VI - Dreams and Portents
New
prometheus110
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- Location
- La Ballena City Raft
- Pronouns
- He/Him
[X] The Elector-Count
The forest stretches out as far as the eye can see as you rise on invisible wings, trees both venerable ancients and supple valets rendered minuscule by your height and shrinking with every passing moment, the sea of skeletal branches and clawed limbs below you forming grasping hands reaching up as if to cast you down. Lit by the sun fixed in the sky, the forest is dreamlike as you continue your ascent; no fear from your sudden predicament percolates through your breast despite the impossibility of the events. Silently, wordlessly, the logic of a dream compelling and soothing you in equal measure, you rise higher and higher until the forest below becomes a painted floor, all detail lost to the grandeur of your altitude.
Calmly, you look down, and the ground beneath your feet turns transparent as your eyes settle upon it, your gaze penetrating wood and loam and soil and stone; through the buried graveyards of vanished species, down through the hellish glow of some substance you have no name for, and then on again. Still staring downwards, you look up through stone and mud, through oceans whose surfaces churn with grey peaked waves and lands adorned with inverted beasts that waddle and croak and roar, and creatures that walk as men do but resemble lizards; through the star-pierced mantle of night and into the endless dark. Dizzyingly far below, floating languidly, constellations you've never seen before shine on men and elves and dwarves and other beings, a glance revealing the dome of the sky shading from peerless blue to sable-black as if it were all just a painted sphere. Unhurried, you look for Mannslieb and find it by its familiar face, the celestial body backlit by the milky glow of the great band encircling the mortal world.
Turning away from the sight—acceptance of the impossible flowing through you—you look to the west at the behest of some unvoiced thought, over screeching beastmen, fractious goblins, and shadows that, even as you are, you cannot and will not peer into. Dimly, a tug comes from over the greatly extended horizon, and all at once, you begin to move through the sky, the ground slipping past beneath your feet as if you are nothing more than a passenger in your own body. Despite this, no panic blossoms in your heart, an imperturbable stoicism holding fast your heart.
On and on, you soar, some unseen hand guiding your motion through the air until the forest below thins to reveal snowy ground that, in turn, gives way to fenced-in fields and walled villages. Without warning, a road appears ahead of you, the dark line cutting a path through the pale expanse of snow from horizon to horizon, backstopped by the rising Silver Hills; some hidden insight telling you Salzenmund lay mere leagues away. Suddenly, your flight shifts south, and the rolling peaks retreat below the dark line of the horizon once more, all knowledge of Salzenmund vanishing from your mind along with them. Turning to face your fate, the land beneath you blurring from your speed, you feel a muted sense of wonder burst to life in your heart as the horizon line thickens and swells in a matter of moments, a vast plateau leaping up from the mortal earth and rising to meet the sky.
Fauschlag, some nascent knowledge whispers as you hurtle towards it. First Strike. Ulricsberg. Middenheim.
Crowned by leaping towers and bedecked with clinging spires, dark specks swarming all over it, the truncated mountain rushes closer and looms larger with every passing moment, your approach a headlong plunge towards the steep-sided walls of a flag-topped tower. As the sparrow does to the farmer's fields, you all but dive towards it, a thrill of fear traipsing up your spine as the specks resolve first into dots and then into people, the bustling, swarming populace of the City of the White Wolf carrying about their lives as you descend towards them faster than an arrow. Helplessly, some strange force keeping you from looking away, you can only watch as the building grows ever nearer and nearer and nearer and-
There's a flash of black and a brief impression of resistance as you plunge through the building's bricks unimpeded, an instinctual blink clearing your vision and revealing you to be standing at the centre of a well-appointed room; dark timbers surrounding you and a fire crackling merrily in an impressively carved fireplace, the yellow-black hide of some spotted beast hanging from the wall below a pair of crossed handguns, and countless paintings hanging from the wall. Another blink reveals that you are not alone; two men seated in oaken armchairs and steadfastly ignoring you, one reclined and the other fidgeting in place.
No, you think through your dreaming stupor. They aren't ignoring you; they cannot perceive you.
Free to examine them up close, you immediately mark the fidgeter as not belonging to these well-to-do surroundings; the man's clothes, though better than any you can afford, well-worn and besmirched by the signs of amateurish repair, their practical cut out of place in the building's rich interior. Likewise, you note the signs of life harder than any mere merchant would experience, the callouses on the man's palms and fingers and his wiry figure speaking of days spent doing manual labour. Young, brown-eyed, and dark-haired, the impression is only helped by the furtive glances the fidgeter gives the room's contents, a hunger burning behind his eyes as if fighting the urge to grab what he can and run.
Meanwhile, seated in stark contrast, the other man is exactly what you would picture if ever you were asked to describe a merchant prince, his healthy figure filling up the handsome chair and hard grey-blue eyes flashing beneath a steel grey beard. Wearing a burgundy doublet adorned with golden buttons and white pants so bright they seem to shine—a black velvet cloak and hat hanging from a coat rack in the room's corner—the larger man exudes wealth and confidence, his stillness disconcerting next to his partner's constant motion. As you watch, he gestures vigorously and, without a sound, a smartly dressed manservant appears beside him as if from nowhere to deposit an ivory pipe into his hand—the servant's face turning to the light and revealing a fine-boned man whose blonde hair shines like gold and whose blue eyes seem to glow with an inner light.
Taking a draw as the manservant withdraws—the pipe's grey smoke twisting sinuously in the air and the haze deepening—the large man speaks, his voice as large as his figure.
"Speak, man, and speak quickly." He says thunderously, his accent well-mannered and distinctly Nordlandish, a pall of smoke spilling from his lips.
"All is proceeding as you have commanded," the indistinct figure opposite replies a shade too quickly, his local accent strained by his nasal voice.
"Oh?" the subject of his deference responds, a quiver sweeping through the man at his arch tone.
"...M-mostly, I mean, sir. There is a man in the watch—higher up than we can afford—he has begun to ask questions."
"I see," the merchant says as he takes another puff, a curlicue of smoke winding its way over to the other man; the acrid tobacco smoke assaulting your sense of smell with stinging pain.
"Kill him."
Shuddering in place—from shock or to avoid coughing, you cannot tell—the wirey man manages to gasp out. "Kill?"
"I did not stutter, did I?"
"B-b-but we cannot," the brown-haired man sputters, his hands spasming in his lap like two spiders fighting. "The low kings- the watch will- the Graf find out. It will risk your cargo."
Pausing to take another puff from his ivory pipe, the finely carved figures of men, women, and beasts dancing as smoke throbs through the air, the burgundy-clan merchant lets out a long sigh and sinks further into his chair.
Watching from beneath his beard, his eyes unreadable as they track over his counterpart's face, the merchant's voice drops to a low rumble. "You think me brutal, do you not?"
