5:7 Usefully irritating.

Jindranae sent her slender fingers poking through the various pouches and bags at her waistline, and Trizelle, who knew better than to believe that the Eladrin had misplaced whatever she was looking for, politely shielded her thoughts and sipped her tea.

"Ah, here it is," Jindranae grinned, holding up a glistening silver ring.  "Now this is supposed to assist the focus of the-"

"I've never received any notice of dissatisfaction with my service to the council," Trizelle interrupted, putting her cup and saucer down on the table between the two.

"Because there isn't one, dear!" Jindranae exclaimed at once.  "You've never been anything but good to us, since the day you came!  Out on anyone who should even pretend otherwise."

Trizelle scoffed softly and picked her tea up again.  Nearly out of habit, she glimpsed the leaves at the bottom.  An exasperation with herself that, in most people, would have resulted in a sigh, did not even cause a shadow to cross her face.

"Now, that sweet little Elven boy who came to visit you some weeks ago, his sense of self was so scattered that it set even my stone of a partner to distraction, poor thing.  He was inconsolable- pacing back and forth every night for an entire ten-day, ruminating on what experiments could possibly have so disorganized one of our blood.  I had to tell him that I would think of something to help, or neither of us would have gotten any peace."

"Don't patronize your partner," Trizelle admonished.  "Anything that reminds him of the war will irritate him.  Greenstar and many other living experiments were used as weapons-"

Their blood.  Their screams.  The groping in either the cold darkness of birth or the searing light of death.  Struggling babes who could neither lie nor discern lies, searching for sustenance, for warmth.  Hollow eyed women who had no idea they'd been robbed.  And I continued working, didn't stop, didn't pause, didn't show any sign of empathy.  Knowledge?  Knowledge.  Far too much knowledge; I earned knowledge that should never have existed, much less been practiced or taught.  With my own hands.  No trembling.  No confusion. Viciously precise; damnably accurate.  Incapable of anything less.  All those little ones.  Who tried to find love in me, while I killed them.  But... Torquin survived.  And Dresan was... spared...

"-despite their tender ages," the Human woman finished, her voice made tight.  She found herself glaring daggers at her tea, and had to restrain the irrational desire to throw it at the wall.

Jindranae put the ring on the table and gazed at it for a moment before looking back up to Trizelle's oddly pinched face.  "I wonder how long it might take for an actual study into battlemadness to be made," she finally managed, picking her tea up and blinking uselessly at the far wall.  "You'd think what with so many Cormite soldiers inflicted, that something would be done, but, well!  Not a mark put to paper!  It's as though it weren't real, for all the turned heads and averted eyes!"

Trizelle took a long sip of tea, then gently put her teacup and saucer back down on the table.   "Give it to me; I can't analyze it properly from that distance."

Jindranae raised an eyebrow at Trizelle, but wordlessly picked up the ring and put it in the Human woman's waiting palm, careful to only gently drop it onto her flesh.

"Done," Trizelle announced before Jindranae had even put her hand back under her saucer.  "It'll do for a third level divination student.  You might ask Gimago about worthy candidates before giving it away, blinded by good-natured guilt, to such a person as might throw it down a well in spite."

Jindranae closed her eyes and chuckled to herself, bowing her head just slightly in the process.  She put her teacup back down, then positioned her hand underneath Trizelle's so that the mage could give the ring back simply by turning her hand over- no contact necessary.

No contact at all.

"And speaking of Gimago, those bandages of his- nasty stuff.  Did you not think to mix any sort of perfumed oils into those salves?" the Eladrin asked, her buoyant tone coming with effort.  "I could barely continue to sit in the court room when he produced them, and-"

"I want nothing to do with the legal matters surrounding Mimsa until everything is settled," Trizelle interrupted sharply.

"It's quite close to being settled, dear, and you've settled it, with those horrendous bandages.  They about set Pohatkon's tongue on fire.  The oils?" Jindranae insisted.

"I decided against them, because they cost coin," Trizelle responded flatly.  "The coin I manage comes from taxes, and I, personally, do not feel like forcing the populace at large to pay, however indirectly, for Mimsa's murderous temper."

"There; is it a sin to tell you that you and Pohatkon are of a mind?  Because that was his argument- that Mimsa truly meant to kill the boy," Jindranae laughed sadly, her fists tightly clenched on her lap.  

"The severity of Gimago's wounds should have preached that before Sakoda had to," Trizelle complained caustically.  "Tell me the details if you find you must."

"I must, and you'll thank me when I'm done," Jindranae huffed, the slightest touch of her natural haughtiness shining through like a sharp slice of sun-touched glass esconced in dark soil.  "The bandages came out, and off 'Ser Sadist' went, barking like a wild dog- 'That smells of charred meat; I accuse Lady Mimsa of lethal assault,' he says.  And Arnsvold says, 'You can't do that; she's still a seated council member.'  So Pohatkon says, 'Then I submit my knowledge of deeply burned muscle as witness to the active case, and further submit my personal opinion that this woman is hiding every type of rotting filth under her throne.  I can't charge her taxes because she's seated.  I can't serve a charge for treason- which I would very much like to serve because she refuses to allow her magisters to form a magical arm of defense under my command or anyone else's- because she's seated.  I can't even charge her uncle for not taking on Eastern Quarter proteges because she contests my charge, and has the privilege of- you guessed it- her seat.  All the while, she attempts to wield me like a hammer against every dew skipping witch and thistle bud wild mage she can find, and complains of treason when I ignore her.  Shove her out of that seat and be done, I pray you, and so soon as you do, I shall crown her with every justice that her actions have so long deserved.'  Perhaps not word for word- you know that he curses much more freely than could be thought wise in court, but along those lines."

"Good," Trizelle scoffed.  "Took him long enough to make a case, as I asked months ago."

"Oh, Triz, you expect too much of the man; it may have taken his wife just this long to teach him proper Common," Jindranae joked, finally releasing the ring onto the table in favor of picking up her tea.  She didn't have as much experience with reading the leaves as did her companion, and the latter gained a small flicker of amusement watching her sneakily try to do it.

"Sakoda acts and speaks when compelled.  He was made for this type of work," Trizelle counseled as she put her teacup down and willed the still-warm clay pot to pour more hot water into it.  "He simply has to be irritated into doing it."

"Remind me why we gave him a job he has to be 'compelled' or 'irritated' into doing?" Jindranae asked, lifting her eyes from her cup without having fully understood what she'd just seen.

"Because a good quarter part of the guard is corrupted, and most of those remaining are their idiot friends," Trizelle replied easily as she gave the smallest, dismissive flick of her hand.  The honey comb pot opened itself and poured the smallest drop of honey into the darkening tea without her so much as looking at it.  "Sakoda doesn't spare anyone a visit to his hall of horrors just because they hold an oath to the crest in common.  In fact, he tortures them more zealously, as though he were personally insulted by their betrayal."

"Is he?" Jindranae immediately asked.

Trizelle quietly gazed at Jindranae's unthought of teaspoon for what seemed to the Eladrin like an inordinate amount of time.

"I believe so- but, I've never asked," she finally answered.  "I simply see the results and suspect their bitter wellspring.  Further, his bloodlust is being amplified by his relocation to the Dark Quarter- a necessary, but unfortunate decision.  Makela is useless, and Jana as impressionable as the nearest stone, but Circe and her father are both being very strongly affected by the sharran energies that have coalesced in that area."

"We've only just gotten the poor man; we can't have him warped already," Jindranae mused, rolling her eyes.  "I can demand that he return to-"

"Makela's triumph would be insufferable," Trizelle said in a flat tone as she picked up her fresh cup of tea, "even for a man accustomed to torture in almost all its forms."

"She and Sakoda seem to get on well enough at the few social functions he allows her to drag him to," Jindranae argued.  "And they do have two children together- if she was so bad, she'd have been put away after the first, don't you think?"

Trizelle raised an eyebrow at her compatriot over the rim of the cup.  "She's not bad; she's useless."

"Artless," Jindranae corrected matter-of-factly.

"No, useless," Trizelle insisted as she lowered her tea cup.  "They don't have two children together; she gave birth to two regrets and he, her first and greatest, is now raising them, largely by himself.  Her lack of magickal acumen is another matter entirely."

"How could they possibly stay married then?  Why would they, at that?  Divorce isn't illegal."  Trizelle did not reply, and Jindranae looked down into her cup again with a deep sigh.  "I wonder if Imaraide will be useful."

Trizelle put her cup down entirely and rested her hands in her lap.  "If you're going to talk about matters that I don't want to talk about, at least do so without obfuscation."

"That's not... well, I suppose... oh, dear."  Jindranae put her own tea cup down, and without warning, her eyes flooded with tears.  "I'm useless, aren't I?  At these Human affairs?  How am I supposed to govern this place when I can't-"

"Do as you have been doing- simply respect each Human you meet as a worthy individual- an equal, within reason.  When each individual proves themself either helpful or harmful, treat them appropriately.  Actively work toward equity where it does not yet exist, and support it wherever it does," Trizelle replied quietly.  "Now, as much of a mentor as you may have been to her, Mimsa's history of actions reflect poorly only on herself.  She and I are both Humans, and you appointed me to my position just as much as you strongly suggested Mimsa for hers.  Or do you feel that my attitudes and actions are your fault as well?"

"Well, you don't go about bullying people- although you've every ability to," Jindranae laughed weakly in spite of herself.  "Only you could make all this mess sound so simple."

Trizelle looked at her hands in her lap.  "Many beneficial concepts are simple.  Successful adaptation of those concepts is monumentally difficult.  More entrenched within us than the bias that is taught to us is that which is birthed in us due to personal experience.  And you have experienced many, many, many unsavory Humans."

"Among which you do not number," Jindranae cut in knowingly.

Trizelle looked up, slowly and purposefully, catching another glimpse of the bottom of her teacup in the process.  "Among which both Sakoda and I certainly do number.  However, despite being so, we are of reasonable use in that at least we will use our abrasive natures to your benefit, and not your destruction."

5:6 Dedicant of the Queen.

"...and then they fight until one of them either is killed or feels compelled to concede.  Some partners can't bear this, and so concede nearly at once, but that's looked upon poorly by the commune, so only either the very young, who are too tenderhearted, or the very old, who have married before and don't care about the opinions of others, ever do that.  There was one older couple, I remember, whose one partner never even made it to the battle ground, because he had suffered a fall farther back.  After waiting for hours, his partner left the field to search for him, weathering the thrown objects and the jeers of others as she went.  She was bloody and tired by the time she got to him, but threw her arms around him and lifted him up to carry him to the battle ground.  I don't know that they spoke along the way, but I feel they must have, because once they returned, he just barely summoned the strength to lift his dagger at her, and she conceded immediately.  Some threw things at them again, even offal, and my master insinuated that I should do the same, but since it was not a direct order, I pretended that I hadn't understood him, and did not."

Celeste looked over at Silveredge by the light of the cantrips, enchanted items, and torches that others carried, and for a moment, simply marveled at the small act of courage that could have earned the Shadar-kai woman a beating.

"That's something," the Human woman said at last, unable to put the rest of her thoughts into words.  "Humans are definitely not so sanguine, although we are comparatively wildly superstitious.  It's hard to tell where one culture's nonsense ends and another begins, because we're all spread out all over the place, for some reason, and we've absorbed a multitude of beliefs from those we've conquered or been conquered by.  Bear in mind now, I'm from the far west, from a whole other continent to here.  Now, over there, I was called a 'bride,' and my ex was called the 'groom,' I don't know what language those terms are from, but there they are.  Or... were, since the marriage is dissolved now.  Anyway, I was dressed all up in white- that was to pretend that I was still a virgin-, blindfolded, and taken to a ceremonial area, a circle.  The circle keeps evil spirits out, and is supposed to ensure that the bond between the bride and groom remains strong."

"Is anyone else permitted to be in the circle with the bride, since she cannot see?" Silveredge asked meekly.

"No- well, not after my father got me into the circle," Celeste explained.  "The father brings the bride- his daughter- to the ring, and puts her hand in the groom's hand.  The bride never sees anything until later in the ceremony.  It's supposed to signify that the bride no longer belongs to the father, but instead to the groom."

Silveredge said nothing, but nodded in understanding.  Niku, who had been padding ahead of the two women, stopped for a moment to sniff at the ground.  When the two caught up to him, some three or four strides later, he picked his head up and whined for a pat.  Silveredge obliged immediately.

"Anyway, the groom took my hand, and before a priest, we spoke vows to each other.  Eternal fealty to each other, the bequeathing of our wealth to each other, even though it really only works one way, and all that ridiculous slave type rot- ah, whoops, I'm sorry.   Not real slavery, it just... you know, I was supposed to belong to the fellow, that's all.  Like a chair, a turnip, or a cow.  I didn't mind the idea at the time, but looking back... well..."

Silveredge had to hustle a few steps to catch up to Celeste, so that she could be heard without having to shout over the din of the moving caravan.  "I have served some Human men, at my former master's command," she nodded.  "He told them that we were married, and they did not seem to see sufficient difference between their idea of marriage and his idea of ownership to correct him.  Further, I do not see much difference myself.  I am not offended; please, continue."

In thinking of the ramifications of Silveredge's reply, Celeste shivered.  It took her nearly an entire minute to pick up the conversation again.

"Um... so.  After the saying of the vows bit, my husband- he's only called the 'groom' during the ceremony, you see- kissed me, picked me up, and carried me to the home he'd prepared for me.  If my feet had touched unholy ground before I got home, that would have been bad luck to us.  Now, I'd been to the house before, as I'd dug the cellar and planted the garden, but for ceremony's sake, we had to pretend I'd never been.  Anyway, he carried me inside, and he took off my blindfold while I was facing him, so that he was the first living thing I saw.  That's to keep me loyal to him, you understand; if I were to have seen anyone else, I could be bewitched and start gadding about."

Silveredge looked over at Celeste with a mist of confusion on her face.

