Elyndor leans back in his seat, listening to Vaerion intently, then stares open mouthed at the hand of bees created by Grymar. He doesn't eve try to conceal his amazement, before finally gathering himself together. He blinks then turns his attention to the men.
"Oh we absolutely are interested in politics." Ely leans forward, his chin resting on his hands, elbows on the table. "We'd love to hear what you older fellas think of the Court. You obviously feel strongly about them." A few more drinks and these men might open up. Let their words spill out onto the table freely. The young lad. Get him alone if we can, without the pressure of the others stifling his tongue. "Why do you think young folks are against it?" he asks the elder men. "Going against tradition? The young do like to rebel, at times don't they? It seems to be their way." His eyes dart between them trying to get a read on them. "Traditions are so important in towns like these, it would be a shame if we missed out on the full story." He smiles. "And I bet you are full of 'em. Stories, that is."
Vaerion listens, his expression impassive as the woodsman speaks. The arrogance that clings to him like frost remains, but there is something else now-interest. Unlike the typical prattle of fearful villagers, this man speaks with the weight of history, of knowing. It is still wrapped in the usual provincial superstitions, of course, but beneath it, there is truth.
He leans back slightly, folding his arms as he considers his words.
"Curious,"Vaerion says finally, his voice even, measured."You speak of freedom as though it is a thing granted, rather than taken. As though it is a luxury, not a right. I have found that those who claim change is dangerous are rarely the ones who will suffer from its absence."
He watches the woodsman carefully, though there is no hostility in his gaze, only scrutiny.
"But I take no offense in your words, nor do I ignore the wisdom buried within them. Fear and caution are not the same thing. The young may be reckless, but the old often mistake weariness for wisdom. I do not dismiss the dangers you speak of, nor do I intend to walk blind into them"
His eyes flick briefly to the younger woodsmen at the table before he rises from his seat, adjusting the set of his cloak as he does so.
With that, Vaerion turns and strides back to his own table, inclining his head ever so slightly toward Shae."A drink, then,"he says smoothly, taking his seat once more."A rare thing, to find generosity freely given. You have my thanks, Shae."
His gaze shifts to the goblet she presents, the faint glow of the enchanted liquid reflecting in the ice-blue of his eyes.
"Practical," he acknowledges. "Few gifts are as valuable as extended sight in the dark. There are always things on the periphery, just out of reach it seems."A small, knowing smirk plays at his lips as he reaches for the goblet."And it would be a shame to miss them."
"To your goddess. Let's hope she continues to watch over us.", he lifts the goblet and takes a measured sip.
Shae lets the older lumberjack’s words settle within her, much like one savors the depth of an aged wine—rolling its weight on the tongue, letting it breathe before committing to its full taste. There is something here, something unspoken but heavy, buried beneath generations of weary tradition and caution. These men know more than they’re letting on, but whether it’s out of fear, respect, or some other binding force remains unclear. Are the Jae a menace, extorting this town under the guise of a contract? Or are they the lesser of two evils, a shield against something worse? A barrier between the valley and something the young have never had to fear? The mayor speaks with the fire of a man bent on reclaiming power, but Shae has seen enough to know that not all chains are meant to be broken—and not all freedom is worth its cost.
She respects the wisdom of elders, though not blindly. Experience grants perspective, but it also breeds stagnation. Many refuse change not because they see deeper truths, but because change demands effort, and effort means discomfort. Yet, beneath that stubbornness, there is often something of value—a truth passed down in whispers, disguised as simple conservatism. And if these men are willing to guard that truth so fiercely, she needs to find out why. Her red eyes flick back to the older woodsmen, keen and searching, her weariness washed away momentarily. "Who are the eldest in this town?" she asks, her tone firm, commanding. If anyone remembers the original terms of the bargain with the Jae, if anyone still speaks of legends before the mayor’s ambitions, it will be them. The mayor might dismiss their accounts as outdated superstition, but legends have a way of carrying truths between their lines.
