Master of the Hearth
Tenth Day of the Twelfth Month 292 AC
"And hosts should not hide behind glamours, so why should I consider you such?" you answer. It rankles more than you would be willing to admit that the fey striker had taken you in. "It is a pleasing mirage you've made here, but it makes it all the more obvious that you seek to hide something. How may I call you?"
"We weave glamours as men weave cloth," the 'bird' chirps indignantly. "Aught I call you a liar for wearing clothes upon your back?"
"I would not counsel offering insult, small one," Garin replies, his tone even and making no gesture more threatening then setting down his drink, but the meaning is clear.
The fey spirit seems to shrink in on itself for a moment but rallies swiftly. "You ate and you drank beneath this roof, guests thou art by the measure of those far greater than I."
"Even were it so, it would not be a great trial to cross a threshold twice," you remind the messenger. Then your point made you relent: "We mean no harm here and find no fault in what we have seen, though we would desire an audience with your lord." You allow the double meaning intentionally, for if the 'bird' speaks of the false lord Baratheon then you will have confirmation and if it takes you to some other spirit thinking it had tricked you then you can simply ask that one pointed questions.
"Follow then..." The thing rises from your cup with a nimbleness no common bird could match, then it races off, feathers still trailing wine. With one last look around your circle of friends, as bemused as you are, you rise to follow at a more sedate pace.
Unsurprisingly none of the patrons so much as bat an eye as the four of you follow a small golden bird across the common room, though some move instinctively aside, still busying themselves with food or drink or song, still caught up in the magic of this place.
The tiny golden guide leads you to the farthest corner of the room where you spy amidst the shadows that might be deeper than natural a door carved with twisting vines, worn but still lovingly polished to a honey-gold shine.
Ser Richard takes advantage of the moment you take to look at the carvings to step ahead of you which draws silent smiles from Tyene and Garin. Yet nothing come against you out of the shadows as you ascend an old but still solid stair into a small chamber furnished with all manner of uncommon things: from turtle shells gleaming in the sun to tiny golden bells hung on braids of hair, and an ancient bronze helm serving as a vessel for what looks to all the world like turnip soup, nothing is quite so odd as the creature sitting behind the desk as though it was a rampart.
A stout mankin no more than three feet high with a massive egg-shaped head almost half the size of its body all covered in bristly black hair save for a long pink nose, a pair of large bat-like ears, and eyes that glow golden orange like hearth-fire. A
house spirit.
More power you see in that gaze than is common for the creature's usually shy and unassuming kind... and far less of the good nature for which they are also known. The creature sighs. "I am called Blazh, whom you might call master of this place. What is your business here oh, lords of distant lands?" he grumbles.
What do you answer?
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OOC: Garin took the cue from your tone and got you through by intimidation, which of course has both its pros and cons.
