Act I, Chapter One: A Rumor in the Dark

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT


The rains come early in Greybarrow.

They sluice through small town like a second tide, rattling every warped shutter and pooling in the cracked cobblestones outside the Thirsty Lantern. Salt, rot, and resignation hang heavy in the air. The harbor beyond is no more than a smear of dull iron in the night, its breakers hidden under fog, but every few heartbeats a flash of sickly witch-light plays across the masts, and you glimpse half-sunken hulks wallowing at their moorings, nets of flotsam tugging at their bones. Farther out, the Sea of Pelluria bellows; its wind howling down the alleys with such force that the gulls cling to rooftops rather than brave the skies, for even these carrion birds know the water gives back more corpses than fish in these parts.

---

Arrival

When you step beneath the hanging driftwood lantern it creaks on a single rust-eaten chain, throwing warped silhouettes across the quay. A briny rivulet snakes past your boots, swelling with each gust; the scent is a cruel mix of dead kelp, bilge, and faint rot from crab traps left untended on the lower docks.

The halfling lookout—bare toes white from cold, oilskin cloak several sizes too large—doesn’t speak at first. He only studies your faces in turn, searching for slips: a prayer whispered, a ring too bright, the slightest gleam of defiance. Then, almost swallowed by the storm, comes the passphrase:

"Storm’s hungry," he murmurs.

Your countersign unlocks more than the gate. A subtle easing of his shoulders tells you the halfling has weighed your souls and—at least for now—found nothing that would damn him when the Shadow’s eyes sweep this street at dawn.

Inside, the Thirsty Lantern is a corpse of an inn: beams sagging under black mold, lantern chimneys cracked, barrels of ale long since soured to vinegar. Salt crystals bloom on the hearthstones where driftwood has burned low and cold. Yet every loose board, every smoke-choked corner, feels clean beside the secret iron throat that yawns open when the halfling drums on a salt-caked cask.

---

The Hidden Cellar

The stair plunges steeply, each step slick with condensation. For a breath the smell is all wet stone and sour yeast, then something sharper bleeds through: bitterroot wine, the charcoal tang of pipe-leaf imported at great risk downriver from smuggler kin, and underneath it all, the earthy sweetness of glimmermoss spores, an herb prized by resistance medics because it glows when blooded.

Lanterns burn low: tiny, fat-wicked troughs whose oil smells vaguely of tallow and crushed shell. Their glow shivers over three figures waiting in the gloom.

Wexley Thorn, a wizened gnome in a battered, cone-shaped hat stoops over the map. Round wire-rim spectacles magnify keen, sable eyes; a long white beard spills down the front of his charcoal cloak and brushes the parchment like trailing smoke. His clothing is plain ;a weather-dark tunic cinched by a wide leather belt, trousers tucked into soft river boots, but the set of his shoulders marks him as one accustomed to storms and subtler dangers. The only adornment is the faint gleam of brass buttons and the patient steadiness of hands that have traced too many forbidden coastlines.

Serah of the Loom, to Wexley’s right sits an elder woman swathed in a threadbare shawl. Deep-set eyes watch the play of lantern-flame across the room while her fingers worry a pouch of dried herbs. In the muted glow her weathered features seem cut from river-stone, but a quiet warmth lingers whenever she hums the half-remembered lullaby.

Looming just beyond the table edge, a Masked Watcher stands wrapped in a hooded cloak that swallows most of the lantern-light. A single yellow flame glints across the iron half-mask, tracing the curve of an old dent, proof of past violence or past vows, perhaps both. His helmet cannot mask the shadows doing the work of an unseen frown.

Wexley’s map is stitched together from water-spotted vellum and newer scraps of sailcloth. At its heart coils the Ishensa River in oily strokes, the hills of the Basin rendered as knife-slashes of charcoal. In one margin, a smear of aurum ink still glitters; blood, Wexley says, paid to buy the scrap from an orc quartermaster who fancied it mere art. The runes themselves are elder Sarcosan script overlaid on elven glyphs, an uneasy marriage that speaks of hurried hands in an occupied land.

Grandmother Serah’s practiced eyes widen at the sight, an unexpected outburst, "Elven, but older than the Third Age. Here: kehl, ‘mirror,’ and here: eist, ‘guardian.’ Together they read as a warning—‘mirror-bound guardian.’ And this—" she traces a half-erased swirl, "—halaeth: not just ‘holy weapon’ but ‘weapon that sings.’ Perhaps, a relic meant to channel song-magic, perhaps a blade or a horn?" She says as she covetously hovers over the map.

In Midnight’s Last Age, such relics were items of legend, invaluable tools for fighting the Shadow; today, most that endure are siphoned dry by the black mirrors or sealed behind armies of orcs. Yet somewhere upriver, on the edge of the Northern Marches, there are claims a power lies sleeping, close to Gasterfang, the Black Warren where Izrador’s oldest mirror still drinks magic by the draught.

Wexley's voice drops to a rasp: "If there’s a chance this weapon exists, someone must claim it. I can get you upriver by barge. I won’t promise safety; I can only promise the slightest chance to find something to wound the Shadow in a grand way. Few are ever given get such an opportunity, these days..."

A floorboard above groans. You count three sets of boots: they’re heavy, deliberate, pausing as though to listen. Every heart in the cellar stutters. Then a chair scrapes, voices murmur, just patrons seeking dry benches upstairs. Still, the disturbance leaves silence in its wake.

Serah say’s nothing, her eyes dancing around the room, awaiting what will come.

The Masked Watcher remains ever motionless. You notice his cloak shifting, as though restless in a breeze only he can feel. When your gaze meets the iron mask, the lanternlight inside its eye-slit flares, revealing a single Dornish blue eye rimmed with old burn scars.

Wexley breaks the silence. "My barge leaves at moon-set. We’ll follow the smuggler ducts north, posing as eel-mongers hauling spent nets. Keep silent by day; the deckhand who crews her is brave, but the Eye of Shadow watches the Ishensa like a lover. We bank south of Gasterfang. Kaelith will meet you a half days march west from river’s edge, near the half-buried pillars locals call the Giant’s Teeth. From there, it’s a bone-numbing trek across frost-seared ash heaths and iron-salt bogs sheathed in black ice, the north wind carving through every seam of your cloak until the ruins rear up like frozen teeth on the horizon."

He affixes you with expectant eyes.

What do you do?

With a truly deep and sonorous, nearly bone rattling voice couched in the sing-song cadence of the North, the giant Dorn responds, "Úlfr Björnson will see this quest done. For bellicose and bloodied blade we bring the barge, boating to barren but embattled lands. To North to home." While he speaks in a near rumble he doesn't let his voice rise in volume.

(Clarification: He's is speaking in Erenlander with a Norther accent and cadence.)

Petra the dwarrow brushes rain from her nose, her movements managing to draw attention to all three of her most broadly splayed dwarvish parts at once--shoulders, nose, and hands--the ones she never fully grew into on her otherwise petite and sharp gnome features, light bronzed skinned body with tapered ears capped by unruly black hair.

Earlier she'd been paranoid enough of inviting suspicions of practicing magic that she'd wrapped her left hand with her attuned copper ring in an un-necessary bandage. But here, ensconced in the relative privacy of the Lantern's hidden cellar, she forgets to guard her expression against the breathless wonder she feels at her elder's tidings. A legendary weapon waiting to be raised against Izrador, and her band is being offered the honor of recovering it, perhaps even of wielding it?

When she tugs her thick wool cloak tighter around her it is not only warmth she is trying to contain.

She nods vigorously to Wexley Thorn when Ulfr confirms he will undertake the quest, to show they are all so far in agreement.

Then she touches Ulfr's arm above the elbow (a reach for her, he's twice her height) and murmurs to him with affection, "Dit du gar, gar jag."


___________________________________________________________________________________________

OOC:

If you speak Norther (Dorn) at Basic or higher, you can read the spoiler:

@GREEMOLOGY:

Heavily cloaked, the hooded elven maiden has kept to herself as not to give way any more than needed. Within her protective cloaks lays hidden raven Tork quieted. Elven Azote slightly hidden figure appears that the elements have battered her well coming here. She hasn't spoken or really took any efforts to show off herself as she listened, but she is sure all present know of her. By habit, she stays near a wall as to slightly conceal her presence. Úlfr's shadow works well for that.

It is now that she finally drops back her overly protective hood, her emerald, green eyes show well as light finally strikes her elven face. Those eyes have marked her as much as being elven. She appears to be unkept as night has been hard. She glances to towering Úlfr and Petra as she speaks in fluid Erenlander, "All is well. We shall recover this weapon of war." There is a slight chip as Tork manages to poke its head out.

Azote is multilingual, but to be sure she doesn't speak or understand Norther (Dorn) as much as she has tried to even gather enough to understand the basics. Erenlander has been her choice language she is sure her native High Elven hasn't been heard in a long time.

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN - CELLAR | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

The storm railed overhead while lantern-flames guttered, painting canyon-deep shadows across Wexley’s patch-work map. Úlfr’s vow still thrummed in the floorboards; Petra’s radiant assent danced beside it. And now—Azote’s hood slipped back, the scent of wet pine and raven-feather following the fold of dark cloth.

The Masked Watcher displays the barest twitch, his iron mask angling a sliver more toward the elf. His shoulders tighten, as though in anticipation of more than mere words.

Wexley Thorn

Wexley, oblivious to the masked Dorn behind him, "A frost-forged giant, a stone-bright seeker, and an emerald shadow; if we weren’t doomed to secrecy I’d charge for the song of it." His beard rustled as he forces a small chuckle.

"Strange bedfellows often make the fiercest warbands. Thank you, the map's worth nothing without hands brave enough to follow its broken trail."

Across the table, Serah rose with surprising grace, her shawl trailing like smoke. She stepped closer to Petra first, then Úlfr, pressing into each of their palms a small pouch tied with sinew.

Serah of the Loom

Serah of the Loom presses pouches of herbs into Petra’s small hands, then into Úlfr’s broad palm, finishing with a nod to Azote. "Greenthorn for blood, fetherroot for frost. Boil them if you bleed, chew if the cold tries to crack your bones."

Her smile softens, lined with years of worry. "Were I younger, I’d walk the ash with you, frost or no. But age steals more than sight and sinew. May the old ones guard each of you; may the Shadow fear your footfalls."

At Wexley's compliment Petra's bandaged hand goes to her blushing cheek.


The imposing helmed man tensing up worries Petra a tad. Likely just protective and cautious when it comes his more fragile companions...as Seelah sometimes seems to get. In such a brutal and unpredictable world you can't blame them.


It brings the young dwarrow a bit of joy to see Azote get to let her hood down. Hiding one's own true self all the time must be exhausting. "We're uncommon lucky to have an ancient enemy of the Shadow beside us," she says of the elf. For several reasons she may never get over her awe of Azote. But she makes herself overcome it enough to reach for and squeeze the slender woman's wrist in solidarity for a second.


* * * * * * *


Petra jumps up and gives a curtsy of thanks to venerable and fiery Serah and tucks away the precious and timely supplies.

She fishes a small pungent packet out of one pocket. "I believe you would join us and I wish it could be so. I might learn from you much about herbs, and courage. Please accept a gift for a gift? Galangal was my grandmother's favorite. Helped her arthritis and gave her more vigor in her morning tea when she could get it."

The dwarrow takes one last nostalgic sniff, flooding with sense memories that make her heart ache, before holding out her offering to Serah: the last of her supply of the Sarcosan black ginger from Oma Olga's cooking wares.


((If her gift is accepted, Petra presses the pouch into Serah's hand in a way that emphasizes gratitude but also lets her feel what she expects to be a familiar papery texture of skin.))

Azote almost unnoticeably flinched when Masked Watcher did. Azote was all eyes as she fully showed her face and those eyes. She tensed unseen beneath her cloaking. She has lived long for being careful. No doubt Tork felt it too as he chirped as he moved. Seeing that matters weren't going south, she untensed but remained alert. And careful fingers let Tork know it was alright as fairly much an unseen hand reached it. Azote had shown her trust which she has trouble doing.

Azote replies back to Petra in Erenlander in her friendly way, "You knew that I would come." Azote has very few friends despite for living over a century. The shadow had ruined her life, and she has dedicated herself to do the same to it. Friend Petra always seems to bring Azote a smile.

She says to Serah as she receives her gifts in high elven, "May you always be blessed." Azote wonders what Serah was like when she was younger. And wonder if she will ever live to be that respectable age. To live another century against the shadow.

Our ebony guardian sat, heretofore, in silence. The guardians, a secretive sect of warriors self-charged to protect innocents, and resistors, from Shadowy grasp.

