etched with the warding iconography of a blue shield, and a plain silver band. Once taken, he'd explain, "Picked 'em up fer yeh. Tha' silver one'll let us keep in touch-- If yeh whisper in et, I'll 'ear it. Works out t'about a mile." Shifting his palm enough for her to get a better look at the brass ring, he hummed, "An' that'll help y'keep yer 'ead. Dunno 'ow well it'll work on ol' Woren, bu'.." He trailed off at that, eye darting down the road rather finish the sentence. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With some befuddlement, Thelinia accepts the rings in an open palm and looks them over as he explains. The silver band earns a raised brow, but the blue shield is considered more carefully. It's a few seconds before she answers, in part to wonder at his trailing off, and mostly to collect her thoughts enough to reply. "I.. uh. Thanks." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Silence is elected for in lieu of a response, several paces elapsing before the Dog finally speaks up, "I, eh. Y'jus' look shook, I 'member, at th'party. Wanted t'do somethin' about it. Jus' don't let 'im know y'ave it, yeh?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The observation--or to her mind, the assumption--of her unnerved state earns a frown just short of a scowl. She hadn't felt as disturbed as his memory described, but the implication brushes her the wrong way. Yet, there was something in his voice, and the lengthy pause between them, which gives her reaction pause. She casts the sour look aside, finding her feathers not as ruffled as she first thought. "Figure he'd notice when he tries that spell again," she replies with the vaguest distaste. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A nod is the most he can muster in reply for a moment, continuing on their way with the same plodding sureness he'd ever shown. It was difficult enough to admit to himself that he'd been worried for her, given how out of character it'd seemed at the time. Working up the willpower to let on even a fraction of the concern he'd felt hadn't been an easy thing, but if the (mostly) lacking venom in Raine's expression had been anything to judge by, he was glad he had. If your partner couldn't trust you to tell the hard truths, then there wasn't much point in sticking by one another. "Maybe he'll pop a vein, eh?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar only grunts, still harboring a multifaceted grudge against the situation on its own merit. "Y'get one fo'yourself, righ'?" [Jerrad: Sense Motive 13] The edge in his partner's tone seems to strike him, if only subtly. Doing his best not to take it to heart, Jerrad shook his head as he slipped the guidon ring over his finger. "Dinnit want t'shell ou' th'coin." His response was as stoic as ever, perhaps expectant of a reprisal. "Th'War Wizards train us officers t'resist mind reamin'. Ain't got anythin' useful rattlin' 'round up 'ere any'ow." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her frown returns, and this time the ornery Boar doesn't mind if he sees it. She pockets the rings with an understated harumph, "I ain't easy prey t'mind magics either." With her scowl renewed to chastise his imprecision, Lockwood finds little recourse other than to offer a more direct truth, "'Ey, I know, righ'? M'jus'.. Partners got t'look out fer each other. An' I dinnit do that th'other night." Another retort is halted at the tip of her tongue, paused by the suggestion that the onus was on him. However, he had still insulted her fortitude in the face of a wizard, and over something as mundane as mind reading. Touching her necklace, a second's thought reconsidered how mundane such a thing might be-- At least, to him. "I can look out f'myself. Y'should remember that, too." As much as he might've wanted to avoid it, a rise in the Dog's tone audibly fails to curtail itself, his face falling vaguely solemn. "I know tha', or I wouldn't be trustin' y'with m'life. M'jus' doin' what's righ'." "What's right? What's tha'meant t'mean, eh?" Thelinia almost spits back, keeping her temper in check, comparatively. A shift in her stride adds a foot of difference between them, and the Boar is unafriad to assert herself by facing him more directly as they continue. Recoiling at the fire his companion spat at him, a briefly stunned expression is quickly swallowed by an injured scowl. Stung and a little befuddled by Raine's vitriol, the Dog draws his arms up across his chest with a grunt. "Means yer m'friend an' I owe yeh fer lettin' me 'ave that-- It means I ain't got anythin' but th'work we do, an' it ain't worth much if I don't try my 'ardest t'do righ' by you. Get it?" The reply comes out as more of a growl than he'd intended, but with his pride wounded as it was, he neglects to retract it. "But tha' don't ever work out, do it? Not wi' you, an' not wi' Menien." Visibly baffled halfway through his tirade, the Boar is utterly lost by the end of it. Apart from a bite or two striking her, she is undeterred. Blinking her confusion away with a shake of her head, she reclaims at least some of her anger and rounds to his front to cut him off. "I said nothin' 'bout workin' out," she growls, "Y'got some kinda problem workin' wit' me now? Y'think I need ya't'look out f'me? That mage," she points in the direction of the Citadel, at least vaguely, "Doesn' scare me. I wasn' 'shook' by'im, but y'seem shook yerself!" Caught off-guard by the ranger's interception, Lockwood stops just short of running into her with a startled grunt. Slowly, his scowl dissipates into a toothless grimace, his eye locked fast to her own. As frustrated as he was, the Dog couldn't find it in himself to direct any amount of anger at Raine for long; it was his own fault for speaking out of turn, anyhow. If she'd needed his help, she would've asked, wouldn't she. "Never said I knew yeh t'be scared." He returned gruffly, trying to cover for his shame. "...Or that yeh needed m'help. But yer m'friend. Don't want t'work wi'no one else, eh." There was a pause as he visibly searched for something more to say, coming away empty-handed for the moment. "I'm sorry, alrigh'? I'm outta line. Jus' ferget it." "That's not'ow I plan t'keep this goin'," her tone lacks the ire her features still possess, but the glare relents as she casts it aside. Whatever else she was going to say seems lost with it, and she folds her arms to shift her gaze to the other side. Suddenly muted, she speaks again, "Y'gave me a'look earlier." Taken somewhat aback by the question in the face of her receding anger, Jerrad blinks, "I did?" "Yea," she nods, calmed by her troubles. "By th'stables." Though it takes a second for the memory to register with him, he gives an eventual nod of recognition. "Oh, aye.. I, eh. Y'surprised me, is all." The glare makes a return, "How's that?" "Wasn't expectin' yeh t'chance crossin' someone s'quick after we got back." He lifts a hand from under his shoulder in a warding gesture, holding the gaze. "Ah'm glad y'are. Couldn't get those kids outta 'ere on m'own." "S'not crossin' anyone if we ain't caught," she minds the streets, and her volume. She turns to continue on their way. "Had t'watch m'self last time I was 'ere. Didn' want t'make enemies then an' it's no differen'ow." His reply comes quicker than he expects, "When was 'at?" A loose shrug is all he'd see from behind. "Dunno. Not sure how long I've been gone." "Mmh." The Dog gives a grunt, easily keeping pace but mindful of his distance. An audible beat elapses before he adds, "I, eh. Found out th'year." "Yea?" It almost sounds like a casual interest. Not wanting to be caught in another fit of hesitation, he answers her distantly, "Thirteen seventy-four." She stops in her tracks, still as though petrified. Seconds later when the number has settled with her, the Boar gives an audible sigh of relief. "I thought so. I knew it. I knew it had to be right!" "..Y'good then?" Lockwood prods with an undercurrent of concern as he draws up alongside her. "Aye, fine. Fine, I'm home," she speaks almost with wonder as she looks up at him, and there's a flash of the relief they shared in the forest. This time, she's mindful enough to retract her eyes from his, lest she be forced into another abrupt shift in mood. [20] Placing a loose few hairs behind her ear, she swallows the second wave of joy and presses forward with just another sigh. As much as he'd have liked to remark on the odd look he'd seen welling up just before Raine had calmed herself, the Dog deems it either unwise or understandable and presses on after her with a less intrusive, "Makes two've us, 'en.". It wasn't entirely true, but he couldn't be bothered with it after their spat only moments ago. He was just glad to be home with a clean slate. "Yea?" Thelinia actually looks overshoulder to check, visibly glad to hear the same from him. At least on this, they were in agreement. "Hhmmhm." He agreed, though it rang a bit somber. "Even if I'm missin' time. Weren't more'n twenty-eight years when Ah left." A small shrug lifts his shoulders as the renewed issue works itself over in his head. "Reckon somethin' 'appened." She offers him a light chuckle at the perceived joke. The sound might be tempered by their lack of resolution, but nonetheless honest. [Jerrad: Bluff 1+2] Caught unawares by the Boar's humor, Jerrad gives a faraway grunt that's meant to carry more camaraderie than it does-- Which is to say, none. Left troubled by the notion he'd tried to push away, he falls silent to mull it over with the hope of not causing Thelinia any more bother. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With the streets nearly emptied (forgiving a few drunks and vagabonds here and there), the trip to the foreboding Citadel's gates is quicker than expected, bringing the two within only a dozen paces or so before a cry rises from a small guardhouse set into the stonework at the wall's base. "Hold!" Calls a male voice from within, followed shortly by the faint glow of a lantern being struck. A guard clad in loose-fitting chain and an iron skullcap steps out, mousy features half-obscured by growing shadow. "State yer business wi' the Citadel. Out wi' it!" He neglects to leave the safety of his shack, instead electing to leer at the duo from through the gloom. Lockwood is the first to speak up, though he remains at Raine's side. "We been summoned by yer Lord Woren." He glances his partner, shrugging his shoulders as though to question their proof. The guard seems to think the same, calling out after a short lull, "An' I s'pose ye'll have some proof, eh?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia shrugs in turn, having no more answers than either of them. "Ya'could ask him!" She calls back, gesturing to the Citadel. "Tell'im Raine's here for his proposal, an' I brought the guy what killed'is lizard!" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A palpable pause elapses before the guardsman shoots back incredulously, "'..I dinnin even know 'e 'ad a lizard! 'Old on." The light in the guardhouse fades for a moment, and if either of the two were to devote even the smallest effort to listening in, the guard could be heard 'whispering' to someone inside. A chill breeze blows up the street behind them, bringing Lockwood to stiffen his bearing and utter a curse under his breath. "Hrast.. How long we 'spected t'wait out 'ere?" He growls, thumbs locked around the vacant loops at the front of his belt. The answer finally comes in the form of a disturbance inside the shack, followed by the gate guard stepping into view for the first time looking none too pleased. "Righ'.. I been informed that yer t'be 'spected. Not tha' anyone told me nothin'." The irritable little man grumbles, more to himself than to the visitors. Behind him, the wrought iron gates creak in protest as they part, moved by some unseen mechanism. The noise brings the guard to snap to, realizing he'd forgotten himself, "Righ'! On be'alf o' Lord Woren, let me be th'first t'welcome yer t'th'Citadel o' Carifar. 'Is lor'ship'll be awaitin' yer audience in th'main 'all, righ' across th'grounds an' through th'central doors." A pair of guards step into view behind him from either side of the gate, both of them brandishing bill-pikes held upright. As he steps away to allow the two to progress, he mutters nearly inaudibly, "An' don't go touchin' nothin'." Unable to help himself to a smirk, the Dog chose to direct it towards his companion in the interest of not further upsetting the constabularly. "Looks like we're 'spected, eh." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia grunts in reply, "Here's t'hopin' this dinner's worth th'walk." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Once inside, the gates are shut swiftly enough behind the Dog and Boar and a pair of guards approach from a guardhouse directly opposite the one situated on the outer wall. With only a brief word of greeting spared, the guardsmen instruct the mercenaries that they are to welcome them to the Citadel and escort them to the front entrance. All around them, resplendent gardens cast out from the keep's walls proper to line the white-bricked promenade leading up to the entryway. As they walk, the Citadel's imposing size becomes more readily apparent, it's grey stone walls rising high into the twilight sky, an unspoken reminder of the authority Woren exerts over the populace. The guardsmen stop short of following the two inside, instead informing them that they are expected in the throne hall and moving to return to their posts. Unimpressed, but at least a touch curious, Lockwood glances his companion with a cautious look before putting his shoulder to the mighty oaken doors that bar their way. Perhaps unsurprisingly, they open with a small degree of effort, but shut soundlessly behind them. The entry hall is dimly lit by faerie fire, casting the room in a soft blue light. A solitary guardsman waits at his post between two doors, greeting the two with a wordless nod but remaining otherwise detached. Lush carpeting runs the center of the floor in either direction, creating a path of velvet that leads deeper into the Citadel. The Dog grunts his disdain, but says nothing, pressing on once Thel has had her fill of the scenery. Pressing further on leads into a similarly decorated forehall, and from there into the great hall itself, where a few scurrying servants fuss about with the night's chores, though they quickly recuse themselves once the visitors make themselves known. A pair of wooden double doors guard the entrance into the throne hall itself, attended by another pair of guards who lean heavily on their spears. Like their fellow in the entrance hall, they merely nod and part the doors for Jerrad and Thelinia as they pass. Inside, at the end of an almost obscenely long hall, sits Lord Woren himself at his throne. Beyond the pillars that flank either side of the chamber and the requisite finery that comes with the opulence of any nobleman's court, the room is unoccupied, leaving the two with only the wizard for company. Looking up from a book in his hand, Woren sets it aside with a flourish, a broad smile summoned up to greet them. "Ah, Miss Raine." He hummed, rising with an uneccessary kind of drama, "And Mister Lockwood. Welcome to the Citadel of Carifar, the seat of Nimpeth's power and my home. Your acceptance of my invitation is most pleasing-- And, I assure you, that you'll share in my sentiment by the evening's end. I trust your journey here was swift?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia stands with folded arms, less than impressed.. at least now that they were face to face with the man. "We walked. Didn't see a'waitin' carriage or anythin'." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh. 'Least there weren't another flyin' lizard waitin' fer us." Lockwood interjects cooly, glancing about the throne hall's furnishing before refocusing on the Baron. While perhaps less plainly unimpressed than his compatriot, his demeanor remains undeniably bland in it's neutrality. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The finely robed man clasps his hands beneath his sleeves and strides with even steps, down nearly to their level. Only a flicker of annoyance glints in his eyes before he overcomes it with pride."Mm, yes. Sharp tongues betray sharp wit, I presume," he muses dryly. "Might I take it, that you two would care to get right down to business?" He regards the two briefly, lingering a moment longer on Lockwood's armor than Thelinia's less remarkable leather. "If you would follow me, we can discuss your opportunities over dinner." Shooting Raine a wary look, Lockwood gives a vague grunt in reply to Woren's request, waiting for his partner's go ahead. Thelinia only grunts, earning a tired rolling of the eyes from Woren-- Once he had turned away to lead them down the hallway. Woren leads them through the heavy doors with a graceful press of a hand, wholly at home and confident, even with the pair of mercenaries at his back. It would be easy to assume the room is the main dining hall, with its arched ceiling and two dozen chairs, a hearth, and walls adorned with works of art and taxidermy. But the Baron explains this considerably more intimate room is intended for entertaining business partners. Laid out before them is a sizable feast, fit for twice as many people present even including the guards. Roast goose glazed in honey-rum sits at the centerpiece, along with another less identifiable (though just as tempting) offering of a well-seasoned, buttery meat. Two wine bottles flank the meats, in turn surrounded by ceramic bowls filled with individual servings of  pale gravy. Vilhon eels are scattered about their own saucers in sets of three, along with hearty biscuits and some leaf-wrapped delicacy with glistening jams inside. The mage gestures for them to sit, and once they had, he would join them at the head of the table, in a specially fashioned stone chair. Well-groomed servants hop into action, filling wine glasses without flaw nor question. With drink in hand, Woren invites them with an open palm to take part. "Please, don't refrain on my behalf. You are guests, and I cordially invite you to dine with me." Thelinia would regard her partner with a questioning look, having otherwise eyed the table's offerings with a touch more than passing interest. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Tempting as the foodstuffs are, Jerrad remains wary of Woren's offering, making as much plain to his partner with a raised brow. All the same, it wouldn't be easy to get away with a refusal of the man's hospitality without somehow offending him-- And judging by their encounter with Lano the other night, that'd hardly be ideal. If it weren't for the wizard's watchful eye laid on them, he'd slip his ring out just to be sure.. "Hrrnh. S'qui'gracious've yeh." Lockwood offered, reaching over to carve up one of the familiar eels. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia swirls the wine under her nose, a brief test for aromatic tells of tampering that just so happened to look proper. Glancing her companion, she moves to follow suit and try the wine. If one of them fell to a poisoned dish, the other might still stand. [Will 11 v DC 17] Woren dips his head in appreciation for the Dog's gratitude, and then turns to the Boar with a smile as he leans forward to take her hand. "Miss Raine. I wish to apologize again for my intrusion. It was most indecorous, and I do hope this meal can begin to mend our first impressions." Thelinia, for her part, seems rather at ease as she hears him out. She even permits the contact. "It's 'preciated, m'lord." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The movement seems to set the Dog on edge-- Moreso than normal, at least-- His hand twitching away in the direction of his belt for only the briefest moment before the motion is forcibly curtailed. Woren is paid a warning look that is kept similarly subdued, though he justifies the gesture as typical of gentility doing their best to butter up a potential pawn. Slicing a particularly fat eel right down the middle, he curls it around a fork and pops it into his mouth, to be washed down by a sup of wine that is delayed until the man steps away from his companion. "Mmh." [Jerrad: Bluff 19+2] [Will 22 v DC 17] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Woren; Sense Motive 4 v 21] Once Thelinia had accepted his apology, the baron leans back comfortably in his chair, glancing Jerrad just in time to smile at his partaking of the wine. After allowing the two to fill their plates (with a watchful eye), Woren begins his pitch before his is ever touched. "I assume you are both seasoned hireswords, yes? I require a few capable hands to visit the town at Duvik's Pass, and deliver them some much needed supplies which only Nimpeth can provide." He lifts a hand to stay questions, even if none are raised. "This is not a mere delivery, however. The journey itself, while treacherous, is not my-- Your concern. Unless you are new to Sespech, you'll know of the Winterwood." Though he pauses to look between them, he continues regardless of how familiar they seem to be. "Duvik's Pass has the misfortune of being settled against that druid-damned forest, in clear claim of orc territory. It is through my good graces that the town survives at all, and I am owed my due. A due that has been increasingly poor in both count and time." He takes a breath, despite not seeming too worked up in the first place. "I hold no ill-will towards them. I only ask that my good graces are held with respect. I've been gracious enough to offer Nimpeth's own to aid their defenses over the years since their founding." He pauses grimly, feigned or not. "They struggle to defend themselves in the best of times. Last night would have seen them faced with immeasurable odds. And, well.." He attempts a coy grin, "Greengrass there is not as pleasurable as, I imagine, you two found it." He straightens himself and clears his throat, "I'll need you two to contact the captain I've sent to safeguard Duvik's Pass, and ensure the.. town's integrity. You would return to me in no less than three days, along with what is owed to me." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Though he kept his interest restrained under a practiced mask of polite tolerance, as the baron carried on, Lockwood found himself leaning more heavily on the meal before him in an effort to avoid any telling emotion. Now and again as Woren detailed the finer points of their potential assignment, the Dog turned his eye to his companion to gauge her own interest (and her comfort or lack thereof), careful to keep his scrutiny brief enough to be written off as a passing look. The mention of Duvik's Pass presses no particular recollection from him, though it takes the mention of greenskins to prompt his attention outright. Pushing the butchered remains of his meal away, he sets his utensils across each other as etiquette demands, squaring up properly with Nimpeth's master. Once he'd finished speaking for the moment, Lockwood pipes up, clearing his throat. "We th'first ones y'sent out, m'lord?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "The first hireswords, yes," Woren replies with a conceding nod, "I am still waiting for the return of a messenger I tasked with informing the captain of my concerns." Thelinia listens with only a few glances toward Lockwood, helping herself to a second or third eel by the time he asked his question. A servant readily fills her already emptied wine glass. "Your payment would be two hundred gold apiece, provided of course that you return with evidence of good news. If Duvik's Pass can provide the full sum of their owed tax, I will have confidence that the town is safe and sound." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a careful nod, Jerrad tips back his cup and leaves it aside for the servants to collect, sitting taller in his seat. "S'fair." He agreed, tone holding even. "'Course we'll need it all in writin', m'lord. Not that yer not t'be trusted, 'course. Jus' figure th'townsfolk'll recieve us better if they know we're official." Another glance grazes his companion, gauging her interest in the matter one way or the other. [Sense Motive 7 ugh] "Was 'ere any other business out that way y'might be concerned by?" The question was innocent enough, prodding the man for motive kept hidden thus far that he might be goaded into sharing. As long as the gold was good, and the work not too unsavory, they might be able to work something out. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As though anticipating Lockwood's request, Woren slides a wax-sealed letter out from his sleeve and offers it to him. "Forgiving the orcs? No. They are my primary suspect in whatever is maligning the town and its coffers." He takes a glance between the two, minding Thelinia in particular. "Does this suit you, Miss Raine?" She swallows her mouthful and nods once, "Aye, s'fair enough." The mage smiles, an oddly suspicious expression. "Excellent. Then you are expected to depart no later than daybreak. For expedience, and for your own safety. Orcs aren't known to be early risers." He seems to feign a realization, "Ah, yes. There is one last matter, a simple formality." Woren extends a hand to each of them, "If you might remove your gloves." Thelinia looks at her companion with reasonable skepticism to gauge his reaction, despite assuming it'd only mirror her own. [Sense Motive 22] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 17] [Sleight of Hand 14] The ranger's expression is met with an equal measure of suspicion on Lockwood's part, his lips draw tight across his teeth for but a moment. Clearing away the tension as best he can, the fighter glances Woren's extended hand, moving to slip his ring off beneath the gloves as he begins to remove them. "What's this?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Neither Dog nor Boar feel there's a reason to distrust the mage's gesture. Thelinia likewise removes a suede glove and, with the briefest hesitation, places it in Woren's. "A matter of insurance." He grins at the Dog, Thelinia's hand already encompassed, perhaps more so than she anticipated. "Come now, I don't bite." "Mmrh." Lockwood grunts, fighting a souring in his expression as he places a bare, calloused hand atop the mage's. Woren's hands clasp each of their's tightly, and a whispered sequence of arcana flows from practiced lips. Just as the moment might become too uncomfortable to bare any longer, their hands are released.. marked with brown and red runes. "What's this?!" Thelinia retracts her hand to examine the mark, though her reaction seems subdued compared to what the Dog might have expected. The mage chuckles good-naturedly, "It's nothing more than as I stated. That's a rune of my design, and it will remain until I remove it upon your return. Worry not, my dear," he grins in a way he must think is sincere, "I mean no malintent. Should you return empty-handed, I will remove it nonetheless." [Thelinia; Will 15 v 17] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Jerrad; Will 20 vs 17] Withdrawing his hand as quickly as he can without jerking away, Jerrad pushes back in his seat to replace his glove and rings beneath the table's edge, no longer hiding the agitation that'd been lurking beneath his features for most of the dinner. "Explainin' a bit more plainly would be appreciated, next time, yer lordship." He said, stiffly pulling the leather covering back over his hand. As unusual as his companion's lack of vitriol was, he'd have to chalk it up to maintenance of a facade until they were somewhere less public. "We're not in th'habit of breachin' our word. S'not good fer business. But if this," He swiped his thumb across the afflicted hand, glancing Raine, "Is what it takes t'ease yer mind.." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As Woren leans back with the self-satisfied look of a cat, a slight edge to his voice is made to match Lockwood's. "A formality, my good sir, as I said. You'll forgive me if I am unfamiliar with how many broken words follow in your footsteps." Thelinia frowns at her marked hand, rubbing it with the one still gloved. She eyes Woren with a subtle resentment. "How long'ave we got?" "Mmm, four days, to be generous. Duvik's pass is less than two day's ride, but I imagine you may need more time if the orcs have struck the town." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "We'll take care've it." Jerrad rumbles, reining in his distress. As upset as he was, there was no way he'd let the old bastard have the satisfaction of knowing the full extent of it all. They'd take care of the orcs, then they'd take care of the kids. That's what mattered. "Will that be all, Lord Woren?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Indeed," Woren rises, and dips his head in just a fraction of respect, "And I have other business to attend to. Please, feel free to stay and have your fill. My guards will see you out." Unless impeded, Lord Woren would leave the two to their meal. Returning the gesture in kind, Lockwood waited for the baron to leave before shifting to face Thel, "Well?" The Boar grunts questioningly, prodding her food with a two-pronged fork. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Knew we coulden trust 'im." He grumbles, reaching out to attack another plate of eels, accompanied by the leaf-wrapped treats. The Dog only makes it halfway through the course before pushing the plate away. "M'not 'ungry." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Should've expected s'much," she grumbles, dissecting a jelly leaf after already eating two. Another disdainful look is cast to the mark on her hand and met with a scowl. "What d'you think it does t'us?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The question stilled Jerrad's movements a moment as he reached to inspect one of the uneaten leaves, setting a crinkle at his brow. He supposed he really couldn't say; but he had a few ideas. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Could jus' track us, maybe. Let 'im know where we are." A low grunt saw the treat popped into the side of his mouth despite his earlier complaint. "Or it could kill us. But maybe it's jus' a fancy tattoo, an' he's tryin' t'spook us." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Either option is reason enough for the boar to growl, and the agitation is taken out on the untouched goose. A leg is torn free with more ease than she anticipated, but an angry bite still seals the action with vitriol. It's flavor flashes a look of surprise across her features, but she reclaims her anger with ease, speaking through a mouthful. "Mrph, 'ow many orcs d'ya'ink we're'alkin'?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Snapping up his refilled goblet, the Dog takes a long pull as he leans back in his seat. The question was a fair one: Woren wouldn't send them on a suicide mission, would he? "Can't be more'n a small tribe, if he's smart. Don't see why he'd go through all th'trouble just t'get us killed." After a brief pause, Jerrad snatched up his fork and motioned at the savaged goose. "Gimme some." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia makes an undignified sound before bothering to swallow her food. She waves the goose bone around dismissively, "What trouble? Dun think th'Lord Woren bothered t'cook this all hisself." The Dog's sudden attention on her new favorite is countered with a swift fork to the goose's tender breast as the platter drags closer to the ranger. "Said y'weren't hungry," she answers, on the verge of a dare. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Ah mean havin' us meet 'im, bewitchin' us. An' he wants people with experience. Ain't like he was lookin' fer lackwits." His eye tracks the goose bone hungrily, darting down to the hostage goose with a narrowed intensity. The man hunches up against the table on both arms, draining his goblet and casting it aside. "I changed m'mind." He gruffs petulantly, taking the bait. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia empties her third glass and takes a carving knife in her free hand. Without breaking eye contact she slices a small section of goose breast, and balances it on the knife's side, as though offering it. In the next moment, her teeth have slipped the meat off the blade. Her fork stands unmoved. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Accepting the challenge, Jerrad seizes his own knife and brings it to bear on the unlucky bird, wielded with primal malice. His eye stands firm against her gaze, goading her to make the first move. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her blade swings around to his side of the bird, jabbing it in the side to stake full claim. "Y'ad yer chance," the Boar warns. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood responds with a sharp grunt and a knife tossed at the base of her plate. Leaning up on the table, he looks her in the eye, "Play y'fer a haunch." His hand moves to a pouch at his belt, rattling something inside. "I got dice." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar snorts, tugging the goose from both vantage points, "Waste a'time." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The two servants present, quiet as ever, can't help but to take an interest in the scene. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Dog shoots right back with a self-assured scoff, "What, 'th'Boar' scared'a losin' t'a mangy cur? City-livin' got y'soft already?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The goose is tugged hard enough to begin tearing where their utensils dig at the succulent meat. "Yer th'one prancin' 'bout on stage wit' some feathered lizard," she digs her knife in deeper, a bid to anchor into the ribcage. She growls, "Jus' like a trained mutt for 'is master, eh?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Ri', cos I 'ad a choice, eh?" The sellsword growls, rattling the dice between his fingers. What vision he retains is swapped between goose and Boar, brow bobbing a challenge to his fellow mercenary. "If y'ain't game fer dice, 'ow 'bout somethin' else, eh? Or y'too busy wi'yer cushy dinner t'take a challenge when y'see it?" As if ignorant of his point, Lockwood impales an eel on his fork and snaps it in half between his teeth-- following up with a hard yank on the contested goose with his knife. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Too busy tryin' t'enjoy m'dinner t'take pity on a beggin' mutt," she growls, "They not teach t'earn yer own in Cormyr?" She tightens against his pull, and makes a subtle show of the effort it requires to match his strength. [Bluff 18] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 16+6] "Yeh," Comes the reply through gritted teeth, "Bu' I feel like squabblin'." Noting the feigned effort,, he drives his weight backwards to gain more ground, though the effort is complicated by how far across the table he'd allowed it to get. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Having baited him this long, Thelinia waits for the perfect moment as he drives his weight backward. Then, her hands release their utensils, freeing the goose to the full force of his exertion-- at the most vulnerable apex of his adjustment. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Reflex 11] Whether due to the drink he'd indulged in, a slip of the foot, or simple bad luck, Lockwood's play into falling for the Boar's ploy goes poorly. The intensity in his expression is replaced with a wide-eyed surprise as the goose frees itself from the table and takes flight, sailing up over the table, past the Dog's flailing grasp, and dead on into the center of his chest. Thrown off balance by the force of his pull and the roasted fowl's weight, Jerrad can only give a hoarse yelp as he topples backward with a resounding clatter. Wondering if he might have died over a goose for a moment, he opens his eye and is relieved to find that he is neither dead, nor terribly injured-- and what's more, the goose had managed to evade the floor, resting haphazardly atop his soiled breastplate. The mercenary is quiet a moment, before the scene gets to him. He blurts out a snorting chuckle from beneath the table's edge. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Muffled noises of conflicting humor and horror come from the servants still present, and the guard outside the door must wonder at the levity he hears from the mercenaries. Cackling from the moment the goose was cast airborne, the Boar snorted as her companion fell beyond the table's horizon, and takes the opportunity to swipe up the last leaf jelly. "Ya drop it?" She snickers, but the question sounds earnest, if not a touch ironic. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ At the risk of looking charming, a grin is paid to the servants within eyesight of the prone Dog as he struggles to right himself without further soiling the once pristine goose. Wrestling himself upright, Lockwood rises with the bird tucked under his arm and swipes a few clumps of stuffing from his person with the other. "Nuh-- it dropped me, eh-heh." He gives a grunt that turns into another chuckle, tearing off the remaining leg as he drops the rest of the goose onto the plate that had previously held the now absent eels. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a mouthful of leaf jelly, Thelinia gives a satisfied chuckle, "S'good, b'cause it'd'ave been yer own fault." She looks him over, particularly where the delicious rum-based glaze had oiled his breastplate. A part of her laments the lost flavor, but the Boar convinces herself the prank was worth it. His armor had to be soiled sooner or later. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Hrrmmph--" Something that might have been a word is muffled by the goose leg as Jerrad rights his chair and plops back into it with a thump. As upsetting as it might have been to dirty his armor so soon after purchase-- and out of combat no less-- the rum glaze more than made up for it. "Worth it, eh." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar makes a noise of indifference as she finishes off her leaf jelly, then reaches across the table with her fork (and no manners) to prod the mangled goose. Tender meat gives way easily, and she pops a mouthful of breast into her mouth. "Let's take th'rest, eh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh," he offers vague affirmation, pushing himself to his feet. "An' some eels." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ To the surprise of the staff--though they offer no dispute--Dog and Boar take their leave with the goose's remains in hand. Filled with fruity stuffing and rum roux, it's an awkward place to store the savory eels they'd taken along, but it beat keeping them on their person. Outside the Citadel, a moderately intoxicated Boar plucks another morsel from the goose. "Found'a crys'al an' s'silver in m'eels.. Anythin' weir' in yer's?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A bit unsteady himself, Jerrad slurps some excess glaze from his fingers with a muffled hum. "Eh, a lil' jewel.. Foun' uh brooch in th'ones I 'ad earlier. Think et's somethin' in th'water?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "S'yeah?" Her voice hiccups suddenly, not unusual after rapid drinking. "Maybe'ey diggum outta th' noble's sewers, heheh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Pfff," A calloused hand is waved at the notion as he takes a step forward. "Highbloods jus' wan'yer t'believe they got shit good 'nough t'eat. Heh." Looking off down the lane leading away from the Citadel into the city, the Dog finds himself having to contend with a swelling yawn for a moment, curtailing it with a snort. When he looks back to Thelinia, he takes note of the flowers that had been on her hair only hours ago, now absent. "I'm, uh. Sorreh abou' earlier. Y'wan' t'go get pissed?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Either by intention or intoxication, Thelinia doesn't seem to respond to his apology. By either cause, her answer is delayed a second or two. "Th'girl's meetin' us tonigh'. Told'er I'm gettin'em out t'nigh'... Hrrrammar--hic!" The Boar growls the curse under her breath, only to be interrupted by another hiccup. "We needa plan." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ While the pause lends him cause to worry, the Dog is able to put off his anxiety for the time being in the face of the larger issue they shared. How would they get the children out of the city without anyone noticing? More importantly, how could they do it without linking it back to themselves? He wasn't entirely certain. "We sure tha's a good idea? We got t'come back 'ere in a few days t'get these damn marks scrubbed." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A gloved hand brushes past her temple to her braid, the Boar counting cobblestones in troubled thought. "We're gettin'em out.." [Int 20+2-2] After a moment, a grunt signals some realization, "Yer ring, righ'? We could make it so'sit 'hey can getout at nigh' ona boat.. while weer'at Duvik's Pass, eh? Jus'.. Jus' need a'letter an' yer ring.. Thoughta gettin'em a mule or two anyways.." Her thoughts trail a bit, until they settle on her face as a frown. Who would cover their escape? ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The suggestion curls a frown at the corner of his mouth, though not for a lack of agreement. They could get the children out of the city, certainly, but unless they were already gone, there was no way it wouldn't be fingered back on them. Rowan would be howling for their heads, undoubtedly. Prick. They'd need an accomplice-- But who, in a city of slavers, would be willing to knowngly abet their crime? Then it came to him, in an uneasy memory. He turned to Thel with a grunt. "I know someone. Th'Joydancer." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Eh?" It's a moment of searching his face before the recollection hits her. "Th'healer? Hrn." Whatever uncertainty lurks in her voice is discarded after a short consideration. "If y'think shhe's up t'the risk.. finda boat shippin' out t'morrow.." She trails again, a short series of grumbles, "Nev'r trusted th'like a'her b'fore.." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Neither did he, really. Not for a long time, at least. Pushing away what could quickly become a sour memory under the wine's influence, Lockwood gave a slow nod as he started forward to put more distance between themselves and the Citadel. "I'll talk t'er. Y'want t'see abou' th'boat, or 'eaded back t'get th'kids ready? I can hit th'docks too." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar gives a grunt, sounding more like a groan, "Told'er I'd b'meetin'er.. Not gun'ta break m'word." She presses the end of her wrist to a temple, rubbing at a headache. "Y'should check th'docks. I'll see t'the kids." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Hrrrnh." The Dog parrots his partner, none too pleased with the tasks necessity would require of them. It'd be different if he was the only one at risk, but he wasn't. Raine, the children, and Marie were all in peril if the plan didn't go through without a hitch. He'd pray to the Grandmaster that it would. "I'll 'ead back t'th'Dove with yeh, then 'ead out. See if I can get some mules fer th'trip, too." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Eh.." Thelinia looks around for the signposts, and grunts. Most shops were already shuttered for the night. "Best t'check th'docks now. We buy th'mules in th'mornin', when we get th'horses. Less suspici--hic-yea?" Another hiccup, much to her displeasure. "Should, eh.. find yer Joydancer too." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ His face twisting a bit at the phrasing, Lockwood gives a dull grunt. "She ain't -my- Joydancer. Eh.." The idea of splitting up on the streets after last night didn't sit well with the mercenary.. But she was right, they'd be better served conserving their time. He had faith in her abilities, at least. That was enough to ease his concerns, for the moment. After a moment of tense deliberation with himself, the Dog gives a relenting nod. "Alrigh'. Jus' watch yer back, an' don't kill no one wi'out me. Use th'ring if somethin' changes." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "She's yer idea," Thelinia frowns, vaguely uncomfortable with the defensive reply as she realizes her phrasing. "Y'really think she'll go along, eh?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood concedes her point with a begrudging shrug, reaching a hand up to rake at his jaw. "Migh' 'ave t'give up m'share from this job, but.. She's uh priest, ain't she?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia offers a noncommital grunt, "S'big risk fer some dancer t'take on by 'erself." The pick was a strange one-- Thelinia never thought highly of their kind, and it brought her to wonder what Lockwood saw in the Joydancer's potential. Still, she had to admit the cleric was probably their best hope if they meant to pull this off. Before they walked any further, the Boar comes to a stop at a crossroads, where Lockwood would find the way to the docks. "Y'think some of 'er fellows migh'elp?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "'Ope so. Dunno anyone else t'ask." At the crossroads, Jerrad lets his eye wander down either street, wary of shapes shifting about in the dark. There was no way to be sure they weren't being watched. Hells, Woren could be spying on them right that moment, and they'd be none the wiser until they were clapped in irons and tossed into the stockade. He'd be tempted to say all the trouble had better be worth it, if he didn't already know it was. The Dove was no place for a child. "I'll see what I can do. Jus' keep them biters from gettin' anxious, or turnin' tail. See if y'can figure when ol' Rowan beds down." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Well, he'd know better than her, the Boar figures. Even if she wasn't convinced. "Aye, I'll take care'uvit," She waves off his concerns, and turns to continue on without him towards the Dove. Her headache pounds, intolerant of her lacking hydration, and the mercenary reminds herself that calling the girl up for a remedy was as good a cover as any. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Righ'." Lingering at the corner for long enough to be certain his companion hadn't been attacked within earshot, the Dog eventually turns towards his own route and starts forward at an even, steady march. As he walked, he found himself wondering if they really could get away with it. Rowan seemed the canny sort, but he had no reason to suspect them, did he? Perhaps they'd just have to wait and see. With luck, he'd be none the wiser. Failing that, they always had steel. Tyr willing, they'd have no need of it. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ At reaching the Dove, the Boar would see Rowan still hard at work, serving his evening patrons with a tireless smile and charm one might expect from a half-elf. A fair amount of customers still enjoyed supper and drink, and the pretty servergirls providing it. None pay much mind to the sellsword woman, though a few looks are followed by quiet gossip. Rowan himself gives her two looks, about to call to her before his patrons reclaimed his attention with dire requests for filled pints and delayed meals. Thelinia makes little show of scanning the bar, only enough to gather that the innkeep was still well awake. Perhaps it was better to call the girl up early, and give her and the others time to prepare. She stands up straight, ignoring the odd glance here and there as the patrons undoubtedly wondered at the half-eaten bird in her arms. Upstairs in her room, Thelinia wonders at where to place the wrecked roast, and ultimately settles on the small table by the window. She towels the grease off herself as well as one can with leather, thankful for her decision to remove her gloves before Lockwood passed it on. Then it's a matter of getting down to business. Thelinia rings for service, and soon enough one of the older children show up. Iniat. The request for her headache is easily made, but she stops the boy short of departing. Not wanting to seem too suspicious, she asks him to return with the girl she spoke with before. When she had closed the door behind him, she takes a breath, and begins to remove her gear to relax. Or at least try to. It isn't a long wait before the two servants return, her remedy on a serving plate in the girl's hands. She welcomes them inside without a word, simply standing aside to suggest their entry. They're thanked briefly for the drink, and the door is carefully locked behind them. She gestures for them to take a seat as they notice the ungarnished goose, and it's a short matter of convincing before they do. They both still pour her drink, a practiced ritual, and she has no choice but to accept it as she stands between them and the window. "Listen.. I dunno if she's told ya yet.." Thelinia looks at her drink, wondering how to explain the mess of a plan she needed them to trust in. "I'm gunna see that y'kids get outta this place." The drink is tilted back immediately, as though to drown the doubt steadily growing in her gut. Iniat, dumbfounded, can't be sure what he's heard. The other girl, Shandalie, swallows back her own concerns. She looks at him with empathy, "I was going to ask Nephira to tell you," and she turns her attention back on Thelinia. "You, really mean it, my lady?" Both children focus on her, uncertain but determined to hear. The gaze of the servants is too much for Thelinia to hold for long. Even with the tonic's ease, she finds her eyes cast aside. "Eh, aye." She brings herself to look upon them, "I do. M'partner an' I are fixin' t'ave some mules fer ya t'take t'the docks. 'E's writin' a letter an' givin' you a ring f'passage." She checks the window sill's placement before leaning back against it, arms folded. "When'e's back t'night we'll know if yer leavin' b'fore light. Y'ave til then t'prepare yerselves." The two exchange looks for a tense while, Iniat seeming the most nervous. Eventually, he speaks up; "M-My lady, how.. and why?" The question catches the ranger off-guard. "Eh.." She shrugs, looking aside. "Dove's no place fer kids." Shandalie stares down at her lap, and Iniat follows suit. They're quiet for a time, and the boy speaks again. "What about Master Greystag?" "Eh?" Iniat huddles his shoulders, afriad to look up. "He's good to us, my lady. He isn't cruel." Shandalie regards him a moment, but says nothing. Thelinia takes the same moment to take in what the boy was saying. They were more fortunate than she could have feared, which came as a relief. Could that be good enough for the ones that Rowan would certainly replace them with..? The hopelessness which dawns on her is ignored, the Boar's attention set fully on the two children sitting in front of her. "Children'ave no business doin' what he 'as y'doin'." [Diplomacy 16 v 7] It doesn't take too long for Thelinia to finish informing the kids, and once things are settled they take their leave. She even convinces them to share in some of the goose. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Progress towards the dock ward was steady enough for Lockwood at first. With the wine's assistance, the troubling of his thoughts were kept at bay, pushed down and suffocated beneath a haze of spiced berry and heady rum glaze. For any misgivings he had towards Woren, the man certainly knew how to treat his guests-- at least, forgiving the marking he'd forced on them. Quietly, Jerrad resolved to see him paid back for that transgression. Using him was one thing; using the Boar was another issue entirely. It made him look incapable, like a fool. Partners were meant to look out for one another, meant to keep this sort of thing from happening, but he'd failed to do either. All he'd managed was causing undue upset. The answer she'd given his apology once they'd left had been indistinct enough to make him believe she hadn't been quite ready to accept it. At least he deserved the denial. With these darkening thoughts occupying him, Lockwood found his progress slowed, with only the nearby chatter of a procession of guards speeding his stride to a more respectable pace, seeing him more swiftly to the docks. Decidedly less swayed by the bottle's influence by the time he'd gotten near, the Dog smelled the harbor before he saw it: rotten fish and turgid sewer outflow, familiar in an uncomfortable kind of way. As he walked, his mind drifted briefly to his time with the boys at the Maw. Darting between fisher stalls, snatching a poorly attended shipment, cutting a purse here and there.. It hadn't made for good times, and they certainly hadn't been easy, but at least he'd had something like a family. He wondered if there were other children here in Nimpeth who lived like he had, creeping in the dirt and the dark, waiting for their next chance at something more than a crust of bread. Rather than bring comfort, the notion saw him cast his eye about with a touch more care, mindful of the wealth he carried on his person. [Perception 10] Thankful for the dim light offered by the oil lamps lining the ward, Lockwood found himself more than a touch lost at first. Rows of empty slips are occasionally broken up by the odd galley or cargo ship, most of them unmanned save the guards making rounds atop their decks. Shipments wait on high, suspended by gantries in preparation for the morning's work. The dockmaster, doubtlessly, had quit his post for the night, given the curfew. It all starts to feel a bit hopeless, until a hushed conversation catches the sellsword's ear. Rounding the bow of a modestly sized sloop, the Dog just barely manages to catch the tail end of what was clearly a heated debate, "If he wants my ship out of here, then tell Master Olrin, I'll be needing my papers. I can't go back without the damn things! He KNOWS that!" A man, much too small to -be- a man, confronts a more normally proportioned guardsman at the base of a long ramp leading up onto deck. Neither look pleased. "The Dockmaster is aware of your predicament, and is sympathetic, but he reiterates that you were caught towing unregistered cargo. Unless you can pay the fine, your ship will remain impounded, and unless it is moved from this slip before sundown tomorrow, it's to be repossessed for unlawful use of this slip." The guard leans on his spear, tired of the confrontation after what has clearly been a long day. He dips his head, signalling his intention to leave. For his part, the diminutive captain balls his fists by his side, shouting after the man, "Well, you can tell him I said, 'PISS OFF'!" The guardsman shakes his head but continues on his way to rejoin his patrol, leaving the man, who by now is obviously not a man, but a halfling, to grit his teeth. It's not until Lockwood makes his presence known that his jaw seems to untense. The halfling turns, wary of a newcomer so armed approaching after curfew, his hand straying to the knife at his belt. "Yes? Something you want, sir?" His mop of straw colored hair is hidden under a sailor's cap, sharp eyes jumping up and down the mercenary's form. Lockwood holds up a hand, signalling peace. "Easy, mate. No quarrel." He gruffs, wisely keeping his hands wide of any weapons. The halfling receives this well enough, but remains aloof. "Hm. Sure, sure. But what do you -want-? It's a bit late to be out walking the docks, 'less you're looking for something to make a quarrel out of." The Dog grunts, his eye drifting off to the ship resting low in the murky water. The halfling seems to catch on right away. "Ahh. Well, she's not going anywhere. The Dockmaster--" "I 'eard. Interested t'know where yeh'd 'ead if y'weren't in yer current predicament." [Diplomacy 14] The unlucky captain seems pensive at first, but after a moment proves forthcoming, "Saerloon. I've a shipment of Woren Vintage I'd meant to see out there, but.." He waves a tiny, pockmarked hand about, indicating the boat with some distress. The Dog leans in just enough to make a point of his severity, jingling the coin in his pouch. He eyes the halfling with an unsettling marriage of pity and restrained foreboding. "Consider yer debt t'the harbormaster paid." His voice comes out as a low rumble, so as to avoid detection by any unwanted ears. The halfling tenses, suddenly rather concerned. "A-and? I'm assuming--" The sellsword cuts him off, a sharp nod cut towards his vessel. "Y'move bodies fer me. Eight, all told. Maybe some mules. No one touches 'em, no one talks abou' 'em. Feed 'em, give 'em drink. You sail free." [Diplomacy 20 yas kween] Silence falls over the two for a moment, a rolling mist drifting in from the bay as the two eye each other up. At any moment, the halfling seems ready to call for the guards and make a break for it, forcing Lockwood to steel himself with a subtly clenched jaw. It's only when the sailor lets his shoulders drop into a weary bow that his fears are averted. "I-I, uhm. Yes. No, you, you have a deal, sir. What, ah.. Are the details..?" Relaxing, Lockwood gives a nod that suggests the man's decision to heed his request was a wise one. Leaning up against a lampost, he gestures to the ship. "Let's talk inside." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With nothing to do until the Dog's return, Thelinia spends a short while looking outside before moving to the bed. Sitting soon becomes laying, the ranger staring at the ceiling with disordered thoughts. It isn't long before sleep catches up to her, after having been compromised so often. When she awakes, it's a bit of a surprise. She checks the window fearing the dawn, but relaxes when she sees the night as dark as she'd last seen. A hand moves to run through her hair, only midly surprised when it remembers the braid taming her unruly hair. Standing up without much difficultly, Thelinia moves to check the stars to be certain of how long her sudden nap was. Remembering their alignment when they had left for the Citadel, it's both a relief and concern when the sky tells her an hour had passed. Lockwood must still be trying to find the Joydancer, the Boar assumes. It was worrying to think he probably hadn't reached the dockmaster for leads, considering the hour, but if he knew where the healer was then perhaps the effort wouldn't be for nought. Even without a boat, the young woman may have knowledge or resources of her own. Yet something felt amiss. Her mind recounts the previous night, when she could finally rejoin him after the spectacle Woren created. The Dog sat wounded behind the stage as the clerics did their work, but the Joydancer accompanied him on the ground, and held genuine concern for the man. Even if it was merely the Joydancer's duty, the expression read clear. The Boar hated to admit it, but something about seeing her knelt so close to Lockwood, with such concern, was uncomfortable. The Dog had even noticed as well, and he asserted simply that it was a matter of her creed more than anything. She wasn't quite as sure, though if there were healers whose faith instructed dutiful yet fleeting compassion, it was certainly Lliira's. The ranger was never well versed in religious doctrine, but she knew enough of the Joydancers to see flighty do-gooders with a carefree opinion of lingering affection. And at this hour, Lockwood had determined he'd seek her out. A frown creases the Boar's expression. As dismissive as he'd been, could he still be seeking her out for more than their request? In Niraya, there were countless times he rebuffed Brianne's efforts to woo him. Feigning stoicism, he would endure her attentions with a restrained and deep discomfort. It had reached a point where Thelinia considered he may even harbor a fear of women, though she'd never imagine he'd ever confess it. In fact, she wondered if he had shown a predilection of any sort at all. If he had, it was an impressive sleight of the eye--The Boar was none the wiser. An elbow leans against the side jamb of the window as she folds her arms loosely. Lurking doubt reminded her of Greengrass, and the Dog's unusual indiscretions. It wasn't hard to offer his behavior to wine and cider, though his glances seemed more than imagined. Still, she had been something to stare at-- neither were accustomed to the garb thrust upon them, and she shifts herself to distract from warming cheeks. She was covered in flowers like, well, a Lliiran. Thelinia sighs. How much could she blame him for seeking out the Joydancer, if that is what he was doing? Their journey was so adruous, so hopeless for so long that Greengrass felt almost like a dream of the dying, a fevered relief headier than the strongest drink in all the Realms. In the chaos of it all, perhaps another nature of the Dog surfaced for air. After all, he was a man. A lonesome one, at that. The ranger stares off at Selunè, counting the Tears as she'd done ever since their return. There was something disappointing about that, if it were true. Somehow, she realizes, she had let herself believe he was in contrast to the men she'd known before. Strong yet not boastful, reserved yet not condescending. And loyal. Yet, worryingly--and despite their partnership--Lockwood remained something of an enigma. His earlier outburst alluded to more than his emotional state, a history that she wasn't privy to. After all, she had only just found out about his being a Purple Dragon of all things. If anyone could hide their carnal desire, it might just be him. At least for now. Suddenly it occurs to her that he had given her a means of communicating with him, which she has left in the pocket of her coat. The docks would be in range of the ring's magic, she thought, though if the Dog had wandered further she wasn't sure. Once located, she places it on an index finger and clears her throat. "Eh.. 'ello?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The halfling had talked well enough once Lockwood had gotten him up to the ship's cabin. His name, or so he claimed, was Errich Leagallow, and his profession was that of a merchant shipping desirable goods between Cormyr and the Vilhon quickly, quietly, and without issue. In other words, a smuggler. Lucky, Jerrad thought. Or a setup waiting to happen. When he'd last been to Marsember, the old duke had held something of a reputation for his surreptitious dealings, both with the Sembian merchantmen and less savory elements of the Realms at large. Some folk had even whispered of a distant connection with the Red Wizards, though none would ever speak of it openly when pressed. Patrols there were rarely eventful, and always hard. At least the spiced beef was good. With a little pressing, Leagallow had agreed readily enough to the Dog's terms; swift, safe passage for the children, who would arrive by dark the following evening and set out for Cormyr straightaway. His perception had caught Lockwood off guard once the halfling had deduced just what exactly it was he'd be transporting, expressing as earnest a pledge of fealty as he'd ever seen from a smuggler. Children, Errich had said, were not meant to be playthings of the rich and decadent. If there was any way he could help speed them towards safety, he'd give his blood gladly to see it done. Of course, there were always complications to be considered. Paying off the dockmaster would be simple enough, at least, with an added bribe on top of things seeing a blind eye turned to the ship's peculiar time of departure. The guards were lax enough given that most of the city was too exhausted by the aftermath of Greengrass for any malcontents to run about causing trouble. Still, there was always the capacity for the unknown to cause complications.. Errich did his best to assuage the mercenary's concerns, once he'd noted them; he'd done this a dozen times before, after all. Perhaps not with children as part of his cargo, but the dance had always been the same. Indeed, it had only been by the artifice of capricious fate that his ship had run off course and been searched for straying into restricted waters. If Lockwood hadn't a better eye for seedy sorts like Leagallow, he might've been worried for his honesty. Growing up in the Maw had it's benefits. With that bit of business done, the two had parted ways amicably, a fact that was certainly helped by the smuggler's purse being a sight heavier (with the assurance that his treasured vessel would be free to sail once morning came)-- Though Lockwood's thoughts had been no less weighted by worry. Under Selune's light, he started off up the road that Leagallow had indicated would lead him to the Lliiaran temple, his mind occupied by memories of the last night he'd shared the healer's company. Marie had been good to him, surely. Any healer had to have a certain selflessness to them, a caring that had led them to the path.. But he'd seen in the way she regarded him when his eye had been thought to turn elsewhere, in how her hands had hovered over his wounds just a moment too long, and how she'd remained by his side when the rest of her fellows had departed, only taking her leave when the Boar's presence had prompted her to. That had been it, hadn't it? He wouldn't have imagined something like that. But then.. What kind of person would think to fawn over a man like him? Old and broken. The world deserved better men than him in it. Thelinia deserved a better partner. Unnerved by the sudden, unwelcome thought, Jerrad felt it creep up his back again-- That feeling of being watched, of being judged. It was like the moment in the woods when the ranger had forged ahead of him and his eye had strayed, or at the vineyard under the trellis, her hair framed in pale starlight.. Or in the taerath, when he had only the Gods to bare his shame before. He wasn't certain what galled him more: that she had entered his thoughts then, in that moment, or that he had held her there until the end. It threatened to dredge up a longing that was swiftly denied before it could take root. There was nothing he could offer her that she couldn't find in a better man, or even a better woman. He couldn't say they'd ever discussed anything like that.. "Eh.. 'ello?" A familiar voice, carried on a ghostly wind to his ears, called to him. Startled at first, Lockwood ducked away into an alcove secreted between a shuttered smithy and the adjoining dwelling, a cautious look cast about for watching eyes before he lifted the ring to his mouth, uncertain of the proper method for it's use-- But thankful for the distraction all the same. He grunted first, then followed up, "Eh, 'ey. Y'good?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Unsure what to expect, it's still a little startling when the Dog's voice breezed past her ears like a haunted wind. She wondered if she'd prefer it to just call into her mind, like the rakshasa so loved to do. "Eh..Aye. Uh. Y'good?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The reply is less startling than before, for which Lockwood is thankful, but the phantasmal tenor in the Boar's voice is unsettling all the same. He wasn't certain he'd ever get used to the strangeness of magic. Keeping a careful watch at the street, Jerrad gives a firmer grunt this time, almost sounding confident, "Aye. Got us a boat squared off. Cap'n's trustworthy, an' he owes me." He nearly smirked at the mild embellishment. It was true enough. "Set th'time fer sundown t'morrow. They're 'eadin' t'Marsember. M'on m'way t'th'temple now. Things arigh' wi'th'kids?" He hoped the concern in his voice wasn't too clear. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye," Thelinia answers, looking about the room as she adjusts, "Told'em t'ready'emselves," she pauses, and draws the ring away. A few thoughts ask to be spoken, but the ranger quiets. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh," He grunted, seeming to confirm their progress. Things were going better than they could've hoped to expect. If they were lucky, it would stay that way. Pausing long enough to peek out from the corner to inspect the street, Lockwood leaned back in to the ring, "Y'feel good about 'is?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It's a couple moments before she replies, "Aye, if y'sure th'boat's trustworthy." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Dog replies with a notable swiftness, as assuring as he could ever be, "Aye. Jus' got t'get 'em on it." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia grunts acknowledgement. "I'll tell'em th'plan." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Arigh'.. I'll 'ead t'th'temple, 'en. Y'let me know if somethin' changes, eh." Lockwood gruffed, lowering the ring back to his side after a beat. With one last glance paid to ensure his relative secrecy, the mercenary steps out onto the street and presses on towards his goal. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar, having lowered her hand, paces the room briefly, and returns to pull the service thread. Tomorrow evening; when they'd either be returning to town, or in Duvik's Pass. Somehow that concerned her more than doing it that evening. In any case, the ship was secure, and now it was a matter of the Joydancer's willingness to help that would determine the rest. If she didn't, they would have to fulfill their contract in much less than two days. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Pressing on, Jerrad has an easy enough time picking his way through the city streets, shifting through the dark to linger in an alley or beneath a doorway in a bid to avoid the scrutiny of wandering guards. [Stealth 16+6] Slipping past the few patrols who cross his path comes easily to the Dog, well-accustomed to the habits of guardsmen charged with the night watch. Compared to the vigilance of the Purple Dragons, padding about the sellswords and up jumped noblility of Nimpeth was about as onerous as keeping quiet around the deaf. With as simple as the task is, Lockwood is able to occupy himself with thoughts of the coming days, and the days that had only just passed; again, his mind drifted to the Boar and the subtle changes he'd noticed in their interactions since their return to Faerun. It was unsettling, in a way, to notice it.. But not quite so unsettling as the notion that lurked at the back of his mind, suggesting that the change was something he craved. It wasn't like him. Certainly, if she'd noticed, she'd share his opinion. It'd be wiser to keep it to himself. For the moment, however, he could find some relief from his turmoil in his arrival at the temple's steps. Necessity demanded he put it out of his mind for the task at hand, and that was enough to distract him for the time being. Steeling himself with a slow, steady breath, Lockwood sized the building up one last time, then started up the steps to confront Marie. After some asking with the other Joydancers, Jerrad would be able to find Marie among a group quietly speaking in a surprisingly comfortable looking common area. The clergy had taken pains to arrange a room of cushioned seats for themselves, all facing a low-set table adorned with savory and sweet dishes. Holy symbols decorate the walls, blessing the space with the same reverence as larger denominations. When he garners her attention, the girl's eyes widen and she stands in surprise. "Mister Lockwood?" For a fleeting moment, the Dog's gaze darted over to the Joydancer's fellows, concealing the scrutiny behind a demure nod of greeting. He should've expected she wouldn't be alone. That'd complicate things, especially if they caught wind of what he and Raine were planning. Shaking off the thought, Lockwood dipped his head in a nod. "Alae, Miss Marie." The mercenary managed a smile despite himself, restrained by the eyes he felt on him from the other Joydancers present. "I, uh. Y'ave a moment?" Marie stares at Lockwood almost as though frozen in place. The faces of her fellows light up with surprise and subdued excitement, several murmurring to one another. The healer swallows, her swarthy complexion reddening, managing to response with only the slightest disbelief, "I.. y-yes." The disbelief that seems to freeze Marie's feet to the floor is not lost on Jerrad, an uncomfortable lump in his throat swallowed back against the presumptive whispering of her fellows. If he'd had hackles, the Dog was certain they'd be stood on end by now. Shifting a glance overshoulder, Lockwood searched vainly for a more secluded spot to host their conversation, but came away empty-handed. "I, eh.. Privately, if it don't offend yeh." The excitement and gossip reaches a fever pitch, a storm of whispers and restrained cheers from behind the bashful healer. Marie begins to nod her reply, until embarassment overcomes her-- she rushes past Jerrad, taking his hand as she passes him. Though he maintained his usual stoicism as best he was able, it couldn't be missed that there was a gentle blush coloring the sellsword's cheeks as he allowed himself to be led off into the temple. He was rather thankful he couldn't see himself. Eager to evade the knowing looks and excited whispers of Marie's fellows, Jerrad met the Joydancer's hand with a loose grip, reclaiming his voice after a few strides, "I, eh. Sorry t'bother y'so late, miss." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Joydancer slows their pace to round a corner, only then releasing his hand. Carved from the white stone of a hallway, the alcove she'd led them to was just deep enough to offer cover from prying eyes. Marie stands before the mercenary unable to meet his eye, her hands fidgeting behind her back. With noticably red cheeks and hope brightening her eyes, she stays his apology with an insistant shake of her head, "No, no..! I mean, it's-it's no trouble at all." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood's eye is arrested by the gleam in Marie's for a moment, clearly visible even in the alcove's relative dimness. It reminded him of something he'd rather not be, but necessity demanded he push that discomfort to the side. Clearing his throat into a fist, Jerrad opens his mouth to speak, but pauses instead, uncertain of just how to bring up what he'd come there to accomplish. "Yer.. Eh, doin' alrigh'?" He blurted out, breaking the pause. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie's breath is still by the man's hesitation, but her response comes readily enough. "Y-Yes, I-I'm fine-well! Are you alright?" She repeats him, stepping forward with some concern. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The movement is enough to encourage him to speak, his voice kept low, but sincere. "M'alrigh', miss. Jus', eh.. I got t'leave Nimpeth fer a few days." The man's eye darts to the side at the admission, uncertain of how the girl would react. Even more worryingly, he wasn't sure how she'd meet what he was prepared to ask. "I.. Came 'ere t'ask y'somethin'." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Bewildered by a disbelieving realization, Marie leans forward in eagerness to hear him clearly. Quietly enraptured with his words, she's only startled by his annoucement. "Y-Yes?" it's almost more of an answer than encouragement.   +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie's enthrallment brings another rush of color to Lockwood's features, shamed by his unintended use of the woman's affections. Still, he remains earnest. "It.. It ain't what y'think, I don't think. I need yer help." A frown crosses his lips for just a moment, replaced shortly after by an apologetic sort of look. "Came t'yeh because y'been good t'me before. I won't blame y'if yeh say no, miss." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It takes an uncomfortable time before the comprehension of his words finds Marie. Her expression drops to disappointment and hurt by subtle motions, and an almost silent utterance escapes her. "O--Oh.." Slowly, the healer withdraws, arms moving to comfort herself as she shifts her gaze to the corner of the alcove, shamed. Marie, not yet ready to quell her heartbreak, is quiet. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 18] Even with a distant whispering from around the corner distracting him, the mercenary seems to know what's coming a few moments before it does, and it sees his heart drop with a shudder. Even if he hardly knew the girl, he'd not wanted to hurt her for dreaming. Spurred by a rare empathy, Lockwood hesitates for just a moment before his hand lifts to find a place at Marie's shoulder. "Miss Marie," He called for her attention, his tone even in it's softness. "I.. Don't want yeh t'think.." Uncertain of what to say, the Dog trails off for a moment-- Then speaks before he can think to stop himself. "I think yer beautiful. An' kind. An'.. I did come 'ere t'ask y'for 'elp, but that ain't jus' it." Lockwood paused again, hoping his words would bring the healer out of her sorrow. [Diplomacy 12 v 10] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Shuddering at the words spoken with his gentle hand on her shoulder, Marie struggles to catch her next few breaths, even as her eyes meet his at the string of complements. It's not until he alludes to something else that surprises the confused Joydancer. "Wh.. What, then?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Mindful of his hand's placement, Lockwood allows it to slide down the Joydancer's arm to fall away to his side, even as he steps away from the wall. Swallowing back another discomforting lump at his throat, he offers her his right hand, though he worries it comes across as an imposition. "I, eh.. I wanted t'see yeh again. Y'left s'quick, before." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ She regards his hand, puzzled by its offer, and a tentative hand is slowly rested in his. [Sense Motive 17 v 14] "I... I didn't think...." Marie stammers, repressing hurt with a frown. "Wh-What did you want, then, if not.."She trails off, confused. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The question seems to strike him, putting a light cant to his neck that he only recovers from after the touch of her hand at his brings him out of it. What was it he wanted? He supposed he'd never really known. But.. Again, Raine entered his mind, a disturbing thought given the current circumstance-- And far less easy to wave off. Troubled, his eye lifted to search for some semblance of stability in Marie's, "I-I don't know." The mercenary felt shame sting his cheeks. What dreadful sort of man would put a woman through heartache for his own ends? He supposed the answer was fairly evident. But then.. Why did he feel he had more to say? "Ah'm sorry I 'urt yeh. I do need yer 'elp, an' I don't know if I can stay 'ere in Nimpeth.. But I want t'spend some time with you. Not fer anythin' crass.. Jus'.." Lockwood felt himself trailing off again, words lost to him in the face of his uncertainty. "I don't know." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ In her efforts to comprehend his meaning, a last flicker of hope shines behind moist eyes. Her fingers twitch a suggestion, but confusion still shows in her features. "Then... You, you still want my company?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As worrisome as it was, the Dog found it easier to give the answer than he'd expected, "Aye." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Could her complexion turn any redder, it would, as her expectations were fulfilled greater than she might've hoped. She speaks her realization, the most pleasant of her surprises. "You.. You want to be with me, before you leave, so.. So you can.." The Joydancer chokes on her whispered words, and looks at the sellsword expectantly. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 20] So that was it, then. Understanding the girl's expectations hadn't been at the top of his priorities on entering the temple, but now that he stood before her in the alcove, he thought that it likely should have been. What sort of fool would try to go through with this, thinking nothing of what she might feel? What she might want? The last thing he wanted to do was break her heart. "Aye," He repeated himself, uncertain but not averse. He could just be decieving himself, after all. She couldn't possibly want anything to do with someone like him. "Jus'.. T'spend some time talkin' an' knowin' each other." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Perhaps taking the Dog by surprise, the Joydancer moves to him in a single stride and would place a gentle, thankful kiss on his lips. "Y-Yes! I accept your invitation, Mister Lockwood."She smiles broadly, sheepish as tears still dry off warm cheeks. "Wh-What was it you needed my help with..?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ For a brief instant, Lockwood feels a shock of surprise stand his spine stock straight, the warmth of the Joydancer's lips on his an unaccounted for eventuality. The emotion does not come alone, however, a pang of guilt stinging his gut as Marie pulls away bashfully. It takes a moment for him to find his voice, but the whispering down the hall gives him enough pause to regain presence of mind. "..I, uh.. I'd like, maybe.. If we talked abou' that in private, miss." His eye darted off to what little he could see from the cleft that hid them, the color at his cheeks stronger than ever. "An', I, eh. M'name's Jerrad." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Marie," her answer comes almost eager. She takes his hand again and would lead him down the hall opposite the direction of her overly curious fellows. "I can take us somewhere quiet." Lockwood would be led further into the tunnel-like halls of the modest temple, back where the ranking clergy resided. The Joydancer leads him into a small room with four beds and minimal furnishings, modestly decorated with flowers to keep the space amicable. Closing the door behind them, Marie leads the Dog to sit beside her at a corner bed. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ For such an imposing man, Lockwood follows Marie into the temple chambers with a gentle reservation that might give those unfamiliar with him pause. It worried him that the Joydancer had such clear expectations for what their audience should entail, especially given the growing notion he'd come to discover regarding his partner. None of it felt real. Settling beside the Lliiaran, the Dog lets his free hand find a place at his knee, his eye resting on the girl for a moment before darting away to one of the unoccupied beds. It was a bit before he could find his words. "'Aven't been in a temple in a long time." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Quietly fidgeting with her own seating, she determines to sit still; an intimate space is left between them, and the healer makes no move to press it. Her hands fold politely in her lap, her attention wholly devoted to him. "No? This one's nice.. I've been in some temples that were just tents," she smiles with a touch of humor. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Mindful of his gaze, Jerrad returns it to the Joydancer, the faintest echo of a smile softening the hard line his mouth had settled into. It was difficult not to be uncomfortable, but he was no stranger to difficult times. "Must've been Tempuran, eh. Used t'follow 'im. Wanted t'make th'trip t'Battledale, t'th'Abbey.. But, eh. Things don't work out th'way we want 'em to, sometimes." He tried to keep the bitterness from reaching his features, gaze diverted to the space between them a moment. [Bluff 1 (+2)] Curtailing a brief pause before it can build, he nods, attempting to reclaim his smile, "Followed th'Red Lady fer a long time now." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 7 +4] A frown, gentler than previously, slowly takes a measure of cheer from the Joydancer. "Mist--Jerrad," she almost hesitates, "Is something wrong?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The mercenary is given pause by Marie's concern, his brow furrowing briefly. He attempts another smile to assuage her concerns, more subdued than before. [Bluff 16+2] "Jus' somethin' that happened. Long time ago, in Cormyr." The tone of his voice manages to carry even enough, steeled by the woman's presence. "Nothin' t'worry abou'." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 4 +4] Calmed by his words, she smiles again and nods gently. "I understand. I'm sure someone like you has seen awful things.." Looking on him with sympathy, she reaches out to place fingertips at his jaw, touching to guide him into facing her. Her eyes dart between the dark eye-patch and the jade of his eye without judgement; only concern and curiousity, even as her cheeks begin to glow again. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye--" He begins, uncertain of what he might say, only to find it irrelevant when her touch leads their eyes to meet. That same lump from their meeting in the alcove bubbles up insistently, forced back down with some effort. It takes a great deal of will to wake his lungs from their stillness, his face warmed by the color that tints Marie's. "..I 'ave. I'm not th'sort've man y'should.." The words drift, lost in the short space between them. It summons up another guilty twinge, impossible to ignore. "I've done things y'shouldn't 'ear of. Things I'm tryin' t'make up for." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Though not deaf to his explanation, the Joydancer's response is minimal. With an amorous demeanor she hushes him in a whisper, "It's alright." Her hand embraces the blind side of his face, while the one in her lap moves to rest atop his. "You're a good man, Jerrad. You're so.. gentle." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood freezes, caught without words at her touch. There was a memory held in them, so distant as to have nearly been forgotten. It was almost like it'd never happened. Drawing a steady breath back past his teeth, the Dog wonders if she might feel the beginnings of his scar beneath her fingertips, ragged and angry. "I 'aven't been called that in a long time." He could still remember her face, despite it. The image hurt. "Y'must've met better." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The girl shakes her head, offering his hand a light squeeze, "You're brave, and strong.." Her hand drifts to his shoulder, and nearly to his chest, as she takes in the look of him before returning her gentle gaze to the jade of his eye. "But whatever you've done, you've still been a gentle man." Then, almost to herself, "A good man." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As Marie looks him over, Lockwood sits almost rapt with her attentions. Her hands feel nearly like a whisper over his body, unfamiliar in the extreme. So strange is it, that he nearly misses the whole of her words. "..Tryin' t'be. That's.. S'why, I eh.. Why I came up 'ere.. T'see you. An' t'ask you.." He trailed again, troubled by the thought of putting a woman like her in danger. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Joydancer cants her head, "Ask me what..? What is it?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Diplomacy 19] Swallowing the effort, Jerrad forces the words out before he can stop them, "Th'children, in th'Dove. M'partner an' I are tryin' t'save 'em." Shame, either ill-placed or well-earned, burns his cheeks, and but he keeps their gaze. "I don't want t'put yeh in danger. Y'can say no." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie takes a few moments to make sense of his undefined request, the hand at his cheek falling to rest at his arm instead. "Children..?" It's another moment before she finds the pieces to place together. A grave tone carries under her soft voice, "Slaves." Holding her eyes closed, she swallows back uncertainty and nods. "What can I do?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her acceptance stirs hope in the mercenary's heart-- But it's accompanied by something darker; fear. Even if he hardly knew her, the Dog knows his heart would never rest easy with him again if something should happen to her in her attempt to honor his request. "Y'ave t'be careful, more'n anything." He squeezes her hand, hoping the gesture is able to offer some reassurance. The sellsword starts again, holding his voice low. "I know a smuggler, headin' t'Marsember t'morrow evenin'. His name is Leagallow, an' we can trust 'im. Raine.." Lockwood felt himself hesitate at mention of the Boar, guilt eating at him still. Hopefully she was holding up alright. "We're goin' t'ave th'children ready t'go, but Woren 'as us.. Enchanted, or somethin'. We 'ave t'be in Duvik's Pass, or somethin'll 'appen." The brand on his hand didn't burn, but it might as well have. A part of him wanted to show it to her. "We jus' need someone t'guide 'em t'the docks. Make sure nothin' 'appens t'them. Yer th'only person I thought I could trust." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie follows along attentively, much of the dreaminess in her eyes set aside by resolve. His squeeze is returned in a show of camaraderie, but released with the care of a feeling more personal.   Though the dangers of the mission he proposed sink in, her worries are kept to herself. [Bluff 19+3] "How many are there?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 16+6 "Eight." He smiled, heartened by her resolve. "I've a letter an' a ring t'give 'em, t'make sure they get taken care of." That much was enough to give him some hope for their journey once they were beyond his reach. The Dragons would respect the signet. It'd be difficult not to worry, all the same. At least they'd be in good hands. As much as he wanted to ignore it, the weight of her palm over his lent him some comfort, and urged his fingers to lace with hers in thanks. "Y'sure you're good for it?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Bluff 15+3] Marie nods, nervous for only a moment at the number. She's quick to recover, and scoots close enough that their hips touch. "By the Joybringer, I swear to do whatever I can to help you.." A possible waver lilts through her voice, possibly nothing. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 2+6] The wavering in her tone slips him by in his relief, though something still sits ill with him. The notion isn't helped by the touch of her hip to his, pulling his gaze from hers in a fit of guilty embarassment. Still, it isn't enough to distract him from the reservation he'd witnessed in her, prompting his grip to loosen enough to allow her hand some freedom. "I know it's.. I 'aven't any righ' t'ave y'worryin' like this. I'm sorry." He was certain Raine wouldn't want him worrying her either. The girl had nothing to do with any of this. If she was willing to do this for them, then the least he could do was give her something that might help ensure her safety. Shifting his arm so that her hand is gently displaced, Lockwood reaches around to fish out a small sap, the leaden head wrapped in fine eel skin and padded cloth. It wasn't much, but it'd hopefully offer some assurance. "'Ere. If y'need it." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The healer looks to the weapon, but before a frown can form she refuses, shaking her head. "I've taken a vow. I won't need it, but.." she grips his hand again, "I need, I need to know what to do." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A vow. He'd have to respect that, even if it made him uneasy. "Jus' wait fer th'kids at th'street beside th'Dove. Not th'main one. We'll try an' have some mules ready. We want t'move 'em by night, jus' after curfew. Th'guard'll be in th'middle of switchin', so you'll 'ave an openin'. Jus' take 'em t'the docks an' look fer the ship with two lanterns hangin' from the bow. Leagallow'll be waitin', an' he'll ask y'where yer headin'. Jus' tell 'im, 'Passwall'." It was a lot to take in, and hastily constructed as far as plans went, but it was all they had. He'd seen the guards at work firsthand, however, and his time with the Hounds was still fresh enough in his mind to offer insight into any habits he might not have been privy to in person. It'd have to be enough. Looking down to their hands, it was a moment before he spoke again, concern tinging his voice. "What else can I do?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie's eyes also rest at their hands, and slowly the pink returns to her cheeks. Rubbing his calloused hand with her own soft touch, she speaks what's in her heart. "I.. I didn't believe that the Gods would give me this. But I knew.. I knew from when I first saw you, that you were special. I was meant to meet you." She giggles awkwardly, an attempt to keep herself steady as she confessed. The Joydancer finds her struggle eased by resting her head against him. "I've waited for this day, ever since I was called to Dance." After a moment or two, she sobers a bit. "And the children... Ever since I'd come to Nimpeth, I've seen them. Slaves. I've wanted so desperately to do something! But I felt powerless.. Until, I saw you, and how you defeated that monster at Greengrass." She slides her hand to rest on his forearm, troubled by the memory, "I never would imagine that someone could do something like summon a monster during the ceremony. The way you didn't boast or celebrate, that's how I knew you were really were unique." The Joydancer smiles to herself, "My friends told me to approach you. I was too afraid, but.. I guess now there's no need to worry!" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood couldn't be certain what it was that moved him to lean into the Joydancer's touch; perhaps it'd been the softness with which she'd graced him, gentle hands run tender across his rough skin. It wasn't something he'd ever been used to. Still, even as he let his shoulder take the whole of Marie's weight, a familiar guilt kept him from fully reciprocating her touch. "Yer too kind t'be wi'a man like me. I knew that when y'first came t'me, in th'Dove. M'mother, she always told me never t'take someone's heart if y'couldn't take 'em with you, wherever y'were headed." The recollection brought a grimace to his features, subtly embittered by the memory of loss. He could still hear her voice. Letting his hand slide to rest under her elbow, he closes his eye, blind to all but her weight against him. Even with only the Joydancer's company to occupy him, the Dog couldn't shake the thoughts of his companion that twisted about in his mind; memories of the Greengrass they'd spent together only hours before, of the time he'd spent alone thinking on her in the Dove. They'd struggled through more than anyone should have in a lifetime, and she'd never strayed in her strength of resolve. She had been quietly loyal, determined. He'd seen in Raine something worthy of devotion, even if it was only as a friend and partner. That he might think to repay her in such a way, here with Marie, was enough to twist his guts. And he was beginning to realize why. "Marie," He opened his eye, shifting to face her, the hand at her elbow seeking out her own. "What would y'mean t'do, if.. We, eh.. If you an' I.." The question trailed in his throat, heat burning his face against the thought. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A hand slides lightly to his leg, fingertips nearly at his thigh, in a bid to soothe him-- though not without suggestion. "If we.." Marie leans in just a little closer, as though to get a better look at him. She whispers her question, even as she suspects the answer already. "What..?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The unexpected contact sees the sellsword's body stiffen for an instant, surprise shooting through his legs like lightning. The deeper suggestion in her gesture is not lost on him, putting a hitch in his throat that must be fought back with hidden effort. His hand unoccupied with holding her own moves to wrap loosely around the wrist of her offending limb, a slow breath taken in through his nose to steady himself. "If.. If yeh-- If y'bedded me." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie, without contesting his staying touch at all, regards him kindly. "I.. I don't know," she smiles, turning away bashfully. "I...I'd like, very much, if you stayed with me." Her expression is tempered by the reminder of his inability to, and she continues, "I understand that you can't. But.. it means enough to me, that you're here now. I wouldn't ask for anything more." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her kindness gives him pause in proffering his reply, the protesting touch at her wrist shifting again to bring their hands to lace, great care taken to ensure her fingers aren't crushed between his own. That kind of gentleness was something he'd craved for longer than he could recall, it was true.. But it didn't feel right. Not with her. "It jus'.. I don't feel righ' about it." He wasn't able to keep the longing from his voice, tempered as it was with two-fold guilt. The Dog gave her hand a squeeze, seeking strength there. "..I know I can't stay. We only jus' met, I know, but.. I'd be puttin' yeh in peril, even if I dinnit stick about. More'n I already am." Lockwood's eye held fast to her gaze, seeking something unknowable there. Even without the complication of attachment, he found it hard to turn away the long denied desire he'd had for baser comfort. It disgusted him. She was worth more than that. "Ah.. I swore m'self t'watch Raine's back. T'ave m'sword ready in 'er defense. An' now, 'ere wi'you.. Y'make me feel like I did when I took a blade fer 'er. An' I dinnit know that until now. An' I don't know if it's righ', t'be.. T'lay wi'yeh, an' feel this way. But it ain't that I don't want to." He hesitated with an unsteady breath, fearful of the harm his words would do to the girl. "I dinnit know any've that until I felt y'touch me. An' it all scares me. I don't want t'urt you." [Diplomacy 19+1] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie listens to all he says, carefully and mindfully. Her gaze falls, only to avoid his, though her disposition doesn't seem to shift. It would be a few moments before she can reply, which she does first with a nod, and a squeeze at his hand. "I.. I understand," she wavers, but she brings a smile to crack through. "I thought.. I thought that was true. You arrived here in such a way, I wondered that I was wrong. But," she looks up again, bright eyes moistened again though her voice speaks with acceptence. "I see now, I was right. You're.. You're too good a man, Jerrad Lockwood." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her words bring the Dog's eye to wrest itself from her gaze, weighted by shame and guilt at hurting her even with her acceptance to cushion it. The girl was too sweet a soul to be tainted by his presence. When she'd lifted her eyes back from where they'd fallen, Jerrad acts in kind, a sad smile held up to speak his penitence. "A good man wouldn't make a girl like you cry." He said, the kindliness in his tone holding a naked kind of sadness. As if to stave the hurt off, the mercenary's hand came to rest with a feather touch at the healer's waist, high enough to offer some semblance of propriety. "I don't want y'to think I wouldn't want yeh." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Perhaps to his surprise, the Joydancer comes forward at his touch to embrace him across his shoulders, tight enough to be genuine, but not so to be assumptive. "Thank you," she offers, "For coming into my life. It's heartening to know there are men like you in this world." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie's embrace is accepted with only an instant's surprise, the mercenary's arms encircling her in kind with a gentle squeeze. As they pull away, he regards her with a smile, "S'course, miss." With her held close still, Lockwood did his best to fight off his embarassment. It was unbecoming for a man like him to be seen by anyone in a state like that, he thought. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a less swift movement, Marie leans in with a kiss to his cheek, lingering with sadness yet not enough to be remorse. Fleeting glances from the bashful Joydancer are the most she can offer then, apart from the gentle way her hands hold his. "Raine is blessed to have you." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Though he doesn't recoil from it, Marie's words strike the mercenary in a way that he almost hadn't considered. He and Thel weren't truly together, no. But he had to admit he might quite like them to be. Perhaps that was why, as the Joydancer drew back from her peck at his cheek, Lockwood leaned in and touched her lips to his own, caring, but not so amorous as to be suggestive. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Marie returns the bittersweet kiss with surprise, her longing causing her eyes to well again-- but when they pull away, she rubs a cheek and still smiles for him. When they were ready, Marie would rise to see him out, offering him a hand she would release once they left the room. She affirms again her role in the plan, and her ability to see it through, despite their worrisome reservations. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood was only willing to part from Marie's company once he was assured that she'd be alright; both with respect to her feelings towards him, and to the plan they were preparing to put in motion. With a promise to ensure her safety on his return, Jerrad pays a kiss at the Joydancer's cheek before departing for the Dove. [Stealth 13+4] With the night having worn on, Lockwood began to feel the toll of a previously unknown fatigue as he made his way from the temple grounds, though it was fought off easily enough for the sake of necessity. Picking through the city streets, the Dog comes close to danger here and again as the city guardsmen, well alert at this hour, march with a sight more diligence than before. Even so, it isn't terribly long before the sellsword begins to recognize his surroundings, and without too terrible an effort, he'd find his way to the Dove and forge on towards their room on the second floor. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A few chores occupied the Boar in Lockwood's absence. First was the ordering of cider, and informing the children on arrival that they would have the night to rest and prepare before the next day. Her clothes, returned from laundering, are paid a few moments to mend small injuries, and she packs them accordingly. However the silk tunic, unfortunately still stained with blood, is given consideration beyond its damage. He'd surely seen her through such insubstantial fabric, hadn't he? Thelinia shakes off the thought and sets it into her bag with the others. When she returns to the bed, she assumes the same position, and places the runed hand in her upward gaze. While she realizes its arcane wards, the Boar still attempts scratching at it now and then, if only out of spite. At least their contract sounded ensured. After a short while of laying there, her mind begins to wander and dip between consciousness. She awakens once to a lapse in thought,which brings a stray one to surface, and its met with a grimace. However far from the docks the Lliirans were, Lockwood must have encountered them by now. Deciding her nap was fair as it was, the ranger rises again, assigning her mind to hunger. She moves to return to the cider, and the goose with its belly of eels. The Boar couldn't determine from their limited interaction whether or not the girl would have it in her to risk a role in their scheme. She couldn't blame her if not, but she had to admit the help would benefit them-- if only for the burden of crime. And regardless, he would need to be persuasive; especially if the Joydancer wasn't as trustworthy as the Dog thought. He should be quick to garner an answer, which made her wonder at the time passed. Perhaps he had been detained by the night watch, or made to wait the evening out at the temple. An eel nearly consumed hangs from her teeth, her gaze at her side as she considers the ring on her finger. The doomed delicacy is sucked past her lips and swallowed before she attempts contact, wondering now why he hadn't. The silver band is brought to her face again. "'Ey.. Y'alright?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The second time the Boar's voice drifts into Lockwood's ear, he'd just slunk past one of the less perceptive patrols he'd met in his journey back to the Dove. Encouraged to pay a quick glance overshoulder to ensure he'd been left in the clear, he has to check himself a moment against a jolt of uncertainty before he can speak. "Eh-- Yeah. Gettin' back t'the Dove now. Watchwolves everywhere." He gruffed into the ring, words carried off as a gravel-throated whisper on an ethereal wind. After a brief pause, he appended, "Marie'll be there t'elp th'kids t'th'docks." As he waited for her reply, Lockwood continued on, wondering quietly if Raine had been confronted with the same kind of thoughts that had dogged him through the whole night. He'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit he hoped she had. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye," her breath answers on the wind. The ranger considers the ring a short while, wondering if there was more to hear--or ask. Nothing comes to mind, so she lowers the ring, and takes a piece of goose to entertain herself. It was hard to feel alone, with the ring about her finger allowing their voices to reach one another. The Boar feels uncomfortable with that assurance, wondering briefly whether or not she should remove it. Surely the man was capable of evading the guards without her waiting for a call for help. In favor of some time with herself, Thelinia leaves the ring at the table and stands, giving her arms and back a stretch. It occurs to her that a bath would have been welcomed, but it isn't so desirable now that it could rob the children of scarce rest. Taking her cider with her, the ranger decides to revisit the bed, this time after removing her footwear and extraneous strappings of her adventurer's belt. Her effort is rewarded by the most comfortable state she had found herself in since arriving in Nimpeth; Relatively clean, with a full stomach, delicious drink--and alone. Far less alone was the Dog, who had spent a while in the Joydancer's company now. It wasn't a difficult assumption to realize how that hour or two was most likely spent, but Lockwood's dismissal of their opinion for the matter returns to mind. Had the healer just taken so long to convince? The former is the easiest to believe-- and her first instinct. While she might begrudge it, Thelinia knew there was no point in contesting what best soothed menfolk. Why wouldn't the man indulge? Even if he hadn't seemed preoccupied with company of the fairer sex before now, this wasn't Niraya. They were home, and perhaps, there were former comforts the Dog sought. The Boar shifts to her stomach, quelling a knot forming there. She props herself up just enough to permit cider into her mouth, thankful for the sweetness as her thoughts embitter. There had never been cause, beyond the sake of their shared campaign, to believe Lockwood was any unusual sort of man-- lacking the baser impulses his kind were so prone to. For their partnership, Thelinia had deigned to set aside her prejudices. Why wouldn't he have done the same? At least he was a partner with good enough sense to. Left in her hand without cider, the empty wooden cup is regarded with a dissatisfied glare. Fortunately the pitcher was brought to be in reach, and she lifts her upper half to rest a shoulder into the plush pillows piled beside her. Before the drink and the day's fatigue overcome her, Thelinia drifts to thoughts of intimacies. The dog-helmed Shadow comes to her mind, blurred and distorted by both time and magic. Adamantium plate, blue roses, and the crackling of divine magic cast between forms of animals and dragons. Always ready to leap from the shadows to her defense, or to surprise her--politely--at the bath house. That had been the last time she embraced a man's touch, almost feeling as a memory from a different life. How long ago had it really taken place? And, she comes to wonder, what need did she have for such memories? What need, in this second chance at her life in the Realms, was there for men who would waste her time and scorn her? None. Thelinia would rest easier without roses. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ While he wasn't precisely taken aback by the brevity of Raine's response, it did seem a bit strange to the Dog given the news he'd brought to her. Setting out that evening, he hadn't really expected much to come of his efforts on either front; finding a boat captain that was willing and able to transport such illicit cargo with a convincing assurance of security had been dubious enough-- especially given Nimpeth's reputation as one of the seedier ports he'd been to. To have earned Marie's trust enough for her to risk her very life on the Dog and Boar's behalf was nearly unthinkable. And yet, somehow, it was beginning to look like they'd pull this off. It was too early to allow hope to taint his perspective, certainly, but the emotion was there all the same, almost insidious in it's contagious nature. Nothing was assured until he'd be able to return to Nimpeth from Woren's errand and see that their names hadn't been slapped up on a writ and Marie sent to the stocks. He'd not been home long enough to start making mistakes like that. The image of her face, dirtied and broken, set a chill through the sellsword that was more familiar than he would have liked. But it wouldn't come to that; it couldn't. Not to a holy woman, so pure of heart. He'd have liked to believe that. Perhaps with enough drink, he could. Of course, that all depended on not returning to the Dove to see his partner drunk down to the bottom of their last bottle of Suzale. It wasn't something he'd ever expect of her, at the very least-- The Boar could certainly drink harder than most men he'd known (and more than a dwarf or two), but more than any other emotion she had betrayed during their time together, the woodswoman had shown temperance. In all things, really. Come to think of it, when was the last time he'd witnessed her truly indulging in a pleasure of any kind? Spurts of scalding anger and the odd snorting laugh had been the most of what he'd seen, forgiving their embrace in the Winterwood. That was a strange time, though. He couldn't fault her for letting the mask crack. It was shameful, really, how capable she was at maintaining her composure, especially where his performance had been concerned. So many times, Lockwood's eye had wandered somewhere it ought not, or his words had stumbled over themselves in a way that had caused them both a moment of embarassing pause. Gods knew his hands had strayed. He wasn't certain if the act itself was worse than the fact that he found his thoughts returning to it, far more than he would have liked. It would frighten him if he didn't know himself better-- But he was thankfully aware of what his complicity entailed, if only just. That knowledge was uncomfortable, but not in the way that might point toward a darker part of his heart. Just one that he'd prefer to neglect. [Stealth 18+3] Even with his meandering thoughts troubling him so, Lockwood was able to navigate the Nimpeth's darkened streets with the ease of a consummate criminal. Perhaps once upon a time, he was-- Though, he supposed the new dawn would see him assume the mantle once again. With luck, it would be the last time. Dipping through untended alleys and across empty courtyards, it isn't too terribly long before the Golden Dove's gates enter his line of sight, the metal catching a pleasing glint between Selune's gentle light and the warmth of the tavern windows. Pushing past the front doors, he pauses for just long enough to exchange pleasantries with a weary but cheerful serving girl before hurrying on for the stairs. With as smoothly as he journey had gone, it comes as something of a surprise when the doorknob refuses to turn in his hand. Thinking it merely stuck a moment, Jerrad gives it another turn with a firmer grip, only for it to rattle fruitlessly. Of course he'd left her the key. Not wanting to risk the Boar's ire in waking her, Lockwood heaves a sigh and turns for the stairs once more, seeking out the barmaid's assistance. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 23] Starting with a snort, Thelinia awakens at the light rattling at the door almost as though she hadn't been asleep. Concern and caution are her first instincts, the former bringing to mind the children. Her dagger is habitually taken up as she moves from the bed with relative swiftness. Unsure what to expect, the obvious answer comes to her by the time she's opened the door to confirm it. "'Ey," she almost grunts, catching the Dog just as he'd turned. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Though he doesn't jump at the unexpected hail, Lockwood turns to meet it with more surprise than he might've intended. He supposed he should've just knocked, knowing the ranger's ears. Of course he'd woken her. "Ey." He echoes, reaching a hand to scratch at his scalp. Starting forward, he continued, "Wake yeh?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ This time the grunt is clear and purposeful, "Jus' layin." With the Dog returned, Thelinia returns to the bed to crawl across it, and grabs the cider jug again. Thelinia replenishes her own cup, and moistens her throat before grunting an offer to him with the jug. "Told th'kids we're set f'tomorrow. Yer Joydancer gun'ta meet'em 'ere, yea?" Half the cup is deposited in her mouth, not much mind paid to the mercenary beyond her question. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Yeh," Lockwood took the offered jug with a famished kind of look, tipping it back before he'd even reached the bed. Plopping unceremoniously to the side reserved for him, the Dog continues to nurse the cider as he speaks, "Th'smuggler offered uh cart. He's towin' a shipper'a Woren's wine, so th'kids'll 'ave cover." As unimpressively as he presented it, the plan might seem near foolproof. Of course, it wasn't, but maybe they'd get lucky. They had so far. With a last quick chug, perhaps his third or fourth, the Dog offered to top his companion off, though he had to stretch a bit to reach from across their expansive bedding. "An' she ain't mine. Ah sorted that." He waved a languid hand about with the addendum, trying to play off his encounter with Marie as more of a triviality than it was. [Bluff 3+2] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Content enough with his affirmation, Thelinia readily accepts the offered cider, only hesitating as he continued. [Sense Motive 1 +4] It was an odd mannerism which accompanied the clarification, but the ranger grunts a vague acknowledgement in any case-- somewhere between indifferent and dismissive. [Bluff 2+2] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 17+2] With Raine's thirst abetted, her companion sees fit to return the jug to his person, the day's stresses requiring a more thorough pull before he could allow his body to relax into the pillows at his back. As he settles in, it strikes him that something in her tone had seemed off to him, though he couldn't be certain if it was telling of investment or disbelief. "What?" He prodded, prying himself from the cider earlier than he'd have liked. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Eh?" She regards him with a blink. It wasn't typical of either of them to break from their routine replies, and certainly not for the Dog. The ranger knew she may have sounded dissatisfied, but his interest was unanticipated. And strange. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Y'jus' dinnit sound like y'believed me." He returns the look she'd offered, confused rather than defensive. Why should she have any reason to doubt him? He hadn't ever been dishonest, as far as he could recall. Then again, he could easily be reading too far into the expression. Maybe he'd been doing that all along. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Hn," she takes a sizable drink, suddenly aware of a discomfort she hadn't noticed before. He wasn't wrong, she supposed. But why should that matter to him? It certainly didn't matter to her. "I don't need th'details, jus' matters y'got'er t'help." She works to sound at least as charitable as she does dismissive. As long as he hadn't harmed the girl in any way--and it was hard to believe he would--then she couldn't argue with the results. The only doubt the Boar felt was whether or not he had the mind to keep the girl's heart intact. [Diplomacy 17] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 11+6] There was something off that time, undeniably. Not that he could be certain what. Sitting up with a hinting edge, Lockwood slumped back over in short order-- This time onto his side, a lazy shoulder propped to bring the Boar into view in full. The cider jug is given another appreciable tug, then tucked in the crook of his arm. "Y'soun'... I dunno." He shook his head in a small circle, almost searchingly. "Like y'care." Thinking on it a second time, he wasn't exactly sure. Hopefully, at least, he could conceal the fact that he did, masking it as innocent befuddlement. [Bluff 10] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 8] Something in his rearrangement sits ill with the crosslegged Boar, and her posture straightens like a cobra's as the Dog lounges with her cider. Watching him suspiciously, it's only after he's found his words that she allows her gaze to narrow. She curls a lip in distaste, snorting spite with a tempered warning in her voice, "I don't care, s'long y'dinnit 'urt'er." [Bluff 20+2] She eyes him carefully, searching for an answer that would set to rest her lingering doubts. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 21] The warning in her voice sits poorly with the mercenary, putting some of the easement out of his posture as he shifts more upright in a bid for clarity. His expression is something of an inversion of her own, arched brow setting his eye a touch wider with uncertainty as to the cause for the subtle edge the Boar's voice carried. Folding his leg under the knee, Lockwood sits up on an elbow, his tone acquiesing, "Y'dinnit sound it, is all." He let some of the weight ease out from under his elbow after a tense moment, though he remains facing her. "I dinnit do nothin'. Jus' talked an' set 'er straight." As troubling as the altercation was becoming, Jerrad still found it in himself to roll onto his back again, eye set up to the ceiling. "Think I made'uh friend, e'en?" A shrug lifts his shoulders to deflect any further scrutiny, the jug pulled closer as he finishes, "Better'n 'er thinkin' she's in love wi'me, yeh?" [Diplomacy 9] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The ranger watches his movements as he speaks, stoicism broken by a short-lived scowl at his first insinuation. Though she hears him out before responding, she holds him under a hunter's scrutiny until then. And when he had finished, it would have been a simple matter of leaving it be, as he surely seemed ready to. Lockwood's demeanor had been strange, and not for the first time this evening. Hells, not since Nimpeth. But this particular incident was a new unfamiliarity. She couldn't recount a time she'd seen him so actively defensive without a shield on his arm. With his earlier outburst in mind, Thelinia scrutinizes him the way she might a stranger. Either he was hiding something, or after something. She wasn't sure which to be more skeptical of-- neither seemed like the Dog. The wooden cup is upended into her mouth, returned in a loose grip to her lap. Her gaze finally departs him, shifting to the cup in her hand, then to the pillows in front of her. Neither seemed like him, yet here they were. His questioning, his defensiveness, and the contention he'd been placing between them since Greengrass; These were not matters that would resolve once cast aside. It was almost insulting that he thought they could be. Mindful of her venom, Thelinia speaks earnestly. The question is somber, less sharp as her previous words but not without edge. "Y'kiss her?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It wasn't an unfair question, he thought. Certainly unwelcome enough to twist his face in a mild surprise, at least. While he neglected to roll back over, Lockwood took the inquiry seriously enough to turn his head to face her, as quizzical over the reason for her suspicion as he was alarmed as to what her reaction might be. All the same, he had to tell her some of the truth, as much as he might prefer to drop the conversation altogether. "She kissed me." He admitted, a bit sour at the interrogation. Still, he tried to hold onto an air of disclosure, hopefully untainted by his own discomfort. "Ah let 'er down easy." [Bluff 18+2] [Sense Motive 3+6] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 15] While she doesn't watch him this time, Thelinia's attention is honed on his response. Even considering the bizarre behavior of her companion, his explanation was believable. After all, even if he had slept with the girl, why would he stick with her? Either he was cruel enough to deny her, or honest enough to depart as amicably as possible. Thelinia found it easier to believe in the latter-- regardless of the details. A moment or two passes before the Boar acknowledges with a grunt, an effort paid to sound definitive. It's not a concession by any means, but as she rises from the bed, she hopes it's enough for him to let it go. [Bluff 11 > 9] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The silence that populates the space between his explanation and the Boar's acknowledgement is ominous enough that Lockwood feels a familiar lump creeping up the back of his throat. Thankfully, his partner seems to accept his answer, giving him a reprieve from the better part of his anxiety, forgiving at least the larger question begged by Raine's interest in the matter in the first place. As much as he might like an answer in that regard, he was satisfied enough to let the matter lie for the time being. This was to be their last night in Nimpeth for a while, and perhaps the very last they'd spend as free people unwanted by the law. Certainly they'd both like to at least enjoy the silence. "Y'feelin' alrigh' about Duvik's?" He asked, breaking the silence after a fashion. Personally, he wasn't too certain of what to make of the trip, or of what they'd find when they got there. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Venturing to their store of drink, the Boar rummages for one of the bottles she'd purchased, and takes the selection to sit with her at the window again. She grunts again, "What's t'be nervous about?" The bottle's cork is loosed with a dull pop, and the drink ventures past her lips in a hearty swig. "S'jus' orcs." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh. S'pose. Jus' 'ope there's a town waitin' when we get there." He replied, trying not to be too terribly dreary about the whole thing. After a bit of consideration paid to the jug in his arms, the pop of a cork from the other room gives the mercenary the motivation he needs to get up. Shifting his legs off the side of the bed, a few moments are spent giving his back a sorely needed stretching before he calls out, "That th'rum?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia growls lightly to herself, unsure of what made the question so vexing. "No," she takes another drink, "Somethin' I bought m'self." The bottle's a round, bright gold glass which looks almost gaudy in comparison to the haggard ranger. Its stout shape suits the woman's hand comfortably, as she looks out the window from the chair she'd already once fallen asleep in. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ At first, the agitation in the ranger's tone doesn't register with the Dog, perhaps thanks to the awakening influence of the cider he'd indulged in. An absent-minded grunt is all he offers as he tugs his own drink up for nursing, his gaze drifting about the room listlessly in the wake of what he was slowly beginning to acknowledge as an argument. But that was what'd happened, wasn't it? An argument. Their second in a night, of all things. He couldn't figure out why it bothered him at all, forgiving how much it actually did. Their partnership had certainly had it's spats here and there, as any good one did, but these had been different. They'd been personal. Moreso than a squabble over who got the last pull from a bottle or rights to a leg of roast goose. He'd rather put it all out of his mind until later, when there was less at stake. Maybe with time, both of their tempers would cool enough to make the prospect less daunting. Setting the jug aside at the bed's foot, Lockwood's gaze finally found itself resting at the Boar's back, departing every now and again to the window view they'd shared only hours before. "..Y'want t'crack it open?" He finally asked, not hoping for much beyond the idea's dismissal. [Diplomacy 18] [Sense Motive 21] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 16] "S'fine wi'this." Her reply is not unfriendly, but plain. The gold-flecked and slightly effervescent drink, a smoky-sweet cider, is quietly savored by the ranger. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh." He answers with faint penitence, but otherwise even. He wondered if the drink was as good as it looked-- And that the rum turned out to be worth the coin he'd paid for it. Not wanting to impose on his companion, he considered his pack briefly, debating with himself on retrieving the mentioned bottle before deciding he'd rather save it for a time when his partner was in the mood to share it; after all, what good was a drink without someone to share it? There was something in the ruck he'd want to pick out, however. Leaning over with a muffled grunt, Lockwood flicked the latch free and plucked the object of his interest from the space within, only briefly considering that the place he'd retrieved it from was at once real and not. It wasn't a comfortable thing to be reminded of. At least now he had his book. Glancing Raine, he wondered what she'd think if she turned about to see him picking through it's pages if she knew the content. Certainly she'd know if she bothered to read the title. At least the Chronicla Tethyria was a respectable account, and not some seedy Sembian bodice ripper. It'd been ages since he'd given it a proper read, and ages still since he'd plucked it from the mantlepiece where his mother had left it. He wondered what use she'd had for the thing, growing up in the country that'd been the subject of it's penning. Maybe she might've told him, if she were still alive. Once he'd shucked his coat and boots, the mercenary found a comfortable way to lay at the bed's edge and settled into his reading, mindful of the edges where time had frayed the parchment. After a time had passed, his partner's silence grew conspicuous enough to garner his attention, prompting a query, "Y'wan' me off th'bed?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [ Con: 5 v DC 12] After only a small portion of the pretty drink, Thelinia's head begins to swim-- she feels as though she's had five of these heady bottles. Not much mind is paid to her companion as the drink takes uncommonly quick hold of her. In fact, it was easier to forget his presence almost entirely in this state, and sleep tempts her in the quiet that follows their contention. She's mindful enough to know to replace its seal before setting it aside, and deigns to ease herself into the chair with legs propped against the window sill, dangerously comfortable. It's only with his voice that she realizes she'd almost dozed, and a lazy grunt answers him. "Mm'fine." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ He'd expected about as much, and didn't have much interest in pressing the matter. With the antagonism of their earlier exchange more or less subdued by book and drink, Lockwood was happy enough to leave things be. She'd seemed to accept his explanation after a fashion, giving him hope that this would be the last of their spats for the forseeable future. As long as their plan didn't fall through, he couldn't imagine what they'd find to argue about. "Arigh'." He grunted with an equal leisure, returning to his reading. The ranger couldn't be faulted if she felt more at ease nodding off in her chair rather than the bed; if he hadn't been drunk out of his gourd, Jerrad supposed he would've felt the same about the way they'd shared it the night before. The memory reminded him to bring her a blanket once she passed out, assuming he wasn't asleep before she was. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ ---- When Thelinia awakens, it's to the dim dawn of the morning. Her head pounds at the experience of simply waking, and she rubs at her eyes once the heavy limb can be convinced to do so. It's a few moments before she remembers the terms of their contract, and at the same time she recognizes her position; in a chair covered with a blanket, the ranger realizes she's awakening with a hangover and a job to do. Achingly, she eschews the covering with disdain, likewise cast aside. Rising with care, Thelinia is relieved to spot the remainder of the fizzy tincture brought by the servants last night. Hopefully, it still possessed the relief she sought. Knocking back the rest of it, she forces herself to retrieve her boots from the foot of the bed. The Dog rested there, and her earlier resentment sparks a reminder. After his pressing her for concern over the Joydancer, he'd had the gall to pity her with a blanket-- while he himself enjoyed a whole bed. One of the most comfortable beds she'd ever had, at that. Casting the bitterness from her focus, her next movements are with care not to wake the man. Once she was ready, she'd go to depart, and claim their mounts before the sun was fully risen. [Stealth 20] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 11] Cognizance comes to Lockwood uneasily, though with a good deal less physical discomfort than it had the Boar. His vision is puzzingly obscured for a moment before he realizes the nature of his blinding and the book is removed from his face to be replaced in it's pack. Unsurprisingly, Raine had already left, presumably to retrieve the horses-- Though he supposed she might've gone to secure a meal or another drink without the trouble of his company to distract her. He couldn't really blame her, given how much time they spent in each other's presence. With not much to do until she returned, the Dog began packing up what things they'd left scattered about the room in preparation for the trip to Duvik's Pass; a task which took far less time than he might've liked. Once it was said and done, he decided that rather than face Rowan or any the servants, he'd prefer to pick at the remains of the goose they'd liberated from Woren's table as he waited for Thelinia-- Which is precisely what he did. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ When she arrives at the stables, Thelinia is greeted by Eyel from atop a particularly impressive looking stallion, his coat as black as Bane's heart. Bringing her mighty steed about to the fence, the plump-faced woman takes a hand from the reins to wave enthusiastically, her voice full of cheer, "Ah, miss Raine! Never too early for a ride, mm? Here for the horses?" "Aye," she answers, loud enough to be heard without bothering her mount. Hopefully she had seen the two brushed down and readied for the day. The impressive steed draws an evaluating look from the ranger. "They fed'n'saddled?" Eyel smiles, giving her mount's neck a loving scritching. "Of course, of course. I'm certain you'll find them to your liking; Lander does excellent work, when he's feeling motivated." The stablemistress rolls her eyes at the trailing bit of praise for her apprentice, looking to share a moment of levity with the ranger. She tips her head to the side out of the gesture, humming knowingly. "He's a fine one, isn't he?" Thelinia nods, "Beautiful." She approaches the fence to meet the steed, reaching out to offer a hand to him if he felt so inclined. [Wild Empathy 17] Without much hesitation, the horse pushes his massive snout into the ranger's hand for an inquisitive sniff. Should she choose to offer it, the stallion tolerates any affections with an appreciative flick of the tail. Pleased with the attention her mount is recieving, Eyel beams. "Mmm. A fine lineage, tracing back further than three generations of Darkdrafts! I once broke a man's legs for trying to make off with his predecessor, you know." She pauses at the potential faux pas, making up for it with a chuckle. "But I'm certain you'd do the same, hm? Wild things, people will do for what they care about." "Wit'out question, ma'am," is the ranger's answer to the anecdote, approving of the story's moral. She hopes that perhaps her own horse might share a familial tie to the Darkdraft's stallion. "I thought as much," Eyel hums, running her free hand through her hair to clear it of straw. There's a suspicious gleam in the woman's eyes for a moment before she waves the expression off, starting anew, "But I'd hope you wouldn't have need to. There's some extra feed you can take from Lander, if you like. You seem a good sort, and it'll just go to waste otherwise." A genuine appreciation brings the Boar to smile, "Much thanks, Miss Darkdraft." Recalling the plan with Marie and the children, Thelinia continues, "Thinkin' t'purchase a couple mules, behalf of a friend. Y'ave any still?" "Mmmm.." Eyel gives another familiar hum, drawing it out ostensibly for her own amusement. She comes away from it with a nod, eyes narrowed hawkishly, "Certainly, certainly. I've four that are broken and ready at the moment. Buying for that spurnarmor of yours, mm?" Her fair mood unexpectedly spoiled, the Boar frowns but with an effort not to imply or provoke offense. "Neh. S'for a Joydancer I eh, owe a debt ta." [Bluff 19] [Sense Motive 13] A shrug accompanies a light, lilting laugh from the woman, the subject dropped easily. "Ah, I see. Well, you can see Lander for the mules as well, then. He'll know the price. And, of course, you're always welcome to browse if anything else catches your fancy. Just don't go stealing anything, or I'll have to break your legs too!" Her piece spoken, Eyel dips her head with another tittering peal of laughter as she gives the reins a tug, trotting off on her steed. --- Wishing the woman a fair ride, Thelinia would go to the stables to gather the steeds. Lander, were he present, is offered some silver as a tip for the care of the horses, as well as the cost for the two mules. She gives Marie's description, and is mindful to instruct that the mules be readied by early tomorrow's eve. Hoping she had been cautious enough to avoid incriminating herself or Lockwood should something go wrong, the ranger would leave to ride for the first time in too long-- her partner's horse in tow. Another wave of farewell paid to the stablemistress, and Thelinia sets to her return. It's a while more than an hour before the Boar arrives at the inn. Leaving the horses stabled below, she returns to their room without bothering to knock-- if he wasn't up already, she'd prefer to do it without having to shake him awake. "'Ey," she announces herself as she enters. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ By the time of his companion's return, Jerrad had gone through nearly half of what remained of the goose, leaving bones and bits of unpalatable gristle balled in a bit of cloth to keep the plate neat. Particular pleasure had been taken in sucking down the last eel, the like of which were steadily proving to be a problem for the mercenary to resist. When the knocking at the door stirred him, Lockwood had been in the middle of his morning's drink, an unfinished bottle of Suzale put to rest with a long gulp before he turned to address the Boar, "'Ey." He answered, recorking the bottle to set it aside. "Go arigh'?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar grunts in the affirmative, and looks for her pack rather than set her gaze on the Dog. "Bought th'mules, told th'stablehand t'have 'em readied by dusk." Doubt crosses her mind again-- Would the Joydancer be capable? After the promise she'd made the children, what if she was leaving their lives in incapable hands? Were it not for Lockwood getting himself involved in her scheme, she'd be handling it herself. At least then, she'd not have to live with the guilt of incriminating anyone else. Fully equipped, Thelinia looks up for what may be the last time she sees the inn room. The remorse she feels for departing it strikes her, and the odd longing is cast aside. Something as ridiculous as an inn room didn't deserve sentimentality, even if she regretted forgoing the bed her last night. When the Dog was ready, she'd move to depart ahead of him to the Golden Dove's stable. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Sounds good." It was brief, but he wasn't coarse about it. Anything to keep wounds from reopening while they were still fresh. Lifting himself from the windowside, Lockwood collected his things in time with the Boar as they had countless times before, surprised by how easy he started to fall into the rhythym of beginning a new journey. It wasn't easy to miss that in their short time together, the two had weather more than most did in decades of travelling; what's more, they'd come out richer for it. In gold, and he hoped, in the trust they'd built between one another. The Dog had invested more than he was comfortable with in the Boar's unfailing reliability, and he could only hope that she felt the same. Realizing that was more than a little troubling. Dismissing the thought with a forced exertion in hefting his pack overshoulder, the mercenary spared the inn room a last glance before starting after his companion. It was bittersweet to leave that kind of luxury behind, even for a time, but the promise of a new road before them was enough to salve some of the ache. "Here's hopin' it don't rain." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia is comfortable allowing a familiar quiet to fall between them as they leave. It's a slightly different silence, born partially of tension rather than a natural and mutual disinterest. With the room key returned to a cheery Rowan, the two are free of the Golden Dove. The ranger returns to her horse, offering it a handful of feed and a scratch on the forehead before mounting. She's reminded of her own hunger, and regrets that the Dog had been too near the goose for her to have bothered with. The growls of her stomach protest the pettiness of her restraint, but the baked goods she'd bought on her errand would suffice. Unless halted, Thelinia would lead them for the gate they had crossed just days ago, ultimately returning to the forest they had hoped to put behind them. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Passing through the city gates without hassle from the guards standing watch, the Dog and Boar leave the sounds of a city beginning to rouse itself for the day's toils behind, slowly to be replaced by the gentle breeze carried down from the Cloven Mountains to sweep along the rolling coastland. The Dog seems content to keep their comfortable silence for the time being, his attentions divided equally between the road and taking in the unspoiled beauty of the Vilhon countryside. It's only once a few hours had passed into their journey that he deigns to speak, clearing his throat from behind the Boar's back, "'Ey, Thel." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With the Winterwood beginning to rise about them, the ranger is quietly occupied by the forest. Allowing her instincts to read the trees and wind brought to mind her old life, the very one she thought was lost. She'd only been a girl the last time she'd been through the Vilhon on horseback, and a runaway at that. The bulk of her training was still to be taught when she abandoned the village, and after that.. After that, she was gone. Santa Lucia. The strange inn she'd come upon, and the stranger gnoll that had nearly slain her. Whatever training she completed as an apprentice did not prepare her for the world of that dark wizard. Surely she would have been happier, and more proficient in her trade, if she'd just stayed in Suketh. She wouldn't have been made a captain of the citadel, but what meaning did that rank hold here? Hells, it barely held meaning there. It was easy to lose track of her thoughts, almost forgetting the second set of hoofsteps behind her-- the very reason she could afford to let her mind wander. The Dog had been quiet, and mercifully out of sight. There wasn't good reason for her to actually want his company, but his was still an appreciated presence. They'd kept each other safe this long, and with new work there was no reason to forget that. When he finally does speak, Thelinia answers with an indifferent grunt. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The noncommittal response was to be expected, Lockwood supposed. It wasn't terribly common for he and the ranger to enter into such a contentious railing, even under duress or with the assistance of an ill-advised drink. She had always been dependable in her stoicism, even if it was cut from an altogether different cloth than his own. He liked to think it begged an unspoken understanding between them, a wordless bond of tacit silence between fellow wanderers. Thinking back, he couldn't recall a time in all of their travels when the quiet had been cause for forboding, even when they'd been at their worst-- And there certainly had been more than enough of worsts in cursed Niraya. Now was different, however. Even if it was over something that others might jeer at as small or petty, Jerrad couldn't shake the notion that their dispute would have unkind consequences if left to stew; he'd seen too many partnerships dissolved over a matter thought petty or small, and he'd be a fool to let it happen to him when theirs had been as anchoring as it was. Not returning the acknowledgement for a moment, Lockwood allowed their mounts to carry them several long yards through the arching boughs of the Winterwood before he spoke, sorting through what might be right to say. When nothing particularly elegant came to him, he decided on simply speaking his mind, "Lissen.. Abou' the, eh.. Everythin'. M'sorry about all that." As he talked, the mercenary found cause here and again to push away a branch that hang perhaps a bit too low, continuing after a pause, "Jus' didn't want y'to think you were travelin' wi'a bad sort." Of course, it hadn't just been the sniping over his visit with the Joydancer that had marred what had been an otherwise exceptional Greengrass; in the streets before the Citadel, too, he'd struck something off that shouldn't have been, and even if his face didn't burn with shame as he thought it should, the Dog could feel the inclination bubbling beneath the surface. "An' th'other nigh', too. I don't know. It just ain't been easy bein' back. Keep.. Dreamin' abou' th'war. What 'appened t'my mates. I snapped at yeh, an' y'didn't deserve it. Don't make it righ', but.." He hesitated, unsure if his words would heal or hinder the divide before he spoke them. "Wanted it out there. Figure I ought t'own up." [Diplomacy 18] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia lets his apology rest in the air for a while. Adjusting to their homecoming was difficult for both of them, and considering what he'd been through in particular, Thelinia felt she could trust him on his hardship. He was right though; She was concerned with the quality of man she'd decided to travel with. Suddenly she recounts their first night home, when they'd finally recognized it under the stars of the Sentinel. It brings an unexpected pang of guilt, when she recalls assuring him of continued partnership. It was so sudden, to have the question thrust upon her when they had scarcely caught their breath. She hadn't exactly anticipated it, let alone known how to respond. The Boar wondered where that might leave them. "Hn," she grunts, a touch more judgemental sound than she means it. She tries to be a bit more mindful and amends it. "Forget it." There's a fair pause, but when she continues it is softer, and uncommonly genuine. "Jus' needed t'know y'weren't cruel." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her answer almost made the sellsword want to smile. Of course, he didn't, if only for the sake of keeping his thoughts straight, answering her with a grunted acceptance instead. Even if they'd never discussed the matter openly, Raine had always seemed the sort who would take exception to the company of brigands. She'd never tolerated them in Niraya, for certain. Drunken, belligerent half-orcs, wheedling politicians and the guardsmen whose coinpurses they owned, bards; all had been met with an equal measure of disdain, and though some might have taken it for simple cynicism, Lockwood had felt as though he knew better. It was a much-needed reassurance to know that she'd held out hope on his behalf. After a few moments had passed themselves in relative peace, he gave another grunt to signal his reply. "Glad I dinnit disappoint yeh then, eh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A hummed grunt answers him, a more hollow sound than before. She hoped it sounded more definitive and assuring than she felt. [Bluff 19] After all, she did believe him.. Didn't she? Left alone, she would be content to keep quiet company as she minded the road. The forest outskirts were wooded enough to urge caution as it was, and she suspected it wouldn't be long before they breached orc territory. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 17] Accepting her response after only a moment's consideration, Lockwood seems content enough to carry on without further disturbance, his mind steadily occupied by a likeminded concern for their safety as the road led them deeper into the Winterwood. Even if they weren't the most cunning or perceptive creatures, it rarely behooved one to announce oneself with blind thrashing and idle chatter when there were orcs about. The last thing he wanted was for the damned things to get the jump on them. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As the hours pass, Thelinia would check the sky above the trees and mind the position of the sunlight that shone through the increasingly dark canopy. Flanked by forest and hillside, she suspected dusk would fall on them much sooner than they might've anticipated. In fact, with the better part of the day behind them, it was disconcerting that they'd yet to see sign of Duvik's Pass, especially this late. Yet somehow, these thoughts felt routine. Even welcome, whether by a revived recollection of her younger days, or the desire to not dwell on the Joydancer and children. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The roads leading the Dog and Boar deeper into the Winterwood become notably rougher as the day progresses, the falling sun and dense canopy conspiring to steal much of the light that the two would otherwise enjoy elsewhere. Though not yet oppressively dark, the atmosphere of the unfamiliar forest is less than welcoming. It is perhaps just nearly late afternoon when the first signs of civilization begin to show themselves, though they are a paltry comfort given the Winterwood's reputation. In the road ahead of them, a gentle twist in the path is flanked by low, crumbling walls erected from smooth cobblestones, perhaps marking the location of a previous dwelling that had long since been consumed by the forest. Whether this ruin is indicative of their proximity to a proper town or if it is simply a reminder of some ancient misfortune is unclear. Orc Stealth Ranger 17 Fighter 6 Druid 4 Jerrad: [Perception 20+7] As he rounds the bend after Thelinia, Lockwood's eye rises naturally to meet the road only to be immediately arrested by something strewn across it. Half-hidden under tossed leaves and the disturbed earth lays a taut wire attached to a snare that snakes it's way up a nearby oak and into the canopy above. Disconcerting, to be sure-- but the glimpse of a tusk and the hushed rustle of rough hide against brush was cause for something more extreme altogether. "S'a trap!" The sellsword barked at his companion, blade leaving it's scabbard with an angry hiss. "Bloody tuskers!" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 10] "Hells.." The Boar notes movement in the brush as her companion does, and signals her mount back in hopes of avoiding a flank. As she draws her bow, she regrets not having practiced mounted combat more. The ranger puts her trust in the horse, knowing the mare would have a better mind for it. Minding the forest, she decides on a longshot. Snarling in gnoll, the ranger makes an offer. [Intimidate 11] "Let us pass and we don't slaughter you!" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Orc Ranger; Will 17 v 10; 8 v 24] [Orc Fighter; Will 5 v 10; 9 v 24] As unprepared for the unchecked aggression their quarry displayed as they were by being prematurely spotted, the orcs falter in the underbrush. Though Thelinia's words pass by the more thuggish of the two, the hunter understands the gnollish tongue well enough to curl his lip in a sneer. "Come out," Lockwood's growl carries over the bushes, bringing his mount up past Raine, sword levelled out at the ground. The orcish tongue passes his teeth like black sludge. "Die." [Intimidate 24] He goes unanswered for a split second, before one of the orcs finds his voice in broken gnoll, "Give food! Give shine! Give woman! Die!" [Orc; Bluff -1] The other orc remains silent, quickly growing anxious with both his own fears and the uncertainty his partner failed to conceal from his tone. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia refuses to let a beat pass, barking both a gnollish challenge and warning, "Come out! Step forward; Die!" [Intimidate 20+4] Pointing her arrow at the movement she'd spotted, she threatens with a shot at the nearest tree. If it went astray, at least it'd probably hit a better target. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Both orcs startle at the loosed arrow in unison, and the warrior is the first to flee. "Run!" He shouts, tripping over his own feet in his attempt to get away. He doesn't get far before his comrade seizes him by the shoulder, shoving him back. "We kill! Coward!" [Orc; Intimidate -2 v 16] The warrior shoves roughly against his compatriot's grasp, drawing himself up to his full height with a growl that smacks of desperation. "No! We get Orag! He kill!" He snarls down at the smaller hunter, waiting to see the product of his efforts at intimidation. Unfortunately, a sudden jolt of agony knocks the wind out of his lungs while he's waiting, sending him falling forward into the brush. An elk bone handle juts from the middle of his back, and he writhes in terrible suffering as he hits the ground. [Jerrad; Attack 10 v 9: 8 dmg] "They're goin' fer help! Gut th'bastards!" Lockwood barks out, inwardly pleased with his throw as he urges his mount around the snare in a bid to cut the orcs off. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Initiative 12; Attk 8] Another arrow flies for an admittedly guilty shot at the other orc's head, but her hesitation appears to have cost her aim. Ignoring the embarassment, Thelinia moves her mount to round the other side. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Roaring against his own fear, the orcish ranger hurriedly looses an arrow and watches it fly wide of it's target. Snarling at his misfortune, the hunter looses a string of curses too foul to repeat by any civilized person as he yanks his fellow raider from the ground-- much to the warrior's displeasure. To his credit, the warrior manages to stand on his own power, reaching around to yank the dagger from his back with a yelp. With the Boar blocking the road and the Dog circling for their flank, the orc sees little option but to burst forth from the brush with a crude falchion wound back for a strike at Thelinia's mount. By the time Jerrad has closed with the hunter, the orc warrior has come within ten feet of the Boar. [Jerrad; Ride 17+6] Suppressing the surge of anxiety that swells up in his chest at the sight, Lockwood slides smoothly off his steed once it breaches the brush, trusting Raine's safety to her proven capability. [Jerrad; Atk 17+9 - 10 dmg] The hunter has enough time to gasp his surprise before the mercenary's sword connects with the orc's side. Howling in agony, the hunter drops his bow as he staggers away, one hand clutching his side while the other fumbles for his own blade. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Mare: Atk 14; Dmg 7] [Perception 17] [Thel: Perception 21] Slightly to the ranger's surprise, her once playful mare lunges forward to land a heavy bite into the offending orc, aiming for the neck. Too close to fire at it safely, Thelinia instead glances the trees and takes a shot at the partially concealed orc there. [Atk 1] Unfortunately she's jostled too much in her saddle, and fumbles the arrow with a hissing curse in gnoll. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 21] [Jerrad; Atk 15 - 14 dmg] Lockwood's blade finds a home in the middle of the orc ranger's chest, a hollow gasp the greenskin's only protest as his life leaves him. Lifting the lifeless body on the end of his sword, Jerrad shoves off into the road with unhidden spite. With one threat abated, the mercenary turns to press in on his companion's attacker-- A mental note made of the movement he sees in the canopy above. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia stubbornly sets another arrow for the trees, hoping to manage the shot as her horse bares down on the orc with its hooves. [Mare: Atk 15, Dmg 8] [Thel: Atk 7] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The remaining orc that lurks in the trees above reveals himself as a druid, bringing the dense vegetation around them to life with a hissed whisper. Tall grasses and thickets of bramble animate, lashing out at horse and human alike. [Steed; Reflex 23 v 11] [Jerrad; Reflex 7 v 11] Though his horse squeals in surprise at the twisted foiliage that grasps at it, the stallion is swift enough to pull away out of it's reach. Lockwood is not so fortunate, a thick coil of thorny briar lashing itself around the mercenary's chest. "Hrrk--" He grunts against a sharp pain in his hand as he rips the enchanted plant away, stumbling into the road. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Mare: Reflex 19] [Thel: Atk 18, Dmg 7] The angry mare stomps at the bramble, huge hooves actually managing to fend them off as it moves out of the way. Meanwhile, not knowing when to give up, Thelinia tries firing again at the druid. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A dull thunk is accompanied shortly by a terrible moaning in the canopy as Thelinia's arrow finds it's mark in the druid's thigh. Having freed himself from the bramble, Lockwood leaps onto the tree that harbors the orc and begins clawing his way up with a knife between his teeth. [Climb 11] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A bit taken aback by the dogged tenacity of her partner, Thelinia hopes to finish the job before he'd need to. [Atk: 18; Dmg 6] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A short silence falls over the area as the Boar's arrow whistles past into the canopy. With a mournful groan, the druid loses his grip on the branch that had anchored him in place, as well as his life. He slumps out of the tree and hurtles to the ground below, landing with a wet thud atop the crumbling wall near the roadside. All around them, the plantlife slowly ceases it's unnatural wriggling, returning peace to the woods. It takes him a moment to realize it, but once Lockwood notes the last orc's demise he drops from the tree and sheaths his knife. After another pause, he collects the one he'd hurled into the other orc's back, turning to regard the scene with a frown. "Good work, eh." [900 EXP] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Eh.." Thelinia, too wary to stow her bow just yet, still takes the time to soothe and praise her mare in whispered words Lockwood wouldn't recognize. She then returns to the road proper, avoiding staring at the mangled corpse her horse created. After a brief glancing over of the other steed, she answers, "They carryin' anythin'?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Already finding himself wondering the same thing, Jerrad kicks the dead orc hunter's corpse over for a look. Tugging off the orc's boots, he shakes each of them out in turn before tossing them over his shoulder, "More curious abou' where they came from. See any tracks 'round 'ere?" Almost immediately after, something tucked into the orc's belt catches his eye and he appends, "Lotta jewels." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The ranger dismounts with another appreciative pat on her horse's neck. On her way to inspect the terrain, she grunts, "More'll be near. Y'really want t'bother with 'em?" [Track 18] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Not missing a beat, Lockwood grunts in turn, "Could have prisoners.". Watching his partner for as long as she remains in his peripherals, the Dog's searching yields a modestly impressive trove of assorted treasures from the corpse-- All stolen, naturally. It's disheartening enough to curl his lips into a deeper grimace. Still, there was work to do. Packing away the first orc's belongings, Lockwood moves on to the others, careful not to step in any blood. "Don't go quiet, eh?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia gives noncommital hum, continuing along the remnants of a trail leading off into the hillside. Risking exactly what the Dog asked, she begins to move more quietly and keep a lower profile, alert to her surroundings. [Stealth 18] [Perception 8] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Following the trail, Thelinia would find clear evidence of foot travel along a winding route leading up towards the hillside. While most of the tracks are too indistinct to make anything noteworthy of them, there is a set of older prints pressed into the ground where it likely set after a recent rain. The prints are large and misshapen, but clearly humanoid. Further on, the trail continues to wind into the forest and onto the slope of the wooded hill proper where they disappear into the moss-choked mouth of a small cave. On his end, Lockwood grows steadily more tense in the moments after his companion's departure, the sensation reaching a head after a minute or so. Rising to stand over the warrior's corpse, the sellsword whistles his mount over. "Stay." He mutters, giving the steed a pat at the neck before pressing on into the woods. [Perception 17] [Stealth 7] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Tempting as it is to go forward, she thinks wiser of it and begins to turn around to let him know-- When it hits her, that she can do that regardless. Thelinia whispers into the ring, "Founda cave. Mind th'horses an' hurry up, eh?" Hoping her trail was made clear enough for him, Thelinia continues to the mouth of the cave, sliding up on its wall before peeking inside, arrow ready. [Perception 17] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Arigh'.." Lowering the ring, Lockwood sets about attempting to pick up the trail, but comes away wanting. More or less stumped, he gives a low growl. [Survival 11] Regardless, he presses on, eventually spotting one of the large prints Thelinia had found only a short while before. Judging the direction it was headed in, he scratches at the back of his head in uncertainty before pressing on. "Ain't 'avin' an easy go've it." [Perception 25] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The ranger sighs to herself, and replies quietly before heading a couple steps inside, vigilant for enemies and otherwise. "Up th'hill. I'm scoutin' it out." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Not bothering to grumble, Lockwood reorients himself towards the hill and heads up as quickly and quietly as he can manage. Inside the cave, the air is unpleasantly moist; a fact not helped by the intolerable reek of spoiled meat and humanoid filth that hangs stagnant about the chamber. More notable than the stench, however, are the cave's occupants: huddled inside their respective cages diagonally across from each other are two humanoids, pitiful to look at even in the dim torchlight. From her current distance, it isn't possible to tell much about their identities, or indeed if they are even conscious. A ballista sits along the east wall in a deplorable state, it's bow splintered apart by a blunt strike of tremendous force. The wood is badly rotted through, with a blanket crumpled at it's foot thoroughly soaked with blood. Further in, there is a cooking pit littered with bits of bone, both humanoid and animal. The coals are still warm. Beyond the pit is an alcove separated from the main chamber by the faint gleam of a trigger wire that runs the length of the opening and up into the murky shadow above, though that is perhaps less worrying than the figure looming in the alcove proper. Cast in hard shadow by the torches at it's back, the spindly creature's body pierced by jagged growths at odd angles, it's too-long arms dragging along the cave floor with an audible grinding. The creature is so tall that it's head nearly scrapes at the cave's roof, endangering the thorny mass of bone that juts from it's skull if it forgets to stoop. It's labored breathing carries over the silence that dominates the cave, wheezing and creaking like a dead tree caught in the winter wind. [Knowledge, Nature: 28] Thelinia recognizes this genus of ogre immediately; the orcs have apparently recruited a pickin. Twisted by repeated inbreeding, these ogres are known to inhabit forests like the Winterwood, taking great delight in standing perfectly still to surprise unwary prey with their uncanny resemblance to the trees they hide among. Covered in a thick, barklike hide, the pickin's fingers end in cruel thorns of hardened bone-- Though perhaps most cruel of all is their proclivity for carrying on completely in the nude. This particular pickin is no exception. The Boar makes a face, before backing out of the tunnel. It wasn't beyond her capabilities, but it wouldn't hurt to at least make sure the Dog hadn't gotten himself lost before engaging the thing. Leaving the cave as quietly as she'd entered, she heads back down a short ways, climbing just a couple rocks for a better vantage point. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Perception 20] With a bit of effort (and more cursing than should be permitted), Lockwood finds his way up the base of the hillside. Though he doesn't see Thelinia, he does manage to pick up on some pieces of the trail she was following, albeit with much less precision. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia rolls her eyes and begins searching the ground for a decent throwing pebble. Finding one, she takes aim at his shoulder; Even if she missed, it'd at least get him looking in the right direction, she hoped. [Atk 20 v AC] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With all the terrible beasts he'd crossed paths with during the course of his travels, Lockwood was certain that there was little the world could offer him that would surprise him. Perhaps, then, that was why he was so vexed by the surprise he felt when a pebble darted just shy of striking his nose, sending a hand to his blade before he could stay it. Once he'd tracked the trajectory to it's source, the mercenary felt his eyebrow twitch. "Righ'." Not too terribly long into the future, the Dog rejoins the Boar at her vigil, a flat look paid to the cave's mouth some distance off. "Anythin'?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia makes a face once more, eyeing the cave with wary disgust. "Eh.. Yea. Least a'pickin. An' two cages." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood makes a face, squinting at the cave. "Anythin' in 'em?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Not sure it's anythin' alive," Thelinia offers, an undertone of pity. If they were still alive, she doubted it'd be by much. She hops down from the rocks, grabbing for an arrow in readiness to head in regardless. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh. Let's get 'em out an' see." Jerrad gruffs, keeping most of the anger from his voice. Drawing his sword, he readies his shield this time, stepping around Raine to take the lead. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ While the Boar was accustomed to Lockwood taking the lead with his shield, something in how he moved past her gave her pause for only a moment. [Sense Motive 20] Regardless, she would follow, assuming her usual archer's position. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