"Oh- cheating, stepping out on the partner.  Having relations, you know the kind, with someone who's not the partner.  That's called 'gadding about'.  Not sure where that saying came from either," Celeste explained with a slight shrug.  "Anyway, once in the house, we kissed again, this time both of us on purpose.  There's a lot of symbolism to Human weddings as well, and that first knowing kiss is supposed to symbolize that the woman accepts the house and the man who's giving it to her, or whatever.  The trouble is that even if you don't like the house, or the man, it'd be idiot to try to refuse either one then and there.  You may as well wait a year or so and then pay a merc to pretend to cheat with you so that your husband puts you away- so that he divorces you, then.  Being suspected of cheating is the easiest way to get a divorce."

"You have to pay a mercenary to help you get a divorce?" Silveredge giggled incredulously.  "In the commune, you can publicly challenge an unsatisfactory partner for any reason you wish, or none at all, any time you like.  You'll get the chance to fight to the death or to the submission, and the survivor... well, they survive.  Not only are they considered eligible for remarriage, they get everything the dead or weak party owned as victor's spoils.  Unless their family members want to fight for it.  It can be a long process, but you never have to pay anyone to get rid of your partner- unless you want the most permanent removal possible, with the least amount of effort and risk probable to yourself."

"If we fought as often as it sounds like you did in the commune, there'd be utter chaos," Celeste answered back, close to laughing herself.  "Anyway, after the kiss, our close friends sprung up from behind the furniture, and we had a grand party.  The party isn't for good luck; it's just to relieve everyone's having to sit through such long, formal services.  Everyone was drunk inside of an hour, including myself.  It was a terrible mess to clean up after, but it was great fun.  Even now, I will admit that it was powerfully fun.  I suppose if I had to, I'd do it again, but it's hard to imagine it with anyone besides himself.  I feel badly for him, really, to be forced.  He invited me, but I thought it'd be idiot of me to actually go.  The poor woman.  He'll learn to love her, I hope.  I truly hope; I do."

"There are many Human children that go without parents," Silveredge noted as she glanced around herself for a few moments.  "I have seen them in the streets, and have shared food, clothing, or shelter with them, secretly, so that we are all safe from the hands of others more fortunate.  It seems odd not to find a way to give such children to the Human adults who go without babies of their making."

"That does happen, but when it does, it's either some well-to-do person offloading a babe they don't want or taking on a babe they can't have," Celeste sighed, fighting hard against the lump in her throat.  "It's not for such as Robbie and me.  What we were, in those days.  I just... he'll be happy, I hope.  I just want happiness for him, if he can have it."

"He very likely wants the same for you," Silveredge suggested quietly, refocusing on Celeste completely as she did.  "Perhaps he will read of the company you intend to found in the broadsheets someday."

"Ah, you're a ball of toffee," Celeste smiled, deciding to put the matter out of her mind.  "Come now, tell me; will you fight this Mishka, then?  Will it matter which of you wins?  Does that determine who takes whose name?"

Silveredge shrugged.  "If we were to fight, in the Shadar-kai way of things, we would have to fight the contenders to our hands.  As it stands, there aren't any, so we can't do that.  I'm not sure how our names might change, because we have very different naming systems.  The compound name of my house is Shuun-Cziou, for my maternal great-grandmother's mother, who cleared the land upon which the manse was built, and my grandmother's first husband, who bought my grandmother along with the manse.  My personal compound name is Ceubel-Naja; those are my father and mother's names.  But first of all, I've been thinking about replacing my father's name with that of my mother's good friend- that would make my compound name Jhaeldana-Naja."

"Anyone who suspected that you may have had Drow blood in you before would feel certain of it if you did that," Celeste commented.  "Not that that's a bad thing, but... you know." 

Silveredge smiled.  "Yes, I know- and Mishka reminded me, just in case I'd forgotten.  I could also take my grandmother's name, making my compound name Althea-Naja- but the real difficulty would be in what our shared house's compound name becomes, because Tieflings don't use the first names of their ancestors as their house or compound name.  Her family name is made up of her mother and father's family name- Lucien-Azaroth.  In order to make my compound name fit correctly, I'm supposed to attach 'Lucien' to the end of it- Althea-Naja de Lucien, I suppose.  The 'de' means 'of or belonging to,' Mishka says- and she hates that."

"Considering how often she's been accused of enslaving you, that makes sense," Celeste frowned.  "And it's a little awkward even without that disturbing meaning."

Again Niku stopped to sniff at the ground, and Silveredge laughed sadly as she reached down to scratch his ears again.  "If she adds my compound name to the end of her name, it's worse- Lucien-Azaroth de Althea-Naja, or something like that.  No matter what we do, it sounds... wrong.  To both of us.  Mishka suggested that we do without family and compound names altogether, but I fear that our ancestors will be furious at us, if we were to do such a thing."

Celeste pulled and pushed her lips between her teeth for a few moments.  "What about just the ceremony bit?"

"No... mainly because she doesn't have any idea what ceremonies her people had.  Her cousin wasn't any help, because his father did not marry any of the women with whom he had children.  According to all I have read, Tieflings of great means used to wander blindfolded and chained neck to hands to feet- or hooves, as the case may be- in a dangerous maze until they found each other."  Silveredge paused for a moment to look around herself, and Niku gave a few discountented grunts.

Celeste, somewhat bewildered by the breakage of the train of thought, looked around herself as well, but not with much attention.  "Okay, go on," she said when she felt awkward about continuing to look around for no reason.

Silveredge, who very much still felt as though caution was necessary, began setting inner energy aside for a few minor offensive spells.  Celeste reached out and poked her with an armored finger, and she continued, "When they did, they took each other's bindings and fastenings off, then worked together to fight their way out of the maze.  Once they emerged through the blood portal, whatever that is, they were pelted with rice or eggs, or both, then considered married.  I'm... not even sure if that means they went to some level of the Hells in order to get into or out of the maze.  The writings were... very vague.  And old.  And seemed inappropriate to lower class Tieflings.  Other writings with a more religious bent spoke of two people being offered as one flesh to a 'father demon,' whoever that is, but I can't imagine suggesting that, because Mishka is equally suspicious about belief in almost every god.  She tolerates, and lately has even encouraged, my adherence to the path of the Raven Queen, but I don't mistake that for a sign that she'll ever walk the way of any belief system herself."

"I hope they won't take offense to my saying so, but Kazmiir and So'ochel are lower class Tieflings," Celeste suggested hopefully.  "Perhaps instead of trying to sort out ancient writings that require belief in gods that your partner doesn't care about, you may as well ask living Tieflings what they plan to do to seal their bond.  Or if they even intend to do so- to So-sho, they're as good as wedded already, and you saw for yourself how Kaz pointed her out even while dazed as a drunk.  That's a functional couple if ever I saw one."

Niku emitted a rolling sound somewhere between a whine and a growl, slowing down so that the distance between himself and Silveredge lessened.

Silveredge mused, almost absent-mindedly, as she continued to scan the area.  "My grandparents were a functional couple, I believe, but they did not survive their marriage ceremony.  It was my grandmother's second marriage, and her second intended was much more earnest than her first; that's why I consider him my maternal grandfather, despite the fact that my mother was not his child, and he couldn't add his name to the house hame.  Since she and my grandfather were both very attractive and highly influential, they decided to fight each other's pretenders to the death to eliminate any possibility of later challenges or demands.  According to the legend in my grandfather's home commune, some one of my grandmother's pretenders- whether by accident or out of spite- wounded her instead of him.  They claim that my grandfather's rage alone caused the cheater to explode into tiny pieces, but my commune doesn't hold with that story.  Both communes do insist that instead of continuing to fight, my grandfather stopped to gather my grandmother into his arms.  Seeing that the wound was mortal, he simply cradled her, allowing himself to be run through from the back.  My commune claims that the cheater is the one who ran him through; my grandfather's commune claims it was some other man.  Either way, the couple died in the battle field, one after the other, and although everyone is aware that they did not die simultaneously, no one will admit to which of them died first, so that we can all pretend that they did."

"Oh gods, I'm sorry Rasha, but that's terrifying," Celeste breathed, shivering.  "I mean, it's poetic, in its own way, but... I just can't imagine having to fight for my life on my wedding day."

"It is perfect," Silveredge smiled, her eyes taking on a gleam that echoed moonlight.  "How blessed they were, to mingle blood, and then be so quickly flown away together.  I can only pray that my last breaths of this life and my first moments of otherlife are shared with the first and most beloved."

"Well, I pray that you have many, many, many happy years between your wedding day and your last breaths," Celeste chuckled uncomfortably, rubbing her hands on her upper arms.  They were armored, of course, but for some reason were still cold.  Her greaves crackled and grumbled against the cheap steel on her arms.

Over that grinding sound came the whistle of a scout.  Both Celeste and Silveredge were caught off guard by it, but Celeste was so surprised that she froze.  Silveredge looked up, and watched in cold horror as the scout who had whistled was rewarded by an arrow through the throat.

In front of the two, the carriage horses, who had been trundling along without much energy, seemed to come more alive than they had been since they'd left the city.  With iron wills, they attempted to pull in four different directions.  The strain of the wooden yoke that held the four of them together caught the Shadar-kai's attention.

"Please help our friends to stay together," she managed with a dry throat, looking down to Niku.  Just like that, the battle hound took off, running circles around the horses, his barks and nips keeping them more afraid of him than the commotion going up around them.

In watching Niku's path, Silveredge noticed a blowgunner poised to attack from cover.  With a few steps to close some of the distance between herself and the attacker, Silveredge took her chain from around her hips and slung it up to a dangerous speed with a quickness of which Vhalan would have been proud.  The blowgunner. who didn't pay the transformation of the shiny belt enough attention due to being focused on attacking someone else, found his throat and upper arms encircled by spikes as painful as they were beautiful.  As Silveredge turned herself around and bounded up from the ground to flip over her opponent, an arrow sang through the air that she'd departed, burying itself into a tree trunk.  Niku immediately abandoned the shepherding of the horses to chase after the archer who had dared to make Silveredge his target, and as a result, the Shadar-kai got a chance to see the bowman flee, terrified of the large hound, from their position.  Silveredge swung her spiked chain in a vicious half circle, willing a wave of bitter winter cold to flow from it to the running archer.  The spell connected beautifully, and was slightly more potent than Silveredge believed it would be when she was casting it, perfectly freezing the archer's feet and slowing him to a miserable hobble.  Niku took advantage of that, leaping like a wild wolf to grab hold of the back of the archer's neck and rip him down to the ground.

From behind Silveredge, piercing through the clamour of the skirmish like a streak of lightning splitting the dark of a moonless night, came Celeste's agonized holler.

Silveredge turned her back on the battle hound and the archer, searching for her roommate while palming two of her spike shuriken.  It wasn't difficult to find the victim or the culprit, and Silveredge knowledgeably put two shuriken in the swordswoman's neck.  Rushing to Celeste's prone and bleeding body, Silveredge planted her knees on either side.  With closed eyes and bowed head, she allowed energy to flow from the blood, the pain, and the screams that surrounded her into her being, into her memories, into the horrible beatings, the vicious salt baths, and shameful violations that happened night after night.  Tears sprang to her eyes, and she took a deep breath, folding her arms over her chest as if to store all that she was sensing and feeling within herself.

For a split second, there was only cold, midnight silence.

And then with a mighty screech of her own, Silveredge pushed her arms out from herself.  The vision of glorious, glossy black wings sprung from her back, visible to absolutely no one but Celeste, who- pinned beneath her- could see nothing else. 

"Forgive me, Eldath," Celeste whispered, certain that she was hallucinating.  She closed her eyes, waiting to open them up to whatever awaited her on the other side of death.

A few yards away, Niku chased and brought down a shortsword wielder, savagely biting through his neck as though it had been he, and not some Urmlaspyr guard, who had betrayed his first owner and imprisoned the second.

Silveredge heard Celeste's prayer, but couldn't spare the energy to respond to it in any way.  The warding spell, which froze two other attackers solid when they attempted to cross into its area of effect, took a great deal to maintain, but the Shadar-kai could tell that the battle was still going to be difficult if she did not find a way to be of offensive use.  She put her hands together and opened them, as though she were miming a book.  Between her palms, the apparition of a small ball of ice formed.  She slung it from her left hand toward an attacker, and as it flew, it first became as large as Giant, then as solid and real as one.  Rolling the huge ice ball as carefully as she could afford, Silveredge chased and crushed attackers.  Many of them seemed to quickly get the idea that this caravan was more trouble than it was worth, and the battle, such as it was, petered to an end some paultry minutes later.

Silveredge beckoned the ice ball back to herself, and Niku came running behind it.  She picked herself up from Celeste and laid next to her, grasping one of the Human's hands with both of hers.  Celeste, who was drifting between sleep and consciousness, noted the gentle pressure and opened her eyes as much as she could for a few brief moments.

The Sunfire's lead guard didn't survive the attack, but the second-in-command, none other than Kazmiir, began making his rounds to see who had been killed, who had been wounded, and to gather information on who had attacked the caravan in the first place.

"These were a more vicious lot," the caravan leader admitted to the Human-looking Tiefling, "but this is about the time where the attacks happen.  'Bout halfway to Sembia, and bam- just before sundown, so that the sun is against us, blinding us."

"Smart ones, these assholes; that's something we used to be known for doing, just in the opposite direction and thus, in the morning instead of the evening.  That and having archers that set fire to their arrows- that's where I was told our company name came from," Kazmiir scoffed, turning over the body of the archer whose neck and throat Niku had shredded with the toe of his boot.  "Wait- these are-"

He knelt down and carefully inspected the symbols on the armor, then got up and stood back.

"Problem?" the caravan leader asked, concerned at Kazmiir's surprise.

"Not for you," Kazmiir muttered, striding away from the caravan leader to find other bodies to look at.  "Stay where you are.  Everyone- unless you're being seen by the healer, stay where you are!  Neither touch nor move anything!"

Silveredge dismissed both her spells, not out of true desire, but because her concentration could no longer hold out.  Her gal-ralan, in response, dug earnestly through her flesh, seeming to spread teeth outward from itself under her skin, so that most of her lower arm was bathed in soul-anchoring pain.  Niku threw himself down in the bloody mud, whining and growling, and his movement drew Kazmiir's eye.  He was just going to command the dog to sit and heel when he recognized who he was, and what precisely he was rolling in.

