The temples catch Jararaka attention. She can't help but compare these beautiful buildings to where she found her shield, the crumbled stone and half-pillars, and strangely feels a pleasedness for having been the one to find the ruin. Perhaps it is because no harm has come to them when there were plenty opportunity, Jararaka's initial wariness decreases. By the time they reach this far to the corners of the city, she felt too invested to back out.

Jararaka shrugs as they see the name of the house they Just read about in a seedy paper, "well, guess we'll be talking to the directly involved first."

Seeing Yeshil remove her molar casually, Jararaka remarks, "huh, so that don't bother you? I knocked this guy's front teeth out once and he got so pissed. What's the big deal, they all grow back anyway." She taps Yeshil again on the shoulder with a quick prayer, and then follows suit. [giving Yeshil another guidance!]

[Will just do another perception to see if they are being watched, and for security (esp Flaming Fists), quick exits and places to hide (lay of the land basically): 25 ]

You follow Moltar into the narrow hallway.  It runs the lengths of the addition.  If there are any ground floor rooms here, there are no doors to access them.  At the end of the hall on the far side of the building, a staircase leads up.  Without pausing, Moltar continues up the stairs.  Looking back, Brak has stepped inside the outer door and waits there, looking out into the street.

On the second floor, there is another staircase leading up to a third floor.  Alongside, there is also a ladder leading down into darkness, perhaps some storage space on the ground floor.  You are standing in a kitchen and dining room.  It looks like any number of orphanages or poorhouse kitchens you may have seen... cheap shelves tacked to the walls with rusted pans and pots hanging alongside an old wood stove and oven.  Two flimsy pine tables with benches consume much of the floor space.  Only a couple of candles are lit, and the window coverings are drawn.  In the darkness, you can make out another hallway leading away, back toward the side of the building where you entered.  

There are a couple of men seated at the tables.  One is decked out in the cultist atire you remember from the siege of Greenest.  They all look tired and bored, and the there is a strong odor of dirty clothes and sweat in this narrow space.  "Quick," Moltar says, gathering their attention.  "Go find Kefa.  We've got news from Cyanrath's party."

One of the men grumbles, muttering something about Moltar being a bossy prick, but climbs the stairs up to the next floor.  A couple more men enter the kitchen from down the hall, drawn by the raised voice.  After a minute, four figures emerge back down the stairs from the upper floor.  One of them wears a vestment of rich purple, that gleams even in the dim light.  

"Moltar," this man says.  Then he snaps his fingers at another cultist.  "Get some more light in here.  We can hardly see."  While that man leaves to scrounge for candles, the vested man returns his attention to Moltar.  "You have news from the docks?  Has Cyanrath and his party made the city?"

Moltar shakes his head.  "Not sure.  But we found one of Cyanrath's attendants," he says, motioning to you.  The vested man seems to notice you for the first time.  "She says there was a battle in the Wood of Sharp Teeth.  Some were lost, and Cyanrath's wagons may have become separated.  She can tell you more."

Before you can begin to spin a tale for them, Moltar continues.  "But first... while we were down at the docks, I saw someone.  Back at Greenest, Cyanrath fought a duel outside the castle with a huge woman-warrior.  He struck her down... but I saw her at the docks just now.  She must have survived the fight.  It can't be a coincidence that she is here in Baldur's Gate.  She was with a half-elf woman and an old forest dwarf.  They must be tracking us."

The vested man seems cynical.  "Are you certain?  Cyanrath is usually more... thorough.  He doesn't often leave survivors.  Must be it was some other warrior."

Moltar shakes his head fiercely.  "Don't ignore this.  I am certain of it.  It's not just some other blond, fair eyed, half-giant woman-warrior.  Get real.  There's no mistake.  They did not see us today and we weren't followed, but I think we should take action before we are discovered."

The vested man seems uncertain, but a few of the other men shuffle nervously.  "Then perhaps we should send someone out to do a bit of hunting....".  He turns back to you.  "And what of this battle in the Wood?  Tell me everything."