[Stealth 12] [Perception 20] Entering the cave for the first time, Lockwood's eye takes a moment to adjust to the dimness, but when it does, he feels a familiar drop in his chest. It was the same gnarled, tar black iron that bound their cages, and the same hollowed-out shuddering that shook the bodies of those held within. They would carry that emptiness in their hearts, too, until the end of their days. He still felt it in himself. Transfixed as he was, it takes a movement from the pickin at the cave's far end to stir him from the nightmarish memories he'd been forced to contend with. Suppressing a growl, the sellsword pushes deeper into the cavern, knuckles flushed bone white around his blade. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The tense way Lockwood carries himself is not lost on the ranger, reminded indeed of a wary dog sensing danger. Her arrow is readied as they round the corner, and she minds the distance between them. [Stealth 15] "Might be able t'slip around it, draw it's back t'you," she lowers her head to whisper the suggestion, unsure if his nerves seemed likely to condone it. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Not worth riskin' 'im cornerin' yeh," Lockwood gruffed, taking a tentative knee. Unwilling to chance more than a glance back in her direction, the fleeting look still carries a naked concern that he is quick to shift elsewhere. "Hit 'im from 'ere an' draw 'im out. I'll go fer 'is back." Of all the things he could imagine, the thought of Raine left cornered by an ogre was by far one of the most disturbing. He'd sooner throw himself to a pack of wargs than let that happen. Not while he still drew breath. Looking back one last time to confirm their plan, the sellsword put the troubling thoughts from his mind as he prepared to move. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a conceding frown, Thelinia sighs, "Righ'.." She draws back on the bow, taking careful aim. He might recognize the familiar time it takes for her to do so, until.. [Atk 1(+4) - Crit fail] However, Thelinia had always had a strained relationship with Mielikki. The Forest Madien must see it fit then, that the ranger's bowstring should snap partway through the draw. The sharp snap of its enforcing structures loose the string fully, fortunately preventing what could've been a horrendous maiming. Regardless, the ranger yelps in alarm, ducking away from her own shattered weapon. [Dex 10] [Initiative 20] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Alarmed less by the sharp crack of Thelinia's failing weapon and more by the otherworldly shriek the pickin releases at realizing it is not alone, Lockwood grits his teeth hard enough to rattle in his ears as the monster lumbers from it's den. The earth shudders slightly at the ogre's approach, an awful moaning rising from the cages as the creak of it's limbs draws near. [Initiative 16] [Attack 8] Still safely hidden, the Dog waits until the pickin's shadow passes over him to strike-- With a less than spectacular result. Darting out of cover, Lockwood lashes out with the rim of his shield only for it to glance from the creature's hide. Now fully aware of at least one intruder, the pickin looses a long, droning howl that shudders unnaturally in it's chest, long strings of milky drool streaming down it's chin. [Pickin Initiative 6] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Seamless swears follow the destruction of her weapon as the Boar scrambles its remains in her hands to confirm it's uselessness. In the wake of the Dog's movement, she casts the thing away. Forced to draw her blades, the ranger quickly assesses her options. They weren't good. [Stealth 30] "Hrammar.." The ranger resumes a cautious crawl, moving to cross the wall the pickin was furthest from. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Attack 17] Undaunted by his misfortune, Lockwood snarls a challenge at the pickin as he strikes, and again when the monster lurches away from the swing in an uncharacteristic burst of agility. Caught overextended, the sellsword ducks under one swipe from the ogre's claws but isn't quite so fortunate on the backswing that rakes a ghastly wound across his sword arm. [Pickin Atk 9, 24; 9 dmg] Grunting against the pain, Lockwood doubles back into a defensive stance as the pickin looses an excited series of hoots at the scent of fresh blood. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Keeping an eye on both her calculated steps and the fight carrying on, Thelinia winces at the painful sound her companion emits. The cages she passes catch her eye only long enough to ascertain the contents, but the fight urges her to focus on covering as much ground as she can. Timing her steps and dashes, she moves as quickly as she can, moving to have a clear view of its back.. eventually making it to the ogre unseen, unless Lockwood requires more urgent help. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Jerrad Atk 9] [Pickin Atk 14, 15, 7] Trusting in his partner's judgement, Lockwood trades blows with the pickin and attempts to dole them out in kind without much success. Gnarled claws score shallow gouges across the face of his shield, followed shortly by a strike that comes dangerously close to relieving him of the burden of his remaining eye. Forced back a pace by the deformed ogre's unrelenting assault, the Dog spots an opening in the monstrosity's bowlegged advance and takes it before common sense can get the better of him. "HRRAAAGH!" Bellowing a war cry to match the pickin's unceasing screeching, Lockwood ducks under another set of hungry claws, pivots with his leg cocked back, then delivers a hobnailed boot directly into the ogre's most sensitive organ. [Dirty Trick 22] The pickin gives a shuddering gasp as the kick lands with a satisfying crack, and it drops to a knee wailing. [Pickin is blind for 1 round] "Now!" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Gleaming blades dart from the shadows, unannounced by the silent ranger wielding them. Her rapier slides forward first, hoping for a clean strike through it's ribs as she'd done so many times away from Toril. [Attk 20+5; Dmg 14] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Jerrad Grapple 22] [Pickin AoO 20] A howl unlike any a living creature should make rips from the pickin's throat as the blades find their mark, the wounds disgorging thick rivulets of steaming blood where they stick in the barklike flesh. Thrashing wildly, the ogre takes a swipe at the sound of Lockwood's footsteps as he launches himself into it's side. His head thrown back in a snarl, the sellsword callously bats the pickin's hand aside and locks it's arm under his in the same motion, fighting to pin it in place. "KILL IT!" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A slight concern for her partner is immediately pushed aside, and she lashes out with the rapier again-- this time in hopes of getting it at the neck. [Atk 4; Off-hand 11] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Jerrad Grapple 11 < 12] Before Lockwood can open his mouth to speak, the pickin cuts him off with a roar as it throws it's arm free of his and seizes him by the neck, to which he responds with a knee to it's side in a bid to regain control of the situation. Locked in their struggle, the ogre seems wholly content to ignore Thelinia for the moment. Try as he might, the Dog is unable to find the leverage he needs to reverse the monster's hold and finds himself hoisted up by the throat, barbed claws opening hairline wounds in the flesh of his neck. [Pickin Pin 22 > 19] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Lockwood!" [AoO Atk 2; Off-hand 3] [Atk 1, 4] Several furious, but ultimately futile strikes are made, glancing off its tree-like hide. Knowing the limits of her steel even as she flails at it, Thelinia tries something else. Bellowing at the limits of her throat, she barks at the thing in both gnoll and Chondathan. "RELEASE HIM OR YOU'RE DEAD!" [Intimidate 8] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The pickin either doesn't hear, doesn't understand, or simply doesn't care what the ranger has to say, being much more interested in throttling the life out of her companion. [Jerrad Grapple 22 v 18] Lockwood, however, seems to have other plans. Without a sound, the mercenary drives his knee into the pickin's elbow, causing it to recoil in pain from the strike and drop him directly onto it's chest. He takes the opportunity to wrangle it into a half-sitting position so that he might return the favor for the throttling he'd recieved only moments before. [Jerrad Pin 24] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Instinct demands that she drop the short sword, and focus solely on aiming more carefully with the wicked end of the rapier instead. She prays her blade can offer an apology, ashamed that she'd let it get away with handling her partner like this. [AoO Atk 9; Atk 1 Crit Fail] The gods have little mercy for the ranger, apparently none too pleased with her return to the prime materium. Just as she thinks she can score a solid strike, the thrashing ogre knocks her nearly prone. She growls in startled dismay, becoming increasingly agitated-- and concerned for their chances. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Jerrad Pin 28 v 24] An increasingly desperate pickin thrashes against the man who must look insignificant compared to it, enraged at it's confinement-- And entirely unable to dislodge him. Growling with visible strain, Lockwood's face is flushed red, his mind entirely focused on preventing the ogre's escape from his grasp. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Another snarled curse brings Thelinia forward again, relentless in her attempts to strike the creature without endangering the Dog more than he already was. Desperate snarls accompany further slashes, more broad and reckless in their aim. "DIE!" [AoO Atk 12, 5; Atk 18, Dmg 12] The first landing strike draws a dark gash through the neck, more through luck than the ranger's finesse. Not wholly convinced of the wound's fatality, however grievous it looked, Thelinia twists her wrist around to shove the blade deep into its throat. "HRRRAGH!"

