The otter chitters, considering.

Don't want to anger the bog monster.  But... you do have fish.  OK.  

 It grabs the food eagerly, then nods, tail flicking behind it.

Not far.  Not close.  Must walk soft.  Shy-people don’t like big folk crashing through reeds.  Also, might alert predators.

 Arlynn learns a bit more from the otter:

• Its understanding of time and distance is primitive, but it sounds like it expects to arrive at the shy-people within an hour, sometime very close to nightfall.
• The shy-people live in the trees.  They don't eat otters and sometimes share fish as well.  Other times they leave nuts, or trinkets... things useless to otters.
• It warns you constantly about the bog monster.  If she doesn't like you, she won't let you see the elves.  She might even harvest your pelts.

The otter leads the party carefully through winding paths of sun-dappled cypress groves and tangled hammocks of moss-laden trees.  The terrain becomes increasingly subtle in its deception—what looks like solid ground suddenly gives way to ankle-deep muck, and natural-looking tangles of branches and vines subtly shift in pattern, forming confusing loops and misleading paths.  Yet the otter seems to know the way, darting ahead, chittering softly for them to follow.

Fane continues to sense faint traces of illusion magic along the way—drifting wisps of enchantment laid not like traps, but like veils.  Nothing forceful or aggressive, more like gentle hands guiding the eye away.  The magic in any one location is never very strong, but the size of this illusion, spread out over what must be miles, is impressive in totality.  

As they proceed, Arlynn notices the birdcalls begin to quiet, the tittering of bats grow silent.  The forest hushes, the only sound the soft squelch of boots in wet loam and the occasional chirp from their guide.  Eron notices too a growing sense of being watched.  

As the party presses deeper into the swamp, following the otter, the shadows deepen and grow close.  The last orange glow of the sun breaks through the trees to the west.  The air grows heavier, cooler, and more humid.  The smell changes too—less briny marsh and more astringent rot, with undertones of herbs, mildew, and something coppery and unpleasant just beneath the surface.

Eventually, they come upon a clearing of sorts—more a depression in the swamp where several mangroves rise in a tight, circular cluster.  At the center of this hollow, half-sunken into the muck and twisted roots, is some sort of dwelling.  The otter departs hastily.

Best of luck.  I appreciate all the fish.

It isn’t a house in any conventional sense.  It looks almost grown rather than built.  A broad, domed structure formed of bent boughs, woven reeds, and old bones leans against the roots of the largest mangrove.  The outer walls glisten with moisture, draped in layers of moss and fungus.  Skulls—mostly animal, but a few disturbingly humanoid (goblin, maybe?)—are set into the walls like talismans.  Long ropes of teeth, feathers, and rusted trinkets hang from the eaves, clinking gently in the occasional breeze.

The entrance is little more than a round hole in the side, covered by a curtain of sinew and beads.  A trail of footprints—barefoot, but long-toed and heavy—can be seen in the muck nearby, quickly vanishing into the waterlogged earth.  Around the hut, strange growths flourish: pale flowers with no scent, lichen that shifts color as it catches the light, and bulbous plants that quiver slightly when passed too close.  Small cages hang from some of the tree limbs—none hold anything now.

There’s no immediate sign of life.  No smoke, no sound from within.  But the feeling of being watched here is nearly suffocating, like the swamp itself is holding its breath.  And to Fane, the illusory magic is stronger here than anywhere else in the swamp.

"I'm guessing we found the 'bog monster', best behavior everyone" she says. She'll take a quick look through Leo's eyes, who has been following in the sky above to see if perhaps the owl sees anything.

Leo Perception: 23 (nat 20)

"And let's hope best behaviour will be enough." The blue-haired half-elf whispers to herself, stepping closer to the hut. 

"Greetings, we come in peace and want to talk." She calls out, her arms peacefully outstretched, hoping to make a peacful contact.