Wordlessly, the wealthy man's counterpart stares, his eyes bulging and Adam's apple bobbing furiously.
"Well, I am," he concedes lightly before the other can reply, a hard smile crossing his face. "To my enemies, I am the image of a chaos-spawned devil. However, to my friends—friends such as yourself—I am as just as Verena, as generous as Rhya, and as unyielding as Ulric. Mastering this dichotomy is how I came to afford-"
He gestures to his surroundings, the pipe in his long-fingered hand carving a trail in the air.
"All that you see around you, starting from where I did. In this business, one needs to master both sides of oneself to succeed."
Finding himself on steadier ground, his partner swallows loudly and speaks again. "This, ahh, business?"
"The business of making crowns, man!" The merchant replies with a huff, a sharp gesture spilling ashes in the lap of his ire's target. "No one, not the lowest criminal or the highest noble, will get in the way of making money without answering for it, my good man."
"Besides," he adds a moment later. "My little songbirds tell me we needn't worry about the count's eye much longer if things continue."
"We don't?"
"No. It seems Bertholdt and his whelp have other matters on their minds than the fate of a single watchman—no matter how high he may be. I know not what distracts them, but it is a blessing from Haendryk nonetheless."
"And the low kings?"
"Are of no concern to you."
Dismissed by the man's words, you once again begin to move, the fog of dreams settling over you as you rise on invisible wings. Mere moments later, you drift through the ceiling and leave the pair behind, the harsh stink of tobacco holding in your nose for a heartbeat. Unlike before, you do not suddenly appear at your destination. Instead, you float up, unhurried, through floor after floor and building after building, vignettes of city life crossing your vision as you ascend Middenheim's quite literally stratified society. Here, filthy children play in the cobbled streets; there, washerwomen scour stains from dirtied clothes; elsewhere, boisterous merchants hawk goods out of shop windows, each one a glimpse of another life as you pass by invisible.
Drifting through the streets, you blink as the figures around you accelerate in their motions, men, women, and children blurring into phantoms as they rush through the streets. A heartbeat later, they vanish from your sight altogether, and the quality of the light dappling the still streets starts to change. Looking skyward, you watch in wonder as the sun leaps from horizon to horizon, the cycle of day and night flashing by even as the nights grow longer before your eyes. As quickly as they began, the flip-flopping days come to a lurching halt, people snapping back into focus as you drift over the streets, snowbanks piled high on the cobbles, and mid-winter sunlight pouring down from above.`
Unresisting, you continue your dreamlike flight almost lazily, the lives and buildings you glimpse growing richer as you venture towards what can only be the Graf's palace. Unhurriedly, you float through the court's grand walls without resistance, the arcane sigils hidden beneath their surfaces—invisible to others but visible to you—remaining cold as you float by bored soldiers, harried staff, and exquisite statues. As you approach what you somehow know to be the heart of the palace, you notice that the faces of the workers unwittingly rushing past you gradually turn drawn and pale, a subtle but electric tension filling the air and raising gooseflesh. Your glacial thoughts lingering on the passing staff, it takes you several moments to notice the gilded doors that loom ahead of you and the steely-eyed men guarding them, their black lacquered armour gleaming darkly and the wolves draped over their shoulders snarling silently.
White Wolves.
The thought strikes like a drop of meltwater on the tongue, a crystal-cold clarity emerging from within your fogged mind and weakening the cloud's hold. Shaking your head as if to clear water from your ears, you almost miss it when you pass between the armoured knights and through the doors into darkness. As your eyes adjust, you realise you're floating in a bedroom large enough to fit your old cabin three times over with room to spare despite the blanket-covered furniture scattered about the place. Illuminated by a solitary candle placed on the dresser and dominated by a shadow-clad bed, the apartment's air feels foreboding and unwelcoming; no hint of the sunlight outside is allowed to penetrate the room's heavy curtains.
Before you can wonder what you're doing here, a quiet whimper pierces the still air and the shadows on the bed stir. A moment later, quite literally, you find yourself standing beside the bed, the shadows resolving into a supine woman, her swollen belly visible beneath sheets and her face pinched tight. Unbidden, a shade of shame creeps through your mind despite your fogged mind as you look down at the sleeping woman, the wrongness of your unwilling voyeurism needling your soul. Silently urging your legs to carry you elsewhere, you moue through the much-reduced fog as you remain resolutely still, a subsequent attempt to turn away leading to similar results.
Then, just as you start to consider screwing your eyes shut, another moan splits the air, and compassion compels you to look; your eyes settling on the splotched face of a woman in pain. Pushing past your discomfort with some difficulty, you lean over the richly dyed blue and red sheets and peer through the dark toward the unknown woman, the Rience-trained part of your mind taking careful note of every drop of sweat that prickles her brow, every dark spot of blood beneath her nostrils, and every leaping heartbeat visible in the jolt of the vein on her temple.
With a lurching heart, you realise you've never seen these symptoms in this combination before. You have, however, heard of them.
Though by no means well versed in women's secrets—their hardwon scraps of knowledge jealously guarded—your medicinal herb garden granted you a unique relationship with Roslas' midwives and wise old women. Needing a variety of plants for their own medicines, knowledge of things ordinarily left unspoken had passed between both parties during chatter both idle and vital alike.
Named Hard Pulse by the black-clad women who swooped and tittered around Roslas like crows, it is a vicious beast that afflicts the heavily pregnant with all manner of ailments; nosebleeds, facial flushing, headaches, and weakness were some of its kinder symptoms. Many months pregnant, this woman—whoever she was and whatever she meant to the Graf—was struggling in its grasp. Watching her toss in bed as dispassionately as you can, your shame vanishing beneath the weight of your duty, you note with some irritation the weals running up and down the woman's arms, the familiar sign of bloodletting rankling somewhat.
Almost the right idea, you think, examining the wounds. But excessive. The body has already expelled excess blood and brought the humours into balance. What this woman needs is rest and relief from pain, not this ill-thought-out re-destabilisation.
Pausing your examination, you trawl through your memories of the scant times you'd seen this same illness before nodding. Valerian and Graveroot, you think with some hesitancy. In her state, the latter herb must be prepared as a draught and heavily thinned with water to avoid harming the babe growing within her. Still, it would grant her much-needed respite.
"Phlebotomists," you mutter scornfully.
The woman's eyes snap open.
Bloodshot and raw, the grey-blue pools bore into you with a fury, and you jump backwards almost instinctively. Raising your hands as if to ward off a blow, an apology already on your lips, you freeze as you realise that it's not you that she's looking at.
"Boris," she says in a ragged whisper, her voice almost spent.
She wets her chapped lips and tries again. "Boris."