"Healing!  Healing here!" Kazmiir commanded, rushing over.  When Niku attempted to insert himself between the Tiefling and Silveredge, Kazmiir put one heavy hand just behind the hound's ears and the other on his hindquarters.  "Sit, Ha- eh, Niku.  Atta boy; sit.  Good boy."

The sole actual healing apprentice ignored the Tiefling in favour of continuing to work with the person that they had been attending before the shout came, but a lithe half-Elf archer who'd managed not to get a scratch bounded over to lend what aid he could.

"What's happening?" Celeste uttered, finding her throat sore.

"Look over this one first," Kazmiir ordered as he indicated Celeste.  He gathered Silveredge away from the Human so that the half-Elf could focus on just the one patient, and was surprised when the Shadar-kai's dazed silvery eyes fluttered and opened.

"Is... my lord... angry?" Silveredge managed weakly, feeling her eyes roll in her head without enough control over herself to stop them from doing so.

"Your...?  No," Kazmiir spat, answering both the actual question and another that had gone entirely unasked.  "I imagine my countrywoman would be quite upset, though, if I don't get you back to her.  Come on now; stay with us.  Are you hurt?"

Silveredge couldn't respond.  The darkness of the material plane melted into that of Letherna, then hardened into itself again.  The dry caress of a breeze that had rolled over the back of a wing glided across her face.  Kazmiir, not finding any wounds just by looking at her, shifted her weight in his arms so that she was sitting up instead of laying halfway in his lap.

The half-Elf, who had to remove Celeste's armor and tear her tunic, quickly stitched Celeste's wound up, cut the dirty thread with a hunting knife, then cast the best healing spell he knew- which still only served to keep the wound from getting an infection or continuing to bleed through the uneven stitches.  The actual healer, who was overwhelmed with other people, looked over, considered the half-Elf good enough help, and moved on to another badly wounded swordsman.  Kazmiir noted the avoidance, and decided to let it go for the moment; there were too many wounded people to argue with the only healing mage apprentice about his in-field promotion and the new level of obedience to which he was thereby entitled.

Celeste came to herself a few minutes later, and was confused at being able to do so.  She noticed her armor, the half-Elf, and the filthy battle hound, all off to her right side.  "Niku- and Dharme?  I... this is... I'm alive, then."

"What are you, disappointed?" the half-Elf smirked.  "I can always open the cut back up for ya."

"Well, now that Cellie's awake, make yourself useful; Rasha's fainted.  Mind the hound," Kazmiir grunted.  Niku growled threateningly, but Kazmiir again took firm hold of the back of his neck, so that the dog would remain sitting.  Once Dharme shifted his focus to Silveredge, the Tiefling smiled, "And welcome back, Cellie.  You took quite a scratch."

"I did," Celeste commented slowly, looking at her side.  The armor there was badly dented, with a two inch puncture clear through.  "The make must have been faulty; I only just bought this armor from Vettilde."

"Why would you buy armor from a farrier?" Kazmiir asked, only half serious.  Buying armor from the other blacksmith in Suzail was an expensive venture, and not everyone had come into as much money as he had for his work.  "If you decide to demand your coin back, I'll be your witness."

"I might do that," Celeste chuckled quietly, not wanting to try to see how hard she could laugh yet.  "Did Rasha take any damage?"

"She's just asleep, I think," Dharme pronounced, sitting on his behind instead of his knees.  "That little bauble of hers is terrifying, but I sense some sort of magic about it- good magic.  Magic that's doing her good, no matter what kind of horrible physical damage it seems to be wrecking."

"It's a gal-ralan," Kazmiir sighed, finally beckoning Niku over with a nod of his head. "According to what I've heard about such things, it feeds on the blood of the Shadar-kai who wears it, and in return, it compels the spirit to remain with the body, when it would normally be snatched away to Shar."

Niku sniffed desperately at Silveredge, then tried nudging her with his nose, whining all the way.

"Okay, come, boy," Kazmiir commanded firmly.  Niku, for once, did as he was told, and Kazmiir tried to give him ear scratches or belly rubs.  The battle hound was in the mood for neither action, and simply flopped down as he had when he'd been crated and separated from Silveredge for days.

 "Oh no," Celeste breathed, knowing exactly what that type of attitude could mean.  "Are you sure she's only asleep?"

"I'm fairly sure," Dharme admitted.  "Although now that I hear what Kazmiir's said about her little bracelet, I have to admit that it might be what's keeping her that way.  With a better idea of what her magic aura feels like, I bet she cast both those spells that I felt," Dharme huffed.  "I dunno what the other one was, but the icy sphere spell itself is demanding, so it makes sense that she's knocked out now."

"I wish she'd shared the findings of those tests she had to take, because the first spell was..." Celeste drifted off, thinking of the beautiful wings that she had seen push their way from Silveredge's back.  Scooting herself slowly over to be able to reach the pale-looking Shadar-kai, she asked Kazmiir, "What's the matter with you?  If you don't want to hold her, give her to me."

"It's not that... here, see for yourself," Kamiir said, reaching over to pull at a sewn patch that the corpse nearest to him had on a pack.

"That- that's ours," Celeste gasped, horrified.  "I mean, Sunfire's-"

"I know what you meant, and you're part of us.  You can say 'us' and mean it," Kazmiir counseled.  "Might take others a while to think so about the pair of you, but... not me.  You've both got what it takes."

"Thanks," Celeste smiled grimly.  "Are there others?  With... our seal?"

"This is the second I've found, but I don't recognize either person," Kazmiir sighed.  "Either Bann is up to more fuckery than they accused him of, or someone's pretending that he is.  Or was.  The whole matter- I'm not sure who to report it to.  And that's if I'm even right."

"That is most definitely the Sunfire seal, and you know it better than I do," Celeste responded immediately.  "Niku, would you do Rasha and I a big, big favour?"

Kazmiir was just going to note that this was no way to speak to a trained hound, when Niku picked his head up and began panting expectantly. 

"Kaz, give him the seal, would you, please?" Celeste asked, feeling sheepish as she did.  But the Tiefling instantly understood the intention.

"Hunt this sign, boy," he ordered, pointing to the Sunfire seal.

"Please find it for us, he means.  On the dead ones, specifically," Celeste added.  "If it weren't for them, Rasha would be hugging you and giving you pats right now.  Find each one, but don't bring them back; just bark when you find one, and then go on to the next.  If you do that, I'm sure Rasha will be so proud of you when she wakes up!  She's only asleep now, but she'll wake up, and hear of what you've done, and will give you lots of hugs and kisses- maybe even food!  So will you do that for Rasha and I?  Will you?  Will you, Neeks?"

Niku regained a fraction of his normal energy, and first padded the short distance to Celeste to receive an encouraging scratch behind the ears.  When he'd received it, he bolted off.

"That was a powerful number of instructions for a-" Dharme began.

He was cut off by a sudden bark.  Kazmiir looked at where the dog was, and nodded.

"He understood them.  That one he just barked at was the first I found, just a few paces away.  I wonder how he got so much smarter than the rest of Howler's pups."

"Rasha talks to him like an equal," Celeste shrugged.  "They love each other madly, and I couldn't tell you how or why.  If I hadn't mentioned her, he'd not have moved an inch; I know it."

5:5 Watching our language.

Dark ran her fingers through Stitches's hair.  Although she enjoyed the sensation, she couldn't help but wonder why he had neither bound his hair himself nor allowed her to do so for him.  She could touch his hair- that was greeted with purrs and pleasant gurgles- but she was absolutely not permitted to gather it up at all.  Pushing that thought to a back corner in her mind, she continued working on the letter spread before her.


I commend you on the genius of having your ship so thoroughly torn down and rebuilt that even our shared contacts could only recognize it due to their familiarity with the crew.  Further, it is greatly commendable that among sailors, who are all well used to being shunted from one ship to another like so many detestable sacks of living refuse, you have somehow managed not to lose a single man to wanderlust or dissatisfaction since command was wrest from Wernvuuld.  Such loyalty may be expected from landlubbing soldiers, but is exceedingly high praise among seafarers.  I look forward to the gossip that will herald your docking and casting off from here forward.

Now, as touches your latest offer
 

A bristly headed Human man stuck his face around the corner of Dark's study.  He called Dark's attention simply by doing so, but since she pretended at not noticing him by keeping her head down, he knocked a knuckle on the bare stone of the doorway.

"Allo, Miss; are you for it?" he asked carefully.

Dark, hearing a strain of discomfort in his reedy tenor, threw off her pretense at once.  "Of course, Fuzz; what have you got for me?"

Fuzz, who was still unused to his outside name, gave a half smirk as he pulled his full self into Dark's office.  "A bit of writ, and here's from the Witchrun hit, what've snagged us a few snatchers."

"That goes to Dragon, although I appreciate what you mean by bringing it to me," Dark smiled genuinely as she accepted the letter that Fuzz handed her.  "Think of me as more of an administrator.  You owe me nothing but respect, hmm?"

Fuzz stood away from the desk and scrubbed at the back of his neck, where the light brown hair that was growing back in was irritating his pale skin.  "Awright," he managed, when he realized the question hadn't been as rhetorical as he'd thought it to have been.  "To boot, it's two big tubs come in.  One of 'em's Cormite, and t'other's Hawke's.  Crews're right cozy, like they've been a good spell together."

"Interesting- and she's home early," Dark mused.  "Well, I thank you for your time and your work.  How about finding a few locks to pick, to keep your fingers... sweet?"

"You're a practiced pox, Miss," Fuzz chuckled.  "Let you be home, and yer shine'd turn blacker'n a devil's arsehole."

"Pen that up, will ye?" Dark smiled wickedly.  "Being foreign sometimes has its... advantages."

"It's full idjit thinks yer foreign, innit?  But it's salt twixt us," Fuzz shrugged, smiling in a vacant sort of way.

But Dark knew that his lack of intelligence was just as false as was her misunderstanding of the patter used in the Dark Quarter.  Its origin, like hers, could be traced right back to the Pirate Isles- if anyone had the brilliant idea to attempt to research either of their murky histories.

Dark cut through her own thoughts with the remembrance that Fuzz's news meant that she had another item on her to-do list.  "Well, yer one's salt o'th'locks; off to't."

With a sly wink, Fuzz made his way out of the office.

Dark reached her pale, slender fingers toward Stitches to get his attention, but looked down seconds before her fingers would have made contact with his head.  Finding that he had closed his eyes and settled into a sitting position worthy of a religious statue, she got up with intention to blow out her candles.

Stitches hissed immediately- a loud, open mouthed reproach.  Even in the dim candle light, the needle points of his teeth could be seen- and they were all clean.

"Oh!" Dark said, startled in spite of herself.  "I thought you were- well, I suppose not.  But I don't want to disturb your..."

Stitches opened his eyes and looked up at her, unflinchingly gazing into her bright green eyes as though there were nothing else important in the world.  For a few moments, Dark lavished her attention on him just as graciously, then remembered and collected herself.

"Well, since you're sitting here doing nothing, go fetch Hammer for Mama," she commanded imperiously, turning back to her letter.

The faintest hint of a smirk tugged at Stitches's lips, looking more like one of his twitches than a voluntary expression.  Without a sound, he unfolded his legs, furled himself onto all fours, and scrambled out of the room.

Ye gods, but that is difficult, Dark huffed to herself.  Whoever heard of a subservient partner training the dominant one?  I had to try, didn't I?  Well, let's see, let's see... ah, yes, this part.  '...if my mistress will pardon my weakness in the use of Common...' Now that is either an artless lie or an admirable display of subterfuge- the Jackal most certainly does not have any such weakness; his wordplay is magnificent.  But the Westgate docks are certainly monitored, by College-trained divination mages no less...

 

Stitches returned first, but waited just inside the portal to Dark's office until the slow-moving Dwarven woman stumped inside.  When she did, he returned to his place next to Dark's desk and resumed his meditation position.  A gentle caress swept from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck, then disappeared, and he pulled his lips into a smile tortured with the little zaps and jumps as a response.  He sat as quietly as his twitches would allow him, wading out into the middle distance of meditation with the most confidence he'd had since the-

He stopped himself from thinking about that time, deciding instead to merely observe that it had been a long time.  Longer than he would have preferred.  Just the effort it took to knock his thought off the route that the whole truth would have taken caused a full body tremor to rock him.  How long would spoken Undercommon take to regain?  Spoken Common?  The houses would pay for every moment, every minute, every month.  They would pay.  They would pay.  Stitches's body relaxed into the meditation of his vengeance.  Delicious, well-deserved vengeance.  For his body, that they weakened, to the point that it was physically painful to stand upright.  For his mind, that they tore to unrecognizable shreds, which they knew would effectively destroy his ability to cast the mind-altering spells that they so feared.  For his soul, which they had tried- unsuccessfully- to crush.  The soul that had been sheltered, been strengthened, been loved by the one young Tiefling woman who had been considered harmless enough to suffer as another slave to the Drow mistresses.  They, like so many others, mistook her for a Human, and treated her as miserably as they would have treated a Human woman.  And he would avenge that bewildered Tiefling who honorably stumbled where they unworthily strode- yes, his precious thistle.  Beautiful wildflower, who- when she had first come from the Isles- used her wiles mainly for self-defense.  Only when she took close note of the matron's organization did she learn that her skill set was suited not only to survival, but to profit.  In the darkness, without words, the two had strengthened each other, merged into one another- with her, he had sired the rebellion that split the coterie in half.  Sweet thistle.  Dear thistle.  Drow blood would run for her.  For his vengeance, and for hers.  She had become a mistress who deserved to harness and direct his rage, even though it was older than she was.  He would be her perfect monster, the disaster that rolled in like the fiercest of storms only when she commanded it.  He would teach her how to command him, and together, they would annihilate the offending houses entirely.  Not a babe of their twisted lineages would survive them.  Ah, most beautiful and sweet revenge; revenge worthy of the glorious spider goddess, who could bless or curse as she saw fit.  Even a curse would be in order; yes, even a curse from that wondrous goddess would be accepted with joy.  Stitches could almost feel the cold of the Underdark breathing over his skin as he meditated.