She growls as it chokes and strains against the agonizing suffocation, her blade not relenting until it's throes were well and over. It doesn't occur to her how bloody the mess is, as her arms, coat, and face are thoroughly stained-- Her attention belongs to the dying ogre, and ensuring that her partner is freed for good. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Through the whole ordeal, Lockwood had remained resolute in his decision to hold the ogre in place, even as the creature's cries reached a fevered pitch when the Boar's blade finds it's place in the beast's throat. Holding fast through the worst of the pickin's garbling, choked throes, the Dog's arms screamed an aching protest against the exertion required to keep the creature subdued; a sensation that only worsened as the ogre's fading strength required less and less effort to restrain. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the pickin laid still-- save for the odd twitch here and again. His senses slowly returning to him, Lockwood was distantly aware of the throbbing in his arm where the ogre's claws had rent his flesh, though the better part of his attentions were arrested by the sight of the blood-soaked Boar that stood before him. Giving a low grunt, Jerrad allowed his companion to retrieve her blade before shoving the monster's body aside and dragging himself to his feet. Already, the aching was beginning to set in, though it was not so distracting as to occupy much of his attention. Taking note of the terrible mess the ogre's slaying had left on his person, Lockwood used his good hand to palm off at least some of the blood that had coated the left half of his face, though he mostly only succeeded in smearing it down his neck. At least he could tell which blood was his. "Y'alrigh'?" He asked between heaving breaths, gathering himself as quickly as he could in the event of the arrival of more orcs-- Or even another pickin, Gods forbid. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The exertion it requires to twist and turn the rapier from the corpse is spent with a grunt, and the sword slides free stained to its guard and beyond with dark crimson. Thelinia lifts herself from the ogre for Lockwood to liberate himself, offering her free hand to help him up. She stands over the scene with a dawning realization of her own soaked sleeves and splattered features, especially when she gave the Dog a look-over. A bit to her own surprise, he speaks her question as soon as she'd asked it. The Boar casts her gaze aside, and her shoulders relax a little as she gives an awkward reply. "Ehh... 'M fine." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It only registered with the Dog that they'd both asked the same question a moment after Thelinia gave her reply, leaving him quieted. He was glad she'd looked to come out unscathed, though it was a touch difficult to tell for certain given the sheer volume of gore the pickin had disgorged in the midst of it's death throes. The pulsing in his savaged arm was a ready reminder for the penalty she might have suffered if he hadn't taken the lead-- And the one he would have certainly faced if she'd not been there to back him up. Dipping his head, Lockwood looked to the pickin's cooling corpse with a tentative sigh, some of the tension relieved from his stance, "Me too." Before he could speak further, another pitiable moan rose from the far corner of the cave, wafting out from one of the cages. At least one of the prisoners was still alive. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A brief, if somber, gaze falls to his wounds. Seeing him pinned with the air constricted out of his throat had been too unsettling, and an uncomfortable weight in her stomach held that image. If she hadn't missed her first mark, the Dog wouldn't have been put at risk. Worse-- Had he not been able to overpower it, she would have never killed the thing with her useless flailing. It was an ill feeling, one that rejected any sensation of victory. Immediately made alert by the unexpected sound, Thelinia forgets her failure and starts for the cages. Brisk strides carry her over in no time, and she takes a knee at the one she thinks she sees movement in. [Perception 23] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The identity of the cage's occupant may come as something of a surprise to Thelinia; huddled at the corner furthest from the door and half-covered by a fraying blanket crusted with it's own filth is a kobold, it's dull red scales flaked and broken, even missing in places. A large welt has swelled up over it's left eye, blackened and near corpulent in appearance. Despite the obvious signs of long-term abuse the creature has suffered, the kobold has enough life within it to shrink away at the ranger's approach, branch thin claws clutching the filthy shawl up over it's body as best as it can manage. Clearly terrified for it's life, the kobold whimpers something in it's native tongue, shivering terribly. His curiosity piqued (as well as his suspicion), Lockwood draws up beside the Boar only a moment later, leaning down to squint at the unfortunate creature. After a pause, he moves off to the other cage, wondering if the other prisoner might yet live. [Perception 28] The kobold continues to repeat the same words ad nauseam, a rattle in it's chest perhaps hinting at a possible sickness, "No fear, no fear, no fear-- Warmheart has no fear.." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia frowns at the fearful draconic spoken-- indeed the best word she can make out is "fear". She regrets that her draconic book is carried by her mare, but tries to speak as gently as a non-native speaker can. [Knowledge 20] [Diplomacy 15] "Calm, peace. Friend?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Kobold Will 8] Recognition seems to flicker across the kobold's ravaged features for a moment before fear takes hold of it once more and it shrinks down under the cover. "N-no friend here..! The teeth! Tear and break! THE TEETH! SO HUNGRY, ALWAYS!" The poor creature loses itself in the outburst, uncontrollable shaking broken only by the occasional wheezing cough. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The ranger pauses a moment, both with caution and to try and recognize the words. Even as she's sure of a few, the meaning makes little sense. But it was still afraid, and she'd get no where if it couldn't communicate. Moving with slow, deliberate motions, she opens a pouch at her hip and removes a set of rations. The salted meat and hard biscuit are broken, a little more than half of the food returned to the cloth and her possession. The small portion left behind is held near enough to the cage, but not so close that it'd open her fingers to attack. She hopes it'd serve a convincing peace offering alongside her offer; "I free you?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Kobold Will 10] The offering seems to do little good in coaxing the kobold from it's traumatic delusion at first, but as the aroma of real food hits it's nostrils, the creature's body relaxes visibly though it still shakes. After nearly a minute, the diminuitive reptile peeks out from it's covering, a wary look narrowed up at it's would-be liberator. Not daring to hope, the kobold crawls to the cage door with agonizing slowness, scooping up the offering in it's claws to stuff it into a needy maw. Once the meal was finished off, the kobold seems more lucid, regarding the ranger with a mixture of fear and suspicion. "..Kosj'oth...?" The kobold lifts a claw, indicating the far cage obscured behind Thelinia's shoulder. Almost as if on cue, a terrible clamor rises from the far corner of the room as Lockwood rips the door to the other cage from it's hinges, casting it aside with very little care for where it falls. Tucking his crowbar back into it's sheath, the mercenary hunches over to pick something up before turning to reveal another kobold cradled in his arms. This one looks to be in even worse condition than it's compatriot, badly beaten and malnourished through neglect. The still-caged kobold jumps, startled by the noise but otherwise silent. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Alarmed, it's fortunate that the ranger recognizes the cause of the noise was worthwhile-- even if it frightened the creature she'd just made progress with. The sounds it made weren't a word she recognized either. Over her shoulder, she asks Lockwood in Common rather than Chondathan, "Alive?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Starting over, the Dog joins his companion with a low grunt that seems to affirm her inquiry. As he takes a knee, the sellsword gives a sympathetic look to the caged kobold as he adjusts it's fellow in his arms. "Only jus'. Need t'see to it quicklike if it wants a chance." He rumbled, though his tone is softened by empathy for what they must have endured at the orc's hands. "That one?" The other kobold rustles in it's cage, trying to stand on it's own power. After a few stumbles, it manages to drag itself up onto it's knees, clawed hands clutching at the bars. "Kosj'oth!" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ After a moment, Thelinia decides to stand, and she extends her arms in an offer to relieve the Dog of the kobold. She gestures with a grunt at the cage, indicating he break into it as before. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Jerrad offers the kobold over with a warning look, even as he moves to retrieve his crowbar, "S'got filth fever. It'll kill 'im before th'dawn if he don't get help." Moving in on the cage, Lockwood pauses long enough to motion the kobold inside away before placing his boot to the door frame and jamming the crowbar in behind the hinge. [Linguistics 14] [Kobold Sense Motive 15] The kobold seems to take the hint and drops to it's rear with a whine, scooting back against the rear wall of the cage. [Break 24 v 24] Despite the fatigue he'd accrued through the skirmish with the pickin and his efforts to break open the other kobold's cage, Lockwood still manages to bend the cage's iron bars after a minute's effort. Wrenching the hinge out of place with the crowbar, the mercenary then seizes the weakened bars in either hand and gives them a hard twist that opens up a hole wide enough for the kobold to squeeze through. As excited as the kobold is to have a chance at freedom, the display of raw strength gives it pause-- As does the pickin's blood-drowned corpse laying some distance away behind the Dog and Boar. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The kobold is recieved with sufficent care, and she examines the creature for herself as Lockwood managed the cage. Both kobolds must be ill with it then, she determines, leaving the mercenaries with few options. The ranger takes another look around the room from where she stands, particularly the store of goods the orcs certainly didn't earn monetarily. As the bars give way, Thelinia watches as they bend to free the small prisoner. Wary of appearing imposing and wishing to cement their good will, she gently pushes past Lockwood to kneel again and offer the kobold to its fellow. While she knew they may need to carry one--if not both--of them out of the cave, there was also a chance this one had the means to heal its friend. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a surprising burst of speed, the kobold scrambles over to it's fellow's side the moment it leaves Thelinia's grasp, chanting rhythymically in it's strange tongue. Slowly, it's palms glow with a pale blue light, and new life is breathed into the stricken kobold. Opening it's eyes, the two kobolds regard each other in stunned silence for a moment before the one on the ground embraces the other. "Maekrix..!" Standing back far enough to keep from imposing, Lockwood passes a look to the Boar that seems to question their next move. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Speaking quietly in Chondathan, she answers with folded arms and an undetermined glance, "We leavin' 'em t'themselves?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Though they seem in better spirits reunited, both kobolds seem weaker for the ordeal. The spellcaster in particular struggles to support it's weight, withdrawing from the other. The Dog hums inconclusively, glancing the cave's entrance. After a muted deliberation, he shrugs. "Prob'ly more orcs 'round. Can y'talk to 'em?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Eh?" She inclines her head to the kobolds, "Not much." Still, the ranger makes an attempt; "Danger," she speaks to gain their attention, and looks towards the cave's mouth before continuing. "Enemy." Looking to them again she speaks more delicately. "Home, where?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The spellcaster startles at Thelinia's interjection, hunching down into a more defensive posture near it's friend. The kobold seems loath to say anything in response at first, until it's fellow struggles to a sitting position and speaks for it. "No home," It grates out the words in broken Common, the foreign tongue straining against a dry throat. "Ghik," It gestures to the cave entrance with a sour look, "Attack. Kill weak. Kill egglings. Take strong. Dartak." It spits the last word with palpable hatred, but has to lay back to the ground as it's strength wanes. The other kobold looks on worringly, rubbing at it's forearm. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With a sigh from her nostrils, the Boar frowns and turns to her partner again. She seems to study him for his reaction, privately curious though she is admittedly at a loss for the situation. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A seemingly interminable silence overtakes Lockwood as he listens in on the coversation, uncertainty and old prejudices warring with his better nature over it's course. When Thelinia turns to him, it's a while longer before he speaks, but there is no lack of conviction in his voice when he does so. "Let's take 'em, then. I got somethin' t'treat 'em on th'horse." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye," she murmurs, and looks to the pile of ill-gotten goods taking up a fair amount of the small cave. Fortunately, the cart holding much of the cargo seemed still intact, and Thelinia wonders if they might be able to bring it all to Duvik's Pass. It'd be up to her companion, however, and she glances over his wounds a moment or two before asking, "How's yer arm?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ 'It hurts', he wanted to say, but even that would be an understatement. As the adrenaline had worn itself out of his system, Lockwood became more acutely aware of just how grievous the wound could have been-- which wasn't to say that the injury wasn't among the nastier ones he'd recieved. With every beat of his heart, the edges of the wound would give another awful throb, shooting up through his arm and into his ribs like a poker through hot coals. The ogre, he imagined, must not have had much cause to clean itself during the course of its life, and he was almost certain that might have something to do with the pain he was experiencing. At least they had the loot. "S'alrigh'. Need t'clean it. You ain't hurt?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Her dour gaze lingers at his wound, "M'fine." Briefly checking on the kobolds before she returns her focus to him, Thelinia grunts for his attention and gestures to the pile of goods. "I'll take 'em t'the horses if y'can ready th'cart, eh?" Doubt registers in her voice as she considers working together on each task instead, even if it'd cost them valuable time. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Glancing the kobolds, Lockwood was given pause: was it wise to bring them along? Certainly, they were in no condition to fight, and a kobold's aggression was beneath his abilities to manage besides-- but it wasn't likely the people of Duvik's Pass would be quite as understanding as the Dog and Boar. Deciding that he would rather be a good man than a safe one, Jerrad nodded in agreement with Thelinia's plan. "If y'think yeh can manage 'em." He hoped she didn't take the statement the wrong way. Raine was more than capable of gutting a few sickly kobolds, but helping them through orc infested woodlands on her own was a touch more worrisome. Still, he trusted her. She'd killed the pickin, after all. "I'll grab everythin' up an' haul it dwn t'meet yeh. Grab th'chirugeon off m'horse an' treat 'em fer the fever, eh?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye.." She affirms it almost to herself, increasingly unsure if they should be splitting up the work.  Still, the kobolds are addressed again, this time in Common with the hope she'd be understood. "Can you both walk?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 15] Something about how the Boar replies stays Jerrad's feet a moment, though he hesitates to say anything until he's had a moment to consider his words. "Could tend 'em 'ere if they ain't ready, get th'cart loaded together." Is all he offers, his tone reading as open to suggestion even as he moves to begin loading their spoils. In the cage, the kobold cleric has pulled his friend's head into his lap, and if approached by Thelinia would look to her pensively. After a lingering pause, he holds out his hand and says something in Draconic. "Gix." After a hesitant moment, the prone kobold speaks, "He wants hand. To see heart." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia must consider his words in the pause that follows, though she is quiet long enough to be called from her thoughts by the kobolds. The request draws her a step nearer with an honest inquiry, "Why heart?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The bedridden kobold pauses to chatter with it's fellow a moment before replying, "Softskins lie. Warmheart show truth. Show your heart." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia checks over her shoulder for Lockwood's opinion, but her choice is made regardless. With minimal trepidation and a conceding sigh, the Boar kneels again to offer her hand to the lizards, hoping they don't produce a knife for the test. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Despite his growing resolve, the cleric still jumps a bit at the Boar's approach, not fully-recovered from his ordeal. Putting aside his fear for the sake of his fellow, the kobold allows Thelinia's hand to rest atop his own before he begins chanting. Having offered a light shrug past crossed arms in response to the ranger's unspoken inquiry, Lockwood watches intently at the goings on, ready to separate the group should it prove neccessary. For his own part, the kobold priest continues to chant, a rosy glow pulsing from his palm for a moment before flickering out of existence. Drained but not disabled, the cleric sits back with a sigh, jabbering something to the other kobold. "Maekrix asks if you will harm-harm us. Chain us. Make kobolds dead. Make kobolds slaves." If Thelinia chooses not to resist the enchantment, she will find herself unable to lie directly for a time. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Will 5 v 13] "We ain't slavers." It wasn't an unfair question, yet there was an uncomfortable feeling in her thoughts that came with the kobold's spell. The unwelcome vigil of magic agitates the ranger as she realizes its influence, but she keeps her grimace to a minimum. While her instincts urge an indignant rebuttal, it's easier to supress the impulse when faced with things so pitiful (not to mention the enchantment). "We ain't gunna harm you, 'lest you harm us first."   ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Maekrix seems doubtful despite the enchantment's assurance, but after a moment the cleric gives a conceding nod and indicates to Kosj'oth to sit up. "Maekrix sees your heart. We trust. Where go?" From his vantage point, Lockwood observes the scene with the same reserved annoyance as his partner, though he likewise feels a sense of understanding for the kobold's paranoia. Once he'd seen enough to be assured of the lizard's lack of hostility, the fighter moves to sort through the treasures scattered about the cave. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "If you can walk, we are leaving this cave." Thelinia states it plainly, but doesn't stand just yet. She tries to make an assessment of their health, wondering if she might have to carry the both of them. The thought was not pleasing. [Heal 18] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Kosj'oth speaks on his own initiative this time, grimacing, "Kosj'oth cannot walk. The sickness will return soon, Maekrix says.." The kobold quiets at the admission, rubbing at his forearm uncertainly. Indeed, the kobold seems to grow paler by the minute, and several injuries have gone unmended. Maekrix has fared better if only just; most of the cleric's injuries are superficial, but malnutrition has taken it's toll, and the signs of disease are apparent even at a glance. Still, it seems the cleric could walk given the proper motivation. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The ranger sighs, conceding to the situation with only mild irritation. Even with her coat already soiled, carrying the filthy and pointy creatures was not her first choice. "I can bring you out, eh." She glances over each of them, suddenly feeling awkward as she opens both hands to them. "We can help y'better outside." Should they take her offer, Kosj'oth would be taken up in the Boar's arms as mindfully as possible. She would look down at the other kobold then, watching if it might try to follow or seemed unable to. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The suggestion gives Kosj'oth visible pause, a worrisome look overtaking the kobold's battered features. Though the Boar's offer was recieved with a similar suspicion from the cleric, but awareness of his lacking strength encourages him to rest a hand at Kosj'oth's shoulder. Holding his voice low, the cleric yips something in their language to the other that, after a fashion, seems to calm both their nerves. Released from his friend's touch, Kosj'oth turns back to Thelinia to take her hands, a meek groan pressing past flaking lips at the exertion it takes to do so. "W-we go?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia grunts, almost forgetting to sound gentler with the wary kobolds. "Yea.. We go." She checks on Lockwood before leaving, wondering about his luck fixing the cart up for transport. If he seemed to have it under control, Thelinia would depart with the first kobold and take it down the hill to the horses. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Perhaps to his credit, the Dog manages loading most of the stray items he finds strewn across the cave with minimal complaint, though not without worry for the amount of blood he'd encouraged from his wound with his toiling. By the time Thelinia had lifted the kobold, her partner was loading up the last of the armaments he'd chanced upon near the orcs' bedding-- Save one. Catching her glance, Lockwood gives a tip of the chin that indicates she stay a moment as he moves to meet her with a small bundle tucked under his arm. "'Ere." The mercenary grunted without judgement, pushing the thing towards her. When inspected, the rough linen wrapping comes away to reveal a composite shortbow, masterfully crafted from supple yew. Kosj'oth clutches involuntarily at the ranger's coat on being lifted, unsoothed aches echoing through his body as the fever continues to threaten to renew. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia stays at the Dog's call, turning to regard him and the bow. It's paid a short scrutiny, and the ranger tries to ignore the pained creature in her arms. She turns around with a light grunt, tilting her head back to indicate her quiver, and the resting place her now shattered longbow once occupied. "Slide it on, eh?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Hesitating at first, Lockwood relents with a grunt and stucks the shortbow into place. "Some other good stuff in 'ere. Goin' t'rest a bit before I bring it down, eh." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye," and the Boar moves to head out again, only to pause. "Eh, thanks." She resumes walking after offering her somewhat awkward gratitude. A careful adjustment is made to compensate the kobold's stability before she faces the tougher terrain, as she checks to be sure the cave's exterior was clear of threats. If it seemed safe to proceed, the ranger would take a fair pace down to the horses, regardless of how strange it felt to carry something so delicate in her arms. [Perception 17] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The kobold makes few complaints beyond the odd whine as the ranger makes her journey down from the cave. Outside, the forest is as lively as ever, with little to indicate anything is amiss save for the corpses littering the road near the horses. In the cave, Lockwood takes some time to rest against the loaded cart. A rumble from his gut reminds him that it'd been some time since they'd last stopped to eat-- Though he supposed that now that they'd breached orc territory, finding a safe spot to do so might prove troublesome, at least until sundown. The idea urged a small grunt from the mercenary, sitting himself up straight against the cart's wheel. It was a touch troubling to consider spending the night with the Boar under the cover of a tent again, even if they'd done so countless times before. It hadn't been so different then, excepting a small mountain of treasure in their possession, so why should it matter? They were partners, after all. It was something that came with the profession. Still.. A muffled groan rising from Maekrix rouses the Dog, a quick glance informing him of the kobold's state. Rubbing a hand at an exposed knee, the cleric seems to strain under the effects of the fever, though she seems determined to stand despite it. With one claw already wrapped around the bent cage bars, the kobold works to wrest herself up by agonizing degrees, small hisses of pain squeezing out past her crooked fangs. It was impressive, really. Lockwood had to admit he'd never much cared for the dirty, toothy creatures (especially when their proclivity for theft was concerned), but there was something in a kobold's determination to be admired. Moved by the lizard's plight, if only just, Jerrad pushes himself up and moves over to Maekrix's side, earning a wary look from the creature but little else. Considering her for a moment, Lockwood moves quicker than she can compensate for and tucks a massive hand under either of her arms to lift her to a stand. Forgiving a startled yelp and a wobbly start, the cleric manages to hold her footing, though she hisses a warning for the human to stay his proximity in the future. It was enough for him to take the hint, and after a moment Jerrad returned to the cart with a concealed smirk. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ In approaching the road, Thelinia gives a whistle to alert the horses of her arrival, who had already heard her approach and begun shifting their hooves warily. Her mare greets her with a slightly forceful nudge, the excitable equine having no mind for its strength and size. She stills it with a hush, and signals for it to lay for her. Almost like a dog, the horse kneels down, allowing a stable and warm place to prop the kobold against. "Stay," she orders, though it could be for either of the two. After placing the kobold as comfortably as she can, she moves to rummage through Lockwood's saddlebags until she comes upon the kit he mentioned. Frowning a bit as she recognizes the task ahead, she returns to the kobold and kneels in front of it, gaining a full assessment of its state before carrying on-- at least, as far as it would allow. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Kosj'oth tolerates the shift from the ranger's arms to the saddle with a surprising amount of grace, though there's a wariness in the kobold's eyes that suggest he fears what is to come. All the same, the scout holds still with his tail curled beneath hiself. In the cave, Lockwood had recovered his strength enough to consider addressing his wound. Though he would've preferred to allow Thelinia to see to it, a certain sense of pride demanded he take care of himself where he knew he was capable, if only to assuage some of the concern he'd detected in the Boar's demeanor just before they'd parted ways. To that end, an apothecary is produced from the pouch at his back and put to work once he'd located a suitably flat surface that was clean enough to consider working on. Flipping the leather flap free, Lockwood picked through the powdered herbs and bottled tinctures until a few stand out enough to earn his confidence and are put to work, downing a vial of antiplague just for good measure. [Heal 19] [Fort 16] As he peeled back the sleeve concealing his savaged arm, the Dog made a mental note of the work it would take to mend the leather once he found the time, even if it was a hassle. The wound itself, unsurprisingly, looked to be even more tiresome. Still, the flesh required mending-- But more importantly, a cleansing. Ogres were not known for their hygeine, after all. With the necessity of his task in mind, Lockwood steeled his resolve with a slow, steady breath before taking up a bottle of brandy and going to work. Though it stings terribly, the alcohol serves as a suitable cleanser and a better brace for his nerves once a few pulls are taken. With the easiest of his obligations out of the way, the mercenary plucks up needle and thread and begins the arduous process of stitching and bandaging rent flesh. Though the task is grisly and far from painless, Lockwood works with the steady hand of a man set in his determination, and after some initial trepidation (joined by a few choice swears), the bleeding in his arm is staunched and the threat of imminent infection abated. Once done, the sellsword tested his work with a tentative lift of the shoulder. Barring a bit of pain, the motion fails to burst any stitching. With his task more or less complete, Jerrad downs a vial of antiplague almost as an afterthought, grimacing against the bitter liquid's sludgelike consistency. Still, it was better to be safe than risk coming down with the fever. Satisfied with his work, Lockwood gathered up his things and made a last pass about the cave before returning to the cart. Loaded down as it was with the spoils of their unintentional heroism, he had to wonder if he wasn't overestimating the depth of his capabilities with one arm so wounded.. Then again, it was rather difficult to tell sometimes. He had torn the doors off those cells with not too much effort, after all. The strength he possessed worried him, at times. He had to wonder what the Boar thought of it all. Hopefully, it wasn't that she thought he was an oaf-- Though really, who could argue? Giving a hum, Lockwood considered hauling the loot out and returning to retrieve the remaining kobold for only a moment before pragmatism married with his conscience to convince him to do otherwise. More than just a touch unfamiliar with the kobold's native tongue and aware that the two hadn't a hope of communicating verbally, the Dog looks to the creature and does the only thing he can think to do. "'Ey," He gruffed, slapping a calloused hand to the top of a looted armoire. Rather than startle at the noise, the kobold lifts her chin at the disturbance, a dubious squint narrowing her unblemished eye. "Come on an' git up." Motioning from Maekrix to a spot atop the cart, Lockwood repeats the action several times with an increasingly agonizing sort of slowness before the connection forms in the lizard's head. Not seeing much choice in the matter for the moment, the cleric pushes a breathy noise through her snout that seems akin to a sigh before limping her way over-- Though she requires the mercenary's aid in actually getting up onto the cart in the end. Once he was satisfied with the kobold's positioning, Jerrad gives a low grunt that is surprisingly returned by his passenger before he gives the cart a testing tug. When he finds it moves with relative ease (forgiving a wobbly wheel), the mercenary starts up and out of the cave with a rolling clatter, eye kept peeled for the returning Boar. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The time spent on the kobold's wounds takes a bit longer than Thelinia anticipated, and she awkwardly fills some of the silence with attempts to keep her patient roused. "Yeh.. yer tribe have uh name?" She mumbles, beginning to stitch the worst of it's wounds with a sparing amount of supplies. It was disconcerting to work on a creature that could snap her wrist in its mouth at the slightest provocation, but such liveliness wasn't something she anticipated from the poor kobold. Regardless, keeping it distracted with conversation couldn't hurt-- especially if it meant they might get useful information from it. As she keeps working, she'd ask about living in the mountains, how large the tribe was, and (if it seemed possible) for information on the orcs. [Gather Information (Diplomacy) 18] Though she'd have done as much as she could, Thelinia sees that the kobold's greatest threat is indeed the sickness. If the stress of dressing its wounds hadn't overwhelmed it, she'd ask it to stay put while she heads up the hill again. [Heal 20] Lockwood was taking a lot longer than she counted on. It's a brisk pace she makes, enough that she catches a breath or two even after reaching the Dog. "Ey.." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Usk'okarthel." The kobold replies quietly, his eyes turned towards the ground past Thelinia's shoulder. Ironhome. Though the discomfort of being stitched up is not inconsiderable, Kosj'oth keeps his head as the ranger works, replying idly to her inquiries when the fancy strikes him. Life in the mountains was hard, all things told. Admittedly, Kosj'oth had found himself wondering more and more about the world beyond the mines as the years had dragged on, though if it weren't for the orcs he really doubted he'd ever have seen any of it. Most days consisted of hard work expanding mines, shoring up tunnels, and patrolling for hungry beasts or intruders. Eventually, he'd been recognized for his skills as a scout and put to work running the upper tunnels above the kobold warrens proper. That's what'd allowed some of the tribe to slip away when the orcs had attacked. Though it was too late to save everyone by the time he noticed them, Kos'joth and the other scouts were able to afford their people enough of a warning for some to slip away with most of the eggs and their hatchlings. All told, some forty score kobolds were taken prisoner by the orcs, and Kosj'oth sincerely doubted that any were left alive beyond Maekrix and himself. As far as the orcs were concerned, he supposed he couldn't say; they'd only ever seen the raiding parties, but if they were out taking this many slaves without the intent to sell them off, they must be looking to expand. Once his wounds were addressed, the kobold gives a low, airy sigh that might be thanks. Content to rest against the saddle while the ranger heads off, the scout murmurs something in his own tongue as she starts off for the hill. Coming down the hill at an uncomfortably sluggish pace, Lockwood finds he has to compensate much more heavily than he'd anticipated for the cart's contents; the armoire in particular had proven disagreeable, jostling and rocking from side to side in a bid to escape it's mooring. Maekrix seems pleased at least, laying back atop the chest she'd situated herself on without much concern for anything to do with the human towing her. At spotting Thelinia trudging up the hill, Jerrad forces his elbows to the front of the cart and holds it in place with his weight. "Ey. Go arigh'?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye," she answers, and carefully looks over the man and the cart. If he seemed at all overly encumbered by the task, she would approach with an intention to help. "Y'fine?" As much as he would prefer to just carry it all down himself, the pain in his arm encouraged Lockwood to acquiesce to his better sensibility. "Eh. Jus' 'elp me keep it steady, I s'pose." He said, moving over enough to offer her the space to do so. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Better to not risk losing the cargo, she thinks. But the jab feels too biting to vocalize, so instead she grunts and takes the space he'd made for her. The kobold above them is paid a wary look, but otherwise Thelinia is content to work alongside the Dog in carting the goods safely down the hill. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Though the treacherous ground and their unlikely passenger demand that Dog and Boar take care not to overturn the cart, the two of them are able to make their way down the hill without too much fuss. Content to remain with his thoughts for most of the trip, Lockwood is thankful for Raine's presence in keeping the cart stable. Once they breach the woods, the two would find Kosj'oth sitting where he'd been left by the ranger, shivering lightly. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The physical task asks more from the ranger than she had first thought, finding herself making the effort to acquire more burden. Lockwood's wound couldn't risk the strain, and hells if she were to be left with the heavy lifting until they found that healer again. Marie. Thoughts she had evaded earlier that day come back in force, an uneasy sensation the Boar overcomes with physical exertion. There was nothing they could do now-- The plan had worked, or it hadn't. She only hoped that the children had reached their ship, and that if Marie were caught.. Thelinia looks to the man beside her, and considers a prayer for the girl. She had to have known the risks, hadn't she? Lockwood had to have been clear and certain of it. Marie could be put to death if discovered, and it'd seem unlike the Dog to neglect that. Hells, they could be returning to a like fate if they didn't keep their wits about them. Fortunately, the road comes into sight and asks her attention as the two return to their horses, and the kobold. Once the cart is safely set on flat ground, Thelinia makes sure that her companion is able to release the burden without harming himself, before she does the same. [Strength 14+1] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Strength 18+4] It didn't pass Lockwood by that the Boar acted with consideration for his wound. That she'd offered to aid him in pulling the cart had been enough, given that they were both well-aware he was fully strong enough to wrestle a horse, much less manage the wagon's load. Still, it wasn't that which had caught his attention; rather, it was the subtle care with which she strained once they'd re-entered the road, doing her best to bear as much of the cart's weight as she could-- Ostensibly for the sake of his freshly injured arm. If it were another time, he might've felt distantly slighted by the woman's mercy. Now was different though. They'd gotten closer, hadn't they? He supposed it couldn't be helped, given the terrible things they'd seen and endured together. Friendships like the one they shared, however nascent and tenuous, were a rarity for him. He supposed he was rather thankful for it. The Boar had firmly cemented that her friendship meant that he could enjoy a certain degree of security in his dealings-- Something that he'd seen firsthand in the cave. It was too early to call the sensation of the troll's claws tearing the flesh at his throat a memory, as was the sound of the ranger's cries over the monster's awful howling, but he was certain it wouldn't be premature to say that he'd have been dead without her there at his side. He'd have to thank her, when he could. Releasing the thought along with his grip on the wagon's handle, Jerrad let the cart's wheel lower to the ground with a soft rattle, the armoire strapped to the back end wobbling precariously for a moment against it's binds before settling back. Though he'd never had the eye for playing the fence, the husky sheen of varnished darkwood was unmistakable. Certainly, the piece would fetch a decent price. Maybe that'd be worth the pain and panic they'd only just endured in the cave. "Eh, thanks." He gruffed, issuing a slow nod in the Boar's direction before the whimpering kobold atop her horse grabbed his attention. Not wanting to frighten the creature, the mercenary merely observed from a distance for a moment, until a small bark from atop the carriage shifted his gaze. "Pothoc!" Maekrix yipped, jabbing a claw from the mercenaries to her tribesman. "Irisv! Irisv!" [DC 10 INT or Linguistics to decipher meaning] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ An unusually honest expression rests on the Boar's features as she considers her partner a moment, before the kobold barks at them. It's paid a scowl as she sets the last of the cart's weight down, one tempered by a lingering candor. "Did what we could," an effort's made to curb the last of her irritation, though she speaks plainly. "Where're y'two headed?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Hearing the kobold's shrill yipping, Lockwood was reminded of why, even if he'd never taken the time to hate the things, he rarely had patience in his dealings with kobolds. Thankfully, those meetings had been rare, though that only made this instance all the stranger. He never would've imagined there'd be a day when he would find himself tending a kobold's wounds. Unsalved by the ranger's reply, Maekrix persists in her gesticulations despite her immobility, her insistence growing to a point of suggesting interminability until a weak chirp from Kosj'oth silences the matron. Lifting his head from the saddle, the male kobold struggles to push himself upright and focus his gaze on Thelinia. "W-we go.. Mountain. M'dok say cave there. Good for nestlings." Straining, Kosj'oth wheezes out a cough, shivering with renewed ailment. "Tribe leave too slow. Orcs come. Then sick.." A kobold migration wasn't too terribly strange in Jerrad's eyes; the things were always underfoot, after all. If there wasn't a war on with whatever group of gnomes was nearest, the scaly unfortunates were off raising the ire of whatever neighbors they could rob of their valuables. Still, he'd rather have a tribe of kobolds living just up the road than a band of orcs. Speaking up, the rumble in the Dog's voice causes the kobolds to jump collectively, though they settle once the sight reminds him to amend his tone, "If y'don't try an' steal anythin', y'can sit in th'wagon 'till yer feelin' better. There's some mountains where we're 'eaded; maybe yer friend's there, eh." The mercenary gruffed, a look that seemed to question his own judgement as well as Raine's agreement with his decision passed to the ranger as he spoke. While she'd certainly seemed to tolerate the kobolds well enough up until now, he really couldn't be sure if she'd tolerate them tagging along until they were recovered. Given their kind's reputation, he supposed he couldn't blame her. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia gives a noncommital grunt, a sound the Dog might know as conceding as she rummages for the rope and harness at the front of the cart. When she approaches her horse, she regards the occupant of the saddle with uncertain stoicism. "Y'rather ride in th'wagon?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Still uncertain with the ranger's kindness, Kosj'oth gives a pensive look but an honest response, "Y-yes." Not wanting to be left with nothing to do, Jerrad moved to tend the horses while his partner saw to the kobolds. Collecting first his mount, then Raine's, the mercenary guided the horses about by the reins to the cart's side, mindful enough of the creatures to give them a few appreciative pets where they permit it. "I'll clear some space." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "I'll need t'carry ya, yeh?" She's slow to reach for the kobold, only scooping it into her arms after it seemed prepared. The creature would be carefully relocated to the back of the wagon, likely into the arms of its waiting matron if she was so inclined. The work of arranging for their comfort is left to Lockwood, and the ranger would see to finishing up with the horses. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Once the kobolds are situated and the loot accounted for, Dog and Boar set off down the road again towards Duvik's Pass. The sun continues it's circuit across what sky can be glimpsed from under the trees, and the day progresses largely without incident. Of course, danger is never far in the Winterwood; a fact of which the small group is reminded several times as signs of orcish habitation makes itself apparent. Loose bits of cloth and tattered hide tents dot the woods deeper in, broken up and chased off by human militia or the dangers of the forest. Thankfully, these near forgotten reminders of the perils of their journey remain just that, and by dusk the mercenaries are able to count their encounters with the greenskins on a single finger. The two kobolds have been content to keep to themselves for the trip's duration, a decision no doubt influenced by the affliction from which they both suffer. As weak as they are, the creatures manage to eat and drink enough to regain some of their strength, and by the time the impromptu caravan comes to a halt in order to make camp, they both seem in better spirits despite the evening's encroaching chill. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ A thoroughly necessary stretch is allotted to Thelinia's legs and back after tethering her mare, the ranger groaning at the stiffness the day's ride set in her. It had been far too long since she'd ridden even half a day, and her body was keen to remind her of the consequences of neglect. [Survival 20 +7] Some ways off the road, the woodswoman had discovered an ideal campsite: An overhang of dead branches and leaves shielded an ample indentation in the rocky hillside, large enough for the two small orcish tents and firepit occupying it. She'd stumbled upon it almost by luck, so well concealed it was.The site had been abandoned for days, possibly weeks, as far as Raine could tell. While she had been looking forward to her hanging tent, the shelter Silvanus suggested was the most sound choice. With room to tie the horses just barely out of sight from the road, Thelinia would have brought the good news to her companion and worked with him to bring the cargo under the nearby trees to keep it safe. Night falls quickly in the Winterwood, and the frosty canopy alludes to a cold evening. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Lockwood keeps company with the kobolds while Raine hunts down a camping spot, though the creatures don't seem much for conversation given their current state. Kosj'oth spares the mercenary a few wary glances, while the kobold matron remains aloof in her meditations, despite her waning sickness. For a bit, Jerrad finds himself vaguely concerned for his partner's safety as her absence in the dimming daylight, though her showing against the orcs and their ogre assuages his worry quickly enough. Once she'd returned, he'd guide the cart over to join with Raine's mount at the campsite, a grimace spared for the signs of the outcropping's previous occupants. At least the disuse the tents showed meant that the orcs were either long dead, or long moved on. Tying off his horse once the cart is hauled under the safety of the rocky overhang, Lockwood immediately sets to erecting a tent, a single stroke of a mallet all it takes to hammer the spikes into the rough earth. "Decent spot 'ere," He spoke out as he worked, casting a look overshoulder. "Y'figure we'll get walked up on?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Eh, if they've got hounds," she answers as she knocks over the last of the second orc tent to scavenge from. "Horses should b'able t'warn us if it's anythin' else." After rummaging through the remains of the campsite, Thelinia pauses before righting one of the tents. Lifting its post just enough to raise half of it, she props it against the rock and briefly arranges an entrance and set of moldy furs for the kobolds. Too tired to take unbidden initiative, the ranger sets down at the firepit to begin sorting out burnable charcoal from the wet leaves collected there. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Don't matter if they got hounds or not," A low grunt accompanied the last smack of hammer to spike, leaving Lockwood to step back to survey his work. "They're dead if they try anythin'." Satisfied with the arrangement of the tent's fastenings, the mercenary ties off the ropes that secure it properly to the ground before moving to the cart to help the kobolds down. Beckoning the scout with an open hand, Lockwood accepts Kosj'oth's negligible weight in his arms after a pensive hesitation from the creature, setting it gently to the ground with the sort of care one might witness from a father handling a child. Maekrix, to her credit, refuses the human's aid and works her way down from the cart with visible effort. Perhaps due to pride, distrust, or simple prejudice, the kobold matron moves along to guide her charge to the crude tent prepared by Thelinia without accepting assistance, neither of them seeming particularly bothered by the shelter's sorry state. First ensuring Kosj'oth is comfortable, Maekrix then settles herself near the tent's mouth with her legs crossed and her eyes shut, though it's uncertain if the cleric means to meditate or sit watch. With that matter seen to, Lockwood moves to gather a sparing armful of firewood from their supplies, toting it over to the side of the firepit while Raine works at the coals. Watching her go about her business, he feels some unbidden emotion stirring in his chest, the chill in the air doing little to stay it. With his eye set off into the woods towards the road's approach, the Dog keeps watch as he works up the courage to speak his mind. When he does, his voice is held cautiously low, though it is perhaps uncertain if this is due to the worry of being detected by intruders or their kobold guests, "'Ey, uh. Thanks fer, eh. Savin' me, an' all." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Content to ignore the kobolds once they were seen off the wagon, Thelinia begins unwrapping the uneaten portion of the rations she'd spared to them earlier. They're set aside along with her flint and steel when the firewood arrives, and the ranger begins setting the kindling in her usual design. It's only when she hears him speak that her habit is paused, but she resumes the work after a few moments. "...Aye." [Feel free to Sense Motive] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 19] It wasn't in Lockwood's nature to give thanks for his life. Less so for a circumstance to arise that would require it. Through all his journeys, perilous as they were, the nearness of death had been near enough to give him pause, but never so present that he might look back on the meeting and wonder if it might have played out differently had he not had another blade at his back. Then again, for most of it all, he hadn't had one there to begin with. In a way, it was comforting-- But in another, it was worrying. Even with the Boar about to watch his back, he couldn't afford to slip like he had with the pickin. Watching his partner arrange their fire, the Dog's gaze drifts off to the kobolds in their tent as her reply hangs in his head with unwelcome clarity. Had she noted the misstep on his part? The ogre had very nearly gotten the better of them, matched as they were. He supposed he hadn't expected it to fight so fiercely, though whether it was due to confidence or fear he couldn't say. Then again, there hadn't been much alternative, had there? It was that, or risk Raine's life instead of his. Hardly an equivalent exchange. A furtive shivering at the back of the tent draws Lockwood's eye as he broods, the kobold matron turning briefly from her meditations to soothe her charge with a warding hand and murmured comfort. It begged the question of how long the creatures would be stuck along with them. They'd said they'd head off to the mountains once they reached Duvik's, but given their infirmity and the security the mercenaries had offered them, Jerrad supposed he wouldn't be surprised if they tried to hang on with them. After a moment's consideration, he found he really might not mind that, as long as they kept their claws off the gold. "Y'figure th'orcs still use this place?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Thelinia grunts in the negative. "Didn't see much sign of 'em," still with an uncommon cadence, she prods at a piece of kindling. "No food, no stolen wares. Probably moved on," she sits back from her work to hit the flint and steel, a few times before a worthy spark catches. "Even stinks less." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Mmh," Lockwood concurred after a pause, pushing himself upright from the ground. "Maybe they went an' forgot about th'place." From where he stood, the growing fire was still too small to inspire warmth. At least it would catch quickly enough, provided it didn't snow on them. He didn't fancy the idea of standing watch in a mountain snowfall, especially with the prospect of a band of orcs slinking about. "I'll fetch some logs." The Dog grunted as he started off past the horses, intent on locating some proper seating for the two. It'd be a handful of minutes before he would return, his arrival preceded by the sharp impact of axe to wood echoing through the trees. It's still a while before the heavy, methodical cadence of the mercenary's footfalls begin to sound out through the frosted underbrush, signalling his return from the same path he'd taken at the start of his search. Pushing his way through the thinnest part of a thicket shielding the campsite from the rest of the forest, Lockwood totes two sturdy logs about half a man long over his uninjured shoulder, visibly compensating for his crippled side, though without measureable discomfort. Kosj'oth peers out with unconcealed awe at the sight, his matron sparing slighted huff but little else. With a grunt, the Dog shucks the logs off his shoulder with a resounding thump, then rolls them into alignment alongside the growing fire. His task done, the sellsword promptly plops himself onto one of the newly-prepared seats with a restrained sigh. "Checked 'em fer spiders an' such." He offers idly, leaning back with his eye momentarily shut. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The hypnotic work of coaxing flame to life occupies the ranger in the meantime, her thoughts drifting until the Dog's approach asks her attention. The sight is almost startling, less for the feat of strength than the exertion required of a wounded man. Thelinia seems prepared to rise to his aid, but she stops short of it and instead moves aside enough for him to lay the logs down. After a brief evaluating look, she deigns not to voice concern and takes her seat with an appreciative grunt, lacking in its usual grit. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ As he seats himself, Lockwood breathes a ragged sigh of long sought relief, his eye coaxed to shut. As right as it felt, being on the road again after just a few nights spent indulging in the luxuries of civilized society made enduring the wild's rigors a touch more difficult than he had expected. Here and there, the mercenary found himself drifting dangerously close to fond remniscense of the bed they'd been afforded at the Dove, and the burn of fine Cormyrian wine at the back of his throat. He'd be lying if those eels hadn't crossed his mind more than once, too. If there was one thing that made the Vilhon worth visiting, the stuffed eels were certainly it. He imagined he might be convinced to kill a man if it were the only thing standing between him and the last plate of the tasty little morsels on Toril. Running a hand through his sweat-slicked hair as he leans back, Jerrad wondered if Thelinia might harbor similar thoughts. "Rrh." He gave a reciprocal grunt, lifting himself straight as his vision returned. After a moment spent watching the fire, the Dog glanced off into the darkening treeline. "Figure I'll take first watch, eh." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Allowing the Dog his brief reverie, Thelinia idly strokes the tail of her braid as she watches the fire. It kept its weave impressively well, her hands finding it only barely loosened. Stray hairs create a slight halo of frizz, but its integrity warranted at least one more night of wear. That, and the memory of the girl, stayed her hand. The ranger decides instead to remove her thick leather coat and gloves, still soaked with orge viscera. It's an unsavory task to wipe it clean with only a stick of kindling, but it feels too nice to finally sit to think of returning to the horses for her care kits. Soon enough, the work is easily reconsidered as a job for the morning, or at least until after they've had supper. When he eventually speaks, she'd only just placed the coat on her lap with the failed intention of cleaning it. "Eh.." She pauses briefly, mindful of how she broaches the subject, "Y'sure 'bout yer arm?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Bluff 18] "M'alrigh'," The Dog brushes the concern aside, though he manages not to sound offended. "Won't be doin' much movin' anyhow." Unless something jumped them in the night, he thought. But by then, he'd be using the arm whether he liked it or not. At least the forest seemed quiet for the moment, perhaps due to the steadily encroaching cold. Already, frost had begun to rime the underbrush, the chill in the air certain to spread to the leaves that stretched over their heads long before morning returned. It'd make listening for intruders easier, if not overly pleasant. Shifting his weight forward to draw his body nearer the fire's warmth, Lockwood gives a low hum as he considers the topic of dinner. Duvik's was close enough that they likely didn't need to spend precious effort hunting something down in the cold and the dark. He wondered if Raine felt the same. "Lucky I ain't sick like them kobolds. S'pose ah won't know fer sure until later, eh." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 11] Thelinia affirms his claim with a low hum, and divides her attention between the warmth of the fire, and the rations she'd previously shared with the kobold. He didn't seem overly encumbered, making it easy to assume he had spared himself enough potion for the injury. She gives a vaguely disgusted grunt, "Duvik's better 'ave an inn." A bit of water applied to the ration cloth lets her clean her own hands, as the gloves hadn't been a perfect shield between her and the kobolds, let alone the orge's killing. She helps herself to the biscuits and salty meat, though the familiar taste is an unwelcome experience with the memory of rum-roasted duck still fresh in her mind. Dissatisfcation reads clear on her face, the food only serving to ease the discomfort of a day-long ride. After having what her spoiled taste can stomach, she'd leave the coat on the log to stand and move to the horses. She would greet each with a quiet chuff, taking their reins from the tree and guiding them closer to the campsite. While their size keeps them from sharing the cover, Thelinia arranges them as near as possible, and unlatches their bits to set each with their own rations. Once comfortably occupied with the meal, the ranger would go to strip them down, beginning with her mount, and preparing the large wool blankets that would keep them warm. They would have to keep the fire going overnight, both for their sake's and the horses. And, she supposed, the kobolds. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With his partner's hummed acceptance, Lockwood is able to relax into himself and see to his own routine that would occupy him until he would need to take up watch. Glancing Thelinia out of the corner of his eye as she works her way through her rations, the mercenary moves to do the same, addressing his pack a moment until a bundle of salted meat and fresh tack presents itself. Held in his hand, the plainness of his fare brings the faintest grimace to crease the corner of his mouth as the memory of the feast they'd enjoyed in Woren's hall taunted him. It'd be a shame if the only time he'd enjoy rummed goose would be in such loathsome company. Breaking off a portion of the ration between his teeth, Lockwood washed the biscuit down with a pull from his canteen to soften it, repeating the ritual several times until satisfied enough to treat himself to a strip of jerky. As he ate, it couldn't be helped that the mercenary's eye drifted off to glance his companion's efforts to tend the horses, though he forced the look elsewhere before it could be noted. With little but the fire left to occupy his attention, the Dog leaned forward to shift an errant log into the blaze proper-- Something which the kobolds seem to appreciate. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Once the horses are set up with their blankets and food, Thelinia empties two waterskins into the pots from her mess kit. The water's placed near them, though the ranger frowns at the minimal ration. At least if it snowed, they wouldn't need to worry about it. She returns to the fire, and sits to warm herself a while. She checks on the kobolds, but decides staring would probably be unwelcome and glances the tent meant for humans. Her tired body insists on a longing for its warmth and shelter, but the same desire holds her in place to enjoy the fire first. After a while, Thelinia is warmed enough to start wiping her leather wear clean, utilizing wet cloth and brush. It wasn't ideal, but the leather was cured well enough to tolerate it. Every so often, she affords herself a pull from her flask, glad to have filled it with a taste of Nimpeth's luxurious cider. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ It was easier to fall into a rhythym than Lockwood expected. Once the taste of waterlogged biscuit had grown tiresome on his tongue, the mercenary turned to replacing the water in his canteen with idle pulls of oldlaw almost without thinking. It was odd, perhaps, for a man to soak his biscuits in whiskey rather than tea, but the Dog had neither the inclination or the luxury of having tea to dip it in. Besides, with a bit of heating over the open flame, it did the work just as well. Once he'd satisfied himself, Jerrad bundled up the remaining rations and tucked them away into his pack, shifting his leg up onto the log he'd situated himself on in a bid to begin removing a boot. Working slowly against the chill that ennervated his digits, Lockwood lifts a look over to take stock of Thelinia's own chore, immediately struck by a faint guilt for the ruddy smear of gore that had soiled her fine coat. "That comin' out?" He grunted, tugging his foot free of it's prison to taste the night air's chill. A cursory inspection offered some relief in that it failed to detect any nascent blisters, though he really couldn't be certain how long that luck would hold up. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The Boar grunts, a hard and irritable sound as she works at the sleeves. "Well enough. Migh' still smell." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Grunting in kind, Lockwood stretches out to rest his bare feet near the fire's warmth, eager to air them out after a day of hard riding. "We're both goin' t'smell after that. Y'got me plastered, heh." He managed a rough chuckle, though the reminder of his own gore-spattered person bore an unwelcome task for the mercenary before the night was out. At least he wasn't alone in that regard. "Gutted 'im good, yeh." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ This time, Thelinia's acknowledging grunt seems subdued. She pauses after a moment to take another swig from her flask. "Made a'mess of it," she answers, an effort made to sound more firm. [Bluff 19] ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive 14] Nothing about the Boar's reply seems particularly amiss, allowing Lockwood to carry on with his chores by the fire without worry. He nurses his own drink, casting a careful look over at the kobolds in their tent. Kosj'oth, at least, seemed to be attempting to get some sleep. The cleric didn't seem to want for much of anything despite the wounds she'd suffered in the orcs' care, though Jerrad imagined it was mostly pride that kept her propped up. Odd little things. "Better it'n us." He gruffed, returning his eyes to the fire. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Hnn," she affirms with a reservation easily read as laziness. Lockwood responds in kind, grunting quietly as he stares into the fire. The hours that follow pass slowly despite the work ahead of the duo; the horses tolerate the cold well enough with the aid of their blankets, though they require some minding now and again to ensure their comfort. Jerrad is quiet enough, only making conversation sparingly when the notion strikes him. The topics are kept confined to their plans for travel over the next day, what they might expect to encounter on arriving in Duvik's Pass, and what might best be done with the kobolds before they entered the town proper. Regardless of resolution, he seems to keep a relatively good nature, though he quiets when it comes time to clean his equipment of the products of their confrontation with the pickin. Eventually, as Selune's light casts a glow from above the cover of cloud, it comes time for first watch, and the Dog assumes it without complaint. With his arm treating him significantly better, Lockwood is able to don his armor and situate himself at the fire's edge near the horses, where the glare is least prevalent. The kobolds, having long since bedded down, stir slightly at the mercenary's movements, but manage to avoid waking. Without much else to do, and not wanting to keep his partner from her own sleep, Jerrad busies his gaze with the darkness beyond the camp and his hands with whittling a damp piece of wood spared from the flame. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Woefully unaccustomed to what had once been daily routine, the road-worn Boar permits the Dog's claim of first watch. A bitter sort of shame was carried in the sore muscles she'd neglected more than she'd realized-- Their recent stay in luxury no doubt contributing. Thelinia carries herself to the tent, eased enough to relax in her new sleeping roll as soon as her extraneous garb had been discarded. Her partner's capacity for vigil was in less question than she might've thought, which came as a relief while she laid her head on the downy pillow. If he could manage drawing a loaded cart down a hillside with that arm, she imagined he could handle watch. Weapons still placed at easy reach beside her, Thelinia is both tired and confident enough to drift to sleep; though their reprieve in Nimpeth may keep old habits dormant, when it came time for her turn at the fire. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Whittling had never been any great skill of his. Still, if Jerrad were able to accept the misshapen ugliness of the uneven lump of wood in his hands, he would find it a soothing activity. There had been a time when he was young when he had held the desire to take up carpentry, though with so many years past, he couldn't quite recall why; perhaps he had seen the man (or dwarf, rather) down the road working his craft and come away admiring the precision of hand and strength of body the trade required. Perhaps he'd simply wanted to help others, or to build something that might outlast him. He couldn't really say. The dream had passed him by quickly enough, as those things did for children, but the habit he'd acquired of idle whittling had never quite shaken itself from the man. It helped him think. There was quite a bit to think about, when he stopped to consider it. Three days, they'd been back, and already Dog and Boar were embroiled in far too much intrigue for his liking-- And it wasn't even particularly interesting at that. Woren's ploy still sat ill with the mercenary, grating his teeth at the thought of an unseen leash keeping him in line. That the wizard had dared to do the same to Raine only inflamed the ire that bubbled up in his blood whenever the rune on his hand reminded him. That too bore consideration; his concern for the Boar had changed since their return-- Perhaps before, even. He'd noticed it, of course, but done his best to put such thoughts away where they could be ignored properly. Lockwood turned the much abused wooden lump over in his hand and set the knife at a relatively untouched side, grunting to himself. There wasn't any room for that kind of sentimentality in their line of work. More and more, he'd picked out the signs of the change; the way he moved instinctively to cover her against attack, the small swell of panic he felt at losing her in a crowd.. It was all rather obvious to him, even then. But what of her? He wasn't certain he'd be able to bear the embarassment if Thelinia were ever to reason it out. He'd just have to keep it secret. 'Secret like the bathtub?', he frowned at his own thoughts, restraining himself from grumbling at his self-admonishment. That had been a mistake. He'd just lost himself to the wine for a moment, gotten a bit too carried away at his first taste of real luxury in far too long. It only made sense that he'd think of her anyway, didn't it? The other women he'd known hadn't been the sorts he'd ever want to be with, much less think about being with. But there it was. He did want to be with her-- He'd thought about it, after all. Maybe not for long, but the thought had been there. The Dog's frown turned to a scowl as he set the wood chunk and knife aside, moving for a stiff pull from his flask. It was clear his mind wouldn't quiet itself under it's own volition-- So he'd just have to do it himself.. Even as his gaze drifted now and again to the tent where the Boar bedded. He would kick himself mentally for each bout of unintended softness. There was nothing to be done for it. +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Left unsummoned for her turn at watch, the Boar would wake, once burdening the Dog with more than an hour of her due. The realization brings her to stir, but the rigid stiffness in her legs warns her against such rash behavior. With a hiss, Thelinia relents and affords a few minutes to easing her saddle-worn muscles into use again. The ranger emerges from the tent scratching between her tangled braid, grimacing at the cold air that meets her face. With care not to sneak up on the Dog, she approaches, still securing the hard leather belt her weapons strapped to. "'Ey," She grunts, the sound almost softened with apology. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ With the flask's aid, Lockwood managed well-enough to wrangle the most troubling of his thoughts by the time it came to exchange watch, though some errant notions still fettered him now and again when he allowed his mind to wander. With characteristic discipline, he remained at his post without complaint, watchful if not particularly cheerful. It wasn't until the stirring from the tent roused his attention that the mercenary realized that he'd allowed his worries to get the better of him; if he'd been paying attention, he might have noticed when it came time to change shifts. Instead, it took the Boar's weary approach to alert him. Looking up to greet her arrival with a grunt devoid of judgement, Jerrad offers over his flask after a beat, "'Ey." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Privately thankful (if a little ashamed) to see her prolonged absence hadn't resulted in trouble, Thelinia takes the flask, and a seat by the fire. A fair mouthful dissolves the sour taste of sleep from her tongue, the familiar burn easing her into a more wakeful state. The ranger glances over the horses, and the lean-to the kobolds nested in, contented to see everything as she'd left it. She looks to the Dog briefly, but returns her gaze to the fire a while before speaking. "Th'lizards still breathin'?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ While the Boar collects herself, Lockwood collects his knife from the log beside him and slips it back into it's sheath. The question she raises seems to prompt the burly man to check on the kobolds for the first time in some while; a cursory scan of their tent yields a confirmation of their presence, much to his relief (and surprise). "Last I checked." He offered quietly, eye set to the fire for a moment. It'd died down some in the hours intervening since he took watch, but that seemed by design rather than due to any kind of inattention. He hummed, looking back to his partner with a grunt. "Must be tired out. Poor things ain't done nothin' but sleep." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The reference to his concern is not unnoticed, the Boar paying him a brief glance. Her attention is free to return to the fire then, as she leans forward with elbows rested on her knees. She acknowledges his report with a nonjudgmental and quiet grunt, and allows a pause between as she checks on the horses again from her seat. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ The lull in conversation is recieved with a like silence from the mercenary, his expression calm, but not quite serene. Were such a thing possible, Lockwood supposed he might find himself in a very different line of work. Shifting himself on an arm to lean nearer the fire, Jerrad distracts himself momentarily with hefting another log onto the fire, the tip of his blade used to roll it into place amid a storm of rekindled embers. With another grunt, this time one of mild exertion, he plants the sword into the dirt beside him to lean on. "When do y'suppose it'll be safest t'get movin'? Never met a forest orc before yesterday." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Knowledge, Dungeoneering : 15 v DC 15] "B'fore th' mornin' patrols make it out 'ere," she answers, idly peering up into the trees for a glance at the sky. There isn't much to see beyond the dark canopy, and the warm glare of the fire. "If we ca'trust Woren, shoul' saddle in a few hours. Make it t'Duvik's b'fore th'orcs set ambush, if they haven't already." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Don't count on it," Lockwood gruffed his reply, both in regards to avoiding a potential ambush and the viability of Woren's trust. As much as he had personal reason to dislike the man, the reasoning for his mistrust was far less poisonous; one should never trust a wizard if it could be helped, and that was that. Once he'd had a moment to pull a final sip from his flask, Jerrad stowed it at his hip and slid down from the log to the ground with a sigh. Even with the matter of collecting Duvik's dues and sorting out what to do with the kobolds, he'd have to be deaf and blind not to acknowledge the beauty of the woodlands around them, even in them dead of night. Simple pleasures, he supposed. "We arigh'?" He asked after a beat, eye still scanning the shadowed treeline. "Things got 'eated back in Nimpeth." +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Partially to her surprise, the unexpected question didn't have a ready answer. Lockwood wasn't wrong. Since the night of their meeting with Woren, the Dog had provoked her more than once-- she even seemed to have provoked him, though she couldn't fathom how. The stoic man seldom let anything bother him, yet something in their interactions that night seemed to set him off. As irritating as it had been when he patronized her with his gift of the mind-shielding ring, she hadn't anticipated how that indignance would elicit such a sudden and scathing response. His tirade brought so many questions they had baffled her in the moment-- she hadn't even begun to sort them out. Whatever he experienced with Menien left a scar which she must have unknowingly picked at. Yet, even if she were to forgive him that, it did nothing for their continued friction. The Joydancer. Why had he pressed--no, pried--a reaction from her about his visit with the Lliiran? What did it matter to him, that she believe him or not in the first place? Why couldn't he just accept her disinterest? Stayed by his voice, Thelinia's answer is prefaced by a quiet, hollow grunt. "S'fine," her tone shallower than intended. [Bluff = 19] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive = 25] Whether it was the depth of her tone, or the curiously muted grunt that prefaced it, something about his partner's response sat ill with the Dog. Was it that she didn't forgive his indiscretion-- something he could hardly blame her for-- or that she'd just rather drop the topic entirely rather than risk engaging what she might well have identified as the stirrings of a troubling affection on his part? Quietly, Jerrad hoped it was the former. The latter would be too embarassing for even his prodigious constitution to endure. Shifting back into a lean, the mercenary eyed his compatriot with quiet scrutiny for just a moment before he turned back to the fire. "A'righ'. 'Long as we're square." He grumbled the concession in his usual, gravel-throated way, though there was a hint of uncertainty to it lingering in the wings. [Bluff = 13] +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ [Sense Motive = 16] It's a moment before an acknowledging hum answers him, a subdued sound still. Thelinia considers him without a glance, eyes held to the campfire. Between their despondent attitudes and reserved natures, it was rare when tension could find space to manifest. Yet now here they were, mere days into their homecoming. Whatever the Dog was thinking, the ranger didn't anticipate a conversation about it. Even with his veiled uncertainty, Thelinia found she preferred to let it go. It couldn't matter anyway. There was a job ahead, and it wasn't worth jeopardizing over a meaningless spat. He must have recognized that, too. The Boar takes the flask to her lips again, a heavier pull which left the already depleted vessel with scarcely a sip's worth. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Humming in kind, Lockwood neglected the inclination to look the Boar's way, instead busying himself with warming his hands at the fire's edge. Whatever troubles there were between them couldn't be put to rest as easily as he would've liked-- But what was there to do for it? They had a job to see to. Now wasn't the best time for sorting out personal baggage. Still, he felt a sense of unease, letting it lie unfinished and untended. If he hadn't already sorted out why he might feel that way about the Boar, he'd be less bothered by it all. Sadly, he did not have the luxury of ignorance. Served him right for thinking too hard, he supposed. A light rustling off across the firepit prefaced the stirring of the one of the kobolds-- The female, if one had an eye for the things-- Though she seemed content to sit up briefly to eye the duo before flopping back onto her side. With nothing much to say, Lockwood gave a grunt, moving for a pull at his canteen. "Should be an easy job." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ "Aye," the Boar acknowledged, only a slight effort paid to loosen the stiffness of her tone. Whatever matter concerned him was dropped, and it was best assumed to consider it for the best. There was nothing to be done for it regardless. When she glances him again, she still wears an expression that's almost questioning; "Takin' t'sleep, eh?" ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Grunting lightly, Jerrad's eye shifted to meet the Boar's, a distant questioning drifting about behind the dull jade of his gaze. He wasn't entirely certain what she had taken such umbrage with in regards to their earlier feud, but he felt it better to let the issue fall to the wayside rather than risk the integrity of their current assignment-- Much less their partnership as a whole. "Mmh. S'pose I ought to. Y'be'arigh'?" +++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ If the uncommon hint in his eye wasn't cause enough, the unusual query raised a slight brow. Her wondering kept to herself, Thelinia tempers the uncertainty his look instills. "Yea." ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Without much else to do for the matter, Lockwood rises, grunting in a more familiar kind of way, "Righ'. Y'know where t'find me." He issued the ranger a characteristically terse nod as he shoved his feet into his boots and plodded off to the tent. Sleep, despite the cold and the worries running through his mind, came easily enough to the old soldier once he'd laid. Most of his armor laid stripped and set aside, save the breastplate; he'd grown accustomed to it's weight, after all. Besides, it wasn't so terribly uncomfortable when one had had the time to acquaint themselves with it. For a few hours at least, the Dog would sleep soundly enough. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