In a perfect world, there’d be no need for subterfuge, for halflings whispering gentle and clever pass phrases in order to gain entry into makeshift hideouts. But such is the eternal midnight in which Seelah’s become accustomed to call her world.

I will do as I can of course, Seelah replies plainly. And you all have my sword. For to those of you whom I’ve not yet met, I am Seelah, one of the guardians.

And I’m well met, to all of you.

Like a breaking storm Úlfr says, "By the bounty of nature we will be strengthened, going forth to grab greatness, until hilt in hand we hold the song of severed shadow's strength, bane of darkness of darkest depths, but first we be borne upon the barge. I give my thanks to both the barge bearer and the herbal hospitaller." He gives a nod to the fellow Dorn in the room also.

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN – CELLAR | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

The lantern guttered under a gust, sending ragged shadows skittering across damp stone. In the shaky light, Masked Watcher planted a silent boot half a pace nearer the stair. The move was casual, almost, but his gauntlet never quite left the sword-hilt.

Serah of the Loom

The storm howls overhead, yet the cramped cellar feels warmer for the brief flare of kindness passing between dwarf and matron. Serah’s gnarled fingers close around the packet of black ginger; parchment-thin skin brushes Petra’s in silent recognition. A breath of sharp, earthen spice escapes the pouch, it mingles with the cellar’s tallow-and-moss fug and seems, for a heartbeat, to chase the damp out of every cloak. "Galangal." Serah lets the word fall from her lips, briefly distracted, as she absent mindly fingers the pouch,

A mother’s cure for aching parts,
A warming spark to soothe old smarts,
And calm the quake of trembling hearts.

She tucks the packet deep into her shawl, returning her attention to the room, and bows her head to Petra. "Your gift reminded me of an old rhyme my mother would tell me, thank you."

Her gaze drifts momentarily to Azote. Serah offers the elf a respectful nod and a thin, knowing smile, but keeps her tongue still. Strange folk, these elder ones… I’d have sworn she’d mourn every leaf denied her pouch. Proof enough we are spun from different looms, we humans and the ever-long.

Wexley Thorn

The cellar hushes as Seelah’s vow settles over damp stone and flickering wick. Across the keg, Wexley folds his weather-spotted map with a soft snap and offers a brief, earnest dip of the head. "Your blade, Seelah, is a welcome edge against the Shadow. My thanks."

He steps back, letting the lantern’s glow find Seelah’s mail and the quiet promise it carries through the dark. One more spark in the tinderbox. May it strike true when the hour comes.

A lone raindrop pings the bucket again, marking time while the rebels draw a collective breath. Silence settles in once more before Úlfr’s oath rolls through the cellar like distant thunder, stirring motes in lantern-light.

Masked Stanger

The silent figure offers no spoken reply. A single glance slants toward Úlfr, as if weighing the northerner’s fervour; then the visor’s slit drifts back to Azote, keen and wordless. Helm unmoving, he lets two gloved fingers brush the doused lantern beneath the stair, tap...tap..., before the hand returns to his sword’s crossguard.

Overhead, a lone board murmurs, no louder than any settling rafter, and soft footfalls resume their measured dance across the ceiling.

---

WanderOne: To be clear, Serah gifted the party (2) pouches. Sense motive if you're curious.

Azote is forever curious, but she generally is not good with reading people. Tonight is no exception.

As pouches are dutifully passed, Seelah watches with brown-eyed wariness.

Úlfr looks about while weighing the packet in his hand.

He looks straight at his fellow Dorn, but purposefully speaks in Erenlander, "Five fingers form the fist, they say. One big thumb in a thimble, three middling fingers, and one itty bitty finger on the door. Why?" Citing the Dornish axiom.

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN – CELLAR | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

Úlfr’s voice rumbles through the stone vault, steady and clear in Erenlander. His words fall like dice on back-alley cobblestones. Damp silence answers, then a single lantern flame gutters, drawing every gaze to the hulking figure beneath the stair.

Masked Stanger

Masked Watcher inclines his helm a fraction, visor catching the glow. A breath whistles through the slits, measured and cool. His gauntlet glides from sword-hilt to the rim of the dented lantern, where steel rests without tapping.

He tallies the count. Thumb, fingers, fist. Clever oaf.

At last he speaks, a quiet rasp that carries to every corner. "A hand may close to shield… or to strike."

The words are soft iron. Helm tilts toward the stair, then returns to Úlfr. No denial. No admission. Only a choice left hanging like a blade in fog.

Wexley Thorn

Across the keg, Wexley blinks behind misted spectacles, head swivelling from Dorn to Watcher and back. Old Ones preserve me, what game have I missed? He clutches his rolled map tighter, knuckles white against the parchment. "Bran? What are you on about?"

Near the lantern crate, Serah shifts her weight, fingers brushing the hidden pouch of galangal as though it might ward off ill omen. Her brow furrows; she has heard riddles bloom into steel before.

Above, the furtive footfalls pause, wood groaning under held breath, while the halfling lookout remains a silent knot near the bar. In the cellar, moisture drips in a slow cadence—drip, drip—counting down to a choice no one can postpone much longer.

Elven Azote is seemly caught off guard with not knowing exact what is what. Seems the change in the atmosphere of the room has unsettled her. She is never one to keep up with all that is about her it seems. She slides back against the wall near Úlfr and has drawn herself back into the folds of her cloak in wordless motion. She seems to take shelter in Úlfr's shadow.

Seelah glances quickly at her wood-elven friend. She will share her thoughts and feelings with Azote, later, at a time discrete and proper. For now, our ebony guardian simply accepts gifts from the party’s benefactor, and remains solemn and stoic.

BEFORE ULFR AND BRAN'S CRYPTIC WORDS EXCHANGED:

"Seelah is our rock," Petra says after the guardian's commitment to the quest is also made clear.

What she means is not just her dependableness, but that when trouble breaks out or seems it might, it is Seelah's steadying presence the dwarrow looks to first. To borrow for herself some of that steely resolve (perhaps tinged with resignation or anticipation or a faith in an even greater 'rock' whose presence anchors Seelah herself, Petra has never asked).


And her smile beams her pleasure when Serah accepts her galangal and shares her rhyme. A rhyme which Petra immediately commits to memory, repeating the verse as a chant in her mind. The more people who hear and remember ties to life in Aryth before it was Izrador's stifling domain, the harder it is for the Shadow to steal them and swallow them forever.


AFTER ULFR AND BRAN'S CRYPTIC WORDS EXCHANGED:

Petra's face hardens in resignation at the new understanding she thinks she has reached. She's suddenly glad Thorn already folded his map up, saves her the trouble of trying to hide it if those boots they heard upstairs earlier get restless.Azote's raised hood is an obvious warning too, but Petra turns to their (or at least her) rock, to watch what Seelah will say or do. Unless she is mistaken, Seelah looks more ready for violence than her usual caution. The dwarrow's sling and stones hang heavier now in her pocket, woefully inadequate but better than exposing her magic gift too early.

A healer by nature is loath to harm, but if she must it won't be the first time.

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN – CELLAR | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

Thunder growls beyond the foundation stones. Three pairs of careful boots drift above, hemming the stair from two sides; the halfling contact remains a small, motionless knot near the door. Below, lantern-light quivers on steel.

Bran lowers his gauntlet from the lantern rim. Visor tilts first to Úlfr, then to the baffled gnome.

"Sorry, Wex—the fire wasn't an accident, and it took more than my good looks..."

The words hang, acrid as smoke. Wexley blanches, mouth gaping as he searches the helmed face for an ally who is no longer there.

Bran’s helm tilts, feeling the hushed tread overhead before drifting across the room: Azote shrinking beneath Úlfr’s shadow, Petra’s stone rolling between small fingers, Seelah statue-still, Serah clutching her shawl.

"There’s still a sliver of hope to drag Elise back from the Shadow’s cages." His voice cracks ever so slightly, almost imperceptible. "That’s how it runs in traitorous circles, Old Friend. Lines are crossed, debts are paid, lives are weighed. You ought to know the pattern."

He shifts, boots grinding grit, sealing himself between rebels and stair. Rainwater drips—a slow, fatal metronome.

"So, what’ll it be? Come up meekly and beg the Shadow’s mercy… or raise steel and seal your fates right here?"

One last droplet pings the bucket, the final calm heartbeat before choices harden into consequence.

"My heart aches for all you have clearly suffered and for her captivity and your fears for her. But it must be said, all the Shadow's promises are empty and designed to manipulate you into thinking you are weaker than you are and have no other options but to kneel. Surely you know that pattern?

"Whereas we might be able to come up with a plan to help this woman if you told us more, and we are neither liars nor manipulators of proxies to take our risks in our stead."

After her firm and earnest counterpoint and counteroffer, Petra casts a quick look around at her friends, hoping an offer merely to entertain strategies of rescue of an innocent victim in need of it did not cross a line. She is not in command, nor is she trying to claim that authority.

Yes. You know my friend speaks truth. We have no agenda of our own, other than to uncover artifacts that may well turn the tide in our favor. Please, let us settle matters well, and steadily. There is no need for aggression here. We all know, there is plenty of that already.

Let us be about finding that which we seek, and we’ll all be well for it.

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT


The storm claws at Greybarrow, but darker claws clutch the lantern-lit silence within.

Rain scours the quay in restless sheets, lashing the dreary port-town with cold rain that bites to the bone; each gust hurls salt and chimney-soot against crooked façades, and in every hiss of water against wood you can almost hear the town’s collective breath—held tight, waiting to see whether this night will drown in tempest or in blood.

---

What feels like hours past the appointed time, your feet feel heavier with every sodden step. The map etched in your memory promised sanctuary: The Thirsty Lantern, a haven whispered about in hushed tones and desperate moments. Yet the inn before you is too quiet. No sentry at the door. No voice to echo the second half of your passphrase.

The door stands open, ajar, not welcoming. A crooked sliver of yellow light leaks out like a wound in the night.

You press your hand to the swollen wood. It resists. Something on the other side pushes back, not strength, but weight. Slowly, reluctantly, the door yields.

What you first mistook for a bundle of cloth is a body. A halfling, broken and barely clinging to life, crumples against the threshold. His skin is pale with shock and cold, slick with rain and blood. One arm is gone below the elbow, hacked, not torn, the work of blade or fang. His open eyes plead not with hope, but with the raw desire to stop feeling anything. Each tear tracks through grime and pain, a wordless cry unanswered by any god.

Inside, the room holds its breath.

Two men stand stiffly across the hall, clad in leather hardened by time and stained with the road. They guard a trapdoor in the floor—drawn blades, alert stances, the terror in their eyes a mirror of your own. They do not seem like soldiers, collaborators, perhaps.

And then you see him.

An Orc stands between you and them, the lamp's firelight casting his shadow long across the blood-slick boards. His shoulders are broad, his frame brutish, but it's the grin that freezes you. Gore still glistens on his neck and tusks, and on the battered table beside him lie the hollow remains of a halfling’s hand: pale bones stripped clean.

After the disgust instinctually hits you, you find it odd, deeply so. An orc like this, alone? Unheard of. The Shadow's beasts do not roam without orders, without packs, without purpose. Yet no warband howls behind him. No banner or black-cloaked handler barks commands. Just him. Smiling gruesomely, at you.

The orc grunts low, a sound halfway between amusement and hunger. He licks his lips and lets his axe casually drop to his side, as if this moment belongs to him already.

And in that awful silence, the outside storm pounds its war-drum above you, the question forms with brutal simplicity.

What do you do?

---

Cloaked Azote chirps in, "We do what we must do against the evil shadow." (Which wasn't any aid. LOL.)

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN — CELLAR | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT
Thunder rolls overhead like distant war-drums while lantern-flame flickers over wet stone. Bran’s blade still bars the stairs, yet its tip has sunk, a hairbreadth above the muck.

Across the gloom Serah’s shawl shifts; she steps forward, knuckles white around the wool but voice steady.

"Bran, the only promise here comes from the Shadow itself, and you know how it pays its debts. We do not bargain with that darkness, we can stand together against it, as we've always done."

A tremor passes through Bran’s shoulders; the point of his sword drops another inch.

"You know there is no true pact with that void…" His voice cracks, softer now, almost incredulous. "… perhaps Elise still has a road home, but not through that dark path." Wexley slips in beside him, palms outward.

The point of Bran's steel finds purchase on the grimy cobblestone.

"Aye, that’s the spirit. Let these folk stand with us, Bran. We’re stronger linked than lashing out."

For a breath the rain is the only sound. Then, with a weary rasp, Bran sheathes his sword.

"You speak true. I won’t bar your way. But my contingencies are already in motion. Betray me, and I’ll pay any price to free Elise."