Above Stitches, Dark looked up from her letter as soon as Hammer thumped into her presence.  "Ah, wonderful; I was hoping you'd stop by."

"Bullshit," Hammer growled.  "Working on a short sword.  Talk before the coals go cold."

With a half-smirk, Dark nodded.  "I wonder how confident you feel about working with jewelry?"

Hammer grunted in response.

"A Shadar-kai master ring specific to the Darkreach region of the Shadowfell- a piece that could belong to a master of the tiarnai daor."

And predictably, the Dwarf raised her eyebrows at the Tiefling.

"Masterwork," she finally spat.  "Ain't cut out for it.  Detail so specific as to blind a body.  Would take ten days even if I had patience and all the makings of it.  Which I don't."

Dark planted her elbows on the stone table before her, then laced her fingers together and rested her chin on them.  "What if I told you I could have a sketching of the precise pattern I needed and at least half the materials to you in... three or four days?  I'm sure I can get the non-precious metals to you nearly immediately."

"You want a set, then?"

The Tiefling could nearly feel the suspicion rising from the old Dwarf woman.  "No," she replied evenly.  "I only need a master ring.  One that can be worn on the finger, or strung upon a chain, mind you, not one that requires a piercing."

Those words absolutely did not solve Hammer's suspicions.  She stroked her braided beard slowly, obviously trying to think her way around what was being said.  "Need to see the slave, then."

Dark smiled grimly, satisfied at having fully predicted where Hammer's principal concern would lie.  "No, you don't- because I have no intention of getting the magic between the two synced.  You see, your ring is going to enable us to play a bit of shuffle with a dunce who is in danger of selling the very real ring to someone who knows what to do with it.  When we swap the goods, we'll free the slave."

Hammer's face cracked into a terrifying grin, putting what was left of her worn down, blackened teeth on display.  "Can get behind that.  Gimme those sketches quick.  Need every angle.  Masterwork."

Dark's freckled face visibly lightened at Hammer's tacit agreement to the plan.  "Absolutely.  Our dear idiot is sailed abroad, so some of our delaying work is done for us, but when he comes to port, whatever discreet artist is near at hand will be politely requested to give me the best rendering they can, done?"

"Done," Hammer nodded.  "Back to work."

Dark simply nodded at the Dwarf, and watched her stump back out of the office much more quickly than she'd come.  Deciding to delay her reply to the Jackal just a bit longer, she opened the wax seal of the note that Fuzzy had brought her.

Oh my, she thought as she scanned it.  Nearly a third of all Semmite ships?  They'll likely retract to their home ports, then build back stronger; the surge next icebreak-tide will be much worse.  I'm sure the Blue Dragons thank every god that Hawke isn't a corsair, or whatever it is they're calling themselves these days- freemariners?  Yes, freemariners, that's right.  Since 'corsair' is synonymous with 'pirate' for the older captains.  I wonder how long it'll take for 'freemariner' to go the same way, how many sunken galleons it'll take.  Awww, Qualyn, look how peaceful you are just now.  I suppose you'll have to go kill someone soon.  Yes, Mama will give you some fresh meat... hmmm... I wonder if you can't get a good, tough Cormite to chew on?  You've not had that yet, have you?  Although... hmm... better tender Cormite or tough Cormite?   Yikes, is this what the mistresses had to think of?  How far are we?  Tieflings from Drow?  Drow from Orcs?  Orcs from vampires?  Vampires from any of us?  How much distance, how much difference, between any of us is there?  Or are we all creatures, just as Baba Kafil said?  And if, for all our languages, our dreams, our inventions and intentions, we are all creatures, then....

5:4 The unexpected gift.

 No sooner had the small, plain coin purse touched the center of the wind-chapped hand than the owner of the latter hand tried to tug herself out of her companion's grasp.  Bright brown eyes bolted open and stared daggers at the boy who swore he loved their gleam.

Sylvester, undaunted, folded his fingers around the coppery hand he held.  "Keep it, Manny, please?" he purred.  "Maybe get something pretty for yourself.  To look at, or to wear?"

"What'll I do with something pretty to wear, you idiot?" Manny hissed, only accepting the coin purse so she could throw it back at Sly, who winced when it hit him in the chest.  "You think I have somewhere safe to put pretty things?  Where's that?  Huh?  Where is it, the big, beautiful house you think I live in?"

"Well, bury it under a tree for all I mind, but keep it," Sly urged.  "Keep something I give you, please?"

"I can't keep what you give me," Manny growled back.  "Frocks, and jewelry, and those little noxious jars of ointment or salve-"

"The creams will soften your skin," Sly interrupted.

The girl all but punched him in response.  "So I can get sliced open and burned hard every time I step into the sun, move a barrel, or bring in a sail?  Is that what you want?  You fucking idiot- take your stupid money, will you?"

"What I want, Imanjat, is for you to keep something of mine," Sly argued.  "To have while you're away."

Manny frowned at the way Sly used her entire name.  "Fine, you wimbly fool- gimme that purse.  Keep the coin, but I can use the purse, satisfied?" she fussed.

Sly sat back a bit, surprised.  "This... I made... it's not a..."

"It's the only thing you've brought in the past four days that looks like it should belong to me," Manny cut in.  "Do I have to explain this to you again?  I cannot lotion and potion myself up, putting on pretty, shiny things, unless you want me to take up prostitution as a trade?  'Cause I'm sure I can line some johns up quick, if that's what you want."

Sly pulled his own coin purse up over his head.  Unlike the plainer one, which he had made specifically to give it away, his was made of better quality leather and wrapped with decorative cord.  It had been a gift from one of his aunts- Sly couldn't remember which, and at the moment, he didn't care.  He dumped out the purse's contents, stuffed them into the purse he'd made, and held both purses out.  "Now, you either take mine without any coin, or you take yours, with all of it."

"What're you going to tell your parents when you come home without any coin at all?" Manny countered, trying to call his bluff.

"My mother's head's all foggy; if I didn't tell her how much was due out to who, the house would've gone cold and our cupboards bare weeks ago," Sly said frankly.  "I'll just tell her she never gave me any coin at all, and she'll believe me."

"No, don't lie to your mother like that- look, give me your damned purse- gods, Sly.  Sometimes I could almost hate you," Manny spat, astounded.  She snatched the purse so savagely that at first, the two of them could do nothing but bristle at each other in silence.  "Why would you do something like that to your mother?"

Sylvester pushed out a frustrated sigh as he watched Manny throw the worn, but handsome strap of his purse over her dredlocked head.  Putting the coarser purse down so that he could reach forward and tuck the soft material of his purse into her loose peasant shirt, he lingered at her neck.

"I... I don't know.  I just... I could do anything.  For you.  Any mad thing that popped into my head, I could do it, for you."

"And that's why I have to take care of you, you great knob," Manny said, her face melting into a more pleasant look.  "Otherwise, you'll commit some fuckery that'll doom us both, only probably me faster than you.  What're you staring at?  See something you want?"

Sly gazed at her form until it went blurry to his eyes, his head spinning.  "I..."

And his mind leapt into another existence altogether, a strange plane of imagination where the force of his feelings alone could blast the clothes, salt and sand off of her, soak into her hardened flesh, fill every crevice in her being until he began pouring out of her, melting down the dark spaces between her body and the earth until he was nothing but a pool beneath her-

Manny sighed, watching Sly see her entire body without having to really look at it.  Sometimes it seemed impossible that she was older than he was, because the quickness with which he'd gained familiarity with every part of her that he could get his hands on embarrassed, frightened, and excited her all at the same time.  Describing Sly- his looks, his actions, and his words, especially the ones he didn't say-  to her ship's cooper, had caused that already world weary teenager to believe that the young Raibeart boy was his age mate, instead of a full seven years his junior.  Since he had his eyes on Manny himself, he never missed an opportunity to remind her that not only was Sly much softer than the men she'd grown up knowing and working with, she'd have to wait years for the relationship to be countenanced by either his parents or her ship captain.

Manny took hold of Sly's floating hands, pressed them to the loose binding on her chest, leaned forward, and gave him a kiss worthy of the touch-starved mariner she was.  The small surprised noise Sly first let out was quickly followed by soft moans of gratitude.  The space between their two bodies contracted until it could no longer bear to exist.  As interesting and inviting as all the sensations were, it took a few minutes for Manny to realize that Sly had begun to instinctively grind himself against her and was sliding his feather-soft hands under her clothing. 

"Hey!  Wait- I have to get back to work," she panted, rolling him away from her with the strength that it normally took her to push a full barrel.

"Right, right," Sly mumbled, suddenly ashamed of himself.  "Sorry."

"Fuck sorry," Manny smiled wickedly, forcing herself to recover quickly from her own confusion and embarrasment.  "I have a gift to keep while I'm away.  The feel of you.  Your scent and taste.  My secret.  No one can take it."

"Here," Sly said quietly, holding up the cloth tie that normally bound her breasts down.

"Put it on me," Manny commanded, pulling her shirt up to her armpits and turning around.  "Make it tight as you can get it."

"I still don't understand why you need this," Sly grumbled, breathing in her sharp, seawater scent.  "They show anyway."

"You're looking for them, is why," Manny said firmly, trying hard to be the voice of reason.  "This makes it harder for someone who isn't.  Tighter, Sly, or it'll come off with any old tug."

"Well, can you blame me?" Sly shot back, only mostly joking.  "Why are you putting me in charge of hiding two of my favorite things about you?"

Manny reached a hand back to swat at Sly, who easily leaned back to dodge.  "Because if you're going to be that close to me, you have to have something useful to do, or- tighter, for fuck's sake!"

Sly finished tying off the cloth behind her back and took advantage of his position to simply wrap her in a hug from behind.  "I hate it.  I hate your leaving, I hate your work, I hate that you always come back with some new scar or bruise.  I hate waiting.  I hate not being able to-"

But there was no one good way to finish that sentence, and the tirade, short as it had been, stopped entirely.

Manny didn't say anything, but instead simply leaned her head back, allowing her arms to fall over Sly's arms, pressing them close against herself.  Her silence was sufficient, and they both knew it.

"Alright, gimme it," Sly finally sighed. 

"The satchel's over there- take it careful; it's heavy."  Manny scooted forward and turned around to watch Sly recover the package, which seemed to have been both padded and wrapped firmly to prevent people from sorting out what it was.  He fingered it gingerly for a few seconds, then took hold of it with both hands and pulled its full weight out of her messenger bag.

"Be careful," Manny admonished again as she watched him get up.

He didn't turn around.  "Fuck careful; I'm a goddamned scribe.  You be careful."

Manny covered her mouth with both hands to keep from shrieking or laughing.  It was unusual to hear him curse, and it sounded out of place, granted his constantly quiet tone.  The purse against her bound chest trembled with the force of her heartbeat.  She wished just as hard as he did that she could make the work easier, the wounds fewer, and the years shorter.  But the cooper had told that it was better this way, better to give herself time to save money, and give Sly time and space to mature- although she couldn't imagine him being somehow more serious or constant than he had always been with her.

Sylvester didn't respond to anyone or look anywhere but down at the street until he'd made it all the way home.  Reproaches for rudeness were ignored.  Requests after his health went unheard.  A few rumours about him caught fresh wind, and zinged around behind him, from shaken head to shaken head, entirely without his knowledge, attention, or care.

Stephen, who was sitting quietly in his shop, as was his midday custom, actually heard more about his son than that son himself did.

"Stop," he commanded, his thick, steel-hard tone hitting his younger son like a hammer to the face.

"Huh?  Ahh!  Yes, ser," Sly stuttered, standing still where he was, still about five feet away from the shop's sign.

Stephen purposefully made his tone of voice much lower and quieter than normal.  "Turn around.  Bid those ladies good day.  And apologize for walking past them so coldly."

Sly cringed, but did exactly as he was told.  "I'm so sorry, ladies, I didn't mean to do that, I... um... hope you have a pleasant day."

The pair of "ladies," who were in truth a pair of rich, idle girls just a few years older than Saul, nodded to Sly, then giggled to each other as they turned and walked quickly down the street.  Getting a blush out of the little Raibeart boy had been a wonderful addition to their plan to gawk at the grown Raibeart man, whose adulterous reputation, years cold in practice, was still red hot.  Susanna had never told tales, but Stephen's infamy endured because far too many well-born Suzailian mothers had sharp memories, access to good wine, free time to remember old adventures, and unfortunately nosey daughters.

Sly, who wasn't new to watching teenage girls try to catch his father's attention, ground his teeth and turned back around.

Stephen looked at his flushed son, who was slightly more disheveled than he'd left barely an hour before. "Good enough.  What did you bring me?" he asked, deciding to allow his son's behaviour to go without additional comment.

"This parcel," Sly replied, quickly stepping forward to give the thing over.

The unwieldy thing, which took Sly both hands to manage with any degree of dexterity, only needed one of the blacksmith's knowledgable hands.

"This is a weapon," he muttered, almost to himself.

"It'd have to be in pieces," Sly countered before he thought better of answering his father's thoughts.

Stephen scoffed gently at his second son.  "And here I thought you had no feel for this type of work at all- yes, it's in pieces.  Did it come with any sort of written word?"

Sly shook his head first, then began to speak.

"Don't worry about that," Stephen said as he turned around and got about the business of taking the wrapping apart.  "Your mother and I had a good, long talk about what I ought and ought not to be expecting out of you and Lona, and... well, as usual, the woman's right."

Sly slowly walked around his father's work table, surprised at his father for taking counsel from his mother despite the fact that she had been so ditzy lately.  He watched wordlessly as first a scuffed blade, then a battered hilt, then a skull shaped pommel appeared.

Both Raibearts marveled at the sight, for entirely different reasons.  Sly broke the spell first, pointing to a tightly bound, square shaped something that hadn't been revealed just by undoing the outer packaging.  Without any comment, Stephen picked it up, weighed it in his hand, then handed it over to Sly.