Jararaka, keeping a careful eye on your surroundings, you note that your presence here in this neighborhood of noble estates has not gone unnoticed.  A pair of guards have begun following you.  Unlike the Flaming Fist of the Lower and Outer City, with their black and red motif, these guards wear blue, white and gold uniforms.  And their garb is immaculate and well pressed.  Whereas the Flaming Fist are 'professional' in the sense of a mercenary band, the guards here in the Upper City are 'professional' in the sense of a knightly order or professional military.  They do not interrupt you, but they do follow at a respectable distance, keeping an eye on you.  

As you enter the compound and walk up toward the front door, it opens.  A human man steps outside.  He is middle aged and handsome... stunning, even.  There is just enough salt and pepper coloring to his temples to suggest experience and wisdom, but not old-age.  He turns and stops suddenly at your approach.  "What... what is this?" he asks in alarm.  

At this, the two Watch members approach at double time, one of them drawing a short sword.  "Hold it right there... step away from the man... slowly...".

Suddenly caught, though innocent, in a compromising situation on the manor's doorstep, you are bailed out by a voice from inside they home.

"They are my guests," calls out the raspy voice of an old woman.  "Do come inside, girls.  Nevermind this, Watchmen.  I will take it from here."

The two guardsmen slowly withdraw, casting nervous glances up at the windows of the old manor house.  The middle-aged man, for his part, looks back inside with mild annoyance, then puts on a fedora and steps around you on the walk, leaving out the front gate without another word.

Stepping into the manor house, you are greeted by a dimly lit space, more cramped on the inside than you may have expected.  The entrance hall is adorned with rich mahogany paneling and a grand chandelier hanging from the ceiling.  A plush, patterned rug covers the marble floor.  An antique coat stand holds an array of finely crafted cloaks, as well as carved wooden walking sticks and canes. 

The curtains are all drawn, save for a large picture window at the top of a flight of carpeted stairs.  Against the window, you see the outline of a hunched figure.  "Please, do join me in th the study.  Time is precious to us, no?"  The figure retreats out of view upstairs.

Following, you ascend the stairs to reach an upper hall, lined with shelves displaying an eclectic assortment of artifacts from distant lands.  Mounted animal skulls, ancient masks, and tribal weapons are tastefully arranged alongside maps and faded scrolls.  More light is visible through an open oak door, and you follow.  

Inside you find a study, a cozy space filled with aged leather-bound books and antique furniture. The shelves are crammed with volumes on archaeology, anthropology, and rare manuscripts. A large desk, cluttered with maps and artifacts, takes center stage.  Through an archway at the back of the room, it opens into what looks like a private library where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves house an extensive collection of rare tomes.  The air is redolent with the scent of aged parchment, old tobacco, and dust.  Plush chairs and reading lamps invite contemplation and study.

Seated on the other side of the desk in a forest green leather chair, is possibly the oldest human woman either of you have ever seen.  She seems to rival the old hag crones of legend.  Her skin is like spotted wax paper and her hair is so thin, it seems as though a faint breeze would disintegrate all the remains.  As you look upon her, you notice that for the first time since you entered the upper city, the voices in your mind have quieted.  

She looks at both of you.  Despite her age, her eyes are those of a hawk, questing for the smallest of details.  "So..." she says at last.  Different from the commanding tone she struck speaking down from the balcony, her voice is soft and weak now.  "You seek a library.  I have a library... one which holds at least one answer you seek.  Tell me... how much is information worth to you?  Are you prepared to work for it?" 

"We have much at stake, you and I, based on how you answer."

     "I... I wouldn't call it a battle," Finn starts off slowly, a bit unsure of herself but also wanting to seem small and intimidated by everything going on.  "It should have been a slaughter and it mostly was..."  Finn pauses and looks down at her feet before taking a big breath in to steady herself.

     "We had left camp and were passing the Woods.  A scout had spotted an encampment.  Small, only a couple people there but with some fresh horses and the likes.  Honestly I don't know if mention of it ever even got all the way up to Cyanrath or if a few of us were sent to raid the place on someone else's word," Finn explains.  "I was not amongst the most favored of attendants..."  She all but pulls a sad puppy face at this comment.