[muthologician]

Iron and Silence

It had been very nearly a year since Arstus had been ushered onto the Tears of Sabbat, the whole of his person devoted towards reunification with his chapter. During those first few months, the Astarte had reflected in the silent, dark parts of the ship’s holds on just how long it had been since he had last held the company of another Lamenter.

At times, it was difficult to remember just how long ago Tranch had been. Often, when the Librarian stood alone in those darkened halls, he found it difficult to discern the difference between the settling groans of the ship around him and the abrupt staccato of bolter fire amid the clamoring gnash of a million hungering mouths.

Perhaps it was this failing of the senses that compelled him to join his presence with that of the many psykers held within the ship’s warded hold-cells, or perhaps it was as simple as a sense of obligation to offer comfort to those who could not yet know that their lives were now measured not in years, but in months. Whatever the cause, it was that decision which found him standing now amid what had been a cramped cell teeming with the unwashed and the dispossessed, it’s occupancy now whittled down to a scant dozen individuals by the brutality of sanctioning.

Arranged about him in what roughly amounted to a circle, the nascent psykers had proven the most potent among their lot, and had been spared further disabusement through his vouching. Though the Chapter Master would ultimately have the final say on whether they were fit to serve them as brothers, the spark of virtue he sensed in them was enough to earn his confidence.

To be fair, he would have interposed on their behalf regardless of whatever potential they possessed.

Though he had not moved from his position at the center of the prayer circle for the better part of two hours, the hem of his librarian’s robes billowed up around his feet in plumes of rich blue, held aloft by the pit’s fickle gravity.

“Remember,” He began abruptly, the thick baritone amplified and distorted by the vox in his helm. If the ragged hopefuls gathered about him were bothered by it any, they displayed it poorly. “Compassion is no sin to display. Remember that it is through the Emperor’s own act of compassion that mankind yet persists to this day. It is compassion which drives us onward. Compassion which lends us the strength to fight on, even as the shadows clutch around us, and darkness gathers. Hold compassion in your hearts, and the Emperor shall be with you, always.”

[rairoleplays]

A spectre walked the halls of the lowermost decks, its shape a thinned glimpse of human form, its even steps near silent. The eyes stared cold as jade from sleepless sockets, framed by dark copper strands of hair. Still, it moved with purpose; a hollow creature stalking through a fog only it could perceive.

It comes to a stop before a stairway, which trailed along the wall down into the depths of the black ship. This would be the telepath’s first visit to the cavernous chamber, though she suspected it’d be no different than the ones before it. Even now she could feel the null field like grating metal in her mind. It would build itself into a deathly silence once she breached the threshold of its territory, but for now it would merely be a headache.