"What is it?" he asked, partially continuing the guessing game and partially wanting to delay the discovery of what he feared was inside.

Sly gently squeezed the package with both hands.  "Parchment, I think?  But not just a letter- or rather, not just one, probably.  Should I-"

"Go ahead," Stephen nodded.  Within himself, he felt the beginnings of the unwelcome cold nip at the center of his chest.

Sly found the cut ends of the twine and, unlike his father, who had ripped through the thick butcher's paper that held the weapon, carefully took the knot apart so that both the twine and the thinner wrapping paper came away whole.  Released from its binding, a thick piece of parchment at once began to unfold itself, revealing a smaller square of paper inside of it.  Sly finished flattening the large piece of parchment first, staring at the image it bore.

"It's Aunty," he said breathlessly.  The parchment, now very clearly a wanted poster, had 'Dass the Bastard' written in big bold letters beneath the portrait of a smiling woman with a half-shaved head.  The family resemblance- the height and width of the cheekbones, the thinness of the lips, and the thickness of the hair that hadn't been shaved off- was damning.  The shoulder length brown hair on the left side of the woman's head had been braided and laid flat over her wide shoulder.  Intricate tattoo work of some kind swirled up both muscular arms and even stretched delicate tendrils up underneath the sleeveless shirt to the swan like neck.  Inasmuch as Sly knew he was looking at his aunt, for some reason, he thought of Manny- her calloused hands, her lean belly, her forceful thighs.

Stephen reached out and collected the poster, sliding the smaller paper onto the table in the process.  With a slow, quiet sigh, he nodded.  "Yes, that's her.  I suppose this is the first you've really seen of her- first I've seen in years, but... I'd know that face anywhere."

Sly looked at as much of his father as the poster would allow him to see, since nothing about the way he'd said what he did betrayed clear approval or disapproval of the situation.  Stephen put the poster down and looked at his son, catching him in the act of trying to divine his reaction.

"Give me that bit of thing over there, please," Stephen said, his tone still completely flat.

"Are you angry?" Sly asked, deciding to try his luck.

Stephen simply looked at his son in silence, practically smelling the fear off him.  The core of cold inside him hardened and grew wider, claiming more of him.  "I'm not happy," he answered after a few moments had gone by.  "Is that all you worry about?  Whether or not I'm angry?"

Sly was too confused to even begin to put together a defense.  "Sort of... yes.  Ser."

Stephen tried to think back to how old he was when he first realized that he couldn't recognize the man that the Purple Dragons sent back home the second time.  He found that the years and experiences blurred together in a way that made enumerating them just as impossible as forgetting them.  Swallowing hard, he picked up the small paper on his own and opened it.

Dear Beastie,


I'll never forgive you for sending me a weapon of such prodigious quality and formidable design that my beloved broke his work in pieces, insisting I use yours instead.  I had to rescue the bits and sneak them out of his hand's reach, or I'm certain he'd have pitched them into the sea.  What am I going to do, now that you both have solid proof of each other?  Don't fill your head with illusions of domestic bullshit; my dearheart is already married, just not to me.  Try not to judge us- or his smithing work!- too harshly.

Don't fear this portrait; the artist is a friend, and painted it specifically so that you might know what sort of creature the years have made of me.  You might feel free to laugh openly at whatever mockery she put on other scraps of canvas, should you chance to see them; they are so dissimilar to reality that I'm even made a man in a few of them.

If Iordi's in your arm's length and you haven't pummeled him for lending credibility to Lionar Raibeart's case against him, I'll be much deceived in you.  I'm of course glad to read that he's survived, but you know that no one would have believed that battlemad blockhead's accusation of murder- murder!- if Iordi had only kept quiet about it.  Pack that boy in a crate and send him back to Arabel so fast as you can do it, or at least keep him out of Marsember.

You won't believe it, but I've seen Ronny in a dock's dive in Westgate.  His crew had come ashore by late evening, but mine was to cast off that night.  At first, I couldn't believe it was him; I had to hear 'Captain Raibeart' a few times to remember myself, and keep out of sight.  From the vantage of a shadowed porch, I watched him play domino with his crew, with his lieutenant sitting on his knee like a paid coquette while pretending to help him cheat.  Now, I don't know what that woman might write you, but this is the truth; a band of Blue Dragon commanders has cut a deal with a few of the freemariner captains, mine included.  In exchange for their blind eye, we're to take down whatever pirates we come across.  Cormyr reserves the right to hang us if we're caught, but we keep all the spoils we win, no begging please before or pardon after.  The arrangement suits me fine.

As for the family saint's fears of being related to a pirate- so far as I'm concerned, I'm blood neither to him nor Lionar Raibeart.  There's no quitting Leena, who must bite deeply into anything good she can remember like a rusted bear trap, but the hills and her silence will keep us both safe.  You and Iordi are neither so distant nor quiet, so decide carefully for yourselves whether you want to claim The Bastard or not.  The Bastard herself loves you no less, and supposes she ought to write and tell you so more often from here forward, seeing as Iordi can't be relied upon to stay off the noose or the block, and you write me about everyone else but yourself.

Carry on smartly, or I'll come ashore and steal your wife, to give you all a good scare.

-Dassy

In the time it took Stephen to read the letter, with the letters smaller, but more properly formed than one would expect out of someone who hated handwriting classes as much as Adassa had as a child, Sly had gone upstairs and brought Iordyn down to the shop with him.  Iordyn took Sly's place on the other side of the work table, leaving the child to stand a bit uncomfortably off to his left, close to the grindstone and the relatively cool forge.  Once Iordyn noticed that Stephen's eyes were simply staring at the paper without moving, he slowly and gently reached forward to take hold of the top of it.

"May I?" he asked, when his elder brother looked up at him.

Stephen grunted and let go of the paper, and no sooner had he done so than he folded his arms over his chest as though the shop were bitterly cold.

Sly shifted uneasily from foot to foot, his mind wandering between the solid statue that was his father and the turbulent tide that was Imanjat.

"Where did this come from?" Iordyn asked, when he'd finished reading.  "Well, Dassy, obviously, but-"

Stephen reached his arm across the table, palm upward, obviously wanting the letter back.  "Shut that up; no questions.  She knows you're alright, and now you know that she is, too."

Iordyn looked up at the stone hard face of his elder brother.  "So Leena is allowed to know where she is, but I'm not?"

"Leena is safe," Stephen reasoned.  "But for her good, I have to allow her to write to whomever she pleases, and count it a blessing that she even wants to do so."

"Stephen, I'm an adult," Iordyn complained, utterly confused.  "And if Papa is so far from his senses, why are he and Mama still in Marsember on their own at all?  Shouldn't they both be here, instead?"

Stephen closed his eyes and rubbed them with the fingers of the hand that he had extended.  "Leave that here and go upstairs; I'm tired."

Iordyn gave a single cough-like sound that wasn't quite bitter enough to be a scoff.  "How could you be tired?  It's the middle of the day.  You're just avoiding my questions."

"Iordyn, I am tired; go upstairs and let me think," Stephen rumbled, sounding strange even to his own ears.

"No; absolutely not," Iordyn shot back, insulted.  "Talking of tired- I'm tired of being commanded here and there by people who are older, who know better, whatever- so, no.  No, Adassa is my sister too, and I'd very much like to know where she is, so that at least I can make the decision she herself asked me to make, if you don't mind, Papa Raibeart."

Stephen speared Iordyn through with a look so sharp that a lightning bolt of fear went through the archer's body.

"You're right.  You are an adult," Stephen managed through clenched teeth.  "I could no sooner or more safely move our father out of Marsember than I could lift a whale out of the depths of the sea.  Mama manages him because he remembers her, and because both of them consider Susanna a false, loose priestess of Chauntea.  I have the pleasure of thinking through all the possible outcomes of all the choices I make- like the choice to tell you the ports in to which this woman tends to call.  I've loudly and repeatedly claimed for years that our sister must have been kidnapped or sold as a slave, mostly to keep both of our parents from suspecting that the woman whose image they see on posters like this is their daughter.  Like our father, you are sworn to the Purple Dragons; unlike him, you probably wouldn't willingly betray this woman to them.  That means it would take some college mage to find out that you were hiding information about her, and when, not if, they did so, they would then rightly accuse you of treason.  I imagine you remember what the penalty for that is.  Even if I weren't also suspected of treason, I couldn't pay this bounty even with my soul, so I would be put to hard labour for life, at best, or hung, at worst.  Either way, our father, who couldn't be suspected of aiding or abetting this woman, would gain custody of and power over you, my shop, my wife, and all of my children.  Ronny would be dishonorably discharged.  Unless some other captain found the time to marry him and Taricia at sea, he would lose her too- and even if they stayed together, they'd have to choose between being destitute or becoming pirates, since the seafaring life is all either of them know.  Even Iona could be suspected, especially since he was just recently in the Pirate Isles.  He could be put out of his brotherhood, and he has no trade at all.  Only Leena is truly safe, since not only is she so far in the northwest of the country that it would be very difficult for a court to believe that she could have anything to do with this woman, she is no longer a Raibeart, but instead a MacCreigh.  You know who this woman is, that she is alive, and that she's glad that you are too, and trust me, that's much more than Yeshua Raibeart knows about her.  You can argue with me about it all you like; I've survived many a temper tantrum over the years."

Sly, who knew his presence had all but been forgotten, felt something tickling his cheeks in an unpleasant way.  He rubbed at them, only to discover that the irritants had been tears. 

The child's movement, small though it was, caught the blacksmith's attention, and inexplicably enough, was sufficient to return him to himself.  He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and sighed it out.

"I'm not angry," he said quietly, opening his eyes and looking directly at his crying son.  "I sound angry, but I'm not.  I..."

"You're tired," Iordyn mumbled, wounded by his brother's response.

Sly nodded wordlessly, unable to make his voice work.

"Come here, boy," Stephen murmured, stepping away from his table.

With great effort, Sly forced himself to span the distance between himself and the monolith that was the Raibeart patriarch.  To the boy's great shock, the giant man knelt on the ground before him and allowed his large, calloused hands to simply rest on his thighs.

"Splash your face with some water from the barrel there, and dry it.  Then go to the shrine room, and pray for my soul, will you do that for your father?"

Sly's eyes blurred and burned, but he nodded forcefully, although otherwise standing as still as a frightened deer.  The blacksmith wrapped his solid arms around the comparatively frail waist of his son.

"Pray hard, boy," he whispered, the small words heavy in his dry mouth.  "Go and pray that I be saved."

Prayer was the absolute last thing on Sly's mind. It took a few moments for anything to cross his mind at all, but an idea occurred to him after a quiet bit of time had passed.

"You can come to evening prayer with Mama, when we all go with her."

"I... might," Stephen puffed in a way that was supposed to be a chuckle, but wasn't.  He patted and rubbed his son's back in a way that reminded both of them of when he was much younger.  "But, pray for me now anyway- take Lona, wherever she is.  Probably the sitting room, eh?"

"Probably.  With Sarai," Sly said, allowing himself to melt into actual comfort.  He couldn't move his arms to return the hug, but he laid his head on his father's chest.  Another moment of silence passed.

Iordyn turned his attentions to the broken weapon on the table, staring at it as though he could burn its image into his brain.

"Good enough."  Stephen uncoiled himself from his son, looking down at him with eyes that had softened since last his son saw them.  "Go tell your mother all you saw and heard.  Don't leave anything out.  She and the gods will sort me out, won't they?"

Sly nodded again, now very much shrunk into the mere ten years that he claimed.  He went and splashed his face with the water barrel that had a few long-cooled weapons in it, then made his way quickly up the stairs without sparing a word to his uncle, who didn't mind the absence of sound anyway.

After what felt like a very long time, Iordyn finally looked down at his brother, who was still kneeling on the ground of his shop with his hands flopped on his thighs.  

"Do you want me to leave?" the younger brother asked.

Stephen sighed deeply.  "No.  But..."

"Don't," Iordyn interrupted.  "Don't.  This has been... going on for a while, and... I can't help but feel foolish.  For not seeing- not letting myself see, I suppose.  I want to help, but..."

"Help how?" Stephen scoffed softly.  "There's nothing to help with."

"Maybe with our parents?" Iordyn asked, knowing that he sounded as unsure as he felt.  "I am the youngest... I'm not a woman, but... but perhaps I should... just go anyway?"

"Iordyn, what brought you back down from Arabel to Marsember in the first place?" Stephen asked wearily.

"I was sent," Iordyn replied.  "I didn't understand why, but I obeyed anyway.  Well... no, that's not entirely true.  There was a guardswoman..."

And then, out of the corner of his eye, Iordyn saw a small, thin figure get larger and larger, clearly coming toward the shop, and then entering it.  The figure was wreathed by a cool aura, strong enough that Iordyn almost felt as though he should see it.  It took an inordinate amount of time to realize that the figure was Salone, and by the time he did, he was too embarrassed about not having recognized her sooner to call her name.  He allowed her to silently walk up behind her father, who had his back turned to her, but as it happened, paternal senses are sharper than those of archers, even those favoured by gods.

"I just sent your brother to fetch you to the shrine room, Lona."

"But I have to be here," Lona said firmly, moving in front of her father and sitting straight down on the ground, bottom in the dirt, as though her dress didn't matter one bit.

"Did your mother send you?"

"No."  And without any further ceremony, the girl leaned forward and put her entire upper body into her father's lap as though she were much younger than she actually was.

"Did someone tell you I was angry?" Stephen puffed, trying to make a joke.

"No," Salone replied, turning over so that she could look up at her father while still lying in his lap.  "Grandpa Raibeart comes to visit a lot, and tries to stay."

Stephen, struck directly for the first time by an experience that Susanna had only told him of, found a new and unusual chill in his chest.  Behind Iordyn, the forge had gone suddenly and completely cold.  Overcome both with a strange fear and a desire to protect that seemed out of place at the moment, Stephen sat his youngest daughter up and wrapped her in his arms.