The warning lands cold but measured; the venom has drained, leaving only hard-edged resolve.

Above, all movement ceases. You're unsure why.

"Thank you. To be false with you would be to hand the Shadow a victory in our hearts, we refuse to do that. Now will you tell us more of Elise to see if we might help her?

"Or when you said you would not bar our way, did you mean the best way forward without bringing you more danger and grief would be if we depart?"

Petra's thanks had been meant for all of them. She assumes the Dorn's friends' words carried the most weight.

The relief in her soft voice shades into sorrow as it dawns on her Bran may not feel he could take her up on an offer of trying to make a plan to free Elise, at least not an immediately carried out one.

Before stepping into The Thirsty Lantern, Varin crouches beside the bloodied halfling slumped near the door. The wounds are brutal—deep gashes across the chest, one arm ripped clean off, and barely any breath left in him. The halfling's eyes lock with Varin’s, full of pain and silent pleading. Varin exhales sharply through his nose, shakes his head, and stands.

Pushing through the door, he calls out in a gravelly voice, loud enough for the room to hear:
"Someone's bleeding out by the door. Halfling. Looks bad—real bad. Arm’s gone. If anyone knows him or can help, you better move fast. I ain't got the hands for this."

"Halfling is hurt, helping hands must heed the call." Úlfr actually picks up the barrel they had been using for a table and starts making his way up the stairs, assuming no one blocks his way. Ironically, this means the first thing rising out of the trapdoor would be the barrel.

Time to go, quips our ebony guardian. Clutching Bladeguard in gauntleted grip, Seelah accompanies Úlfr upstairs.

Sour torch-smoke coils around sagging rafters, turning each breath into the taste of used iron. Bran lingers at the foot of the stairs. True to his word—he edges just far enough aside to let the pair lumber past.

"Mind your necks, friends," he murmurs, voice a low rasp that nonetheless carries. "My acquaintances above favor quiet work, steel across the throat, no warning given. Move smartly, or the first cut will teach you caution."

Half-shadows reveal the slight dwarrow girl, stone bones tempered with gnome stature. He angles his helm a fraction, predator’s gaze pinning her as dust swirls in the draught.

"You fancy yourself a match for the Dark God's legions? Cute, lass. I meant what I said, the way out is clear. But if word of my courtesy reaches unfriendly ears, I'll see you manacled and marched to the pits by nightfall. Flee Greybarrow while its streets are still yours."

Lantern-light flickers over ranks of cracked statues, carving iron-black hollows where their eyes should be. Somewhere distant, a bell tolls once, then falls mute. Bran’s helm pivots, sweeping the gloom until his stare settles on the others clustered near the stairwell mouth.

"The warning stands for the rest of you - yes - even you two, Wex, Serah. Greybarrow's streets have grown teeth. Best quit them before they bite."

A breath later, the bell tolls again. Bran lets the echo hang, one mailed thumb tapping a silent count against the hilt of his sheathed steel, weighing lives and footfalls in equal measure.

Sometimes it's impossible to make a decent entrance.

Jasir sees the elfling slide into the Tavern ahead of him and doesn't really register that the door had been only pushed open a short ways. After all, why bother opening the door fully when one only needs a little?

So of course his hand thumps against the wooden portal and shoves to jostle the halfling that Varin is treating while the Elfling is working to treat the wounded. The cloaked and hooded Sarcosan starts slightly, his eyes widening visibly and his hand sliding backwards towards the cedeku that is hidden at the small of his back. Jasir is largely sporting a Sarcosan-sheik style. A navy blue turban-like headdress, with a mask passing over his nose. A long cloak, billowing pants the legs of which are bloused over calf-length boots.

He spends several long seconds contemplating the scene, the dark eyes turning upwards as he visibly spends several long seconds considering the lone orc, the halfling victim-of-violence... The collaborators by the trap door.

"Aha. I believe I see," he mutters in the local dialect, though he doesn't express just what insight those few moments have imparted but his hand slips away from the weapon at his back and straightens his cloak around his shoulders. In this neutral moment he simply takes a step back and watches how the present situation plays out.

Petra doesn't respond to the masked man's belittling or harsh retort of reiterated threats and offers of escape with their lives (for now, and in future only if they keep their mouths shut about him)...or his warning of cutthroats...with more than an "I hear you" nod.

Being dismissed by Bran could be taken as a blessing in disguise this night for her party and Thorn's mission, for them to proceed with utmost haste to the 'eel fishing' boat. The Dorn's lack of imagination or faith or hope in eventualities and what resourcefulness and favorable circumstances could mean for poor Elise notwithstanding...

It's not personal, Petra reminds herself, that most in Aryth can't or won't muster a mote of belief when faced with companions as green and lightly equipped as she and hers appear to be. What they uncover in Ishensa Basin may begin to change that? Or the attempt may kill them. That's the kind of uncertainty you learn to live with when you refuse to let despair be a lengthy visitor.


* * * * * *


The dwarrow healer follows her companions up the stairs. Her sling stones and sling still heavy in her pocket, her bandaged fingers now curling around them.

EDIT: Hearing Ulfr warn of the injured halfling causes Petra's stomach to clench, but she hopes she can see to his injuries, reach him in time without being prevented.


OOC:

I didn't notice the dialogue, and created this edit when I re-read the posts before mine later.

I will be asking the player to try using a font color and bold for dialogue henceforth but it's also MY responsibility that I didn't pay enough attention to the use of "quote" marks and "Erenlander" as clues I should respond to the dialogue.

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

With the door half-ajar, storm-wind snakes through the taproom, teasing guttering lantern-flames and carrying the coppery stink of the halfling’s blood. A heartbeat later—bang-bang-bang—the trapdoor in the floor snaps upward and a stout cider barrel begins ascending out of portal.

Below, the dim cellar-crew jolt as dust and cold dampness gusts from the ceiling. Above, Varin’s shout still hangs in the smoky air while Jasir’s dark eyes take the measure of every soul.

The lone orc looms near the table, iron axe held in his right hand. Candlelight slicks the creature’s tusks and the drying rain on its pauldrons. It points the blade at Varin, shoulders quake with a rumbling laugh, managing to bark between guffaws, "Kug-lat ish, snaga? Matûrz-lat krimp—glob-lat! Lât nar duh, gûsh-fûl!"

And then it bellows, alternating from amusement to rage seemingly instantaneously—each word raw and jagged in his rough, cruel language, "ZÛG-KRÛM! Dâg lat-ishi, hurz snaga. Lât nar gûl-ma! Ruchk-lat, agh bûb-ishi glob-lag!"

The two human collaborators flinch. One drops his rust-flecked short-sword with a clatter; the other stares bewildered at the barrel that replaced their intended reinforcements. From below the hatch, boots at pace and rational voices echo—whatever was meant to come through is now unknown in the dark.

A final hiss of rain extinguishes a lantern by the door, throwing half the room into rippling shadow. Somewhere behind the bar a rat scurries; outside the thunderous war-drums quicken their pace, the orc’s grin widens as the first heartbeat of open violence is set to begin.

With protective Úlfr movement and the feel that folly may be at hand, with a fast arcane word and motions elven Azote casts mage armor upon herself. She has situated herself for combat as it should be obvious to the others that know her. Her rapier is now drawn in her hands as she moves to follow Úlfr. Still rather cloaked is a moving shadow but is prepared now to cast light in order to fully view the situation better as her elven sight (Low light vision) is better than humans but still lacking. To be sure she follows Úlfr to give him needed aid. She isn't about to have something happen to him by some incident.

Raven Tork has crawled out of Azote's cloaking and mounted himself upon her shoulders and ready to leap in the air and fly. His vision is a match to Azote's. He well senses Azote's preparations for combat.

Azote has given the others a knowing glance as she turned to follow Úlfr and casted obvious protection.

A lone barrel comes flying at the Orc's head.

He says in Erenlander, "Ah, an orc threatening everyone. Perhaps you should pick on someone your own size."

Seelah strides upstairs towards orcish ruckus! Bladeguard grasped in gauntlets grip, her loft shield strapped firmly to her left arm.

As she scurried upstairs, our ebony guardian ponders her knowledge of Shadow agents, how they operate, what weaknesses might be exposed in fighting them - and how they might known her party was here!

Jasir takes in the sudden application of barrel to orc and lets out a quiet breath behind his mask. It seems that the time for talking is past... Or not yet upon them again? Time can be confusing, even for an enlightened mind. Still. If the time has come to act then...

The Sarcosan's left hand shifts in a quick series of signs and then halts, his fingers curled together in a semblance of a mudra. The motions are incomplete however as he waits for a split second longer. For that moment that rage clouds the Orc's mind and it moves to retaliate.

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

Lightning flares through cracked shutters as Ulfr surges up the ladder, a full cider barrel hoisted high above his head, rusted hoops gleam for a heartbeat, then he lets it fly.

CRASH!

The cask slams into the lone orc’s shoulder-plate, erupting in a shower of splinters and foaming cider. The brute staggers, boots skidding; blood beads where wood bit deep.

One nearby collaborator gapes, jaw unhinged. "Wh—what in the…" He flinches as staves skitter across the boards, then, almost an afterthought, hacks wildly at Ulfr. Cold steel hisses, catching only empty air, and the man jerks back, eyes saucer-wide with terror at his own futility.

The orc straightens. Sour cider drips from dented mail. A growl swells into a full-throated bellow, muscles knotting, veins ridging like braided rope.

"Grazh-ûk! Lat krûbûrz-ishi! Lat krûb-ishi agh búb-lat, snaga!"

Rage floods him, an aura of raw violence seems to physically radiate from him. Axe lowers, tusks bare, and he lunges toward Ulfr, boards groaning beneath each heavy step…

A crack of arcane light slices the gloom. Mesmerizing patterns shimmer above his stony hide, then it's hold on him shatters as the orc snarls and tears himself free.

The beast wheels on the source of his pain and embarrassment, boots chewing splinters. In a few thunderous strides he almost finds his target, but Seelah, guardian in spirit and fortune, intervene; his vardatch whistles a murderous arc through smoky air. The blade carves only the odor of foul cider.

Petra has an improvised "hobo knapsack" of a lumpy blanket around her worldly goods, secured at all four corners to dangle from the end of her walking stick.

She releases her hold on her sling and stones in her pocket to grip the stick with both hands, and with its length balanced over her shoulder she moves--as far and fast as her short stocky dwarrow legs can manage--up the stairs to get out of the hidden cellar's trapdoor.

Toward the ruckus the orc is raising in his gutteral tongue. Which is nervewracking.

But sometimes the only way out is through an obstacle with tusks and over 100 or even 200 pounds of muscle more than you have, such is life for rebels.

PLAYER EDIT: She tries to be helpful once out in the tavern, manuevering around one of the humans attacking Ulfr, lashing out with her trusty stick.

Jasir finishes his gesture as the orc settles into a headlong rush for Úlfr. The hypnotic pattern bursts into existence, but apparently the enraged warrior only has eyes for the giant northerner. There's a quiet click of irritation from behind the Sarcosan's mask, though the shadows serve to obscure his reaction. The patterns of lights twist above and swirl upon itself, shooting off refractions which prove about as effective as lights coming off a magical disco-ball spinning overhead, one that continues to shine on even after he ceases to concentrate.

Azote has only a partial understanding of the situation and do her best to neutralize the orc. So, tries to cover his weapon with grease so he can't hold the weapon. She does this as she moves up behind Úlfr.

Varin surged forward through the tavern’s haze, boots thudding against the warped floorboards as chaos broke around him. His eyes locked on the orc across the room—broad-shouldered, sneering, and clearly looking for a fight.

In a swift motion, Varin’s hand shot out to a nearby table, snatching up a half-drained beer stein still dripping foam. He didn’t hesitate. With a grunt of effort and no warning shouted, he hurled it across the tavern.

The stein spun through the air, sloshing ale in an arc behind it before it crashed toward the orc with a dull, heavy thud.

GREYBARROW | THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

The hurled stein whirls through smoke and lantern-glare—THUD!—striking the orc square on the jaw. Ale foams across green skin; a tooth chips loose and skitters across the floorboards. For an instant the brute stands stunned, then his fury ignites anew.

"Gâkh-snaga! Lat bruug-ishi! Krûb-lat agh dush lat, mug-rat!"

A growl rips from his throat, deeper than before, and he spits red-tinged foam onto the planks. Muscles bunch under dented plate as he half-turns toward Varin, eyes blazing like kiln-coals, rage demanding a new target even as Seelah still stands in reach of his axe. For a heartbeat the brute teeters between foes, trembling with murderous indecision, before the tavern’s chaos swallows the moment and the fight surges on.