And she was thankful for it. Thankful for the dampening it’d serve on the nascent psykers, and herself. Thankful for its silent noise blocking the torment that rose from below. It was a guilty experience–however necessary–that they should suffer while she stood deafened to them. The memory of her own sanctioning was most vivid when exposed to the tithe, a dangerous distraction she couldn’t risk.

Before the diviner knew it, she was upon her destination. Her eerie form emerged from the darkness almost spiderlike in quality, unnaturally long limbs carrying her closer, skeletal fingers stretched around the bone of her cane like captured prey. The mournful whispers fall quiet after frightened gasps carries through them, and Rysari arrived before them with hard intent traced along her expression.

In a way, she was grateful for the reaction her appearance produced from the tithe. Their fear spared her lasting eye contact, allowing her to steel herself for the task ahead. They could not see her weakness. She held their lives in her hands, and her duty could not be jeopardized.

Which is why when the glint of sacred armor pulls her attention, the psyker abruptly begins her work with a harsh, vox-enchanced command.

“First forward.”

For all her will and years of discipline, the space marine’s presence was nerve-wracking. When she had first heard that a Librarian was aboard in transit, it had sped her heart with thanks that the ship would be so honored. And ever since their chance passing in the isolation cellblock, she felt the weight of her responsibility more keenly than ever. She could not let pressure influence that duty to the ship and its tithe. Wrapping herself in both her will and her work, Rysari blocked the Lamenter’s presence from her mind and begun the process of evaluation.

[muthologician]

The Librarian made no motion to turn and greet the portcullis’ laboring hiss as it clunked and slid away into the recessed floor, nor did he offer the diviner a sign of physical acknowledgement. Though some (particularly an agent of the Inquisition) might have taken this as a sign of grave disrespect, the Lamenter was far and away more concerned with offering comfort to those gathered around him.

“Rise, and go gladly. I have touched upon the virtue that rests upon your souls. You have naught to fear.”

Though the encouragement he offered was sincere, Arstus wondered if perhaps the readiness with which the ragged congregation began to rise was borne more of fear. The diviner was a gaunt, spindly thing; a wraith that seemed to glide through these hallowed halls without sound or substance. They had whispered of her coming long before he had laid eyes upon her.

All the same, he had sensed no malice in her when they’d crossed paths before. He had instructed her that she would treat the denizens of this hold with dignity commensurate with their station as guests of his chapter’s hospitality.

She had merely watched him. Perhaps she had prayed, but he had quit her company too swiftly to be certain. There was a disquieting quality to the decks above, where their meeting had taken place, and the Librarian had found that he much preferred to sequester himself within the deadened silence of the warded holds. It was easier to blind himself to the suffering of countless hundreds there.

Still unmoved from his position as the last of the sanctionites passed to file into line, Arstus shut his eyes to the world, relishing the rare absence of the Warp’s clawing presence in his mind. With only the briefest of pauses afforded to this effort, he finally addressed the diviner personally,

“I would hear your judgement, when your efforts are concluded.”

[rairoleplays]

The space marine’s instruction is acknowledged, however soundlessly and without gesture. Rysari’s attention was trained on the file of cowering bodies which tentatively approached from their hold. This cell would be her third since her last sleeping period; the tracking of time was beyond her needs, but the weariness in her bones warned she’d require rest soon. What mattered now was assigning the worthiness of these sanctionites for the Lamenters.

It was an exhausting business, determining the fate of so many individuals. Many she held her bony fingers over were only children, each worn face tear-streaked and eyes set wide over dark sleepless rings. They looked upon her with such apprehension that every breath drew a flinch from the sanctionites. The space marine’s words seemed to instill enough courage in them to hold them in place, however, if fear did not.

Were it not for her disciplined mind, she might have dwelled on the reflection she saw in each pair of frightened eyes. The image of a young voidborn, whimpering under the bellows of an Inquisitorial psyker. Just as they did now, and as they always had, countless times before them.

She would hold her voice firm, but spare the vox-enhancements as the ritual prayer is spoken for the first spread. The young psyker before her is made to kneel, so the telepath’s hand could grasp their head like talons over prey. The initial reading from this touch opened Rysari to the hoard of terror such a small creature managed to keep within itself, and it lashes out to strike at her presence, a horrific whirlwind of empathetic pain. It was a relief, in many ways, that this encounter should be so routine.

Without flinching, Rysari sets her eyes on the cards piled into her raised hand. The sanctionite’s rampaging emotions continued to echo in the back of her mind, but were ignored by her steeled consciousness. With her mind clear of all extraneous thought, she opens herself to the Tarot, and the immaterium answers.

An intangible breeze begins to lift the copper strands of her hair, and a careful eye might catch a glimmer of gold across her eyes as moves to sift through the cards. Some prayer falls from her lips as though she were unaware of it, her eyes focused solely on the cards her Sight pulls from the deck to hover before her.

“The Renegade is removed from purpose. The Officer is voiceless. The Martyr and Man have fallen.”

The diviner reminded herself what she did here for them would be nothing to what they’d receive on Holy Terra, should their journey be so blessed. It was a harrowing task to screen each for spiritual strength and faith, knowing that failure on her behalf was unacceptable.. And knowing the fate of those she, herself, was condemning.

Confused and frightened, the young psyker recoils from their divination. Though her voice had been devoid of judgement, some meaning of the reading must have registered with the child. They attempt to rend themselves from her hand, which releases them backwards with enough force to stumble the already weakened creature.

The cards return to her hand, and the air releases some of its static charge. Rysari stares down at the sanctionite with something dangerously close to pity, and must correct the mistake of eye contact immediately.

“Second forward.”

[muthologician]

The ritual that he bore witness to now had always played out in precisely the same manner. Identities had never mattered much in regards to these things; there would always be those who waited, and those who stepped forward unto their fate.

All who walk the Hallowed Path tread in the steps of their forebears.

It was a phrase that his mentor had spoken to him during those early years, the sternness of his gaze and the uncompromisingly even-handed punishment doled out in even measure. Even years after Brother Pathiel had passed from this hellish world to the Emperor’s side, the wisdom he had imparted on his pupil lingered.

Foremost among his lessons had been that no matter the fate one was cast, he may forever strive against it. In this, Arstus had come to comprehend the value of prognostication. It was a measure of the virtue of man’s soul, to struggle against the will of what was already written.

And how these small souls before him would struggle, before all was still. Even now they did, wrenching away from the diviner even as she released them pre-emptively. There was a fire in them that would be his charge to kindle, and by his oaths he would see it be done.

When the last of the sanctionites dragged themselves to the shadows furthest from the spectre, the Librarian stepped forward with a sudden purpose, thundering strides devouring the distance between himself and the cullis. A curt wave of the hand roused the gate’s machine spirits to action, and with painful deliberation, the warded hatch began to grind away.

To the children who had become his wards, his voice carried over the terrible din, seeming far too bright for so dark a place,

“Put your fears to rest, young ones. These trials shall pass. Look to my return.”

To the woman who had pronounced their judgement, his thoughts cut through the fabric of the immaterium with the cold clarity of a gleaming knife.

We must speak.

[rairoleplays]

Time had passed without notice. Determining the potential–and ultimately, the fate–of so many young lives was a draining experience, and the fatigue would read to anyone familiar with psychic exhaustion. Even as she stood tall at this place of authority, there was a subtle dampening to her aura; a dulling of its rigid shell above the fluctuations of her essence. But it would not be broken.

Her thoughts stand to meet his readily in the space they carved through the aether,

I hear you, my lord.

Despite that common thread of animosity between the factions they represented, the Inquisitorial agent retained an almost childlike admiration for his kind. Space marines were an apex of Man, the ultimate defenders of the Imperium and all its people. Such glory and valor warranted a respect that even the Inquisition hadn’t scrubbed from her mind. At least not yet.

Even at this distance, the psycurium and dampening fields tightened her ribs to her lungs, though she was thankful for its barrier as an exhausted empath. She wondered for a moment whether the Librarian could even feel its presence, or the tormented undercurrent of the hold’s occupants that wailed through the warp. He had spoken kindly to them, a surprise to be certain. But she could not trust herself in judging whether it was compassion in his vox-encoded speech.

[muthologician]

Whatever the Astarte thought of the seer’s uncanny resilience, he remained aloof, reserving himself to navigating the black halls that crisscrossed the Sabbat’s cavernous underbelly. Though less perceptive individuals might have failed to take note, Arstus regarded the grey robed armsmen and ship hands who scurried from the space marine’s advance with a distant scrutiny. Quietly, he posited that perhaps the scene would have played out much the same, even without his presence at the diviner’s side.

When the Librarian finally brought himself to a halt, it was at the edge of a long gantry that overlooked the pits from which they’d departed. Somewhere in the miserable gloom below them, his chapter’s future huddled in shadows.

Silence rushed to fill the void left by the battle brother’s stilled feet, affording the diviner time enough to gather herself before he spoke. Quietly, Arstus admitted that the lull was useful in soothing his own psyche, bruised by the psycurium’s unforgiving touch.

When he finally elected to speak, the Librarian’s voice was notably softer than before, the earnestness of his concern blunting the vox’s hard edge.

“I would hear your counsel. I would hear what is to come of them.”

[rairoleplays]

Death.

The concept crawled into her thoughts before being dispersed, and reformed as something untainted by the tormented wails assaulting her mind. It was a practiced task, however difficult or painful, made easier with the unexpected warmth that radiated from the space marine’s voice and captured her attention.

“Few possessed the faith and fortitude you would ask of them, my lord. Most will rejoin the others for Holy Terra.” She longed to look at him, wanting to identify the source of that warmth somehow beyond his helmet. Warmth was not often, nor rightly ever, found in the cold of space, and the last place one would look would be in the depths of a Black Ship. Its sudden presence, however scarce, or even imagined, was an impossibility in this place.

The diviner’s nerves held her stiff and still, better to conceal the insistent pumping of her heart beside this creature of the Emperor.

[muthologician]

Like the cogs of a great machine, the Librarian’s thoughts churned with a measured slowness; implacable in their advance, if agonizing in their seemingly ponderous nature.

The admission she had given him was hardly beyond the realm of expectation. He only wished that it were not so. He wished that there were something more he could do to ease their pain.

He wished that it were not so familiar.

A flicker of immaterial force brought the fluttering of robes about his person to a stop, shrouding his armored form more fully in draped azure.

“The trials that forge an Astartes are perilous things. Fatal, even to those of iron will, of momentous strength.” Arstus paused his words long enough to turn his gaze upon the whisper of a woman beside him, casting her features in the pale light of consecrated witchlight.

“Do you know what it is, then, that sets apart those that ascend, and those that perish?”

[rairoleplays]

She listens intently as they both watch the darkness of the holds below. Until instinctively, Rysari tilts her head to meet the gaze of the larger being, for the first time since their engagement. It’s an effort to hold her position, against the urge to spare his visor the disrespect of her eye contact. The unexpected lack of superiority in his demeanor, however, aided in this effort, and a measure of surprise might have visited her features at the uncommon comfort this brought.

It is almost reluctance she feels as she turns again to the hold, as though she divined the answer from the hundreds of psykers themselves.

“Their spirits are too broken by their fear, and they cannot find their purpose. Faith cannot reach them,” the diviner recites what she had learned with a dower expression, one that has seen too many of these fraying individuals damned, unable or unwilling to refine their fear with faith. The look in her eyes borders dangerously on pity, though her tone retains its clinical, vox-affected manner. “We teach them the path of salvation, yet many suffer a nature too corroded to mould. The shadows they cast are weak without the guiding Light, and they suffer too wholly under malignant designs of taint.”

It was an honor to serve in the role she had been assigned, especially under the purview of a Librarian. If even one of these tormented souls could trade their pain for such holy purpose, it would be worth all the agony carried in this ship’s great holds. This is what the psyker tells herself even as she stands beside the Astartes, enduring a heightened sense of self-awareness all the while.

[muthologician]

Though conviction of faith was something that he rarely found to be lacking in those he met, the Brother-Librarian had come to find that it was those who suffered most in whom faith was strongest. So it was with the seer.

Concealed beneath his chapter’s gilded ceramite, luminous blue eyes departed from the woman’s withered features, back to the deck below. In truth, he held little sway as to their fate, despite his chapter’s clout. The delivery of souls to burn on the Emperor’s holy pyre was a sacrosanct trust, charged solely to the Black Fleet and her masters, and he was but one Astarte…

And yet, his sense of duty demanded he speak.

“Is a blade broken in battle yet not a blade still?” He questioned in the leading way of a teacher to a pupil.

“If it has the capacity, is it not fit to be reforged?” The Librarian allowed the question to hang in the thick air of the tortured hold, his robes resuming their earlier fluttering.

“If what you say is true, then I will trust your judgement. I only ask that you consider my words. The Lamenters stand perched on the edge of oblivion. These souls could prove our undoing.. Or they may yet be the salvation we have sought for so long.”

[rairoleplays]

Bony knuckles tightened at the railing she rested them on, but are withdrawn to her side where they might reclaim their discipline. It was a pain previously unaddressed which his words unknowingly struck, one she had endured the subduing of every meditative cycle. It was true that it would still haunt her even against duress of prayer, but its cries always came from within and were therefore under her purview of control. Until now.

To hear it spoken aloud was jolting, to say the least. In all her months aboard the Ship, not a whisper of sympathy nor even pity was breathed for the nameless denizens of the holds below. Though she knew to follow her own duty in like step, unbidden feelings of empathy proved inescapable for the seer. Now they were vocalized, with a tongue she couldn’t fathom. Why would he, of all individuals, question this process as she dared not?

“I understand wholly, my lord,” she spoke, her voice quieted by a temporary stall in her vocal implants. “It is why I sought a higher perception of their capability. It would be inexcusable to offer you less than mandated.”

She wondered momentarily if this was a test he offered her. Perhaps he had detected her own questioning, and used it against her now. However, these thoughts were readily defeated by the genuine manner in which he spoke. And it was this earnest compassion that pried more from the warded lips of the seer.

“I thank you for entrusting their fates to my sight. Were it through sight alone that I might mold them for you, I would not hesitate.” An anxious beat in her breast pauses her, but she continues, “I did hope to find more opportunity in them, my lord. But my hope is nothing to the will of the Emperor. I could not disaffect my duty in deigning any one of them as more than what they are.”

After all, she should not despair; theirs was a sacred fate, immeasurably purposeful and deserving of her respect. And her resignation.

[muthologician]

Were he a lesser man, the subtlety with which she clenched at the rail might have eluded him. For all her frailness, the woman carried herself with an air of absolute focus. What others might perhaps have mistaken for simple, inhuman detachment, the Astarte recognized for conviction. It was a familiar sort of determination that could only come from a particularly harrowing sanctioning.

Moving with the hurtling finesse that only a space marine could possess, Arstus swept his robes about him so that he might better face the seer, as though he sought to further tower over the human he already dwarfed. And then, with not a whisper of violence, he lowered himself to a kneel beside the withered diviner and looked into her eyes.

“Know that I seek not to steer you from your decision when I speak.” He began, two massive, ceramite-sheathed hands coming to rest atop his bent knee. “Is it your belief that I chose them for their strength of will? Or body? Or that I elected them for some percieved mightiness of conviction?”

There was palpable pause before his voice rumbled up through the grille of his helmet like a cloud of rolling smoke.

“It was for the pureness of conviction that I touched upon in them. There is an ember hope in all of us. In some, it is little more than a spark. But in them, it is a roaring flame. I sense it in you, too.”

Another sharp pause punctuated the air, before being swept away by his final words.

“Do you truly believe anyone is beyond salvation?”

[rairoleplays]

A roaring flame, her mind echoed, awestruck by his blessing and proximity. It was unfathomable to consider which captivated her;  the sudden question regarding her faith, or the unimaginable regard he paid her in asking it. Holding her eyes from his visor was no longer an option. Not while the Astarte commanded them.

An understated swallows remedies her dry mouth, her frozen stance preventing a show of cowardice. He commanded her truth.

“I believe in salvation, my lord, as I believe in sin.”

[His Light leads us all, and yet so many stray.]

The broadcast quandary played second to her answer, sent alongside with a respectful division. It came with the candor of a despairing student, thoughtful and determined to seek resolution. It would have shaken the veteran diviner to communicate so plainly with a space marine were it not for the benevolence he exuded– in such measure that it brought a touch of color to her pallor features.

“No man may evade both.”

[muthologician]

Whatever reaction the Lamenter recieved the seer’s message with was hidden from view by the veil of bradden ceramite that shielded his features, the warp-echo of his mind conveying only stoic acknowledgement.

It was a fine answer, he considered agreeably, but one which he met with a faint disappointment all the same. The sin of failure stained all, it was true; the Lamenters knew this as well as any. Their shortcomings as a chapter were manifest, if not in the eyes of the Imperium’s people, then certainly in the cold regard paid by their peers. It was why they could never tire in their duty, held sacred above all else. It was why he trifled with the diviner as an equal, rather than as a kingly lord as another in his position might.

"And yet the sin of failure may be cleansed, as a flame scourges a wound.” Arstus offered, unmoving in the hold’s dim light.

[Hope is the flame we must carry, that it may embolden the soul. It is our task to enkindle it into something greater.]

“I ask that you afford me your grace in my endeavor, honored seer. Give me time to stoke the fire in their hearts, that they may forget their infirmity of spirit. Those that prove incapable shall pass to your care, as they must.” The marine’s gaze held fast to his fellow psyker’s, mindful of her reaction. “But there is something I sense in them that begs my intervention. I would shirk my duty to ignore it.”

[rairoleplays]

Though brief, the very thought she might have impeded his undertaking wracked her mind with pain. But as soon as it came, the outburst was silenced, as her discipline returned in automated and wordless prayer.

Every sense the seer possessed was allowed then the captivity of reverence-- an impossible gift beyond refusal. It was a blessing like none other, to be so confronted by the Astartes. Though her body stood still as death, the psyker's mind emanated such reverence that would beg her to kneel. Yet within the anointed waves of his words both spoken and silent, she held herself to her full height, absorbing every ripple his voices bestowed.

With a mouth too dry to use, she offered acknowledgement and gratitude, undercut by repentance. She could dip her head at last.

"My Lord, you will have it. There would be no cause for your audience if it were not His Will." She swallowed against the audacity of doubt, soothing her faith with its suffocation.

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream, prt II

{part 1}

[[ Completely 100% unanticipated surprise 18+ nsfw erp content how’d that happen ]]

Kezza followed his guidance, finding herself perched above him with a hand at his ear and a leg between his. Her ears curled at the almost unanticipated implication, the dream conveying her response with a light ripple of welcomed surprise. Though he may have been a step or two ahead of her, the mesmer couldn’t argue that his interpretation was wholly inaccurate.

But the dream shuddered in the distant background of the scene when he spoke– a vague discomfort crawling in from the imagined walls. While it could be more difficult for the distracted Disaggregator to recognize, Kezza felt it clearly.

As she looked down at the asura beneath her, there was a brief moment where he seemed absent. In his place was another echo, this time almost audible; A feminine voice, with the impression of his own words spoken as one sound.

Unaware that Gerik may have heard it, she snaps herself from the dream’s instability, restoring the integrity of the inn room. Embarrassment folds her ears, though they keep their curled tips in a bashful expression. She nuzzles at the wrist that reaches her hair, easily resuming the indulgence of his company.

“Ger..” Kezza leans to bring her forehead to his, a warm gratitude brought through the touch. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

[muthologician]

It wasn’t terribly difficult for the Magistrix to lighten her subordinate’s mood even in the worst of times, but even so, Gerik was almost taken aback by the warmth that his friend’s words gifted him with. Already flushed by the closeness they shared, the Disaggregator’s blush spread to his cheeks from his ears, a demure smile spreading easily across his features.

“I don’t want to know..” His words came out slow, half-sung through the hazy dream world around them. It was all so idyllic.

And yet, something seemed off. Perhaps a bit slower to catch onto the distant shift that rippled beneath the dream’s surface, Gerik’s ears nonetheless were lent a slight curl that spoke his alarm. His eyes drifted lazily despite the jarring sensation, scanning the edges of his vision for anything out of the ordinary only to come away with nothing. It couldn’t be anything worth worrying about, certainly.

Returning his attention to the asura above him, the Disaggregator seemed to forget his concerns quickly enough, his teeth finding a place to nip along the base of Kezza’s ear, a light growl accompanying the motion as it turned to a more insistent nuzzle.

“Whatever time we have here, it’s enough for me, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

A lilting coo answers the teeth at her ear, not unlike a gentle purr. Kezza shifts to return the favor with eager nips, bringing their chests to meet. The brief flurry ends with grateful nuzzles below his ear and cheek, and a hand slides from his shoulder to his waist.

Though her motion is seamless in the dream, it seems required that she adjust the knee set between his legs. The contact is little more than a soft nudge, though the dream offers no tells of its innocence.

Kezza places a kiss at his neck. “Me too.”

[muthologician]

Breathless, Gerik lets his claws trace a path down the small of her back, both to further soothe her and in a bid to keep her close. He finally reclaims his composure enough for a light sigh to issue forth, increasingly fervent nuzzles paid to her neck and collar.

Pulling away only enough to allow himself the room to maneuver, the Disaggregator hooks a claw under his scarf and pulls it away, failing to notice when the discarded garment dissolves into the dreamy ether. Unburdened by the fine silk that had concealed it, his neck and collar lay exposed before the Magistrix, an unintended growl entreating her to take advantage of the vulnerability.

[rairoleplays]

Kezza wastes no time bringing soft attention down his neck, delivering a light nip at the collar. Delicate claws draw across his breastplate, but she soon takes them to its fastenings to cut it loose in the short order only a dream could permit. The armor joins his scarf in the forgotten corners of lucidity, allowing access beneath his coat where her claws can slide across his chest in earnest. A sigh escapes her without thinking, and she rests her head against him with a coo.

[muthologician]

Freed from the burden of his armor, Gerik is allowed greater leeway to reciprocate his friend’s advances. So encouraged, he feels another cooing sigh drift past his lips as Kezza’s teeth meet his neck, spurring his hands to wander to the hem of her shirt where it might be tugged up enough to allow them access to her chest. Once located, his claws drag themselves gingerly across the soft of her belly, snout buried in the gentle brown locks at her head to sigh encouragement– Though an indiscreet buck of the hips is perhaps more telling of that goading than anything else.

[rairoleplays]

Coaxed into action, Kezza is convinced to lift herself only enough to set his legs between hers, and assign him another kiss to reciprocate. Breathless despite the dream state, she finds herself whispering a different iteration of longing.

“I’ve missed you,” the words come only partially from her lips, as their sentiment fills the imagined air around them. The hand beneath his coat now brushes it aside, no less tenderly than the soft nuzzles at his snout.

[muthologician]

The Magistrix’s words coil about Gerik on the very air, encouraging him to relax further into the bedding beneath him with a soundless sigh. With the space the motion affords him, a long kiss is snatched from Kezza’s lips before he withdraws to work her shirt free, discarded just as his own garments had been. With her chest bared, he finds himself caught lingering in a haze as he takes in the sight, awed.

Regaining himself just enough, Gerik leans back up to trail affection along Kezza’s abdomen, working his way up until the tips of his teeth find purchase again at her neck. Without burdening his lips with the duty of movement, his thoughts manifest themselves around the two of them on a current of loving warmth, “I love you, Kez.”.

[rairoleplays]

Under his half-lidded gaze, a telling curl slowly lifts her ears with an even more telling blush. The scar marring her chest and shoulder still appears, dark and jagged, unforgotten by the once-Magistrix even in the midst of a dream. The minor lull in the atmosphere is banished, however, by Gerik’s touch, and Kezza sighs through the ripple of solace he provides. That memory would not find purchase here.

A short pulse of excitement crosses the dreamscape for each kiss he places on his way to her neck, which is offered freely and welcomed with a yearning coo.

It’s only at his words that something seems amiss somewhere in the vaguities of their imagined world. It swims through the background of her mind, gentle as a leaf on the breeze, even as its influence whispers uncertainty and contrition.

Before it might be cause for discomfort, Kezza closes her eyes to the unseen shift in thoughts, and guides them gently back to silence. They were memories once resolved, stirred by the feelings Gerik again inspired, but there was no place for them here.

Not while she had longed for this comfort through all of her treacherous exile.

Soothing herself with the reminder of Vinn’s kind understanding, a small wave of her partner’s warmth washes across them, and the dream is relieved fully of anxiety.. Forgiving only a moment’s jolt of an unrelated remorse.

Reassuring nuzzles are paid to his ear before she might see his notice of the small disruption. They are followed by a nip at the top, her teeth held suggestively longer than before.

[muthologician]

The undercurrent of distress that worms it’s way through the dream fails to strike the Disaggregator– at least at first. Too engrossed in putting his words to action, Gerik lets his claws draw long, swooping lines across the Magistrix’s bared back, gently rising sentiments of contentment emanating from his person.

It’s not until his eyes chance to fall on the scar across Kezza’s chest that he feels a twinge of remorse, opening him to the larger shadow cast by his wayward friend’s own reservations. Something began to stir in his heart, dark and wounded, but with Kezza’s renewed affection, he feels it cast off and his senses immersed again in a protective warmth.

Pinching a gasp between his lips at the insistent teeth nipping his ear, Gerik reciprocates with a kiss at her jaw as he departs his hands to draw the hem of her pants down over her hips.

[rairoleplays]

Before the last of her attire could be freed, Kezza leans in to slide the other sleeve of his coat off his shoulder. A moment or two is afforded to take in this image of the Disaggregator, softened and tame. It summons a wave of warmth to encapsulate the scene, this time lingering for as long as she keeps his gaze.

Her small tail hooks the hem for only a moment, so briefly it was as though it hadn't, and the loosed garment fades from awareness without a sound.

The warmth reaches a peak, which Kezza addresses with a swift press of her lips to his. The hands at his back press softly as they guide him to lay beside her, her kiss longing and decisive.

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream, prt II

{part 1}

[[ Completely 100% unanticipated surprise 18+ nsfw erp content how’d that happen ]]

Kezza followed his guidance, finding herself perched above him with a hand at his ear and a leg between his. Her ears curled at the almost unanticipated implication, the dream conveying her response with a light ripple of welcomed surprise. Though he may have been a step or two ahead of her, the mesmer couldn’t argue that his interpretation was wholly inaccurate.

But the dream shuddered in the distant background of the scene when he spoke– a vague discomfort crawling in from the imagined walls. While it could be more difficult for the distracted Disaggregator to recognize, Kezza felt it clearly.

As she looked down at the asura beneath her, there was a brief moment where he seemed absent. In his place was another echo, this time almost audible; A feminine voice, with the impression of his own words spoken as one sound.

Unaware that Gerik may have heard it, she snaps herself from the dream’s instability, restoring the integrity of the inn room. Embarrassment folds her ears, though they keep their curled tips in a bashful expression. She nuzzles at the wrist that reaches her hair, easily resuming the indulgence of his company.

“Ger..” Kezza leans to bring her forehead to his, a warm gratitude brought through the touch. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

[muthologician]

It wasn’t terribly difficult for the Magistrix to lighten her subordinate’s mood even in the worst of times, but even so, Gerik was almost taken aback by the warmth that his friend’s words gifted him with. Already flushed by the closeness they shared, the Disaggregator’s blush spread to his cheeks from his ears, a demure smile spreading easily across his features.

“I don’t want to know..” His words came out slow, half-sung through the hazy dream world around them. It was all so idyllic.

And yet, something seemed off. Perhaps a bit slower to catch onto the distant shift that rippled beneath the dream’s surface, Gerik’s ears nonetheless were lent a slight curl that spoke his alarm. His eyes drifted lazily despite the jarring sensation, scanning the edges of his vision for anything out of the ordinary only to come away with nothing. It couldn’t be anything worth worrying about, certainly.

Returning his attention to the asura above him, the Disaggregator seemed to forget his concerns quickly enough, his teeth finding a place to nip along the base of Kezza’s ear, a light growl accompanying the motion as it turned to a more insistent nuzzle.

“Whatever time we have here, it’s enough for me, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

A lilting coo answers the teeth at her ear, not unlike a gentle purr. Kezza shifts to return the favor with eager nips, bringing their chests to meet. The brief flurry ends with grateful nuzzles below his ear and cheek, and a hand slides from his shoulder to his waist.

Though her motion is seamless in the dream, it seems required that she adjust the knee set between his legs. The contact is little more than a soft nudge, though the dream offers no tells of its innocence.

Kezza places a kiss at his neck. “Me too.”

[muthologician]

Breathless, Gerik lets his claws trace a path down the small of her back, both to further soothe her and in a bid to keep her close. He finally reclaims his composure enough for a light sigh to issue forth, increasingly fervent nuzzles paid to her neck and collar.

Pulling away only enough to allow himself the room to maneuver, the Disaggregator hooks a claw under his scarf and pulls it away, failing to notice when the discarded garment dissolves into the dreamy ether. Unburdened by the fine silk that had concealed it, his neck and collar lay exposed before the Magistrix, an unintended growl entreating her to take advantage of the vulnerability.

[rairoleplays]

Kezza wastes no time bringing soft attention down his neck, delivering a light nip at the collar. Delicate claws draw across his breastplate, but she soon takes them to its fastenings to cut it loose in the short order only a dream could permit. The armor joins his scarf in the forgotten corners of lucidity, allowing access beneath his coat where her claws can slide across his chest in earnest. A sigh escapes her without thinking, and she rests her head against him with a coo.

[muthologician]

Freed from the burden of his armor, Gerik is allowed greater leeway to reciprocate his friend’s advances. So encouraged, he feels another cooing sigh drift past his lips as Kezza’s teeth meet his neck, spurring his hands to wander to the hem of her shirt where it might be tugged up enough to allow them access to her chest. Once located, his claws drag themselves gingerly across the soft of her belly, snout buried in the gentle brown locks at her head to sigh encouragement– Though an indiscreet buck of the hips is perhaps more telling of that goading than anything else.

[rairoleplays]

Coaxed into action, Kezza is convinced to lift herself only enough to set his legs between hers, and assign him another kiss to reciprocate. Breathless despite the dream state, she finds herself whispering a different iteration of longing.

“I’ve missed you,” the words come only partially from her lips, as their sentiment fills the imagined air around them. The hand beneath his coat now brushes it aside, no less tenderly than the soft nuzzles at his snout.

[muthologician]

The Magistrix’s words coil about Gerik on the very air, encouraging him to relax further into the bedding beneath him with a soundless sigh. With the space the motion affords him, a long kiss is snatched from Kezza’s lips before he withdraws to work her shirt free, discarded just as his own garments had been. With her chest bared, he finds himself caught lingering in a haze as he takes in the sight, awed.

Regaining himself just enough, Gerik leans back up to trail affection along Kezza’s abdomen, working his way up until the tips of his teeth find purchase again at her neck. Without burdening his lips with the duty of movement, his thoughts manifest themselves around the two of them on a current of loving warmth, “I love you, Kez.”.

[rairoleplays]

Under his half-lidded gaze, a telling curl slowly lifts her ears with an even more telling blush. The scar marring her chest and shoulder still appears, dark and jagged, unforgotten by the once-Magistrix even in the midst of a dream. The minor lull in the atmosphere is banished, however, by Gerik's touch, and Kezza sighs through the ripple of solace he provides. That memory would not find purchase here.

A short pulse of excitement crosses the dreamscape for each kiss he places on his way to her neck, which is offered freely and welcomed with a yearning coo.

It's only at his words that something seems amiss somewhere in the vaguities of their imagined world. It swims through the background of her mind, gentle as a leaf on the breeze, even as its influence whispers uncertainty and contrition.

Before it might be cause for discomfort, Kezza closes her eyes to the unseen shift in thoughts, and guides them gently back to silence. They were memories once resolved, stirred by the feelings Gerik again inspired, but there was no place for them here.

Not while she had longed for this comfort through all of her treacherous exile.

Soothing herself with the reminder of Vinn's kind understanding, a small wave of her partner's warmth washes across them, and the dream is relieved fully of anxiety.. Forgiving only a moment's jolt of an unrelated remorse.

Reassuring nuzzles are paid to his ear before she might see his notice of the small disruption. They are followed by a nip at the top, her teeth held suggestively longer than before.

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream, prt II

{part 1}

[[ Completely 100% unanticipated surprise 18+ nsfw erp content how’d that happen ]]

Kezza followed his guidance, finding herself perched above him with a hand at his ear and a leg between his. Her ears curled at the almost unanticipated implication, the dream conveying her response with a light ripple of welcomed surprise. Though he may have been a step or two ahead of her, the mesmer couldn’t argue that his interpretation was wholly inaccurate.

But the dream shuddered in the distant background of the scene when he spoke– a vague discomfort crawling in from the imagined walls. While it could be more difficult for the distracted Disaggregator to recognize, Kezza felt it clearly.

As she looked down at the asura beneath her, there was a brief moment where he seemed absent. In his place was another echo, this time almost audible; A feminine voice, with the impression of his own words spoken as one sound.

Unaware that Gerik may have heard it, she snaps herself from the dream’s instability, restoring the integrity of the inn room. Embarrassment folds her ears, though they keep their curled tips in a bashful expression. She nuzzles at the wrist that reaches her hair, easily resuming the indulgence of his company.

“Ger..” Kezza leans to bring her forehead to his, a warm gratitude brought through the touch. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

[muthologician]

It wasn’t terribly difficult for the Magistrix to lighten her subordinate’s mood even in the worst of times, but even so, Gerik was almost taken aback by the warmth that his friend’s words gifted him with. Already flushed by the closeness they shared, the Disaggregator’s blush spread to his cheeks from his ears, a demure smile spreading easily across his features.

“I don’t want to know..” His words came out slow, half-sung through the hazy dream world around them. It was all so idyllic.

And yet, something seemed off. Perhaps a bit slower to catch onto the distant shift that rippled beneath the dream’s surface, Gerik’s ears nonetheless were lent a slight curl that spoke his alarm. His eyes drifted lazily despite the jarring sensation, scanning the edges of his vision for anything out of the ordinary only to come away with nothing. It couldn’t be anything worth worrying about, certainly.

Returning his attention to the asura above him, the Disaggregator seemed to forget his concerns quickly enough, his teeth finding a place to nip along the base of Kezza’s ear, a light growl accompanying the motion as it turned to a more insistent nuzzle.

“Whatever time we have here, it’s enough for me, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

A lilting coo answers the teeth at her ear, not unlike a gentle purr. Kezza shifts to return the favor with eager nips, bringing their chests to meet. The brief flurry ends with grateful nuzzles below his ear and cheek, and a hand slides from his shoulder to his waist.

Though her motion is seamless in the dream, it seems required that she adjust the knee set between his legs. The contact is little more than a soft nudge, though the dream offers no tells of its innocence.

Kezza places a kiss at his neck. “Me too.”

[muthologician]

Breathless, Gerik lets his claws trace a path down the small of her back, both to further soothe her and in a bid to keep her close. He finally reclaims his composure enough for a light sigh to issue forth, increasingly fervent nuzzles paid to her neck and collar.

Pulling away only enough to allow himself the room to maneuver, the Disaggregator hooks a claw under his scarf and pulls it away, failing to notice when the discarded garment dissolves into the dreamy ether. Unburdened by the fine silk that had concealed it, his neck and collar lay exposed before the Magistrix, an unintended growl entreating her to take advantage of the vulnerability.

[rairoleplays]

Kezza wastes no time bringing soft attention down his neck, delivering a light nip at the collar. Delicate claws draw across his breastplate, but she soon takes them to its fastenings to cut it loose in the short order only a dream could permit. The armor joins his scarf in the forgotten corners of lucidity, allowing access beneath his coat where her claws can slide across his chest in earnest. A sigh escapes her without thinking, and she rests her head against him with a coo.

[muthologician]

Freed from the burden of his armor, Gerik is allowed greater leeway to reciprocate his friend’s advances. So encouraged, he feels another cooing sigh drift past his lips as Kezza’s teeth meet his neck, spurring his hands to wander to the hem of her shirt where it might be tugged up enough to allow them access to her chest. Once located, his claws drag themselves gingerly across the soft of her belly, snout buried in the gentle brown locks at her head to sigh encouragement– Though an indiscreet buck of the hips is perhaps more telling of that goading than anything else.

[rairoleplays]

Coaxed into action, Kezza is convinced to lift herself only enough to set his legs between hers, and assign him another kiss to reciprocate. Breathless despite the dream state, she finds herself whispering a different iteration of longing.

"I've missed you," the words come only partially from her lips, as their sentiment fills the imagined air around them. The hand beneath his coat now brushes it aside, no less tenderly than the soft nuzzles at his snout.

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream, prt II

{part 1}

[[ Completely 100% unanticipated surprise 18+ nsfw erp content how’d that happen ]]

Kezza followed his guidance, finding herself perched above him with a hand at his ear and a leg between his. Her ears curled at the almost unanticipated implication, the dream conveying her response with a light ripple of welcomed surprise. Though he may have been a step or two ahead of her, the mesmer couldn’t argue that his interpretation was wholly inaccurate.

But the dream shuddered in the distant background of the scene when he spoke– a vague discomfort crawling in from the imagined walls. While it could be more difficult for the distracted Disaggregator to recognize, Kezza felt it clearly.

As she looked down at the asura beneath her, there was a brief moment where he seemed absent. In his place was another echo, this time almost audible; A feminine voice, with the impression of his own words spoken as one sound.

Unaware that Gerik may have heard it, she snaps herself from the dream’s instability, restoring the integrity of the inn room. Embarrassment folds her ears, though they keep their curled tips in a bashful expression. She nuzzles at the wrist that reaches her hair, easily resuming the indulgence of his company.

“Ger..” Kezza leans to bring her forehead to his, a warm gratitude brought through the touch. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

[muthologician]

It wasn’t terribly difficult for the Magistrix to lighten her subordinate’s mood even in the worst of times, but even so, Gerik was almost taken aback by the warmth that his friend’s words gifted him with. Already flushed by the closeness they shared, the Disaggregator’s blush spread to his cheeks from his ears, a demure smile spreading easily across his features.

“I don’t want to know..” His words came out slow, half-sung through the hazy dream world around them. It was all so idyllic.

And yet, something seemed off. Perhaps a bit slower to catch onto the distant shift that rippled beneath the dream’s surface, Gerik’s ears nonetheless were lent a slight curl that spoke his alarm. His eyes drifted lazily despite the jarring sensation, scanning the edges of his vision for anything out of the ordinary only to come away with nothing. It couldn’t be anything worth worrying about, certainly.

Returning his attention to the asura above him, the Disaggregator seemed to forget his concerns quickly enough, his teeth finding a place to nip along the base of Kezza’s ear, a light growl accompanying the motion as it turned to a more insistent nuzzle.

“Whatever time we have here, it’s enough for me, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

A lilting coo answers the teeth at her ear, not unlike a gentle purr. Kezza shifts to return the favor with eager nips, bringing their chests to meet. The brief flurry ends with grateful nuzzles below his ear and cheek, and a hand slides from his shoulder to his waist.

Though her motion is seamless in the dream, it seems required that she adjust the knee set between his legs. The contact is little more than a soft nudge, though the dream offers no tells of its innocence.

Kezza places a kiss at his neck. “Me too.”

[muthologician]

Breathless, Gerik lets his claws trace a path down the small of her back, both to further soothe her and in a bid to keep her close. He finally reclaims his composure enough for a light sigh to issue forth, increasingly fervent nuzzles paid to her neck and collar.

Pulling away only enough to allow himself the room to maneuver, the Disaggregator hooks a claw under his scarf and pulls it away, failing to notice when the discarded garment dissolves into the dreamy ether. Unburdened by the fine silk that had concealed it, his neck and collar lay exposed before the Magistrix, an unintended growl entreating her to take advantage of the vulnerability.

[rairoleplays]

Kezza wastes no time bringing soft attention down his neck, delivering a light nip at the collar. Delicate claws draw across his breastplate, but she soon takes them to its fastenings to cut it loose in the short order only a dream could permit. The armor joins his scarf in the forgotten corners of lucidity, allowing access beneath his coat where her claws can slide across his chest in earnest. A sigh escapes her without thinking, and she rests her head against him with a coo.

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream, prt II

{part 1}

[[ Completely 100% unanticipated surprise 18+ nsfw erp content how’d that happen ]]

Kezza followed his guidance, finding herself perched above him with a hand at his ear and a leg between his. Her ears curled at the almost unanticipated implication, the dream conveying her response with a light ripple of welcomed surprise. Though he may have been a step or two ahead of her, the mesmer couldn’t argue that his interpretation was wholly inaccurate.

But the dream shuddered in the distant background of the scene when he spoke– a vague discomfort crawling in from the imagined walls. While it could be more difficult for the distracted Disaggregator to recognize, Kezza felt it clearly.

As she looked down at the asura beneath her, there was a brief moment where he seemed absent. In his place was another echo, this time almost audible; A feminine voice, with the impression of his own words spoken as one sound.

Unaware that Gerik may have heard it, she snaps herself from the dream’s instability, restoring the integrity of the inn room. Embarrassment folds her ears, though they keep their curled tips in a bashful expression. She nuzzles at the wrist that reaches her hair, easily resuming the indulgence of his company.

“Ger..” Kezza leans to bring her forehead to his, a warm gratitude brought through the touch. “I don’t know where I’d be without you.”

[muthologician]

It wasn’t terribly difficult for the Magistrix to lighten her subordinate’s mood even in the worst of times, but even so, Gerik was almost taken aback by the warmth that his friend’s words gifted him with. Already flushed by the closeness they shared, the Disaggregator’s blush spread to his cheeks from his ears, a demure smile spreading easily across his features.

“I don’t want to know..” His words came out slow, half-sung through the hazy dream world around them. It was all so idyllic.

And yet, something seemed off. Perhaps a bit slower to catch onto the distant shift that rippled beneath the dream’s surface, Gerik’s ears nonetheless were lent a slight curl that spoke his alarm. His eyes drifted lazily despite the jarring sensation, scanning the edges of his vision for anything out of the ordinary only to come away with nothing. It couldn’t be anything worth worrying about, certainly.

Returning his attention to the asura above him, the Disaggregator seemed to forget his concerns quickly enough, his teeth finding a place to nip along the base of Kezza’s ear, a light growl accompanying the motion as it turned to a more insistent nuzzle.

“Whatever time we have here, it’s enough for me, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

A lilting coo answers the teeth at her ear, not unlike a gentle purr. Kezza shifts to return the favor with eager nips, bringing their chests to meet. The brief flurry ends with grateful nuzzles below his ear and cheek, and a hand slides from his shoulder to his waist.

Though her motion is seamless in the dream, it seems required that she adjust the knee set between his legs. The contact is little more than a soft nudge, though the dream offers no tells of its innocence.

Kezza places a kiss at his neck. "Me too.”

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream, prt II

{part 1}

[[ Completely 100% unanticipated surprise 18+ nsfw erp content how’d that happen ]]

Kezza followed his guidance, finding herself perched above him with a hand at his ear and a leg between his. Her ears curled at the almost unanticipated implication, the dream conveying her response with a light ripple of welcomed surprise. Though he may have been a step or two ahead of her, the mesmer couldn't argue that his interpretation was wholly inaccurate.

But the dream shuddered in the distant background of the scene when he spoke-- a vague discomfort crawling in from the imagined walls. While it could be more difficult for the distracted Disaggregator to recognize, Kezza felt it clearly.

As she looked down at the asura beneath her, there was a brief moment where he seemed absent. In his place was another echo, this time almost audible; A feminine voice, with the impression of his own words spoken as one sound.

Unaware that Gerik may have heard it, she snaps herself from the dream's instability, restoring the integrity of the inn room. Embarrassment folds her ears, though they keep their curled tips in a bashful expression. She nuzzles at the wrist that reaches her hair, easily resuming the indulgence of his company.

"Ger.." Kezza leans to bring her forehead to his, a warm gratitude brought through the touch. "I don't know where I’d be without you."

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream (RP)

Another long pull from her wine glass, and another sigh following it. It was a routine she’d long since fallen into– were she not so dedicated to regular visits with her family, she could fall harder into such a habit. What else would keep her going, after losing everything? Without Vinn and her precious Pwitt, the once-Magistrix was an asura without purpose. And she knew it.

Kezza gripped the bridge of her snout over the mask– perhaps the last trapping of the glory days which still served her. Alchemy knew her krewe didn’t. And the masks would grant her protection from that very same krewe, provided the assassins they sent were unfamiliar with her old practice. It seemed unlikely, but so far.. so good.

An emptied flagon crashed beside her, thrown against the bar behind the order of the bookah wielding it. The crude and surly thing demanded a refreshed glass, by Kezza’s count, her fifth. How this repulsive cretin could stomach that much swill in so short a time was a curiosity worth research, but the asura only gave the specimen a dull stare. Seemingly incensed by the look, the human growled at her and muttered something incomprehensible.

One of the most regrettable aspects of her exile was the safety protocol she’d assigned herself: Never be alone outside of her hideout. Even if it meant the company of bookah. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but solitude took its toll between risked visits with Vinn and Pwitt.

Acceptance became easier to grasp, but..

It never got less depressing.

At least in Divinity’s Reach, there was wine. A guilty pleasure, she admitted, but one made forgivable with the reminder of its discovery. Pained now as it was, the memory could still warm her where the wine couldn’t. She had been reluctant to indulge her friend’s incessant push for the outing, reminding him of every unpleasantry the city held.

But as always, Gerik had a way of swaying her. The absence of his whimsy made her stay in the city much less amicable, even as she recalled his more obnoxious tendencies. She’d trade every glass of fermented grape to hear just one of his annoying quips.

Kezza brought a hand to her forehead, unable and unwilling to acknowledge the irate female next her. The bottle of wine she’d ingested was nothing to the horrid lead weight in her stomach, a nausea she’d never once shaken in the past months. There was no way to know for certain whether or not the Disaggregator had succeeded his escape, and it was an anxiety that overwhelmed her thoughts when her guard grew weak. Relief only hinted itself in the determined hope that he was as capable as she’d always known him to be.

–

The journey back to her hideaway through the foreign city was mercifully uneventful under the cover of mesmeric subterfuge. Despite the sore arm she’d acquired during the inevitable altercation with the bookah woman, the cause of her fatigue was far less tangible. These days were exhausting in their boredom, and the nights restless with angst.

Yet for once, perhaps by the grace of that bookah’s dirty tricks, Kezza found her makeshift cot an almost welcome sight, and sleep came before it could be questioned.

[muthologician]

The Disaggregator was no stranger to ritual. Binding a spirit, for instance, was a process with which he and any other Inquest agent worth their datastacks were intimately familiar. Though the exact methods and preferred location differred from the habits of the pedestrian lab jockey or floundering bookah, the curvature of the binding lines and the crumbled reagents, the powdered bone and muttered incantations were all the same. It was a similar experience to any other ritual of a like magic.

This, though. This was different. Certainly, the chalk lines had been drawn up and the candles had been lit; surely, he’d canted the sacred words, written in times long passed into antiquity as proscribed by the simian gods– But it was different. This time, there had been no bundled sticks to burn, or dried rat bones to break over consecrated water.

This time, there had only been an overwhelming consumption of junk food. As much as he disdained the stuff, he’d eaten the first bag of grub chips quickly enough. By the fifth container of Planthopper Pasties, however, the Disaggregator was beginning to feel the strain. By the tenth, he was unconscious, face down in a circle of chalk.

When he entered the dream world, it took a moment for the asura to reacquaint himself with his own consciousness– Or subconsciousness. He couldn’t be certain which was which. Everything around him was smoke and sunlight, the moon wreathed in dust, a rippling veil of ephemeral mist. If he had the time, he might spend a while grappling with the nature of his newfound lucidity. As it was, the task at hand demanded too much focus, lending his form a hard edge in the soft, blooming murk of dreamlight.

Impelling himself forward, it was a long, sometimes harrowing while before he touched on a dream sphere that might read as anything resembling familiar, but when he did, the sensation was unmistakable. Careening around the edge of the crystalline orb, Gerik allowed a dragged claw to maintain contact and prevent him from losing hold as he peered within from without.

What he saw skipped his heart a beat. There, mere meters beneath him, was the Magistrix– Long-sought and wrapped in the fitful turnings of an anxious sleep. He began to tap at the surface.

[rairoleplays]

The ragged asura tosses and turns under the coat she’s reassigned as a blanket. Her limp ears flick now and then, until her subconscious detects something which rouses them.

While not dreamless, the restless sleep is occupied by a general malaise, manifested in her mind as a dark and chaotic haze. Images of familiar places– her office, her domicile, the Magistracy lobby– form and fade before any of them can stick. The most stable of environments is her office, a dim place lit with more crimson than its reality ever held. It isn’t much longer before it wins out against the grey and busy void, adhering itself to her subconscious enough that Kezza finds herself standing in its altered form; The ceiling warped, too low at her desk and stretched beyond the confines of its tangible twin in a way which mirrored the Magistracy’s halls. Databanks and furniture are likewise discordant, and perhaps curiously, lacking doors. The entry to her private washroom seems the most realistic, though its interior is starker than it ought to be.

Kezza stands in the middle of the scene, dully awakening to the dream. Without lucidity, she starts for her desk, and seats herself in her chair which is too large for her person. Noise, indecipherable, clouds the air, and Kezza feels herself begin to panic under the sudden stress her dream generates.

From the noise, however, comes a rhythmic tapping. Somehow, she finds it overcome the chaos, and it permits her focus enough that a presence is felt. The outer rim of her dream becomes permeable, allowing the interloper to phase into the dream freely.

[muthologician]

Peering through the hazy sphere’s surface, there’s little else the Disaggregator can make of the scene within beyond the vaguely feminine form inside. If it weren’t for the whisper of a unknowingly shared memory to draw him in, he might well have passed it by entirely. Thankfully, he hadn’t– And more fortuitously still, the sphere’s occupant took note enough of his harassment that the barrier between void and dream became porous, allowing him to pass.

Not risking a moment to the capricious nature of the dreamscape, Gerik pushed himself beyond the threshold and into darkness. It was then that he realized his mistake. In his haste, the ever keen Disaggregator had failed to think through his manner of entry; a blundering that left him suspended in the air above the room’s center for a moment before the idea of gravity asserted itself and sent him hurtling to the floor with a yelp.

“HWUUAA–OORRMF!”

[rairoleplays]

Already in distress, the cry of a familiar voice spurs a shriek from Kezza, who shrinks back into the chair as though shielding herself from something terrible.

After a few moments of cowering, she pries apart the fingers she’d thrown across her face, and looks ahead at where the vivid sound came from. After another pause, the unaware Kezza swallows, “Who are you? G-Gerik..?”

[muthologician]

It took a moment for the Disaggregator to realize that he was being addressed, and longer still for his body to register that it had no cause to be in pain. This was, after all, only a dream. Willing his supposed injuries mended, the asura picks himself up and dusts himself off, paying particular attention to the straightening of his collar before he can find it in himself to respond to the Magistrix,

“Affimative, Kezza, it is I; the great and powerful Disaggregator! I have transcended the barrier between the waking world and the dreaming to.. To, uh..” Gerik felt a stirring in his chest that stayed what would have been a typically grandstanding entrance as he finally looked upon his estranged friend. Perhaps it was a machination of the Magistrix’s fabricated dream world that lent her appearance a hint of unfamiliarity about it. After all, one’s dream self was often the ideal, or most dreaded version of the real self.

But, it had been so long since he’d laid eyes upon her in either setting. The dawning uncertainty brought a tickling wetness to the corner of his eyes that no force of will could banish, and his voice broke earnestly when he spoke again, “I-I’ve missed you so much, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

The Kezza who regards him from behind the desk is someone different than probably expected. Whether due to the oversized chair or the dream’s own design, she seems smaller, and is dressed in the first uniform he would have ever seen her wear. Her hair also harkens back to years past, where she wore it long without adornments. All that seems missing is a mask, though the hands still tentatively hiding her features might suffice.