Persuasion if relevant: 16 Another roll if help action is provided: 18

Eron follows his very adept friends having always ended up misguided in this area of the swamp.  An illusion spanning miles explains it perfectly.  Eron also keeps his hands away from his weapons in plain sight, “We bring news, and an offer…”  he does his best to add to ( help) Arlynn’s persuation.

There’s a moment of stillness after Arlynn’s greeting, her voice carrying out across the marsh.  The sound of something shifting inside the hut follows—a creak of wood, the rattle of glass and stone, like someone mixing a cocktail.  Then, from the wide opening in the side of the hut, a figure steps out.

She is lean and tall, hunched, her limbs long and gnarled like twisted roots.  Her skin is green-gray and damp-looking, as if drawn from the very bog.  A shawl of seaweed and patched cloth hangs around her shoulders, clasped with what looks like a jawbone.  Her wide, toothy grin spreads slowly, and cloudy yellow eyes gleam with a curious sort of delight.

“Oh my… visitors.  At this hour?  How peculiar,” she murmurs, her voice soft and rasping, like wind through reeds.

She steps lightly down from the hut to the mossy earth, her bare feet making no sound in the mud, and glances up at the murky sky.

“Such a gloomy night for guests, though?” she says casually.  She lifts one clawed hand, and as if in answer, the nearby marsh stirs to life.  Dozens of fireflies rise from the reeds, dancing lazily into the air.  They drift toward the little cages strung from the posts and eaves of the hut.  One by one, the cages fill and begin to glow with their soft golden light, casting a gentle, flickering radiance over the clearing.

“Much better,” she says sweetly.  “Warm light suits a conversation, don’t you think?”  Her question doesn't seem addressed to the party, as if there were someone else here she was consulting.  No other voice answers.

She lifts her head then and cranes her neck toward the party, peering at them in the newfound light.  Her gaze sweeps across the group—lingering a little on Arlynn, on Fane... on the little owl overhead.

“Come closer, loves.  You say you bring news... and an offer.  Well, I’m all ears.  Granmire loves a good story.  And it must be a very good story, to bring you all the way out here just to tell an old woman.”

She gestures toward a patch of dry ground near the base of the hut where the grass has been cleared and several flat stones are arranged in a semi-circle—just large enough for guests.  Her fingers beckon, curling like vines.

“Sit a spell.  Tell me your tale.”

Aware that it might be a trap of some kind, the blue-haired half-elf still decides to politely play along and takes a seat where indicated by their host. "Some distance away there is a small fortification called Bale Keep, it holds a monstrous being, but more importantly now perhaps, the current inhabitants are apparently slavers who work with the Sea Princes far to the south. We have reason to believe that these slavers are trying to take elves from the marsh as slaves and we are here to warn them about this threat. We have now come to understand that you are the protector of these elves and perhaps they are in no need of any further help but as we are opposed to slavery we are admittedly also seeking allies against these slavers of Bale Keep to reomove them as a threat to the Hool marshes." She explains calmly with a polite smile.

Fane will also take a seat, hoping that the 'monster' is on the side of the elves. She listens to Arlynn explain, and nods at the right moments, having not much to add yet.

The old swamp-woman watches Arlynn as she speaks, her expression unreadable behind that fixed, too-wide smile.  Her long fingers rest loosely on her knobby knees, twitching occasionally as if feeling for threads in the air. 

At the mention of slavers and the Sea Princes, gasps from somewhere above are subtle but unmistakable.

When Arlynn finishes, and Fane settles beside her, Granmire lets out a soft, thoughtful hum.  Then she sighs, glancing upward.

“Oh, dear me,” she mutters, rolling her eyes ever so slightly.  “There goes that little subterfuge.”