She leans back then, glancing sidelong as Vaerion returns to their table. The smirk on his lips is met with one of her own—a knowing, conspiratorial thing—as she listens to his toast. Her expression turns amused, her voice dropping lower, carrying a velvet smoothness laced with dark humor. “Few souls openly pray for my goddess’ undivided attention,” she murmurs, watching him over the rim of her goblet. She does not say Kiaransalee’s name aloud, but the weight of it lingers unspoken. "There is a... delicacy to the arrangement. To seek her favor is to align with her purpose, to find where her interests and yours meet." Her smirk deepens slightly. "And to know which prayers she deems worthy of answering." She lifts her goblet in return, her crimson gaze gleaming in the flickering tavern light. Whatever lies ahead, they will not walk into it blind, a small boon but one not to be underestimated.
Sabetha sighs inwardly at the domineering tack taken by some of her newfound companions. While she cannot deny the effectiveness of intimidation, these are seemingly just ordinary people going about their evening, despite their secrets and mysterious surroundings. Punching down feels wrong.
She busies herself with making sure her latest round of drinks are distributed to all of the folk at the table.
I think when the older lumberjack said "Old Ones" just now, he was not referring to older townsfolk, but rather the Jae themselves. As if he is more comfortable keeping the bargain with those creatures than braving whatever risks or perils being "free" of them entails...
Despite her musings, Sabetha keeps quiet for now, not wanting the questioning by the entire party to feel like a cavalry charge. She merely attempts a winning smile and nods slowly, as if agreeing with the lumberjacks, young and old, encouraging them both to continue and watching their faces raptly.
Traditions steeped in mystery and blood, the locals reticent to talk about them, and his new compatriots were already chomping at the bit to get to the bottom of all of this!
Geren loves to see it. The smile spread across his face is as genuine as it is out of place considering the serious mood of those around him.
Are the Jae themselves the greatest enemy here or are they simply overcharging to guard the locals from some greater threat? It wouldn't be the first time mortals regretted the terms of a deal they'd made, that tended to be the norm rather than the exception. It was why Geren had yet to make any pact that required an unknown fee or had an indefinite ending.
Well, hopefully his weapons, powers over the energy of death itself, and his fellow party members (and maybe someday friends) would see him through this. Honestly he could probably fill an entire book with the experiences he'd had and was about to have.
He spreads his hands.
"Gods, fey, fiends, politicians, and other things better yet unsaid, it all comes down to deals and, ah, politics. Unless the secret's part of it there's no point keeping the truth hidden. We're open-minded and people do what they need to in order to survive."
Grymar focuses his attention on the old man who spoke up at the end, swiveling around and pointing his bees at him. If the old man's hand isn’t holding his cup of ale, Grymar extends the hand of bees and pulls the drink back on the table, just 6-10 inches or so, to get the man’s attention, so he isn’t looking down into the cup and thinking of drowning away all of his worries in a mug of beer.
“So, if you ole codgers is dyin out as you say, there's nuthin that yous should be holdin back! If you have any good will for the people of this town, any light that you want to give em in the darkness, let it be the light of your wisdom, the knowledge in your head, the stuff that may make a difference! Times a wastin! And just sayin shaddap and drink your beer and everything will be fine is no help atall! So quit stallin' and start spillin! Your guts that is! Like you were in that Mayor's office talkin all about how you used your bees to sting that knowitall in Berdusk, that pain in the asses' rear end when they were on the crapper ... as, uh, I guess everybody does something like that... right?"
Grymar flushes a little bit and points his hand of bees back at the old man, hastily saying "C'mon now, outwiddit!"
The older woodsman who'd made the 'dying out' comment keeps his head lowered as he responds to Grymar, "Us old folk don't matter so much these days. Folk stopped hearin' us and that Mayor is clear evidence o' that. Always been plenty that wanted the Jae out of this valley, they don't like what they draw to the Ravenswood." He looks up finally with a fearful look in his eyes, "Things have been too comfortable for 'em I think. The bargains been too balanced most o' their lives and they ain't never seen what it can be like when it ain't."
The younger speaker pipes in, exasperation evident in his tone, "You just wanna live and die and never get anywhere, Thom! We're just worker bees for the Jae. Have been since Oldtown stood. We ain't about to die and Jaekin won't ever grow the way things are."
