4:24 The up path.

Wedged uncomfortably between Master Ranclyffe's upstairs study and the room that had once housed Ntoru were the quarters for the court magister's apprentice.  Before the space had been thus repurposed, complete with a small washing up area and a small firepit with an even smaller pot hung from a spit overtop, it had been the office for the ornrion who commanded the Purple Dragon forces in Urmlaspyr.  Before that, it had been the living quarters for the soldiers who were responsible for keeping watch over the then-small settlement from the tower.  Officially, no one knew or cared what the space had been before that.

Except Gimago.

Three years before, as he was factoring a necromancy spell while incredibly tired, he made tenuous contact with the spirit of what he believed to be a bard of some sort.  Since that day, he dedicated the stone wall that he once shared with Ntoru's room to sketches of instruments, snippets of poetry and song, and a set of pan pipes, the only instrument he could actually play himself.  It had been while he was playing those pipes, in hopes of pleasing the spirit, that Gwen had gotten curious enough to sneak all the way up the tower to see whether or not either Mimsa or Master Ranclyffe was hiding a musical talent.  And so the messenger girl who usually served the High and Lord Captains, the prison master, and Lord Erantun, made the instantly amorous aquaintance of the magisters' messenger boy.

This day, some three years after their first meeting, Gwen and Gimago were esconced in the quarters of the court magister's apprentice for a much more painful reason.

"You might really always limp, Aggie," Gwen said with a disgusted frown as she looked at the yellow and brown stained bandages she'd removed from Gimago's right hip.  "This isn't supposed to still be as raw as it is, but here we are.  And it smells.  It reminds me-"

"Of Ser Sadist's wine cellar?" Gimago joked, twisting his upper body from side to side in order to make the bandage wrapping more comfortable.

"I wish you wouldn't call the dungeons that," Gwen said grimly.

"I don't," Gimago smirked, vaguely pleased with Gwen's mild annoyance.  "The dungeons are the dungeons.  The torture room is-"

"A place that no living thing should smell like."  Gwen got up, leaving the lint and bandages on the floor for the moment, and checked her dress and apron for any of the gooey substance in the bandages.

Gimago looked at Gwen's skits and apron for a few moments, in the pretense of helping.  "I don't see anything- and I'll be fine.  If the hag suspected this wouldn't heal, or that it would heal poorly, she'd drag me next door and do something."

"It smells rancid now, Aggie," Gwen argued, glaring at Gimago, who merely shrugged in response.  Embarrassed that she was being so serious while Gimago obviously wasn't, she decided against continuing to check her outfit and squatted down to reclaim the dressing she'd left on the floor.  "I wish you'd ask Master Ranclyffe to look at it again.  Please?"

Gimago closed his eyes and bent at the waist to kiss Gwen on the side of her head.  An angry pain clamped down onto his side as he did, but even that made him smile, since he remembered how much worse it had been when Mimsa first attacked him.

"You're only smelling the gunk the old hag gave me to put on the burn," he explained as he straighted himself.  "If I ask her about it, she'll say that I'm wasting words."

"Gimago," Gwen warned, scandalized at her beloved's words.  She recovered the bandages and began folding them carefully so as to keep the dressing from slopping out onto herself or the floor.  Gimago, knowing her intentions, took hold of one end of the dressing with both hands.

"Give those to me, Gwennie," he commanded quietly, but firmly.  "She isn't one for prettying up a cure- if it smells like a damp corpse, so be it.  No crushed roses sprinkled in the bandage, or lavender and mint blended into the ointment, like other apothecary shops might do.  And she didn't charge me, remember-"

"Why would she charge you?" Gwen hissed, chafing at the reminder.  "You wouldn't need healing at all, if that pinched harpy hadn't burned you in the first place!"

"Shush!" Gimago urged even more quietly.  "If Mimsa hears you call her that, she'll complain to the Sadist.  Or Arnsvold, and then that'll be your job.  Give me these wrappings, I tell you.  It'll all be of use- c'mon, let go.  I know you want to wash them out, but-"

Gwen stubbornly held on to the end of the bandage she still had, despite being repulsed by what was on it.  "They're disgusting, and I can't reuse them until they're washed- why won't you wash them?  The wounded prisoners need dressing too, you know."

"It won't kill the old stonemuncher to buy Ser Sadist some more lint and bandages," Gimago replied with a laugh, giving his end of the wrappings a bit of a tug to indicate that he didn't intend to let go.  "Honestly, him pitching a hellfire fit about going short might be the only thing that gets that creaky Dwarf up off the reserves."