With a lazy wave of her hand, the illusion ripples and falls away like dew off a leaf.  The air shimmers, and suddenly the branches above are no longer empty.  Simple homes of woven reeds and living branches appear nestled in the trees, connected by swaying bridges of twine and rope, and perched within them, a dozen elves stare down in startled silence.  The fear in their eyes is clear, and several retreat deeper into their shelters at the sight of the armed strangers below, or upon realizing they are now visible.

Granmire looks up, her voice a cooing lullaby—soothing, but with a sharpness just beneath as she glances back to the party.

“Hush now, darlings.  No need to fret.  These... noble souls are only here to help, or so they say.”

She turns her gaze back to Arlynn, her smile never quite touching her large yellow eyes.

“Bale Keep, mm?  Yes, I know of it.  A dreary pile of stone and rock.  And now it is stuffed with brutes and cutthroats, you say?  Slavers... monsters... such a human thing, to shackle and force another into bondage.  The Sea Princes do love their free labor, don’t they?”

She leans forward just a little, her tone quiet and coaxing.

“Do you know what those men do to slaves when they catch them?  They brand them.  Break them.  Turn them into tools.  Things.  My poor dears know it all too well.  The Sea Princes prize elf-kind most of all.  An investment, they say.  With such long lives, entire generations of pirate families can enjoy the service of a single well-trained captive.”

Her eyes flick up again to the watching elves.

“They’ve suffered, my little friends.  Bled.  Lost everything, but managed to escape with just their lives and what they could steal and carry.   And still the world comes clawing for them.  Have the gods no mercy?"

"But here,” she says, spreading her arms wide, “here they are safe.  Hidden.  Protected.  We have an accord that no earthly prince can break.  Not even the sharpest hunter can find them in my part of the marsh.  And no slaver dares step foot too close.”

She pauses, tilting her head thoughtfully.

“Although... it seems I may have overlooked a certain loose-lipped source of gossip.  Yes, I shall have to speak with the otters about their manners.  Very clever creatures—but far too curious for their own good.”

She smiles again, wider this time, then softens it to something more reassuring.

“So you come bearing warning and seeking alliance.  So noted.  But tell me, why should these poor souls risk what little they have to attack these slavers?  They do not crave vengeance, just a safe harbor in a cruel world that wishes to harm them.  What will you do if I say the elves are safe and we want no help?  Will you leave?  Or will you stay and insist you know better?”

She lets the question hang in the air, like fog waiting to settle.  Above, faces continue to peer down, listening.

"We would perhaps suggest that you all would feel safer with Bale Keep emptied of slavers who will likely not give up their search for your dear friends." The blue-haired half-elf says softly, looking around at the elves above, giving them friendly reassuring smiles. "If they were decisively evicted it might discourage any other slavers from coming here, and you would all be able to rest easier. That said, we will of course respect if you do not feel this is your fight, we don't want to risk anyone's life, but we could use some magical support. Also, there is the monster under the keep which we still know very little about."

"There is however one more thing we should mention." Arlynn continues after a moment. "It has come to our knowledge that an ancient warlord that calls himself Sakatha has returned and threatens all of the Hool Marshes and beyond. We are hoping to build alliances against this Sakatha with all the good peoples of these lands. You might be able to hide from his armies when they come of course but he is supposed to be very powerful and command many many others, among them a great old wyrm called Aulicus." She explains with a concerned look.

The bog-woman listens intently, her expression unreadable save for the slow, rhythmic tapping of her long fingers on her knee.  She watches Arlynn with a stillness that's almost reptilian.  At the mention of Bale Keep’s monster, she gives a soft snort, the corner of her lip curling ever so slightly.  “A beast in the pit?” she drawls, voice like wet moss.  “An otyugh.  Filthy thing.  But not so dangerous if left well alone.  It eats what it’s given and sulks in the dark.  Rather like a noble with no coin.”  A sharp little chuckle escapes her.  “Not my concern.”

But the name Sakatha shifts something behind her gaze.  She leans back slowly, nostrils flaring just once, and for the first time since the party’s arrival, her smile fades.  Just a little.