"Your grandfather's in Marsember, Salone.  With your grandmother, who's taking good care of him.  Everything's fine, both there and here."

"We'll help you keep him out," Salone said simply, an answer that only raised more questions.

Stephen remembered Ielena, who had received merciless punishments from both parents for 'behaving moodily' or 'pretending at witchery'.  He held his daughter tighter, as if he could shield her.

Iordyn reached under his shirt and took hold of his split arrowhead, which again was very cool to the touch.  And despite all he'd said to his brother and sister-in-law about Salone's temperament before, he found himself a bit concerned about who precisely was 'we'.

5:3 The better offer.

At first glance, it was a picturesque Urmlaspyr morning.  The birds chirped merrily, the buzzing insects busily pestered the tired, but patient horses, merchants called out to passers by, children and thieves dodged and played in the shadows, the air was crisp, not yet made pestilent by the day's catch sitting in the open air of the market, in the distance, the cool waters of the sea eagerly embraced more of the shore...

...and, a not-so-innocent cart driver was getting shaken down by a former military man.

"Fifty eight, fifty nine, sixty- there, satisfied?" the grizzled caravan leader asked the hooded figure who sat cross legged before him.  Between the two sat a pair of scales small enough to be tucked into a messenger's bag.

The figure lifted his orange ringed, blue-green eyes from the balanced scales to meet the half-frightened gaze of the caravan leader.  The deep, acid-green spellscars around his eyes burned brightly.  "It weighs perfectly; much appreciated," he said in a blood-curdling dual tone.  "Rafa?"

The tan-skinned, muscular man, who had been holding the cart driver about six inches off the ground with both hands, put the slight figure down brusquely, pushing him a few inches away from himself with a clean right elbow to the chest.  As painful as it was, the cart driver knew in his heart of hearts that the distancing blow could have been much worse if the man had actually put real force behind it.  He had no time to comment, however, before his boss, the caravan leader, grabbed him by the back of his clothing and dragged him away from the trio of terror that they'd just dropped off about a quarter mile into the city limits.

"I dunno why you let them-"

The caravan leader all but snarled his response.  "I didn't let them do anything, you idiot; you provoked that by pretending we weren't gonna pay!"

"Well, we didn't have to-" the driver yelped.

"I don't stiff nobody, Gerek; nobody!" the caravan leader interrupted.  "Though at this rate, I might start with you."

Delicate ebony black fingers reached up to pull a heavy priestess hood back, revealing glossy hair and piercing red eyes.  "That was a concerning display, gentlemen.  It seemed to me that you enjoyed every second of scaring those two men half to death."

The sicky green cast around the group accountant's eyes faded as he looked up at their Drow leader.  "I... can't say I didn't," he admitted sheepishly.

Rafa smirked wickedly.  "Atta boy, Percy," he encouraged.  "Takes a certain amount of dedication, letting the spellscars light up like that, knowing that they'll hurt."

Percy scoffed as he tucked the gold pieces and the small scale away into his various purses and packs.  "They always ache.  Preparing a spell isn't comfortable, and casting it's really agonizing.  But I'm getting used to it.  And they weren't listening to you, Kim, so-"

"So it was time to show them that one of us was gonna get that coin out of 'em," Rafa finished firmly.  "Only too bad for them that they didn't simply let it be the lovely lady."

"It's not the practical points of the matter, gentlemen," Kim sighed, inwardly admitting that this battle against bad behaviour was going to be lost.  "It's the gusto that went into getting the two of them right scared of the pair of you.  What if we meet them in future?"

Neither man offered an excuse or an argument.  With a huff, the Drow woman fussed with the pouches slung about her hips.  As she poked and sifted through them, Percy gathered up all the coin and adjusted the figures in his mind to suit the income.

"A hundred fifty two gold, twenty three silver, and fifty copper," he pronounced.  "So, we can maybe have two different tavern rooms, instead of sharing the one, for once.  Unless we plan to stay a long while, in which case, we'd better keep sharing."

"We're not low on any reagents, potions, or other materials," Kim added.  "I believe I've heard enough about the Bone College to find it just by following this street, but it'll take some asking around to find a reasonably priced tavern.  Shall we find a messenger or a guard?"

"Seems the guard's found us," Percy groaned quietly.

"Gotta wonder what Cormyr's dragon is doing this far away from home these days," Rafa muttered under his breath, having caught sight of the proud emblem that haunted his sober nightmares.

Kim looked up from her ingredient pouches and smiled just in time to catch the eye of the patrolling guard, who removed her helmet before returning the smile.  "Welcome to Urmlaspyr," she said warmly.  "I'm Blade Zoelan, part of Swordcaptain MacSairlen's crew.  You all seem freshly dropped off here; might you be in want of direction?"

"Pardon me, but swordcaptains and blades aren't native to this city, are they?" Kim asked, as though she had no idea of the answer.

"You're quite right," Blade Zoelan replied, stiffening just a bit.  "We're not.  But for the most part, we blend right in; I know my way around the area, and can help you out.  Just tell me where you'd like to go."

Kim cast a glance to Rafa, who had crossed his arms firmly in front of his chest.  Whether the intention was to protect himself or calm himself, the visual result was the same- stone hard muscles on display, to match the distant, cold glare.  The Drow woman pressed her lips together, considering how far away the market sounded from where they were.

Zoelan finally leveled a question directly at the man who was looking at her so bitterly.  "Something the matter?"

Rafa scoffed.  "Not with you, no.  I... have history, let's say, with the Dragons."

His clipped reply still had just enough of Moonever's lilt to raise Zoelan's dark, thin eyebrow.  "A fellow Cormyrean, from the sound of you," she commented cautiously.  "I could hope your past run-ins with the Dragons were good, but... the way you said what you did... doesn't leave a lot of room for that."

"Nope," Rafa said, the single word falling heavy and hard as a brick. 

"I think we'll manage on our own, Blade Zoelan," Kim stated kindly, but firmly.  "We appreciate your offer, though."

"Well, let me at least advise you that you'll have to let one of the local officers know who you are and what you do," Zoelan counseled.  "If you go down toward the docks from here, you'll hit the Eastern Quarter, which you don't want.  Go up toward the market, this way, and either you'll run into one of the newly minted border guards or you'll find a strolling officer."

"Many thanks," Kim said, nodding.

"Quite welcome- see you all around!" Zoelan smiled brightly, despite the smile being a bit forced.

All three party members watched her as she left.

"I don't like that Cormyr is keeping such close tabs on what's supposed to be a free city," Rafa began in a low tone.  "They 'blend in'?  Bullshit.  And if I lived here, I'd like that even less."

"It's not likeable, but that it's up-front is a good sign," Kim muttered.  She made the tiniest of movements away from her two companions, and they began striding with her immediately, as though the three of them had always been together.  " 'Freed' Daerlun is just as occupied, believe me."

"It's not a good sign, because it's not just neighborly concern," Rafa frowned.  "Occupation is a step away from colonization.  I wonder what she thinks is so wrong about the Eastern Quarter."

"I wonder why she didn't call it the 'dark' quarter, like everyone else," Percy finally spoke up.  "If Swordcaptain MacSairlen's contingent is supposed to be 'blending in,' which I suddenly find myself hoping they never successfully do, they're going to have to not sound like foreigners." 

"Ayah-eh?" Rafa smiled grimly.

"It's not so stark until you do that," Kim chuckled.  "Besides, we are foreign, and there's no need for us to pretend otherwise.  How MacSairlen and his troops get on with their assignment here is their own business."

"Speaking of business, I wonder how we go about setting up work here," Percy commented.  "I haven't heard too much more tell about this place than what I told you- it mainly consists in what to avoid."

"Oh?" Kim asked.

"Well, most of it seemed either silly, or very rude," Percy continued, quieting his voice a bit.  "It only makes sense to avoid side street herb peddlers, and to be careful in or around the Bone College, but... Shadar-kai?  As an entire race?  The 'phoenix'?  I don't even know if they mean an actual animal or some kind of group that calls itself by the animal's name.  By the time I'd gotten to that point in the conversation- these were a series of conversations between myself and one of the scar pilgrims- I'd sort of half mentally checked out."

"Well, there's the market," Kim noted as the three crested a small hill looking down the cobbled street to the hip-high stone walls around the collection of sellers.  "Anything specific to be aware of here?"

"Like I said, side street herb peddlers," Percy repeated dutifully, with no hint of attitude.  "I remember there being a 'dark quarter tax,' but I'm not sure when, where, or even if it applies."

"It doesn't sound like the sort of thing we should ask about, either," Rafa added.

"I'm sure there's a gentle way to breech the subject," Kim sighed, despite not truly even believing that herself.  "Ah, that Elven friend has splint mail and a official look about them- Rafa, let's see if they respond to you better than they might to me."

Rafa made a face at Kim's backhanded way of addressing her concern about Drow and surface Elf interactions, but trotted the short distance between herself and Percy to get the Elf's attention.  Upon arrival, Rafa noted that the person was shorter than he had expected, and that their ears weren't quite as slender at the top as a full blooded Elf's might be.

"Say, friend?" Rafa said, stepping to the person's side easily.

"Hmm?  Oh, hello!" the person replied, quickly turning to give the dark-eyed stranger their full attention.  "I'm Guard Siroghail, Urmlaspyr Outer Guard; what can I do for you?"

"I'm Rafael, and those two over there are some friends of mine," Rafa replied, shifting his head just slightly to indicate Kim and Percy.  "We've just gotten dropped off here, and were wondering if you could help us out?"

"Do you need coin, prayer, or directions?" Siroghail smiled genuinely.  "I'm only allowed to give two out of the three, but I've got a few fivestars to me, and won't say anything if you don't."

Rafa felt a warm ray of confidence, and returned the smile as he motioned for Kim and Percy to come over.  "Just directions, ser.  Where can we find beds that are clean and cheap at the same time?"

Siroghail laughed, a thick, but cute sound reminiscent of the skipping of a stone across a brook.  "Well, you won't find them in the Temple District, I'll tell you that.  The Patched Petticoat, back in the Dark Quarter, does alright.  Petey's Peppered Pots is cheaper, but certainly not cleaner, and I see you've got more female company than you could land over there already."

Kim and Percy looked at each other, and knew instantly that Percy had been taken for a woman.  Rafa remained either blissfully unaware or knowingly silent, because he didn't make any corrections.

"If you get to the Petticoat and don't like the look of the place, you can always go to the Bonny Dale; that's near the docks.  The Petticoat's owner is half Drow, so you might even feel comfortable.  The food is from Dhast and the Underdark, from what I'm told, but since I've never been to either place, I can't tell you whether or not that's actually true.  The Dale's menu and lodging accommodations are so similar to Le Lune Silvestre, up in the Elven Quarter, that if you closed your eyes and put a perfumed cloth to your nose, it'd seem exactly the same.  And neither place charges you extra for being Human."  Siroghail nodded emphatically, so that the neck of their armor actually creaked a bit at the movement.  "I probably look Elven enough to you, but not to the Silvestre waitstaff- I know for sure that they charge Humans extra."

"They should be ashamed of themselves, but the sort of people who would even think to do that wouldn't be, so that's that," Kim commented, rolling her eyes.  "We'll do as you suggest- head for the Petticoat first, but over to the Dale if we want to live it up a bit, possibly with some sailors for company.  By any chance do you know where we might register who we are and our business?"

"Oh, any border guard'll do it," Siroghail replied with a shrug.  "Just so happens I was on my way back home from duty.  I'll walk you back and let Charen help you."

The off-duty guard turned their back to the group and began moving away.  With a shared quiet look, the three left behind agreed that this was a safe person to be following, and began to do just that.

Siroghail seemed not to have minded the pause, and tossed a question behind themself as if they expected at least one of the three to be right behind them.  "So where have you come from?"

"Daerlun," Kim stated evenly.  "We all met there and decided to travel and work together from there on."

"Ah, are you all mercenaries?" Siroghail said warmly.  "I figured you might be, ser, but I'm not accustomed to there being more mages in a merc group than fighters."

Rafa chuckled in spite of himself.  "There used to be more fighters."

"No there didn't," Kim corrected.  "You're the only one we've ever had.  But Ser Siroghail is certainly right in that it would have been extremely difficult to get on without you."

Rafa looked over at Kim, whose face absolutely had no trace of any emotion but assured calm.  As if to reassure Rafa, Percy wordlessly nodded, and even though half his face was covered by his hood, the washed out soldier could still sense his firm agreement.

"I've seen a few blends of fighting mages at the bitter end of the tussle with Sembia," Siroghail said thoughtfully.  "Most of them didn't make it back.  The few that did, didn't stay here.  Urmlaspyr has a tolerance for magic, but you can't confuse it with trust."

"Many places are like that," Kim commented.  "I know more about Sembia than this place or Cormyr, I'm afraid- enough to know that the hesitation to trust magic users is very understandable."

"That'll do you," Siroghail sighed.  "I'm glad you made it here in one piece.  The Semmites had been a pain, and were getting worse, until our current high captain took over.  He couldn't have come to power a moment too soon.  As I hear it, Cormyr was so sure we were going to be taken back by Sembia that they originally suggested their Swordcaptain MacSairlen as high captain of our guard."

"That's utter insanity," Rafa sliced before Kim could get a word out.  "A swordcaptain is in charge of ten or twelve blades, but unless I'm much mistaken, your high captain commands the entirety of your country's military might.  It's rude and prideful, nevermind entirely idiotic, to attempt to slide an inexperienced commander into a post he wouldn't be considered fit to hold in his own country, let alone a foreign land."

Siroghail looked back at Rafa for a moment as though sizing him up.  "I certainly appreciate that you can see that so clearly.  Our last high captain was nearly useless, but we sorted the matter out on our own.  No offense, but we fought and negotiated openly for our independence, and don't deserve to now be hoodwinked out of being a separate, sovereign state.  Now, here were are- say, Char!"

Charen, who couldn't be seen in the handsomely built wooden watch post, clattered down and out of it as quickly as a rodent.  "Forget something?" she asked affably.  She was a head taller than Siroghail, able to look Rafa in the face, and as sunburned and throat parched as one would expect from someone exposed to wind and sun all day.