"Don't tell me to be quiet and then keep calling the High Captain Sakoda 'Ser Sadist' for all to hear," Gwen fussed, tugging at her end lightly.

"If he cared about the moniker, he wouldn't put heated spikes in as many people- or he'd at least smile less while he did it," Gimago scoffed.  "He knows he enjoys the sight of suffering, and demands that everyone be as honest about it as he is.  If he were as concerned about appearances as Nithraz, or as hardline as Papa Tusk-jaw before him, no one would say anything about him in his hearing.  There'd be a lot more serious backstabbing meetings, though."

"It's so jarring," Gwen lamented, her hold loosening on the bandages for just a moment.  "For all of him to be... I don't know... him.  He's a an intelligent counselor, a caring father and a considerate master, so... I just know that cruelty is some form of battle madness; it's got to be.  I wish I had the art of divination, so I could tell for sure."

"The old hag would've done something about him, if he were battle mad," Gimago reminded.  He tugged at his end of the wrappings again, but again, Gwen held firm.  "Far as she's concerned, his madness tempers hers- don't tell anyone I said that."

"You might have more loyalty to her than to call her that," Gwen frowned.

"She likes being called a hag," Gimago shrugged.  He looked at his fingers, a few of which had gotten into the nasty smelling goo.  "Don't ask me why; there's no figuring her out.  But she's put her proverbial back behind the case against Mimsa, and she needs to be able to prove the more surprising parts of it.  This is going to be worth it, the ointment tins, the bandages- even the pain itself.  Look, give me those bandages, Lady Gwenydd, or I'll paralyze you."

"Oh, well done, Lord Gimago," Gwen enthused, tugging at her end.  "You're sounding just like her with threats like that."

"Gwenydd," Gimago sighed dramatically, sounding very much like the teasing husband he would soon become.  "My threatening to paralyze you over refusing to understand and obey me when I direly need you to is different to Moody Mimsie suddenly smacking me with a fire spell over my refusing to help her enforce an illegal decision.  Now, my lady, Give.  Me.  This.  Bandage."

The room was silent for a beat.

Gwen let go of the bandage and let her hands hang limply at her sides.  Gimago, nodding firmly, took a step back from her, not truly understanding what had just happened.

"She hit you?" Gwen asked in a hushed voice, looking down at the hip she'd just bandaged.  Already the very top layer of the bright white carded fleece, which was closest to Gimago's badly burned flesh, had begun to smell and to change color.

"Yes," Gimago replied.

Gwen turned sharply away from Gimago and marched directly to the small pot, which held a stew that was slowly burbling over the low fire.

"Did she burn you afterward, then?" she asked quickly and lightly, as though she were simply making small talk.

Gimago began to suspect he'd done something wrong, but knew he had to follow the trail to its end.  "No, the fire spell was a touch spell, and... she... smacked me with it," he answered.

"So that means she hit your face, your back, and your hip, isn't that so?" Gwen prodded, stepping away from the pot and taking up a clay plate from the shelf beyond it.

"Yes, that's so," Gimago answered firmly.

"So she didn't just cast a spell at you, she beat you with it.  Why didn't you tell me she beat you, as your father wouldn't even have done, had he been alive?" Gwen asked, her anger roiling and seething under every word.

Gimago sighed very deeply, then turned to face Gwen, who was still standing in front of the shelf, showing him only her profile.  "Gwen, I've never seen you as furious as you were that day.  Never.  I didn't know you could get that angry; if anybody reminded me of my father in his rages, it was you."

"But she beat you, Gimago!" Gwen thundered.  "Did you at least tell Jindranae, or Ranclyffe, since I wasn't to know?  Did you tell them that the bitch actually hit you with her hands alight, as opposed to casting mageflame at you from across the room?"

"Gwenydd, listen to yourself!" Gimago reasoned.  "You're furious now, right now, some weeks after it's happened!  Look, I'm fine, aren't I?  Aside from the odd limp, what'll go away in maybe another week or two?"

"Of course I'm furious!" Gwen hollered, stomping her foot so hard that it hurt.  "I'm twice as furious as I would have been, had you just told me she literally smacked you with a fire spell to begin with!  May I kindly ask my lord not to forget minor details like sustaining actual physical strikes from his employers in future?"