     "Half dozen of us were sent.  It was easy pickings but bad luck... As we were finishing ransacking the place a group of mercenaries of some kind showed and ambushed us.  A lean to collapsed atop me.  Knocked me out.  I woke up hours later and the place was deserted.  I think... I think all our people died, far as I could tell.  I didn't know what to do.  I... I could tell the mercenaries left a different way than our caravan had been traveling but I didn't know if that was deliberate or not.  Instinct told me to get back to the caravan and warn them of what happened... But... Should I of?  I meant to but then I wondered... What if they were following me?  What if one of them was a tracker and they intended me to lead them to the caravan?  I couldn't be the cause of that!  I just couldn't!"  Finn has herself worked up as if in a panic, worried about her choice and what they would think she should have done.  "I figured better I die alone in the woods than jeopardize the whole caravan...  Right??"

     "So anyway... I headed here.  Baldur's Gate.  I had no where else to head.  I wasn't even sure where here to go..." Finn pauses here, thinking rapidly and allowing herself to be obvious about it.  She decides she doesn't want to put Moltar and Brak on the spot by mentioning she saw their tattoo so she decides to cover for them.  It can only gain her credibility with them...  "I was was sloppy though.  I allowed my tattoo to be seen.  Luckily it was only by Moltar...  He spotted me walking down the street and set me right.  Then brought me here.  He's a good one..."  Finn flashes Moltar a subtle little smile but then quickly hides it, not wanting everyone else to think she wasn't taking this all very seriously.

     "But..." she then continues.  "Sorry Moltar but I think you are wrong about the woman? Goliath of a woman, blond hair, etched muscles...  Before the attack on Greenest a few of us passed down the Uldoon Trail, scoping the area.  Scut work.  I did mention I wasn't one of the favored one, didn't I?  Well anyway, there's a small tavern called Noah's Mill.  There was damn near a phalanx of such women there.  I near but sent a runner off to warn Cyanrath, they looked so fierce.  But they were already heading off...  Heading to Waterdeep per overheard chatter.  They weren't going to be an actual force when the fighting started being at least a day away by then...  The one Cyanrath cut down in a duel?  A straggler is my guess.  And if there's another the like of her here... Now...  I guess they could be looking to see why she never caught up with them but if it was just one you saw?  Well then I think assuming they have any clue about us would just be jumping to conclusions..."  Finn looks to Moltar and mouths a silent Sorry to him as she looks down at her feet again.

While aware of the bystanding byspectacled man taking notes, Jirel's attention was focused on Torimesh, the Drawing Tree, and her purpose of being called here.

Having accepted the Drawing Tree's bark of vision, honey hues stared, and watched, intently. Quickly Jirel's brows knit and furrow in attempt to commit what she sees to memory in case she's ever called upon to remember them. Naturally, she was sure she was prepared to steel herself for what she was about to see. In her gut she knew it would be a message like no other, a premonition of warning and grave importance. However, never did she consider to prepare herself to face this truth. A shiver runs down her spine.

Eyes wide, breath caught, ears hot, the giantess was stunned. Paralyzed. Jirel was stuck in limbo, between shock, and rage. Her mind spins and her body shakes with the urge to rampage. An anger so deep, it boils at the pit of her stomach. All she hears is her own heart thumping in her ears. White knuckled, she holds the bark firm with the hope to preserve it, yet the desire to tear it to pieces. But nothing here deserved her wrath, for it was sacred.

It takes everything for Jirel to find her next breath. She blinks away her cries of sorrow; her throat aches from the screams she suppresses; and with great restraint she swallows her anger, but also some of her pride. Teeth clenched, she buries it deep for another time, and brings herself to her knees. She places each of her hatchets on either side, then lays out her greataxe before her. The blade warrior then bows before the great Drawing Tree, resting her forehead on the earth at it's roots. She reflects on the seven great teachings her Nanni taught her. Humility, honesty, truth, wisdom, bravery, love and respect. May she maintain vigor to overcome the shadows; the courage to face her fears; the tenacity to improve her skills; the wisdom to work with allies; the fortitude to protect the innocent; the guidance to take the right path; and the strength to do her part in bringing balance back to this plane. A single tear breaks free. It falls, soaking into the greenery.