"No, brought you a small merc group to check in," Siroghail replied.  "Said they were dropped off here."

"Probably by one of the carts Wellie didn't check.  I'm telling Ser Sadist this time; that idiot deserves to be hung upside down a while," Charen complained, too annoyed to pretend otherwise in front of strangers.

"For my taste, you could've told him right away, you know that," Siroghail replied with a shrug.  "It's you with all the 'no snitching' talk.  Anyway, I'm back off home.  Good to meet you- eh, what were your names again?"

"Wait, wait, let me get the logbook so they don't have to repeat themselves," Charen said, huffing her way quickly back up the stairs to the lookout post.  Rafa could just barely hear the low tones of a conversation, as though Charen were sharing her shift with someone, and in a few moments, the raven haired guardswoman hustled back down with a book and a fresh bit of charcoal in hand.  "Alright- full names, occupation, mage or non-mage, and places of origin, please."

"I'm Khalinath'rel xund Z'lvrae Mizryn of House Xalyth- I can spell that, if you like- but Kim Xalyth might be easier for you," Kim answered.  "I'm a cleric in service to Ellistraee, originally from Ched Nasad."

"Oh gods, I'll need all of those names spelled, I'm afraid, including the saint or goddess's," Charen admitted sheepishly.  

"She's a goddess- here, hand it to me," Siroghail smirked.  "I hope you won't be offended, Miss Kim, but that's part of the reason I figured I ought to come with you.  Surface Elf names are nothing compared to the titles you all confer on each other downstairs!"

"Absolutely no offense at all taken," Kim said, brushing at imaginary fly away strands of hair in a show of nerves recently made uncommon.

Rafa squinted just slightly, trying to remember the last time he'd seen her so flustered.

"There, easy enough- right?" Siroghail enthused after a few quiet moments, turning the log book around so that Kim could check their work.

"Perfect," Kim agreed quietly, but with a genuine smile.  Her softened volume didn't quite cover up a slight warble to her tone, but it did make it far more difficult to catch.

Percy looked unmoved, and Rafa, deciding to take his example, decided firmly that he'd have to take closer note of what kinds of interpersonal interactions put Kim off her natural calm.

"And you, ser?" Charen asked, looking up at Percy- or rather, at what of Percy's face that she could see.

"Percival MacDugal.  I'm a scribe.  From... um... Furthinghome."

Charen raised a caramel colored eyebrow at the hooded mage.  "Even if that came with two solid Cormite lions, it wouldn't buy a swallow of mead."

"C'mon now," Siroghail counseled, almost as much for Charen as for Percy.  "Whatever trouble's behind you is just that- behind you.  No need to go making new problems for yourself by being shifty, is there?"

"No, that's just how he always sounds," Rafa cut in immediately.  "But he's no slouch in a dust up."

"Aha-ha, a 'dust up,' oh, you've got country Cormite written all over you- we'll get to you in a second," Siroghail smiled, not without a strange hint of gratitude in their beautiful green eyes.  "Right now, Ser MacDugal- and I've got to say, that sounds a little Corm-y itself-"

"No, I'm Aglarondan," Percy corrected firmly.  "My mother always told me that her family was from Hlath.  I don't know where my father's family was from- some warm southern coastal city, I imagine, but... he never talked about it.  Both my mother and her mother were druids.  Grem-grem hated the city, so not long after marrying her, Grebba moved the family to Dhast, which Mama said he only discovered was an awful mistake after he'd sold what he owned to get them there.  My father was a sailor, but an unusually learned one, and he swept Mama away to Furthinghome with a witty charm to best any landed lord's- her words, not mine.  I was the only one of her children with magic, and unfortunately, it was arcane, not natural, like hers.  She trusted wizards and their diverse organizations about as much as they trusted her, so father suggested that I go to a temple.  Of course, priests use divine magic, so it was no use trying to learn to cast with them, but I did learn multiple languages.  Father apprenticed me out to a scribe who maintained books for a ship that belonged to a friend of his, but we found out quickly that I get very seasick.  I got left at the next port, alone.  I managed to arrange to get back to Hlath, but... when I got there, it... wasn't..."

"And so you went to Ormpetarr..." Kim encouraged quietly.

"Right," Percy breathed.  "And spent all my time learning what could have happened.  Sent my mother the bad news, along with as much information as I could fit on paper.  Helped pilgrims to go and come back safely, in order to make enough coin to sustain myself, until... until I..."

"Received your own scar," Kim said, her voice again soothing and calm.

"Sole survivor of that pilgrimage, and almost didn't make it myself- a merchant caravan found me filthy, almost dead of exposure and thirst, chattering to myself, crawling back to the city as though I'd forgotten that I could walk.  I had all my scrolls and materials, miraculously enough, but no food or water, and they only discovered... what had happened... after they could get the caked sand off my face.  Spent years recovering, piecing together the languages I remembered, learning others, relearning how to use arcane magic, and occasionally studying other matters to keep my mind off how difficult relearning magic was.  I suppose you could say I'm just getting back to finishing my apprenticeship now, although I'm far older than I should be for that.  Still a little weak."

"No you're not," Rafa huffed quietly.

"We haven't been close enough to plagued land for you to see it," Percy nearly whispered.  "But I can feel the difference."

For nearly an entire minute, every one fell silent.

"Percival MacDugal, apprentice- no.  Scri- mmnnff, nope.  Doesn't seem right... journeyman scribe and mage, of Furthinghome.  There," Charen finally intoned, busily writing as she did.  "There's an 'a' in the 'Mac,' right?"

"Right," Percy agreed.  "And there's a 'U'- one long 'U', no 'O' anywhere.  Thanks for asking."

"There's a few folks in the Bone College who also know a thing or two about the Spellplague," Siroghail suggested.  "One of them, Master Semnemac, is old enough to even remember it."

"Semnemac is mad as a march hare," Charen shot back, looking at Siroghail incredulously.  "Why don't you send him to Master Aric, who's at least safe?"

"Master Semnemac is only slightly further cracked than Ser Sadist, and they each do what they need to well enough," Siroghail said firmly.

"Actually, madness is one of the side effects of the Spellplague in arcane magisters," Percy noted.  "If Master Semnemac was practicing at the time of the Spellplague, it's more than possible that he understands my situation completely, even if it takes me some time to make whatever he has to say on the matter clear and simple enough for my mind to understand it."

"I have no idea when the man went mad, or why, just that now he is," Charen said, with a bit of a shudder.  "Please be careful when dealing with him.  He's as like to attack you as to do any help on you."

Percy smiled and chuckled softly.  "Trust me, like I said, I did extensive study on the spellplague and its effects.  Think of Master Semnemac's mind like... like a fortress, with extensive adornments, in the middle of a wide grassy field.  Now, imagine that lightning struck the ground in various places- ten or twelve places at once, let's say, and that many of those places caught fire.  For all that the owner of the fortress could do, which wasn't much, the fortress is very badly damaged, some parts of the ground are scorched beyond repair, and some of the adornments are now awful eyesores, reminders of the terrible storm that remain, long after the storm has passed.  If the man still knows himself as himself, and can still command magic reasonably well, which I assume he can, by your use of his title, his mental fortress is still standing, no matter how battered and brutalized it's been.  My fortress, if you will, was just about decimated.  I spent years rebuilding everything I had ever been to that point.  It was awful.  It was painful.  And in places, I'm still... under construction, let's say.  I'd very much like to meet a man who is in similar circumstances, however unstable he may seem to be."

Charen nodded in quiet understanding.  "Alright, I get it.  I can't say I understand it, but... I trust people like you, with smarts.  I wish you the best of luck.  With him, and with your own... repairs, I guess."

"I wonder if that explains Master Ranclyffe as well?" Siroghail wondered aloud.

"I don't think she's that old," Charen disagreed.  "Master Semnemac is an Elf, or of Elven blood, or something, but Master Ranclyffe is very Human."

"No, Master Semnemac's a Halfling," Siroghail corrected.  "You'd think he wouldn't live as long as he has, but... well anyway.  You'll see him soon enough; ask him yourself how he's managed to look so good for being over a hundred years old, but not Elven."

Percy gave another series of small laughs, and Rafa busied himself trying to ensure that he committed the spellscarred mage's entire story to memory.  It seemed clear to him somehow that Kim already had.

"Alright, last but not least, the bumpkin from somewhere in Cormyr," Charen sighed, preparing herself and her charcoal.

"And don't run her over with your dialect just because," Kim admonished playfully, reaching across Percy to give Rafa's arm a bit of a push.

"Ugh, I'm misused!" Rafa complained jokingly.

"Right, ser, we'll take a statement for your case before the Council shortly, now come on, before the sun goes down," Charen teased.

"Rafael Unessmus of Moonever.  Nothing special about my family or its name, and no mages.  Farmers, fishers, hunters, stitchers, and weavers, as far back as to the beginning of the world," Rafa smiled.

"You're almost as bad of a liar as that one, although you're quicker at it," Siroghail laughed freely.  "You're not made for spellcasting, so that I believe, but c'mon now, give us the truth of what you do actually do."

"Alright, then I'm a bully and a thief," Rafa shrugged.  "As a child, I did it for fun.  For a time, I did it professionally on behalf of Cormyr, and now I'm doing it for these two kindly souls.  But as much as anybody wants to pretty the matter up, I'm a bully and a thief, and will be 'til I'm dead."

"Oh, Rafa!" Kim exclaimed.  "You've got to think better of yourself than that!"

"Well, we know who's keeping you from plying the latter half of your trade," Charen said warmly, beginning to scribble in the logbook.  "Spell your family name for me?"

"U-N-E, two S, M-U, one S," Rafa answered dutifully, clearly having done so the length of his life.

Well done for a man who reads only out of prayer books, Kim thought with a smirk.  And I wonder if that claim itself wasn't a well-practiced lie.

"I'll call you a freelance mercenary- Ser Sadist will likely want to have a look at you, but he's not one for forced service, so don't worry about being shoved into the guard against your will just because you can swing a blade and not hurt yourself in the act," Charen explained as she continued writing.  "You ask me, he just likes to know his possible enemies, which, I have to hand it to him, makes him a little smarter than Nithraz."

"He's a lot smarter than Nithraz was, and not just for that," Siroghail scoffed.  "Anyway, since you're in the books as a merc, you can wear your weapon openly, and don't worry about peacebonding.  You just have to solemnly swear not to take up arms against the guard."

"Well, what if the guard's getting unfriendly?  I can't defend myself?" Rafa asked seriously.

"Technically, you're supposed to file a complaint, but thwack them in the head anyhow," Charen replied simply. 

"I'll explain," Siroghail smiled, seeing the various shades of confusion on the newcomers' faces.  "A lot of bad business was going on in the Dark Quarter- truly disgusting stuff, and about half of it done by sworn and sealed city guards.  The entire quarter revolted.  Not sure how it started, but it ended with more than thirty good soldiers dead in their own city.  It's been a fight to get the quarter reintegrated with the rest of the city since, and one of the terms was that no one would form a militia against the city guard.  Well, Lady Faera and Ser Sadist took that part of the agreement to task before the ink could dry, and if they manage to get Master Ranclyffe to support them before Lord Erantun and Lady Jindranae, it's likely that at least Jindranae will capitulate."

"You and your history and politics lessons- as if they care!  Look, Ser Unessmus, in the meantime, if a guard gets unfriendly, thwack the bastard on the head and be jailed for it," Charen counseled.  "You ought to be safe there until you can present your case fairly and have your name cleared.  Now if you thwack them and they try to do anything other than just jail you, do whatever you have to, to get away.  That's what I've been telling everyone.  It'll take Ser Sadist years to root all the idiots out of our outfit; you'll be doing him a favour signaling out another."

"Understood," Rafa agreed.  "I shall prepare myself to dole out head thwackings appropriately."

"Excuse me, but who is Ser Sadist and why does he have such an... unusual nickname?" Kim asked carefully.

The two guards laughed for a moment.

"Ah, whoops," Siroghail said when they could manage to stop cackling.  "As you can see, we don't think about it much.  High Captain Pohatkon Sakoda, that's his proper name and title.  But it's a mouthful, and you'll sooner hear Ser Sadist than even High Captain Sakoda.  Before he was promoted to High Captain, he was in charge of the dungeons- and he was very good at his job.  He takes no offense to the nickname- some of the outer guards even think he started it himself, but I don't think that's true.  To me, he seems like the sort who goes to office, gets his job done, and then goes straight home; no opportunity to warm tavern stools or wag the chin with the sort to spin up street names."

"And that's you hopped up into that Elven gabble, 'wag the chin,' as if anybody's supposed to understand," Charen complained immediately.  "They're right about just about everything else, though.  And mark, Ser Sadist has done a lot for this city- Siroghail couldn't have joined up at all, just a few months ago, on account of being abber- aheh- wait, what do we call you properly now?"

Siroghail shrugged casually.  "Abberant's fine with me; ask some young thing what the new terms are."

Kim and Percy's eyes both went glassy for a second, but Rafa, who had no idea of what the term meant in any context, simply kept quiet.

"Anyway, that's all of them in the book," Charen confirmed, very conscious of the sudden silence.  "I didn't bring the setting powder, so I'll have to walk it back upstairs just like this.  Good to meet you all, and best of blessings on your adventures around here."

"Don't put the charcoal in the binding, or we'll be hung upside down for sure," Siroghail called after their departing compatriot.

"Dry up, midd'n," Charen growled back playfully, nearly a quarter of the way up the stairs back already.

"Now, there, that's a fine example of Dark Quarter hospitality, talking to a respectable person like that," Siroghail grinned.  "Say, you can go ahead and wear your weapon, Ser Unessmus."

"Just Rafael, or Rafa, is fine.  And I actually need to buy a new one," Rafa responded as the group stood looking after Charen.