Gimago scoffed lightly, rolling his eyes to the ceiling briefly.  "You might rather take your lord's counsel that the problem isn't that he forgot to tell you the details, but that you imagined different details while being so properly enraged as to be rendered incapable of hearing the truth."

Gwen, feeling every piece of herself scream, crushed her fingers around the rim of the clay plate she held.  The urge to smash it to the ground rose within her chest like an ocean tide, quickening her heartbeat and tightening the muscles in her arms as if in preparation.

Gimago moved purposefully toward the cache of dirty bandages and the water bucket, both sitting just on the inside of the doorway.

The Halfling took a deep breath and released it slowly, pursing her lips together and marching toward the small round table near the small brazier as she did.  When she made it to the table, she put the plate down, with her fingers still clenched around its rim.

"Iron maiden, spiked chair, bridling mask, thumbscrews, rack.  Pear, rats, iron spider, boot, fork, wheel..."

As he listened to the grim recitation, Gimago shivered in spite of himself, and folded the foul smelling bandages separately from the lint that had held them onto his hip.

"Blood and bone, blood and bone, Blood.  And.  Bone.  Which, for your information, is a saying straight from the Orcs in the mountains.  That's what Sakoda said.  When I asked him.  When I was younger.  Because he liked Lord Ganturaz, so he told... and I learned... and I... I just... I just... How could she hurt you like that?"

Gimago thought better of actually washing his hands with the water that he'd poured out for himself, and rushed to Gwen's side just as she began to cry.

"I don't know, Gwennie, I don't know," he soothed. 

"I don't understand it; no matter how angry he gets, he would never hit me, never."

"I know, I know."

"He's like a father to me."

"I know.  It's him I'm going to ask for you; you know that."

"How come she's like this?  How could she do this to you?  Why would she beat you so that you limp for weeks and weeks and weeks, and lie about it?  Who does that?"

"There's no good reason... no reason at all, spellplague or not.  That's why Jindrana and the hag want her out, you see?  They both want her out, now; Jindrana's not putting up any fight anymore.  And finally, because of all the noise Lady Perth's been making about how negligent and unfair she is, the entire Mage's Quarter is beginning to come around.  It's all anyone will ask me about, when I go to buy reagents, or deliver a commissioned spell, or ferry tomes and records back and forth.  Every day, it's, 'Any word, Aggie?  Any change?'  And in the Dark Quarter, there are old practitioners and young hopefuls who are turning up, looking forward to having the person in the Mage's Quarter seat actually comply with the writ, let them teach and learn like any one else.  It's going to be alright.  Justice will be done.  We're going to get justice.  Not just for this, for everything.  It's going to happen, Gwennie, I promise.  Sooner than you think.  It's going to be alright.  And me too.  I'm going to be alright.  It could've been worse.  It could've been spellplague; then I'd be artless.  Or in constant pain while I relearned it."

Gwen puffed and sniffed for a few moments, then took a few deep breaths.  Stepping away from Gimago's arms, she picked the plate back up off the round table and walked to the pot to ladle some of the hot food onto her plate.

"Are you allowed to tell me how precisely Master Ranclyffe and Lady Jindranae are going to get Lady Mimsa out?" she asked quietly.  Behind her, Gimago summoned another plate to his hand.

"What, can't wait for the formal charges to go up on the temple door?" Gimago smirked, admiring the Halfling's handsome backside as the plate settled itself in his hand.  "Let's see- abuse of power, inappropriate allocation of tax funding, tax evasion by way of incomplete documentation of investments, favoritism in the court, nepotism, neglect of duty, insufficient inclusion of Eastern Quarter masters and apprentices-"

Gwen stopped herself in the middle of blowing on the hot stew and looked over her shoulder at Gimago.  "Wait, what does that mean?"

"Exactly what you think it means," Gimago answered with a shrug.  Gwen finished portioning out food for herself and walked back to the table.  Gimago, only slightly miffed that she'd moved before he had a chance to feel her up, began spiriting the ladle off its place on the other side of the spit.  "Mimsie was supposed to be apprenticing student mages outside of the Eastern Quarter to masters in it, and assigning Eastern Quarter student mages to masters who are outside of it.  Lord Dresan, Lady Kaionne, and Lady Imaraide are all furious that she hasn't done what she's needed to do with sufficient urgency and speed, and lodged a joint complaint.  But it won't be-"

"Don't tell me Fae, Jindrana, and Arnsvold won't hear the case!" Gwen charged, putting her spoon down at once.

