14 Nightal, 1349
The hilt bumped into my hip, an irritating intrusion at every step. It wasn't usually very bothersome, but I was tired and this dusty, gods-forsaken road stretched on forever. A fresh raindrop striking just below my cheekbone told me that I was nearing my destination. Rain clouds clung to the Friendly Arms Inn like a needy child hugging a parent's leg. I hadn't thought much of it on the way North, but the soft, gray clouds were unyielding; one couldn't help but notice them eventually. You might think that the constant rain would bring some life to this barren, dusty pass. You'd be wrong.
Motion caught my eye, granting me momentary reprieve from the soft, unabating jostle of the rapier on my hip. My gaze followed the motion to the nearby hill, a larger lump of dust with a few sparsely-leaved trees reaching out above the less-impressive lumps of dust around it. Just a squirrel.
I loathed that squirrel for stirring me awake. It'd been hours since the Wyrm's Crossing, and it had been a long day even before I reached the bridge. There's an untold mental tax to remaining on one's toes all day. Training to keep one's guard up at all times sounds like a useful investment, but usually those who waste such effort just enervate their minds, sucking away energy that could be put to more relevant or useful things-- and then there are those who need to. I conveniently fell into the latter category.
I brushed the water off my face, hazarding a quick glance at the sky as it truly began to pour. How quickly I'd become lost in my thoughts. It had been the first useful day since I crossed the Northern border coming out of Amn. Most people you meet offer an opportunity, whether they mean to or not. They know something interesting, they can provide a useful service, they know someone interesting, or they have something you want. That last one isn't a gift in and of itself, but I'd bet you see the opportunity there as easily as I do.
This person in particular provided several opportunities. I hadn't the faintest clue who she knew, but it was certainly a group I'd otherwise have no connection to. She was a more capable combatant than I, so she was certainly a useful ally, and her pleasant, unintrusive conversation made her an ideal friend. Her true utility, however, was her toxicity. Anyone she met-- everyone she trusted, rather-- was contaminated. Those who kept that trust, at least. In all likelihood, the first betrayal of that trust would sink the entire ship, taking all of the rats down with it. I'd have to keep a close eye on those rats to make sure none scurried off early: they were opportunities too, and her poison made them vulnerable. I couldn't have dreamt up a better friend with all my imagination.
Unwritten Thoughts
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Unwritten Thoughts
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Re: Unwritten Thoughts
14 Nightal, 1349
There are two ways to build a fire. Well, two ways that I knew of, at least. You could stack the logs in a log cabin, placing two parallel sides at a time, then placing the sides connecting them, and so on and so forth, until you reached the desired height. This was a slow-burning campfire, the kind that would keep you warm through the night. I was interested in building the other kind of fire: a tepee. This fire is much simpler to build; you prop your logs up over some kindling in the center, and give them a single point of contact at the apex of your fire. It catches quickly, and quickly exhausts its fuel, no maintenance necessary. The only problem in lighting such a simple fire is that a log won't catch from a single match; it doesn't provide enough heat before it burns to ash. You need many little things that will easily catch fire; fuel to get things started once the logs have been stacked. That was the real trick, finding your kindling.
The rain had died down to a drizzle by the time I reached the Friendly Arms Inn, but my nauseatingly purple armor, no more than thickly padded clothing, was soaked through. I somehow managed the vacant smile I'd worn so often lately, in spite of my aching bones. I was tired to my very core. I wanted nothing more than to collapse onto a soft featherbed, bury myself in down blankets, and fade into a warm ball of misery. Honestly, at this point I'd've eagerly settled for the soggy grass beside the road. Grass, when did that change?
A hint of truth almost tainted my air-headed grin as I spotted some adventurers huddled around a tepee fire they'd erected just outside the inn. Or perhaps it hadn't been them who created it; the ash scattered around the campsite suggested this fire had been maintained for some time, fading and growing as travelers fed it from what dry fuel they could find in the thinly wooded arm stretching from the Cloakwood to the Friendly Arms Inn. As I came nearer, I noticed the others. Statues lined the road for several meters on either side, coming in or out of the inn. They endured the cold, drizzling rain, some simply to stare off into space, others to keep a wary eye on their fellow statues. A few spoke quietly to their neighbors without interrupting their vigil.