"Oh!  Well, you'll wind up closer to Ser- ahah!- to High Captain Sakoda, rather, than you may have planned."  Siroghail began walking away as they spoke, and the group followed them after a step or two.  "The city's foremost forgemaster is Lord Erantun himself; Arnsvold Erantun.  You'd think he'd charge a mint for his work, but he nearly undercuts the sellers in the market, who get their goods from gods-know-where.  He works out of the Council's manse when they're not actively taking cases or solving other types of political knot ups."

"And it's perfectly acceptable that a ruler should put their hands to such craftwork?" Kim asked meekly, genuinely confused.

Siroghail flapped a hand at the Drow woman as though she were a dear friend who had just told a silly joke.  "Oh, absolutely; all of the folks seated on the Council have a trade.  Lady Jindranae's an enchanter, except don't expect her to work with weapons; she hates them.  Lady Mimsa tries to write spells, but she's really a seamstress; Master Ranclyffe and a gaggle of apprentices do her spell writing work for her.  It's expensive, but that's because Master Ranclyffe is the best mage in the city, hands down.  She has a right to be as mean as she is, since as I hear it from the inner guard, she has to do her job as court mage and about half of everyone else's too.  Some people go to the Phoenix instead, if they're stupid, or the Bone College, if they're really stupid.  Master Aric, being a retired warlock, can do it, but a person would have to go down into the catacombs to find him."

"So such a person would be fantastically stupid," Rafa interjected off handedly.

"You said it.  Now, Lady Faera went from being one of the charmers on sale to being the owner of a brand new charm house- can't think of the name of it at the moment."  Siroghail smiled at Percy's immediate blush.  "So you're the only one of the three of you who knows what a charm house is?"

"No," Rafa volleyed.  "He's just the only one embarrassed by it."

"Well, when the Merchant Council made a seat for the Dark Quarter, the residents voted to put Faera in it, despite her being a charmer.  To top that, she's the sort of charmer who'll proudly broker either end of the deal, if you take my meaning.  It's many a woman smiles just a bit too broadly at the mention of her name."

"And do they call her aberrant too?" Kim asked.

"I've heard it said, yes," Siroghail sighed.  "It's a shame, really.  Like I said, I don't mind the term, but for her... it doesn't really fit.  Seems too crude."

"It's entirely incorrect," Percy finally cut in.  "Aberrations are creatures from other planes, or who have been monstrously altered by otherplanar beings, and... well, pardon me if I'm wrong, but... I don't sense any trace of such activity in you, at least."

"I couldn't tell you who started doing it first, but someone started using the word to describe anyone who didn't sit neatly in the male-or-female, husband-and-wife cart," Siroghail explained simply.  "Faera is quite the woman, but can either lead or be led at the dance, if you catch my meaning.  I haven't managed to get on the cart whatsoever, male, female, leader, follower, or else, so 'aberration' fits me just as fine as 'undecided mess of a half-breed' does."

"That's called 'dacreeden,' " Rafa piped up.  "In Moonever, anyway.  And, it only goes for being able to dance with either partner, to take your illustration.  If you can't say whether you're male or female, I don't know what that's called.  You're the first I've met."

"That's precious; I like it," Siroghail smiled coyly.  "Say it again, Rafa."

Kim and Percy both stole glances at Rafa's tan cheeks heating up.

"Dacreeden," he repeated, his voice suddenly rounder and deeper than either of them had ever heard it sound, heavy and warm like glass just pulled from flame.  Percy felt his own cheeks flush again, and Kim had to hide her smile behind a delicate ebony hand.

"Quite nice.  And, the slightest hint of Elven influence, I'd wager.  I wonder how many repetitions it would take to have that catch on around here," Siroghail commented, Rafa and Percy's reactions not lost on them.  "We're slow, we Urmlaspyr folk, mired as we are in some of Sembia's filthy turns, but once something's stuck, well... it's Very.  Firmly.  Stuck."

Rafa cleared his throat entirely unnecessarily, and it took every drop of Kim's willpower not to giggle like a girl much her junior.  Percy bit his lips, furious with himself for the surge of warmth at the bottom of his belly.

I've done this before, he reasoned with himself.  Dan was... and I... I can't keep doing this.  Rafa's a bully.  He called himself a bully.  Mama always said, 'When people tell you who they are, believe them.'  Believe him, you idiot.  He's a bully and a thief.  Believe him, believe him, believe him.

"Is there a separate Moonever word for a man who would like a husband or a woman who would like a wife?" Siroghail continued, winding their way down toward the market as though absolutely nothing were the matter.

Rafa brushed the back of his childhood, mentally running with his friends, picking pockets, pulling pigtails, tipping cows, and kicking chickens.  What a delinquent I wa- hah.  Am. 

"Not that I can remember," he lied, deciding to simply stop jogging down memory lane altogether.  He studiously ignored Kim's inquisitive gaze.

"Well, when it comes to you," Siroghail soothed, just as deftly as the Drow cleric could have done, "I hope I'm the first to know."

Rafa managed a chuckle, but was clearly elsewhere in his mind.  Kim turned her attentions to the wide market before them, as the sounds of sellers, children, cart wheels, and various animals assaulted her ears.  Percy was simply glad that subject was dropped, however abruptly or ungraciously.

"Now, my home is in the other direction, but I'll at least point you toward both the Bone College and the Council Manse.  Neither are hard to find, as they're on higher ground.  There, see that fountain over there?  The building just beyond it is the Bone College.  Up there, admittedly this is harder to see from here, there's a courtyard, see it?"

"Well, I see the fort," Rafa said offhandedly.

"Ha, yes, that 'fort' is the Council Manse," Siroghail laughed.

"What?" Rafa asked incredulously.  "I thought that was a garrison, or the beginnings of a fortress, not the-"

"Years ago, it was," Siroghail supplied easily.  "I can't remember whether Cormites or Semmites built it, but it used to be just a fort, yes, in its first days.  The outside looks quite the same, but once you get in, you'll know the difference.  Or, if you're used to grander seats of power, at least don't show it."

And Rafa shut right up, duly cowed.

"Thank you for everything," Kim smiled gratefully.  "I hope you'll count us as acquaintances, and let us invite you to a mug or two."

"So carefully formal!  I can see why the three of you need each other," Siroghail smiled.  "I tell you what.  I'll go home and wash up, and take a nap.  I'm back on duty tonight, you see, so I'd better get some rest in.  That ought to give you some time to buy the necessaries and decide on a place to stay.  When I wake back up, I'll poke in to both inns and see where you've landed.  I'll call you for a mead to warm my bones up, then head on out to the post for the night while you all sleep safely.  Sound good?"

"It does," Kim nodded.  "And thank you again.  Rafa, Percy, let's head toward the manse first, shall we?"

"No good heading all the way up there without taking a browse around the stalls first, to get a feel for the pricing and how to haggle politely," Rafa suggested.

"You mean how to intimidate people into lowering their prices without completely scaring the waste water out of them?" Kim laughed freely, beginning to move toward the waist-high half-walls that separated the market from the street.

"Wait, you," Siroghail said quietly, pinching a bit of Percy's hood.  It pulled back just enough for the off-duty soldier to finally see some of the spellscarring and his eyes.  However, they didn't jump at the sight.  "Percival?"

"Or just Percy, yes," Percy answered uncertainly, surprised and a bit unnerved at the attention.

"I didn't want to say this in front of your friends, but... people like us... we're supposed to be tested by Master Ranclyffe as soon as possible, now."

"Tested for what?" Percy asked, utterly terrified at once.  "I'm not mad or- well, the illness I do have isn't contagious."

"It's largely for show- you go in, Master Ranclyffe asks you a few questions and declares you safe to be around, and the idiot populace is compelled to leave you alone about being as you are, on pain of being jailed for harassment.  And you are quite clearly who you are, so I'm telling you this for your safety.  Your scent is riding high on the wind for someone who isn't fully aware that he needs to protect you- or himself- from hateful fools, of which this city has no shortage.  Your sweetie could stumble into many a fight without even knowing why," Siroghail smiled, that same coyness washing over Percy like the gentle rush of warm river water over one's toes.  "Or, to take up your metaphor... a few of the lamps in his fortress are dark.  If for no other reason than your protection, you ought to have a go at lighting them."

"I... don't know that I... can do that," Percy began uncertainly, entirely embarrassed at being called out and speaking so frankly of someone else's interests.

"Ah, are few of your lamps out, too?" Siroghail chuckled.  "If you can stand to stay up a night or two, you might come find me on duty.  I won't keep you long, but I dare say you could use as much reconstruction help from me as you seek from Master Semnemac.  And here's a research project for you- you find out what that word is.  Get him to tell you, and in the process, you may have him."

Percy felt himself flush, and almost shrunk into himself, but Siroghail took firm hold of his shoulders, sending a shockwave of pain jolting through his being.

"Don't!  Do that," he breathed, absorbing the discomfort poorly.  "Sorry, it's... I..."

"That 'sorry' should come from me, not you," Siroghail frowned, instantly pulling back.  "And I am sorry.  Go ahead and catch up to your friends before they wonder, but, I hope you'll take me up on what I've offered."

The half Elf moved away resolutely, just before Rafa trotted back to Percy.

"Hey, we turned around and you weren't behind us," Rafa panted, his brown eyes reflecting genuine concern.  "I heard you yelp.  That guy didn't-"

"No, they didn't- well, rather they didn't mean to," Percy sighed.  "You know how it is, when people actually... touch me."

A sort of feral energy began gathering itself within Rafa, and Percy laid one of his thin-boned hands gently on one of the washed out soldier's bronze arms.

And there it is; Siroghail is right.  He'd have just charged off, and...been my bully.  On my behalf.  Or... had he begun to become that already...?

"They didn't mean to hurt me.  They weren't trying to, and... I can't expect everybody to know that physical contact can hurt.  They might have gone away so quickly afterward because they were a little embarrassed.  But, they wanted to be... friendly.  I'm certain that it wasn't malicious."

Rafa repressed the urge to take Percy's hand in his own, and waited, like a just barely trained hound, until the mage removed his hand by himself.

"Is everything alright?" Kim asked, having made it back within speaking distance.

Percy simply looked at Kim.  Rafa, who had grown used to the two seeming to relate to each other as seamlessly and wordlessly as identical twins, turned away and began making his way back toward where Kim was. 

Percy broke his gaze with Kim in order to move quickly.  He had to get close enough to both of his companions to be heard without speaking with his full voice.  "I have to be tested," he spat as soon as he could, deciding against his more suspicious nature to fully embrace the warning he'd been given.  "In order to be deemed safe to deal with, I ought to go right to Master Ranclyffe and be tested for... aberration."

"What?  Why?" Kim asked, whipping around to face Percy immediately.

"I... it's... look, Guard Siroghail spent half that conversation thinking I was a woman; I'll have to get tested or... or things could... be dangerous.  And besides, perhaps the master might also have an answer or two about spellscarring himself."  Percy could feel himself panting, as though he'd freshly run a mile.  Kim's eyes bored holes through his.

"Master Ranclyffe is a woman; the title ignores male and female," Rafa huffed, dredging his last visit to Urmlaspyr up through the mud, blood, and liquor that separated that time from the current moment.  "And I'd be much, much happier if I never saw another Ranclyffe again at all in my life."

Kim stopped staring at Percy to look at Rafa with a glint of suspicion.  "Why didn't you say anything before?" she asked carefully, coming close enough to be able to be heard at a tiny whisper, despite the noisy market.

"You don't have to come; no one will wonder about you," Percy soothed, his gut tying itself in a new knot for every word.  "People will have too many questions about me.  I... don't want... unnecessary fights.  We were blessed with the one that brought us to you, but... the gods may not have the same sense of humour twice."

Rafa turned an unmistakably protective gaze down at Percy, who allowed his pain-ringed eyes to meet it.  "Remember that bad ingredient?" he asked simply.  "Battlemage Ranclyffe cooked that meal.  Master Ranclyffe is his daughter."

Kim was mystified, but Percy visibly shivered.

"We'll all go and be tested," Kim decided firmly, turning around and heading uphill for the manse that loomed beyond the courtyard.  "I may need it, and I'm interested in Rafa's results.  And you know as well as I do, Percy, that language shifts every time someone speaks it.  We've got to follow the rules of the game we're playing now, not the ones we've played before."

"I've witnessed and been subjected to Ranclyffe testing before," Rafa admitted.  "Back in Suzail.  The man being poked and prodded at wasn't sick; he was being used as some sort of metric.  My testing is how I got to Daerlun... being trapped and studied, the other half of the experiment.  I'm certain of that, now that I'm done deluding myself about the details of the matter."

Karri, the poison platter.  Right.  And Lishrae, who was at least exactly the meal he'd paid for.  How did I forget those names- those women- just that fast? Percy demanded of himself bitterly.

"So let's determine to not be tossed about, split up, and shipped wherever like so much unwanted cargo," Kim counseled.  "We'll go, be tested, ask our questions, take whatever Master Ranclyffe says with lots of salt, and get out of there together, or not at all."

"Agreed," Rafa nodded.  "I can't imagine the nut falling far from the tree, so I don't want either of you out of my sight while we're with that woman, however mean or good she is."

"Agreed," Percy breathed, trying to steel himself against his racing feelings with the sound of that 'either of you.'  I... have it wrong.  Of course I do.  He's our companion, our heavy, sort of.  A bully and thief, for both of us... both...

"Don't worry," Rafa encouraged, thinking that Percy's darkened face had to do with everything else but him.  "I have a solid memory of what Battlemage Ranclyffe did to a friend of mine and his... well, he called them his wives.  If Master Ranclyffe even comes close to that with us, I'll find a polite way to make her sorry for it."

"Now really, you two, leave the politeness to me," Kim laughed, a few strides ahead of the menfolk.  "If you try to take charge of the pleasantries, someone'll find themselves with a twisted nose or a busted lip."

"I'll hold my temper unless it becomes crystal clear that they're hearing you without listening to you," Rafa promised.

But Percy was the one not fully listening, at that moment.  Dacreeden.  Both.  Dacreeden.  Which old Elven culture had that concept?  And spent sufficient time living close enough to the Humans of Moonever to have their- very likely mangled- word pass into modern day vernacular?  Dacreeden.  Dacreeden.  Dacreeden.