Yeshil laughs out loud at Jararaka's anectdote, both at the lizardfolk's perspective on the altercation, as well as the irony that, in Yeshil's case, the tooth does indeed grow back. At least it always has so far, usually by the time she awakens the next morning.

...........

Jararaka's tempestuous guidance stirs Yeshil's spontaneous side, and as the guards challenge their approach to the departing man, the sneaky mageling takes the opportunity to summon her invisible Mage Hand, grab the loose tooth, and quietly deposit it somewhere within the man's clothing.

Sleight of Hand with [spell]Guidance[spell]: 19

...........

Once inside the dimly-lit mansion, Yeshil's natural inclination is to want to swipe anything of sufficient value. Perhaps it is the voice of caution in her mind, or the fact that nothing particularly portable or sellable catches her eye, but she refrains from theft for the time being. The study is something that Yeshil did not expect. She gazes around, unabashedly slack-jawed, at the variety of the books and the thought of what they might contain. Even before the old crone begins to speak, the young would-be mage contemplates how she might find a way to return here time and again.

The crone speaks, and Yeshil listens passively, still staring at the shelves. However the woman's two questions snap Yeshil's attention back, and her caution returns in full force as a primal part of her being awakens. A withered beldam offering something desired in exchange for something unspecified. But together with the wariness there is also something else... a thirst to bargain, and a cunning bent for securing a deal that works to their own advantage.

Glancing briefly at Jararaka, Yeshil turns to the crone. Green both in skin and in experience, the young girl attempts to rise beyond her years and haggle with the old veteran. With a swagger of faux confidence, Yeshil replies with a smile:

I'll admit, Mrs Hhune, I'm not a big fan of the four-letter 'W' word, but yeah, we might be able to trade something of ours for something of yours. It sounds like you needs us at least as much as we need you, though. You seem to know what we are after... how about you lay your cards on the table too?

Tylaerys watches in revering silence the ritual chanting of the bald dwarven druid and notices the young bespectacled man taking notes with a quick curious glance. As the dwarf offers Jirel a strip of bark from the tree, and then another one, which the blonde goliath accepts and studies, the young blonde half-elf struggles with her curiosity to stay back to not interfere with what was to happen here. 

While not fully seeing the reaction of the blonde giantess, Tylaerys still feels that something is wrong. Stepping slightly closer she can see her jaws clenching and the whitening knuckles, and she struggles again to not run to Jirel's side. With a small whimper she watches how Jirel goes down to bow before the mysterious tree and the young blonde half-elf takes a step back again to not disturb what was going on, but she can't hold back her own feelings now for the emotional scene taking place before her silvery eyes, her eyes welling with tears, wishing she could do something to comfort and reassure the blonde giantess, to hold her and tell her everything will be alright...

Torimesh steps back to the tree and places a hand on the trunk.  He speaks softly, but loud enough for both of you to hear.  "It's a young spirit; the Drawing Tree.  Strong is its connection to the Green, to deep Nature, but strong too is its connection to this place.  To the people here, to the birds that rest in its branches.  It doesn't speak to me, other than with the visions in the wood, but I can feel something of its temperament."

"It is scared.  Something it has seen here has it terribly frightened.  Death is coming, for the Tree... though that isn't what it fears.  Its own mortality is something it can accept and embrace.  But it feels the death of all that dwells beneath its leaves or burrows in its soil.  The death of this city.  Of this entire region."

Without looking up, he continues, "It thought you would help.  Your road intersects in some way with this threat.  If anyone can turn back what is coming, the Drawing Tree thinks you will play a role."

Tylaerys, even as you watch Jirel struggle with the weight of the vision, you notice the spectacled man creeping ever closer, looking as though he can barely contain himself from intruding into the moment.

Most of the crowd listens to your story with rapt attention.  A few mutter questions over whats become of Cyanrath, and a few more make lewd jokes about a phalanx of giantesses.  The one in the purple robes, however, watches you very closely as you speak.  "Interesting," is all he says when you have finished.  

Moltar, on the other hand, has much to say.  After initially nodding in approval at your version of your initial meeting with him, he practically explodes when you question his identification of Jirel.  "That's bullshit!  I know what I saw.  I don't care if there were a hundred such women outside Greenest... this is the one who fought Cyanrath!  And if you think its just a coincidence...".