Stretching my smile wider, I offered an exaggerated wave as I took my place beside the fire. I honestly couldn't care less if my time would have been better spent with the statues; I was spent. I'd gladly trade an animatronic display of enthusiasm and empathy for the warmth of their fire and a place to rest my legs. They were immediately receptive.
After sleep-walking my way into their conversation, the silver-haired woman with an unwavering air of bravado (bordering absurdity) launched into an epic tale of nonsense that had never happened. I was sure I'd spurred her into it, but I honestly couldn't remember; it took nearly all my focus to maintain my naive, cheerful exterior and sift through her nonsense for slivers of truth. I imagined my face to be a living, silver mask, lying for me while my tired mind simply rested by the fire.
Finally remembering why I'd encouraged her to begin with, I forced myself to full awareness as she introduced herself, "Solaris Cult, Master Strategist and Tactician, Chief Tactical Officer, and Warden of the Silver Shields. A pleasure to grace you with my presence." An unshaven man in tanned leathers and green cloth laughed at that, and soon found his seat. He asked something about their numbers; apparently they were growing. Solaris immediately accepted credit for this turn of fortune, before quickly turning the conversation towards Triel, dispensing of any responsibility for the events that had transpired there. Had I brought that up? She was staring right at me, or at her own reflection in my eyes, more likely. I played the shill, enthusiastically accepting her side of events, until the unshaven man forced a change of topic.
I asked her if she paid homage to the Grandmaster of the Lanceboard and what past battles she'd been in. That was a mistake. My throat tightened as Solaris mentioned the Battle of Beregost (was she calling it that? I'd certainly never called it such) from years back, during the Amn-Gate War. Loathing myself for broaching the topic, I committed to the masochistic path I'd taken, asking her to recount the tale. Just as she began to launch herself into the story, the unshaven man joked to me, "What're you, a writer for the Baldur's Gate Gazette, love?"
If my heart stopped, it didn't show on my face. The silver mask began turning to make an automatic reply before Solaris' magnetic storytelling drew it away, the gambler's question quickly forgotten. I gaped in awe at some spectacular lie she'd told about defeating an encampment of Cowled Wizards. I secretly loved her for a brief moment just then, when she told her absurd lie so convincingly that I'd have believed it myself, had I not known firsthand how events had transpired. The gambler voiced his apprehension, but Solaris continued with her tall tale, undeterred. The statues came to life, several of them creeping to the campfire as she spun her story. By the end of her account, the campfire had grown by one male and three female humans, two halflings (one in the final weeks of his life), two dwarves, a blonde-haired creature resembling a miniature elf, and a tall, impossibly thin wizard with a flowered staff. He oozed untrustworthiness. I wish I'd paid more attention to the halfling.
There are two ways to build a fire. Well, two ways that I knew of, at least. You could stack the logs in a log cabin, placing two parallel sides at a time, then placing the sides connecting them, and so on and so forth, until you reached the desired height. This was a slow-burning campfire, the kind that would keep you warm through the night. I was interested in building the other kind of fire: a tepee. This fire is much simpler to build; you prop your logs up over some kindling in the center, and give them a single point of contact at the apex of your fire. It catches quickly, and quickly exhausts its fuel, no maintenance necessary. The only problem in lighting such a simple fire is that a log won't catch from a single match; it doesn't provide enough heat before it burns to ash. You need many little things that will easily catch fire; fuel to get things started once the logs have been stacked. That was the real trick, finding your kindling.
The rain had died down to a drizzle by the time I reached the Friendly Arms Inn, but my nauseatingly purple armor, no more than thickly padded clothing, was soaked through. I somehow managed the vacant smile I'd worn so often lately, in spite of my aching bones. I was tired to my very core. I wanted nothing more than to collapse onto a soft featherbed, bury myself in down blankets, and fade into a warm ball of misery. Honestly, at this point I'd've eagerly settled for the soggy grass beside the road. Grass, when did that change?
A hint of truth almost tainted my air-headed grin as I spotted some adventurers huddled around a tepee fire they'd erected just outside the inn. Or perhaps it hadn't been them who created it; the ash scattered around the campsite suggested this fire had been maintained for some time, fading and growing as travelers fed it from what dry fuel they could find in the thinly wooded arm stretching from the Cloakwood to the Friendly Arms Inn. As I came nearer, I noticed the others. Statues lined the road for several meters on either side, coming in or out of the inn. They endured the cold, drizzling rain, some simply to stare off into space, others to keep a wary eye on their fellow statues. A few spoke quietly to their neighbors without interrupting their vigil.
