The Underhill Files
-
_THE BREAKING POINT
“Logging! Is! Murder!”, the crowd chanted as they gathered outside of the union hall. “Logging! Is! Murder! Logging! Is! Murder!”
Roslyn stood there, as a pit- no, a great, yawning chasm - opened up within her stomach. “I don’ know wha’ happened t’ y’ share, Alvaniel. I really don’. But I know it was left f-” She was cut off by the growing crowd’s shouts and jeers, and couldn’t even hear what Alvaniel said next. It didn’t matter, anyway. There would be no convincing the elf that the entire issue was just a big misunderstanding. Not in these circumstances. Not with a throng of angry protestors shouting at the top of their lungs.
Ros threw her hands up in frustration, and left to join the others. They were six in total: Z, Roslyn, Ginger, Arnie, Shiney, and Brumir. She’d traveled with them before, except for Z and Shiney. Union types, mostly.
“I can’t take this any more. Let’s jus’ go.”, the hin said as she rejoined her companions. Ginger looked like she was only barely containing her anger over the present situation, and the others seemed to be simply trying to put it out of their minds.
“Should we be leavin’ the hall alone wit them?”, Brumir asked while looking back with concern at the gates they’d just passed through.
“Us bein’ there’d only make things more tense.”, Ros said with resignation. Z nodded his agreement, and if the others felt differently, none were inclined to share that fact. This business with Raryldor and the Crafters had been going on for only a few days, by this point. But to Roslyn, it seemed an eternity. Friends on both sides of the debacle were hurling bile at each other, and she was right in the middle.
The party marched on in silence for a short time, until reaching the outskirts of Old Norwick. The ruins of the town had been something of a landmark in years past, though now barely anything remained but a few decrepit sections of the old town’s palisade, and the eroded earthworks that once marked the southern border of the town.
“So wha’s th’ plan? Where we goin’?”, Roslyn asked, desperate to change the subject.
“HOBBOS!”, shouted Brumir with unexpected enthusiasm. “As happy to get away from that mess as I am.”, Ros thought. The party surged forward, and the shadows and zombies that plague the site of the old town fell before them with no meaningful resistance.
“I hear they’re pretty responsible miners.”, Ginger offered.
“Aye, they cin teach us a thing or two.”, Brumir quipped. Ros shook her head, as his attempt at levity only reminded her more of the nonsense that had engulfed Norwick and much of her circle of friends.
“Besides, I’ve never heard of any sacred ore veins.”, Ginger chirped as they passed the old, crumbling earthworks..
“Good job jinxin’ shite.”, Ros responded. Knowing how much her luck had taken a downturn lately, they’d likely discover the very first one. A few brave goblins decided to charge their party, and weren’t given time enough to regret their mistake. Not long ago, these creatures would have made her nervous. But right now, with people she cared about at each other’s throats…a simple enemy she could fix with an arrow made her feel better, somehow.
The outskirts of hobgoblin territory offered little in the way of scenery or challenge. At least not with a party this efficient. Regardless of what any may say, the Union did have some heavy hitters within their ranks.
An uneasy feeling took root in Roslyn’s chest as they began to push further towards the scar. The hobgoblins had reinforced, and these woods were looking a much harder target than they had been on her previous visits. It was a vicious fight, with swords flashing, and scythes swinging so fast one could barely see more than a brief glint and the blur of their deadly swipes. One by one, the hobgoblins fell, and the group pushed on.
And then she heard it.
The noise of battle was broken by the flap of leathern wings, and a huge shape raced past overhead. The others barely noticed it. Roslyn herself even barely noticed it. All she knew was that at that moment, all strength went out of her limbs, and she fell to one knee in the middle of a fight. The others continued fighting, except for Ginger. Her fellow hin rushed to her side to ask what was the matter, but Ros couldn’t answer. She didn’t know. How could she? This was some magical affliction, one that even somebody as obsessed with preparing for everything as Ros hadn’t even seen coming. Their words were a jumble of discordant noise as, one by one, the rest of the party realized that something was gravely wrong.