The one in purple raises a hand, and Moltar, reluctantly stops talking, though he continues to look at Finn with narrow eyes.  "The important news you have delivered," says the robed one, "is that none of our brethren crossed the river by barge or boat, which was the reason I sent you and Brak to the docks in the first place.  So they are still cornered in Rivington until the bridge and gates are reopened.  As for this... and the rest... I shall have to get a report to Lady Rezmir.  You and your new friend can remain here until I return."  With that, he departs downstairs with one of the other cultists, leaving you in the kitchens with a visibly perturbed Moltar and half a dozen dragon cultists.

     "Alright, alright..." Finn concedes, hands up in surrender.  "You say it's the same one, it's the same one.  You saw here, not me...  You say Cyanrath didn't really kill her then I believe you.  Just sayin there was a whole bunch of them Amazons is all..."

     Finn looks around and tries to keep an eye on everyone while trying to not look shifty or nervous - Trying to gauge just how well her story went over.  

     "So...  Anything to drink around here?"

Still standing back a bit, Tylaerys listens to the dwarven druid. His words are encouraging but at the same time a terrible burden. She was prepared to risk herself for the good of Sword Coast, but she would have hoped not having the feeling that it would depend on her. Now more than ever she felt the comfort with having Jirel and the others at her side.

Eventhough barely being able to contain her own curiosity, but more importantly the urge to make sure Jirel is alright, the young blonde half-elf decides to not disturb the blonde giantess, not yet. Instead she quietly interposes herslf with the bespectacled man to not come closer, giving him another evaluating glance.

Insight: 16

"Hey hey, I'll have you know we are invited too..." Before Jararaka can, for once, use words to defend their innocence to the man and the guards, the voice interrupts them. And by them, she realises it's all of them. The voice could talk to others, a little part of her breaths a sigh of relief to know that it wasn't a collective hallucination.

She grins smugly at the exiting man, before stepping into the manor. She admires the house, and has to pull her blade, cloak, and tail in to not bump into anything she'd have to pay for if it broke. Following the direction of the voice and shadow's owner, she sticks her gaze on the tribal decor, surprised to find more familiar sights in a manor like this.

When they finally stop before the one that beckoned them, Jararaka eyes the old lady carefully. Having caught a glimpse of this woman's authority, she understands this lady of the Hhune house (matriarch, perhaps?) is not as feeble as she seems. Having seen the collection in this manor, Jararaka is already believing that hearing her out seems much more interesting than running around a regular library. "Are we so obvious?" Scratching her chin, she continues and follows Yeshil's lead. "Well, we know meat don't just fall out the sky, eh? We can scratch each other's backs. What d'you need? Just to be clear, our service is pretty popular, so we want good info."

Jirel shadowed nothing from Tylaerys, the visions were free to be seen by her.

There's no boon to be shared, simply sorrow and hopelessness. The giantess grabs hold of her weapons, returning them to her person as she lifts her head from her prayer. Vulnerability has no place in fate shrouded in darkness. Only doom and gloom is what continues loom. Hallowed and hardened, Jirel picks herself up. Bringing herself to her feet, she stands her full height. "Who are you, and what do you want?" She grumbles, glancing over her shoulder behind her to the nosy onlooker.

The centenarian looks back and forth slowly between the two of you.  Then her face curls in what might be a slight smile.  She rests both of her hands on the huge desk and answers, "What I require is simple enough... though simple should not be mistaken for easy." 

She pushes up slowly from the desk and stands, still barely above the top of the desk.  "Among the people you seek - the Cult of the Dragon - there is a young woman.  I need her located and brought back to me... alive and unharmed." 

She continues, pointedly, "Unharmed both in body and reputation.  To the extent her involvement with the cult could be revealed or publicized... that must be limited, as much as possible.  If her good name becomes entangled with these dracophile fools, it will be to our ruin."

"If you agree to do this... to locate this young woman and bring her back to me... then you will have access to the private library of House Hhune, and its librarian."

The cultists grumble about lack of alcohol.  They made a run last night for wine but that is all long since gone.  Otherwise, they are under orders to remain inside the boarding house and not draw attention to themselves.