Stretching my smile wider, I offered an exaggerated wave as I took my place beside the fire. I honestly couldn't care less if my time would have been better spent with the statues; I was spent. I'd gladly trade an animatronic display of enthusiasm and empathy for the warmth of their fire and a place to rest my legs. They were immediately receptive.
After sleep-walking my way into their conversation, the silver-haired woman with an unwavering air of bravado (bordering absurdity) launched into an epic tale of nonsense that had never happened. I was sure I'd spurred her into it, but I honestly couldn't remember; it took nearly all my focus to maintain my naive, cheerful exterior and sift through her nonsense for slivers of truth. I imagined my face to be a living, silver mask, lying for me while my tired mind simply rested by the fire.
Finally remembering why I'd encouraged her to begin with, I forced myself to full awareness as she introduced herself, "Solaris Cult, Master Strategist and Tactician, Chief Tactical Officer, and Warden of the Silver Shields. A pleasure to grace you with my presence." An unshaven man in tanned leathers and green cloth laughed at that, and soon found his seat. He asked something about their numbers; apparently they were growing. Solaris immediately accepted credit for this turn of fortune, before quickly turning the conversation towards Triel, dispensing of any responsibility for the events that had transpired there. Had I brought that up? She was staring right at me, or at her own reflection in my eyes, more likely. I played the shill, enthusiastically accepting her side of events, until the unshaven man forced a change of topic.
I asked her if she paid homage to the Grandmaster of the Lanceboard and what past battles she'd been in. That was a mistake. My throat tightened as Solaris mentioned the Battle of Beregost (was she calling it that? I'd certainly never called it such) from years back, during the Amn-Gate War. Loathing myself for broaching the topic, I committed to the masochistic path I'd taken, asking her to recount the tale. Just as she began to launch herself into the story, the unshaven man joked to me, "What're you, a writer for the Baldur's Gate Gazette, love?"
If my heart stopped, it didn't show on my face. The silver mask began turning to make an automatic reply before Solaris' magnetic storytelling drew it away, the gambler's question quickly forgotten. I gaped in awe at some spectacular lie she'd told about defeating an encampment of Cowled Wizards. I secretly loved her for a brief moment just then, when she told her absurd lie so convincingly that I'd have believed it myself, had I not known firsthand how events had transpired. The gambler voiced his apprehension, but Solaris continued with her tall tale, undeterred. The statues came to life, several of them creeping to the campfire as she spun her story. By the end of her account, the campfire had grown by one male and three female humans, two halflings (one in the final weeks of his life), two dwarves, a blonde-haired creature resembling a miniature elf, and a tall, impossibly thin wizard with a flowered staff. He oozed untrustworthiness. I wish I'd paid more attention to the halfling.
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gedweyignasia
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Re: Unwritten Thoughts
14 Nightal, 1349
I managed to wrench my arm out from under my body and stretch. It tingled from lack of blood. I numbly tugged on my boots and armor, the still-sodden purple fabric dampening my undergarments, and chilling my skin. I wish they'd had rooms with their own fireplaces; it would have been worth the extra expense, whatever that might have been.
I wasn't sure if I'd slept hours or minutes, but whatever it was, it was woefully inadequate. The night was still pitch-black as I exited the Inn. The cold air shocked my face awake as I trod down the steps to the courtyard. By the time I was across the drawbridge, the winter air had already reversed its decision, slowly painting my cheeks numb with rosy red. I stretched my jaw around, testing a few facial expressions to make sure my mask still worked.
I dragged my feet towards the campfire, enjoying the soft grinding sensation of my soles against the pebbles and stick fragments in the road. Nature always seemed to have a soothing quality to it, even such simple sensations as this. My head turned to the right as I heard my name. Someone was calling me.
Kitten. Not quite a name, but I hadn't bothered to get her actual identity; it hardly seemed worthwhile to tabulate that sort of information every inebriate up and down the Sword Coast. She was a drunk whose ken was strictly limited to local affairs and minor social gossip, but she was also the first of my friend's poisoned rats. Hells, I'd really mixed my metaphors on that one.