A loud roar broke through the noise, and in a frenzy, she looked about to see more hobgoblins descending on the group. Ros tried to lift her bow, tried to join the fight, but all she did was fall forwards onto her face. Through the haze of weakness and confusion, Ros tried to crawl away from the fight. It was exhausting, more than she’d ever exerted herself even during her training all those years ago…
But the noise died down. And Z was standing over her again, trying to take a look at her wounds. “I kin see if she’s poisoned.”, she heard him say, while the others stood guard. The afflicted hin was teetering on the edge of consciousness when she felt a surge of magic pass through her, and do nothing. Concerned glances shot back at her as she lay motionless on the ground, save for the rising and falling of her chest in time with her weak breaths.
“Try dis.”, Shiney said as she strode up to her, and placed a vial to her lips. Ros swallowed the liquid as it flowed into her mouth, more as a reflex than a result of any conscious effort.
At once, she felt her strength and senses returning, snapping back into reality just in time to hear the flap of leathery wings again. This time, the beast passed so low that the flap of its wings sent them all to the ground. This time, it stayed circling above them after its pass.
One by one they pushed themselves back to their feet. Ros had only begun dusting herself off when she heard Z speak again.
“Someone’s riding it.”
Her heart sank. “It’s about th’ tree, ain’t it?” Her thoughts raced back to the protestors in town, the dryad she’d met in Peltarch shouting about bringing vengeance upon those who’d felled a sacred tree in the Coldstones, and about her own role in the felling of it. In a frenzy, she looked about at the others. “We needta go.”
“Aye. The druid glenn. We need to sort this out.”, Ginger added. Ros nodded once, and motioned for them to double back towards town. But they had not even begun moving when dozens of Wyverns began to descend upon them.
The group fought ferociously to escape as the Wyverns landed and snapped at them, then leapt back into the air to assault from another angle. One by one they fell, but still more kept coming. The group fought its way almost to the lake in the Rawlinswood, running and fighting from the wyverns, when the biggest one Ros had ever seen - nearly the size of a dragon - landed in front of them.
“Evening.”, the hooded figure seated upon it said. The rest of the group stopped, awed by the beast and its rider. Ros only saw red. “EVENIN’? THA’S ALL Y’GOT T’ SAY?!”, the hin said as she finally lost her cool completely. She wasn’t entirely sure what she said after that, as being cursed and attacked left her in a rage the likes of which she’d never felt before. All she knew was that in that moment, she absolutely hated the man and his creatures. While the others made overtures of peace, or tried ot otherwise resolve the situation, Roslyn stomped off to the back of the group.
“I just wanted the chance to meet my prey.”, the man upon it replied with a dark and threatening smile.
With that, his beast leapt once more into the air, and the assault began anew. “WE NEEDTA FECKIN’ MOVE!”, the hin shouted. “SHOOT AN’ SCOOT, PEOPLE! SHOOT AN’ SCOOT!”, she directed as they slowly made their way back to the earthworks. Every inch they moved, they needed to contest with at least one wyvern.
The team pushed through Norwick under constant assault, until they saw the man again. His giant wyvern had landed next to him, and he was casting spells in preparation for battle. Ros didn’t even wait for the others, and began shooting at him, as the rest rushed in to do battle as well.
Despite his efforts, the man fell quickly. His beast less so, but still it fell.
Roslyn leapt upon the man’s corpse as he fell, knife in hand. As her blade cut into his neck, she growled to herself.
“Gonna show tha’ feck wha’ his stink agin’ th’ Union brought down.”
The others watched on, aghast._
-
A meticulously detailed rendering what appears to be a card back adorns this page in Roslyn's journal, showing a sphynx's face in front of a complex floral pattern. A coded entry into Roslyn's journal follow's on the following page.
"What's easy to get into, but hard to get out of?" 'Trouble' was my answer and, Yondalla preserve me, I don't think I could have been more right.
I guess it started with Vick getting a report from his Far Scouts. Constructs in the crypts - while certainly a step up from undead - warranted some investigating. It was a hard fight at first. One of our party, some knight with more brawn than sense, rushed into the tomb and nearly got himself killed. He'd left as soon as we got him on his feet, apparently deciding that whatever was down there wasn't worth the trouble.
Trouble.
Now that I think on it, maybe I'm the one lacking in sense. I mean whatever else you can say about him, the guy didn't wind up in the shit I'm in now. We're in, now.