“Sakatha,” she repeats, testing the word like old wine.  “Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in centuries.  A lizard-king, yes.  Ruled from stone and swamp, bled his people dry in war after war.  Thought himself destined to conquer the world brackish swamp at a time.”  She waves a hand dismissively, though there’s a hint of tension in the gesture.  “He died, like all the others.  No doubt someone now wears his name like a mask to frighten children.  And Aulicus—bah.”  She snorts again, though this time without humor.  “That creature was more hunger than mind.  A gluttonous wyrm, fond of his own voice.  All hat and no cattle.  If he’s truly returned...”

She trails off. For a long moment, there is silence but for the faint chittering of the marsh.

Then, with a slow exhale, her smile returns.

“Well.  If such threats truly stir, perhaps it is good fortune you stumbled in at all.  They are no danger to us here, provided I make the proper arrangements.  Which I shall.”

As she speaks, the branches overhead shift. Two figures descend from the canopy on woven rope ladders, their movements quiet but sure-footed.  Both of them have their left ears clipped short, nubby scars where the telltale elf points should have been.  

The first is a tall, older elf with a lean frame and a stern bearing.  His long dark hair is streaked with silver and pulled back in a series of simple braids, and though his face is worn with years and wary caution, there is still a kind of patient strength in his posture.  His clothing, though faded and weather-stained, bears the cut of a once-proud scout—simple, functional, and built for the wild.  His cheeks are both branded with three concentric rings.  He lands lightly beside the fire and nods with quiet formality.  “I am Caelthas,” he says, his voice low and careful, but clear.  “I once served as a pathfinder in the Forest of Vesve, before I was captured by forces of the Enemy and sold as a slave.”  His eyes move over each member of the party, then flick toward Granmire with a faint edge of apprehension.  “It was I who led these few elves out of our bondage and found this refuge here with Granmire.  I speak now only for myself, and for those few who would follow my voice.”

The second figure lands beside him with barely a sound.  She is smaller, more slight in build, with long, curling black hair gathered behind her shoulders. There is something restless in her stance—a kind of coiled energy behind her calm face.  She wears a rough patchwork of elven cloth and scavenged leathers, and her eyes—green and sharp—move quickly over the strangers before them.  “I’m Sylraen,” she says simply. Her voice is quiet but firm.  “I was only a girl when we were taken.  I remember songs... and the name of a sister I haven’t seen in ten years.”  She swallows, her jaw tightening.  “I remember shackles more clearly than home.  If these men are slavers... if there’s something we can do to stop it happening again... then I think we should help.”

Her words stir a murmur from the canopy above, hushed voices trading uncertain thoughts in Elvish.  Granmire’s eyes narrow slightly, and her voice slithers through the quiet with practiced smoothness.

“Now, now, little petals,” she murmurs, smiling with a kind of indulgent reproach.  “It’s no fault of yours to feel stirred by gallant words and noble quests.  But you forget—this haven stands because I have hidden it well.  Peace and quiet are virtues not to be forsaken.  We do not wish to betray our hiding place.”

She straightens slightly, her smile thin but composed.

“Still, I see you come in earnest.  You wear your hearts out in the open, where anyone might step on them.  That’s dangerous—but honest.”  She tilts her head, eyeing Arlynn with something like curiosity.  “And perhaps useful.”

Her gaze slides to Sylraen and Caelthas, then back to the party.

“If you mean to move against Bale Keep... then do so.  I might lend a breath of mist, or a shadow’s hour, if it serves us both.  But I will not send these children to bleed for a cause they only just remembered.  Not until I see the danger for myself." 

"As for this Sakatha—this lizard ghost—may be real, or may be smoke in a bottle.  I am not moved to concern.”  She leans forward, voice low and velvet-smooth.  “If he proves to be more than memory.  If he proves to be a true threat... perhaps then we will speak more of alliances.”

