Chapter Two: The Hippocampus on the Cracked Lintel

Mordred whiffed his Stealth roll. None of you can be sure just how much the fisher is seeing from under that hat, but you're all basically visible from their vantage point.

"Harvest? You don't harvest fish, fellow. You catch them. Heh, heh! Heh! Now, the whisker-fish are fat this time of year. The mud-walkers don't come out to be caught until the spring." The fisher reaches into a basket and pulls out a spiny, many-clawed thing as big as their own forearm, which arches its back and squirms furiously as they hold it aloft. "Now see this? Biggest Hound of Achel ever I caught! But I'm saving this one, yes. Must wait to harvest the roe when it ripens before we eat her. Now the roe you harvest, you see how that works? But you cannot harvest fish. Heh. Go on inside. I'll get to cooking your supper."

Felor was sort of hoping the hut was one of those looks-smaller-from-the-outside things, but once inside, he can see that it will be a very tight fit for the entire party to sleep in there. There's a tall set of shelves made from bamboo and twine in one corner, full to overflowing with baskets, nets, line, hooks, and other fishing implements; in the other corner is a large woven basket stuffed with clothes, rags, and blankets. In the middle of the room there's a straw mat on the ground, presumably where the fisher sleeps, and by the wall opposite the door there's a large rectangular basket fitted with a lid. The whole space is probably not bigger than nine by twelve feet.

The fisher never leaves their boat to prepare the meal. First they build a fire in a little brass pot which they shelter from the rain under an overturned basket, then set a flat stone on the pot while they scale and gut a few plump brown catfish. Humming an odd tune, the fisher splays the fish out and sets them to fry on the hot stone, turning them frequently and seasoning them with powders and oils they produce from pockets in their clothes.

Zangua stands watching this, glad the fisher had no need of his firewood, as there wasn't much to gather nearby anyway.

"You there," the fisher says. "Pick seven large leaves of salt-lettuce, if you will. The fish is nearly done."

Zangua finds some salt-lettuce nearby, picks seven large leaves, and brings them to the boat.

"Gather, guests, gather," the fisher calls. "Supper is ready." They pluck fish off the stone with their hands and portion it into the leaves. "Eat only fish and plants, this is the secret to good health. Do not eat bread! Bread is a corrupt food. I would strike it from the Werld if the gods gave me that power. Who taught us the secret of bread-making? It was not Semla. It was Orcus! Bread-making is a devil's art. Come, all of you, and eat."

Vad finds the fish pretty tasty, and in fact wishes there was more.

"Your shy companion," the fisher says, pointing at Mordred. "Why does he not come? He is a guest as well. He must eat."

(It's not a stew! It's a lettuce wrap! Now how do we handle a critical fail on a Religion check...)

Felor finds himself a bit short-handed where knowledge of Semla and Orcus are concerned. Neither are attested in Jerma. He recalls the temple to Semla in Sthombo and knows her to be some sort of mother or earth goddess, but gave her a wide berth because her sphere of influence seemed similar enough to Fjorgyn's that to take an interest would have felt disloyal to him. Orcus is a total blank.

"Come now. Allergic? What is that? If he is to receive guest-rights with the rest of you, he must stop hiding himself and--"

The fisher stops abruptly.

"Ahhhh, ah-ah-ah. I think I understand. Well, have no fear. Old Welg sees nothing, says nothing. Let, ah, him come and sup with us if he wishes. Or not. But I shall say no more. I only ask that you not linger here long in the morning."

Guest-rights vary from place to place, but you doubt you're expected to share your travel provisions.