It wasn't long after he left that we saw the Sphinx for the first time. Not a true sphinx, mind, but a construct. He asked, "What is a warrior's worst enemy?", and I rattled off a series of passive-aggressive quips about our recently-departed knightly friend. All of which were, technically true - but none of which were the answer he sought. The sphinx turned back and disappeared into the crypt.
We worked our way through the constructs. Cleared out the first room with some effort and more than a little trial and error. Vick and I did some scouting. Found one room full of some constructs that I couldn't quite make out. Going another way, we found three floating suits of armor. We went for the latter and made quick work of them. Pressing on, we found a huge bone golem. Again, it went down with a minimum of fuss.
Then they sent Vick and I in to scout the next room. And gods damn, do I wish I'd seen sense like our knight.
The room itself was empty, save for some interesting architectural choices. Large and mostly open, though part of it was gated off with another doorway beyond. As Vick scouted the room, I made for that. Upon entering, I found our Sphinx once more, who invited me into "his lair". That's always what a girl wants to hear, by the way. Just ask her into your lair and she'll swoon, I swear to fucking Brandobaris. I said something about needing a moment, and told Vick what I'd seen. Told him to get the others in case things went pear-shaped. As he went off to gather them, I stepped in.
He didn't attack. He didn't make a move. All he did was ask, "What's easy to get into, and hard to get out of?"
"Trouble", I answered. And that's when he opened his mouth, and out dropped a deck of cards.
Magical cards.
I went forward to pick them up, and before I could look back, he'd vanished. Leaving, I found our party coming up on the room, ready to do battle. But the tomb was quiet. No sphinx, no other constructs. The ones we'd seen earlier but not fought had disappeared just as well as the Sphinx had done.
We made our way back to the surface, where I told them what I'd found. Told them my plan was to have a bard cast legend lore on it (by the way, turns out Nate didn't really need to, since he was able to tell me what it was mostly without assistance. Always good to know some bards.) which the party seemed to be mostly amenable towards.
But something happened then as I went to put them away. The party started eyeing the deck. Moving for me.
I've seen this happen before - hells, last time it happened I only got out of it by slipping an ioun stone on to Artemis. But as much as I may have liked the party I was with, there was nobody there that I can honestly say I'd trust nearly enough to do that. So I ran.
And they instantly gave chase. Not that it did them much good. I lost them pretty quickly in the alleys, and ran for the college to get a letter to Nate and Isolde. Crept out to try and contact some Ceruleans I know, only to hear that now there's a warrant out for me, and a bounty on my head. Which is all well and good, except....five hundred gold? Really? Come on, Peltarch. You can do better.
Notes left, I went into hiding. Until now, when thank the fucking gods I can call in some friends in the guard and the Ceruleans to get me un-fugitivized and look this damned thing over.
Anyway, Nate tells me that what I have is a Deck of Hazards. Old Narfellian magic, it sounds like.. I've got it hidden for now, and I'm not telling anyone where just yet. Some others know how to open the box I've put it in. I think instead of giving a location, maybe I'll find some other way to lead them to it if needed.
This thing can't be used.
-
A rough self-portrait graces one page of Roslyn's journal, depicting the artist with her chin resting on her fist
It's been a time since I wrote anything more than notes in this journal. Too long, I think. I've missed the introspection that comes with writing these entries. There's something therapeutic and, I think, helpful about sitting down and asking hard questions of yourself.
Our kin are not quite so weak as they were when I came here, and for that I'm grateful. Especially recently, new bands of hin adventurers have been making names for themselves here. It's heartening, considering that not too long ago our people were homeless wanderers, refugees without a place of our own. My work continues of course, but I'm not satisfied with the lack of progress. For now, our kin live in a fortified military encampment overseen by the HDL. And I suppose that's good enough for the time being, but we need more. We need to be a power in this land, not just a footnote.
But being a power? That takes cohesion. Unity. It takes vision, and drive, and leadership. I'm not sure how much of that last one I have, but if the battle for the Dwarven Hold is anything to go by, I've a lot of work to do. There's plenty of blame to go around for that disaster, but I can't stop thinking about my own share of it. I keep telling myself that I'd argued for us to collapse the tunnels into there, to consolidate into a one-front battle, and that that was good enough. But truthfully? I don't think it is. I should've overridden the others, should've ordered it and damn the consequences. But I didn't. Yondalla forgive me, I didn't.