Caelthas remains still, thoughtful, his gaze steady on Arlynn.  “If you do move against the forces of Bale Keep,” he says slowly, “I want to know what you find.  Not just for me... for all of us.  How did they find us?  Will more be coming after?”

Sylraen, however, steps just a little closer to the party, her green eyes bright with something newly lit.  She hesitates for the briefest moment—then lifts her chin.  “And if you do plan to challenge Bale Keep... I’ll go with you when you do.”

A hush falls over the clearing.  The elves above stir in surprise—soft gasps and whispered protests in Elvish ripple from the boughs.  Even those closest to the edges of their hidden homes step forward now, peering down with wide eyes. 

Caelthas turns sharply toward her, his voice firm and edged with alarm.  “Sylraen—no.  You are no warrior.  You don’t know what they’ll face.”

“I know enough,” she replies without flinching, eyes still on Arlynn.  “I have the touch.  Nature speaks through me.  And I’m tired of waiting for someone else to fight for me.  I'm tired of hiding all my life.”

Granmire’s smile stiffens—just for a breath—and the golden glow of the fireflies flickers subtly, the warm light seeming to pulse with her unease.  She leans back slightly, folding her long fingers together in her lap.

“Well now... look at you,” she says softly, voice low as wet moss.  “One little whisper of righteous fury and you’re ready to leap into the teeth of old dragons and hungry kings.”  She lets the silence linger before continuing, each word thick with implication.  She sighs.  "Perhaps its my own fault.  You always have had an eye on the horizon... perhaps I should have taken more time with you... shown you more of the world that is right here at your fingertips."  She shakes her head ruefully.

“You may go, sweetling, if you choose to.  I won’t keep a bird from its wings.  But mind me—if you follow these strangers down into that keep, you may find more than you were ever meant to know.  And some truths don’t let you come home the same.”  Her eyes gleam as they settle on Sylraen.  “But go on then.  See what the world looks like now, if your heart desires so.  Just don’t expect it to be kind.”

Sylraen lowers her gaze slightly, but only to nod once in acknowledgment.  Then she turns to the party with a faint, hopeful smile.  “If you’ll have me—I’ll be ready when you are.”

Eron listens as Granmire and the elves discuss current events and future endeavors, hopeful an ally may be called on in the near future.  “I’m curious Granmire, do you know of any active cults searching through the Hool?  A grand plan to unite Zuggtomy and Iuz, as if there weren’t enough terror in the world.  You say Sukatha is a predecessor not the original, what can you tell us about the real Sukatha.  Also do you know where Aulicus may have their lair by chance? In exchange for such valuable knowledge I’m willing to bargain what would you consider worthy of trade?”

Granmire turns her head slowly as Eron speaks, her eyes narrowing with feline curiosity.  There’s a pause—just long enough to suggest she’s weighing not just the questions, but the man asking them.  Her smile curls like smoke.

“Zuggtmoy and Iuz...” she echoes, the names foreign on her tongue.  “No, I’ve heard no whispers of those two creeping through my marsh.  If there are cults about, they know better than to come poking in my reeds.”

She lifts a pale hand and flicks a strand of wet hair over her shoulder, settling back against her bentwood chair with a creak.

“But this Sakatha you speak of... mm.  Now that is a name I remember.”  Her voice lowers, thickens like sap.  “He was real once.  Very real.  A terror to the rivers and wetlands, crowned in bone and gold.  He united the scaled tribes and led them with claw and spell.  Had a cleverness to him, even a kind of charm, if you can believe it.  But he reveled too much in the violence of war.  Took too many heads.  And in the end, the world bit back.”

She snorts softly, nostrils flaring.

“Kings and warlords from dry lands, old enemies of the marsh, they put aside their squabbles long enough to crush him.  Drove him back into the muck and razed his fortress.  I’d heard he died roaring curses from atop a ziggurat, piled high with his dead armies.  It must have been quite a moment.  Never did see it myself... but there was a darkness that lifted when he fell.”