Shocked at her awakening, unsure if she can see you, you do nothing as something stirs beneath a nearby pile of blankets, a yawning boy—no, you correct yourself as you peer at him, a man—appearing in a riot of orange hair. For an instant, the man's face, Boris's face, remains smooth and unmarked, his handsome visage full of youthful vigour and two warm brown eyes glittering in the candlelight. Then he catches sight of the woman, and pain writes itself into his expression, a burst of motion bringing him kneeling to her side, his feet bare despite his other finery and silent on the polished stone floor.
Gingerly, Boris presses his lips against her sweat-slicked brow. This time, you look away. Some things should be private.
"Maria," you hear him whisper as he clasps a wasted hand in a meaty paw, his voice soft as summer rains. "Maria, my love."
Ashamed of witnessing this moment, it brings no small relief when you feel the fog of dreams cloak upon your mind—its removal seemingly no longer required—and the ground beneath your feet drifts away. In mere moments, you ascend through the bedroom's ceiling and the room beyond that before punching into the air above the palace, sprawling many-levelled Middenheim stretching out before you and surrounded by a ring of clear land flanked by primaeval woods; the mighty roads through the dark forests rendered into thin lines by the twin vipers of distance and scale. Waiting patiently, you find yourself rewarded when the quality of the light shifts and the now-familiar turning of the sun resumes, the blazing spit of fire becoming a lightning-like line etched into the sky. However, this time, Soll's chariot does not stop after a few moments, the strange passage of days instead stretching on as it continues its maddeningly swift journey through the sky.
Watching, you see for the first time in your life as the field of snow stretching over the land swells and contracts as snow falls, melts, and falls again; the image of a great and terrible ice beast breathing in and out popping into your mind. Almost imperceptibly, the gradual rise and fall take on a new dimension as progressively shorter melts follow each building up, the days slowly but surely growing longer until it is early spring. As soon as the thought springs to mind, black dots suddenly swarm down the rods and head for the city, first small dribbles, then whole floods arriving at its gates, your mind slowly ticking over as you struggle to interpret the strange sights assailing you.
Now what? You ask yourself as the vast majority of dots congregate at the base of Middenheim's sprawling bridges, the arc of light above you dimming until the Soll stands unopposed.
On cue, a roar rolls up from nowhere. Looking up from the swarming dots, their motion still inscrutable, you frown despite the soft gauze covering your mind as a black mass appears at the edges of the ancient woods and spills into the plain like blood from a wound. Ever onwards, the sweeping tide comes, its numbers without end and its members so densely packed that not a blade of grass is visible beneath their feet. As it approaches, the thunder accompanying the army shifts in volume and intensity, the wall of noise assailing your ears remorselessly even as its elements become as distinct as instruments, your heart freezing as you finally recognise the sounds.
The clatter of weapons clutched in claws.
The thunder of hooves on stone.
The howl of blood-drunk beastmen.
You awake with a start, a rain of half-remembered horrors and fleeting visions falling from your eyes as you force your eyelids apart. In fits and starts, consciousness returns, a soot-stained roof resolving before you and revealing your supine posture, your healer's bag lying beside you and fatigue still permeating your mind despite your rest. Lying there, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dark, sensation returns in the form of a pleasant warmth suffusing your limbs, your unhurried thoughts interrogating the scraps of dream you retain while your wolf lies quiescent.
Why did I dream of those things? You wonder glacially, maintaining your stolid vigil. As memories of beastmen and merchants fill your mind, you frown. What did I dream of?
Unsurprisingly, the world does not answer your questions. Instead, the sound of early morning life rises to greet your ears, the soft babble of passing voices mixing with the thunk of someone chopping wood and mournful dove cries. Still half asleep, you speak before you can stop yourself. "Roslas."
"Ehh, what's that?"
The woman's voice pierces the quiet sharp as a gunshot, her age-wearied tone sending a jolt of surprise through your body and kicking your mind into alertness. Startled by the unseen speaker, you make to prop yourself up only for the dull warmth pervading your body to turn to claws of steel and curl through your muscles, the involuntary gasp that escapes your lips more a horse's nicker than a wounded man's cry. Seemingly no stranger to such things, the voice rings out again.
"Wait!" It commands unnecessarily, your brief foray seeing you crash back down atop the straw bedding.
Floorboards begin to creak as the speaker approaches, a turn of your head revealing a bony old woman standing only a few feet away; her timeworn face narrow and her flinty eyes hard.
Gods save me, you think as recognition sparks, the familiar figure clutching her shapeless shawl tight as she stomps closer.
"Well, s'not bloody likely, is it?" She replies behind a curtain of stringy hair, her gruff words and thick accent sending a grimace across your face as you realise you must have spoken aloud.
Unphased, she continues. "If the gods'll save anyone, I doubt it's gonna be a wastrel like yerself, don't ye think?"
You needn't bother answering her question. Accidentally doing so was a beginner's mistake, and the ancient woman—old enough that no one still alive could recall her last name—had already delivered enough tongue-lashing to last you a lifetime. Not wishing to ensure another, you do your best to nod before glancing down to see your clothes—though torn and pierced—were still there.
"Irma."
"Kazimir."
You grunt. "Kasled."
Rolling her eyes, Irma waves a wizened hand through the air. "Whatever."
Making to rise as she tromps closer—her heavy boots thudding on the wooden floor—you freeze as Irma plants a hand on your shoulder and pushes down. Still exhausted despite the cradle of unconsciousness, your limbs still shaking, you find yourself unable to resist the pressure exerted by Varrel's herbalist, the strength of one bony arm sufficient to press you against the mat roughly.
"Sit down, child," she commands in a rasp. "And stop moving, lest I give ye something to complain about. The state ye were in, it's a wonder ye awoke at all."
Ignoring her words, you return your gaze to the ceiling and grunt again. "I'm in Varrel."
"Yes, boy," she replies as she kneels beside you, her tone arch. "And I'm a herbalist. Ye've met me before. Try to keep up, will ye?"
Pausing only to gesture sharply, she speaks again. "Palm."
Sparing the woman's outstretched hand a sidelong glance, you allow her to grab your arm and raise it towards a flickering candle without protest, heat prickling your skin as she examines the broad limb for Shallya-knows-what. Ignoring the urge to snap at her for her terrible manner, you allow her to peer at your palm with beady eyes and wait without patience as they flick from side to side.
Why could this town not have a proper healer? You ask yourself as Irma mouths something under her breath, the woman biting her inner lip and glaring at your palm.
The closest thing Varrel has to someone like yourself, the old crone's methods were strange and set your nerves on edge as few other things did. In any other town, you thought, she'd be one of those doddering old codgers who lurk on the outskirts of town and mutter under their breath about spoiled milk while giving passersby the evil eye. In Varrel, however, her bitter remedies, foetid unguents, and sharp tongue had kept generation after generation of Nordlanders alive despite the dangers of living so close to the Forest of Shadows; her personality a torment they were willing to inflict upon their neighbours in exchange. As Roslas' only healer, you'd often been forced to interact with her during your occasional visits and thus been the target of her ire many times.