To be honest, I've never felt much of a connection with dwarves. Not really. They're earthkin, of course, and dwarven and halfling communities have worked together in the past - although I'm led to believe the relationship was more antagonistic in Narfell's past than in some other places. But like us, they've now lost their home. Their place in this region. And like we were, they've found themselves having to live in tents. Birds of a feather, right? Stubborn as, I suppose, you'd expect a dwarf to be, they didn't want to leave their hold even as the roof was falling down around them. We had to physically pull those beardy bastards out. I think what I'm trying to say is, I feel a responsibility for these people.
I don't know where I'm going with this. Like I said, I'm out of practice. I just needed to get things off my chest, I suppose.
-
On Theology
The following coded entry into Roslyn Underhill's notebook features a detailed drawing of a sleeping hin, peacefully dozing in a bed in the Dancing Mermaid Inn. Some may recognize him as Sprocket, student at the Peltarch bardic college.
Everyone gets everything they want. I wanted to help my people, and for my sins they let me.
As I write this, my dear friend Sprocket rests beside me, recovering from an ordeal inflicted upon him by a man with whom he had no argument whatsoever. That is always the way, isn't it? Talbot Anderson, Surin Trusho, Marcel Finhund; these are just the most recent names. History is so full of unreasonable men with unreasonable goals who are entirely too willing to use unreasonable means to achieve them.
Is it odd that I have learned not to hate these men? Is something wrong with me? Talbot was a monster, a vile man who enslaved others to his will simply for being unruly, for being thugs and petty criminals. But the more I think about him, I realize what drove him. I can almost see him as a good man who was driven to do terrible things, by a desperate need to protect those close to him. I've known since he died that we were wrong to kill him, and I've told Marie as much. But the more I talk to Marcel, the more I find myself squaring off against Trusho, the more I realize that they aren't monsters. None of us is a monster. There are only people who do monstrous things.
Marcel is…deranged. He is not in his right mind. Can I hold such a man accountable for his actions when I doubt he can even truly grasp the way he's hurt people? Surin Trusho has literally removed part of his own humanity; driven, it would seem, by the pressures placed upon him by his colleagues in the Night Parade. What is the point of that pressure, if not to drive him to the remorseless acts that have hurt so many, and that would kill many more? He now asks us to choose between allowing him to take a course of action that will kill hundreds or even thousands, but spare those closest to us...or he will target us all directly. Laerune thought we chose poorly, and while the thought crossed my mind as well, I ultimately came to the conclusion that the options he offered are between allowing something unspeakable to happen, or opposing him while he does something unspeakable anyway. It was a choice that seemed so easy, until we found Sprocket.
From the time we found him until the time he was raised, I prayed. It was possibly the longest period of prayer in my adult life, certainly the longest since I a few coded words are scribbled out here
That choice allowed him to live. I don't regret it. When we find Sarah, and we will find Sarah, I want to be able to look her in the eye and not feel ashamed. The pain was worth it, if that choice lets me do that.
-
Personal Log - 1
My investigations are not going as I had hoped.
Sarah remains elusive, Leil has escaped captivity, and Silvia has secluded herself in order to defend against the fey who pursue her. Frankly, I'm at a loss as to how to proceed, as much as I hate to say that. I still have Aesso's locket in my possession, though, and I hope that it may be the key to cracking this open. It would be so much simpler if I could speak with Isolde or Horgrim about it, but we are being watched day and night. I can never be certain when the Night Parade is observing us, and I've taken to simply assuming that I am being watched at all times. I could send Isolde a message using our old codes, but I worry that she will not hold to them. The last time that we attempted to use them, it did not take her long to grow frustrated at the cloak-and-dagger nature of it all.
I can't say I blame her. Even I find it tiring, and I'm even writing this in code.