To my relief, her steady approach suggested sobriety, and her somber expression indicated she had something worthwhile on her mind. Or perhaps she was just a high-functioning drunkard with plenty reason to appear somber at all times. She steered me aside by the arm. My feet complied, though I couldn't help but steal an envious glance at the warm bonfire as she drew me away.
Once we were satisfactorily far down the road, several meters past the lamppost outside the Inn, she finally spoke, "N'essa is missing." Missing? How could N'essa be missing? I'd seen her just this morning. Kitten's announcement seemed premature. My mask's vacant expression must have spoken on my behalf, because sure enough, she answered my unspoken query, "We were supposed to meet in the Northern Cloakwood, " she paused. "Hours ago."
Ordinarily, I'd've dismissed such a concern, but given N'essa's unique situation, I agreed to investigate. She asked if I could perform a Sending. Spotty as my magic knowledge might have been, that was one spell with which I was familiar. Not that I could work the magic. Or any magic, for that matter. Leave it to a drunkard to ask an Amnian to cast-- Oh, that's right. I suggested that perhaps one of the adventurers by the campfire could manage the spell, though I silently doubted any of them knew N'essa.
Kitten returned minutes, a triumphant smile treading water on her somber face. The tall, sickly-looking wizard with the flowered staff, who I now learned was named Merek Asher, had accomplished the sending, and received her reply. N'essa was just South of the Cloakwood, along the Lion's Way. Curious, I hadn't thought N'essa would have spoken to someone like him. I made a mental note to keep a closer eye on that wizard in the future.
I managed to wrench my arm out from under my body and stretch. It tingled from lack of blood. I numbly tugged on my boots and armor, the still-sodden purple fabric dampening my undergarments, and chilling my skin. I wish they'd had rooms with their own fireplaces; it would have been worth the extra expense, whatever that might have been.
I wasn't sure if I'd slept hours or minutes, but whatever it was, it was woefully inadequate. The night was still pitch-black as I exited the Inn. The cold air shocked my face awake as I trod down the steps to the courtyard. By the time I was across the drawbridge, the winter air had already reversed its decision, slowly painting my cheeks numb with rosy red. I stretched my jaw around, testing a few facial expressions to make sure my mask still worked.
I dragged my feet towards the campfire, enjoying the soft grinding sensation of my soles against the pebbles and stick fragments in the road. Nature always seemed to have a soothing quality to it, even such simple sensations as this. My head turned to the right as I heard my name. Someone was calling me.
Kitten. Not quite a name, but I hadn't bothered to get her actual identity; it hardly seemed worthwhile to tabulate that sort of information every inebriate up and down the Sword Coast. She was a drunk whose ken was strictly limited to local affairs and minor social gossip, but she was also the first of my friend's poisoned rats. Hells, I'd really mixed my metaphors on that one.
To my relief, her steady approach suggested sobriety, and her somber expression indicated she had something worthwhile on her mind. Or perhaps she was just a high-functioning drunkard with plenty reason to appear somber at all times. She steered me aside by the arm. My feet complied, though I couldn't help but steal an envious glance at the warm bonfire as she drew me away.
Once we were satisfactorily far down the road, several meters past the lamppost outside the Inn, she finally spoke, "N'essa is missing." Missing? How could N'essa be missing? I'd seen her just this morning. Kitten's announcement seemed premature. My mask's vacant expression must have spoken on my behalf, because sure enough, she answered my unspoken query, "We were supposed to meet in the Northern Cloakwood, " she paused. "Hours ago."
Ordinarily, I'd've dismissed such a concern, but given N'essa's unique situation, I agreed to investigate. She asked if I could perform a Sending. Spotty as my magic knowledge might have been, that was one spell with which I was familiar. Not that I could work the magic. Or any magic, for that matter. Leave it to a drunkard to ask an Amnian to cast-- Oh, that's right. I suggested that perhaps one of the adventurers by the campfire could manage the spell, though I silently doubted any of them knew N'essa.
Kitten returned minutes, a triumphant smile treading water on her somber face. The tall, sickly-looking wizard with the flowered staff, who I now learned was named Merek Asher, had accomplished the sending, and received her reply. N'essa was just South of the Cloakwood, along the Lion's Way. Curious, I hadn't thought N'essa would have spoken to someone like him. I made a mental note to keep a closer eye on that wizard in the future.