"Ye'll live," she says after what feels like an age, something uncomfortably close to disappointment poisoning her tone as she stands with an ease that belies her age.
"Though," Irma adds, plucking a coarse black hair from her sleeve, "ye should spend less time with dogs. You'll get fleas."
Within you, your wolf perks up, its hackles slowly rising as it stares through your eyes.
She doesn't know; you comfort it, not hiding your long-suffering tone. Rest now. There will soon be need enough for your teeth and claws.
Cooing as it returns to dormancy, you swallow thickly. "What happened?"
She shrugs. "How should I know? Ye're the one who nearly up and died."
"Now get up," she adds before you can reply. "You're taking up half my floor, and I don't want to waste it on rakes like ye."
Refraining from answering back, you obey, a huff escaping you as you gingerly rise to your feet, vertigo assailing you for an instant before fading away as you steady yourself against the rough timbers of the cabin wall. Shutting your eyes and pressing your thumb and forefinger against the bridge of your nose, you suck down a lungful of air to steady yourself before a coughing fit bursts through your chest as you catch a whiff of something pungent and malodorous. Covering your cough, you look up to see Irma standing by a cauldron in the centre of the single-room cabin, the black steel pot squatting over a stone-enclosed fire and white steam pouring from its bubbling contents. Illuminated by the crackling flames and what little muted sunlight makes it into the cabin's interior through gaps in its walls, the cantankerous woman looks positively malevolent.
Ever tactful, you decline to comment and instead peer into the cauldron.
"A healing unguent?" You ask as Irma stirs the yellow paste with surprising vigour, the beeswax base spitting and frothing as she beats a half-dozen different herbs into the mass with a wooden spoon and mutters under her breath.
And a powerful one, too, you add silently as another inhale brings tears to your eyes, the woman unbothered by the stench though she stands amidst the steam.
"Aye," she says flatly. "Good nose. We've a mighty need ever since yer lot arrived the other night."
At her words, the last of sleep's shroud drops away, memories of your desperate chase and the subsequent battle in the woodcutter's camp arising to replace it in your thoughts. A heartbeat later, you find yourself swaying on your feet, Irma peering at you suspiciously.
"Ye ain't gonna fall again, are ye?"
She pauses her frantic stirring to add a pinch of dark powder from a pouch tied to her belt, the substance streaming from her fingers and staining the bubbling wax a deep red.
"If ye do, I ain't gonna catch ye."
Forcing yourself to stop, you pump your head up and down, the gallinaceous motion the closest you can get to a nod.
"Good," she replies as she returns to the cauldron. "Now, if yer not going to fall, ye'd best make yerself useful and grab the Gesundheit."
Flicking her eyes to the wall beside you, you follow her gaze and let out an interested hum in spite of yourself. Hanging from wooden bolts crudely sunk into the timbers sat a host of herbs, dried and fresh alike, whole seasons visible in the spread of green leaves and parched flowers.
"Where are the others from Roslas?" You ask as you pluck the dried herbs from the wall; a single glance is all you need to tell their suitability. "And How did I get here? And when?"
"Woodsmen found ye freezing outside the walls last night," Irma states as she takes the proffered plant matter and examines it, a half-hearted 'least he knows his herbs' rising above the boil before she tosses the pale leaves into the mix.
"They'd been attacked by beastmen," she continues, her voice resuming its normal stridency. "Belike the same ones that attacked yer town—and escaped when they started fighting among themselves. They're over at the tavern; ye should thank them."
"And the others?" You repeat insistently. "Where are they?"
"They're at the church. Ye know where that is at least, yeah?
You nod mechanically, your thoughts already turning towards the last remnants of your home.
Irma shrugs as she taps her wooden spoon on the cauldron's rim to clean it, a loud thunk ringing out with every strike.
"There's a few of them that're injured; cuts, bruises, broken bones." Another wave. "S'why I'm making this. Yer girl's leading them, she'll know."
You freeze stock still. My girl?
Something of your thoughts must have shown on your face as old Irma shrugs.
"The girl leading the others," She repeats by way of explanation. "She said ye'd get here soon enough. I figured she was yers, and ye'd gone and died, driving the poor girl to madness with grief."
Irma sniffs. "Sounds like ye."
Ignoring the querulous woman, you try to think of who she could be talking about. Truth be told, despite your history, you can't think of a single woman who might have harboured feelings for you before the Brayherd came. After it attacked—
You shudder and drive the thoughts out.
"There's no girl," you say with iron finality.
"Still, ye should go..." Irma trails off.
"There's no girl," you repeat, a hint of defensiveness creeping into your tone.
The herbalist shakes her head and resumes stirring, an awkward silence descending over the both of you, its veil underscored by the scrape of her spoon and the crackle of flame. As the seconds pass by painfully slowly, Irma finally breaks the silence by clearing her throat with a wet rattle.
"If yer gonna stand there like a lummox, I'm gonna start charging ye rent, boy."
"That is," she adds, "if ye got the coin for it."
'Coin?' You mouth before understanding blossoms, your hands clutching for your belt only to meet empty air; what wealth you had somewhere back in Roslas' ruins.
Ahh.
"How, uh," You falter as you try to find the words. "How much do I owe you? For the room and salves, I mean."
The woman's eyes, alight with some queer thought, search your face before vanishing as she shakes her head. "No salves or potions. Ye were exhausted, not injured. Ye needed to rest somewhere warm and without others fussing over ye. Pass me a few coins, and that'll settle debts."
You spread your hands wide and lend the herbalist an awkward smile. "I may have something in my bag. It won't be mu-"
"Ye don't."
Fighting the urge to lend Irma a leery look, you sigh and begin to speak, only for the withered woman to interrupt you with a gesture.
"Kasled," she says plainly. "Just take yer bag and get gone."
The forest stretches out as far as the eye can see as you rise on invisible wings, trees both venerable ancients and supple valets rendered minuscule by your height and shrinking with every passing moment, the sea of skeletal branches and clawed limbs below you forming grasping hands reaching up as if to cast you down. Lit by the sun fixed in the sky, the forest is dreamlike as you continue your ascent; no fear from your sudden predicament percolates through your breast despite the impossibility of the events. Silently, wordlessly, the logic of a dream compelling and soothing you in equal measure, you rise higher and higher until the forest below becomes a painted floor, all detail lost to the grandeur of your altitude.