Worried skepticism follows his approach, his bold and vivid form in noticeable contrast to the grim surroundings. It’s enough to give her a distraction from the dream’s manufactured anguish, which is forced to abate as her mind finds something new to focus on. Kezza watches him with growing disbelief, eventually shifting her hands enough that he might finally see her face.

“Ge-Gerik.. what are you doing here?”

The environment appears to bolster itself despite the meek and befuddled question– The walls of the office straighten themselves to realistic proportions, finding their symmetry once abandoning the extraneous length which resembled the Magistracy’s halls. While Gerik’s presence solidified the setting, however, it did little for Kezza’s lucidity. The mesmer had yet to realize her own dream-state, let alone the truth of her friend’s presence.

[muthologician]

Reclaiming his usual blustering composure was not an easy feat when confronted by what he now saw before him: the Magistrix as she was before there was even a Magistracy. It was certainly a dream, then. He hadn’t seen her hair down and unadorned in ages..

But he knew that there was no time to waste when there was no telling how long the ritual would maintain his link with her dreaming mind. Swiping the collected moisture from the corner of his eyes, Gerik started forward a step, humming.

“I’ve established a link with your dreaming mind, Kezza. You’re asleep. I am too. I needed to contact you.”

[rairoleplays]

“Dreaming..”

The notion shudders the dream world, a likely uncomfortable sensation for the interloper as consciousness challenges the subconscious. Kezza places a palm against her temple, eyes scanning her desk with purpose as the fabricated reality shifts incomprehensively. The glyphs of her datawork were wholly illegible, which warranted another test she learned as a budding synergist. The environment begins to stabilize, with a much less tenuous grasp of its own form.

Taking her hands in front of her, Kezza brings them to manifest an orange flame– something impossible in her reality, where mesmeric ability long since displaced her want for an elementalist’s prowess. The fire closes in on itself, liquefying into a glob of water.

Her expression slowly lifts with the realization, though when she looks up, there is a distinct alteration of her features. Without transition, her hair now passes her shoulders in a dull and ragged state, and the wear of long-term stress is clear across her face. Her uniform, too, is supplanted by a contemporary outfit of asuran dress, lacking any implication of her krewe allegiance.

“Ger..!”

Gerik would have only a moment to process the change, however, as he’d find Kezza’s arms embracing him without having witnessed her approach.

Doubt, however, brings her to lift her head from its place at his chest. “But, how? How do I know you’re not a figment?”

[muthologician]

With as much as he’d longed for the Magistrix’s embrace, Gerik found himself woefully unprepared for the suddenness with which her arms enircled him, still not entirely acclimated to the whimsy of dream. Nearly stumbling a step, the Disaggregator recovers quickly against the smaller asura’s weight and brings his arms to match her own, the side of his face nuzzling against her neck almost without bidding.

He never wanted it to end. But it had to.

Feeling her head lift from his person, his eyes flicked down to meet Kezza’s gaze, willing away a wetness that might have been telling were it not so readily disposed of. He huffed,

“I can’t imagine any figment you’d dream up could ever match the magnificence of the genuine article. I mean, really Kez. The gall of the thought!”

Though the snooty imperiousness in his tone was entirely real, it did not come without an undercurrent of good nature. He smirked.

“It was a trying endeavor. I’ve spent a small fortune on scented candles and.. Junk food. Euugh.”

[rairoleplays]

It was that touch of derision in his voice and ready wit, which allowed her face to brighten with an irresistible smile. He was right; The times he’d been replicated by her sleeping mind never presented the nuance of this obnoxious charm– it was either one, or the other.

The way his snout wrinkled with mock outrage was also a dead giveaway.

“Candles and junk food?” She echoes with bewildered skepticism, having never seen him partake of the latter. It was an unusual combination. “Just what did you do?”

[muthologician]

With as much effort as he put into playing the part of the snide villain, Gerik’s faux superiority was easily broken by the softness of the Magistrix’s smile. Feeling the corners of his mouth tug into a like expression, the Disaggregator nursed the side of Kezza’s neck with a nuzzle, pulling out of it with a chuckle.

“Nothing I’m proud of.” He admitted, already wary of the consequences when he returned to the waking world. “I made use of some of Vinn’s notes on ethereal somnambulance. The ritual that allowed this meeting neccessitated.. Unsavory reagents. I expect the results of this endeavor will greet me poorly when I wake.”

[rairoleplays]

The attention paid to her neck earns him a happy coo, which remains as a smile even as he explains his less than ideal situation.

Even with allowing a breathable space between them, Kezza doesn’t dare release him fully. She reaches up to nuzzle at his cheek with both sympathy, and longing.

“I’ve missed you, so much.”

[muthologician]

The admission is all it takes to swall Gerik’s heart fully, a familiar warmth lending his features a subtle hue beneath the thin fuzz coating his cheeks. Cooing softly, he leans in to lay a light kiss on Kezza’s lips, cradling the smaller asura’s weight in his arms.

With his eyes shut, he sighs his response,

“And I, you.”

[rairoleplays]

Some of the weariness across Kezza’s face seems to evaporate, the dream lightened by their reunion. She nuzzles his other cheek, planting another kiss there.

“I thought I might have lost you,” she whispers, the hands at his back shifting to hold him in a warmer embrace.

[muthologician]

Sighing his relief at the long-delayed reuinion, Kezza’s weight is accepted at his shoulder with a thoughtful hum.

“Nothing could take me from you, Kez.” Gerik paid her waist a light squeeze, cracking a grin after a fashion. “Excepting a transdimensional enfolding of a cataclysmic scope. But I’m not sure even that would take.”

[rairoleplays]

A while is spent paying soft nuzzles to his neck, unaware (and likely uncaring) that there could be a greater purpose to this visitation.

His response brings a grin against the soft fuzz she attends to, prompting a short coo before she parts from him again.

“What about the rest of the krewe?”

[muthologician]

The attentions at his neck are recieved with another light sigh that turns to a coo, the hands at the Magistrix’s waist sliding up to rest between her shoulders.

Even with the mention of the krewe to attempt at souring his mood, Gerik manages to keep his good nature.

“They’re well enough. Well, save Teokkin.” He hums again, this time with a dubious ring to his tone. “He’s at wit’s end, I believe. I didn’t even have to run interference.”

[rairoleplays]

Teokkin’s mention is finally enough to temper Kezza’s heartened spirit. Still, some bright spark in her eyes holds fast, even as the relief she sighs is undercut by lingering concern.

“How severely has he compromised the Magistracy?”

[muthologician]

The worry in his friend’s voice is mirrored in Gerik’s own heart, though he masks it with a brush of the snout at Kezza’s collar, a softened smile lifted to greet her as he pulls away.

“It’s holding together. Funding is tight, but he is unable to make any headway no matter how great the lengths he goes to in curtailing spending.”

Despite the good nature engendered by the closeness he’d longed for, the reminder of the necessity for his visitation steals some of the warmth from his expression. “That is.. Why I’ve been able to contact you with confidence, finally. He wants to return ownership of the Magistracy to you.”

[rairoleplays]

Her newly folded ears rise upright, disbelieving, before they fall flat and stiff with a bitter vindication.

“That datawipe had no idea what he was getting involved with,” her resentment reads through, though it fades almost immediately. “But.. he was right. He was right about, everything.”

[muthologician]

With as detestable as the subject matter is, Gerik can’t help but let a smirk worm it’s way onto his features at the familiar tells in the curl of the Magistrix’s ears that spoke her indignation.

“He’s wrong, Kez. He admitted it himself. The Magistracy needs you to head it, and no one else. There’s no other asura who could possibly fill the role. I’m certain.”

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s gaze cast apart from his, she shakes her head with wilting ears.

“No.. Gerik, I saw it. I saw his audience with Administration,” she speaks the confession with such melancholy, it summons a faint graying haze to the ethereal Magistracy office.

“They had every intention to terminate the department.. and us with it, if Teokkin failed to amend our shortcomings.”

[muthologician]

Her admission was not quite so surprising as it was a grim confirmation of the fears Gerik had harbored since the beginning of the whole ordeal. It shouldn’t come as any grand revelation to him that Administration had found cause to liquidate them after so many blunders.

But, those hadn’t been their fault! Not any if his– And certainly not Kezza’s.

Moved by the effect his friend’s shift in demeanor had on the room around them and by the reminder that his time was short, the Disaggregator brought a feather light touch to Kezza’s jaw, guiding her gaze up to meet his own.

“Kezza,” His eyes glimmered an amber more brilliant than they should have, a caring insistence lingering behind them. “Whatever you saw, I fully believe it to be true. But the circumstance has changed. Teokkin needs you. The krewe needs you. And.. I need you. He’s provided the legal documentation that will assure your safety, as well as that of your family unit’s.”

Gerik paused at that, recalling the threat he’d left hanging over the Magistrate’s head. A small victory, if it paid out. “I had leverage to negotiate it. Anything to ensure your safety. Your happiness.”

[rairoleplays]

While the warm glow of his eyes arrest her attention, disbelief risks doubt when all he says sounds too good to be true. The memory was as clear in her mind as the one she’d taken it from; Teokkin had been made to negotiate their preservation, even at his own risk. There was no room for misunderstanding in the exchange, and she hadn’t dared hoped for leniency in the face of their condemnation.

The continued decline of the Magistracy didn’t bode well, either. She and Gerik were as good as dead– as well as Teokkin, if its current state was as Gerik reported. So how could it possibly be that he managed to secure their safety?

Unless, he hadn’t. Unless Teokkin had somehow been that very leverage– a sacrifice, to spare herself and the loyal friend who’d do anything for her.

A slow, vague ripple is felt as guilt quietly seeps into the dreamscape. It carries with it the concept of Teokkin, and betrayal– this time a reversal, however marred by the lingering resentment she still carried for the krewemate. It is unclear whether or not Kezza notes the shift in her dream’s tangible mood, as she seeks more pressing answers with growing uncertainty.

“How can we be certain of the document’s legitimacy? Even if it is authentic, how can we know that Administration won’t invalidate it on my return?”

[muthologician]

Unsettled by the metamorphosis the dream around them underwent, Gerik kept himself steady by occupying his attention with the asura in front of him– Though that was perhaps not as effective as he might have hoped, given the clear concern she wore on her features.

He hummed thoughtfully, hoping to assuage her worries,

“I have examined it, cross-referenced with no less than four examples of similar litigation. The document is legitimate. I wouldn’t have agreed to make contact with you if it wasn’t.” The corner of Gerik’s mouth twisted at the thought of a lurking betrayal, uncertain exactly what Teokkin might have in store for the both of them if Kezza returned.

“I believe that if it were his intention to liquidate us, he would have attempted to eliminate me at least once already. His efforts to ‘fix’ the Magistracy have seemed earnest enough. More so than anything else he’s ever done.”

The statement warranted a smirk, even if it was a short-lived one. Tilting his head down with a returned seriousness, the Disaggregator held the gaze between the two of them, voice lowered,

“You belong in Rata Sum, Kez. If working with him to earn our old positions back is the only means to ensure you and your family unit’s safe return, then I believe it is a worthy endeavor.”

[rairoleplays]

Despite his reassurances, Kezza’s reservation is still evident. The mention of liquidation folded her ears with agitated concern, and would have been followed by a reminder of Teokkin’s previous attempt, were it not for the small shift in Gerik’s demeanor.

She allows his reasoning a moment of consideration, gaze leaving his to sift through her doubts. As much as she trusted his litigatory aptitude, there was lacking certainty in how far Administration would go. Every datum of the Magistracy’s databanks had at one point crossed her desk, ensuring even the most sensitive material was paid her scrutiny. If she was indeed no longer worthy of that data, there were only a few ways the Inquest could redact it.

It wasn’t a risk to take lightly, when one had a partner and progeny to think of.

Her ears slacken. Danger aside, was she even worthy of her old position? The charges brought against them in Teokkin’s memory had haunted her over the months. Once the crimes had been brought to light, she could only deny them for so long. The krewe had no cause to give her the benefit of the doubt, any more now as they did then.

After all, she was a deserter now.

“I.. I don’t know, Gerik,” her voice pensive, but not despairing. “Even if Teokkin rescinds, the Administrative council has no rationale for restoring my status.. in any capacity.”

[muthologician]

Though the Disaggregator was never one to show weakness in the face of adversity, it was no small effort to conceal the reservations Kezza’s uncertainty engendered in him. Who was he to put her through such duress? To cause such delicate ears to curl with anxiety? Certainly no one good.

Seeking to ease her mind, Gerik’s claws traced a delicate line along the small of her back, lips set in a like comiseration.

“Any endeavor has it’s less desireable potentialities.. But if we don’t take action now, we may never be reinstated. You could be on the run for the rest of your life, and I.. I don’t believe I could handle that, Kezza.”

His frown deepened at the thought of being cut off from her forever; with Srazz gone, he’d have no one left– And Kezza’s family would be in more peril than either of them. It was an eventuality he could not allow to come to pass.

“What if we organized a meeting on neutral ground? Depending on the venue, you might not even need to be physically present.”

[rairoleplays]

Even with wilting ears, the touch at her back is repaid with a kind press at his, a hand set between his shoulders and one at his waist. The sympathetic look she gives him is one of comiseration, held until an ear flicks at his suggestion.

“I concur,” she replies softly, “Somewhere in Kryta, perhaps. Where would you say is safest..?”

[muthologician]

The question posed was a good one; where could a meeting be organized that would best minimize the threat to their persons, without being so impersonal as to provide no evidence of Teokkin’s intent? Certainly, meeting in Rata Sum was out of the question. But then, where? Mrot Boru? One of the Brisban facilities?

The touch at his back urged him to coo sweetly, an idle nuzzle paid to her neck before the idea struck him.

“Perhaps.. Something could be worked out with Moto? He does possess the technology to facilitate such a meeting..”

[rairoleplays]

The suggestion takes her aback by some small degree, “Moto? But in that case, I would have to return to Rata Sum..”

Her ears droop again at the impossibility, reminded of her longing for home. The reality of the dream shudders with a ripple of homesickness, and the asura places her worry with a chin at his shoulder.

When she speaks again, it is quiet enough to be almost inaudible, were it not for the mechanics of the dreamstate conveying the meaning through sensation alone.

“I can’t even be certain this is real.”

[muthologician]

While the necessity of remaining focused on the task at hand gnawed at the back of his mind, Gerik found himself admittedly lost amid the doubt that trailed the Magistrix’s statement– And in the familiar softness of her eyes, gentle lilac hues arrested his gaze.

Taking the smaller asura’s hand in a palm nicked and bitten by scars, he leaned in almost unconsciously bringing their foreheads to meet.

“Let me assure you then.” He murmured, leaning forward to join his lips to hers.

[rairoleplays]

The touch at her hand was enough to bring her to face him again, a light hue brought to her cheeks as he brought his head against hers. His bid to assuage her doubt is accepted with a readiness that may have surprised her, were it not for the knowledge that this was not their waking reality.

With doubt lurking in the shadows of the dream, Kezza’s arms enclose more firmly around him, willing that figment or not– he stay.

[muthologician]

Real or not, Gerik felt a curious kind of elation at the contact that might have been shameful if he had not long ago accepted his feelings for his one-time colleague and long-term friend. Reciprocating her arms movements without a hint of reservation, the larger asura’s arms draw Kezza against him with a sigh between joined lips, eye fluttering shut as the peaking emotions color him in a soft magenta hue.

Before their embrace can engross him fully, Gerik has presence of mind enough to speak between the kiss, hushed and breathy,

“Will you afford me this chance? To make things right?”

[rairoleplays]

Though they still embraced so closely, the scarce distance he affords himself must be compensated for with a nuzzle at his cheek. If this was all indeed a dream, it was the most real she’d ever had.

“It isn’t yours to make right,” she answers in a voice softened by intimacy, “But I trust you, Ger.”

While neither asura may be wholly aware of it, the office around them recedes ever so slightly– as though everything were shrouded in a faint fog, save for them.

[muthologician]

With her confirmation staying his worries, Gerik gives an affectionate sigh.

“I’ll dispatch a golem with the details,” He breathed, fighting the inclination to swoon at her touch, “We’ll fix this. I promise.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think to say. For as effectively as their differences encouraged his mind to broaden it’s approach to the world, Kezza’s presence seemed to make higher thought a difficulty for the Disaggregator at times. Thankfully, this particular juncture was anything but inopportune. He let another sigh tumble from his lips as he relaxed into the Magistrix’s embrace.

[rairoleplays]

“I’ll maintain my proximity to Divinity’s Reach,” she assures, a soft nuzzle paid to his jaw, “And I’ll find a disguise.”

A slight jolt crosses the scenery around them at the mention of the city, accompanied by a shift to her inn-room’s likeness and general sense of anxiety. She seems unaware that her ears curl with the change.

Yet regardless, her nuzzle offers a light kiss with it, and she would continue to hold him unless deterred.

[muthologician]

“I’ll contact you as soon as the arrangements are made. Just be safe.” He murmurs, returning the nuzzle in kind, a light nip at her ear paid as the scene around them shifts.

Though he notes the change in his periphery, it means little to the Disaggregator when Kezza was present to occupy so much of his attention. Driven by a desire to prolong their continued closeness, Gerik lifts her body up against his own, that he might better pay his attentions at her neck.

[rairoleplays]

Almost surprised, Kezza’s coo is a little louder than she’d intended as her feet leave the imagined ground. Content to open her neck to him while her arms adjust at his shoulders, she readily resumes nuzzling at his ear.

“I’ve missed you so much,” her whisper reiterates after a light nip.

The environment shivers around them, her office again replicating itself– though now with a quarter of her inn room, including a bed, and the desk directly behind her.

[muthologician]

Whether by his own volition or fortunate happenstance, Kezza’s reciprocation encourages Gerik to move the both of them to the desk’s edge. Allowing her to rest against it, Gerik parts the Magistrix’s collar with a thumb to better allow his affections to reach her.

Between kisses, he leans up to nuzzle at her ear, a hand sliding down along her side,

“You won’t have to much longer, Kez. I promise.”

[rairoleplays]

The dream answers with another warm ripple, its epicenter at the fluttering heart of Kezza’s dreamt self. His attentions are enough to redden her cheeks and take the anxious curl from her ears, especially as she recognizes the familiarities of their position.

After another short while spent indulging in each other’s tenderness, Kezza’s hands rest between his shoulders and at his chest, and she nudges an ear with her short snout. Whether spoken or expressed by the dream itself, she whispers, “I don’t want to wake up.”

[muthologician]

The waves of empathic warmth that ripple through the dreamscape wash over Gerik and urge a small sigh from his lips, eyes half-lidded.

“Neither do I. Not yet.” He whispers back.

With another kiss, longer than before, Kezza is eased back onto the desk, where he joins beside her with a light coo at her neck.

[rairoleplays]

“Ger..” His name comes in a contented sigh, as the desk warps beneath them to cushion their weight. The impression of an inn room settles around them, even while the scene only partially resembled one.

The room they shared touring the Queensdale vineyards fades in and out of dominance over the Magistracy office, neither so obscured by the other as to be forgotten. Still, an unfamiliar element lingered in the air, whispering allusions Gerik wouldn’t place.

While the scene dimmed again to emulate that lavish Krytan room, there was an almost candle-lit warmth held around them. Her friend’s cooing is answered with slow, affectionate kisses at his ear, while a hand slipped behind his neck to brush the ends of his hair.

With the seamless presence of the dreamily soft mattress under them, Kezza draws Gerik closer to nuzzle at his neck again.

((sry this post is unusually garbage tier even for me))

[muthologician]

Even as the world shifts around them, Gerik’s attention remains focused on tending to the asura beside him. Nuzzling his blunted snout into the side of her neck, he gives a hum of contentment as the desk beneath them becomes a familiar bed in a familiar inn room, though it perhaps lacks the scent of spiced wine to complete the illusion.

Lifting his arm from Kezza’s side, Gerik draws a claw along her exposed collar, tugging himself close against her with his other hand. It was all too surreal, even as far as dreams went– But not so much that he would question whether there was any other asura he would rather spend his time with. Again, he kissed her neck before moving on to the base of her ear.

“I’ve never dared to dream like this.”

[rairoleplays]

The implication sees that the light blush on Kezza’s cheeks would remain, while her own hands explore the contours of his shoulders and side. His words created shorter ripples of a warmth somewhat different than before, each echoed by a sense of reciprocation, and she answers them herself with another nip at his ear.

Something in his words, however, seems to trigger another change in the surreal environment; A voice without sound, speaking of a presence so quietly it seems unheard by the dreamer herself.

She pulls herself against him, a hand wrapped about his waist. Kezza’s collar, having given way more easily than it might have in waking reality, is loosed enough to allow his touch as far as her shoulder without stretching the fabric. The dream’s machinations allow this without threatening the illusion of realism, and the mesmer seems either unknowing or uncaring of the difference.

“I’ve been afraid,” she whispers, her cheeks still flushed, “That I’d never have another chance to.”

[muthologician]

As hard as he tried to maintain his awareness of the the border between dream and lucidity, Gerik found himself drawn deeper into the illusion by the subtle machinations of Kezza’s subconscious. Shuddering against her, the larger asura stills himself with a thought before diverting his affections from her neck to the shoulder exposed by her parted collar, a telling heat lending his ears a rosy hue that would otherwise be far too saturated to exist in the waking world.

“We have a chance now, don’t we..?” He nearly muttered, breathless. Reacting in kind to her pull, Gerik shifts to allow her weight to roll atop him without sacrificing her proximity to wasted space, his hand departed from her shoulder to run polished claws through her hair.

“You’re exquisite.”

[rairoleplays]

{ part 2 for the nsfw fans }

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream (RP)

Another long pull from her wine glass, and another sigh following it. It was a routine she’d long since fallen into– were she not so dedicated to regular visits with her family, she could fall harder into such a habit. What else would keep her going, after losing everything? Without Vinn and her precious Pwitt, the once-Magistrix was an asura without purpose. And she knew it.

Kezza gripped the bridge of her snout over the mask– perhaps the last trapping of the glory days which still served her. Alchemy knew her krewe didn’t. And the masks would grant her protection from that very same krewe, provided the assassins they sent were unfamiliar with her old practice. It seemed unlikely, but so far.. so good.

An emptied flagon crashed beside her, thrown against the bar behind the order of the bookah wielding it. The crude and surly thing demanded a refreshed glass, by Kezza’s count, her fifth. How this repulsive cretin could stomach that much swill in so short a time was a curiosity worth research, but the asura only gave the specimen a dull stare. Seemingly incensed by the look, the human growled at her and muttered something incomprehensible.

One of the most regrettable aspects of her exile was the safety protocol she’d assigned herself: Never be alone outside of her hideout. Even if it meant the company of bookah. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but solitude took its toll between risked visits with Vinn and Pwitt.

Acceptance became easier to grasp, but..

It never got less depressing.

At least in Divinity’s Reach, there was wine. A guilty pleasure, she admitted, but one made forgivable with the reminder of its discovery. Pained now as it was, the memory could still warm her where the wine couldn’t. She had been reluctant to indulge her friend’s incessant push for the outing, reminding him of every unpleasantry the city held.

But as always, Gerik had a way of swaying her. The absence of his whimsy made her stay in the city much less amicable, even as she recalled his more obnoxious tendencies. She’d trade every glass of fermented grape to hear just one of his annoying quips.

Kezza brought a hand to her forehead, unable and unwilling to acknowledge the irate female next her. The bottle of wine she’d ingested was nothing to the horrid lead weight in her stomach, a nausea she’d never once shaken in the past months. There was no way to know for certain whether or not the Disaggregator had succeeded his escape, and it was an anxiety that overwhelmed her thoughts when her guard grew weak. Relief only hinted itself in the determined hope that he was as capable as she’d always known him to be.

–

The journey back to her hideaway through the foreign city was mercifully uneventful under the cover of mesmeric subterfuge. Despite the sore arm she’d acquired during the inevitable altercation with the bookah woman, the cause of her fatigue was far less tangible. These days were exhausting in their boredom, and the nights restless with angst.

Yet for once, perhaps by the grace of that bookah’s dirty tricks, Kezza found her makeshift cot an almost welcome sight, and sleep came before it could be questioned.

[muthologician]

The Disaggregator was no stranger to ritual. Binding a spirit, for instance, was a process with which he and any other Inquest agent worth their datastacks were intimately familiar. Though the exact methods and preferred location differred from the habits of the pedestrian lab jockey or floundering bookah, the curvature of the binding lines and the crumbled reagents, the powdered bone and muttered incantations were all the same. It was a similar experience to any other ritual of a like magic.

This, though. This was different. Certainly, the chalk lines had been drawn up and the candles had been lit; surely, he’d canted the sacred words, written in times long passed into antiquity as proscribed by the simian gods– But it was different. This time, there had been no bundled sticks to burn, or dried rat bones to break over consecrated water.

This time, there had only been an overwhelming consumption of junk food. As much as he disdained the stuff, he’d eaten the first bag of grub chips quickly enough. By the fifth container of Planthopper Pasties, however, the Disaggregator was beginning to feel the strain. By the tenth, he was unconscious, face down in a circle of chalk.

When he entered the dream world, it took a moment for the asura to reacquaint himself with his own consciousness– Or subconsciousness. He couldn’t be certain which was which. Everything around him was smoke and sunlight, the moon wreathed in dust, a rippling veil of ephemeral mist. If he had the time, he might spend a while grappling with the nature of his newfound lucidity. As it was, the task at hand demanded too much focus, lending his form a hard edge in the soft, blooming murk of dreamlight.

Impelling himself forward, it was a long, sometimes harrowing while before he touched on a dream sphere that might read as anything resembling familiar, but when he did, the sensation was unmistakable. Careening around the edge of the crystalline orb, Gerik allowed a dragged claw to maintain contact and prevent him from losing hold as he peered within from without.

What he saw skipped his heart a beat. There, mere meters beneath him, was the Magistrix– Long-sought and wrapped in the fitful turnings of an anxious sleep. He began to tap at the surface.

[rairoleplays]

The ragged asura tosses and turns under the coat she’s reassigned as a blanket. Her limp ears flick now and then, until her subconscious detects something which rouses them.

While not dreamless, the restless sleep is occupied by a general malaise, manifested in her mind as a dark and chaotic haze. Images of familiar places– her office, her domicile, the Magistracy lobby– form and fade before any of them can stick. The most stable of environments is her office, a dim place lit with more crimson than its reality ever held. It isn’t much longer before it wins out against the grey and busy void, adhering itself to her subconscious enough that Kezza finds herself standing in its altered form; The ceiling warped, too low at her desk and stretched beyond the confines of its tangible twin in a way which mirrored the Magistracy’s halls. Databanks and furniture are likewise discordant, and perhaps curiously, lacking doors. The entry to her private washroom seems the most realistic, though its interior is starker than it ought to be.

Kezza stands in the middle of the scene, dully awakening to the dream. Without lucidity, she starts for her desk, and seats herself in her chair which is too large for her person. Noise, indecipherable, clouds the air, and Kezza feels herself begin to panic under the sudden stress her dream generates.

From the noise, however, comes a rhythmic tapping. Somehow, she finds it overcome the chaos, and it permits her focus enough that a presence is felt. The outer rim of her dream becomes permeable, allowing the interloper to phase into the dream freely.

[muthologician]

Peering through the hazy sphere’s surface, there’s little else the Disaggregator can make of the scene within beyond the vaguely feminine form inside. If it weren’t for the whisper of a unknowingly shared memory to draw him in, he might well have passed it by entirely. Thankfully, he hadn’t– And more fortuitously still, the sphere’s occupant took note enough of his harassment that the barrier between void and dream became porous, allowing him to pass.

Not risking a moment to the capricious nature of the dreamscape, Gerik pushed himself beyond the threshold and into darkness. It was then that he realized his mistake. In his haste, the ever keen Disaggregator had failed to think through his manner of entry; a blundering that left him suspended in the air above the room’s center for a moment before the idea of gravity asserted itself and sent him hurtling to the floor with a yelp.

“HWUUAA–OORRMF!”

[rairoleplays]

Already in distress, the cry of a familiar voice spurs a shriek from Kezza, who shrinks back into the chair as though shielding herself from something terrible.

After a few moments of cowering, she pries apart the fingers she’d thrown across her face, and looks ahead at where the vivid sound came from. After another pause, the unaware Kezza swallows, “Who are you? G-Gerik..?”

[muthologician]

It took a moment for the Disaggregator to realize that he was being addressed, and longer still for his body to register that it had no cause to be in pain. This was, after all, only a dream. Willing his supposed injuries mended, the asura picks himself up and dusts himself off, paying particular attention to the straightening of his collar before he can find it in himself to respond to the Magistrix,

“Affimative, Kezza, it is I; the great and powerful Disaggregator! I have transcended the barrier between the waking world and the dreaming to.. To, uh..” Gerik felt a stirring in his chest that stayed what would have been a typically grandstanding entrance as he finally looked upon his estranged friend. Perhaps it was a machination of the Magistrix’s fabricated dream world that lent her appearance a hint of unfamiliarity about it. After all, one’s dream self was often the ideal, or most dreaded version of the real self.

But, it had been so long since he’d laid eyes upon her in either setting. The dawning uncertainty brought a tickling wetness to the corner of his eyes that no force of will could banish, and his voice broke earnestly when he spoke again, “I-I’ve missed you so much, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

The Kezza who regards him from behind the desk is someone different than probably expected. Whether due to the oversized chair or the dream’s own design, she seems smaller, and is dressed in the first uniform he would have ever seen her wear. Her hair also harkens back to years past, where she wore it long without adornments. All that seems missing is a mask, though the hands still tentatively hiding her features might suffice.

Worried skepticism follows his approach, his bold and vivid form in noticeable contrast to the grim surroundings. It’s enough to give her a distraction from the dream’s manufactured anguish, which is forced to abate as her mind finds something new to focus on. Kezza watches him with growing disbelief, eventually shifting her hands enough that he might finally see her face.

“Ge-Gerik.. what are you doing here?”

The environment appears to bolster itself despite the meek and befuddled question– The walls of the office straighten themselves to realistic proportions, finding their symmetry once abandoning the extraneous length which resembled the Magistracy’s halls. While Gerik’s presence solidified the setting, however, it did little for Kezza’s lucidity. The mesmer had yet to realize her own dream-state, let alone the truth of her friend’s presence.

[muthologician]

Reclaiming his usual blustering composure was not an easy feat when confronted by what he now saw before him: the Magistrix as she was before there was even a Magistracy. It was certainly a dream, then. He hadn’t seen her hair down and unadorned in ages..

But he knew that there was no time to waste when there was no telling how long the ritual would maintain his link with her dreaming mind. Swiping the collected moisture from the corner of his eyes, Gerik started forward a step, humming.

“I’ve established a link with your dreaming mind, Kezza. You’re asleep. I am too. I needed to contact you.”

[rairoleplays]

“Dreaming..”

The notion shudders the dream world, a likely uncomfortable sensation for the interloper as consciousness challenges the subconscious. Kezza places a palm against her temple, eyes scanning her desk with purpose as the fabricated reality shifts incomprehensively. The glyphs of her datawork were wholly illegible, which warranted another test she learned as a budding synergist. The environment begins to stabilize, with a much less tenuous grasp of its own form.

Taking her hands in front of her, Kezza brings them to manifest an orange flame– something impossible in her reality, where mesmeric ability long since displaced her want for an elementalist’s prowess. The fire closes in on itself, liquefying into a glob of water.

Her expression slowly lifts with the realization, though when she looks up, there is a distinct alteration of her features. Without transition, her hair now passes her shoulders in a dull and ragged state, and the wear of long-term stress is clear across her face. Her uniform, too, is supplanted by a contemporary outfit of asuran dress, lacking any implication of her krewe allegiance.

“Ger..!”

Gerik would have only a moment to process the change, however, as he’d find Kezza’s arms embracing him without having witnessed her approach.

Doubt, however, brings her to lift her head from its place at his chest. “But, how? How do I know you’re not a figment?”

[muthologician]

With as much as he’d longed for the Magistrix’s embrace, Gerik found himself woefully unprepared for the suddenness with which her arms enircled him, still not entirely acclimated to the whimsy of dream. Nearly stumbling a step, the Disaggregator recovers quickly against the smaller asura’s weight and brings his arms to match her own, the side of his face nuzzling against her neck almost without bidding.

He never wanted it to end. But it had to.

Feeling her head lift from his person, his eyes flicked down to meet Kezza’s gaze, willing away a wetness that might have been telling were it not so readily disposed of. He huffed,

“I can’t imagine any figment you’d dream up could ever match the magnificence of the genuine article. I mean, really Kez. The gall of the thought!”

Though the snooty imperiousness in his tone was entirely real, it did not come without an undercurrent of good nature. He smirked.

“It was a trying endeavor. I’ve spent a small fortune on scented candles and.. Junk food. Euugh.”

[rairoleplays]

It was that touch of derision in his voice and ready wit, which allowed her face to brighten with an irresistible smile. He was right; The times he’d been replicated by her sleeping mind never presented the nuance of this obnoxious charm– it was either one, or the other.

The way his snout wrinkled with mock outrage was also a dead giveaway.

“Candles and junk food?” She echoes with bewildered skepticism, having never seen him partake of the latter. It was an unusual combination. “Just what did you do?”

[muthologician]

With as much effort as he put into playing the part of the snide villain, Gerik’s faux superiority was easily broken by the softness of the Magistrix’s smile. Feeling the corners of his mouth tug into a like expression, the Disaggregator nursed the side of Kezza’s neck with a nuzzle, pulling out of it with a chuckle.

“Nothing I’m proud of.” He admitted, already wary of the consequences when he returned to the waking world. “I made use of some of Vinn’s notes on ethereal somnambulance. The ritual that allowed this meeting neccessitated.. Unsavory reagents. I expect the results of this endeavor will greet me poorly when I wake.”

[rairoleplays]

The attention paid to her neck earns him a happy coo, which remains as a smile even as he explains his less than ideal situation.

Even with allowing a breathable space between them, Kezza doesn’t dare release him fully. She reaches up to nuzzle at his cheek with both sympathy, and longing.

“I’ve missed you, so much.”

[muthologician]

The admission is all it takes to swall Gerik’s heart fully, a familiar warmth lending his features a subtle hue beneath the thin fuzz coating his cheeks. Cooing softly, he leans in to lay a light kiss on Kezza’s lips, cradling the smaller asura’s weight in his arms.

With his eyes shut, he sighs his response,

“And I, you.”

[rairoleplays]

Some of the weariness across Kezza’s face seems to evaporate, the dream lightened by their reunion. She nuzzles his other cheek, planting another kiss there.

“I thought I might have lost you,” she whispers, the hands at his back shifting to hold him in a warmer embrace.

[muthologician]

Sighing his relief at the long-delayed reuinion, Kezza’s weight is accepted at his shoulder with a thoughtful hum.

“Nothing could take me from you, Kez.” Gerik paid her waist a light squeeze, cracking a grin after a fashion. “Excepting a transdimensional enfolding of a cataclysmic scope. But I’m not sure even that would take.”

[rairoleplays]

A while is spent paying soft nuzzles to his neck, unaware (and likely uncaring) that there could be a greater purpose to this visitation.

His response brings a grin against the soft fuzz she attends to, prompting a short coo before she parts from him again.

“What about the rest of the krewe?”

[muthologician]

The attentions at his neck are recieved with another light sigh that turns to a coo, the hands at the Magistrix’s waist sliding up to rest between her shoulders.

Even with the mention of the krewe to attempt at souring his mood, Gerik manages to keep his good nature.

“They’re well enough. Well, save Teokkin.” He hums again, this time with a dubious ring to his tone. “He’s at wit’s end, I believe. I didn’t even have to run interference.”

[rairoleplays]

Teokkin’s mention is finally enough to temper Kezza’s heartened spirit. Still, some bright spark in her eyes holds fast, even as the relief she sighs is undercut by lingering concern.

“How severely has he compromised the Magistracy?”

[muthologician]

The worry in his friend’s voice is mirrored in Gerik’s own heart, though he masks it with a brush of the snout at Kezza’s collar, a softened smile lifted to greet her as he pulls away.

“It’s holding together. Funding is tight, but he is unable to make any headway no matter how great the lengths he goes to in curtailing spending.”

Despite the good nature engendered by the closeness he’d longed for, the reminder of the necessity for his visitation steals some of the warmth from his expression. “That is.. Why I’ve been able to contact you with confidence, finally. He wants to return ownership of the Magistracy to you.”

[rairoleplays]

Her newly folded ears rise upright, disbelieving, before they fall flat and stiff with a bitter vindication.

“That datawipe had no idea what he was getting involved with,” her resentment reads through, though it fades almost immediately. “But.. he was right. He was right about, everything.”

[muthologician]

With as detestable as the subject matter is, Gerik can’t help but let a smirk worm it’s way onto his features at the familiar tells in the curl of the Magistrix’s ears that spoke her indignation.

“He’s wrong, Kez. He admitted it himself. The Magistracy needs you to head it, and no one else. There’s no other asura who could possibly fill the role. I’m certain.”

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s gaze cast apart from his, she shakes her head with wilting ears.

“No.. Gerik, I saw it. I saw his audience with Administration,” she speaks the confession with such melancholy, it summons a faint graying haze to the ethereal Magistracy office.

“They had every intention to terminate the department.. and us with it, if Teokkin failed to amend our shortcomings.”

[muthologician]

Her admission was not quite so surprising as it was a grim confirmation of the fears Gerik had harbored since the beginning of the whole ordeal. It shouldn’t come as any grand revelation to him that Administration had found cause to liquidate them after so many blunders.

But, those hadn’t been their fault! Not any if his– And certainly not Kezza’s.

Moved by the effect his friend’s shift in demeanor had on the room around them and by the reminder that his time was short, the Disaggregator brought a feather light touch to Kezza’s jaw, guiding her gaze up to meet his own.

“Kezza,” His eyes glimmered an amber more brilliant than they should have, a caring insistence lingering behind them. “Whatever you saw, I fully believe it to be true. But the circumstance has changed. Teokkin needs you. The krewe needs you. And.. I need you. He’s provided the legal documentation that will assure your safety, as well as that of your family unit’s.”

Gerik paused at that, recalling the threat he’d left hanging over the Magistrate’s head. A small victory, if it paid out. “I had leverage to negotiate it. Anything to ensure your safety. Your happiness.”

[rairoleplays]

While the warm glow of his eyes arrest her attention, disbelief risks doubt when all he says sounds too good to be true. The memory was as clear in her mind as the one she’d taken it from; Teokkin had been made to negotiate their preservation, even at his own risk. There was no room for misunderstanding in the exchange, and she hadn’t dared hoped for leniency in the face of their condemnation.

The continued decline of the Magistracy didn’t bode well, either. She and Gerik were as good as dead– as well as Teokkin, if its current state was as Gerik reported. So how could it possibly be that he managed to secure their safety?

Unless, he hadn’t. Unless Teokkin had somehow been that very leverage– a sacrifice, to spare herself and the loyal friend who’d do anything for her.

A slow, vague ripple is felt as guilt quietly seeps into the dreamscape. It carries with it the concept of Teokkin, and betrayal– this time a reversal, however marred by the lingering resentment she still carried for the krewemate. It is unclear whether or not Kezza notes the shift in her dream’s tangible mood, as she seeks more pressing answers with growing uncertainty.

“How can we be certain of the document’s legitimacy? Even if it is authentic, how can we know that Administration won’t invalidate it on my return?”

[muthologician]

Unsettled by the metamorphosis the dream around them underwent, Gerik kept himself steady by occupying his attention with the asura in front of him– Though that was perhaps not as effective as he might have hoped, given the clear concern she wore on her features.

He hummed thoughtfully, hoping to assuage her worries,

“I have examined it, cross-referenced with no less than four examples of similar litigation. The document is legitimate. I wouldn’t have agreed to make contact with you if it wasn’t.” The corner of Gerik’s mouth twisted at the thought of a lurking betrayal, uncertain exactly what Teokkin might have in store for the both of them if Kezza returned.

“I believe that if it were his intention to liquidate us, he would have attempted to eliminate me at least once already. His efforts to ‘fix’ the Magistracy have seemed earnest enough. More so than anything else he’s ever done.”

The statement warranted a smirk, even if it was a short-lived one. Tilting his head down with a returned seriousness, the Disaggregator held the gaze between the two of them, voice lowered,

“You belong in Rata Sum, Kez. If working with him to earn our old positions back is the only means to ensure you and your family unit’s safe return, then I believe it is a worthy endeavor.”

[rairoleplays]

Despite his reassurances, Kezza’s reservation is still evident. The mention of liquidation folded her ears with agitated concern, and would have been followed by a reminder of Teokkin’s previous attempt, were it not for the small shift in Gerik’s demeanor.

She allows his reasoning a moment of consideration, gaze leaving his to sift through her doubts. As much as she trusted his litigatory aptitude, there was lacking certainty in how far Administration would go. Every datum of the Magistracy’s databanks had at one point crossed her desk, ensuring even the most sensitive material was paid her scrutiny. If she was indeed no longer worthy of that data, there were only a few ways the Inquest could redact it.

It wasn’t a risk to take lightly, when one had a partner and progeny to think of.

Her ears slacken. Danger aside, was she even worthy of her old position? The charges brought against them in Teokkin’s memory had haunted her over the months. Once the crimes had been brought to light, she could only deny them for so long. The krewe had no cause to give her the benefit of the doubt, any more now as they did then.

After all, she was a deserter now.

“I.. I don’t know, Gerik,” her voice pensive, but not despairing. “Even if Teokkin rescinds, the Administrative council has no rationale for restoring my status.. in any capacity.”

[muthologician]

Though the Disaggregator was never one to show weakness in the face of adversity, it was no small effort to conceal the reservations Kezza’s uncertainty engendered in him. Who was he to put her through such duress? To cause such delicate ears to curl with anxiety? Certainly no one good.

Seeking to ease her mind, Gerik’s claws traced a delicate line along the small of her back, lips set in a like comiseration.

“Any endeavor has it’s less desireable potentialities.. But if we don’t take action now, we may never be reinstated. You could be on the run for the rest of your life, and I.. I don’t believe I could handle that, Kezza.”

His frown deepened at the thought of being cut off from her forever; with Srazz gone, he’d have no one left– And Kezza’s family would be in more peril than either of them. It was an eventuality he could not allow to come to pass.

“What if we organized a meeting on neutral ground? Depending on the venue, you might not even need to be physically present.”

[rairoleplays]

Even with wilting ears, the touch at her back is repaid with a kind press at his, a hand set between his shoulders and one at his waist. The sympathetic look she gives him is one of comiseration, held until an ear flicks at his suggestion.

“I concur,” she replies softly, “Somewhere in Kryta, perhaps. Where would you say is safest..?”

[muthologician]

The question posed was a good one; where could a meeting be organized that would best minimize the threat to their persons, without being so impersonal as to provide no evidence of Teokkin’s intent? Certainly, meeting in Rata Sum was out of the question. But then, where? Mrot Boru? One of the Brisban facilities?

The touch at his back urged him to coo sweetly, an idle nuzzle paid to her neck before the idea struck him.

“Perhaps.. Something could be worked out with Moto? He does possess the technology to facilitate such a meeting..”

[rairoleplays]

The suggestion takes her aback by some small degree, “Moto? But in that case, I would have to return to Rata Sum..”

Her ears droop again at the impossibility, reminded of her longing for home. The reality of the dream shudders with a ripple of homesickness, and the asura places her worry with a chin at his shoulder.

When she speaks again, it is quiet enough to be almost inaudible, were it not for the mechanics of the dreamstate conveying the meaning through sensation alone.

“I can’t even be certain this is real.”

[muthologician]

While the necessity of remaining focused on the task at hand gnawed at the back of his mind, Gerik found himself admittedly lost amid the doubt that trailed the Magistrix’s statement– And in the familiar softness of her eyes, gentle lilac hues arrested his gaze.

Taking the smaller asura’s hand in a palm nicked and bitten by scars, he leaned in almost unconsciously bringing their foreheads to meet.

“Let me assure you then.” He murmured, leaning forward to join his lips to hers.

[rairoleplays]

The touch at her hand was enough to bring her to face him again, a light hue brought to her cheeks as he brought his head against hers. His bid to assuage her doubt is accepted with a readiness that may have surprised her, were it not for the knowledge that this was not their waking reality.

With doubt lurking in the shadows of the dream, Kezza’s arms enclose more firmly around him, willing that figment or not– he stay.

[muthologician]

Real or not, Gerik felt a curious kind of elation at the contact that might have been shameful if he had not long ago accepted his feelings for his one-time colleague and long-term friend. Reciprocating her arms movements without a hint of reservation, the larger asura’s arms draw Kezza against him with a sigh between joined lips, eye fluttering shut as the peaking emotions color him in a soft magenta hue.

Before their embrace can engross him fully, Gerik has presence of mind enough to speak between the kiss, hushed and breathy,

“Will you afford me this chance? To make things right?”

[rairoleplays]

Though they still embraced so closely, the scarce distance he affords himself must be compensated for with a nuzzle at his cheek. If this was all indeed a dream, it was the most real she’d ever had.

“It isn’t yours to make right,” she answers in a voice softened by intimacy, “But I trust you, Ger.”

While neither asura may be wholly aware of it, the office around them recedes ever so slightly– as though everything were shrouded in a faint fog, save for them.

[muthologician]

With her confirmation staying his worries, Gerik gives an affectionate sigh.

“I’ll dispatch a golem with the details,” He breathed, fighting the inclination to swoon at her touch, “We’ll fix this. I promise.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think to say. For as effectively as their differences encouraged his mind to broaden it’s approach to the world, Kezza’s presence seemed to make higher thought a difficulty for the Disaggregator at times. Thankfully, this particular juncture was anything but inopportune. He let another sigh tumble from his lips as he relaxed into the Magistrix’s embrace.

[rairoleplays]

“I’ll maintain my proximity to Divinity’s Reach,” she assures, a soft nuzzle paid to his jaw, “And I’ll find a disguise.”

A slight jolt crosses the scenery around them at the mention of the city, accompanied by a shift to her inn-room’s likeness and general sense of anxiety. She seems unaware that her ears curl with the change.

Yet regardless, her nuzzle offers a light kiss with it, and she would continue to hold him unless deterred.

[muthologician]

“I’ll contact you as soon as the arrangements are made. Just be safe.” He murmurs, returning the nuzzle in kind, a light nip at her ear paid as the scene around them shifts.

Though he notes the change in his periphery, it means little to the Disaggregator when Kezza was present to occupy so much of his attention. Driven by a desire to prolong their continued closeness, Gerik lifts her body up against his own, that he might better pay his attentions at her neck.

[rairoleplays]

Almost surprised, Kezza’s coo is a little louder than she’d intended as her feet leave the imagined ground. Content to open her neck to him while her arms adjust at his shoulders, she readily resumes nuzzling at his ear.

“I’ve missed you so much,” her whisper reiterates after a light nip.

The environment shivers around them, her office again replicating itself– though now with a quarter of her inn room, including a bed, and the desk directly behind her.

[muthologician]

Whether by his own volition or fortunate happenstance, Kezza’s reciprocation encourages Gerik to move the both of them to the desk’s edge. Allowing her to rest against it, Gerik parts the Magistrix’s collar with a thumb to better allow his affections to reach her.

Between kisses, he leans up to nuzzle at her ear, a hand sliding down along her side,

“You won’t have to much longer, Kez. I promise.”

[rairoleplays]

The dream answers with another warm ripple, its epicenter at the fluttering heart of Kezza’s dreamt self. His attentions are enough to redden her cheeks and take the anxious curl from her ears, especially as she recognizes the familiarities of their position.

After another short while spent indulging in each other’s tenderness, Kezza’s hands rest between his shoulders and at his chest, and she nudges an ear with her short snout. Whether spoken or expressed by the dream itself, she whispers, “I don’t want to wake up.”

[muthologician]

The waves of empathic warmth that ripple through the dreamscape wash over Gerik and urge a small sigh from his lips, eyes half-lidded.

“Neither do I. Not yet.” He whispers back.

With another kiss, longer than before, Kezza is eased back onto the desk, where he joins beside her with a light coo at her neck.

[rairoleplays]

“Ger..” His name comes in a contented sigh, as the desk warps beneath them to cushion their weight. The impression of an inn room settles around them, even while the scene only partially resembled one.

The room they shared touring the Queensdale vineyards fades in and out of dominance over the Magistracy office, neither so obscured by the other as to be forgotten. Still, an unfamiliar element lingered in the air, whispering allusions Gerik wouldn’t place.

While the scene dimmed again to emulate that lavish Krytan room, there was an almost candle-lit warmth held around them. Her friend’s cooing is answered with slow, affectionate kisses at his ear, while a hand slipped behind his neck to brush the ends of his hair.

With the seamless presence of the dreamily soft mattress under them, Kezza draws Gerik closer to nuzzle at his neck again.

((sry this post is unusually garbage tier even for me))

[muthologician]

Even as the world shifts around them, Gerik’s attention remains focused on tending to the asura beside him. Nuzzling his blunted snout into the side of her neck, he gives a hum of contentment as the desk beneath them becomes a familiar bed in a familiar inn room, though it perhaps lacks the scent of spiced wine to complete the illusion.

Lifting his arm from Kezza’s side, Gerik draws a claw along her exposed collar, tugging himself close against her with his other hand. It was all too surreal, even as far as dreams went– But not so much that he would question whether there was any other asura he would rather spend his time with. Again, he kissed her neck before moving on to the base of her ear.

“I’ve never dared to dream like this.”

[rairoleplays]

The implication sees that the light blush on Kezza's cheeks would remain, while her own hands explore the contours of his shoulders and side. His words created shorter ripples of a warmth somewhat different than before, each echoed by a sense of reciprocation, and she answers them herself with another nip at his ear.

Something in his words, however, seems to trigger another change in the surreal environment; A voice without sound, speaking of a presence so quietly it seems unheard by the dreamer herself.

She pulls herself against him, a hand wrapped about his waist. Kezza's collar, having given way more easily than it might have in waking reality, is loosed enough to allow his touch as far as her shoulder without stretching the fabric. The dream's machinations allow this without threatening the illusion of realism, and the mesmer seems either unknowing or uncaring of the difference.

"I've been afraid," she whispers, her cheeks still flushed, "That I'd never have another chance to."

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream (RP)

Another long pull from her wine glass, and another sigh following it. It was a routine she’d long since fallen into– were she not so dedicated to regular visits with her family, she could fall harder into such a habit. What else would keep her going, after losing everything? Without Vinn and her precious Pwitt, the once-Magistrix was an asura without purpose. And she knew it.

Kezza gripped the bridge of her snout over the mask– perhaps the last trapping of the glory days which still served her. Alchemy knew her krewe didn’t. And the masks would grant her protection from that very same krewe, provided the assassins they sent were unfamiliar with her old practice. It seemed unlikely, but so far.. so good.

An emptied flagon crashed beside her, thrown against the bar behind the order of the bookah wielding it. The crude and surly thing demanded a refreshed glass, by Kezza’s count, her fifth. How this repulsive cretin could stomach that much swill in so short a time was a curiosity worth research, but the asura only gave the specimen a dull stare. Seemingly incensed by the look, the human growled at her and muttered something incomprehensible.