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gedweyignasia
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gedweyignasia
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Re: Unwritten Thoughts
29 Nightal, 1349
"Names and details, Valkrun," I said, flatly.
Morghan looked like she probably wasn't pleased with me. Tall, sinewy, and topped with fiery red hair, Morghan Flynne was as imposing as she was incomprehensible. She raised a menacing eyebrow in my direction, confirming my hunch. Not a great start.
"I do hope you will not hold anythin' back once I speak, recruit..." Valkrun was more patient than Morghan; easier to deal with.
"Loike who else yeh'r warkin fehr or whar ye picked up yehr game."
Whatever language that was, I thought to myself. There's a fine line between things that are safe to think in your head and things that are safe to think aloud. I had a feeling that Morghan wasn't the sort who wasn't very understanding of people who stepped to the wrong side of that line.
"I don't like being treated with suspicion when I offer aid," I said, scowling slightly at Morghan. It'd be easier to deal with just Valkrun; building trust is always harder with groups.
Valkrun was more diplomatic. "Well, in the matter of a dead Shield, I'd hope you'd be willin' to speak first," he held up his hands to try to defuse the tension, "but cool yer heads. This is an emotional matter, so let's just share what we know an' keep respect amongst each other, ehh?" He glanced between us expectantly.
"I'm listenin'," Morghan offered. I nodded my agreement, folding my hands in my lap.
"So, Merek the mage asked me about Droim, perhaps six days back," Valkrun began. "It was an unusual question, but I didn't think much of it- not until I didn't hear from Droim, an' no one had seen him."
I interrupted. "What exactly did Merek ask you?"
"If Droim was a shield."
"And you told him?"
"That he was one of us."
"S'not exactly proivate knowledge," Morghan offered.
Valkrun nodded. "He was an officer, in fact. 'tis no secret even though the lad's not fond of his uniform."
"As best you know, what was the relationship between Droim and Merek?" I inquired.
"Slow down, Jane... I've much more to tell."
"I need that detail before you continue," I insisted.
"Merek made mention that Droim was involved in business that was his or affected him, but as teh a relationship between 'em, I knew of none."
"No friendship, animosity, anything?"
"At the time he told me he would treat him courteously due to his standin'."
"Is it possible that Droim had crossed Merek recently before this exchange?" I leaned forward in my seat.
Valkrun grinned, and I thought I caught a slight roll of his eyes. "The rest of the story will tell yeh all that I know, lass."
"Very well, I'll try to be patient." Echoes of Jack's dice game bounced around the inn. I recognized Lorycia, Telia, and Cecilia's voices and laughter.
Valkrun tugged at his collar. Physical discomfort? Was he worried about something? "So I found Merek today outside the inn," he began again, "an' I pulled him aside to ask an innocent question about Droim, as I hoped to hear the lad was drunk or in prison."
"Why did ye figger Merek would know?" Morghan gargled, interrupting. It a good question, though.
"Well, I didn't know," Valkrun said, evasively. "I just figured I'd follow up on his unusual question." Plausible, but maybe unlikely. Morghan nodded, satisfied. I was beginning to like Valkrun.
"Makes sense. So what did he say?" Had Morghan just strung together two articulate sentences? Impressive.
"Well, he calls this fella named Talisen over, an' they burst into this long, well tol' story of how they killed him. But they act like it's right as rain, an' tell me Droim was a Beshabite cultist." Well, you're not wrong, I thought.
Morghan was a bit more moved by this. "So roight thar, en front ef the inn, they both confess te killin' 'im? Well, at least we're not dealin' weth two criminal mastermoinds."
"You got it, Morghan. But here's where it gets interesting... They tell me Droim had plans to burn down the temple of Tymora in Baldur's Gate. An' tried to coerce some lass named Nessa," I winced inwardly at his pronunciation, "into doin' it."
"Jes te be clear... he hadn't done anythin' ef the sart, but was supposedly jes' plannin' it?"
"Apparently, Morghan," Valkrun nodded. "This Nessa lass... who always wears a mask-"
"That's all we need to know," I interjected.
"Not quoite." It seemed Morghan remembered that she was displeased with me.
"That's all we need to know."
"This Nessa lass is the key to it all. Droim supposedly tried to hurt her, an' that's why they
killed him," Valkrun said thoughtfully.