The other older man slams his palm on the table in anger, "Jaekin won't grow if ain't nobody here to grow it neither!!" He cuts his eyes to Sabetha, likely because she represents the only friendly face that had approached their table. "The Old Ones tend to this valley. Yeah, there's things that are drawn in, but if ye just keep yer wanderin' to where it oughtta be, ye don't have troubles. These yungins can move off if they don't like the way of things!"
Another young man responds calmly, "And if we all left, there wouldn't be anyone here in twenty years either...
Mutters carry about the inn as other patrons have taken to quietly sipping or chewing as they listen in and softly utter their own commentaries to one another as the scene at the woodsmen's table unfolds.
It is happening here as it did with us in Waterdeep. Fracturing, falling apart despite the ties that bound us. When faced with threats from beyond.
Sabetha gently places her hand on the forearm of the young lumberjack nearest to her.
"I know how you feel. Why should we young ones always take the cautious approach handed down by our elders when we can make things better and put a stop to the atrocities instead of doing nothing? That is what we hope to do here, is it not? It was much the same in the last... place I was."
She turns to the older man who had last addressed her, who had spoken of the Old Ones.
"And yet, we failed. Because we younger ones were too impetuous, not listening to the wisdom of our elders within the group. And those with the wisdom in turn were too fearful, too vague in the information they shared until it was too late. The otherworldly evil we feared and their human allies discovered us. Tore our fellowship apart and slew us, every one, as far as I know, or turned us to their side."
Sabetha pauses a long moment, looking as if she is close to tears. She draws a slightly shuddering breath.
"Every one of us except a young half-elven girl who colored her red hair dark and fled in the right direction, I suppose. So..."
She holds the older man's gaze with her green eyes. "So tell us, sir. Please. What is the danger you fear? What is it that the Old Ones protect this valley from? Or is it a threat of the Jae's own creation, a bogeyman to keep the town under their thumb? Do you fear to tell us, or do you not rightly know? We are not evil people, we adventurers. But if we strike out blindly, we will almost certainly fail, or worse... succeed only at destroying ourselves and you."
Shae listens and observes, letting the moment unfold as her companions press the woodsmen from every angle—some as a relentless wind that tears through the gaps in their resolve, others as the slow but inevitable erosion of a river carving through stone. She wonders which force will break them first, or if they will simply weather the storm, unmoved.
She notes, with some irritation, that her question about the eldest in the town has gone unanswered. But she does not press—not yet. The men are already being battered with words, pressed with scrutiny, and forced to navigate the treacherous ground between past tradition and future uncertainty. Better to let Sabetha’s softer approach work, if it can. If they yield to her gentle coaxing, then perhaps the answers will come of their own accord.
So, for now, Shae waits, watching the shifting expressions of the woodsmen as Sabetha weaves her tale, as she plays the role of a survivor, a ghost of youthful rebellion and tragic wisdom. It is a good story. One that should resonate with both the young and the old. Shae merely wonders—will it be enough?
(Shae freely hands out divine Guidance to anyone who gives her a cue.)
Vaerion listens, impassive as ever, but within, his thoughts shift like the slow grinding of ice underfoot. I came to investigate, to trace the path of stolen relics, to determine if the Murder Court had dealings with elven artifacts-perhaps even Nysara and Sylwen. If they did, I would take back what was mine and in doing so, reclaim a piece of my honor long buried beneath failure. If they did not, I would move on, follow another lead, and leave this place behind without a second glance.
But this? This is nothing like what I expected.
Vaerion glances towards Shae. She gives away nothing, but she is always watching, always listening. Calculating. She weighs words like a jeweler weighs gold, testing their value in silence. Has she realized the same as I? That this valley holds deeper, older secrets? That the struggle between the Jae and the townsfolk may be a distraction from something far more insidious?Probably......
Vaerion continues. The younger men clamor for freedom, but freedom from what? The Jae? Or something far older, far more patient? The old one-fears the balance being disturbed, not because he is a coward, but because he remembers. He is worried that the bargains that once bound this valley together is unraveling, and with their unraveling, something watches. Waits.
He drums his fingers against the wooden table in slow, deliberate rhythm. The Old Ones. What was the bargain? What price had been paid to ensure Jaekin's survival? Perhaps, at the time, it had seemed fair-a necessary exchange to keep worse things at bay. But bargains only hold so long as all parties honor them. The younger generation, ignorant of what was once sacrificed, strain against the pact, blind to the cost. And the loudest voice among them?.......... The mayor.