The old gnome’s cloak trails behind him as he dashes toward the cellar stairs. At the bottom, he pauses just long enough to lock eyes with Bran below—red-rimmed, sorrowful, and accusing—before bouding up creaking stairs onto the battered floorboards beside Petra. The air here is dense with fear, cider-mist, and the iron tang of blood; Wexley sets his shoulder to Petra’s, dagger ready, jaw clenched tight.

She lingers at the table, pale torch-glow dancing across her features. A weary sigh slips free, half pity, half promise.

"You’ve made your bed, Bran, not with pigs, but with wolves. They always teach their lessons in fang and famine." The words drift across the room like poison, cryptic and cool, and then Serah follows after Wexley, at a slow but measured pace.

Bran sighs at her words, moving to the table. He sits and places his head in his hands as though the weight of his decisions are manifesting as a burden.

Panic hollows the second nameless collaborator's face. He drops to snatch the fallen blade, exposed and kneeling on the rotting planks.

Petra’s sling flashes first, with the sickening crunch of breaking bone. Wexley’s dagger thrust follows, precise as a surgeon's knife; the blade of Seelah’s emerald steel slices through leather and flesh. The man jerks once, eyes already glassy, and collapses in a spreading pool of crimson.

Úlfr steps next to the fallen collaborator and Seelah, he then picks up the fallen man and throws him like so much dead weight. "Ah, a proper fracas now."

OOC: 5 foot step to N15, rock throwing and Point Blank Shot, targeting the orc. Precise shot negates the penalty for shooting into melee, and I believe that square doesn't offer the orc proper cover either.

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

The flames from the lazily glowing lantern spit and pop, glazing the floorboards in amber glare as Úlfr plants himself beside Seelah. With one hand he seizes the still-warm corpse of the fallen collaborator, hefting the body overhead as though it were no more than a sack of grain.

"Ah, a proper fracas now."

Muscles bunch; sinew screams; the tavern’s air booms when he hurls the carcass. The dead man’s limp form arcs across the dark room and meets the raging orc with a wet, crunching WHUMP. Rib meets tusk, spine meets iron—then both bodies crash to the floor in an eruption of rancid cider and blood-flecked dust.

The orc staggers up to one knee, breath rattling through split lips. Crimson pools beneath him, rage ebbing as quickly as it rose. He lifts his axe as if in defiance, but strength leaves his fingers; the blade slips, ringing once before the brute topples face-first to the floor.

A final, guttural rasp curls from his throat, more curse than language, then silence claims him.

Across the room the last surviving collaborator reels back, eyes huge and white. His shortsword dangles between nerveless fingers; heels scrape as he turns half-away, every line of his body poised for flight.

Outside, thunder rolls on, but within the Lantern the worst of the storm has fallen still—save for one frightened man and the heroes who now stand over the unconscious, solitary orc.

Brown eyes stare down the remaining colab. You’re going nowhere, Seelah says.

Our ebony guardian stands stalwart, intending to keep her quarry close!

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

Brown eyes glare across the wrecked taproom, wide and shining with dread. The last collaborator’s breath rasps in his throat; slick boards creak beneath him as he edges a single step backward—then he bolts, boots sliding through cider and blood toward the half-splintered doorway.

"Not dyin’ here—get out, just get out." he mutters, half-prayer, half-sob, as he throws his weight toward freedom.

But the tavern’s "ebony guardian" is quicker.

"You’re going nowhere."

Seelah’s sword slashes through the air, catching the fleeing man square in the ribs. The clap of impact echoes beneath the thunder outside; pain punches the breath from his lungs, sends him spinning into a table leg with a grunt. Wooden crockery skitters, ale splashes his cloak—but he staggers on, clutching his side, dogged terror lending strength enough to keep his feet.

Before he can lurch past, Varin barrels in, a knuckle already cocked. He drives a brutal hook into the man’s jaw; teeth clack, spit and blood sprays from the terrified man's mouth. The blow staggers the collaborator against the wall, dazed but not yet fallen, fear burning hotter for the hurt. He frantically bolts for the door.

A heartbeat later, a shadow steps from the jamb, Jasir. The Sarcosan’s cedeku flashes, moon-steel kissing lantern-light, then slices a shallow line across the fleeing man’s thigh. A hiss of steel, a burst of scarlet, and the collaborator yelps, momentum almost failing him.

Yet terror lends wings. Limping, half-dragging his wounded leg, he crashes through the door and into the rain-slick night beyond, boots splashing down Greybarrow’s deserted street. His silhouette staggers into darkness, blood and stormwater mingling in his wake.

Seelah stammers as the shadow agent makes a break for it!

That’s one tough would-be assassin, Seelah quips! Best we try stopping him, before he gets too far to warn other agents!

Practicing what is preached, our ebony guardian dashes out the door to catch the now-former hit-man!

There's recognition that flashes on Jasir's face at some of the figures that have barreled up the stairs... and thankfully enough context clues from the way that his allies to recognize that the collaborators needed to be brought down. The cloaked and cowled Sarcosan manages his flashing slash as the agent slips past. There's something to be admired in the man's persistence.

Jasir is fast, however. Very fast.

He slips past Seelah and sweeps around to the other side of the collaborator his curved cedeku in hand to attempt to try and bring the assassin down. But at the very least cutting him off.Jasir only has one word to add to the exchange. An order. "Surrender."

BEFORE COLLABORATOR #1 RUNS:

Petra recoils with instinctive guilt from the orc's second human collaborator dropping to the floor. Dead?Seconds later the dwarrow has to clamp her lips against a giggle not of mirth but hysteria at Ulfr's human catapult stunt. Such a collision, such awful crunching...man and orc are dead now, or soon will be. The halfling at the door, she's got to focus, got to reach him--


Such beautiful multi-hued patterns of light on the ceiling, FORBIDDEN MAGIC!! Can its shimmer be glimpsed from outside? Or worse, smelled by one of the evil legate's spirit-sniffers even through the rain? They need to shut the front door just in case, but first, the halfling...!


AFTER COLLABORATOR #1 RUNS:

Petra is surprised the man is still upright after so many blows from muscular Seelah and others as he runs out the tavern's front door into the storm. Her dwarf-heritage gifted eyes try to discern in the dimness whether that Sarcosan dodging to cut off the runner looks familiar? Jasir could have called up those radiant hues. And who had he been standing next to a moment ago?

But there isn't time to confirm it's her crafty former spellcraft tutor Jasir or even wave to him.

She's no soldier and hates split second decisions like this: should she be helping subdue the runner before he calls for reinforcements or more witnesses, or should she tend the halfling on the ground? Knowing she may come to regret it, she chooses to try to use her specialized healing skills--every second counts and she may be too late already.

"I'll tend to the halfling!" she explains to her allies before she sprints across the tavern and drops to her knees beside him.

Azote upon understanding the situation is caught with options. One is to try to save the Halfling that is terribly hurt and probably going to die in the next minute or second option is to kill the shadow's person. Azote has spent a decade or more fighting and killing shadows that it overwrites immediately saving an unknown Halfling's life.

As much as Azote wants to just outright kill the shadow person, she has to just attempting to slow it down for others to finish it. At least casting inside the build is safe as all present well know she is an elf and a caster. With doing so she has fairly much thrown her good hood back and exposed herself visually.

She closes distance and also places her close to the Halfling for later saving. She again draws out some fat/butter from her component pouch and with a few arcane words and motions toward the escaping one she cast upon the ground beneath him and around with slippery grease with hopes to make impossible for him to escape. (Azote has 4 Goodberries with her.)

For Tork's turn, may he fly from Azote to buzz around the shadow guy to hassle him while he is trying to not slip on the grease. If the guy succeeds to not slip, then Tork will follow him at a safe distance. (AC 15, 3 HP, 40' Fly, +4 To HIT, +4 Stealth, Low Light Vision, Improved Evasion. And Azote loses her Alertness.)

Jasir stands poised with his cedeku stretched out, ready to finish the fight. He's confident in his speed and poised upon the balls of his feet with the grace of a dancer. Lightning reflects upon the blade as he watches the assassin who might zig or zag... perhaps perform a head-fake and take off in the opposite direction.

And then suddenly he's covered in grease.

Which he apparently did not expect at all, so his feet depart the ground and he lands heavily... though thankfully not painfully upon his backside.

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

A coppery smear still glistened on the floor, mute testament to earlier violence. The tavern door swung open, and the scent of sweat, cider, and spilled blood twisted in the dangerous night’s air.

Azote stepped quickly, moving forward, slender hand raised. Her voice rang out in Elvish, crisp and clear, as her fingers etched a sharp sigil in the air.

With a ‘shluck’, the worn cobblestone glistened as if oiled by some unseen cook. Jasir skidded mid-stride.

"Godsdammit—!"

He toppled, legs splaying as he hit the stone with a thud, though he managed to keep his limbs from tangling too badly.

Behind him, the Collaborator had no such fortune. Already swaying with injury, he tried to pivot—then slipped hard, slamming into the ground with an audible crack. His head bounced once on the cobbles, then he lay still.

For a heartbeat, the city stilled.

Then movement resumed, cautious, nerves rattling. The party begins their ‘clean up’ after the short but harrowed fight.

BEFORE HALFLING WAKES UP:


Petra is relieved that someone already managed a life-saving tourniquet on the halfling's arm above the elbow. But also horrified by the traumatic injury. "Thank you, whomever saved his life? But I fear to physically survive and to mentally survive losing an arm are two different things," she murmurs.


Nearby the orc's final collaborator falls for Azote's clever spell trick (a nasty wet smack of head on cobbles announces that man shall likely die too) and the loss of life to Aryth is painful as always. But the dwarrow must focus on her patient.


She starts gently chafing various limbs to restore the movement of blood, a technique from her grandmother...it works, he's waking!


Over her shoulder to her entire party she asks hesitantly, "Should we, do you think---do we try to make this look like the orc and two men attacked each other? Perhaps leave all their belongings here, so there is no evidence someone left the scene of the crime? Or can we not afford that, like are we too...short on time and supplies?"



AFTER HALFLING STIRS/OPENS EYES:

First the dwarrow tries to reassure her patient. "You are safe now. The brute who almost took your life is dead. I am Petra and my friends and I are on your side."


Next she checks for signs of disorientation. "What is your name, or nickname if you prefer? Do you know what month this is, or is it hard to remember?"


OOC:

DC is 15 to restore a target below 0 HP to consciousness and 1 HP above 0, w/ Natural Healer Feat

"We step away to grab some damn supplies, and come back to this mess. What in the Shadow happened here?"

Without waiting for an answer, he moves toward the unconscious bodies scattered across the floor. He crouches beside each one and starts removing weapons, pouches, or anything else they might use if they wake up angry. Blades are set aside, coin purses pocketed, and he gives each body a quick, methodical pat-down.

Tork lands on the collaborator and pronounces in Erenlander that "He looks like he is going to out for quite a while." Azote proceeds to deal with the Halfling. (I'm assume goodberry & cure wounds isn't powerful enough to rejoin a lost limb.) She places a goodberry into his mouth to be swallowed and casts a cure light wounds upon him. Fairly sure that aid will bring the Halfling around to conscious. Azote has dismissed the grease so no one else suffers it.

"That is the best I can do for this poor Halfling."

Petra stammers out after the elf's merciful healing that seals the wounds as though they'd had months of recovery,


"You-you're very kind and I admire it and I am sure he'll be grateful, Azote. But we're in a city, and I think you may have spent more time in the wilderness and outskirts?

"Using magic in a city or village is like lighting a fire, and the more spells--that is logs--you throw on it, the higher the flames get and the farther the smoke drifts, and the more visible from farther away you see what I mean? The spirit-sniffers and the astiraxes they are always honing in on magic, so we just need to be careful, right?

"Not scolding you, I just mean it's best to take care to perform magic in secluded places like the cellar, through barriers that might block the astiraxes and spirit-sniffers senses better, for example?"



Unfortunately she's too focused on Azote and the halfling to answer the question [by Varin] of what happened here, so she hopes someone else will do it soon.

Azote replies back, "I believe it was safe in here for now. And it had to be done." and mentally calls Tork back to her. She then cloaks herself again. She smiles as she hands Petra a goodberry from her supply, "This will do you well." Azote is touch busy and let's question by Varin slide.

Seelah drags the unconscious thug back into the tavern. Keep all our business out of the street, she thinks to guardian-minded self!

Producing a length of rope from her pack, she ties the colab’s habds behind his back. Our ebony guardian has some questions for him, when he wakes up!

Jasir eventually wins free of the grease and begins moving to help drag the collaborator and any fallen weapons back to the comparatively safe confines of the tavern. The check he gives over the man's vitals is short and not designed to resuscitate. "Please forgive my late hour of arrival. I was delayed. Will some one sum up just whom our guests might be?" he asks with a tilt of his head.