Moltar nods apprehensively at your concession.  After a few minutes he goes downstairs... and then a few minutes later Brak comes up in his place.  

Most of the rank-and-file cultists remaining here don't seem to care much about you at all.  A few ask about the battle in the Wood, and what sort of mercenaries you fought there.

The young, bespectacled man, who had slowly been creeping closer, puts up his hands and retreats a few steps, nearly dropping a notebook.  

"I... I mean no... I mean to say, I don't mean to intrude."  Remembering his manners, he blurts out, "Joflyn Grayridge.  Pardon me.  I beg your pardon."

Taking a hestitant step closer, he continues, "I am something of a student of the mystical and the mysterious.  This tree is quite a marvel.  I've been working on a compendium of the predictions and portents it offers to visitors, who they are, speculations on why the tree offered them a vision in the first place - it doesn't work on command, you know - and I was really hoping you might let me see the parchment.  Or at least..." he hesitates again.  "... If it is something personal, then I understand.  Even so, I would very much like to record some basic personal information and get some general thoughts on your experience with the tree this morning."

He pauses and puts on what he must think is his best, friendliest smile.

Tylaerys, the man seems physically intimidated by Jirel (and to a much lesser extent, you and the druid) but you don't get the impression he is lying, or hiding any ill-intent.

The old druid looks up from the tree and nods.  "The lad speaks true enough.  He tries to interview most folk who are granted an audience with the Drawing Tree."

Honey hues study the man as she turns to face him when he introduces himself. Jirel listens. She hears him, and the druid. While she could appreciate his sentiments, she was visibly in a mood. "Joflyn Grayridge." She repeats his name out loud, more for herself. Did she even recognize it?

The giantess raises her axe to point at him, "May you be one to provide us meaningful guidance, or so help you," She stares firmly. "If you are with them, or so much as whisper information their way, I will rip you," She motions from his groin to his nose. "from tip to tip." A moment passes. She takes a breath, then lowers her axe.

The warrior rolls her shoulders back. "My name is Jirel Nalakekali." There was his basic personal information. "I've gained priceless wisdom today, an' have a lot to reflect on." There were her general thoughts on her experience with the tree.

Then, after a pause Jirel adds, "Know this Joflyn Grayridge." She hadn't had the time to fully reflect on the information she was given and share it with her companions, never mind just handing it over blindly to a stranger. "Dire danger is coming." She says firmly. "An' respectfully, unless yer all in to prevent it, this information is not fer you." The giantess rolls up and secures the parchment on her person. She watches intently for his reactions and/or any resolve from the man. If he was adamant, and it was believed that he could/would be of valuable assistance with information and knowledge he possess, he'd be welcome to accompany them.

(Her intention/priority would be to share this information with the group first (and is purposely not identifying that or any of them at this time), and review/identify the depictions with them. She's keeping the information close until then. This was not information to be leaked. However, she's not trying to scare away honest help, maybe just make them understand that this information could have an innocent nosy by stander killed. If he has information to share that'll help, and prove he's an ally, Jirel would lower her guard a bit and allow him to accompany.)

     Finn answers questions in a friendly, convivial manner.  She uses details from the actual event to give her story credence but also alters anything she feels may reveal anything about her and the rest of the party.  The description of the reinforcements she gives is a vague amalgamation of The Garbage Men and several warrior types she had seen in the Greenest keep and Noah's Mill.  Still, she tried to keep it generic enough to not recognizably be any individual or group specifically...

     "Wine would be good," Finn agrees as her throat dries.  "Is there someplace close?  I was told I could remain here, not that I had to.  I could go grab us a few sips of something and bring it right back..."  Finn tries this after Moltar steps out but before Brak returns.  She doesn't push the issue if the others aren't immediately sold on some free drinks. (Persuasion? 14)

     Assuming that tactic doesn't work Finn will bide her time and put on an air of relaxed camaraderie with the others, they are just a bunch of coworkers on an extended break afterall... Basically.  Eventually though, well after offering to go get drinks, Finn will ask where a gal can go to freshen up around this place.  "I can't just go aim at the corner like you guys.  I have standards!"