Convenient.
The thought lingers, but another pulls at him, something Vaerion had not questioned before. The Selag. That twisted, looming figure, its presence heavy in his mind. If it does not serve the Jae, then what does it serve? I had assumed it was their construct, a tool of dominion-but what if I was wrong? What if it is something older? Something watching, waiting? If the Jae are caught in a struggle within, distracted, then what else moves in the dark? What other hands shift the board while mortals argue over their chains?
This was meant to be a straightforward task. Find twhat was taken from me, take them back, restore my honor and my families traditions. But this? This is a trap woven of history, desperation, and unseen forces. A game where the players do not even know the rules, and I, unknowingly, have stepped onto the board.
Vaerion exhales slowly, barely more than a breath, his eyes flicking back to the woodsmen. This was not the path I intended to walk. But now that I have set foot upon it....
The older and calmer man looks up at Sabetha absorbing the tale she'd spun as he takes a hard swallow, "Afraid we can't tell ye much. None of ye call Jaekin home and we're bound to bite our tongues when dealing with outsiders. I can tell ye that the minority here would prefer ye just pack up and move on. The Murder Court ain't nothin' to fear so long as we abide by the terms laid down at the village's founding. If you've been down to Oldtown then ye know what can happen if ye don't."
One of the younger pipes in, "I'll wag my own if yer too afraid. The Jae just want to keep us on a leash, take our gold, our livestock, our damn children when it tickles their fancies. We're tired of it, and we're glad yer here to help the Mayor. We voted him in to do just what he's doin' and the majority rules, so take all yer old superstitions and shove em!"
Old Thom seems to have just given up on his rebuttals and shakes his head as he swirls the last of his free ale around in the mug.
The younger man continues, "I wasn't around to see Oldtown before it was a ruin, but I'd wager most of the tales are just tall ones anyway. If you need Pik to help ya find a way up the mountain, though, I'd try there first. Or maybe even Coven Cave. Dunno what he finds so interestin' at either o' them spots, but I know he frequents both. Most wouldn't set foot in neither."
Outside the inn, Aetheris moves through the night like a pale specter gliding between the shadows of the eaves. The chill wind rustles through the village, but the owl’s passage is soundless, its wings slicing through the air without resistance.
It circles above first, a slow, deliberate sweep of the rooftops, its gaze scanning the streets below. Even the dimmest flickers of movement do not escape its notice—a stray cat slinking through an alley, the sluggish sway of a drunken patron stumbling home, the brief glint of steel as a wary watchman adjusts his grip on his blade.
Aetheris banks sharply and drifts lower, perching atop the wooden beam of a nearby awning. It tucks its wings close, slowing every movement until it becomes indistinguishable from the warped wood and cast shadows.
Minutes pass. Then an adjustment—a subtle turn of the head as movement stirs at the far end of the street. A pair of cloaked figures slip from an alleyway, moving with too much purpose for common drunks and too much hesitation for seasoned fighters. Their gait is uncertain, their hands hidden beneath heavy fabric. Aetheris watches.
It pushes off in an instant, a specter loosed from the rafters, arcing high before slipping into the void between buildings. It does not follow from above—too obvious. Instead, it weaves between the buildings, darting through open shutters, threading through broken beams, shifting from perch to perch in near-perfect silence.
When it emerges again, it does so ahead of them, settling onto a rooftop just above their path. See first. Move second and if compelled to do so, alert the master.
They approach the inn, hesitating for just a breath too long before continuing past the door. Their whispers are lost to the wind, but Aetheris does not need to hear them to know their intent. The way they carry themselves—shoulders tight, glances quick—reeks of men who either know something or intend something. Either way, they are not beyond suspicion. But at the same time not a threat. Not yet.
Aetheris pulls away from the rooftop, retreating into the higher rafters of the inn’s exterior. It will keep watch here, ensuring nothing enters that should not, nothing lingers too long where it should not. No steel will be drawn against its master without its knowing.
And if steel is drawn… it will be the last mistake they ever make.
