Chapter Five: Bapdis Orjo's Gift of Reconciliation

The mist swirls around rapidly in what sort of seems like what would be the mist-based body language for an affirmative response.

Inside the chest, Domarc finds a neatly folded brown roughspun tunic, two balled-up stockings, a pair of well-worn leather boots, and a small canvas satchel.

Inside the satchel, Domarc finds a small waterskin, two stoppered clay vials, a small piece of silver shaped like a finger, an octagonal-cut ruby about an inch wide, and a handful of nuts, dried roots, and dried berries wrapped in a small piece of cloth.

The fire burning around the elf is large and fierce enough that any thaumaturgical effects played upon it would be very hard to notice. At any rate, Felor's messing with it does not cause the elf to stir.

The figure in the flames does not respond.

Zangua sprints into the column of fire, catching the elf in a flying tackle, and tumbles out the other side with the elf splayed beneath him. He rolls away, smoking, patting down the small burning spots on his clothes.

The elf's eyes snap wide open and he arches his back, his legs convulsing, as he draws in a long, sharp, ragged breath. One by one, the statues stop spewing flames, and the chamber goes dark, save for the enchanted light from Felor's spear.

The elf scrabbles backwards on his feet and elbow, edging back against the wall. His head jerks back and forth and he looks at you all, still taking hard, rasping breaths.

Though he possesses some of that ageless aspect for which elves are known, there is something old and worn about the looks of this elf. His skin is tanned, his eyes deep-set in dark hollows, his hands and feet knobby. He huffs and puffs a few more times before saying, in a strained voice: "Who--who are you?"

The misty form of the jinn circles languidly around the perimeter of the chamber.

The elf looks terrified, confused, and in considerable physical distress. "I--yes, I am he...the iron what? Please, water--and my tincture..." he leans toward the open chest with a reaching gesture.

There aren't any visible wounds on him. He looks a bit leathery, but he isn't burned.

Pafthinel seems to be quite fixated on getting some water and his "tinctures," and so far nobody has affirmatively stated that they're giving them to him.

The elf takes the waterskin from Leth's hands as soon as he can reach it and greedily chugs down everything in it, then pops open one of the clay vials and swallows its contents in one gulp. He takes a deep breath and sits up a little straighter, crossing his legs under him. He seems calmer now, but no less wary, and looks at each of you again in turn. "Thank you," he says, his voice clearer. "Now I must ask you, who are you, and how did you come to find me here?" He presses his left palm against the ground and moves it around slightly.

The mist, meanwhile, circles around behind him and stops, gently pooling into a faint cloud.