"Gwennie," Gimago sighed as the temporarily enchanted ladle dumped food unceremoniously onto his plate.  "It's not going to be denied, but it can't be accepted as it was submitted."

"And why not?" Gwen asked with some degree of insult.  "All of them are well within their right to-"

"Of course they are," Gimago cut in decisively.  He moved to the table, sat down, and ate a few spoonfuls of food before looking back up at Gwen, who hadn't moved to eat any more than she had.  "Gwennie, c'mon.  Eat up before you have to put it back in the pot."

"How can I, if you don't tell me how Lady Imaraide's part of the case is going to be handled?" Gwen urged, pushing her plate a little bit away from herself to emphasize her point.  "I never tell anyone else anything you tell me."

And Gimago put his spoon down, sitting up and crossing his arms.  "So then how did Sakoda find out we were together?"

"I didn't tell him; he guessed on his own," Gwen whined quietly.  "He's cross-promised not to tell; now tell me about the charge!"

"Despite being just a little better than a hedge witch, Imaraide was suggested as a replacement for Mimsa," Gimago explained.  "She's going to be put to some kind of secret test somehow- don't ask.  I don't know anything about it.  But in order to do that, or to put her to a vote if she succeeds the test, she can't have any pending cases, whether that be cases that are brought against her or cases that she brings herself.  Long story short, in order for the complaints Imaraide wanted heard to be heard, either Hawke's pet or Lady Kaionne had to bring 'em."

When he was done speaking, Gimago reached across the table and pushed Gwen's plate back toward her.  Gwen accepted her plate back, and for a few moments, the two ate in relative silence.  However, the peace was momentary, and when Gwen could bear her concern no longer, she put her spoon down again, fixing Gimago with a charged look.

"Do you think it'll work?"

Gimago looked up from his plate and chuckled.  "It'll work.  But it might take time.  And it'll definitely take evidence.  So we can't wash those bandages.  The hag wants to prove that Mimsie's actions have cost everyone time, effort, and resources.  Every single one of those dressings, and every single empty jar of ointment, show what it took, and is taking, for me to recover from what was, for Mimsie, a relatively normal tantrum."

"Normal!" Gwen exclaimed, a glint of worry flashing in her eyes.

"She doesn't normally come after me," Gimago explained quickly.  "But... well... there's a reason she doesn't often make academic submissions.  She'll get into the middle of a complicated proof and... well... destroy it.  Like, completely destroy it.  The hag calls it 'unduly explosive frustration'.  I guess I should be somewhat grateful; I've learned a great deal about spell theorems three practical levels above my own because I've had to duplicate Mimsie's work after she... heh... erases it."

Gwen picked her spoon up and nibbled at her food again without much appetite.  Gimago finished his food easily, and got up to put the fire beneath his pot out.  As he slid the metal covering over the still-warm coal pit with some difficulty, another Human messenger who usually attended Arnsvold appeared at the doorway.  Gwen dimly recognized him as Jigsaw.

"Oi Aggie!"

"Awright," Gimago answered without turning around.

"Ye're with'e crutch fo' aye?"

"Nane o' 'at," Gimago replied, turning over his shoulder to see the chubby, freckled Human boy.  "Binned that last tenth.  Gonna limp another few tenths, savvs?  Can't've been looking for me, though."

"Ai-lah," Jigsaw admitted.  "Pegged Gwennie fo' 'ere abouts."

"Ey, cuz, but nae tales," Gimago urged.

"Ai, it's nane i' th' Elf's house after snitchin', cuz," Jigsaw smiled, two of the grinding teeth on the left side of his mouth made conspicuous by their absence.  "And we're collars on the stonemuncher's bitch, so's your fig stays sweet."

"Oh!" Gwen exclaimed, clapping her hands over her mouth with surprise.

"That does not mean what you think it means," Gimago soothed knowingly, standing up so that his hip would stop throbbing.

"Plain cold, m'lady; we've enough art twixt we five to make that little whore's life proper hot, and we keep 'er well read," Jigsaw smiled wickedly.  The rest of the uneven teeth for which he was nicknamed gleamed radiantly in the candlelight, and Gwen couldn't help but shrink in her chair a bit.

"Polish up, m'lord; m'lady's blank o' ya," Gimago chuckled.  "Y'know 'er for a top skirt, savs?"