Shae meets Vaerion’s glance, and for a brief moment, a spark of silent understanding flits between them. He had grown quiet, his usual sharp tongue still, which meant his mind was working through the woodsmen’s words just as hers was. She wonders what conclusions he is reaching—he seems perceptive, methodical in his approach. That was good. They needed clear minds in this tangled mess.
The mention of tangible terms catches her attention—the villagers are bound by them, but they cannot speak of them? She taps her fingers against the table in thought. That was the essence of it, wasn’t it? A contract, deeply rooted, its language so absolute that even discussing it was forbidden. Whether by oath, magic, or fear, these people were locked into silence. The Mayor, in contrast, was pushing against those terms, stirring up resentment in the young and willfully ignoring the warnings of the old.
And yet, everything loops back to one person—Pik. Shae sits up a little straighter at the mention of Oldtown and Coven Cave. 'Ha, there we have it. Finally, a clue to go by.'And Oldtown—it kept creeping into conversation like an open wound, a past that refused to heal. For some, it was a reminder of failure, for others, a symbol of oppression—one they had not personally endured but still railed against. What happened there, exactly? Had the bargain been broken once before? By the population of Oldtown? By all -or most- at once like in a rebellion, or just by one -or a few- whose misstep caused devastation for all?
She leans forward slightly, voice steady but firm. "We should go see Pik tomorrow after the lumberyard." She doesn’t mention Orren by name, leaving it unspoken whether Geren wants to keep his contact discreet. Instead, she lets the idea settle, glancing at the others to gauge their reactions. 'The boy is our best lead, we must find out what he knows.'
Elyndor watches, and listens. It seems that Oldtown broke the terms of the agreement with the Murder Court then. I wonder what theydid? His eyes take in the older fellows, studying them slowly. That's probably all we'll get from them, but the young lad....there's more to be got from him. Whatever happened to Oldtown was before his time...does he know what the Jae are capable of?
He rolls the name "coven cave" around in his mind. Witches? Hags? Seems a strange name for a cave.
Ely rubs his face. Time for a rest, but one last thing.
"Well gentlemen. Thank you for your time. I would love to hear some of your tales about Jaekin, but not tonight, I think." He smiles. "Would you like a refill before we retire? I do have one last question for you though. Have any of you ever met the Jae?" He pauses just a moment before adding, "or the Murder Court?"
I will have Eryndor, the owl, give me a perception check.
The eldest and most irritable of the group shakes an empty mug at Elyndor's offer, "I know I'd take another. We've all seen Jae in the woods. Our work ain't always done before the sun begins to dip. They watch over us along the road, though, after all it us that bring in most of the coin 'round here. As for the Court, ain't many that can say they've been up there. Most wouldn't want to. Ain't a place for none but the Jae nobility and those summoned to answer for somethin'. They got eyes all over the valley, crow's eyes. Ain't much need for em to come 'round when they can see things from afar."
“Thank you, fellers, for tellin us this… even if it gets us killed! We gotta try, see. I think we all need some good shut eye. And daylight.” The dwarf lets out a long stretch, and two small flies buzzing around near his armpits fall lifeless onto the table. “Oooh, heee, aaahhh! Bedtime! Night fellers.” He turns to the group of assembled adventurers. “Meetcha here in the morning? I cook helluva good waffles and eggs. You won’t wanna miss it.” The dwarf starts to scratch his nether regions, then turns to head toward the stairs, making a slow ascent.
Outside the inn, Aetheris moves through the night like a pale specter gliding between the shadows of the eaves. The chill wind rustles through the village, but the owl’s passage is soundless, its wings slicing through the air without resistance.
It circles above first, a slow, deliberate sweep of the rooftops, its gaze scanning the streets below. Even the dimmest flickers of movement do not escape its notice—a stray cat slinking through an alley, the sluggish sway of a drunken patron stumbling home, the brief glint of steel as a wary watchman adjusts his grip on his blade.
Aetheris banks sharply and drifts lower, perching atop the wooden beam of a nearby awning. It tucks its wings close, slowing every movement until it becomes indistinguishable from the warped wood and cast shadows.