While his manner of dress does not lend itself to ease of recognition, Jasir's voice and bearing are distinct enough to be recognizable. Vaguely accented, but with a perfect cadence.

He seems to regard the overall scene for a long moment before glancing upwards to contemplate the middle distance.

Úlfr picks up the shortsword the dead man dropped at his feet. He then moves to the orc to collect the vardatch that was swung at his head. "A fine trophy I claim from foes fairly slain."

The halfling’s breath hitched. He blinked against the rain, against the blur of a world upended, and when his eyes met Petra’s—his were full of animal panic.

"Was I... still at the door. I—I heard a knock, and then—"

"M-m-my arm—" His voice cracked, raw from a scream that had long since burned its way out of his throat. "H-he laughed, the orc laughed—"

His fingers scrabbled feebly toward the ruin at his side, then froze, hovering, as if unwilling to confirm what absence he already knew.

"It’s gone. It’s gone."

Tefli curled in on himself, teeth chattering not just from cold but from the shock surging through every nerve. The beginnings of a sob wormed their way through his throat, but no tears came, just the kind of hiccuping gasp that toddlers make when they’ve cried themselves out.

"You said—safe? I—I was just supposed to warn if anyone came. Just that. A signal, they said, I didn’t know, I swear it, I didn’t know they were—"

He cut himself off, staring blankly past Petra’s shoulder as though trying to reassemble the last ten minutes from blood-smudged puzzle pieces.

"I said the words. They knew the passphrase."

"Are the others safe?" he whispered, barely audible. "Is Wexley...?"

He then brings the vardatch down to behead the orc as poetry demands.

The goodberry's sweetness melts across the halfling's tongue as he swallows reflexively. A flush of warmth follows Azote's healing spell, mending torn flesh, slowing the red tide. Color seeps back into his cheeks. The shivering ebbs.

But the eyes, the eyes don’t change.

He stares up at Azote and Petra with a gaze far too wide for his small face, as if the world has been turned inside-out and only he remembers what it looked like before.

"I was... it was a quiet. Just rain and gull-calls. I was tracing shapes in the scum on the barrel." His voice has lost none of its tremble. He looks down, hand instinctively groping the air beside his body—then stopping, again, at the absence.

He swallows, flinching as if the act itself causes pain.

"I didn’t scream. Think I couldn’t, maybe. Not with the breath punched out of me. Thought I was drowning in my own blood. Wasn’t supposed to—this wasn’t supposed to—"

Then, quieter, as if even that plea was a trespass:

"Will they still let me stay? I—I can’t watch the door anymore. I'm marked, they'll eat the rest of me..."

Same with the dead thug, as efficient a beheading as possible, "One and two, through and through. Darkness shall not rise." He sings quietly.

Seelah finished tying up her prisoner. Then, with pity in her voice, she asks the halfling, Who, small one, who will eat you?

I am a guardian, and will protect you as best I can!

Jasir returns from wherever his thoughts have taken him. He glances briefly over the scene once more and upon seeing Ulfr retrieving the vardatch speaks. "Ah you found something that is up to the task. Would you mind-," escapes his masked face just as the giant northerner brings the vardatch down to remove the orc's head. "-I see you've had a similar idea," he finishes with a slight shrug of his shoulders before adding. "The tethered dead are best avoided."

With that bit out of the way, the Sarcosan contemplates the kits and weaponry of the collaborators and the orc. He then gestures towards the one who'd been brained on the stones outside. "Do we require information from this one? I believe I have some understanding, but not all."

"Wexley is safe, he is here. Can you stand, and I will take you to him?" Petra's face softens as she helps the disoriented halfling stand up, and leads him with her arm over his shoulders over to Wexley Thorn.


The dwarrow flinches along the way toward Wexley Thorn as the axe separates the orc's head from his neck. A wise precaution against the Fell curse. When combined with the pragmatic looting the other fellow is doing, it also fully answers her question of whether they are going to stage the scene that the orc and men simply fought each other---that would a be NO. It had been a distant hope and a longshot anyway.


To Wexley she says,

"I hope you can help recall him back to himself, and that he does not have to stay anywhere alone tonight. But the shock and trauma are, as you can imagine, intense. Azote has him well fed, and that should help, by means of her talent?" (She puts emphasis on the last word, although it's a good bet Wexley saw and understood the whole thing.)


Only after checking for permission with Wexley in whispered Trader's Tongue does she tell the full story of what happened that night to the two latest arrivals.


Returning to Jasir and Varin, she says to them:

In discreetly low tones, "You asked to be filled in? Wexley Thorn--" she indicates the gnome elder with a nod, "met with us in the cellar, along with Serah." (Another indicating nod.)

"Our elder Thorn possesses a map and is recruiting us--and you, I presume?--to go to Ishensa Basin on an eel-fishing boat to seek a legendary weapon against the Shadow. A fellow down in the cellar warned us about an ambush upstairs. We were met with violence by the two humans and the orc. How the halfling fellow met his fate I believe you can work out..." She suppresses a shiver.

Azote exited from the healed Halfling as fast as she could with hopes that he didn't get a firm glimpse of her as surely being an elf marks her. He no doubt was out of it to understand that she has given him the goodberry and casted magic to heal him. She lets Petra deal with him.

Azote watches from her hooded cloaked self as well as Tork with its head slightly visible and looking onward track what is happening. Cloaked Azote doesn't do much of anything but step aside to a wall. By looks she prefers all to not really pay attention to her presence. She feels that she has already exposed her elven side as well magic casting (talent) more than she wished. It just further marks her among those present. Her trademarked emerald, green eyes watch.

More of her efforts against the shadow this evening. This time, the shadow will not know it was her as the collaborate didn't live the evening which is what she prefers. She has no love of any that side with the shadow. She already has the ire of shadows against trademarked her for decades of efforts.

Elven Azote is anxious to follow the map which she has committed to her memory and currently waits for the mess about to be cleaned up. She takes note of new people that seem to have arrived during the mess. She wonders if Jasir remembers her. And surprised to note that Varin is here too! Fate is a fickle critter.

GREYBARROW | THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

Thunder rolls overhead, rattling half-shattered panes. The tavern smells of cordite, cider and fear, every breath misting in the draught. In the pooling lantern-glow Petra slips a steady arm beneath the halfling’s shoulders.

The halfling lies propped against Petra’s bundled cloak where Serah wedged him out of the foot-traffic. Blood still drips from the hastily tied bandage, but magic has stemmed it's flow. His remaining hand fumbles at empty air, as though reaching for the arm that is no longer there.

The dwarf’s wool cloak bunches like a sling; with a grunt she heaves, bracing Tefli’s uninjured side against her hip. His bare feet scrabble for purchase across splintered boards, knees buckling until Petra’s stout frame takes his weight.

"M-m-my… name? Ah—T-Tefli…" The syllables skitter like frightened crabs. Is it still Storm-month? I—can’t—cold… so cold…

He hears Seelah’s steady question about safety, but all he manages is a damp nod and a broken whisper:

"Safe… yes… leave the door to me next time… ‘Storm’s hungry’… I—I’ll say it right, I swear…"

Each step jostles the stump; Azote’s healing keeps it closed, but shock drips from the halfling like rainwater. His eyes fix on Seelah’s towering silhouette.

"Safe, keeper? Door’s shut, door’s… shut…" He trails off, lashes fluttering.

Wexley Thorn

The gnome’s spectacles glint with lattern-fire as he addresses Tefli, beard trailing. He spares only a glance toward the trapdoor where Bran’s shadow still lingers.

"Easy, lad. You’ve done more than enough." His tone tries for warmth and lands nearer grief. Fingers flick a subtle diagnostic cantrip—no flare of magic, just habit—before he rises, cloak snapping wetly.

"We'll do what we can, Lass." He says to Petra, "He'll have to ride the barge with us for a spell, poor lad hasn't got anyone in Greybarrow aside from those in this room."

"We’ve stirred every nest in Greybarrow: grease spells, barrels flying, steel singing. Izrador’s Eyes will be sniffing this tavern by dawn—if not sooner."

The map, still tight in his fist, thuds against his thigh.

"Gather what you own. The barge casts off when the witch-light touches the third mast—twenty, maybe thirty minutes."

Serah of the Loom

The elder’s shawl hangs heavy with cellar damp, but her spine is willow-straight, as she hand's Petra another pouch, "A tonic for shock, boil two slices, child." She gestures at Tefli, then turns to Wexley. Shawl pockets produce a coil of twine and a bone needle; she pockets them again, as though even these might buy a moment’s healing later.

"I ride the barge beside you after all, old friend. Someone must pack the wound when river spray loosens the turniquet." Her eyes flick upward to the shredded rafters.

She stoops, whispers a lullaby verse into the halfling’s ear, and presses a thumb of salt beneath his tongue, an old healer’s trick to keep shock victims anchored to taste and breath.

Below, the cellar yawns like the throat of some buried beast. Bran remains at the old table, helm still covering his face. Oil-lamp light crawls across dented iron.

Bran

"Hold fast, Elise... I stride darker paths than these for you." The words scarcely leave his mouth, more steam than sound. His gauntlet taps the hilt of his sheathed sword—one, two, three—then stills.

He did not block their exit—true to his word—but neither does he climb. Instead he sinks deeper onto the decrepit table, cloak pooling like spilled ink, and lets the storm’s distant thunder answer for him. The cellar air grows colder around his silence.

After slipping the blood-slick dagger into his belt and stuffing the looted rations into his pack, Varin grabs the dead orc by one arm and starts dragging the heavy corpse across the bloodstained floorboards. His boots thud dully with each step. He hauls the body to the cellar door, heaves it over the edge, and lets it drop with a dull, wet thump.

Then he turns to the dead collaborator—human, likely local, doesn’t matter anymore. Varin doesn’t flinch as he grabs the body by the collar and repeats the process, the sound of flesh sliding over wood and bone clunking down the stairs echoing in the quiet tavern.

Reaching down, he picks up the orc’s severed head and boots it down the cellar after the body. The second head follows with a hard kick and a satisfying thud against the steps.

"If Izrador’s Eyes are coming," Varin mutters coldly, "we’ll make ‘em dig for their answers."

With the bodies disposed of, he starts moving through the wreckage of the tavern, checking behind the bar, kicking open storage crates, and rifling through any cabinets that haven’t been smashed. His focus is on anything useful for the road—food, tools, gear—but his eyes linger on shelves for anything strong enough to burn on the way down or the tavern.

Bran doesn’t even shift when the orc’s carcass thuds beside his boot. Another body follows, then the heads, rolling to rest against the keg he’s using for a seat.

"Stack them high if it pleases you," he rasps, voice hollow inside the helm.

The corpses are obstacles for someone else—markers of sin, yet to be committed, born this night. The question hangs in his mind if they will ever be cleansed.

Petra nods eagerly to Wexley Thorn, shoulders slumping with relief that Tefli will go with them. She would rather keep a close eye on his recovery. Now they know each other's names and mutual friends too, that will make tending him go more smoothly.

She thanks Serah for the treatment for Tefli.


Turning back to Jasir, Petra asks in Sarcosan, "I believe I know you, you tutored me in spell analysis and principles? If so or really if not, my heart is glad to see you well. And my thanks for your help this night!" If he agrees that is how they met, she repeats the information about Jasir to introduce him, but in Erenlander.



To Varin, Petra asks, trailing after him as he works, "Have we met before...have you ever worked the docks or taken a gnome ferry boat along the River Eren? At any rate, thanks for your help, and do you want assistance gathering supplies? I can, er, reach the low shelves and pantries?"

Úlfr avails himself of the cleaning rags and water in the tavern to clean the blades, then he dries them grabbing lamp oil as he goes. "Of the man felled outside I council mercy if he yet lives. Dying in a fight brings honor, the old gods knew. Dying for no reason only makes evil stronger though. We should all leave. This town will turn ere the morrow. Less grim deeds, and more movement would do us well." As a last measure he makes sure they retrieve the orc's breastplate. "This armor is not for me... but it might save the life of someone else." He shows how little even the chest of the orc was by holding the plate up.

Then he does something even I didn't expect. He calls to Bran in Norther, "Countryman come. When time came to swing your blade, you held. Even the weight of words stayed your sword. Earn your place upon the barge. The shadow would slay you for failure. Do not let it. We do this for those we care for, and we would add your cares to our's as we said."

Jasir's wandering attention snaps to a point of focus as Petra speaks. He maintains a silent and rapt attention, his gaze only flickering towards the cellar door for a moment as it is mentioned. "An apt observation," he assents with a slight, but respectful, bow of his head. "I was contacted nearly a fortnight prior with a request to lend my efforts towards a venture of some import. I met Varin upon the road and learned that we share numerous friends and associates. Some of which are present with us now."

