In the Halls of the Water Folk
Seventeenth Day of Ashinu-ezna (Ashinu Ascendant) 1348 A. L. (After Landfall)
You glance at Inge, but the girl just shakes her head, bemused. She does not know any more of talking otters than you do, so it comes down to if you trust what Tender has already told you of them and the kind of matter in which they have presented themselves.
Perhaps it is a trap as many spirits have laid before your feet since the passage into this world, the voice of suspicion whispers in your mind, but stronger still is the desire to believe that they are speaking truth. After all, neither the keeper of the stone nor the crow-footed Hedon had come before you with such a handsome offer, it had been all demands and curses on their lips. So then how should you treat them, knowing little? As you expect to be treated, a stranger in a strange land.
"Keep a civil tongue and a fair bearing," you warn the others in French before turning to the otter who had 'spoken' first and saying in Anwari, for all that is likely to matter. "We accept your offer kindly for there is much of these northern lands we too would know if it is not too much of an imposition upon your company."
The small furred head bobs happily and the otters dart off.
"Follow, follow, this way this way..." the excited words echo in your mind. It is clear they know the land here very well indeed, for there is no need to slow your pace to make up for longer strides.
Thus you come to an old willow tree, larger that any you have ever seen before, its veil of green enough to hide horse and rider from view and at its feet small bluebell flowers blooming past their time, all glittering with water as though after rain, though there had been nary a cloud in the sky today. Sweeping aside the trailing veil of the willow reveals a stony outcrop, though of a sort unlike the limestone you had seen so near to the coast, grey granite hard as the heart of ancient mountains yet worn by water that comes snaking from its crest... to part around the arch of a cave entrance. No matter how long you look at it you cannot say if it had been carved with a purpose or simply been there since the dawn of the world.
Passing within you find that it is not some dark and dank hole. The light of pine torches soon fills the short corridor mingling with the smells that waft from its depths. There is fish fresh caught and sizzling in its own fat and the earthy scent of roots and herbs, sage and juniper, rose hip and peppermint, and those are just the smells that you can recognize with a sniff. It is clear enough that when your guides had said 'hall' they did not boast unduly. Upon the walls you see markings clearly made by small quick hands; here the arc of a wave, there the bend of a river and over in the corner the spiral of a shellfish seamlessly melding into the scene of a mother otter teaching her pubs.
It had come to you upon meeting seeming beasts that spoke and reasoned that this might not be their true form, that like the boarfolk of Lirman they might wear a more mannish shape for their true one, or like the fey they can change their shape as a man changes clothes, but the more you see of this place the less inclined you are to believe it. Though by the same measure you cannot help but wonder what do creatures so small have need of a hall large enough for a man to walk in freely leading a horse.
Not that the horses need much leading, they seem oddly at ease for beasts lead into the torch lit hall, content to follow Silver along as he walks. Unlike you your friend is not content to follow along in silence, having found himself in strange company before which he can speak freely. "What is this place? Who is its lord and where did you come from? Do you live here year-round or only for the cold seasons?"
This place is called the 'Willowbrook Hall' and the otters had dwelt here for as long as the tales for their forefathers stretched you learn from these questions, and also that they have no king, but only a Great Voice chosen from among the elders who have lived through at least a dozen winters by the acclamation of the people. Strange to think that twelve years should make an elder, but no more so than any other part of their being, and one supposes that to them it is you who might be strange with your armor and weapons of iron.
Apparently there are hundreds of their kindred all across this stretch of coast, living off the bounty of the sea as well as foraging in the woods. Though they are not as mighty as a man, your guides boast of the deftness of their craft and the sharpness of their whit, making war from the shadows upon all who would infringe upon their lands, though as soon as one of the younger otters starts to get into too any detail as to how the leader cuts them off. One can hardly blame them for not wishing to give away the secrets of their defense.
As you come come to the end of your journey you consider which of your adventures thus far would be most welcome by your hosts, those under the boughs of the woods not too unlike these or of cities far off.
What tales do you tell in the halls of the otter-kin?
[] Of your passage into the world and the defeat of the dead on the Spear Islands
[] Of the defense of the Boarfolk and the vanquishing of the Hedon
[] Of far Orinilu, its wonders and artifice, and of the mad mage who assailed you there
[] Write in
OOC: Turns out Silver is a chatterbox when he can be without freaking people out, the more you know...