Minutes pass. Then an adjustment—a subtle turn of the head as movement stirs at the far end of the street. A pair of cloaked figures slip from an alleyway, moving with too much purpose for common drunks and too much hesitation for seasoned fighters. Their gait is uncertain, their hands hidden beneath heavy fabric. Aetheris watches.
It pushes off in an instant, a specter loosed from the rafters, arcing high before slipping into the void between buildings. It does not follow from above—too obvious. Instead, it weaves between the buildings, darting through open shutters, threading through broken beams, shifting from perch to perch in near-perfect silence.
When it emerges again, it does so ahead of them, settling onto a rooftop just above their path. See first. Move second and if compelled to do so, alert the master.
They approach the inn, hesitating for just a breath too long before continuing past the door. Their whispers are lost to the wind, but Aetheris does not need to hear them to know their intent. The way they carry themselves—shoulders tight, glances quick—reeks of men who either know something or intend something. Either way, they are not beyond suspicion. But at the same time not a threat. Not yet.
Aetheris pulls away from the rooftop, retreating into the higher rafters of the inn’s exterior. It will keep watch here, ensuring nothing enters that should not, nothing lingers too long where it should not. No steel will be drawn against its master without its knowing.
And if steel is drawn… it will be the last mistake they ever make.
The owl familiar spies one more thing in the distance southward...
The night and rain blankets the valley of the Ravenswood and most traffic into the village has ceased, most torchlight grown dim. Southwest by a mile or two, the owl's sharp eyes spot a solitary dot of torchlight.
The party all soon retire to their rooms for the night having gleaned as much information from the woodsmen as they'd seen fit. At least for now...
As the conversation winds down and her companions begin to scatter for the night, Shae resists the pull of exhaustion just long enough to get one more answer. She moves with quiet intent, intercepting the older woodsmen as they rise from their seats, catching their attention with a glance that carries neither demand nor desperation—only understanding. Lowering her voice, she asks again, but this time in a tone less prying, more familiar—a fellow survivor trying to piece together the past. "Who are the eldest in Jaekin? Where can they be found?" Her words are measured, not just seeking names, but offering a chance for them to share their knowledge without the weight of prying eyes and ears.
"I don't ask this to stir trouble," she assures them, leaning in slightly. "But you know as well as I do that some knowledge shouldn’t be lost. And if we walk into this blind, it won’t just be us that pays the price. You know what happened to Oldtown." She lets that hang for a moment—an unspoken promise that she won’t let the past be discarded so easily—before stepping back, leaving the moment for them to decide what to do with it.
Then, finally, she allows herself to retreat, the weight of the day's discoveries pressing on her as much as the need for rest. Without another word, she turns and heads for her room, her thoughts already shifting towards the morning and the journey ahead.
(In case we skip it here, during breakfast, she will share with the group what she learned and her thoughts -from the posts above- about the whole situation.)
Sabetha lingers with the folk of the town, speaking quietly and companionably with them of less fraught things as she sips her ale. No longer prying.
She listens to Shae's repeated question and any answer that is forthcoming but does not press further. She focuses instead on getting to know the people. Their families, their friendships, their little frustrations and joys and laughs. Listening more than she talks.
The memory of her mentors in Waterdeep whisper to Sabetha. Two ears, one mouth, to be used in proportion.
Only after an hour or more does she arise and take her leave. She first secures her lodging before making her way out of the Inn and into the night.
In a clearing near Jaekin's edge, under Selûne's silvery moonglow, Sabetha stands perfectly still. For a long moment, then another, her breathing slows before she draws her gleaming longsword gently like a long-stemmed flower. A parting gift from an older mentor in the High Forest. Her grandfather.
Slower than the rustling of leaves she moves, striving for, yet not quite perfecting the forms she has been taught, yet persevering nonetheless. Working long after her skin and hair are damp with sweat despite the chill. With only the trees as witness. Or perhaps nocturnal creatures as well. A bat, an owl.
Her nightly prayer done, Sabetha finds her way back to the Inn, to her washroom and to her cot. Head clear and heart at peace. For now.