The Sarcosan listens to Wexley's instructions and rolls his shoulder slightly. He seems set to depart and doesn't seem to have much need of sorting through things besides retrieving his pack. He doesn't show much interest in attending the healers or the wounded... too many chef's in that particular kitchen wouldn't help.

As Petra approaches once more and addresses him in his native tongue Jasir visibly raises an eyebrow, though it's hard not to imagine that the face beneath the still-upraised mask is smiling. "You did not require much in the way of tutelage, Miss Pestlegrind," he replies in kind, before seamlessly switching to back to Erenlander. "Though, I would hardly call my efforts this night as worthy of thanks. But I promise they will be one day."


Azote's attention is not missed and Jasir raises a hand to his chest and bows his head slightly, while not culture specific, the motion is somewhat more common amongst elves or at least who have been called elf-friend... It's a gentle acknowledgement since it likely isn't the time for partial-embraces and the like.

He starts to pace somewhat, his gaze turning down towards the fallen thug. He seems to consider Ulfr's appraisal of the situation. "With respect, were we in more idealistic times I might agree. But can we speak for what he knows of our plans? I would not risk a pursuing force so early into the venture. I vote for pragmatism and a quick, merciful death."

With a quick shrug Úlfr makes it very clear he isn't willing to bicker about whether the thug should live or die. He seems intent on finishing what he's doing and bends back to his tasks.

Cloaked Azote returns the simple acknowledgement back to Jasir as this isn't the time for exchange of thoughts.

"He is shadow." can be heard from elven Azote as she makes her simple thoughts plain as many know she would kill any shadow given a fair chance. To be sure, she didn't neutralize him so that he might live.

Petra's cheeks warm at Jasir's compliment even if it's not how she remembers it--had they had more time for study, she could've learned so much more.


The dwarrow is pleased that Ulfr invites Bran to join them on the barge rather than leave him to his fate, and almost more so that he advocates mercy for a recent foe (Collaborator 1). "Mercy is never wasted, and second chances rarely are," she says in agreement with Ulfr on both counts.


But Jasir advocates for a more coldly calculated pragmatism. Dead men tell no tales. And Azote seems to agree, convinced that this enemy is steadfastly in the Shadow's corner, against them.


Petra tamps down on her knee-jerk reluctance to take a life without utmost necessity of defense of the self or others.


Instead she says ponderously, "If we are each having our say...I agree with Ulfr. We best not kill this man now he is helpless."


To Azote, she appeals, "You may be right, he may eagerly serve the Shadow which oppresses your brave people more cruelly than most. But we did not witness enough to judge his motives with any certainty, did we? We all know the Shadow bullies and blackmails. He may be glad to be free of the orc. He did try to run, which seems to show he was no fanatic fighting to the bitter end, was he?"


She doesn't dare contradict logical Jasir without a rational-sounding alternative, so she turns to him next:

"Jasir, concerns of further pursuit are valid...but could we not, instead, take this man and drop him somewhere else with a minimum of supplies, into a sort of exile? Let him start over outside the ranks of whoever gave tonight's orders, too far away to raise an alarm about us soon enough to dog our heels? Or if that's too much time or effort, might we just bind him and gag him and blockade him in the hidden cellar so that he cannot get out quickly enough to cause trouble?"


She cannot help adding in an address to them all, looking from face to face,

"Think of this, how shall we fight a true rebellion against the Shadow while using the Shadow's own tactics? If we lose what sets us apart from their ruthlessness, if we too treat people as disposable things or as meat, how shall we build the people's trust and grow our ranks?

"And suppose the weapon of legend to oppose the Shadow that we plan to seek can only be wielded by those who choose a more enlightened path?"


She holds her breath and waits.

Azote retorts back, "That man was there when Tefli lost part of his life forever. He did not aid and attacked us on sight as no words were spoken. His actions have sealed his fate. He is shadow."

GREYBARROW | THE THIRSTY LANTERN | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

The air inside has gone cold and bruised, as though the storm outside has found a second life in the decaying tavern. Lantern-wicks bob on every exhale, painting each face in strokes of ember-gold and coal-black. The silence in the Thirsty Latern feels like a held breath moments before a scream.

Bran

Bran breaks first. He straightens, voice pitched to carry up the slick stairs.

"We have no country, and the bones of our ancestors are dust these tyrants grind into mortar. We help only our own, and mine needs me more than you. Leave me be—before I turn from this fool’s errand and carve a truer path."

The words rasp like steel dragged slow across flint, and the last syllable hangs, smoking, in the hush that follows. Bran’s gauntlet falls back to the sword-hilt; continuing to fidget during his contemplation.

A muffled sobble escapes the far corner where the unconscious rogue, trussed like a hog for market, lies in a puddle of guttering lamplight. His breathing is shallow, stuttering, but it draws the eyes of all present to the choice the company still has not made: mercy or silence, blade or bandage.

Wexley Thorn’s round spectacles catch the glow as he lifts his head, expression unreadable—too practised, perhaps, or simply too tired for outrage any longer. He looks from the inert prisoner, the gathering upstairs, then to the grim faces of the would-be heroes.

Wexley Thorn

"Deliberate quickly," he sighs, rolling the storm-spotted map with fingers that do not tremble but no longer steady either.

"Kill him, spare him, I hold no sermon in my beard for his lot. But indecision will drown us faster than the Shadow's hounds. Serah, Tefli, and I are for the river now. The barge shoves off before the moon hits it's peak and the Eye’s patrols smell warm blood. Come or stay; we will not delay for any soul."

With that, Wexley stuffs the chart beneath his cloak and claps his battered hat low against the wind and rain, already halfway out the door.

Serah of the Loom moves more slowly, but deliberate, shawl sliding on her shoulders like shed dusk. For an instant the lantern catches silver in her hair, and every crag in her face tells of winters survived by wit alone. She lays a papery hand on Wexley’s arm, halting for but a moment.

Serah of the Loom

"I have lived a long life, old friend, and in that span I’ve gathered more than tales to pass on. I must fetch a few… legacies… from my hearth before I join you. I will be dockside before you depart; I will not keep the river waiting."

Her tone is soft but unyielding, the way granite sings when struck. She nods once to the others, warm to Petra, guarded toward Azote—then gathers her cloak with the care of a weaver tidying her threads.

Tefli, half-hidden behind a table during the conversation, shifts but does not speak. His eyes, wide and glassy, track every shadow as though expecting each to leap free and bite. Sweat beads on his brow despite the chill, and his hand worries the hem of his shirt in frantic circles.

Wexley departs first, boots squelching on the damp wood, followed by cobblestone. Serah follows, her step lighter than one might expect from bones so old. Tefli hesitates, glances once at the bound man, once at the companions, and then scurries after his guardians, shoulders hunched, hand on his bicep, as though fearing even the lantern-glow might cause him harm.

The cellar door remains open. Condensation weeps through the seams on the floor and spatters the map-table in lonely drops. Above, the rain swells, and the rebel's steps retreat toward the harbor, fading beneath the roar of the storm and the Sea of Pelluria. All that remains is the slow, soggy breathing of the captive, Bran’s iron silhouette, the delibearting party and the creeping certainty that any decision made now will stain every mile upriver.

Some questions best left unanswered.

Not that Seelah needs as many answers as she initially thought. How the Shadow knew our heroes were holed up here…well the answer, surely, is an iron silhouette fidgeting with the pommel of his sword. Redemption is still possible, our ebony guardian thinks to herself. But alas, there was little time for convincing.

You can be better Bran, Seelah replies. Redemption is yours to take. But you must choose it. Let not the Shadow choose you. Realizing her words are perhaps as lost on Bran, as they are on the unconscious collaborator, Seelah collects her gear and turns to go.

Later, our ebony guardian Seelah doffs her chain mail, and dons the breastplate. She adds her chain mail to the party’s loot, later covering it upon the barge with a blanket. Her new-acquired breastplate but a small trophy, stained with the blood of Shadow.

I’ll wear it well, she thinks to herself, then quietly uttering the phrase in the Orcish tongue.

The Sarcosan's head tilts slightly as Ulfr expresses more idealism... and in so doing so provides some insight on what transpired prior to his arrival. Though he lets out a quiet huff of breath, he's unable to say he dislikes the outlook of the giant Norther.

Slowly Jasir raises a hand to grip his own chin, his other arm folding itself across his abdomen, his body language portraying pensiveness. He seems to grow still, but the light behind his eyes can only mean that he plotting courses through the unknowable future. Even Petra's alternative gets contemplated. Though after a few moments he shakes his head.

"When one takes a prisoner, one must then guard said prisoner. Remain vigilant against his every possible treachery. Would you keep him sedated? Then perhaps trust to hope that he is not familiar with whatever location we release him? Better to leave him here bound and pray he is blind to our designs," Jasir provides before raising his finger. "You ask what sets us apart from the Shadow... Have you ever tortured some one? Ever murdered for no reason besides the dark enjoyment it evokes? Inflicted pain for its own sake? Mutilated? Defiled? These are things the Shadow does. I assure you, a quick painless death is not a methodology the Enemy ascribes to."

"What if the weapon requires a sacrifice? Or the will to wield it? Some bridges we can only cross when we arrive at them," he counters delving into further speculations before huffing out a breath. "Know that while I hold my belief on what is the correct course... I do wish the world was more of a variety that your beliefs could flourish in more hearts."

With that said he slowly stretches his hand backwards towards the hilt of his cedeku. "We should choose now. We must go."

Varin grunts in response to Peta’s question, barely glancing over his shoulder as he rummages through a half-splintered cabinet.
"I get around, Peta. Do a little bit of everything to get by," he mutters, pulling out a dusty bottle, checking the label, and tossing it aside when it turns out to be vinegar. "Pretty sure you’ve patched me up once or twice. Maybe more—I’ve stopped keeping count."

The Elfling hoists himself up onto a rickety shelf, boots scraping the wood as he climbs higher to check the top storage racks. His eyes scan for anything useful—maps, hidden bottles, bundles of herbs, or spare gear—anything that might’ve been stashed where scavengers wouldn’t think to look. Below him, the others continue their conversation, but Varin stays focused, listening without commenting.

"We’re taking the prisoner," he says flatly, not looking down. "I’ll keep an eye on him."
He drops to the floor with a soft grunt and crosses over to the bound man slumped in the corner. Kneeling down, Varin checks the ropes—tightening the knots, testing the tension, and giving the bindings one last pull to make sure there’s no slack.

"Once we’re a good distance out, I’ll throw him off the barge. After we get what we need from him."
Varin stands, towering over the prisoner for a moment, eyes hard.
"Let his fate be in his own hands after that."

He turns to the group, brushing dust from his gloves. "Someone’s going to need to carry him to the barge. I’ll keep him from biting, but I’m not capable of hauling that dead weight the whole way."

Bran scoffs and sneers underneath his mask, toward the cellar stairs, rasping voice echoing with disdain. "Spare me the noble creed, guardian. Swing at what’s in front of you. I fight for Elise, no room in that for shadow, strangers or saints."

Damp dust swirls round Varin’s boots as he prowls the decaying hall. The floorboards groan like fretful sleepers beneath each nudge of his heel, and every overturned table seems to clutch its own small secret. Long-rotted ale vats yawn empty, but a few corners still resist the years… and the recent carnage.

Behind what was once the bar, a splintered shelf yields three squat jars of salt-packed pork, the brine inside still clear, the wax seals unbroken. Farther back, inside the cabinet, and finds a clay flask, the glaze fired black as pitch; a sharp shake tells him the lamp-oil within sloshes true. Even better, a half-hidden bottle of bitterroot wine lies corked on the floor nearby. The label damaged, yet the spirit fumes bite his nose: prime for fire.

At last his glove brushes a faint powdery gleam beside a broken crate: dried glimmermoss spores, gone dull without blood to wake them, but worth a healer’s time if kept dry. He gathers a modest pinch into a pouch before the thunder outside starts them glowing.

---

After stuffing the last of the scavenged supplies into his pack, Varin strides over to the edge of the cellar. He pauses at the top of the stairs, eyes narrowed into the darkness below where the helmed man still lingers.
"We’re leaving," he calls down, voice flat and final. "I hope we never meet again."

Without waiting for a reply, Varin grips the edge of the hidden door and pulls it shut with a solid thunk, sealing the cellar—and whatever was left in it—behind thick wood and silence.

Turning to the others, he jerks his head toward the exit. "Time to move. Someone grab him"
He starts ushering the group out of the tavern, staying until he was the last one out.