And then there's the shrine. I have been combing the marketplaces of the region, attempting to find information on who has been purchasing powder kegs recently. I worry, however, at the fact that Oscura's merchants are reticent to discuss their clientele with someone who isn't blooded. Hells, I would imagine they'd be reticent to discuss it even if I was. I had initially thought Gemli to be the likely source of the kegs, since the tunnel approaching the site came from the south. However, I have uncovered relatively little with this avenue of investigation. More magical investigation may be necessary, but Anarawiel and Leena had it out over some of the spells that Anarawiel uses, and I worry that she's been thoroughly alienated from this investigation as a result. Gods dammit, Leena. I understand that she has her oaths, but what good is a proscription against the undead that prevents someone from effectively stopping a necromancer?
And then there's the novels. Oh gods, the novels. No sign of our dour mage of late, thank the gods, but I worry at the quiet. It usually means something is happening that I don't know about.
Perhaps I should get some divination done…
-
The Hole
The page opposite to this entry features a detailed representation of the symbol of Kelemvor: A skeletal hand holding balanced scales.
On the explosion of the temple of Kelemvor: The loss of life and loss of the temple is undoubtedly a tragedy and that cannot be overstated. However, it is equally important to maintain a clear head and investigate thoroughly every shred of information one has available to them.
Our evidence thus far: Debris from several powderkegs littering the floor of the chamber beneath what was the temple, remains of dozens, possibly hundreds of undead in the same area, a tunnel (caved in, but still visible), which appears to have been dug manually by two to four individuals, and lingering magical traces of conjuration and necromancy which suggest that the undead were summoned rather than animated.
What conclusions can we draw from this? I doubt that demons would require the kind of tools necessary to dig their way under the temple, or would require powderkegs. Those looking to serve them, however, might. Also worth noting is that the tunnel extended quite a ways south, whereas the demons are located to the east. Sure, the scar is in the way, but that's an awful great distance out of their way to get to something that's just a short distance from their power base.
The temple has been attacked before, and recently - it would be foolish to not consider a connection between the two.
What we are left with is an attack that appears to be in support of the demons, but is it? I'm unsure. Pursuing these leads will require –
The text abruptly cuts off here, ending this entry prematurely
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A Break
A rather detailed rendering of Mint Ju'lep, colored in with pastels, fills the page opposite the beginning of this coded entry. She is in full armor, with sword and shield in hand.
I now have a lead to follow on Louis Aldreyyus. Its source was…not unexpected, as I'd thought she might be the elf in question. Mint's given me what she claims is his current location. I'm not completely confident that this isn't some kind of trap. Mint is a hard one to read, and her reputation does lead one to be suspicious of her motives. Still, she's yet to do anything unspeakably terrible to me, so I've no intention of writing her off just yet.
Still though. Curse my caution! This whole thing might have been avoided if I'd just spoken to Louis and gotten some sort of idea of what Talbot's game was! Worst of all is that it's others who have to pay for my mistake, and not myself. I've got to do right by them.
Leena and I have begun working our way through Oscura. Hopefully we'll turn something up that can reverse all of this. We're sorely in need of answers.
-
Talbot Makes his Move
Exquisitely detailed renderings of gears fill the top left and bottom right corners of this page in Roslyn's notebook, framing the complex coded entry which follows.
I have come to realize something about myself, which I feel I must strive to improve. I have been overcautious to a fault in my dealings with Talbot, and I see now that I show that same quality in many other things. This investigation into vampires, for example.
I had hoped to contact Louis Aldreyyus to see what I could learn of Talbot's aims. Yet before I could meet with him, he was seen being tailed by a hooded figure and an elf, and has not been seen since. No doubt these were friends of Talbot's, working to tie up his loose ends. I have opened an investigation into his disappearance, but I fear it will only prove a distraction from the far more pressing threat of Talbot himself.
Talbot Anderson has finally made his move, and shown his true colors to a city that seemed to hail him as a hero. He attempted to assassinate Defender General Del'Rosa, declared himself "Acting General", and ordered the whole of Peltarch's defenders out into the Giantspires. Though half returned to the city unscathed by the ordeal, the other half have been turned into half-construct clockwork abominations that follow Talbot's every command. It appears that Jean Taschereau and Carl Tusker, his two faithful lieutenants, are allowed to retain their individuality and have been involved in his scheme for some time.