Calmly, you look down, and the ground beneath your feet turns transparent as your eyes settle upon it, your gaze penetrating wood and loam and soil and stone; through the buried graveyards of vanished species, down through the hellish glow of some substance you have no name for, and then on again. Still staring downwards, you look up through stone and mud, through oceans whose surfaces churn with grey peaked waves and lands adorned with inverted beasts that waddle and croak and roar, and creatures that walk as men do but resemble lizards; through the star-pierced mantle of night and into the endless dark. Dizzyingly far below, floating languidly, constellations you've never seen before shine on men and elves and dwarves and other beings, a glance revealing the dome of the sky shading from peerless blue to sable-black as if it were all just a painted sphere. Unhurried, you look for Mannslieb and find it by its familiar face, the celestial body backlit by the milky glow of the great band encircling the mortal world.
Turning away from the sight—acceptance of the impossible flowing through you—you look to the west at the behest of some unvoiced thought, over screeching beastmen, fractious goblins, and shadows that, even as you are, you cannot and will not peer into. Dimly, a tug comes from over the greatly extended horizon, and all at once, you begin to move through the sky, the ground slipping past beneath your feet as if you are nothing more than a passenger in your own body. Despite this, no panic blossoms in your heart, an imperturbable stoicism holding fast your heart.
On and on, you soar, some unseen hand guiding your motion through the air until the forest below thins to reveal snowy ground that, in turn, gives way to fenced-in fields and walled villages. Without warning, a road appears ahead of you, the dark line cutting a path through the pale expanse of snow from horizon to horizon, backstopped by the rising Silver Hills; some hidden insight telling you Salzenmund lay mere leagues away. Suddenly, your flight shifts south, and the rolling peaks retreat below the dark line of the horizon once more, all knowledge of Salzenmund vanishing from your mind along with them. Turning to face your fate, the land beneath you blurring from your speed, you feel a muted sense of wonder burst to life in your heart as the horizon line thickens and swells in a matter of moments, a vast plateau leaping up from the mortal earth and rising to meet the sky.
Fauschlag, some nascent knowledge whispers as you hurtle towards it. First Strike. Ulricsberg. Middenheim.
Crowned by leaping towers and bedecked with clinging spires, dark specks swarming all over it, the truncated mountain rushes closer and looms larger with every passing moment, your approach a headlong plunge towards the steep-sided walls of a flag-topped tower. As the sparrow does to the farmer's fields, you all but dive towards it, a thrill of fear traipsing up your spine as the specks resolve first into dots and then into people, the bustling, swarming populace of the City of the White Wolf carrying about their lives as you descend towards them faster than an arrow. Helplessly, some strange force keeping you from looking away, you can only watch as the building grows ever nearer and nearer and nearer and-
There's a flash of black and a brief impression of resistance as you plunge through the building's bricks unimpeded, an instinctual blink clearing your vision and revealing you to be standing at the centre of a well-appointed room; dark timbers surrounding you and a fire crackling merrily in an impressively carved fireplace, the yellow-black hide of some spotted beast hanging from the wall below a pair of crossed handguns, and countless paintings hanging from the wall. Another blink reveals that you are not alone; two men seated in oaken armchairs and steadfastly ignoring you, one reclined and the other fidgeting in place.
No, you think through your dreaming stupor. They aren't ignoring you; they cannot perceive you.
Difficulty: 2
Dice pool: Sense (3) + No Relevant Skills (0)
Rolled: 4+9+9
Pairs: 2x9
Dice pool: Sense (3) + No Relevant Skills (0)
Rolled: 4+9+9
Pairs: 2x9
Free to examine them up close, you immediately mark the fidgeter as not belonging to these well-to-do surroundings; the man's clothes, though better than any you can afford, well-worn and besmirched by the signs of amateurish repair, their practical cut out of place in the building's rich interior. Likewise, you note the signs of life harder than any mere merchant would experience, the callouses on the man's palms and fingers and his wiry figure speaking of days spent doing manual labour. Young, brown-eyed, and dark-haired, the impression is only helped by the furtive glances the fidgeter gives the room's contents, a hunger burning behind his eyes as if fighting the urge to grab what he can and run.
Meanwhile, seated in stark contrast, the other man is exactly what you would picture if ever you were asked to describe a merchant prince, his healthy figure filling up the handsome chair and hard grey-blue eyes flashing beneath a steel grey beard. Wearing a burgundy doublet adorned with golden buttons and white pants so bright they seem to shine—a black velvet cloak and hat hanging from a coat rack in the room's corner—the larger man exudes wealth and confidence, his stillness disconcerting next to his partner's constant motion. As you watch, he gestures vigorously and, without a sound, a smartly dressed manservant appears beside him as if from nowhere to deposit an ivory pipe into his hand—the servant's face turning to the light and revealing a fine-boned man whose blonde hair shines like gold and whose blue eyes seem to glow with an inner light.
Taking a draw as the manservant withdraws—the pipe's grey smoke twisting sinuously in the air and the haze deepening—the large man speaks, his voice as large as his figure.
"Speak, man, and speak quickly." He says thunderously, his accent well-mannered and distinctly Nordlandish, a pall of smoke spilling from his lips.
"All is proceeding as you have commanded," the indistinct figure opposite replies a shade too quickly, his local accent strained by his nasal voice.
"Oh?" the subject of his deference responds, a quiver sweeping through the man at his arch tone.
"...M-mostly, I mean, sir. There is a man in the watch—higher up than we can afford—he has begun to ask questions."
"I see," the merchant says as he takes another puff, a curlicue of smoke winding its way over to the other man; the acrid tobacco smoke assaulting your sense of smell with stinging pain.
"Kill him."
Shuddering in place—from shock or to avoid coughing, you cannot tell—the wirey man manages to gasp out. "Kill?"
"I did not stutter, did I?"
"B-b-but we cannot," the brown-haired man sputters, his hands spasming in his lap like two spiders fighting. "The low kings- the watch will- the Graf find out. It will risk your cargo."
Pausing to take another puff from his ivory pipe, the finely carved figures of men, women, and beasts dancing as smoke throbs through the air, the burgundy-clan merchant lets out a long sigh and sinks further into his chair.
Watching from beneath his beard, his eyes unreadable as they track over his counterpart's face, the merchant's voice drops to a low rumble. "You think me brutal, do you not?"
Wordlessly, the wealthy man's counterpart stares, his eyes bulging and Adam's apple bobbing furiously.
"Well, I am," he concedes lightly before the other can reply, a hard smile crossing his face. "To my enemies, I am the image of a chaos-spawned devil. However, to my friends—friends such as yourself—I am as just as Verena, as generous as Rhya, and as unyielding as Ulric. Mastering this dichotomy is how I came to afford-"
He gestures to his surroundings, the pipe in his long-fingered hand carving a trail in the air.
"All that you see around you, starting from where I did. In this business, one needs to master both sides of oneself to succeed."
Finding himself on steadier ground, his partner swallows loudly and speaks again. "This, ahh, business?"
"The business of making crowns, man!" The merchant replies with a huff, a sharp gesture spilling ashes in the lap of his ire's target. "No one, not the lowest criminal or the highest noble, will get in the way of making money without answering for it, my good man."