"I hear you Azote. Take his life if you will. It's my hope that I've killed enough today." He shoulders whatever packs are left of party loot and makes ready to walk out the door. He does seem to wait to be the last one out though. (Not counting Bran.)

Edit: He's also sets the prisoner by the door inside so he can grab him up easily. He stands right next to him with a boot lightly on his leg though.

Petra waves farewell to Wexley and Serah and nods her vigorous understanding there's no time to waste, the boat must leave soon. A bit sorry both elders never weighed in, but less surprised that she might otherwise be given how roughly the night has gone.


Petra admits to Azote and Jasir, "I cannot and would not argue against the point that this man failed to do the right thing by Tefli as well as by us when he threw his lot in with the orc. I just believe it more likely he acted out of fear and cowardice toward the orc and other Shadow servants, as opposed to malice.


"Nor would I argue there is no mercy in a quick death compared to...prolonging suffering. And of course it's significant not to take pleasure in others' suffering or death...but, treating people as things is a step in the direction of spite and disregard for life, and down that path may lie other deeds like torture, if you see my concern?

"I don't even mean to say that merciful acts will never come back to haunt or bite us, I know sometimes they could, including this one."


She blanches at Jasir's suggestion the weapon of legend may require a harsh sacrifice. Though not because she's some seer who can say for sure it will not...any more than she can be sure a weapon to fight the Shadow will require righteousness. "If the weapon we seek asks a life be sacrificed or similar treachery, I will personally suspect it to be a trick of the Shadow's."


The dwarrow smiles wistfully when Jasir acknowledges that his leanings have not changed but he wishes the world were more like she believes it could be.


It surprises Petra that Seelah does not weigh in on the dilemma with the prisoner but pleases her greatly that Seelah encourages Bran. Even if Bran disappoints again, for consistent and understandable reasons. His lady friend (or family?) comes first, damn anyone he sees as between him and that goal or distracting him from it--so they must move on and let him do the same, before he turns violent.


Varin gives her another pleasant surprise, remembering her AND showing willingness to take the prisoner and set him loose later far from Greybarrow. A pity it's not the same solution of 'lock him the cellar' that Jasir seemed ready to concede, avoiding a consensus reached yet, but any mercy is a mercy.


"If you let me revive the prisoner a little...I or someone else could help him walk? I cannot carry him, I am sorry. If someone were willing to carry him, with or without reviving him we could splash a little liquor on his breath and pretend he's our drunk friend...or two could support him between them, one arm under each of his armpits?"


Petra holds her breath as Azote and Ulfr continue to discuss killing him, grateful Ulfr is not willing to do the deed personally and feeling closer kinship to him because of that choice. "I still counsel mercy. But I cannot be the one to carry him to the eel boat as much as I wish otherwise. Nor can I stop any person who thinks a quick death is the best we can do for him, for us, or for all."

I won’t be party to torture, nor to throwing people overboard to their death.

Petra looks startled. "No, not torturing for information. And not sending him overboard to his death...overboard with something to keep him afloat, or else set him on land, I thought that was the plan? Send him into exile farther from the city limits of Greybarrow so he won't cause trouble, not kill him."


The dwarrow healer looks to Varin for clarification, hoping she had not misunderstood or that if she had, Seelah could sway him.

"If we take him from here, he becomes our responsibility. At that point I won't let us give him injury. We would owe weregelt to his family, and I don't have cattle enough for all of that."

Although the situation seems new to many, it is not to Azote. She well knows the man has seen her and if he lives to tell the tale more troubles will follow. Her conscious weight more than its share. Seeing the problem she takes action.

She walks over to the prisoner and stabs him to death, "There. The deed is done." as it again burns her soul. "We have a boat to catch." There was no joy in her voice. Only determination.

Úlfr, ready for either possibility, quickly beheads him and steps out the door. He uses the same rags to clean the blood off of the axe as he walks.

Elven Azote thanks friend Úlfr with a knowing nod as she totally detest having to cut heads. And she waits for him to complete before leaving with him.

Varin starts to yell at Azote to stop but realizes it is too late. He grumbles to himself, sighs loudly, and just follows the other out of this godforsaken tavern.

Jasir tilts his head to the side as the notion of taking the man gets considered, "So you would provide him with the direction we are traveling and any other information he can glean while our ward? It bears remembering that our venture only serves to help people if it succeeds. Which means avoiding actions that might endanger the outcome."

The Sarcosan shakes his head. "You've every right to your concern, Petra. But applying prioritization to lives is not disregard. As I understand healers must be ready to make such decisions when called to."

While the cloaked and cowled man might have been willing to waste whatever time remained trading philosophy, Azote brings argument to a halt. Jasir's dark eyes hold on the act and his hand slowly slips away from the hidden blade. As he starts to step past Azote he pauses and moves to rest his hand on her shoulder, offering wordless comfort.

Then he is stepping through the door he addresses Petra again, "Walk with me, Petra? Your presence lightens one's steps and acts as a reminder of things one ought not cast aside easily." Then he steps out into the stormy night once more.

Petra almost chuckles at Ulfr's dryly Dornish "I don't have the cattle for all that."


Azote makes the fatal choice for all of them. Words die on Petra's lips to reply to Jasir--about how to use precautions to stop the prisoner from learning even more, and how to warn him off tattling, and so on.


The dwarrow flinches but doesn't look away. She can't physically stop it, and she won't hide her eyes from it.Softly before the elf exits, Petra tells Azote, "I know it was hard and it hurt you to do that, Azote. Also, I know you meant to protect us more than to punish him. I ache when you ache, as a friend, if you don't mind my clumsy way of saying so."


While Ulfr takes the necessary precaution against rising as a Fell, Petra approaches Varin who'd been gathering supplies (and, well, looting the bodies too).

She asks, "Varin, did you find any herbs or mixtures I might be able to examine or use? And is there a spare knife I could take for gathering plants, and for self-defense? I won't fault you if you think others would make better use of any of it, I'm just asking? And, er, I would take a pack of rations if there is an extra?"


At Jasir's beckoning, Petra hurries her short legs to catch up with him. She would like to talk more with him, his outlook interests her, though of course all her companions' outlooks do too.

The Sarcosan seems like someone who could help cover her blindspots and will weigh her ideas like they are worth considering. He even seems to tell her that her hopes and principles may be something other than weakness, and that is a rare kindness.

Seelah closes her eyes, as if prayerful. She clutches the pommel of Bladeguard, and assumes a look of one fervant, solemn in resolve.
Very well then. It is done. Let’s go, she says in quiet agreement.

Elven Azote replies back to Petra, "It had to be done." Azote takes the guilt for everyone else as none want to kill.

Normally herbalist Azote would be more interested in the plants and herbs and such but right now she just wants to leave. The situation just troubles her.

GREYBARROW | LOWER QUAY | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

The Sea of Pelluria battered the piers like a drunkard denied last call, heavy-fisted, bitter, and unrelenting. Rain fell in waves, carving rivulets through the tarps strung between barnacled mooring posts, drumming against every shingle and staved barrel like a war chant with no refrain. Lightning spidered across the black sky, throwing the harbor into stark, silvered relief—masts like gallows, ropes like nooses, and the occasional hulked vessel rotting in its berth like an omen half-remembered.

There, tethered by a double loop of salt-pickled rope, bobbed the Netherthistle.

A low, wide-bellied river barge, her hull slathered in pitch and scars, she crouched against the dock like a beast unchained but not yet leaping. Bundles of netting and crates lashed with eel cord were stacked beneath a tarred canopy, their shadows cast long and twitching by the lamplight affixed to her prow. It was an old-style lantern—driftwood-wrought and fish-oil fed—that gave off a sickly amber glow, painting the quay in honeyed hues that no eye could mistake for warmth.

Wexley Thorn stood mid-deck, boot braced on a coil of damp rope, oilskin cloak snapping behind him like a storm-witch’s banner. His cone-hat was tied tight against the wind, lenses fogged and gleaming as he adjusted the barge's rigging.

A second gnome worked closer to the prow, cursing as he hauled a sack twice his size across the slippery deck.

This other gnome—thick-browed, sun-browned, sharp-eyed, younger than Wexley by some margin. Yet he still bore the same unmistakable riverfolk hallmarks: callused fingers, a broad nose like a chipped helm, and the hunched, coiled posture of someone who expected trouble to come from the water as often as from above. His clothes were stitched from eel-hide and salvaged sailcloth, and his fingers flicked knots with uncanny precision.

"Rain’s trying to drown us before the river gets its shot." He spat over the rail, then caught sight of movement along the quay.

The party approached, their outlines refracted by the storm: tall and resolute shadows framed by the flicker of half-drowned torchlight.

"Those our precious cargo then?" Thaelin muttered to Wexley, not low enough to avoid being overheard.

Thaelin straightened, wiped his hands on his jerkin, and shot Wexley a crooked grin.

"Aye. Precious and doomed." Wexley didn’t look up from the knot. "Keep your tongue civil, Thael. They’ve chosen a difficult path."

Behind him, a soft rustle stirred in the darker half of the cargo canopy, but neither gnome acknowledged it. Wind howled through the sail-less rigging like a dirge.

Wexley finally finished with the rope he was dutifully working on, eyes sharp behind his lenses.

"You’ve time for questions, if you’ve the sense to ask 'em. Once we’re off this pier, we ride quiet and fast. Stuck to the shallows."

He gave the deck a last, lingering glance, like he was counting more than crates. "Serah better hurry. We will not delay much longer."

Varin pulls out an extra dagger from the scavenged loot before handing it to her "You know how to use it?" Without waiting for an answer he flips it in the air and catches it blades side and hades it to her by the handle. "Yes, I found a few herbs, rations, and some other helpful stuff. I will passout what I found when we get to the boat. Don't want it getting Wet or ruined while we travel."

In a small voice, knowing the offer may be withdrawn, Petra admits, "I know how to harvest with a knife, and splice ropes for sailing. I could use pointers on using it for defense or attack, though? To be honest, I heard a tale from a gnome who said he cut his way out of a dragon who swallowed him without chewing, so I thought..." She trails off and shrugs.


When Varin explains he wants to wait to pass things out, she nods agreeably.

Onboard, Petra says she served on the gnome ferry + barge Lelie under Captain Finn and offers to help with preparing or sailing the Netherthistle in any way they will permit her.

If allowed, she acquits herself well and does credit to the sailing that's in her gnomish blood--with extra steadiness on her thicker "sea legs" from her mother's side.



OOC:

If they take her up on her offer to help with the ship's needs to get ready to sail or tend the ship while sailing, Profession (Sailor) check below.

Thaelin pulled the last of the cargo netting taut, hooked it to a rusted cleat with a satisfying clack, then turned as Petra stepped aboard and offered her credentials with an eager glint in her eye.

He gave her the full squint. The skeptical one. The one that measured both salt and sugar in a person.

Then, with a dripping-wet flourish, he swept an arm wide like a courtier presenting a haunted house.

"Name’s Thaelin Kettlebranch. Deckhand, eel-wrangler, and second-best liar aboard this barge; though I’ll challenge any who say otherwise."

He glanced sidelong at the barge as it groaned under a broadside gust, the hull shivering like an old dog in sleet.

"Welcome aboard. Mind your footing. She doesn’t like strangers and she’ll toss you quicker than I can name your boots."

When Petra offered her past with Captain Finn and the Lelie, Thaelin arched a brow, in spite of himself. But the smirk stayed firm.

"That so? No doubt you’ve the salt for it, stonefoot. But this here’s no lake-hop or tea-cruise to Durnsdale. This is a storm-bellied smuggler run on a river black. So if you’re itching to prove your trim, maybe wait ‘til the water ain’t trying to unmake us, yeah?"

Still, he passed her a coiled line without looking directly at her, the corner of his mouth twitching.

"…Just don’t make me regret it."

And she didn’t. Her hands moved with confident surety, thick legs planted wide and low, reading the sway of the Netherthistle like she’d grown aboard her. Thaelin grunted approvingly once, then made a show of ignoring her completely, the highest praise, from him.

Elven Azote fights hard against the wind and lost control of her hood in an effort to keep and protect Tork bolted to her chest. Her lean body shown as the weather rips at her cloaked body. Her head is down casted in an effort to plunge through the storm, but it only hides her emerald green eyes and not her Elvenish. There is little she can do as the storm is fearful. There is no Elven grace here.

She says under the covers of the storm, "Fine vessel" in Trader's Tongue as she boards and immediately looks for a space to stop the battering of the storm or at least ease it. She notes Gnomes about and Trader's Tongue is more common but unfortunately, she isn't at all fluid with it. She only knows enough to get along.