"Awright," Jigsaw answered, nodding sharply to Gimago.  Turning his full attention to Gwen, he said, "Here 'bides, Lady Reeger.  Mimsie's after finding Lord Sakoda, and it's nobody but you gonna go down in the wine cellar to find him.  We'd've left you in peace to take your meal with your lord if it weren't for that, innit?"

"Thank you," Gwen said slowly, looking over at Gimago in a vain effort to figure out whether or not Jigsaw's words should be clearly agreed to.

"Ai-lah, but ten-co says she's after buyin' his drop out o' the books, innit?" Gimago huffed as he got up and turned around.

"Bone clean, bone clean," Jigsaw replied.  "He's not after it, is why he's in the cellar.  Come quick, or he's at home.  But an 'e's out o' book, Asmodeus's lap is cold; that's proper writ."

"Ey, and it's dry," Gimago confirmed.  "An she's finished 'er plate, she's for ya.  Now smoke off so's we don't get sniffin' bitches 'round abouts."

"Ey-lah, cuz," Jigsaw said with a slight bow to Gwen, who smiled vacantly.  "Cold salt."

"Ever 'at; and you," Gimago replied, nodding his head regally and watching the younger boy scamper off.  "Okay, Gwennie, what do you need translated?"

"Practically that entire conversation," Gwen answered, her voice sounding just as empty as her head felt.  "I'm not sure that was even Common."

"You say that every time," Gimago chuckled.  "It's not that strange."

"It ought to be classified and studied as an entirely different language," Gwen sighed, a bit of dull confusion leaving her eyes.

"What's to study?" Gimago asked lightly, returning to the table and picking up Gwen's spoon.  "It could be worse.  You ever listen to somebody straight from Westgate?  Or worse, the Isles?"

Gwen blinked at Gimago, then reclaimed her spoon from him.  Her hand lingered on his, and he kissed it.

"Will you teach our children to talk like that?" she asked seriously, watching him straighten himself while wincing.

"Do you intend our children to have to make their way in brothels, flop houses, and back alleys?" he replied with an arched eyebrow.  It pained Gwen to be reminded that part of the brow that he had raised- his right- would always have two bald patches where the flesh had been too severely burned to fully recover.

"I just... you know, heritage is important to me.  And... I think it's important.  They they know.  Just in case."

Gimago gave a small sigh, then knelt down next to Gwen in order to give her a hug around the waist.  Gwen put her spoon down and put her arms around Gimago instead. "I'll teach them everything I know, provided I get back to Teziir often enough to keep some knowledge in good repair."

"Can we live in Teziir?"

"You don't want to raise children in Teziir."

"You were raised there."

Gimago gave a single sharp laugh as he looked up at Gwen.  "I wasn't raised there; I grew up there.  Big difference."

Gwen studied Gimago's face for a few quiet moments, then whispered, "Ey-lah."

Gimago smiled genuinely.  "No, Lady Gwenydd.  You want to say 'ai-lah,' to disagree with me.  If you want to do it gently, call me 'cuz.'  If you don't care how I take it, leave it as it is.  If you don't like me, call me 'mid'n'pot', or just 'mid'n'.  And yes, it's short for what you think it's short for.  Because it's not a whole different language, it's... like a dialect.  Savs?"

"Oh- yes!  Now I say 'ey-lah,' to agree with you." Gwen grinned and scrunched her shoulders up momentarily, pleased with herself.

"Ey-lah," Gimago said, squeezing her a bit tighter.  "Now, m'lady, eat up so's you can poke into the wine cellar and see about Lord Sakoda."

4:23 A teachable moment.

"...can, from time to time, get hold of more basil than moss.  If that were to occur, you can safely substitute-"

"No, you can't," Moondew piped up at once.

The Firebirds had 'nested', according to the townsfolk of Archenbridge, in the shadow of a formidable looking- but completely empty- stone tower.  Moondew and Marrowfire had taken up residence in an inn to better accomodate their trade, but took time in the early mornings to go and visit with the Firebirds who preferred to live outdoors.  This particular morning, after Moondew's uncommon outburst, Glorysea, the grey-and-brown haired woman who had been walking in and through the circle of younger Firebirds turned her head coyly to the side.  Everyone in the circle turned their attentions back to Moondew, who bit her lower lip and sat up straighter.