"Besides," he adds a moment later. "My little songbirds tell me we needn't worry about the count's eye much longer if things continue."
"We don't?"
"No. It seems Bertholdt and his whelp have other matters on their minds than the fate of a single watchman—no matter how high he may be. I know not what distracts them, but it is a blessing from Haendryk nonetheless."
"And the low kings?"
"Are of no concern to you."
Dismissed by the man's words, you once again begin to move, the fog of dreams settling over you as you rise on invisible wings. Mere moments later, you drift through the ceiling and leave the pair behind, the harsh stink of tobacco holding in your nose for a heartbeat. Unlike before, you do not suddenly appear at your destination. Instead, you float up, unhurried, through floor after floor and building after building, vignettes of city life crossing your vision as you ascend Middenheim's quite literally stratified society. Here, filthy children play in the cobbled streets; there, washerwomen scour stains from dirtied clothes; elsewhere, boisterous merchants hawk goods out of shop windows, each one a glimpse of another life as you pass by invisible.
Drifting through the streets, you blink as the figures around you accelerate in their motions, men, women, and children blurring into phantoms as they rush through the streets. A heartbeat later, they vanish from your sight altogether, and the quality of the light dappling the still streets starts to change. Looking skyward, you watch in wonder as the sun leaps from horizon to horizon, the cycle of day and night flashing by even as the nights grow longer before your eyes. As quickly as they began, the flip-flopping days come to a lurching halt, people snapping back into focus as you drift over the streets, snowbanks piled high on the cobbles, and mid-winter sunlight pouring down from above.`
Unresisting, you continue your dreamlike flight almost lazily, the lives and buildings you glimpse growing richer as you venture towards what can only be the Graf's palace. Unhurriedly, you float through the court's grand walls without resistance, the arcane sigils hidden beneath their surfaces—invisible to others but visible to you—remaining cold as you float by bored soldiers, harried staff, and exquisite statues. As you approach what you somehow know to be the heart of the palace, you notice that the faces of the workers unwittingly rushing past you gradually turn drawn and pale, a subtle but electric tension filling the air and raising gooseflesh. Your glacial thoughts lingering on the passing staff, it takes you several moments to notice the gilded doors that loom ahead of you and the steely-eyed men guarding them, their black lacquered armour gleaming darkly and the wolves draped over their shoulders snarling silently.
White Wolves.
The thought strikes like a drop of meltwater on the tongue, a crystal-cold clarity emerging from within your fogged mind and weakening the cloud's hold. Shaking your head as if to clear water from your ears, you almost miss it when you pass between the armoured knights and through the doors into darkness. As your eyes adjust, you realise you're floating in a bedroom large enough to fit your old cabin three times over with room to spare despite the blanket-covered furniture scattered about the place. Illuminated by a solitary candle placed on the dresser and dominated by a shadow-clad bed, the apartment's air feels foreboding and unwelcoming; no hint of the sunlight outside is allowed to penetrate the room's heavy curtains.
Before you can wonder what you're doing here, a quiet whimper pierces the still air and the shadows on the bed stir. A moment later, quite literally, you find yourself standing beside the bed, the shadows resolving into a supine woman, her swollen belly visible beneath sheets and her face pinched tight. Unbidden, a shade of shame creeps through your mind despite your fogged mind as you look down at the sleeping woman, the wrongness of your unwilling voyeurism needling your soul. Silently urging your legs to carry you elsewhere, you moue through the much-reduced fog as you remain resolutely still, a subsequent attempt to turn away leading to similar results.
Then, just as you start to consider screwing your eyes shut, another moan splits the air, and compassion compels you to look; your eyes settling on the splotched face of a woman in pain. Pushing past your discomfort with some difficulty, you lean over the richly dyed blue and red sheets and peer through the dark toward the unknown woman, the Rience-trained part of your mind taking careful note of every drop of sweat that prickles her brow, every dark spot of blood beneath her nostrils, and every leaping heartbeat visible in the jolt of the vein on her temple.
Difficulty: 5
Dice pool: Knowledge (4) + Student: Medicine (5)
Rolled: 2+4+4+5+7+8+8+8+10
Pairs: 2x4, 3x8
Dice pool: Knowledge (4) + Student: Medicine (5)
Rolled: 2+4+4+5+7+8+8+8+10
Pairs: 2x4, 3x8
With a lurching heart, you realise you've never seen these symptoms in this combination before. You have, however, heard of them.
Though by no means well versed in women's secrets—their hardwon scraps of knowledge jealously guarded—your medicinal herb garden granted you a unique relationship with Roslas' midwives and wise old women. Needing a variety of plants for their own medicines, knowledge of things ordinarily left unspoken had passed between both parties during chatter both idle and vital alike.
Named Hard Pulse by the black-clad women who swooped and tittered around Roslas like crows, it is a vicious beast that afflicts the heavily pregnant with all manner of ailments; nosebleeds, facial flushing, headaches, and weakness were some of its kinder symptoms. Many months pregnant, this woman—whoever she was and whatever she meant to the Graf—was struggling in its grasp. Watching her toss in bed as dispassionately as you can, your shame vanishing beneath the weight of your duty, you note with some irritation the weals running up and down the woman's arms, the familiar sign of bloodletting rankling somewhat.
Almost the right idea, you think, examining the wounds. But excessive. The body has already expelled excess blood and brought the humours into balance. What this woman needs is rest and relief from pain, not this ill-thought-out re-destabilisation.
Pausing your examination, you trawl through your memories of the scant times you'd seen this same illness before nodding. Valerian and Graveroot, you think with some hesitancy. In her state, the latter herb must be prepared as a draught and heavily thinned with water to avoid harming the babe growing within her. Still, it would grant her much-needed respite.
"Phlebotomists," you mutter scornfully.
The woman's eyes snap open.
Bloodshot and raw, the grey-blue pools bore into you with a fury, and you jump backwards almost instinctively. Raising your hands as if to ward off a blow, an apology already on your lips, you freeze as you realise that it's not you that she's looking at.
"Boris," she says in a ragged whisper, her voice almost spent.
She wets her chapped lips and tries again. "Boris."
Shocked at her awakening, unsure if she can see you, you do nothing as something stirs beneath a nearby pile of blankets, a yawning boy—no, you correct yourself as you peer at him, a man—appearing in a riot of orange hair. For an instant, the man's face, Boris's face, remains smooth and unmarked, his handsome visage full of youthful vigour and two warm brown eyes glittering in the candlelight. Then he catches sight of the woman, and pain writes itself into his expression, a burst of motion bringing him kneeling to her side, his feet bare despite his other finery and silent on the polished stone floor.
Gingerly, Boris presses his lips against her sweat-slicked brow. This time, you look away. Some things should be private.