She seeks a spot where she can again cover herself. Like many she has little to none experience here. She is extra baggage. If she can find a spot near Úlfr she will use his close bulk to aid her. She always feels safest near him.

She knows magic (Prestidigitation) to aid her, but all is short lived against this storm. Till it stops she is drenched. She doesn't even afford some light (Light). Either way she is rather unsure vessel's crew out take such well. She is sure that she is pressing matters being Elven. She gets to be "Precius Cargo".

Jasir looks over the riverboat for a long moment before moving towards where he can find a dry place to rest his pack. With his gear stored he moves himself from the path of the boat's operation, instead seeking to help others stow gear and then finding a likely place to settle in for some cogitation. After a little bit of consideration he starts to work his fingers through small series of exercises to aid in the act of forming somatic gestures. He doesn't seek to get in the way otherwise.

The storm clawed at her like a living thing, an old salt-drunk wretch trying to tear her from her feet. Azote pressed forward, cloak half-torn, hair streaming like ravenweed in the wind. She gripped the bundle at her chest—Tork’s small weight a living warmth—and ducked her head as if she could vanish into her own shadow.

Rain slicked the gangplank as she stepped aboard the Netherthistle. A voice, sharp but not unkind, rose over the gale.

"Fine’s generous, but I’ll take it."

Thaelin blinked against the spray and motioned her toward the aft canopy.

"Aft hold’s dryest. Mind the crates, bit of a nest back there."

He turned before she could reply, already barking at the next rope.

Azote slipped beneath the awning, more a rain-sheet than shelter, but blessed relief all the same. Crates lashed with eelcord offered a low windbreak. There, tucked among the canvas bundles, sat a small figure hunched in shadow, Tefli. Still recoiling from the earlier ordeal. The elf's emerald eyes glinted faintly in the gloom.

Wexley spotted the figure pausing at the gangplank, the storm smearing Jasir’s outline into a streak of shadow and oil-lamp gleam. The old gnome raised a hand, eyes narrowing behind rain-misted lenses.

"Mind the lip there, watch your weight—aye, there. You’ll find a dry patch under the doghouse roof, starboard side. Tarp’s tied tight unless Thaelin’s bungled it again."

He motioned with his cane—not for walking, but for pointing—and gave Jasir’s pack a once-over before nodding, satisfied.

"Rest it there, where it won’t roll. You’ve the look of someone who knows where his elbows end. That’s rare enough."

Turning to the center deck, Wexley’s voice raised an octave, "Thaelin, what in the storm-damned hells are you doing letting passengers run lines?"

His glare was sharp, but it faltered as he caught sight of Petra steady at the stern, rope looped, tied, and tucked in the gnomish river-knots of old ferry hands. She moved like she belonged to the river.

Wexley grunted, adjusted his spectacles, then muttered softer,

"Hmph. Someone's trained ‘er right, then. Probably better than you."

He didn’t look at Thaelin as he said it, but the corner of his mouth curled upward.

Without another word, the old gnome stepped up beside the helm post, steadying himself as the Netherthistle rocked against a fresh gust. Above, lightning flared once more and the barge held its ground against the increasing tide.

Seelah offers to light a torch, if it’d help. But I don’t want to drawn attention to our presence, she concedes. Here in the eternal midnight, our ebony guardian had long grown accustomed to the darkness. She only hopes to stay dry, if also blind!

Thaelin glanced up from where he’d just lashed a net down with a half-twist and a spit-cinch, water beading on the end of his nose. He squinted through the downpour at Seelah’s tall silhouette, torch gripped but unlit.

"We don’t need more light, soldier. Most of us see fine at night, and the rest fake it well enough not to fall overboard." He smirked, thumbing rain from his brow.

From the aft, Wexley’s voice cracked through the din like snapped sailcloth.

"Petra! Port-side lashings need a check. And if you’re crew enough to haul line, you’re crew enough to jump when I give the order!"

He turned just enough to glance back toward Seelah, rain dripping from the end of his beard like a metronome.

"Stay under canvas, Guardian. Keep your powder dry and your torch drier. The moon provides us more'n enough light."

Seelah settles into a corner of the barge. Pulling her cloak tight, to stay warm in the damp night air. Brown eyes gaze out over the water. She thinks about the events of the day, the violence. She’s used to it, it’s what she does. She wasn’t going to kill the fallen collaborator, but she doesn’t blame others for it. Her ways, are not others’ ways.

To protect…and to try and redeem…

A hard path, and a delicate line. As our ebony guardian looks out over the water again, and pulls her cloak tighter still, she takes little solace in knowing…that probably won’t be the only time she’s faced with such a choice.

Petra introduces her name but otherwise buttons up, puts on her Serious Face, and jumps to obey whatever her superiors' order regarding the ship.


Every shipman is more bursting with pride over their vessel than a parent with a brilliant child, and as suspicious of strangers wanting to take any part of its care.


Losing herself in the work is just what she needs. Mourning the past and soberly regarding the future will wait.

Ulfr does offer a bulwark against the storm. "He was right. This storm is hungry. My ears popped and my knee is sore. It'll likely get worse soon. I've not been on boats much, but weather, weather I know."

A fresh gust hit the Netherthistle broadside as Úlfr stepped aboard, the barge groaning beneath the weight of rain and one rather sizable Dorn. Water sluiced off his cloak in sheets, his bulk casting a shadow even in the half-light under the awning. The deck shifted noticeably as he took a second step.

Thaelin

Thaelin’s eyes went wide. He held up both hands like he was trying to ward off a tidal wave.

"Easy big fella, you sure you weren’t meant for the next barge over? I’ve seen stone anchors that'll cause less drift."

Wexley didn’t look up from adjusting a brass compass, but his mouth twitched beneath his soaked beard.

Wexley Thorn

"Thaelin, hush. We’ll list less on the port side now."

Thaelin muttered something about hull integrity and took a careful step back.

Wexley finally turned, nodding to Úlfr with a grin, weather-worn, but warm.

Then his eyes flicked toward the alley beyond the dock.

"Now where in blazes is Serah? We’ll be taking root before she climbs aboard…"

He sniffed, muttered something about "old looms and slower feet."

Drenched Azote takes comfort as she slides in next to Úlfr. Like a rhythm she says "Survive the night, Survive the night" before she closes her tired eyes. A squawking voice that has to be Tork's can be heard, "None should be out this night."

Varin steps onto the barge with a cautious glance around, boots thudding against the wooden planks. He gives Thaelin and Wexley a short, silent nod—acknowledgment without ceremony—before following the others as they make their way down into the hold.

The space is dim and close, the scent of river water and old wood thick in the air. Varin moves with quiet purpose, settling himself on a low crate across from Azote. With a grunt, he swings his pack off his shoulder and starts rummaging through it, leather creaking under calloused fingers.

"Found these after the fight," he says, pulling out a small, folded paper packet and a worn scrap of parchment. He places them on the surface between them with deliberate care—the packet light and dusty with faint traces of spore residue, the map partially smudged with blood.

"Don’t know what they are. Spores, maybe," he mutters, jerking his chin toward the paper packet. "And this map... could be nothing. You got the head for this stuff—figure ‘em out if you can."

Varin leans back slightly, eyes never quite leaving Azote as he waits, one hand still resting near the hilt of his blade out of habit rather than threat

GREYBARROW | LOWER QUAY | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT
Wexley glanced up as Varin's boots hit the deck, the sound solid even under the hiss of rain and the groan of the river beneath them. The old gnome gave a short nod, tugging down his oilskin hood just enough to show a squint of approval.

Wexley Thorn

"Well then. That makes all but the one." He shifted his stance by the rudder post and waved toward the aft. "Thaelin, see him to the doghouse. Make sure there's a dry patch that doesn’t stink of brine."

Thaelin looked up from checking a line, already soaked to the bone, and gave Varin a once-over.

Thaelin

"Plenty of dry if you don’t mind sitting on crates. Come on then."

As Varin followed him toward the covered quarters, Wexley turned again toward the storm-blurred dock. Rain streaked his lenses, but he leaned into the wind like it owed him something.

"And that leaves us waiting on Serah. She’s late, even by her stubborn standards…"

He paused, peering into the murk.

"Hold a moment. Someone’s coming. Slow—but that gait ain’t one I’d mistake."

The wind shifted, bearing with it a familiar, labored rhythm of footsteps and the drag of worn soles against soaked stone.

---

The storm gave no courtesy to age. Serah’s form emerged from the downpour slowly, a dark blot against darker stone, shoulders hunched against the wind. Her steps were careful but determined, each one deliberate as she navigated the slick quay. The pack on her back was nearly as tall as she was, swaying with her movement like an old friend clinging too tight.

Wexley straightened at the railing, eyes narrowing behind fogged lenses.

"There she is, tide waited just for you." His voice cut the rain like a snapped rope as he barked at Thaelin. " Thaelin, help her onboard, lad!"

Thaelin was already moving, boots skidding a little as he jogged down the gangplank. He reached her side and offered no protest or flourish, just placed both hands under the edge of her pack and gave a gentle upward shove to ease the weight.

"You’re late, you’re soaked, and you're trying to break your back, what are you thinkin' you old geezer?" he muttered with a sideways smile. "Still glad you made it, Nan. Let’s get you aboard."

Serah of the Loom

Serah chuckled low and wet, then patted the top of his dripping head affectionately.

"Don’t sass your elders, boy. I’ll put a boot in your rear just as I did when I was younger."

Once aboard, she pulled down her hood, rain still streaming from her curls, and cast a slow, knowing look over the gathered figures beneath the awning.

"Well then. That’s everyone, is it?" Her tone was warm as she passed Petra, laying a gentle hand on the young woman's arm. "Good blood in you, girl. They won't say it, but they appreciate the help, just don't let them run you." She gave Úlfr a firm nod and a soft smile that somehow made her seem ten winters younger. "You’ll hold, I know it."

But when her eyes landed on Azote nestled into Ulfr, that warmth turned to granite. She gave the elf a curt nod—no greeting, no flicker of expression—and then acted as if she weren’t there at all.

Wexley turned sharply, already stepping toward the rudder post.

"That’s the last, stow lines. Time we moved."

At the rudder, he looked into the dark toward Greybarrow again, Gnome eyes offering more in the dark stormy night than any torch ever could. He muttered over the wind, too soft for most to hear:

"Say goodbye, friends. We may never make port here again, even if we survive this fool journey."

THE SEA OF PELLURIA | STORMBOUND | RAIN-SWEPT NIGHT

The Netherthistle groaned against her moorings one last time as the final line was hauled aboard. Wood creaked, canvas snapped, and the paddle blades hissed into motion, churning the black waters of the Sea of Pelluria with stubborn resolve.

Thaelin took his place near the tiller post, arms steady, eyes bright. Wexley stood tall (by gnomish standards) one hand on the rudder and the other turning a small capstan, how it generated so much torque with so little motion was anyone's guess.

On deck, the passengers settled in like uncertain cargo. Petra braced near the rigging, one eye always tracking the swell. Jasir withdrew to a dry corner beneath the doghouse, fingers moving in silent, meditative patterns. Azote leaned into Úlfr’s lee, the weight of Tork close to her chest, while Seelah kept one hand near her sword and both eyes on the horizon. Varin sat distributing and chatting about the items won and found. Serah, last aboard, sat beneath the awning beside a sealed crate, her breath fogging in the cold, fidgeting a cheesecloth pouch.

Behind, Greybarrow loomed like a half-remembered dream—wet stone, crooked roofs, and lanterns that flickered but never warmed. The docks shrank in the storm, becoming little more than a smear of shadow behind veils of rain.

And with that, the barge slipped free of Greybarrow without incident and vanished into the squall.

---

The night pressed on like a sodden quilt--heavy, stifling, and full of groans from the shifting hull. Most aboard did their best to rest, though true sleep was hard-won. Every swell sent the Netherthistle listing just enough to jostle nerves, and the storm drummed a ceaseless rhythm across tarp and timber.

Petra remained on rotation with Thaelin at the tiller, her hands quick and sure despite the wet. She moved with the rhythm of the river, taking orders in stride and reading the lean of the barge with instinctual grace. Thaelin said nothing, but the lack of complaints from him spoke volumes.

Wexley barked the occasional correction, but even he seemed half-lulled by the churn of progress and the creak of the long hull beneath them. They kept close to the coast, far enough from shore to avoid patrols, near enough to catch the steady current that would ferry them north.

By the third hour, Greybarrow was gone—swallowed by storm and distance alike. Their distination, the Ishensa River, a mere dream at this point in the journey, lay ahead through the the Sea of Pelluria which stretched ahead, cold and dark. The remainder of the night was gratefully uneventful, their luck turning a corner.

For now.