"Few angles te this, that I see. And watch yehr tongue, recruit." I shut my mouth. I liked to think that there's a certain virtue in knowing the last possible moment you can stop talking before you're going to regret it.
Valkrun looked between us. "She's not used teh dealin' with the ranks yet, Morghan," he placated. He was wrong, but I didn't have to tell him that. "But aye, until yeh earn your colors lass... Though you were a lot like her as a recruit, Morghan," he said with a wistful smirk.
"An I'll cut her slack fehr et." She stared straight at me, and for a moment I felt as if my mask were melting. "Look lass... yehr either going te impress the hell out ef me, or irritate the hell out ef me, and I'm waitin' te see which. It's clear yehr smart, but nobody's roight all the toime, eh?" I wondered how long it would be before she was certain I was just going to irritate the hell out of her.
"So in the ennerests ef diplomacy," Morghan continued to gargle, "I'd hear yehr take, recruit."
I grimaced. Morghan running the conversation was a bad omen. "Might I ask for just a small bit more slack" I asked her.
"Lay it out."
I swallowed, hard. "I need to speak to Valkrun alone."
"I need all the information en thes too, te properly figger out the angles." Much to my surprise, Morghan's face didn't turn as red as her hair. It didn't even start to. I was almost disappointed. Valkrun smirked at her. "Ef ye wish, I'll be willin' te defer te Valkrun's judgment and keep et to myself, but I can't do me job ef I don't have the pieces."
Valkrun studied me closely, "Can you tell us why yeh wish to have me alone, Janet?" He paused. "Personal reasons or privacy?"
"It's important to preserve a few pieces of information. If you see fit to pass them on, I suppose there's little I can do, then." I needed Morghan gone.
Valkrun sighed and rubbed his temples.
"Yehr call 'ere," Morghan offered to Valkrun.
"Let me hear the facts and figure on it for a moment myself, Morghan."
She shrugged. "As ye say."
"Mind sitting across the way for a moment?" Fortuitously, Isaac entered, and Valkrun suggested he have a drink with Morghan. That'll keep her busy.
Valkrun shifted his attention to me. "Alright, then... Let's hear your story, lass."
The mask slipped into place.
"Names and details, Valkrun," I said, flatly.
Morghan looked like she probably wasn't pleased with me. Tall, sinewy, and topped with fiery red hair, Morghan Flynne was as imposing as she was incomprehensible. She raised a menacing eyebrow in my direction, confirming my hunch. Not a great start.
"I do hope you will not hold anythin' back once I speak, recruit..." Valkrun was more patient than Morghan; easier to deal with.
"Loike who else yeh'r warkin fehr or whar ye picked up yehr game."
Whatever language that was, I thought to myself. There's a fine line between things that are safe to think in your head and things that are safe to think aloud. I had a feeling that Morghan wasn't the sort who wasn't very understanding of people who stepped to the wrong side of that line.
"I don't like being treated with suspicion when I offer aid," I said, scowling slightly at Morghan. It'd be easier to deal with just Valkrun; building trust is always harder with groups.
Valkrun was more diplomatic. "Well, in the matter of a dead Shield, I'd hope you'd be willin' to speak first," he held up his hands to try to defuse the tension, "but cool yer heads. This is an emotional matter, so let's just share what we know an' keep respect amongst each other, ehh?" He glanced between us expectantly.
"I'm listenin'," Morghan offered. I nodded my agreement, folding my hands in my lap.
"So, Merek the mage asked me about Droim, perhaps six days back," Valkrun began. "It was an unusual question, but I didn't think much of it- not until I didn't hear from Droim, an' no one had seen him."
I interrupted. "What exactly did Merek ask you?"
"If Droim was a shield."
"And you told him?"
"That he was one of us."
"S'not exactly proivate knowledge," Morghan offered.
Valkrun nodded. "He was an officer, in fact. 'tis no secret even though the lad's not fond of his uniform."
"As best you know, what was the relationship between Droim and Merek?" I inquired.
"Slow down, Jane... I've much more to tell."
"I need that detail before you continue," I insisted.
"Merek made mention that Droim was involved in business that was his or affected him, but as teh a relationship between 'em, I knew of none."
"No friendship, animosity, anything?"