At the mention of Aulicus, her smile fades.  There’s a faint tightening at the corners of her mouth.

“The wyrm...” she murmurs.  “I’ve not seen that black-winged glutton in an age.  But his stink still clings to old stone.  He used to lair far to the northwest, between Nine Oaks and Waycombe—up where the land rises just enough to pretend it’s dry.”

She snorts.  " I would caution any who go looking for the Prophet's lair.  Black dragons keep not mountain halls nor forest dens full of gold.  Its lair, if it still exists, will be a maze of flooded tunnels and hollows full of acid and choking gas.  A vertible house of horrors." 

A silence falls after this, but she breaks it gently, almost casually.  “Now then.  These are fine questions, and they cost me no small comfort dredging up such fell memories.”  She glances briefly toward Sylraen, then back to Eron.  “Information has value.  But I’m not cruel.  Nor am I unreasonable.  I don’t ask for souls or names or firstborns.”

She smiles again, softer now, almost maternal. “But I would ask for a favor.  A kindness from your band, when next the need arises.  Something I might call in when the wind turns sour.  Nothing that would go against your hearts—I’m not foolish to think a few answered questions are worth breaking oaths or betraying principles.  But something useful... a step taken, a door opened... a message delivered.  Should the time come.”

Her eyes gleam faintly, catching the light of the fireflies like bits of gold leaf.  “That isn't too much to ask, brave one?”

The young blue-haired half-elf looks between the old crone and the elves as they speak. She was almost regretting asking for their help now, these poor souls deserved peace and quiet more than anyone she had ever met, and yet she felt she herself would likely have reacted as the younger elf had, she would never truly rest with the slavers so close, cruelly hunting for them with impunity. Arlynn finally stands up and steps over to the younger elf, offering her hands in a sign of friendship. "We would be honoured to have you Sylraen, but venerable Granmire is right, you might not like what you find, and even with her kind assistance coming with us will not be without danger, that being said I will do all in my power to protect you from harm, although one who nature speaks through will probably be the one to protect me from harm." She says to the young elf with a warm reassuring smile. 

Fane walks up to the Sylraen and offers her hand in a shake. "We would be honored to have you join us. I too have recently left my homeland, the Great Fairie Kingdom of Celene and I can tell you" she looks at Eron and Arlynn, "you couldn't hope for better travel companions" and adds a smile when Leo give out a low 'hoot'.

"I'm sorry about what happened to you all" she says, more to the trees above then to the Olv maiden in front of her, "slavery is abhorrent and we will do everything we can to stop the slavers and free their captives. We'll start at the keep!"

She says nothing directly to Grandmire and just listens, as her companions know more about the marsh and the local lore.

“I have one more question, have you ever heard of a woman named Saradie wandering the marsh?  Without breaking oaths or betraying principles, I agree to your terms, a future favor.  As for you Sylraen thank you for your offer to join our cause.  Slavery is a cruelty I will oppose as long as I live.  What sorts of skills or information do you have?”  Eron watches the reactions of the olves.

insight 17

Sylraen blinks as Arlynn approaches, and for a breath, her composure falters.  Her large, liquid-green eyes shimmer with something deeper than excitement—something raw and long-contained.  When Arlynn takes her hands, Sylraen clasps them tightly, as if afraid they might vanish.  Her voice, when it comes, is quiet but steady.  “I have dreamt of this,” she says, more to herself than anyone.  “Of strangers leading me away, and of floating with them toward the storm.”  She looks up into Arlynn’s face.  “I’m not afraid.”

When Fane joins her, offering that fae-bright smile and the warmth of shared displacement, Sylraen straightens.  Her eyes flick up at the low hoot from Leo, and for the first time, a true smile breaks across her face—small and crooked and full of life.