"I've used this as a ward and as an offering many times, my dear," Glorysea said soothingly, with her thin, but pleasant alto voice.  "When I was your age, I wasn't bright enough to collect moss when I happened across it- and a lot of markets were closed to us, back then.  I had to make various market-going costumes, so as to fool townsfolk into believing that I was just a harmless travelling alchemist, and not a Firebird.  Through thorough research, I learned that basil will replace the moss nicely."

"It's unsafe not to know how much blood might have soaked into the soil," Moondew said, forcing herself to speak more loudly than she would have preferred.  No one seemed to start as though she had yelled, but a few people who were closer to Glorysea than they were to her did have to lean forward in an effort to hear.  "Moss is safe, because it won't tolerate more than the mixture actually needs.  Basil will soak up every drop of blood shed anywhere near it, which will throw your mixture off, and if you use deep cave or swamp water-"

"Ah, I see the trouble," Glorysea purred sweetly, folding her hands in front of herself.  "I'm told you lived in the swamp when you were younger, so you've likely come across this formula the hard way.  While different practices yield different results, pain is pain all over.  I'm sorry it happened, and glad you're here with us, now."

Everyone gathered made various noises of support, and the two Firebirds closest to Moondew scooted toward her on either side in order to snuggle with her.  Moondew, very accustomed to being touched without being asked, permitted the contact without a second thought.

"Why don't we talk about totems?" Glorysea suggested, seeing that Moondew had nothing further to say at the moment.  "Another way to protect your space is to make and charge a totem."

There were more positive noises made by the others gathered, to which Moondew paid no attention.  Sneaking a hand up to her loose hair, she pulled a single mouse-brown ringlet forward far enough to get into her mouth, and thought deeply as she savored the taste of the vinegar, rose water, and olive oil that she used to wash her hair the day before.  Beyond her, Glorysea's informal lecture continued, complete with a question and answer period during which Moondew was entirely silent.  At some point, the two snuggly Firebirds on either side of her sat up in order to listen better to Glorysea as she continued to walk slowly around, and Moondew was left to ponder the fact that the mornings had been growing warmer and warmer since Greengrass had passed in peace.

"Little sister?  Little sister.  Would someone tap her for me?"

Moondew came to herself when the Firebird closest to her right side, a full-faced, dark-skinned Dwarf named Pepperfang, poked her in the shoulder.

"Ah!  Welcome back!" Glorysea enthused when Moondew looked at Pepperfang with confusion.  "Where did your spirit go?"

Moondew, rubbing at the spot on her shoulder, pulled her hair out of her mouth.  She felt warmth rising in her cheeks, and couldn't find any words to say.  In her silence, Glorysea pulled her long strap braid over her shoulder, then walked straight toward Moondew.  She seated herself carefully on Moondew's left side, and wrapped her right arm around her, physically encouraging Moondew to lay her head on her shoulder with a very gentle push.

"Anything you have to say or ask, I'll listen," Glorysea encouraged, tightening and relaxing her embrace just slightly.

"I wonder," Moondew began in a whisper as she looked at Glorysea's creased and calloused bare feet, "if the ward you'd mentioned before tends to invite illness.  On the person or persons that you're trying to protect yourself from."

"It can do that, yes," the woman replied warmly.  "Talk up, sweetheart, so everybody can hear you."

Moondew breathed deeply as she toyed with her carefully manicured ivory fingers in her lap.  She could feel the eyes of the gathering on her again.  "Can it invite bad events- maybe a fight with a partner, damage to property, trouble with the larger community?"

"I've been told of that sort of thing, yes," Glorysea nodded, leaning away from Moondew slightly so that she could look down at the top of her head.  "You know, you do know quite a lot about the effects of that ward, for someone who doesn't use it."

Moondew leaned away from Glorysea, who let her head and shoulder go with no contest.  She dug at a large side pouch, from which she produced a leather-bound journal.  It was weathered, but obviously well cared for, and the pages within had no damage further than the yellowing that time and use caused.  Moondew pulled the knot in the fresh blue sash that bound the old journal shut apart, then knowledgeably and carefully turned the pages, easily happening upon a recipe that had many notes along the edges of the main text.  Glorysea merely glanced at the page at first, but quickly began to truly read it.  After a few moments of silent poring over the page, she gingerly moved the journal from Moondew's lap to her own in order to see the detail better.

"Is this your grimmoire?" Glorysea asked in a tone that bordered on accusatory.  "Who gave this to you?"