I do not know the means by which he has accomplished this, and that bothers me. Getting close to find out more about his "array", as I believe Artemis called it, sounds as if it will be very difficult as well. The terrain and weather conditions are both horrendously unforgiving that deep into the Giantspires, and all of it is likely to be heavily patrolled by Talbot's men. How are we to defeat an enemy who is so good at keeping us from even knowing his capabilities?
Talbot has moved quickly - far more quickly than I could react. That is my failing as much as his success, sadly. I keep saying that focusing on would'ves and could'ves is pointless, but the truth is that I can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, I should have taken his job offer. I might have found something that clued us in on what he was up to. Something that could have saved hundreds of lives. Isolde would tell me that I can't think like that, but hells. I can, and I do. Talbot made them do it, sure, but this is on my head too. I can only hope there's a way to save those men and women.
Even worse, Talbot wants Aesso. Or rather, Sarah, who's as close to Aesso as he can get. Isolde wants to move her to the refugee camp, but she'd stick out like a sore thumb there. To say nothing of the fact that the camp is quite possibly the least defensible settlement in the region, and she would only make them a target for a numerically superior force of half-construct clockwork horrors…I don't see how Isolde's plan would work. I will need to talk to Leena. Silvia has a tree in the Druids' Glenn that allows her to travel there instantly, and she is both immensely powerful and fiercely protective of Aesso, and by extension Sarah. The Glenn also affords many tactical advantages: its only entrance is a bottleneck guarded by four "rune golems" as well as a steely-eyed and hard-nosed elven bowman. It's populated by a variety of powerful druids and fey. It would be insanity for anybody to attack it.
I can only hope Leena will go along with my proposal.
-
Risky Business
A detailed drawing of a knight holding a sword aloft dominates the top of this page, lovingly colored in with pastels to make a surprisingly realistic rendering of what some might recognize as one of Sarah Snow's puppets. The rest of the entry continues in Roslyn's numero-symbolic code.
We have perhaps been slightly too successful.
To say that Sarah is out of her shell is a gross and flagrant understatement. In many ways, this is a good thing. No longer is she the meek, emotionally fragile girl we'd rescued from the dreamscape. Instead, she has become outgoing, confident, and mischievous to a fault. To be quite honest, I adore the person she has become. But she lacks discretion, to an absurd degree. I tremble at the thought that one day, her indomitable sense of whimsy will bring her into conflict with the wrong person, the wrong official, and she will be on the hook for things she hasn't done.
Or worse, for things that she has.
She becomes more and more like Aesso with each passing day. Her puppets, once fragile and constantly-breaking marionettes, are now small remote-controlled magical constructs. Impressive, yes, but also very distinctive. Something that nobody could mistake as belonging to anyone else. Which is why it's such a problem that she's used them in acts of thievery. Given my own profession and the god I worship, I suppose it's a bit unreasonable for me to criticize someone for having light fingers here and there. My lady herself encourages such practices. But she also encourages discretion, and trying to teach Sarah to pursue these things with a bit of plausible deniability has been frustrating to say the least.
Talbot…Talbot will move against her, I know it. I'm trying to convince Isolde to give him what he wants from us, if only for the sake of her safety and a bit of breathing room for our own operations. She is resisting heavily, though, and I don't think I have much longer to make my decision. I may need to see if he'll simply accept my help in this. I hope he will, if it comes to it. Isolde's aid would lend a certain legitimacy to it, and contradicting her is something I do not wish to do regardless as she is a very dear friend. But if I need to choose…gods, I really can't say what I'd do.
I've tried to worm my way into the confidence of one Sally Williams. It has not been particularly easy, but I think she at least views me with marginally less hostility than she does other civilians. Perhaps if she can help me get close enough to Talbot, I can get a better idea of what his game is. We need to know his long-term plans so we can react better to his short-term moves. I know he's looking beyond Peltarch, but I don't know what he's playing at. His objective is power, yes, and authority, but I get the impression that there's a specific reason he wants it. These things are means to an end, not an end themselves.
I need to know more about him. I need to get ahead of him. For Sarah's sake, and for everyone he's taking advantage of.
Another detailed drawing dominates the foot of this entry, this one of Sarah's dragon puppet. Like the first, it is colored in with pastels to create a surprisingly textured rendering of the blue dragon puppet.