“I was taken too young to remember much,” she admits to Fane and Eron, her tone gentling as she turns toward him.   “Bits and pieces... a forest where the trees wept silver... a song my mother hummed.”  She touches her own shoulder absentmindedly, where the faint trace of an old brand hides beneath the collar of her tunic.  “But I know the marsh now.  I know its signs, its moods.  I can track, and speak with birds and beasts.  I can read the wind when it shifts.  I can feel what the plants feel, when they are wounded or growing.  I will be useful, I swear it.”

The rustle of leaves above suggests the elves are shifting, murmuring among themselves. A hush has fallen, but Caelthas’s voice rises in sharp protest:  “Sylraen, this is foolishness—don’t throw your life into another trap!  We can protect each other here.”

But Granmire raises a hand before things can escalate.  She remains seated, her clawed fingers curled loosely around the stem of a gnarled cane you don't recall her holding until right now.   Her expression is as impassive as still water.

“Well,” the old crone says slowly, her voice rasping through the silence like wind through dry reeds.  “The wind has changed today, hasn’t it?”

She gives Eron a sidelong look, eyes gleaming.

“No, I’ve heard no whispers of a ‘Saradie.’  But you’ve piqued my interest.  A lone woman wandering my marsh, and I don’t know her?  Curious.”  Her smile tightens.  “If she’s real, and important to you, I might keep my ears open.  For now, consider that part of your favor’s seed... sprouting.”

Eron, as far as you can tell she seems unfamiliar with the name, but also genuinely interested now that you bring it up.

Then, softer, but pointed she adds, “You’ll find the marsh is not kind to strangers after dark, even for brave-hearted folk like yourselves.  Stay here.  There’s dry ground, we can arrange a warm fire, and the frogs won’t bite if you mind their songs.  I’ll even keep the worst of the dreams away, if it pleases you.”

She leans forward just slightly, looking at Sylraen as if seeing her for the first time.

“And you, sweet sapling... I won’t stop you.  But tread carefully.  The world outside this bower can twist a heart worse than any curse.  You may be stepping into more than you bargain for.  It would wound my heart terribly if some dark fate found you.”

Sylraen meets her gaze and, to everyone’s quiet surprise, doesn’t flinch.  “I’ve already lived through more than I deserved,” she says simply.  “And I want to do something with the life I've been spared.”

That earns her a rare, dry chuckle from the bog-woman, who leans back once more.  “Well then.  Sleep, little warriors.  Tomorrow, you may deal with keeps and slavers and monsters.”  She grins, all teeth.  “But tonight, you are my guests.”

"You are a most graceful host venerable Granmire, we will be honoured to be your guests tonight." The young blue-haired half-elf says with a warm smile. She would follow intstuctions on where to sleep and if given the opportunity she would like to get to know Sylraen a little better, partly to be able to size her up about what she could be expected to handle the next day. Also Arlynn would like to speak more to their hostess if given the chance to ask her about the marsh and the keep and anything that could be helpful to their future endeavours there.

Fane would be very happy to spend the night there. She would be interested in talking to the Olves specifically, finding out what she could about them and were they are from, etc. She would openly share tales and details of her homeland and ask about theirs, for those who know of it before being captured, and assume it's not Celeste.

Meeting Olves from another land is a big part of the reason she left her homeland. She will try to put the thought of slavers and Bale Keep out of her mind for the night and enjoy the time, though that may be hard as she hears their tales. She will share all the songs she knows, hoping one of them may sound familiar to Sylraen, perhaps sparking more memories of her mother.

At some point she would talk to Arylnn, "Are you able contact your familiar over long distances, or are you bound simliar to my spell? It would be nice to get an update on the Keep if we could."

"I can't communicate with it over such a long distance but I can summon it here to report and then send it flying back to the keep. Only downside with that is that we will not know what happens at the keep while Zzplorff is not there. It might well be worth it to have an update though. Waht do you say?" Arlynn explains to Fane, ready to do as the other suggested.