"At the time he told me he would treat him courteously due to his standin'."
"Is it possible that Droim had crossed Merek recently before this exchange?" I leaned forward in my seat.
Valkrun grinned, and I thought I caught a slight roll of his eyes. "The rest of the story will tell yeh all that I know, lass."
"Very well, I'll try to be patient." Echoes of Jack's dice game bounced around the inn. I recognized Lorycia, Telia, and Cecilia's voices and laughter.
Valkrun tugged at his collar. Physical discomfort? Was he worried about something? "So I found Merek today outside the inn," he began again, "an' I pulled him aside to ask an innocent question about Droim, as I hoped to hear the lad was drunk or in prison."
"Why did ye figger Merek would know?" Morghan gargled, interrupting. It a good question, though.
"Well, I didn't know," Valkrun said, evasively. "I just figured I'd follow up on his unusual question." Plausible, but maybe unlikely. Morghan nodded, satisfied. I was beginning to like Valkrun.
"Makes sense. So what did he say?" Had Morghan just strung together two articulate sentences? Impressive.
"Well, he calls this fella named Talisen over, an' they burst into this long, well tol' story of how they killed him. But they act like it's right as rain, an' tell me Droim was a Beshabite cultist." Well, you're not wrong, I thought.
Morghan was a bit more moved by this. "So roight thar, en front ef the inn, they both confess te killin' 'im? Well, at least we're not dealin' weth two criminal mastermoinds."
"You got it, Morghan. But here's where it gets interesting... They tell me Droim had plans to burn down the temple of Tymora in Baldur's Gate. An' tried to coerce some lass named Nessa," I winced inwardly at his pronunciation, "into doin' it."
"Jes te be clear... he hadn't done anythin' ef the sart, but was supposedly jes' plannin' it?"
"Apparently, Morghan," Valkrun nodded. "This Nessa lass... who always wears a mask-"
"That's all we need to know," I interjected.
"Not quoite." It seemed Morghan remembered that she was displeased with me.
"That's all we need to know."
"This Nessa lass is the key to it all. Droim supposedly tried to hurt her, an' that's why they
killed him," Valkrun said thoughtfully.
"Few angles te this, that I see. And watch yehr tongue, recruit." I shut my mouth. I liked to think that there's a certain virtue in knowing the last possible moment you can stop talking before you're going to regret it.
Valkrun looked between us. "She's not used teh dealin' with the ranks yet, Morghan," he placated. He was wrong, but I didn't have to tell him that. "But aye, until yeh earn your colors lass... Though you were a lot like her as a recruit, Morghan," he said with a wistful smirk.
"An I'll cut her slack fehr et." She stared straight at me, and for a moment I felt as if my mask were melting. "Look lass... yehr either going te impress the hell out ef me, or irritate the hell out ef me, and I'm waitin' te see which. It's clear yehr smart, but nobody's roight all the toime, eh?" I wondered how long it would be before she was certain I was just going to irritate the hell out of her.
"So in the ennerests ef diplomacy," Morghan continued to gargle, "I'd hear yehr take, recruit."
I grimaced. Morghan running the conversation was a bad omen. "Might I ask for just a small bit more slack" I asked her.
"Lay it out."
I swallowed, hard. "I need to speak to Valkrun alone."
"I need all the information en thes too, te properly figger out the angles." Much to my surprise, Morghan's face didn't turn as red as her hair. It didn't even start to. I was almost disappointed. Valkrun smirked at her. "Ef ye wish, I'll be willin' te defer te Valkrun's judgment and keep et to myself, but I can't do me job ef I don't have the pieces."
Valkrun studied me closely, "Can you tell us why yeh wish to have me alone, Janet?" He paused. "Personal reasons or privacy?"
"It's important to preserve a few pieces of information. If you see fit to pass them on, I suppose there's little I can do, then." I needed Morghan gone.
Valkrun sighed and rubbed his temples.
"Yehr call 'ere," Morghan offered to Valkrun.
"Let me hear the facts and figure on it for a moment myself, Morghan."
She shrugged. "As ye say."
"Mind sitting across the way for a moment?" Fortuitously, Isaac entered, and Valkrun suggested he have a drink with Morghan. That'll keep her busy.
Valkrun shifted his attention to me. "Alright, then... Let's hear your story, lass."
The mask slipped into place.