-
Sarah
The following is a coded entry into Roslyn's personal log, written in small numbers and symbols beneath a larger drawing of a great eye with a slitted pupil.
We'd brought her out from the dream vestige, alright. Sarah Snow, with hardly a memory of what had transpired since she'd become something much more. Beeble offered to join with her again, to let her be Aesso on her own terms. But knowing what Isolde had said about the memory of Aesso and Silvia…gods. I think we've made the right choice, but I can't help wondering at what might have been.
Perhaps it's for the best, though. Talbot's guards keep coming around harassing us, thinking that Sarah is Aesso, when for all intents and purposes they are different people. Talbot has his own reasons, which I won't touch on here, but she's little more than an excuse to him. A way to get us to give him what he wants.
I won't let him have it, or her.
I miss Aesso, despite barely knowing her. She was something unique. Wonderful, whimsical, beautiful. That I had a hand in bringing an end to her is something I still cannot - will not - forgive myself for, the fact that it was unintentional not withstanding.
Isolde said before we rescued her that Aesso was the core of who Sarah Snow was. Deep down, beneath the sadness, the shyness, the lack of self confidence, Aesso still remains. Aesso is Sarah, without the years of being ground down and told she isn't good enough. And, yes, probably with some extra magical abilities besides, but it isn't her abilities that made her wonderful. It was her.
I've been spending more and more time with her, to try and coax her out of that shell. It's too early to gauge progress effectively, but I think she sees me as a friend, at the least. She needs friends, far more than any of us would like to admit. I'm doing my best to help her, to bring out that wonderful and exuberant person I knew only briefly, and I know I can do it if I put in the time.
I came here to help my kin, after all. And that's what Sarah is, just as much as the hin in the refugee camp. But it wasn't her home that was taken from her, it was something that's far harder to replace.
We'll get there. I know we will.
Beneath that text is a small rendering of a hin, crouched on her knees and operating a marionette with each hand.
-
THE ART OF CONVERSATION
Raryldor looked down on her from horseback, as she held the malarite’s head aloft. She was absolutely filthy, her arms and torso caked with dried malarite and wyvern blood and her hair caked with dried egg. His expression was a mixture of confusion and frustration, with no small amount of concern added in. “THIS one attacked me, ‘cause o’ this shite YOU’RE stirrin’ up wi’ th’ Union!”
“I’m stirring things up?”, he asked, bewildered. “They’re the ones who started this.”
“I don’ care who started what, Raryldor. I almos’ died t’day, an’ I jus’ feckin’ want it t’ end. I ain’t done nothin’ t’ nobody.”
“You would have me back down?” The elf’s tone was incredulous. “They’re the ones without honor, or integrity.”
Ros threw the head violently to the ground. She’d been trained to always disguise how she was feeling, especially when she was angry. But this…she’d almost died for a dispute that she wanted no part in. There was a fire in her eyes now, an anger that, to her knowledge, she’d never shown anyone before. “I DON’ FECKIN’ CARE! I DON’ CARE WHO DID WHAT! I JUS’ WANT THIS SHITE T’ END!”
“Perhaps you shouldn’t have been traveling with the union, then.”
“I DON’ WANNA HAFTA CHOOSE ‘TWEEN GROUPS O’ FRIENDS F’ THIS! IT’S ALL JUS’ PETTY NONSENSE! THERE’S A DRYAD WANTS T’ KILL ER’RYONE INVOLVED IN THA’ FECKIN’ TRIP, THERE’S PROTESTORS MAKIN’ IT SO I CAN’T E’EN TALK T’ FOLK...IT HAS T’ END, RARYLDOR!” She was breathing heavily at this point, pressing the issue more than she normally ever would while Raryldor quickly looked more and more frustrated with her outburst.
She barely even noticed as Shiney walked up. It was obvious she’d only caught the tail end of Roslyn’s outburst. “Everythin’ alright?”, the dwarven woman asked as she looked between them. She looked like she’d just been slapped with a fish.
“Yes. We can speak together if you’d like. Privately. I’ve been yelled at enough today.”, Raryldor quipped with one last look at Roslyn.
In that moment, were it within her power, Roslyn would have shot fire from her eyes right through his torso. She snatched up the head and stuffed it into a sack, and made her way back towards the fire.