One of the most regrettable aspects of her exile was the safety protocol she’d assigned herself: Never be alone outside of her hideout. Even if it meant the company of bookah. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but solitude took its toll between risked visits with Vinn and Pwitt.

Acceptance became easier to grasp, but..

It never got less depressing.

At least in Divinity’s Reach, there was wine. A guilty pleasure, she admitted, but one made forgivable with the reminder of its discovery. Pained now as it was, the memory could still warm her where the wine couldn’t. She had been reluctant to indulge her friend’s incessant push for the outing, reminding him of every unpleasantry the city held.

But as always, Gerik had a way of swaying her. The absence of his whimsy made her stay in the city much less amicable, even as she recalled his more obnoxious tendencies. She’d trade every glass of fermented grape to hear just one of his annoying quips.

Kezza brought a hand to her forehead, unable and unwilling to acknowledge the irate female next her. The bottle of wine she’d ingested was nothing to the horrid lead weight in her stomach, a nausea she’d never once shaken in the past months. There was no way to know for certain whether or not the Disaggregator had succeeded his escape, and it was an anxiety that overwhelmed her thoughts when her guard grew weak. Relief only hinted itself in the determined hope that he was as capable as she’d always known him to be.

–

The journey back to her hideaway through the foreign city was mercifully uneventful under the cover of mesmeric subterfuge. Despite the sore arm she’d acquired during the inevitable altercation with the bookah woman, the cause of her fatigue was far less tangible. These days were exhausting in their boredom, and the nights restless with angst.

Yet for once, perhaps by the grace of that bookah’s dirty tricks, Kezza found her makeshift cot an almost welcome sight, and sleep came before it could be questioned.

[muthologician]

The Disaggregator was no stranger to ritual. Binding a spirit, for instance, was a process with which he and any other Inquest agent worth their datastacks were intimately familiar. Though the exact methods and preferred location differred from the habits of the pedestrian lab jockey or floundering bookah, the curvature of the binding lines and the crumbled reagents, the powdered bone and muttered incantations were all the same. It was a similar experience to any other ritual of a like magic.

This, though. This was different. Certainly, the chalk lines had been drawn up and the candles had been lit; surely, he’d canted the sacred words, written in times long passed into antiquity as proscribed by the simian gods– But it was different. This time, there had been no bundled sticks to burn, or dried rat bones to break over consecrated water.

This time, there had only been an overwhelming consumption of junk food. As much as he disdained the stuff, he’d eaten the first bag of grub chips quickly enough. By the fifth container of Planthopper Pasties, however, the Disaggregator was beginning to feel the strain. By the tenth, he was unconscious, face down in a circle of chalk.

When he entered the dream world, it took a moment for the asura to reacquaint himself with his own consciousness– Or subconsciousness. He couldn’t be certain which was which. Everything around him was smoke and sunlight, the moon wreathed in dust, a rippling veil of ephemeral mist. If he had the time, he might spend a while grappling with the nature of his newfound lucidity. As it was, the task at hand demanded too much focus, lending his form a hard edge in the soft, blooming murk of dreamlight.

Impelling himself forward, it was a long, sometimes harrowing while before he touched on a dream sphere that might read as anything resembling familiar, but when he did, the sensation was unmistakable. Careening around the edge of the crystalline orb, Gerik allowed a dragged claw to maintain contact and prevent him from losing hold as he peered within from without.

What he saw skipped his heart a beat. There, mere meters beneath him, was the Magistrix– Long-sought and wrapped in the fitful turnings of an anxious sleep. He began to tap at the surface.

[rairoleplays]

The ragged asura tosses and turns under the coat she’s reassigned as a blanket. Her limp ears flick now and then, until her subconscious detects something which rouses them.

While not dreamless, the restless sleep is occupied by a general malaise, manifested in her mind as a dark and chaotic haze. Images of familiar places– her office, her domicile, the Magistracy lobby– form and fade before any of them can stick. The most stable of environments is her office, a dim place lit with more crimson than its reality ever held. It isn’t much longer before it wins out against the grey and busy void, adhering itself to her subconscious enough that Kezza finds herself standing in its altered form; The ceiling warped, too low at her desk and stretched beyond the confines of its tangible twin in a way which mirrored the Magistracy’s halls. Databanks and furniture are likewise discordant, and perhaps curiously, lacking doors. The entry to her private washroom seems the most realistic, though its interior is starker than it ought to be.

Kezza stands in the middle of the scene, dully awakening to the dream. Without lucidity, she starts for her desk, and seats herself in her chair which is too large for her person. Noise, indecipherable, clouds the air, and Kezza feels herself begin to panic under the sudden stress her dream generates.

From the noise, however, comes a rhythmic tapping. Somehow, she finds it overcome the chaos, and it permits her focus enough that a presence is felt. The outer rim of her dream becomes permeable, allowing the interloper to phase into the dream freely.

[muthologician]

Peering through the hazy sphere’s surface, there’s little else the Disaggregator can make of the scene within beyond the vaguely feminine form inside. If it weren’t for the whisper of a unknowingly shared memory to draw him in, he might well have passed it by entirely. Thankfully, he hadn’t– And more fortuitously still, the sphere’s occupant took note enough of his harassment that the barrier between void and dream became porous, allowing him to pass.

Not risking a moment to the capricious nature of the dreamscape, Gerik pushed himself beyond the threshold and into darkness. It was then that he realized his mistake. In his haste, the ever keen Disaggregator had failed to think through his manner of entry; a blundering that left him suspended in the air above the room’s center for a moment before the idea of gravity asserted itself and sent him hurtling to the floor with a yelp.

“HWUUAA–OORRMF!”

[rairoleplays]

Already in distress, the cry of a familiar voice spurs a shriek from Kezza, who shrinks back into the chair as though shielding herself from something terrible.

After a few moments of cowering, she pries apart the fingers she’d thrown across her face, and looks ahead at where the vivid sound came from. After another pause, the unaware Kezza swallows, “Who are you? G-Gerik..?”

[muthologician]

It took a moment for the Disaggregator to realize that he was being addressed, and longer still for his body to register that it had no cause to be in pain. This was, after all, only a dream. Willing his supposed injuries mended, the asura picks himself up and dusts himself off, paying particular attention to the straightening of his collar before he can find it in himself to respond to the Magistrix,

“Affimative, Kezza, it is I; the great and powerful Disaggregator! I have transcended the barrier between the waking world and the dreaming to.. To, uh..” Gerik felt a stirring in his chest that stayed what would have been a typically grandstanding entrance as he finally looked upon his estranged friend. Perhaps it was a machination of the Magistrix’s fabricated dream world that lent her appearance a hint of unfamiliarity about it. After all, one’s dream self was often the ideal, or most dreaded version of the real self.

But, it had been so long since he’d laid eyes upon her in either setting. The dawning uncertainty brought a tickling wetness to the corner of his eyes that no force of will could banish, and his voice broke earnestly when he spoke again, “I-I’ve missed you so much, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

The Kezza who regards him from behind the desk is someone different than probably expected. Whether due to the oversized chair or the dream’s own design, she seems smaller, and is dressed in the first uniform he would have ever seen her wear. Her hair also harkens back to years past, where she wore it long without adornments. All that seems missing is a mask, though the hands still tentatively hiding her features might suffice.

Worried skepticism follows his approach, his bold and vivid form in noticeable contrast to the grim surroundings. It’s enough to give her a distraction from the dream’s manufactured anguish, which is forced to abate as her mind finds something new to focus on. Kezza watches him with growing disbelief, eventually shifting her hands enough that he might finally see her face.

“Ge-Gerik.. what are you doing here?”

The environment appears to bolster itself despite the meek and befuddled question– The walls of the office straighten themselves to realistic proportions, finding their symmetry once abandoning the extraneous length which resembled the Magistracy’s halls. While Gerik’s presence solidified the setting, however, it did little for Kezza’s lucidity. The mesmer had yet to realize her own dream-state, let alone the truth of her friend’s presence.

[muthologician]

Reclaiming his usual blustering composure was not an easy feat when confronted by what he now saw before him: the Magistrix as she was before there was even a Magistracy. It was certainly a dream, then. He hadn’t seen her hair down and unadorned in ages..

But he knew that there was no time to waste when there was no telling how long the ritual would maintain his link with her dreaming mind. Swiping the collected moisture from the corner of his eyes, Gerik started forward a step, humming.

“I’ve established a link with your dreaming mind, Kezza. You’re asleep. I am too. I needed to contact you.”

[rairoleplays]

“Dreaming..”

The notion shudders the dream world, a likely uncomfortable sensation for the interloper as consciousness challenges the subconscious. Kezza places a palm against her temple, eyes scanning her desk with purpose as the fabricated reality shifts incomprehensively. The glyphs of her datawork were wholly illegible, which warranted another test she learned as a budding synergist. The environment begins to stabilize, with a much less tenuous grasp of its own form.

Taking her hands in front of her, Kezza brings them to manifest an orange flame– something impossible in her reality, where mesmeric ability long since displaced her want for an elementalist’s prowess. The fire closes in on itself, liquefying into a glob of water.

Her expression slowly lifts with the realization, though when she looks up, there is a distinct alteration of her features. Without transition, her hair now passes her shoulders in a dull and ragged state, and the wear of long-term stress is clear across her face. Her uniform, too, is supplanted by a contemporary outfit of asuran dress, lacking any implication of her krewe allegiance.

“Ger..!”

Gerik would have only a moment to process the change, however, as he’d find Kezza’s arms embracing him without having witnessed her approach.

Doubt, however, brings her to lift her head from its place at his chest. “But, how? How do I know you’re not a figment?”

[muthologician]

With as much as he’d longed for the Magistrix’s embrace, Gerik found himself woefully unprepared for the suddenness with which her arms enircled him, still not entirely acclimated to the whimsy of dream. Nearly stumbling a step, the Disaggregator recovers quickly against the smaller asura’s weight and brings his arms to match her own, the side of his face nuzzling against her neck almost without bidding.

He never wanted it to end. But it had to.

Feeling her head lift from his person, his eyes flicked down to meet Kezza’s gaze, willing away a wetness that might have been telling were it not so readily disposed of. He huffed,

“I can’t imagine any figment you’d dream up could ever match the magnificence of the genuine article. I mean, really Kez. The gall of the thought!”

Though the snooty imperiousness in his tone was entirely real, it did not come without an undercurrent of good nature. He smirked.

“It was a trying endeavor. I’ve spent a small fortune on scented candles and.. Junk food. Euugh.”

[rairoleplays]

It was that touch of derision in his voice and ready wit, which allowed her face to brighten with an irresistible smile. He was right; The times he’d been replicated by her sleeping mind never presented the nuance of this obnoxious charm– it was either one, or the other.

The way his snout wrinkled with mock outrage was also a dead giveaway.

“Candles and junk food?” She echoes with bewildered skepticism, having never seen him partake of the latter. It was an unusual combination. “Just what did you do?”

[muthologician]

With as much effort as he put into playing the part of the snide villain, Gerik’s faux superiority was easily broken by the softness of the Magistrix’s smile. Feeling the corners of his mouth tug into a like expression, the Disaggregator nursed the side of Kezza’s neck with a nuzzle, pulling out of it with a chuckle.

“Nothing I’m proud of.” He admitted, already wary of the consequences when he returned to the waking world. “I made use of some of Vinn’s notes on ethereal somnambulance. The ritual that allowed this meeting neccessitated.. Unsavory reagents. I expect the results of this endeavor will greet me poorly when I wake.”

[rairoleplays]

The attention paid to her neck earns him a happy coo, which remains as a smile even as he explains his less than ideal situation.

Even with allowing a breathable space between them, Kezza doesn’t dare release him fully. She reaches up to nuzzle at his cheek with both sympathy, and longing.

“I’ve missed you, so much.”

[muthologician]

The admission is all it takes to swall Gerik’s heart fully, a familiar warmth lending his features a subtle hue beneath the thin fuzz coating his cheeks. Cooing softly, he leans in to lay a light kiss on Kezza’s lips, cradling the smaller asura’s weight in his arms.

With his eyes shut, he sighs his response,

“And I, you.”

[rairoleplays]

Some of the weariness across Kezza’s face seems to evaporate, the dream lightened by their reunion. She nuzzles his other cheek, planting another kiss there.

“I thought I might have lost you,” she whispers, the hands at his back shifting to hold him in a warmer embrace.

[muthologician]

Sighing his relief at the long-delayed reuinion, Kezza’s weight is accepted at his shoulder with a thoughtful hum.

“Nothing could take me from you, Kez.” Gerik paid her waist a light squeeze, cracking a grin after a fashion. “Excepting a transdimensional enfolding of a cataclysmic scope. But I’m not sure even that would take.”

[rairoleplays]

A while is spent paying soft nuzzles to his neck, unaware (and likely uncaring) that there could be a greater purpose to this visitation.

His response brings a grin against the soft fuzz she attends to, prompting a short coo before she parts from him again.

“What about the rest of the krewe?”

[muthologician]

The attentions at his neck are recieved with another light sigh that turns to a coo, the hands at the Magistrix’s waist sliding up to rest between her shoulders.

Even with the mention of the krewe to attempt at souring his mood, Gerik manages to keep his good nature.

“They’re well enough. Well, save Teokkin.” He hums again, this time with a dubious ring to his tone. “He’s at wit’s end, I believe. I didn’t even have to run interference.”

[rairoleplays]

Teokkin’s mention is finally enough to temper Kezza’s heartened spirit. Still, some bright spark in her eyes holds fast, even as the relief she sighs is undercut by lingering concern.

“How severely has he compromised the Magistracy?”

[muthologician]

The worry in his friend’s voice is mirrored in Gerik’s own heart, though he masks it with a brush of the snout at Kezza’s collar, a softened smile lifted to greet her as he pulls away.

“It’s holding together. Funding is tight, but he is unable to make any headway no matter how great the lengths he goes to in curtailing spending.”

Despite the good nature engendered by the closeness he’d longed for, the reminder of the necessity for his visitation steals some of the warmth from his expression. “That is.. Why I’ve been able to contact you with confidence, finally. He wants to return ownership of the Magistracy to you.”

[rairoleplays]

Her newly folded ears rise upright, disbelieving, before they fall flat and stiff with a bitter vindication.

“That datawipe had no idea what he was getting involved with,” her resentment reads through, though it fades almost immediately. “But.. he was right. He was right about, everything.”

[muthologician]

With as detestable as the subject matter is, Gerik can’t help but let a smirk worm it’s way onto his features at the familiar tells in the curl of the Magistrix’s ears that spoke her indignation.

“He’s wrong, Kez. He admitted it himself. The Magistracy needs you to head it, and no one else. There’s no other asura who could possibly fill the role. I’m certain.”

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s gaze cast apart from his, she shakes her head with wilting ears.

“No.. Gerik, I saw it. I saw his audience with Administration,” she speaks the confession with such melancholy, it summons a faint graying haze to the ethereal Magistracy office.

“They had every intention to terminate the department.. and us with it, if Teokkin failed to amend our shortcomings.”

[muthologician]

Her admission was not quite so surprising as it was a grim confirmation of the fears Gerik had harbored since the beginning of the whole ordeal. It shouldn’t come as any grand revelation to him that Administration had found cause to liquidate them after so many blunders.

But, those hadn’t been their fault! Not any if his– And certainly not Kezza’s.

Moved by the effect his friend’s shift in demeanor had on the room around them and by the reminder that his time was short, the Disaggregator brought a feather light touch to Kezza’s jaw, guiding her gaze up to meet his own.

“Kezza,” His eyes glimmered an amber more brilliant than they should have, a caring insistence lingering behind them. “Whatever you saw, I fully believe it to be true. But the circumstance has changed. Teokkin needs you. The krewe needs you. And.. I need you. He’s provided the legal documentation that will assure your safety, as well as that of your family unit’s.”

Gerik paused at that, recalling the threat he’d left hanging over the Magistrate’s head. A small victory, if it paid out. “I had leverage to negotiate it. Anything to ensure your safety. Your happiness.”

[rairoleplays]

While the warm glow of his eyes arrest her attention, disbelief risks doubt when all he says sounds too good to be true. The memory was as clear in her mind as the one she’d taken it from; Teokkin had been made to negotiate their preservation, even at his own risk. There was no room for misunderstanding in the exchange, and she hadn’t dared hoped for leniency in the face of their condemnation.

The continued decline of the Magistracy didn’t bode well, either. She and Gerik were as good as dead– as well as Teokkin, if its current state was as Gerik reported. So how could it possibly be that he managed to secure their safety?

Unless, he hadn’t. Unless Teokkin had somehow been that very leverage– a sacrifice, to spare herself and the loyal friend who’d do anything for her.

A slow, vague ripple is felt as guilt quietly seeps into the dreamscape. It carries with it the concept of Teokkin, and betrayal– this time a reversal, however marred by the lingering resentment she still carried for the krewemate. It is unclear whether or not Kezza notes the shift in her dream’s tangible mood, as she seeks more pressing answers with growing uncertainty.

“How can we be certain of the document’s legitimacy? Even if it is authentic, how can we know that Administration won’t invalidate it on my return?”

[muthologician]

Unsettled by the metamorphosis the dream around them underwent, Gerik kept himself steady by occupying his attention with the asura in front of him– Though that was perhaps not as effective as he might have hoped, given the clear concern she wore on her features.

He hummed thoughtfully, hoping to assuage her worries,

“I have examined it, cross-referenced with no less than four examples of similar litigation. The document is legitimate. I wouldn’t have agreed to make contact with you if it wasn’t.” The corner of Gerik’s mouth twisted at the thought of a lurking betrayal, uncertain exactly what Teokkin might have in store for the both of them if Kezza returned.

“I believe that if it were his intention to liquidate us, he would have attempted to eliminate me at least once already. His efforts to ‘fix’ the Magistracy have seemed earnest enough. More so than anything else he’s ever done.”

The statement warranted a smirk, even if it was a short-lived one. Tilting his head down with a returned seriousness, the Disaggregator held the gaze between the two of them, voice lowered,

“You belong in Rata Sum, Kez. If working with him to earn our old positions back is the only means to ensure you and your family unit’s safe return, then I believe it is a worthy endeavor.”

[rairoleplays]

Despite his reassurances, Kezza’s reservation is still evident. The mention of liquidation folded her ears with agitated concern, and would have been followed by a reminder of Teokkin’s previous attempt, were it not for the small shift in Gerik’s demeanor.

She allows his reasoning a moment of consideration, gaze leaving his to sift through her doubts. As much as she trusted his litigatory aptitude, there was lacking certainty in how far Administration would go. Every datum of the Magistracy’s databanks had at one point crossed her desk, ensuring even the most sensitive material was paid her scrutiny. If she was indeed no longer worthy of that data, there were only a few ways the Inquest could redact it.

It wasn’t a risk to take lightly, when one had a partner and progeny to think of.

Her ears slacken. Danger aside, was she even worthy of her old position? The charges brought against them in Teokkin’s memory had haunted her over the months. Once the crimes had been brought to light, she could only deny them for so long. The krewe had no cause to give her the benefit of the doubt, any more now as they did then.

After all, she was a deserter now.

“I.. I don’t know, Gerik,” her voice pensive, but not despairing. “Even if Teokkin rescinds, the Administrative council has no rationale for restoring my status.. in any capacity.”

[muthologician]

Though the Disaggregator was never one to show weakness in the face of adversity, it was no small effort to conceal the reservations Kezza’s uncertainty engendered in him. Who was he to put her through such duress? To cause such delicate ears to curl with anxiety? Certainly no one good.

Seeking to ease her mind, Gerik’s claws traced a delicate line along the small of her back, lips set in a like comiseration.

“Any endeavor has it’s less desireable potentialities.. But if we don’t take action now, we may never be reinstated. You could be on the run for the rest of your life, and I.. I don’t believe I could handle that, Kezza.”

His frown deepened at the thought of being cut off from her forever; with Srazz gone, he’d have no one left– And Kezza’s family would be in more peril than either of them. It was an eventuality he could not allow to come to pass.

“What if we organized a meeting on neutral ground? Depending on the venue, you might not even need to be physically present.”

[rairoleplays]

Even with wilting ears, the touch at her back is repaid with a kind press at his, a hand set between his shoulders and one at his waist. The sympathetic look she gives him is one of comiseration, held until an ear flicks at his suggestion.

“I concur,” she replies softly, “Somewhere in Kryta, perhaps. Where would you say is safest..?”

[muthologician]

The question posed was a good one; where could a meeting be organized that would best minimize the threat to their persons, without being so impersonal as to provide no evidence of Teokkin’s intent? Certainly, meeting in Rata Sum was out of the question. But then, where? Mrot Boru? One of the Brisban facilities?

The touch at his back urged him to coo sweetly, an idle nuzzle paid to her neck before the idea struck him.

“Perhaps.. Something could be worked out with Moto? He does possess the technology to facilitate such a meeting..”

[rairoleplays]

The suggestion takes her aback by some small degree, “Moto? But in that case, I would have to return to Rata Sum..”

Her ears droop again at the impossibility, reminded of her longing for home. The reality of the dream shudders with a ripple of homesickness, and the asura places her worry with a chin at his shoulder.

When she speaks again, it is quiet enough to be almost inaudible, were it not for the mechanics of the dreamstate conveying the meaning through sensation alone.

“I can’t even be certain this is real.”

[muthologician]

While the necessity of remaining focused on the task at hand gnawed at the back of his mind, Gerik found himself admittedly lost amid the doubt that trailed the Magistrix’s statement– And in the familiar softness of her eyes, gentle lilac hues arrested his gaze.

Taking the smaller asura’s hand in a palm nicked and bitten by scars, he leaned in almost unconsciously bringing their foreheads to meet.

“Let me assure you then.” He murmured, leaning forward to join his lips to hers.

[rairoleplays]

The touch at her hand was enough to bring her to face him again, a light hue brought to her cheeks as he brought his head against hers. His bid to assuage her doubt is accepted with a readiness that may have surprised her, were it not for the knowledge that this was not their waking reality.

With doubt lurking in the shadows of the dream, Kezza’s arms enclose more firmly around him, willing that figment or not– he stay.

[muthologician]

Real or not, Gerik felt a curious kind of elation at the contact that might have been shameful if he had not long ago accepted his feelings for his one-time colleague and long-term friend. Reciprocating her arms movements without a hint of reservation, the larger asura’s arms draw Kezza against him with a sigh between joined lips, eye fluttering shut as the peaking emotions color him in a soft magenta hue.

Before their embrace can engross him fully, Gerik has presence of mind enough to speak between the kiss, hushed and breathy,

“Will you afford me this chance? To make things right?”

[rairoleplays]

Though they still embraced so closely, the scarce distance he affords himself must be compensated for with a nuzzle at his cheek. If this was all indeed a dream, it was the most real she’d ever had.

“It isn’t yours to make right,” she answers in a voice softened by intimacy, “But I trust you, Ger.”

While neither asura may be wholly aware of it, the office around them recedes ever so slightly– as though everything were shrouded in a faint fog, save for them.

[muthologician]

With her confirmation staying his worries, Gerik gives an affectionate sigh.

“I’ll dispatch a golem with the details,” He breathed, fighting the inclination to swoon at her touch, “We’ll fix this. I promise.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think to say. For as effectively as their differences encouraged his mind to broaden it’s approach to the world, Kezza’s presence seemed to make higher thought a difficulty for the Disaggregator at times. Thankfully, this particular juncture was anything but inopportune. He let another sigh tumble from his lips as he relaxed into the Magistrix’s embrace.

[rairoleplays]

“I’ll maintain my proximity to Divinity’s Reach,” she assures, a soft nuzzle paid to his jaw, “And I’ll find a disguise.”

A slight jolt crosses the scenery around them at the mention of the city, accompanied by a shift to her inn-room’s likeness and general sense of anxiety. She seems unaware that her ears curl with the change.

Yet regardless, her nuzzle offers a light kiss with it, and she would continue to hold him unless deterred.

[muthologician]

“I’ll contact you as soon as the arrangements are made. Just be safe.” He murmurs, returning the nuzzle in kind, a light nip at her ear paid as the scene around them shifts.

Though he notes the change in his periphery, it means little to the Disaggregator when Kezza was present to occupy so much of his attention. Driven by a desire to prolong their continued closeness, Gerik lifts her body up against his own, that he might better pay his attentions at her neck.

[rairoleplays]

Almost surprised, Kezza’s coo is a little louder than she’d intended as her feet leave the imagined ground. Content to open her neck to him while her arms adjust at his shoulders, she readily resumes nuzzling at his ear.

“I’ve missed you so much,” her whisper reiterates after a light nip.

The environment shivers around them, her office again replicating itself– though now with a quarter of her inn room, including a bed, and the desk directly behind her.

[muthologician]

Whether by his own volition or fortunate happenstance, Kezza’s reciprocation encourages Gerik to move the both of them to the desk’s edge. Allowing her to rest against it, Gerik parts the Magistrix’s collar with a thumb to better allow his affections to reach her.

Between kisses, he leans up to nuzzle at her ear, a hand sliding down along her side,

“You won’t have to much longer, Kez. I promise.”

[rairoleplays]

The dream answers with another warm ripple, its epicenter at the fluttering heart of Kezza’s dreamt self. His attentions are enough to redden her cheeks and take the anxious curl from her ears, especially as she recognizes the familiarities of their position.

After another short while spent indulging in each other’s tenderness, Kezza’s hands rest between his shoulders and at his chest, and she nudges an ear with her short snout. Whether spoken or expressed by the dream itself, she whispers, “I don’t want to wake up.”

[muthologician]

The waves of empathic warmth that ripple through the dreamscape wash over Gerik and urge a small sigh from his lips, eyes half-lidded.

“Neither do I. Not yet.” He whispers back.

With another kiss, longer than before, Kezza is eased back onto the desk, where he joins beside her with a light coo at her neck.

[rairoleplays]

"Ger.." His name comes in a contented sigh, as the desk warps beneath them to cushion their weight. The impression of an inn room settles around them, even while the scene only partially resembled one.

The room they shared touring the Queensdale vineyards fades in and out of dominance over the Magistracy office, neither so obscured by the other as to be forgotten. Still, an unfamiliar element lingered in the air, whispering allusions Gerik wouldn't place.

While the scene dimmed again to emulate that lavish Krytan room, there was an almost candle-lit warmth held around them. Her friend's cooing is answered with slow, affectionate kisses at his ear, while a hand slipped behind his neck to brush the ends of his hair.

With the seamless presence of the dreamily soft mattress under them, Kezza draws Gerik closer to nuzzle at his neck again.

((sry this post is unusually garbage tier even for me))

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream (RP)

Another long pull from her wine glass, and another sigh following it. It was a routine she’d long since fallen into– were she not so dedicated to regular visits with her family, she could fall harder into such a habit. What else would keep her going, after losing everything? Without Vinn and her precious Pwitt, the once-Magistrix was an asura without purpose. And she knew it.

Kezza gripped the bridge of her snout over the mask– perhaps the last trapping of the glory days which still served her. Alchemy knew her krewe didn’t. And the masks would grant her protection from that very same krewe, provided the assassins they sent were unfamiliar with her old practice. It seemed unlikely, but so far.. so good.

An emptied flagon crashed beside her, thrown against the bar behind the order of the bookah wielding it. The crude and surly thing demanded a refreshed glass, by Kezza’s count, her fifth. How this repulsive cretin could stomach that much swill in so short a time was a curiosity worth research, but the asura only gave the specimen a dull stare. Seemingly incensed by the look, the human growled at her and muttered something incomprehensible.

One of the most regrettable aspects of her exile was the safety protocol she’d assigned herself: Never be alone outside of her hideout. Even if it meant the company of bookah. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but solitude took its toll between risked visits with Vinn and Pwitt.

Acceptance became easier to grasp, but..

It never got less depressing.

At least in Divinity’s Reach, there was wine. A guilty pleasure, she admitted, but one made forgivable with the reminder of its discovery. Pained now as it was, the memory could still warm her where the wine couldn’t. She had been reluctant to indulge her friend’s incessant push for the outing, reminding him of every unpleasantry the city held.

But as always, Gerik had a way of swaying her. The absence of his whimsy made her stay in the city much less amicable, even as she recalled his more obnoxious tendencies. She’d trade every glass of fermented grape to hear just one of his annoying quips.

Kezza brought a hand to her forehead, unable and unwilling to acknowledge the irate female next her. The bottle of wine she’d ingested was nothing to the horrid lead weight in her stomach, a nausea she’d never once shaken in the past months. There was no way to know for certain whether or not the Disaggregator had succeeded his escape, and it was an anxiety that overwhelmed her thoughts when her guard grew weak. Relief only hinted itself in the determined hope that he was as capable as she’d always known him to be.

–

The journey back to her hideaway through the foreign city was mercifully uneventful under the cover of mesmeric subterfuge. Despite the sore arm she’d acquired during the inevitable altercation with the bookah woman, the cause of her fatigue was far less tangible. These days were exhausting in their boredom, and the nights restless with angst.

Yet for once, perhaps by the grace of that bookah’s dirty tricks, Kezza found her makeshift cot an almost welcome sight, and sleep came before it could be questioned.

[muthologician]

The Disaggregator was no stranger to ritual. Binding a spirit, for instance, was a process with which he and any other Inquest agent worth their datastacks were intimately familiar. Though the exact methods and preferred location differred from the habits of the pedestrian lab jockey or floundering bookah, the curvature of the binding lines and the crumbled reagents, the powdered bone and muttered incantations were all the same. It was a similar experience to any other ritual of a like magic.

This, though. This was different. Certainly, the chalk lines had been drawn up and the candles had been lit; surely, he’d canted the sacred words, written in times long passed into antiquity as proscribed by the simian gods– But it was different. This time, there had been no bundled sticks to burn, or dried rat bones to break over consecrated water.

This time, there had only been an overwhelming consumption of junk food. As much as he disdained the stuff, he’d eaten the first bag of grub chips quickly enough. By the fifth container of Planthopper Pasties, however, the Disaggregator was beginning to feel the strain. By the tenth, he was unconscious, face down in a circle of chalk.

When he entered the dream world, it took a moment for the asura to reacquaint himself with his own consciousness– Or subconsciousness. He couldn’t be certain which was which. Everything around him was smoke and sunlight, the moon wreathed in dust, a rippling veil of ephemeral mist. If he had the time, he might spend a while grappling with the nature of his newfound lucidity. As it was, the task at hand demanded too much focus, lending his form a hard edge in the soft, blooming murk of dreamlight.

Impelling himself forward, it was a long, sometimes harrowing while before he touched on a dream sphere that might read as anything resembling familiar, but when he did, the sensation was unmistakable. Careening around the edge of the crystalline orb, Gerik allowed a dragged claw to maintain contact and prevent him from losing hold as he peered within from without.

What he saw skipped his heart a beat. There, mere meters beneath him, was the Magistrix– Long-sought and wrapped in the fitful turnings of an anxious sleep. He began to tap at the surface.

[rairoleplays]

The ragged asura tosses and turns under the coat she’s reassigned as a blanket. Her limp ears flick now and then, until her subconscious detects something which rouses them.

While not dreamless, the restless sleep is occupied by a general malaise, manifested in her mind as a dark and chaotic haze. Images of familiar places– her office, her domicile, the Magistracy lobby– form and fade before any of them can stick. The most stable of environments is her office, a dim place lit with more crimson than its reality ever held. It isn’t much longer before it wins out against the grey and busy void, adhering itself to her subconscious enough that Kezza finds herself standing in its altered form; The ceiling warped, too low at her desk and stretched beyond the confines of its tangible twin in a way which mirrored the Magistracy’s halls. Databanks and furniture are likewise discordant, and perhaps curiously, lacking doors. The entry to her private washroom seems the most realistic, though its interior is starker than it ought to be.

Kezza stands in the middle of the scene, dully awakening to the dream. Without lucidity, she starts for her desk, and seats herself in her chair which is too large for her person. Noise, indecipherable, clouds the air, and Kezza feels herself begin to panic under the sudden stress her dream generates.

From the noise, however, comes a rhythmic tapping. Somehow, she finds it overcome the chaos, and it permits her focus enough that a presence is felt. The outer rim of her dream becomes permeable, allowing the interloper to phase into the dream freely.

[muthologician]

Peering through the hazy sphere’s surface, there’s little else the Disaggregator can make of the scene within beyond the vaguely feminine form inside. If it weren’t for the whisper of a unknowingly shared memory to draw him in, he might well have passed it by entirely. Thankfully, he hadn’t– And more fortuitously still, the sphere’s occupant took note enough of his harassment that the barrier between void and dream became porous, allowing him to pass.

Not risking a moment to the capricious nature of the dreamscape, Gerik pushed himself beyond the threshold and into darkness. It was then that he realized his mistake. In his haste, the ever keen Disaggregator had failed to think through his manner of entry; a blundering that left him suspended in the air above the room’s center for a moment before the idea of gravity asserted itself and sent him hurtling to the floor with a yelp.

“HWUUAA–OORRMF!”

[rairoleplays]

Already in distress, the cry of a familiar voice spurs a shriek from Kezza, who shrinks back into the chair as though shielding herself from something terrible.

After a few moments of cowering, she pries apart the fingers she’d thrown across her face, and looks ahead at where the vivid sound came from. After another pause, the unaware Kezza swallows, “Who are you? G-Gerik..?”

[muthologician]

It took a moment for the Disaggregator to realize that he was being addressed, and longer still for his body to register that it had no cause to be in pain. This was, after all, only a dream. Willing his supposed injuries mended, the asura picks himself up and dusts himself off, paying particular attention to the straightening of his collar before he can find it in himself to respond to the Magistrix,

“Affimative, Kezza, it is I; the great and powerful Disaggregator! I have transcended the barrier between the waking world and the dreaming to.. To, uh..” Gerik felt a stirring in his chest that stayed what would have been a typically grandstanding entrance as he finally looked upon his estranged friend. Perhaps it was a machination of the Magistrix’s fabricated dream world that lent her appearance a hint of unfamiliarity about it. After all, one’s dream self was often the ideal, or most dreaded version of the real self.

But, it had been so long since he’d laid eyes upon her in either setting. The dawning uncertainty brought a tickling wetness to the corner of his eyes that no force of will could banish, and his voice broke earnestly when he spoke again, “I-I’ve missed you so much, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

The Kezza who regards him from behind the desk is someone different than probably expected. Whether due to the oversized chair or the dream’s own design, she seems smaller, and is dressed in the first uniform he would have ever seen her wear. Her hair also harkens back to years past, where she wore it long without adornments. All that seems missing is a mask, though the hands still tentatively hiding her features might suffice.

Worried skepticism follows his approach, his bold and vivid form in noticeable contrast to the grim surroundings. It’s enough to give her a distraction from the dream’s manufactured anguish, which is forced to abate as her mind finds something new to focus on. Kezza watches him with growing disbelief, eventually shifting her hands enough that he might finally see her face.

“Ge-Gerik.. what are you doing here?”

The environment appears to bolster itself despite the meek and befuddled question– The walls of the office straighten themselves to realistic proportions, finding their symmetry once abandoning the extraneous length which resembled the Magistracy’s halls. While Gerik’s presence solidified the setting, however, it did little for Kezza’s lucidity. The mesmer had yet to realize her own dream-state, let alone the truth of her friend’s presence.

[muthologician]

Reclaiming his usual blustering composure was not an easy feat when confronted by what he now saw before him: the Magistrix as she was before there was even a Magistracy. It was certainly a dream, then. He hadn’t seen her hair down and unadorned in ages..

But he knew that there was no time to waste when there was no telling how long the ritual would maintain his link with her dreaming mind. Swiping the collected moisture from the corner of his eyes, Gerik started forward a step, humming.

“I’ve established a link with your dreaming mind, Kezza. You’re asleep. I am too. I needed to contact you.”

[rairoleplays]

“Dreaming..”

The notion shudders the dream world, a likely uncomfortable sensation for the interloper as consciousness challenges the subconscious. Kezza places a palm against her temple, eyes scanning her desk with purpose as the fabricated reality shifts incomprehensively. The glyphs of her datawork were wholly illegible, which warranted another test she learned as a budding synergist. The environment begins to stabilize, with a much less tenuous grasp of its own form.

Taking her hands in front of her, Kezza brings them to manifest an orange flame– something impossible in her reality, where mesmeric ability long since displaced her want for an elementalist’s prowess. The fire closes in on itself, liquefying into a glob of water.

Her expression slowly lifts with the realization, though when she looks up, there is a distinct alteration of her features. Without transition, her hair now passes her shoulders in a dull and ragged state, and the wear of long-term stress is clear across her face. Her uniform, too, is supplanted by a contemporary outfit of asuran dress, lacking any implication of her krewe allegiance.

“Ger..!”

Gerik would have only a moment to process the change, however, as he’d find Kezza’s arms embracing him without having witnessed her approach.

Doubt, however, brings her to lift her head from its place at his chest. “But, how? How do I know you’re not a figment?”

[muthologician]

With as much as he’d longed for the Magistrix’s embrace, Gerik found himself woefully unprepared for the suddenness with which her arms enircled him, still not entirely acclimated to the whimsy of dream. Nearly stumbling a step, the Disaggregator recovers quickly against the smaller asura’s weight and brings his arms to match her own, the side of his face nuzzling against her neck almost without bidding.

He never wanted it to end. But it had to.

Feeling her head lift from his person, his eyes flicked down to meet Kezza’s gaze, willing away a wetness that might have been telling were it not so readily disposed of. He huffed,

“I can’t imagine any figment you’d dream up could ever match the magnificence of the genuine article. I mean, really Kez. The gall of the thought!”

Though the snooty imperiousness in his tone was entirely real, it did not come without an undercurrent of good nature. He smirked.

“It was a trying endeavor. I’ve spent a small fortune on scented candles and.. Junk food. Euugh.”

[rairoleplays]

It was that touch of derision in his voice and ready wit, which allowed her face to brighten with an irresistible smile. He was right; The times he’d been replicated by her sleeping mind never presented the nuance of this obnoxious charm– it was either one, or the other.

The way his snout wrinkled with mock outrage was also a dead giveaway.

“Candles and junk food?” She echoes with bewildered skepticism, having never seen him partake of the latter. It was an unusual combination. “Just what did you do?”

[muthologician]

With as much effort as he put into playing the part of the snide villain, Gerik’s faux superiority was easily broken by the softness of the Magistrix’s smile. Feeling the corners of his mouth tug into a like expression, the Disaggregator nursed the side of Kezza’s neck with a nuzzle, pulling out of it with a chuckle.

“Nothing I’m proud of.” He admitted, already wary of the consequences when he returned to the waking world. “I made use of some of Vinn’s notes on ethereal somnambulance. The ritual that allowed this meeting neccessitated.. Unsavory reagents. I expect the results of this endeavor will greet me poorly when I wake.”

[rairoleplays]

The attention paid to her neck earns him a happy coo, which remains as a smile even as he explains his less than ideal situation.

Even with allowing a breathable space between them, Kezza doesn’t dare release him fully. She reaches up to nuzzle at his cheek with both sympathy, and longing.

“I’ve missed you, so much.”

[muthologician]

The admission is all it takes to swall Gerik’s heart fully, a familiar warmth lending his features a subtle hue beneath the thin fuzz coating his cheeks. Cooing softly, he leans in to lay a light kiss on Kezza’s lips, cradling the smaller asura’s weight in his arms.

With his eyes shut, he sighs his response,

“And I, you.”

[rairoleplays]

Some of the weariness across Kezza’s face seems to evaporate, the dream lightened by their reunion. She nuzzles his other cheek, planting another kiss there.

“I thought I might have lost you,” she whispers, the hands at his back shifting to hold him in a warmer embrace.

[muthologician]

Sighing his relief at the long-delayed reuinion, Kezza’s weight is accepted at his shoulder with a thoughtful hum.

“Nothing could take me from you, Kez.” Gerik paid her waist a light squeeze, cracking a grin after a fashion. “Excepting a transdimensional enfolding of a cataclysmic scope. But I’m not sure even that would take.”

[rairoleplays]

A while is spent paying soft nuzzles to his neck, unaware (and likely uncaring) that there could be a greater purpose to this visitation.

His response brings a grin against the soft fuzz she attends to, prompting a short coo before she parts from him again.

“What about the rest of the krewe?”

[muthologician]

The attentions at his neck are recieved with another light sigh that turns to a coo, the hands at the Magistrix’s waist sliding up to rest between her shoulders.

Even with the mention of the krewe to attempt at souring his mood, Gerik manages to keep his good nature.

“They’re well enough. Well, save Teokkin.” He hums again, this time with a dubious ring to his tone. “He’s at wit’s end, I believe. I didn’t even have to run interference.”

[rairoleplays]

Teokkin’s mention is finally enough to temper Kezza’s heartened spirit. Still, some bright spark in her eyes holds fast, even as the relief she sighs is undercut by lingering concern.

“How severely has he compromised the Magistracy?”

[muthologician]

The worry in his friend’s voice is mirrored in Gerik’s own heart, though he masks it with a brush of the snout at Kezza’s collar, a softened smile lifted to greet her as he pulls away.

“It’s holding together. Funding is tight, but he is unable to make any headway no matter how great the lengths he goes to in curtailing spending.”

Despite the good nature engendered by the closeness he’d longed for, the reminder of the necessity for his visitation steals some of the warmth from his expression. “That is.. Why I’ve been able to contact you with confidence, finally. He wants to return ownership of the Magistracy to you.”

[rairoleplays]

Her newly folded ears rise upright, disbelieving, before they fall flat and stiff with a bitter vindication.

“That datawipe had no idea what he was getting involved with,” her resentment reads through, though it fades almost immediately. “But.. he was right. He was right about, everything.”

[muthologician]

With as detestable as the subject matter is, Gerik can’t help but let a smirk worm it’s way onto his features at the familiar tells in the curl of the Magistrix’s ears that spoke her indignation.

“He’s wrong, Kez. He admitted it himself. The Magistracy needs you to head it, and no one else. There’s no other asura who could possibly fill the role. I’m certain.”

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s gaze cast apart from his, she shakes her head with wilting ears.

“No.. Gerik, I saw it. I saw his audience with Administration,” she speaks the confession with such melancholy, it summons a faint graying haze to the ethereal Magistracy office.

“They had every intention to terminate the department.. and us with it, if Teokkin failed to amend our shortcomings.”

[muthologician]

Her admission was not quite so surprising as it was a grim confirmation of the fears Gerik had harbored since the beginning of the whole ordeal. It shouldn’t come as any grand revelation to him that Administration had found cause to liquidate them after so many blunders.

But, those hadn’t been their fault! Not any if his– And certainly not Kezza’s.

Moved by the effect his friend’s shift in demeanor had on the room around them and by the reminder that his time was short, the Disaggregator brought a feather light touch to Kezza’s jaw, guiding her gaze up to meet his own.

“Kezza,” His eyes glimmered an amber more brilliant than they should have, a caring insistence lingering behind them. “Whatever you saw, I fully believe it to be true. But the circumstance has changed. Teokkin needs you. The krewe needs you. And.. I need you. He’s provided the legal documentation that will assure your safety, as well as that of your family unit’s.”

Gerik paused at that, recalling the threat he’d left hanging over the Magistrate’s head. A small victory, if it paid out. “I had leverage to negotiate it. Anything to ensure your safety. Your happiness.”

[rairoleplays]

While the warm glow of his eyes arrest her attention, disbelief risks doubt when all he says sounds too good to be true. The memory was as clear in her mind as the one she’d taken it from; Teokkin had been made to negotiate their preservation, even at his own risk. There was no room for misunderstanding in the exchange, and she hadn’t dared hoped for leniency in the face of their condemnation.

The continued decline of the Magistracy didn’t bode well, either. She and Gerik were as good as dead– as well as Teokkin, if its current state was as Gerik reported. So how could it possibly be that he managed to secure their safety?

Unless, he hadn’t. Unless Teokkin had somehow been that very leverage– a sacrifice, to spare herself and the loyal friend who’d do anything for her.

A slow, vague ripple is felt as guilt quietly seeps into the dreamscape. It carries with it the concept of Teokkin, and betrayal– this time a reversal, however marred by the lingering resentment she still carried for the krewemate. It is unclear whether or not Kezza notes the shift in her dream’s tangible mood, as she seeks more pressing answers with growing uncertainty.

“How can we be certain of the document’s legitimacy? Even if it is authentic, how can we know that Administration won’t invalidate it on my return?”

[muthologician]

Unsettled by the metamorphosis the dream around them underwent, Gerik kept himself steady by occupying his attention with the asura in front of him– Though that was perhaps not as effective as he might have hoped, given the clear concern she wore on her features.

He hummed thoughtfully, hoping to assuage her worries,

“I have examined it, cross-referenced with no less than four examples of similar litigation. The document is legitimate. I wouldn’t have agreed to make contact with you if it wasn’t.” The corner of Gerik’s mouth twisted at the thought of a lurking betrayal, uncertain exactly what Teokkin might have in store for the both of them if Kezza returned.

“I believe that if it were his intention to liquidate us, he would have attempted to eliminate me at least once already. His efforts to ‘fix’ the Magistracy have seemed earnest enough. More so than anything else he’s ever done.”

The statement warranted a smirk, even if it was a short-lived one. Tilting his head down with a returned seriousness, the Disaggregator held the gaze between the two of them, voice lowered,

“You belong in Rata Sum, Kez. If working with him to earn our old positions back is the only means to ensure you and your family unit’s safe return, then I believe it is a worthy endeavor.”

[rairoleplays]

Despite his reassurances, Kezza’s reservation is still evident. The mention of liquidation folded her ears with agitated concern, and would have been followed by a reminder of Teokkin’s previous attempt, were it not for the small shift in Gerik’s demeanor.

She allows his reasoning a moment of consideration, gaze leaving his to sift through her doubts. As much as she trusted his litigatory aptitude, there was lacking certainty in how far Administration would go. Every datum of the Magistracy’s databanks had at one point crossed her desk, ensuring even the most sensitive material was paid her scrutiny. If she was indeed no longer worthy of that data, there were only a few ways the Inquest could redact it.

It wasn’t a risk to take lightly, when one had a partner and progeny to think of.

Her ears slacken. Danger aside, was she even worthy of her old position? The charges brought against them in Teokkin’s memory had haunted her over the months. Once the crimes had been brought to light, she could only deny them for so long. The krewe had no cause to give her the benefit of the doubt, any more now as they did then.

After all, she was a deserter now.

“I.. I don’t know, Gerik,” her voice pensive, but not despairing. “Even if Teokkin rescinds, the Administrative council has no rationale for restoring my status.. in any capacity.”

[muthologician]

Though the Disaggregator was never one to show weakness in the face of adversity, it was no small effort to conceal the reservations Kezza’s uncertainty engendered in him. Who was he to put her through such duress? To cause such delicate ears to curl with anxiety? Certainly no one good.

Seeking to ease her mind, Gerik’s claws traced a delicate line along the small of her back, lips set in a like comiseration.

“Any endeavor has it’s less desireable potentialities.. But if we don’t take action now, we may never be reinstated. You could be on the run for the rest of your life, and I.. I don’t believe I could handle that, Kezza.”

His frown deepened at the thought of being cut off from her forever; with Srazz gone, he’d have no one left– And Kezza’s family would be in more peril than either of them. It was an eventuality he could not allow to come to pass.

“What if we organized a meeting on neutral ground? Depending on the venue, you might not even need to be physically present.”

[rairoleplays]

Even with wilting ears, the touch at her back is repaid with a kind press at his, a hand set between his shoulders and one at his waist. The sympathetic look she gives him is one of comiseration, held until an ear flicks at his suggestion.

“I concur,” she replies softly, “Somewhere in Kryta, perhaps. Where would you say is safest..?”

[muthologician]

The question posed was a good one; where could a meeting be organized that would best minimize the threat to their persons, without being so impersonal as to provide no evidence of Teokkin’s intent? Certainly, meeting in Rata Sum was out of the question. But then, where? Mrot Boru? One of the Brisban facilities?

The touch at his back urged him to coo sweetly, an idle nuzzle paid to her neck before the idea struck him.

“Perhaps.. Something could be worked out with Moto? He does possess the technology to facilitate such a meeting..”

[rairoleplays]

The suggestion takes her aback by some small degree, “Moto? But in that case, I would have to return to Rata Sum..”

Her ears droop again at the impossibility, reminded of her longing for home. The reality of the dream shudders with a ripple of homesickness, and the asura places her worry with a chin at his shoulder.

When she speaks again, it is quiet enough to be almost inaudible, were it not for the mechanics of the dreamstate conveying the meaning through sensation alone.

“I can’t even be certain this is real.”

[muthologician]

While the necessity of remaining focused on the task at hand gnawed at the back of his mind, Gerik found himself admittedly lost amid the doubt that trailed the Magistrix’s statement– And in the familiar softness of her eyes, gentle lilac hues arrested his gaze.

Taking the smaller asura’s hand in a palm nicked and bitten by scars, he leaned in almost unconsciously bringing their foreheads to meet.

“Let me assure you then.” He murmured, leaning forward to join his lips to hers.

[rairoleplays]

The touch at her hand was enough to bring her to face him again, a light hue brought to her cheeks as he brought his head against hers. His bid to assuage her doubt is accepted with a readiness that may have surprised her, were it not for the knowledge that this was not their waking reality.

With doubt lurking in the shadows of the dream, Kezza’s arms enclose more firmly around him, willing that figment or not– he stay.

[muthologician]

Real or not, Gerik felt a curious kind of elation at the contact that might have been shameful if he had not long ago accepted his feelings for his one-time colleague and long-term friend. Reciprocating her arms movements without a hint of reservation, the larger asura’s arms draw Kezza against him with a sigh between joined lips, eye fluttering shut as the peaking emotions color him in a soft magenta hue.

Before their embrace can engross him fully, Gerik has presence of mind enough to speak between the kiss, hushed and breathy,

“Will you afford me this chance? To make things right?”

[rairoleplays]

Though they still embraced so closely, the scarce distance he affords himself must be compensated for with a nuzzle at his cheek. If this was all indeed a dream, it was the most real she’d ever had.

“It isn’t yours to make right,” she answers in a voice softened by intimacy, “But I trust you, Ger.”

While neither asura may be wholly aware of it, the office around them recedes ever so slightly– as though everything were shrouded in a faint fog, save for them.

[muthologician]

With her confirmation staying his worries, Gerik gives an affectionate sigh.

“I’ll dispatch a golem with the details,” He breathed, fighting the inclination to swoon at her touch, “We’ll fix this. I promise.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think to say. For as effectively as their differences encouraged his mind to broaden it’s approach to the world, Kezza’s presence seemed to make higher thought a difficulty for the Disaggregator at times. Thankfully, this particular juncture was anything but inopportune. He let another sigh tumble from his lips as he relaxed into the Magistrix’s embrace.

[rairoleplays]

“I’ll maintain my proximity to Divinity’s Reach,” she assures, a soft nuzzle paid to his jaw, “And I’ll find a disguise.”

A slight jolt crosses the scenery around them at the mention of the city, accompanied by a shift to her inn-room’s likeness and general sense of anxiety. She seems unaware that her ears curl with the change.

Yet regardless, her nuzzle offers a light kiss with it, and she would continue to hold him unless deterred.

[muthologician]

“I’ll contact you as soon as the arrangements are made. Just be safe.” He murmurs, returning the nuzzle in kind, a light nip at her ear paid as the scene around them shifts.

Though he notes the change in his periphery, it means little to the Disaggregator when Kezza was present to occupy so much of his attention. Driven by a desire to prolong their continued closeness, Gerik lifts her body up against his own, that he might better pay his attentions at her neck.