"Maria," you hear him whisper as he clasps a wasted hand in a meaty paw, his voice soft as summer rains. "Maria, my love."
Ashamed of witnessing this moment, it brings no small relief when you feel the fog of dreams cloak upon your mind—its removal seemingly no longer required—and the ground beneath your feet drifts away. In mere moments, you ascend through the bedroom's ceiling and the room beyond that before punching into the air above the palace, sprawling many-levelled Middenheim stretching out before you and surrounded by a ring of clear land flanked by primaeval woods; the mighty roads through the dark forests rendered into thin lines by the twin vipers of distance and scale. Waiting patiently, you find yourself rewarded when the quality of the light shifts and the now-familiar turning of the sun resumes, the blazing spit of fire becoming a lightning-like line etched into the sky. However, this time, Soll's chariot does not stop after a few moments, the strange passage of days instead stretching on as it continues its maddeningly swift journey through the sky.
Watching, you see for the first time in your life as the field of snow stretching over the land swells and contracts as snow falls, melts, and falls again; the image of a great and terrible ice beast breathing in and out popping into your mind. Almost imperceptibly, the gradual rise and fall take on a new dimension as progressively shorter melts follow each building up, the days slowly but surely growing longer until it is early spring. As soon as the thought springs to mind, black dots suddenly swarm down the rods and head for the city, first small dribbles, then whole floods arriving at its gates, your mind slowly ticking over as you struggle to interpret the strange sights assailing you.
Now what? You ask yourself as the vast majority of dots congregate at the base of Middenheim's sprawling bridges, the arc of light above you dimming until the Soll stands unopposed.
On cue, a roar rolls up from nowhere. Looking up from the swarming dots, their motion still inscrutable, you frown despite the soft gauze covering your mind as a black mass appears at the edges of the ancient woods and spills into the plain like blood from a wound. Ever onwards, the sweeping tide comes, its numbers without end and its members so densely packed that not a blade of grass is visible beneath their feet. As it approaches, the thunder accompanying the army shifts in volume and intensity, the wall of noise assailing your ears remorselessly even as its elements become as distinct as instruments, your heart freezing as you finally recognise the sounds.
The clatter of weapons clutched in claws.
The thunder of hooves on stone.
The howl of blood-drunk beastmen.
***
You awake with a start, a rain of half-remembered horrors and fleeting visions falling from your eyes as you force your eyelids apart. In fits and starts, consciousness returns, a soot-stained roof resolving before you and revealing your supine posture, your healer's bag lying beside you and fatigue still permeating your mind despite your rest. Lying there, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for your eyes to adjust to the dark, sensation returns in the form of a pleasant warmth suffusing your limbs, your unhurried thoughts interrogating the scraps of dream you retain while your wolf lies quiescent.
Why did I dream of those things? You wonder glacially, maintaining your stolid vigil. As memories of beastmen and merchants fill your mind, you frown. What did I dream of?
Unsurprisingly, the world does not answer your questions. Instead, the sound of early morning life rises to greet your ears, the soft babble of passing voices mixing with the thunk of someone chopping wood and mournful dove cries. Still half asleep, you speak before you can stop yourself. "Roslas."
"Ehh, what's that?"
The woman's voice pierces the quiet sharp as a gunshot, her age-wearied tone sending a jolt of surprise through your body and kicking your mind into alertness. Startled by the unseen speaker, you make to prop yourself up only for the dull warmth pervading your body to turn to claws of steel and curl through your muscles, the involuntary gasp that escapes your lips more a horse's nicker than a wounded man's cry. Seemingly no stranger to such things, the voice rings out again.
"Wait!" It commands unnecessarily, your brief foray seeing you crash back down atop the straw bedding.
Floorboards begin to creak as the speaker approaches, a turn of your head revealing a bony old woman standing only a few feet away; her timeworn face narrow and her flinty eyes hard.
Gods save me, you think as recognition sparks, the familiar figure clutching her shapeless shawl tight as she stomps closer.
"Well, s'not bloody likely, is it?" She replies behind a curtain of stringy hair, her gruff words and thick accent sending a grimace across your face as you realise you must have spoken aloud.
Unphased, she continues. "If the gods'll save anyone, I doubt it's gonna be a wastrel like yerself, don't ye think?"
You needn't bother answering her question. Accidentally doing so was a beginner's mistake, and the ancient woman—old enough that no one still alive could recall her last name—had already delivered enough tongue-lashing to last you a lifetime. Not wishing to ensure another, you do your best to nod before glancing down to see your clothes—though torn and pierced—were still there.
"Irma."
"Kazimir."
You grunt. "Kasled."
Rolling her eyes, Irma waves a wizened hand through the air. "Whatever."
Making to rise as she tromps closer—her heavy boots thudding on the wooden floor—you freeze as Irma plants a hand on your shoulder and pushes down. Still exhausted despite the cradle of unconsciousness, your limbs still shaking, you find yourself unable to resist the pressure exerted by Varrel's herbalist, the strength of one bony arm sufficient to press you against the mat roughly.
"Sit down, child," she commands in a rasp. "And stop moving, lest I give ye something to complain about. The state ye were in, it's a wonder ye awoke at all."
Ignoring her words, you return your gaze to the ceiling and grunt again. "I'm in Varrel."
"Yes, boy," she replies as she kneels beside you, her tone arch. "And I'm a herbalist. Ye've met me before. Try to keep up, will ye?"
Pausing only to gesture sharply, she speaks again. "Palm."
Sparing the woman's outstretched hand a sidelong glance, you allow her to grab your arm and raise it towards a flickering candle without protest, heat prickling your skin as she examines the broad limb for Shallya-knows-what. Ignoring the urge to snap at her for her terrible manner, you allow her to peer at your palm with beady eyes and wait without patience as they flick from side to side.
Why could this town not have a proper healer? You ask yourself as Irma mouths something under her breath, the woman biting her inner lip and glaring at your palm.
The closest thing Varrel has to someone like yourself, the old crone's methods were strange and set your nerves on edge as few other things did. In any other town, you thought, she'd be one of those doddering old codgers who lurk on the outskirts of town and mutter under their breath about spoiled milk while giving passersby the evil eye. In Varrel, however, her bitter remedies, foetid unguents, and sharp tongue had kept generation after generation of Nordlanders alive despite the dangers of living so close to the Forest of Shadows; her personality a torment they were willing to inflict upon their neighbours in exchange. As Roslas' only healer, you'd often been forced to interact with her during your occasional visits and thus been the target of her ire many times.
"Ye'll live," she says after what feels like an age, something uncomfortably close to disappointment poisoning her tone as she stands with an ease that belies her age.
"Though," Irma adds, plucking a coarse black hair from her sleeve, "ye should spend less time with dogs. You'll get fleas."