"My grandmother," Moondew replied simply, consciously denying the sudden urge to defend herself.  "She and my mother wrote most of it themselves, but the rest may have been another coven mother, or their sisters.  There are there different handwritings, and even different languages.  This mixture, and the spell that goes with it, both called War Water, was translated into Common from a language I've never read anywhere else in Daerlun, Sembia, or Cormyr.  There it is on that page- I re-inked both versions just recently; that's why it looks so new."

Glorysea blinked her eyes rapidly, then breathed deeply as she sat up and closed the journal.  "It's... someone translated it from Druidic, which is... forbidden, actually."

There were a few hums of surprise and apprehension from the gathering, which reminded both women that there were others present with them at all.  Glorysea didn't outwardly react, but Moondew glanced around herself for a moment before she spoke again.

"It's... not the only one of its kind," Moondew offered quietly, unsure of whether the knowledge would be comforting or angering.  "Would you like to see the others?"

"Yes," Glorysea smiled tightly, looking at Moondew with misty eyes.

Moondew re-opened the journal and turned to a spell whose ink hadn't been retouched yet.  "Here- the original language is here, on the page between we have Draconic, and then here's the Common translation.  It seems to be a tandem effort between my mother and whoever-"

"This is 'Hearthwailer'," Glorysea breathed, gazing down at the page.  "I know it well.  It says a lot of your mother to keep the Firebird name, despite how odd it must have seemed to her."

"My grandmother boiled the bones of supplicants, hunters, and innocent travellers with jasmine and rosewater, then made jewelry of them," Moondew replied.  "She said it was the only thing of beauty they could have made.  My mother would just grind the bones up and use them for potion reagents- she was more practical than artistic.  So, probably there was a great deal about both my grandmother and my mother that seemed strange to your great aunt as well."

There were a few stray whispers heard as some Firebirds reminded others that Moondew was an unusually beautiful swamp hag.  Moondew herself couldn't help but smirk at the resulting reactions, which ranged from suddenly terrified faces to searching looks to total awe or surprise.

"She didn't say anything about that," Glorysea chuckled weakly, "although I guess it would have been difficult to explain to little ones who didn't grow up where and how you did.  What she did say was that someone who walked beside her for a while helped her to write it.  She said she only practiced it once in her life, but like every other spell she ever knew or wrote, she made all of us learn it for memory."

"The tune my grandmother used to teach me this one was fast-paced enough, but sad-sounding," Moondew replied.  "I always wondered why."

"Maybe it sounded like my great aunt felt.  It's a very powerful wish spell," Glorysea said quietly as she closed the journal again.  "But not all wishes come true, and hers... didn't."

Moondew lifted the journal back to her own lap, then looked back up at the woman, who suddenly looked more tired.  "I can trace a copy of the translation into Common and give it to you.  And I can write another note on the War Water page.  One that says it can be used as protection, if you put your energy into that."

"What you call 'war water' I've always called Spikehail.  And you may very well be right about it being a curse," Glorysea admitted.  "The difference between protecting yourself and attacking others can sometimes be... unfortunately subtle.  But Druidic is a hidden language, sweetheart.  No person who isn't part of some kind of druidic order is supposed to have any ability to access it- even those who can cast a spell to decipher it can only figure it out if Nature allows it.  I don't know how those two managed to get away with writing Hearthwailer down."

"I've read the notes in the margins of its page over and over, and based on them, it seems to me that the spirits of nature that your great aunt knew didn't see my grandmother or her coven sisters as separate from themselves," Moondew replied.  "Both my mother and grandmother always said, 'Some walk through the mists, some with them, and some away from them.  But we are the mists.'  I didn't realize how serious they were, back then, but... the older I get, the more I think they didn't just protect the swamp lands.  I think they also protected everything with a connection to those lands- and druids are most definitely intimately connected to any land upon which they practice.  In my father's case, very intimately."

"That sounds like an interesting tale indeed," Glorysea said, amusement returning to her face.  "Let's take a look at those other spells you have tomorrow morning."  Glorysea reached over and patted Moondew's left hand twice, gently, then put both hands on the ground in order to get herself to her feet again.

"For now, everyone," she continued grandly, "since Moondew and I have talked a bit about complimentary organizations of practice, let's talk about the similarities and differences of a wheel of druids, a circle of mages, and a coven of witches.  Bear in mind that some folks are going to call themselves other things, and that's okay.  You might hear 'pack', 'family', 'college,' 'clutch,' 'court,' 'cult,' or even more drastic terms..."