[rairoleplays]

Almost surprised, Kezza’s coo is a little louder than she’d intended as her feet leave the imagined ground. Content to open her neck to him while her arms adjust at his shoulders, she readily resumes nuzzling at his ear.

“I’ve missed you so much,” her whisper reiterates after a light nip.

The environment shivers around them, her office again replicating itself– though now with a quarter of her inn room, including a bed, and the desk directly behind her.

[muthologician]

Whether by his own volition or fortunate happenstance, Kezza’s reciprocation encourages Gerik to move the both of them to the desk’s edge. Allowing her to rest against it, Gerik parts the Magistrix’s collar with a thumb to better allow his affections to reach her.

Between kisses, he leans up to nuzzle at her ear, a hand sliding down along her side,

“You won’t have to much longer, Kez. I promise.”

[rairoleplays]

The dream answers with another warm ripple, its epicenter at the fluttering heart of Kezza's dreamt self. His attentions are enough to redden her cheeks and take the anxious curl from her ears, especially as she recognizes the familiarities of their position.

After another short while spent indulging in each other's tenderness, Kezza's hands rest between his shoulders and at his chest, and she nudges an ear with her short snout. Whether spoken or expressed by the dream itself, she whispers, "I don't want to wake up."

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream (RP)

Another long pull from her wine glass, and another sigh following it. It was a routine she’d long since fallen into– were she not so dedicated to regular visits with her family, she could fall harder into such a habit. What else would keep her going, after losing everything? Without Vinn and her precious Pwitt, the once-Magistrix was an asura without purpose. And she knew it.

Kezza gripped the bridge of her snout over the mask– perhaps the last trapping of the glory days which still served her. Alchemy knew her krewe didn’t. And the masks would grant her protection from that very same krewe, provided the assassins they sent were unfamiliar with her old practice. It seemed unlikely, but so far.. so good.

An emptied flagon crashed beside her, thrown against the bar behind the order of the bookah wielding it. The crude and surly thing demanded a refreshed glass, by Kezza’s count, her fifth. How this repulsive cretin could stomach that much swill in so short a time was a curiosity worth research, but the asura only gave the specimen a dull stare. Seemingly incensed by the look, the human growled at her and muttered something incomprehensible.

One of the most regrettable aspects of her exile was the safety protocol she’d assigned herself: Never be alone outside of her hideout. Even if it meant the company of bookah. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but solitude took its toll between risked visits with Vinn and Pwitt.

Acceptance became easier to grasp, but..

It never got less depressing.

At least in Divinity’s Reach, there was wine. A guilty pleasure, she admitted, but one made forgivable with the reminder of its discovery. Pained now as it was, the memory could still warm her where the wine couldn’t. She had been reluctant to indulge her friend’s incessant push for the outing, reminding him of every unpleasantry the city held.

But as always, Gerik had a way of swaying her. The absence of his whimsy made her stay in the city much less amicable, even as she recalled his more obnoxious tendencies. She’d trade every glass of fermented grape to hear just one of his annoying quips.

Kezza brought a hand to her forehead, unable and unwilling to acknowledge the irate female next her. The bottle of wine she’d ingested was nothing to the horrid lead weight in her stomach, a nausea she’d never once shaken in the past months. There was no way to know for certain whether or not the Disaggregator had succeeded his escape, and it was an anxiety that overwhelmed her thoughts when her guard grew weak. Relief only hinted itself in the determined hope that he was as capable as she’d always known him to be.

–

The journey back to her hideaway through the foreign city was mercifully uneventful under the cover of mesmeric subterfuge. Despite the sore arm she’d acquired during the inevitable altercation with the bookah woman, the cause of her fatigue was far less tangible. These days were exhausting in their boredom, and the nights restless with angst.

Yet for once, perhaps by the grace of that bookah’s dirty tricks, Kezza found her makeshift cot an almost welcome sight, and sleep came before it could be questioned.

[muthologician]

The Disaggregator was no stranger to ritual. Binding a spirit, for instance, was a process with which he and any other Inquest agent worth their datastacks were intimately familiar. Though the exact methods and preferred location differred from the habits of the pedestrian lab jockey or floundering bookah, the curvature of the binding lines and the crumbled reagents, the powdered bone and muttered incantations were all the same. It was a similar experience to any other ritual of a like magic.

This, though. This was different. Certainly, the chalk lines had been drawn up and the candles had been lit; surely, he’d canted the sacred words, written in times long passed into antiquity as proscribed by the simian gods– But it was different. This time, there had been no bundled sticks to burn, or dried rat bones to break over consecrated water.

This time, there had only been an overwhelming consumption of junk food. As much as he disdained the stuff, he’d eaten the first bag of grub chips quickly enough. By the fifth container of Planthopper Pasties, however, the Disaggregator was beginning to feel the strain. By the tenth, he was unconscious, face down in a circle of chalk.

When he entered the dream world, it took a moment for the asura to reacquaint himself with his own consciousness– Or subconsciousness. He couldn’t be certain which was which. Everything around him was smoke and sunlight, the moon wreathed in dust, a rippling veil of ephemeral mist. If he had the time, he might spend a while grappling with the nature of his newfound lucidity. As it was, the task at hand demanded too much focus, lending his form a hard edge in the soft, blooming murk of dreamlight.

Impelling himself forward, it was a long, sometimes harrowing while before he touched on a dream sphere that might read as anything resembling familiar, but when he did, the sensation was unmistakable. Careening around the edge of the crystalline orb, Gerik allowed a dragged claw to maintain contact and prevent him from losing hold as he peered within from without.

What he saw skipped his heart a beat. There, mere meters beneath him, was the Magistrix– Long-sought and wrapped in the fitful turnings of an anxious sleep. He began to tap at the surface.

[rairoleplays]

The ragged asura tosses and turns under the coat she’s reassigned as a blanket. Her limp ears flick now and then, until her subconscious detects something which rouses them.

While not dreamless, the restless sleep is occupied by a general malaise, manifested in her mind as a dark and chaotic haze. Images of familiar places– her office, her domicile, the Magistracy lobby– form and fade before any of them can stick. The most stable of environments is her office, a dim place lit with more crimson than its reality ever held. It isn’t much longer before it wins out against the grey and busy void, adhering itself to her subconscious enough that Kezza finds herself standing in its altered form; The ceiling warped, too low at her desk and stretched beyond the confines of its tangible twin in a way which mirrored the Magistracy’s halls. Databanks and furniture are likewise discordant, and perhaps curiously, lacking doors. The entry to her private washroom seems the most realistic, though its interior is starker than it ought to be.

Kezza stands in the middle of the scene, dully awakening to the dream. Without lucidity, she starts for her desk, and seats herself in her chair which is too large for her person. Noise, indecipherable, clouds the air, and Kezza feels herself begin to panic under the sudden stress her dream generates.

From the noise, however, comes a rhythmic tapping. Somehow, she finds it overcome the chaos, and it permits her focus enough that a presence is felt. The outer rim of her dream becomes permeable, allowing the interloper to phase into the dream freely.

[muthologician]

Peering through the hazy sphere’s surface, there’s little else the Disaggregator can make of the scene within beyond the vaguely feminine form inside. If it weren’t for the whisper of a unknowingly shared memory to draw him in, he might well have passed it by entirely. Thankfully, he hadn’t– And more fortuitously still, the sphere’s occupant took note enough of his harassment that the barrier between void and dream became porous, allowing him to pass.

Not risking a moment to the capricious nature of the dreamscape, Gerik pushed himself beyond the threshold and into darkness. It was then that he realized his mistake. In his haste, the ever keen Disaggregator had failed to think through his manner of entry; a blundering that left him suspended in the air above the room’s center for a moment before the idea of gravity asserted itself and sent him hurtling to the floor with a yelp.

“HWUUAA–OORRMF!”

[rairoleplays]

Already in distress, the cry of a familiar voice spurs a shriek from Kezza, who shrinks back into the chair as though shielding herself from something terrible.

After a few moments of cowering, she pries apart the fingers she’d thrown across her face, and looks ahead at where the vivid sound came from. After another pause, the unaware Kezza swallows, “Who are you? G-Gerik..?”

[muthologician]

It took a moment for the Disaggregator to realize that he was being addressed, and longer still for his body to register that it had no cause to be in pain. This was, after all, only a dream. Willing his supposed injuries mended, the asura picks himself up and dusts himself off, paying particular attention to the straightening of his collar before he can find it in himself to respond to the Magistrix,

“Affimative, Kezza, it is I; the great and powerful Disaggregator! I have transcended the barrier between the waking world and the dreaming to.. To, uh..” Gerik felt a stirring in his chest that stayed what would have been a typically grandstanding entrance as he finally looked upon his estranged friend. Perhaps it was a machination of the Magistrix’s fabricated dream world that lent her appearance a hint of unfamiliarity about it. After all, one’s dream self was often the ideal, or most dreaded version of the real self.

But, it had been so long since he’d laid eyes upon her in either setting. The dawning uncertainty brought a tickling wetness to the corner of his eyes that no force of will could banish, and his voice broke earnestly when he spoke again, “I-I’ve missed you so much, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

The Kezza who regards him from behind the desk is someone different than probably expected. Whether due to the oversized chair or the dream’s own design, she seems smaller, and is dressed in the first uniform he would have ever seen her wear. Her hair also harkens back to years past, where she wore it long without adornments. All that seems missing is a mask, though the hands still tentatively hiding her features might suffice.

Worried skepticism follows his approach, his bold and vivid form in noticeable contrast to the grim surroundings. It’s enough to give her a distraction from the dream’s manufactured anguish, which is forced to abate as her mind finds something new to focus on. Kezza watches him with growing disbelief, eventually shifting her hands enough that he might finally see her face.

“Ge-Gerik.. what are you doing here?”

The environment appears to bolster itself despite the meek and befuddled question– The walls of the office straighten themselves to realistic proportions, finding their symmetry once abandoning the extraneous length which resembled the Magistracy’s halls. While Gerik’s presence solidified the setting, however, it did little for Kezza’s lucidity. The mesmer had yet to realize her own dream-state, let alone the truth of her friend’s presence.

[muthologician]

Reclaiming his usual blustering composure was not an easy feat when confronted by what he now saw before him: the Magistrix as she was before there was even a Magistracy. It was certainly a dream, then. He hadn’t seen her hair down and unadorned in ages..

But he knew that there was no time to waste when there was no telling how long the ritual would maintain his link with her dreaming mind. Swiping the collected moisture from the corner of his eyes, Gerik started forward a step, humming.

“I’ve established a link with your dreaming mind, Kezza. You’re asleep. I am too. I needed to contact you.”

[rairoleplays]

“Dreaming..”

The notion shudders the dream world, a likely uncomfortable sensation for the interloper as consciousness challenges the subconscious. Kezza places a palm against her temple, eyes scanning her desk with purpose as the fabricated reality shifts incomprehensively. The glyphs of her datawork were wholly illegible, which warranted another test she learned as a budding synergist. The environment begins to stabilize, with a much less tenuous grasp of its own form.

Taking her hands in front of her, Kezza brings them to manifest an orange flame– something impossible in her reality, where mesmeric ability long since displaced her want for an elementalist’s prowess. The fire closes in on itself, liquefying into a glob of water.

Her expression slowly lifts with the realization, though when she looks up, there is a distinct alteration of her features. Without transition, her hair now passes her shoulders in a dull and ragged state, and the wear of long-term stress is clear across her face. Her uniform, too, is supplanted by a contemporary outfit of asuran dress, lacking any implication of her krewe allegiance.

“Ger..!”

Gerik would have only a moment to process the change, however, as he’d find Kezza’s arms embracing him without having witnessed her approach.

Doubt, however, brings her to lift her head from its place at his chest. “But, how? How do I know you’re not a figment?”

[muthologician]

With as much as he’d longed for the Magistrix’s embrace, Gerik found himself woefully unprepared for the suddenness with which her arms enircled him, still not entirely acclimated to the whimsy of dream. Nearly stumbling a step, the Disaggregator recovers quickly against the smaller asura’s weight and brings his arms to match her own, the side of his face nuzzling against her neck almost without bidding.

He never wanted it to end. But it had to.

Feeling her head lift from his person, his eyes flicked down to meet Kezza’s gaze, willing away a wetness that might have been telling were it not so readily disposed of. He huffed,

“I can’t imagine any figment you’d dream up could ever match the magnificence of the genuine article. I mean, really Kez. The gall of the thought!”

Though the snooty imperiousness in his tone was entirely real, it did not come without an undercurrent of good nature. He smirked.

“It was a trying endeavor. I’ve spent a small fortune on scented candles and.. Junk food. Euugh.”

[rairoleplays]

It was that touch of derision in his voice and ready wit, which allowed her face to brighten with an irresistible smile. He was right; The times he’d been replicated by her sleeping mind never presented the nuance of this obnoxious charm– it was either one, or the other.

The way his snout wrinkled with mock outrage was also a dead giveaway.

“Candles and junk food?” She echoes with bewildered skepticism, having never seen him partake of the latter. It was an unusual combination. “Just what did you do?”

[muthologician]

With as much effort as he put into playing the part of the snide villain, Gerik’s faux superiority was easily broken by the softness of the Magistrix’s smile. Feeling the corners of his mouth tug into a like expression, the Disaggregator nursed the side of Kezza’s neck with a nuzzle, pulling out of it with a chuckle.

“Nothing I’m proud of.” He admitted, already wary of the consequences when he returned to the waking world. “I made use of some of Vinn’s notes on ethereal somnambulance. The ritual that allowed this meeting neccessitated.. Unsavory reagents. I expect the results of this endeavor will greet me poorly when I wake.”

[rairoleplays]

The attention paid to her neck earns him a happy coo, which remains as a smile even as he explains his less than ideal situation.

Even with allowing a breathable space between them, Kezza doesn’t dare release him fully. She reaches up to nuzzle at his cheek with both sympathy, and longing.

“I’ve missed you, so much.”

[muthologician]

The admission is all it takes to swall Gerik’s heart fully, a familiar warmth lending his features a subtle hue beneath the thin fuzz coating his cheeks. Cooing softly, he leans in to lay a light kiss on Kezza’s lips, cradling the smaller asura’s weight in his arms.

With his eyes shut, he sighs his response,

“And I, you.”

[rairoleplays]

Some of the weariness across Kezza’s face seems to evaporate, the dream lightened by their reunion. She nuzzles his other cheek, planting another kiss there.

“I thought I might have lost you,” she whispers, the hands at his back shifting to hold him in a warmer embrace.

[muthologician]

Sighing his relief at the long-delayed reuinion, Kezza’s weight is accepted at his shoulder with a thoughtful hum.

“Nothing could take me from you, Kez.” Gerik paid her waist a light squeeze, cracking a grin after a fashion. “Excepting a transdimensional enfolding of a cataclysmic scope. But I’m not sure even that would take.”

[rairoleplays]

A while is spent paying soft nuzzles to his neck, unaware (and likely uncaring) that there could be a greater purpose to this visitation.

His response brings a grin against the soft fuzz she attends to, prompting a short coo before she parts from him again.

“What about the rest of the krewe?”

[muthologician]

The attentions at his neck are recieved with another light sigh that turns to a coo, the hands at the Magistrix’s waist sliding up to rest between her shoulders.

Even with the mention of the krewe to attempt at souring his mood, Gerik manages to keep his good nature.

“They’re well enough. Well, save Teokkin.” He hums again, this time with a dubious ring to his tone. “He’s at wit’s end, I believe. I didn’t even have to run interference.”

[rairoleplays]

Teokkin’s mention is finally enough to temper Kezza’s heartened spirit. Still, some bright spark in her eyes holds fast, even as the relief she sighs is undercut by lingering concern.

“How severely has he compromised the Magistracy?”

[muthologician]

The worry in his friend’s voice is mirrored in Gerik’s own heart, though he masks it with a brush of the snout at Kezza’s collar, a softened smile lifted to greet her as he pulls away.

“It’s holding together. Funding is tight, but he is unable to make any headway no matter how great the lengths he goes to in curtailing spending.”

Despite the good nature engendered by the closeness he’d longed for, the reminder of the necessity for his visitation steals some of the warmth from his expression. “That is.. Why I’ve been able to contact you with confidence, finally. He wants to return ownership of the Magistracy to you.”

[rairoleplays]

Her newly folded ears rise upright, disbelieving, before they fall flat and stiff with a bitter vindication.

“That datawipe had no idea what he was getting involved with,” her resentment reads through, though it fades almost immediately. “But.. he was right. He was right about, everything.”

[muthologician]

With as detestable as the subject matter is, Gerik can’t help but let a smirk worm it’s way onto his features at the familiar tells in the curl of the Magistrix’s ears that spoke her indignation.

“He’s wrong, Kez. He admitted it himself. The Magistracy needs you to head it, and no one else. There’s no other asura who could possibly fill the role. I’m certain.”

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s gaze cast apart from his, she shakes her head with wilting ears.

“No.. Gerik, I saw it. I saw his audience with Administration,” she speaks the confession with such melancholy, it summons a faint graying haze to the ethereal Magistracy office.

“They had every intention to terminate the department.. and us with it, if Teokkin failed to amend our shortcomings.”

[muthologician]

Her admission was not quite so surprising as it was a grim confirmation of the fears Gerik had harbored since the beginning of the whole ordeal. It shouldn’t come as any grand revelation to him that Administration had found cause to liquidate them after so many blunders.

But, those hadn’t been their fault! Not any if his– And certainly not Kezza’s.

Moved by the effect his friend’s shift in demeanor had on the room around them and by the reminder that his time was short, the Disaggregator brought a feather light touch to Kezza’s jaw, guiding her gaze up to meet his own.

“Kezza,” His eyes glimmered an amber more brilliant than they should have, a caring insistence lingering behind them. “Whatever you saw, I fully believe it to be true. But the circumstance has changed. Teokkin needs you. The krewe needs you. And.. I need you. He’s provided the legal documentation that will assure your safety, as well as that of your family unit’s.”

Gerik paused at that, recalling the threat he’d left hanging over the Magistrate’s head. A small victory, if it paid out. “I had leverage to negotiate it. Anything to ensure your safety. Your happiness.”

[rairoleplays]

While the warm glow of his eyes arrest her attention, disbelief risks doubt when all he says sounds too good to be true. The memory was as clear in her mind as the one she’d taken it from; Teokkin had been made to negotiate their preservation, even at his own risk. There was no room for misunderstanding in the exchange, and she hadn’t dared hoped for leniency in the face of their condemnation.

The continued decline of the Magistracy didn’t bode well, either. She and Gerik were as good as dead– as well as Teokkin, if its current state was as Gerik reported. So how could it possibly be that he managed to secure their safety?

Unless, he hadn’t. Unless Teokkin had somehow been that very leverage– a sacrifice, to spare herself and the loyal friend who’d do anything for her.

A slow, vague ripple is felt as guilt quietly seeps into the dreamscape. It carries with it the concept of Teokkin, and betrayal– this time a reversal, however marred by the lingering resentment she still carried for the krewemate. It is unclear whether or not Kezza notes the shift in her dream’s tangible mood, as she seeks more pressing answers with growing uncertainty.

“How can we be certain of the document’s legitimacy? Even if it is authentic, how can we know that Administration won’t invalidate it on my return?”

[muthologician]

Unsettled by the metamorphosis the dream around them underwent, Gerik kept himself steady by occupying his attention with the asura in front of him– Though that was perhaps not as effective as he might have hoped, given the clear concern she wore on her features.

He hummed thoughtfully, hoping to assuage her worries,

“I have examined it, cross-referenced with no less than four examples of similar litigation. The document is legitimate. I wouldn’t have agreed to make contact with you if it wasn’t.” The corner of Gerik’s mouth twisted at the thought of a lurking betrayal, uncertain exactly what Teokkin might have in store for the both of them if Kezza returned.

“I believe that if it were his intention to liquidate us, he would have attempted to eliminate me at least once already. His efforts to ‘fix’ the Magistracy have seemed earnest enough. More so than anything else he’s ever done.”

The statement warranted a smirk, even if it was a short-lived one. Tilting his head down with a returned seriousness, the Disaggregator held the gaze between the two of them, voice lowered,

“You belong in Rata Sum, Kez. If working with him to earn our old positions back is the only means to ensure you and your family unit’s safe return, then I believe it is a worthy endeavor.”

[rairoleplays]

Despite his reassurances, Kezza’s reservation is still evident. The mention of liquidation folded her ears with agitated concern, and would have been followed by a reminder of Teokkin’s previous attempt, were it not for the small shift in Gerik’s demeanor.

She allows his reasoning a moment of consideration, gaze leaving his to sift through her doubts. As much as she trusted his litigatory aptitude, there was lacking certainty in how far Administration would go. Every datum of the Magistracy’s databanks had at one point crossed her desk, ensuring even the most sensitive material was paid her scrutiny. If she was indeed no longer worthy of that data, there were only a few ways the Inquest could redact it.

It wasn’t a risk to take lightly, when one had a partner and progeny to think of.

Her ears slacken. Danger aside, was she even worthy of her old position? The charges brought against them in Teokkin’s memory had haunted her over the months. Once the crimes had been brought to light, she could only deny them for so long. The krewe had no cause to give her the benefit of the doubt, any more now as they did then.

After all, she was a deserter now.

“I.. I don’t know, Gerik,” her voice pensive, but not despairing. “Even if Teokkin rescinds, the Administrative council has no rationale for restoring my status.. in any capacity.”

[muthologician]

Though the Disaggregator was never one to show weakness in the face of adversity, it was no small effort to conceal the reservations Kezza’s uncertainty engendered in him. Who was he to put her through such duress? To cause such delicate ears to curl with anxiety? Certainly no one good.

Seeking to ease her mind, Gerik’s claws traced a delicate line along the small of her back, lips set in a like comiseration.

“Any endeavor has it’s less desireable potentialities.. But if we don’t take action now, we may never be reinstated. You could be on the run for the rest of your life, and I.. I don’t believe I could handle that, Kezza.”

His frown deepened at the thought of being cut off from her forever; with Srazz gone, he’d have no one left– And Kezza’s family would be in more peril than either of them. It was an eventuality he could not allow to come to pass.

“What if we organized a meeting on neutral ground? Depending on the venue, you might not even need to be physically present.”

[rairoleplays]

Even with wilting ears, the touch at her back is repaid with a kind press at his, a hand set between his shoulders and one at his waist. The sympathetic look she gives him is one of comiseration, held until an ear flicks at his suggestion.

“I concur,” she replies softly, “Somewhere in Kryta, perhaps. Where would you say is safest..?”

[muthologician]

The question posed was a good one; where could a meeting be organized that would best minimize the threat to their persons, without being so impersonal as to provide no evidence of Teokkin’s intent? Certainly, meeting in Rata Sum was out of the question. But then, where? Mrot Boru? One of the Brisban facilities?

The touch at his back urged him to coo sweetly, an idle nuzzle paid to her neck before the idea struck him.

“Perhaps.. Something could be worked out with Moto? He does possess the technology to facilitate such a meeting..”

[rairoleplays]

The suggestion takes her aback by some small degree, “Moto? But in that case, I would have to return to Rata Sum..”

Her ears droop again at the impossibility, reminded of her longing for home. The reality of the dream shudders with a ripple of homesickness, and the asura places her worry with a chin at his shoulder.

When she speaks again, it is quiet enough to be almost inaudible, were it not for the mechanics of the dreamstate conveying the meaning through sensation alone.

“I can’t even be certain this is real.”

[muthologician]

While the necessity of remaining focused on the task at hand gnawed at the back of his mind, Gerik found himself admittedly lost amid the doubt that trailed the Magistrix’s statement– And in the familiar softness of her eyes, gentle lilac hues arrested his gaze.

Taking the smaller asura’s hand in a palm nicked and bitten by scars, he leaned in almost unconsciously bringing their foreheads to meet.

“Let me assure you then.” He murmured, leaning forward to join his lips to hers.

[rairoleplays]

The touch at her hand was enough to bring her to face him again, a light hue brought to her cheeks as he brought his head against hers. His bid to assuage her doubt is accepted with a readiness that may have surprised her, were it not for the knowledge that this was not their waking reality.

With doubt lurking in the shadows of the dream, Kezza’s arms enclose more firmly around him, willing that figment or not– he stay.

[muthologician]

Real or not, Gerik felt a curious kind of elation at the contact that might have been shameful if he had not long ago accepted his feelings for his one-time colleague and long-term friend. Reciprocating her arms movements without a hint of reservation, the larger asura’s arms draw Kezza against him with a sigh between joined lips, eye fluttering shut as the peaking emotions color him in a soft magenta hue.

Before their embrace can engross him fully, Gerik has presence of mind enough to speak between the kiss, hushed and breathy,

“Will you afford me this chance? To make things right?”

[rairoleplays]

Though they still embraced so closely, the scarce distance he affords himself must be compensated for with a nuzzle at his cheek. If this was all indeed a dream, it was the most real she’d ever had.

“It isn’t yours to make right,” she answers in a voice softened by intimacy, “But I trust you, Ger.”

While neither asura may be wholly aware of it, the office around them recedes ever so slightly– as though everything were shrouded in a faint fog, save for them.

[muthologician]

With her confirmation staying his worries, Gerik gives an affectionate sigh.

“I’ll dispatch a golem with the details,” He breathed, fighting the inclination to swoon at her touch, “We’ll fix this. I promise.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think to say. For as effectively as their differences encouraged his mind to broaden it’s approach to the world, Kezza’s presence seemed to make higher thought a difficulty for the Disaggregator at times. Thankfully, this particular juncture was anything but inopportune. He let another sigh tumble from his lips as he relaxed into the Magistrix’s embrace.

[rairoleplays]

“I’ll maintain my proximity to Divinity’s Reach,” she assures, a soft nuzzle paid to his jaw, “And I’ll find a disguise.”

A slight jolt crosses the scenery around them at the mention of the city, accompanied by a shift to her inn-room’s likeness and general sense of anxiety. She seems unaware that her ears curl with the change.

Yet regardless, her nuzzle offers a light kiss with it, and she would continue to hold him unless deterred.

[muthologician]

“I’ll contact you as soon as the arrangements are made. Just be safe.” He murmurs, returning the nuzzle in kind, a light nip at her ear paid as the scene around them shifts.

Though he notes the change in his periphery, it means little to the Disaggregator when Kezza was present to occupy so much of his attention. Driven by a desire to prolong their continued closeness, Gerik lifts her body up against his own, that he might better pay his attentions at her neck.

[rairoleplays]

Almost surprised, Kezza's coo is a little louder than she'd intended as her feet leave the imagined ground. Content to open her neck to him while her arms adjust at his shoulders, she readily resumes nuzzling at his ear.

"I've missed you so much," her whisper reiterates after a light nip.

The environment shivers around them, her office again replicating itself-- though now with a quarter of her inn room, including a bed, and the desk directly behind her.

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s Exile - The Dream (RP)

Another long pull from her wine glass, and another sigh following it. It was a routine she’d long since fallen into– were she not so dedicated to regular visits with her family, she could fall harder into such a habit. What else would keep her going, after losing everything? Without Vinn and her precious Pwitt, the once-Magistrix was an asura without purpose. And she knew it.

Kezza gripped the bridge of her snout over the mask– perhaps the last trapping of the glory days which still served her. Alchemy knew her krewe didn’t. And the masks would grant her protection from that very same krewe, provided the assassins they sent were unfamiliar with her old practice. It seemed unlikely, but so far.. so good.

An emptied flagon crashed beside her, thrown against the bar behind the order of the bookah wielding it. The crude and surly thing demanded a refreshed glass, by Kezza’s count, her fifth. How this repulsive cretin could stomach that much swill in so short a time was a curiosity worth research, but the asura only gave the specimen a dull stare. Seemingly incensed by the look, the human growled at her and muttered something incomprehensible.

One of the most regrettable aspects of her exile was the safety protocol she’d assigned herself: Never be alone outside of her hideout. Even if it meant the company of bookah. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, but solitude took its toll between risked visits with Vinn and Pwitt.

Acceptance became easier to grasp, but..

It never got less depressing.

At least in Divinity’s Reach, there was wine. A guilty pleasure, she admitted, but one made forgivable with the reminder of its discovery. Pained now as it was, the memory could still warm her where the wine couldn’t. She had been reluctant to indulge her friend’s incessant push for the outing, reminding him of every unpleasantry the city held.

But as always, Gerik had a way of swaying her. The absence of his whimsy made her stay in the city much less amicable, even as she recalled his more obnoxious tendencies. She’d trade every glass of fermented grape to hear just one of his annoying quips.

Kezza brought a hand to her forehead, unable and unwilling to acknowledge the irate female next her. The bottle of wine she’d ingested was nothing to the horrid lead weight in her stomach, a nausea she’d never once shaken in the past months. There was no way to know for certain whether or not the Disaggregator had succeeded his escape, and it was an anxiety that overwhelmed her thoughts when her guard grew weak. Relief only hinted itself in the determined hope that he was as capable as she’d always known him to be.

–

The journey back to her hideaway through the foreign city was mercifully uneventful under the cover of mesmeric subterfuge. Despite the sore arm she’d acquired during the inevitable altercation with the bookah woman, the cause of her fatigue was far less tangible. These days were exhausting in their boredom, and the nights restless with angst.

Yet for once, perhaps by the grace of that bookah’s dirty tricks, Kezza found her makeshift cot an almost welcome sight, and sleep came before it could be questioned.

[muthologician]

The Disaggregator was no stranger to ritual. Binding a spirit, for instance, was a process with which he and any other Inquest agent worth their datastacks were intimately familiar. Though the exact methods and preferred location differred from the habits of the pedestrian lab jockey or floundering bookah, the curvature of the binding lines and the crumbled reagents, the powdered bone and muttered incantations were all the same. It was a similar experience to any other ritual of a like magic.

This, though. This was different. Certainly, the chalk lines had been drawn up and the candles had been lit; surely, he’d canted the sacred words, written in times long passed into antiquity as proscribed by the simian gods– But it was different. This time, there had been no bundled sticks to burn, or dried rat bones to break over consecrated water.

This time, there had only been an overwhelming consumption of junk food. As much as he disdained the stuff, he’d eaten the first bag of grub chips quickly enough. By the fifth container of Planthopper Pasties, however, the Disaggregator was beginning to feel the strain. By the tenth, he was unconscious, face down in a circle of chalk.

When he entered the dream world, it took a moment for the asura to reacquaint himself with his own consciousness– Or subconsciousness. He couldn’t be certain which was which. Everything around him was smoke and sunlight, the moon wreathed in dust, a rippling veil of ephemeral mist. If he had the time, he might spend a while grappling with the nature of his newfound lucidity. As it was, the task at hand demanded too much focus, lending his form a hard edge in the soft, blooming murk of dreamlight.

Impelling himself forward, it was a long, sometimes harrowing while before he touched on a dream sphere that might read as anything resembling familiar, but when he did, the sensation was unmistakable. Careening around the edge of the crystalline orb, Gerik allowed a dragged claw to maintain contact and prevent him from losing hold as he peered within from without.

What he saw skipped his heart a beat. There, mere meters beneath him, was the Magistrix– Long-sought and wrapped in the fitful turnings of an anxious sleep. He began to tap at the surface.

[rairoleplays]

The ragged asura tosses and turns under the coat she’s reassigned as a blanket. Her limp ears flick now and then, until her subconscious detects something which rouses them.

While not dreamless, the restless sleep is occupied by a general malaise, manifested in her mind as a dark and chaotic haze. Images of familiar places– her office, her domicile, the Magistracy lobby– form and fade before any of them can stick. The most stable of environments is her office, a dim place lit with more crimson than its reality ever held. It isn’t much longer before it wins out against the grey and busy void, adhering itself to her subconscious enough that Kezza finds herself standing in its altered form; The ceiling warped, too low at her desk and stretched beyond the confines of its tangible twin in a way which mirrored the Magistracy’s halls. Databanks and furniture are likewise discordant, and perhaps curiously, lacking doors. The entry to her private washroom seems the most realistic, though its interior is starker than it ought to be.

Kezza stands in the middle of the scene, dully awakening to the dream. Without lucidity, she starts for her desk, and seats herself in her chair which is too large for her person. Noise, indecipherable, clouds the air, and Kezza feels herself begin to panic under the sudden stress her dream generates.

From the noise, however, comes a rhythmic tapping. Somehow, she finds it overcome the chaos, and it permits her focus enough that a presence is felt. The outer rim of her dream becomes permeable, allowing the interloper to phase into the dream freely.

[muthologician]

Peering through the hazy sphere’s surface, there’s little else the Disaggregator can make of the scene within beyond the vaguely feminine form inside. If it weren’t for the whisper of a unknowingly shared memory to draw him in, he might well have passed it by entirely. Thankfully, he hadn’t– And more fortuitously still, the sphere’s occupant took note enough of his harassment that the barrier between void and dream became porous, allowing him to pass.

Not risking a moment to the capricious nature of the dreamscape, Gerik pushed himself beyond the threshold and into darkness. It was then that he realized his mistake. In his haste, the ever keen Disaggregator had failed to think through his manner of entry; a blundering that left him suspended in the air above the room’s center for a moment before the idea of gravity asserted itself and sent him hurtling to the floor with a yelp.

“HWUUAA–OORRMF!”

[rairoleplays]

Already in distress, the cry of a familiar voice spurs a shriek from Kezza, who shrinks back into the chair as though shielding herself from something terrible.

After a few moments of cowering, she pries apart the fingers she’d thrown across her face, and looks ahead at where the vivid sound came from. After another pause, the unaware Kezza swallows, “Who are you? G-Gerik..?”

[muthologician]

It took a moment for the Disaggregator to realize that he was being addressed, and longer still for his body to register that it had no cause to be in pain. This was, after all, only a dream. Willing his supposed injuries mended, the asura picks himself up and dusts himself off, paying particular attention to the straightening of his collar before he can find it in himself to respond to the Magistrix,

“Affimative, Kezza, it is I; the great and powerful Disaggregator! I have transcended the barrier between the waking world and the dreaming to.. To, uh..” Gerik felt a stirring in his chest that stayed what would have been a typically grandstanding entrance as he finally looked upon his estranged friend. Perhaps it was a machination of the Magistrix’s fabricated dream world that lent her appearance a hint of unfamiliarity about it. After all, one’s dream self was often the ideal, or most dreaded version of the real self.

But, it had been so long since he’d laid eyes upon her in either setting. The dawning uncertainty brought a tickling wetness to the corner of his eyes that no force of will could banish, and his voice broke earnestly when he spoke again, “I-I’ve missed you so much, Kez.”

[rairoleplays]

The Kezza who regards him from behind the desk is someone different than probably expected. Whether due to the oversized chair or the dream’s own design, she seems smaller, and is dressed in the first uniform he would have ever seen her wear. Her hair also harkens back to years past, where she wore it long without adornments. All that seems missing is a mask, though the hands still tentatively hiding her features might suffice.

Worried skepticism follows his approach, his bold and vivid form in noticeable contrast to the grim surroundings. It’s enough to give her a distraction from the dream’s manufactured anguish, which is forced to abate as her mind finds something new to focus on. Kezza watches him with growing disbelief, eventually shifting her hands enough that he might finally see her face.

“Ge-Gerik.. what are you doing here?”

The environment appears to bolster itself despite the meek and befuddled question– The walls of the office straighten themselves to realistic proportions, finding their symmetry once abandoning the extraneous length which resembled the Magistracy’s halls. While Gerik’s presence solidified the setting, however, it did little for Kezza’s lucidity. The mesmer had yet to realize her own dream-state, let alone the truth of her friend’s presence.

[muthologician]

Reclaiming his usual blustering composure was not an easy feat when confronted by what he now saw before him: the Magistrix as she was before there was even a Magistracy. It was certainly a dream, then. He hadn’t seen her hair down and unadorned in ages..

But he knew that there was no time to waste when there was no telling how long the ritual would maintain his link with her dreaming mind. Swiping the collected moisture from the corner of his eyes, Gerik started forward a step, humming.

“I’ve established a link with your dreaming mind, Kezza. You’re asleep. I am too. I needed to contact you.”

[rairoleplays]

“Dreaming..”

The notion shudders the dream world, a likely uncomfortable sensation for the interloper as consciousness challenges the subconscious. Kezza places a palm against her temple, eyes scanning her desk with purpose as the fabricated reality shifts incomprehensively. The glyphs of her datawork were wholly illegible, which warranted another test she learned as a budding synergist. The environment begins to stabilize, with a much less tenuous grasp of its own form.

Taking her hands in front of her, Kezza brings them to manifest an orange flame– something impossible in her reality, where mesmeric ability long since displaced her want for an elementalist’s prowess. The fire closes in on itself, liquefying into a glob of water.

Her expression slowly lifts with the realization, though when she looks up, there is a distinct alteration of her features. Without transition, her hair now passes her shoulders in a dull and ragged state, and the wear of long-term stress is clear across her face. Her uniform, too, is supplanted by a contemporary outfit of asuran dress, lacking any implication of her krewe allegiance.

“Ger..!”

Gerik would have only a moment to process the change, however, as he’d find Kezza’s arms embracing him without having witnessed her approach.

Doubt, however, brings her to lift her head from its place at his chest. “But, how? How do I know you’re not a figment?”

[muthologician]

With as much as he’d longed for the Magistrix’s embrace, Gerik found himself woefully unprepared for the suddenness with which her arms enircled him, still not entirely acclimated to the whimsy of dream. Nearly stumbling a step, the Disaggregator recovers quickly against the smaller asura’s weight and brings his arms to match her own, the side of his face nuzzling against her neck almost without bidding.

He never wanted it to end. But it had to.

Feeling her head lift from his person, his eyes flicked down to meet Kezza’s gaze, willing away a wetness that might have been telling were it not so readily disposed of. He huffed,

“I can’t imagine any figment you’d dream up could ever match the magnificence of the genuine article. I mean, really Kez. The gall of the thought!”

Though the snooty imperiousness in his tone was entirely real, it did not come without an undercurrent of good nature. He smirked.

“It was a trying endeavor. I’ve spent a small fortune on scented candles and.. Junk food. Euugh.”

[rairoleplays]

It was that touch of derision in his voice and ready wit, which allowed her face to brighten with an irresistible smile. He was right; The times he’d been replicated by her sleeping mind never presented the nuance of this obnoxious charm– it was either one, or the other.

The way his snout wrinkled with mock outrage was also a dead giveaway.

“Candles and junk food?” She echoes with bewildered skepticism, having never seen him partake of the latter. It was an unusual combination. “Just what did you do?”

[muthologician]

With as much effort as he put into playing the part of the snide villain, Gerik’s faux superiority was easily broken by the softness of the Magistrix’s smile. Feeling the corners of his mouth tug into a like expression, the Disaggregator nursed the side of Kezza’s neck with a nuzzle, pulling out of it with a chuckle.

“Nothing I’m proud of.” He admitted, already wary of the consequences when he returned to the waking world. “I made use of some of Vinn’s notes on ethereal somnambulance. The ritual that allowed this meeting neccessitated.. Unsavory reagents. I expect the results of this endeavor will greet me poorly when I wake.”

[rairoleplays]

The attention paid to her neck earns him a happy coo, which remains as a smile even as he explains his less than ideal situation.

Even with allowing a breathable space between them, Kezza doesn’t dare release him fully. She reaches up to nuzzle at his cheek with both sympathy, and longing.

“I’ve missed you, so much.”

[muthologician]

The admission is all it takes to swall Gerik’s heart fully, a familiar warmth lending his features a subtle hue beneath the thin fuzz coating his cheeks. Cooing softly, he leans in to lay a light kiss on Kezza’s lips, cradling the smaller asura’s weight in his arms.

With his eyes shut, he sighs his response,

“And I, you.”

[rairoleplays]

Some of the weariness across Kezza’s face seems to evaporate, the dream lightened by their reunion. She nuzzles his other cheek, planting another kiss there.

“I thought I might have lost you,” she whispers, the hands at his back shifting to hold him in a warmer embrace.

[muthologician]

Sighing his relief at the long-delayed reuinion, Kezza’s weight is accepted at his shoulder with a thoughtful hum.

“Nothing could take me from you, Kez.” Gerik paid her waist a light squeeze, cracking a grin after a fashion. “Excepting a transdimensional enfolding of a cataclysmic scope. But I’m not sure even that would take.”

[rairoleplays]

A while is spent paying soft nuzzles to his neck, unaware (and likely uncaring) that there could be a greater purpose to this visitation.

His response brings a grin against the soft fuzz she attends to, prompting a short coo before she parts from him again.

“What about the rest of the krewe?”

[muthologician]

The attentions at his neck are recieved with another light sigh that turns to a coo, the hands at the Magistrix’s waist sliding up to rest between her shoulders.

Even with the mention of the krewe to attempt at souring his mood, Gerik manages to keep his good nature.

“They’re well enough. Well, save Teokkin.” He hums again, this time with a dubious ring to his tone. “He’s at wit’s end, I believe. I didn’t even have to run interference.”

[rairoleplays]

Teokkin’s mention is finally enough to temper Kezza’s heartened spirit. Still, some bright spark in her eyes holds fast, even as the relief she sighs is undercut by lingering concern.

“How severely has he compromised the Magistracy?”

[muthologician]

The worry in his friend’s voice is mirrored in Gerik’s own heart, though he masks it with a brush of the snout at Kezza’s collar, a softened smile lifted to greet her as he pulls away.

“It’s holding together. Funding is tight, but he is unable to make any headway no matter how great the lengths he goes to in curtailing spending.”

Despite the good nature engendered by the closeness he’d longed for, the reminder of the necessity for his visitation steals some of the warmth from his expression. “That is.. Why I’ve been able to contact you with confidence, finally. He wants to return ownership of the Magistracy to you.”

[rairoleplays]

Her newly folded ears rise upright, disbelieving, before they fall flat and stiff with a bitter vindication.

“That datawipe had no idea what he was getting involved with,” her resentment reads through, though it fades almost immediately. “But.. he was right. He was right about, everything.”

[muthologician]

With as detestable as the subject matter is, Gerik can’t help but let a smirk worm it’s way onto his features at the familiar tells in the curl of the Magistrix’s ears that spoke her indignation.

“He’s wrong, Kez. He admitted it himself. The Magistracy needs you to head it, and no one else. There’s no other asura who could possibly fill the role. I’m certain.”

[rairoleplays]

Kezza’s gaze cast apart from his, she shakes her head with wilting ears.

“No.. Gerik, I saw it. I saw his audience with Administration,” she speaks the confession with such melancholy, it summons a faint graying haze to the ethereal Magistracy office.

“They had every intention to terminate the department.. and us with it, if Teokkin failed to amend our shortcomings.”

[muthologician]

Her admission was not quite so surprising as it was a grim confirmation of the fears Gerik had harbored since the beginning of the whole ordeal. It shouldn’t come as any grand revelation to him that Administration had found cause to liquidate them after so many blunders.

But, those hadn’t been their fault! Not any if his– And certainly not Kezza’s.

Moved by the effect his friend’s shift in demeanor had on the room around them and by the reminder that his time was short, the Disaggregator brought a feather light touch to Kezza’s jaw, guiding her gaze up to meet his own.

“Kezza,” His eyes glimmered an amber more brilliant than they should have, a caring insistence lingering behind them. “Whatever you saw, I fully believe it to be true. But the circumstance has changed. Teokkin needs you. The krewe needs you. And.. I need you. He’s provided the legal documentation that will assure your safety, as well as that of your family unit’s.”

Gerik paused at that, recalling the threat he’d left hanging over the Magistrate’s head. A small victory, if it paid out. “I had leverage to negotiate it. Anything to ensure your safety. Your happiness.”

[rairoleplays]

While the warm glow of his eyes arrest her attention, disbelief risks doubt when all he says sounds too good to be true. The memory was as clear in her mind as the one she’d taken it from; Teokkin had been made to negotiate their preservation, even at his own risk. There was no room for misunderstanding in the exchange, and she hadn’t dared hoped for leniency in the face of their condemnation.

The continued decline of the Magistracy didn’t bode well, either. She and Gerik were as good as dead– as well as Teokkin, if its current state was as Gerik reported. So how could it possibly be that he managed to secure their safety?

Unless, he hadn’t. Unless Teokkin had somehow been that very leverage– a sacrifice, to spare herself and the loyal friend who’d do anything for her.

A slow, vague ripple is felt as guilt quietly seeps into the dreamscape. It carries with it the concept of Teokkin, and betrayal– this time a reversal, however marred by the lingering resentment she still carried for the krewemate. It is unclear whether or not Kezza notes the shift in her dream’s tangible mood, as she seeks more pressing answers with growing uncertainty.

“How can we be certain of the document’s legitimacy? Even if it is authentic, how can we know that Administration won’t invalidate it on my return?”

[muthologician]

Unsettled by the metamorphosis the dream around them underwent, Gerik kept himself steady by occupying his attention with the asura in front of him– Though that was perhaps not as effective as he might have hoped, given the clear concern she wore on her features.

He hummed thoughtfully, hoping to assuage her worries,

“I have examined it, cross-referenced with no less than four examples of similar litigation. The document is legitimate. I wouldn’t have agreed to make contact with you if it wasn’t.” The corner of Gerik’s mouth twisted at the thought of a lurking betrayal, uncertain exactly what Teokkin might have in store for the both of them if Kezza returned.

“I believe that if it were his intention to liquidate us, he would have attempted to eliminate me at least once already. His efforts to ‘fix’ the Magistracy have seemed earnest enough. More so than anything else he’s ever done.”

The statement warranted a smirk, even if it was a short-lived one. Tilting his head down with a returned seriousness, the Disaggregator held the gaze between the two of them, voice lowered,

“You belong in Rata Sum, Kez. If working with him to earn our old positions back is the only means to ensure you and your family unit’s safe return, then I believe it is a worthy endeavor.”

[rairoleplays]

Despite his reassurances, Kezza’s reservation is still evident. The mention of liquidation folded her ears with agitated concern, and would have been followed by a reminder of Teokkin’s previous attempt, were it not for the small shift in Gerik’s demeanor.

She allows his reasoning a moment of consideration, gaze leaving his to sift through her doubts. As much as she trusted his litigatory aptitude, there was lacking certainty in how far Administration would go. Every datum of the Magistracy’s databanks had at one point crossed her desk, ensuring even the most sensitive material was paid her scrutiny. If she was indeed no longer worthy of that data, there were only a few ways the Inquest could redact it.

It wasn’t a risk to take lightly, when one had a partner and progeny to think of.

Her ears slacken. Danger aside, was she even worthy of her old position? The charges brought against them in Teokkin’s memory had haunted her over the months. Once the crimes had been brought to light, she could only deny them for so long. The krewe had no cause to give her the benefit of the doubt, any more now as they did then.

After all, she was a deserter now.

“I.. I don’t know, Gerik,” her voice pensive, but not despairing. “Even if Teokkin rescinds, the Administrative council has no rationale for restoring my status.. in any capacity.”

[muthologician]

Though the Disaggregator was never one to show weakness in the face of adversity, it was no small effort to conceal the reservations Kezza’s uncertainty engendered in him. Who was he to put her through such duress? To cause such delicate ears to curl with anxiety? Certainly no one good.

Seeking to ease her mind, Gerik’s claws traced a delicate line along the small of her back, lips set in a like comiseration.

“Any endeavor has it’s less desireable potentialities.. But if we don’t take action now, we may never be reinstated. You could be on the run for the rest of your life, and I.. I don’t believe I could handle that, Kezza.”

His frown deepened at the thought of being cut off from her forever; with Srazz gone, he’d have no one left– And Kezza’s family would be in more peril than either of them. It was an eventuality he could not allow to come to pass.

“What if we organized a meeting on neutral ground? Depending on the venue, you might not even need to be physically present.”

[rairoleplays]

Even with wilting ears, the touch at her back is repaid with a kind press at his, a hand set between his shoulders and one at his waist. The sympathetic look she gives him is one of comiseration, held until an ear flicks at his suggestion.

“I concur,” she replies softly, “Somewhere in Kryta, perhaps. Where would you say is safest..?”

[muthologician]

The question posed was a good one; where could a meeting be organized that would best minimize the threat to their persons, without being so impersonal as to provide no evidence of Teokkin’s intent? Certainly, meeting in Rata Sum was out of the question. But then, where? Mrot Boru? One of the Brisban facilities?

The touch at his back urged him to coo sweetly, an idle nuzzle paid to her neck before the idea struck him.

“Perhaps.. Something could be worked out with Moto? He does possess the technology to facilitate such a meeting..”

[rairoleplays]

The suggestion takes her aback by some small degree, “Moto? But in that case, I would have to return to Rata Sum..”

Her ears droop again at the impossibility, reminded of her longing for home. The reality of the dream shudders with a ripple of homesickness, and the asura places her worry with a chin at his shoulder.

When she speaks again, it is quiet enough to be almost inaudible, were it not for the mechanics of the dreamstate conveying the meaning through sensation alone.

“I can’t even be certain this is real.”

[muthologician]

While the necessity of remaining focused on the task at hand gnawed at the back of his mind, Gerik found himself admittedly lost amid the doubt that trailed the Magistrix’s statement– And in the familiar softness of her eyes, gentle lilac hues arrested his gaze.

Taking the smaller asura’s hand in a palm nicked and bitten by scars, he leaned in almost unconsciously bringing their foreheads to meet.

“Let me assure you then.” He murmured, leaning forward to join his lips to hers.

[rairoleplays]

The touch at her hand was enough to bring her to face him again, a light hue brought to her cheeks as he brought his head against hers. His bid to assuage her doubt is accepted with a readiness that may have surprised her, were it not for the knowledge that this was not their waking reality.

With doubt lurking in the shadows of the dream, Kezza’s arms enclose more firmly around him, willing that figment or not– he stay.

[muthologician]

Real or not, Gerik felt a curious kind of elation at the contact that might have been shameful if he had not long ago accepted his feelings for his one-time colleague and long-term friend. Reciprocating her arms movements without a hint of reservation, the larger asura’s arms draw Kezza against him with a sigh between joined lips, eye fluttering shut as the peaking emotions color him in a soft magenta hue.

Before their embrace can engross him fully, Gerik has presence of mind enough to speak between the kiss, hushed and breathy,

“Will you afford me this chance? To make things right?”

[rairoleplays]

Though they still embraced so closely, the scarce distance he affords himself must be compensated for with a nuzzle at his cheek. If this was all indeed a dream, it was the most real she’d ever had.

“It isn’t yours to make right,” she answers in a voice softened by intimacy, “But I trust you, Ger.”

While neither asura may be wholly aware of it, the office around them recedes ever so slightly– as though everything were shrouded in a faint fog, save for them.

[muthologician]

With her confirmation staying his worries, Gerik gives an affectionate sigh.

“I’ll dispatch a golem with the details,” He breathed, fighting the inclination to swoon at her touch, “We’ll fix this. I promise.”

It wasn’t much, but it was all he could think to say. For as effectively as their differences encouraged his mind to broaden it’s approach to the world, Kezza’s presence seemed to make higher thought a difficulty for the Disaggregator at times. Thankfully, this particular juncture was anything but inopportune. He let another sigh tumble from his lips as he relaxed into the Magistrix’s embrace.

[rairoleplays]

"I'll maintain my proximity to Divinity's Reach," she assures, a soft nuzzle paid to his jaw, "And I'll find a disguise."

A slight jolt crosses the scenery around them at the mention of the city, accompanied by a shift to her inn-room's likeness and general sense of anxiety. She seems unaware that her ears curl with the change.

Yet regardless, her nuzzle offers a light kiss with it, and she would continue to hold him unless deterred.