Chapter Four: The Manifest of the Harikan Squall

The man smiles placidly back at Zangua.

Domarc is not privy to the details of the WBTC's scryersecurity measures.

Martjan side-eyes Domarc. "You're right. And that's why I think that before we involve anyone else in this, we ought to find out exactly why anyone might go to such lengths to get their hands on the Sphere. Sky-iron isn't cheap, but I don't believe they're after it for the melt value." She turns to Zora. "Your father and I had a shared interest in treasure hunting. We did a lot of research into legends of old artifacts together. And there were always stories that the Iron Sphere was more than it appeared to be. There was a master elementalist, a feyblood, what the northerners call 'elves.' We found references to him in records from when the Sphere was kept as a trophy in Hazard. The records were circumspect...but if you were inclined to read between the lines, as we were...there were hints that he discovered something about it. That he had solved the mystery of the Sphere, somehow. And not long after that, the Sphere was returned to Sthombo, and the elementalist left Hazard on a ship called...cursed gods, what was it called? The Haferan...no, the Harikan Squall. We talked about trying to track him down. Those elvenkind, they live near to forever, you know. Unless he met some violent end, he's still alive. But that was just one of many big plans we never followed through on. The manifest of the Harikan Squall was lost, and we didn't know where to look for him."

"I don't really want to stay here," Zora says. "But also I'm kind of tired of running for my life."

"I have friends -- friends I would trust with my own life, who have the means to keep you safe -- that you could stay with," Martjan says gently. "And if you have a role to play in preventing some catastrophe from occurring -- and for now, I think we'd best act on the assumption that you might -- then your safety is of paramount importance."

Zora glances at Mordred, her expression silently asking: what do you think?

"Now, the elf, the ship...let me try to remember," Martjan says, leaning back in her chair. "Pafthinel. That was his name. He left Hazard about...a hundred and fifty years ago, when the House of Mahael had control of the river. Their descendants were all too happy to sell the old family business records for a little silver, so it was easy enough to trace Pafthinel's route from Hazard to Utwar, where he set off on the Harikan Squall. That much was common knowledge in our circles. But that ship was known to trade all along the coasts from Hafer, into Mez, and all the way up to Jerma, and nobody knows where he disembarked. The port of Utwar's copy of the manifest was probably destroyed in the Nine-Day Fire, and the ship itself was lost somewhere in the Quartz Sea about ten years after the voyage that carried Pafthinel. So. A bit of a dead end, there. Pafthinel was initially brought to Hazard to serve the House of Orjo, but their fortunes have faded as well. Their lineage might well be extinct for all I know."

~meanwhile, downstairs~

The smiling man turns away from Zangua and steps out of the queue. He walks out of the lobby, whistling a tune that sounds vaguely familiar.

Zangua recognizes the melody as a Gurmari drinking song, but can't recall the words.

nubs is correct; only Zangua and Shamush are downstairs

Martjan nods. "He was. If he kept notes, he may have taken them with him, but if any were left behind...well, I can't imagine how we'd track those down. That House was at the height of its power in those days, three Innocents in a row were Orjo children. But when the older generation died off and their heirs took over, everything fell apart rather quickly. The last candidate they submitted for Innocentship failed the trials and fled Hazard. The rival factions within the House started pointing fingers and assassinating each other. Their properties were sold off. So it goes. You can hardly find a trace of them, now."

"Perhaps. Or Sood. Or Dule. We don't know."

That new avatar is... distressingly veiny, Octo.

Martjan looks thoughtful for a moment. "The Lady Grekta dra Aia, a very dear friend of mine, employs a bodyguard whose father was a feyblood from Engol. But I can count on one hand the number of pure feybloods I have seen in my life, and I consider my self well-traveled. The House of Tragga hosted a small delegation of them a few years back, but they did not stay in the city for long."

Edit: rocksteady, what good is a DM who does not keep their players in distress in as many ways as possible?