Within you, your wolf perks up, its hackles slowly rising as it stares through your eyes.
She doesn't know; you comfort it, not hiding your long-suffering tone. Rest now. There will soon be need enough for your teeth and claws.
Cooing as it returns to dormancy, you swallow thickly. "What happened?"
She shrugs. "How should I know? Ye're the one who nearly up and died."
"Now get up," she adds before you can reply. "You're taking up half my floor, and I don't want to waste it on rakes like ye."
Refraining from answering back, you obey, a huff escaping you as you gingerly rise to your feet, vertigo assailing you for an instant before fading away as you steady yourself against the rough timbers of the cabin wall. Shutting your eyes and pressing your thumb and forefinger against the bridge of your nose, you suck down a lungful of air to steady yourself before a coughing fit bursts through your chest as you catch a whiff of something pungent and malodorous. Covering your cough, you look up to see Irma standing by a cauldron in the centre of the single-room cabin, the black steel pot squatting over a stone-enclosed fire and white steam pouring from its bubbling contents. Illuminated by the crackling flames and what little muted sunlight makes it into the cabin's interior through gaps in its walls, the cantankerous woman looks positively malevolent.
Ever tactful, you decline to comment and instead peer into the cauldron.
Difficulty: 6
Dice pool: Knowledge (4) + Lore: 3
Rolled: 4+9+9+9+10+10+10
Pairs: 3x9, 3x10 <- Using this to identify the substance
Jesus, okay. Dr. Werewolf strikes again, I guess.
Dice pool: Knowledge (4) + Lore: 3
Rolled: 4+9+9+9+10+10+10
Pairs: 3x9, 3x10 <- Using this to identify the substance
Jesus, okay. Dr. Werewolf strikes again, I guess.
"A healing unguent?" You ask as Irma stirs the yellow paste with surprising vigour, the beeswax base spitting and frothing as she beats a half-dozen different herbs into the mass with a wooden spoon and mutters under her breath.
And a powerful one, too, you add silently as another inhale brings tears to your eyes, the woman unbothered by the stench though she stands amidst the steam.
"Aye," she says flatly. "Good nose. We've a mighty need ever since yer lot arrived the other night."
At her words, the last of sleep's shroud drops away, memories of your desperate chase and the subsequent battle in the woodcutter's camp arising to replace it in your thoughts. A heartbeat later, you find yourself swaying on your feet, Irma peering at you suspiciously.
"Ye ain't gonna fall again, are ye?"
She pauses her frantic stirring to add a pinch of dark powder from a pouch tied to her belt, the substance streaming from her fingers and staining the bubbling wax a deep red.
"If ye do, I ain't gonna catch ye."
Forcing yourself to stop, you pump your head up and down, the gallinaceous motion the closest you can get to a nod.
"Good," she replies as she returns to the cauldron. "Now, if yer not going to fall, ye'd best make yerself useful and grab the Gesundheit."
Flicking her eyes to the wall beside you, you follow her gaze and let out an interested hum in spite of yourself. Hanging from wooden bolts crudely sunk into the timbers sat a host of herbs, dried and fresh alike, whole seasons visible in the spread of green leaves and parched flowers.
Difficulty: 3
Dice pool: Knowledge (4) + Student: Plants and Herbs (5)
Rolled: 1+3+3+3+4+4+5+6+9
Pairs: 3x3 <- using this to gather herbs without embarrassing yourself, 2x4
Dice pool: Knowledge (4) + Student: Plants and Herbs (5)
Rolled: 1+3+3+3+4+4+5+6+9
Pairs: 3x3 <- using this to gather herbs without embarrassing yourself, 2x4
"Where are the others from Roslas?" You ask as you pluck the dried herbs from the wall; a single glance is all you need to tell their suitability. "And How did I get here? And when?"
"Woodsmen found ye freezing outside the walls last night," Irma states as she takes the proffered plant matter and examines it, a half-hearted 'least he knows his herbs' rising above the boil before she tosses the pale leaves into the mix.
"They'd been attacked by beastmen," she continues, her voice resuming its normal stridency. "Belike the same ones that attacked yer town—and escaped when they started fighting among themselves. They're over at the tavern; ye should thank them."
"And the others?" You repeat insistently. "Where are they?"
"They're at the church. Ye know where that is at least, yeah?
You nod mechanically, your thoughts already turning towards the last remnants of your home.
Irma shrugs as she taps her wooden spoon on the cauldron's rim to clean it, a loud thunk ringing out with every strike.
"There's a few of them that're injured; cuts, bruises, broken bones." Another wave. "S'why I'm making this. Yer girl's leading them, she'll know."
You freeze stock still. My girl?
Something of your thoughts must have shown on your face as old Irma shrugs.
"The girl leading the others," She repeats by way of explanation. "She said ye'd get here soon enough. I figured she was yers, and ye'd gone and died, driving the poor girl to madness with grief."
Irma sniffs. "Sounds like ye."
Ignoring the querulous woman, you try to think of who she could be talking about. Truth be told, despite your history, you can't think of a single woman who might have harboured feelings for you before the Brayherd came. After it attacked—
You shudder and drive the thoughts out.
"There's no girl," you say with iron finality.
"Still, ye should go..." Irma trails off.
"There's no girl," you repeat, a hint of defensiveness creeping into your tone.
The herbalist shakes her head and resumes stirring, an awkward silence descending over the both of you, its veil underscored by the scrape of her spoon and the crackle of flame. As the seconds pass by painfully slowly, Irma finally breaks the silence by clearing her throat with a wet rattle.
"If yer gonna stand there like a lummox, I'm gonna start charging ye rent, boy."
"That is," she adds, "if ye got the coin for it."
'Coin?' You mouth before understanding blossoms, your hands clutching for your belt only to meet empty air; what wealth you had somewhere back in Roslas' ruins.
Ahh.
"How, uh," You falter as you try to find the words. "How much do I owe you? For the room and salves, I mean."
The woman's eyes, alight with some queer thought, search your face before vanishing as she shakes her head. "No salves or potions. Ye were exhausted, not injured. Ye needed to rest somewhere warm and without others fussing over ye. Pass me a few coins, and that'll settle debts."
You spread your hands wide and lend the herbalist an awkward smile. "I may have something in my bag. It won't be mu-"
"Ye don't."
Fighting the urge to lend Irma a leery look, you sigh and begin to speak, only for the withered woman to interrupt you with a gesture.
"Kasled," she says plainly. "Just take yer bag and get gone."
Article: [] Meet with the Woodsmen.
You saved them, and it seems they saved you. Dutiful to a fault, it is only fair that you should visit to thank them and maybe talk about the beastmen.
[] Meet with the Refugees.
Perhaps Roslas' only other survivors, the only thoughts running through your mind are to meet with them and find out who lived, who died, and who this girl is that Irma keeps talking about.