As the conversation winds down and her companions begin to scatter for the night, Shae resists the pull of exhaustion just long enough to get one more answer. She moves with quiet intent, intercepting the older woodsmen as they rise from their seats, catching their attention with a glance that carries neither demand nor desperation—only understanding. Lowering her voice, she asks again, but this time in a tone less prying, more familiar—a fellow survivor trying to piece together the past. "Who are the eldest in Jaekin? Where can they be found?" Her words are measured, not just seeking names, but offering a chance for them to share their knowledge without the weight of prying eyes and ears.
"I don't ask this to stir trouble," she assures them, leaning in slightly. "But you know as well as I do that some knowledge shouldn’t be lost. And if we walk into this blind, it won’t just be us that pays the price. You know what happened to Oldtown." She lets that hang for a moment—an unspoken promise that she won’t let the past be discarded so easily—before stepping back, leaving the moment for them to decide what to do with it.
Then, finally, she allows herself to retreat, the weight of the day's discoveries pressing on her as much as the need for rest. Without another word, she turns and heads for her room, her thoughts already shifting towards the morning and the journey ahead.
(In case we skip it here, during breakfast, she will share with the group what she learned and her thoughts -from the posts above- about the whole situation.)
Following a bit more hedging, Shae discovers from the lumberjack that there are many elder souls about the valley. If it's those actually living in the village that she speaks of, though, Auntie Woodswallow would likely be the oldest. He hints that she and her sisters had been in the valley since before Oldtown was settled, well over a century past. Beyond those sisters, most in the village had only been around since the boom that brought precious metals from the mountains and saw Jaekin begin to thrive. Most of what is known of The First Bargain, as he describes the binding of Oldtown to the Jae, are stories passed down.
He stops Shae as they part, "There is only one other that I can think of that's seen beyond the years that Jaekin stood and that's Arlayna. Most of the long-lived folk don't stay in the valley long unless ye count the ones that make their homes between the leaves of the Ravenswood."
And with that, your ways are parted and rest is sought...
Elyndor leans back in his seat, listening to Vaerion intently, then stares open mouthed at the hand of bees created by Grymar. He doesn't eve try to conceal his amazement, before finally gathering himself together. He blinks then turns his attention to the men.
"Oh we absolutely are interested in politics." Ely leans forward, his chin resting on his hands, elbows on the table. "We'd love to hear what you older fellas think of the Court. You obviously feel strongly about them." A few more drinks and these men might open up. Let their words spill out onto the table freely. The young lad. Get him alone if we can, without the pressure of the others stifling his tongue. "Why do you think young folks are against it?" he asks the elder men. "Going against tradition? The young do like to rebel, at times don't they? It seems to be their way." His eyes dart between them trying to get a read on them. "Traditions are so important in towns like these, it would be a shame if we missed out on the full story." He smiles. "And I bet you are full of 'em. Stories, that is."
Insight check: 18
Vaerion listens, his expression impassive as the woodsman speaks. The arrogance that clings to him like frost remains, but there is something else now-interest. Unlike the typical prattle of fearful villagers, this man speaks with the weight of history, of knowing. It is still wrapped in the usual provincial superstitions, of course, but beneath it, there is truth.
He leans back slightly, folding his arms as he considers his words.
"Curious," Vaerion says finally, his voice even, measured. "You speak of freedom as though it is a thing granted, rather than taken. As though it is a luxury, not a right. I have found that those who claim change is dangerous are rarely the ones who will suffer from its absence."
He watches the woodsman carefully, though there is no hostility in his gaze, only scrutiny.
"But I take no offense in your words, nor do I ignore the wisdom buried within them. Fear and caution are not the same thing. The young may be reckless, but the old often mistake weariness for wisdom. I do not dismiss the dangers you speak of, nor do I intend to walk blind into them"
His eyes flick briefly to the younger woodsmen at the table before he rises from his seat, adjusting the set of his cloak as he does so.
With that, Vaerion turns and strides back to his own table, inclining his head ever so slightly toward Shae. "A drink, then," he says smoothly, taking his seat once more. "A rare thing, to find generosity freely given. You have my thanks, Shae."
His gaze shifts to the goblet she presents, the faint glow of the enchanted liquid reflecting in the ice-blue of his eyes.
"Practical," he acknowledges. "Few gifts are as valuable as extended sight in the dark. There are always things on the periphery, just out of reach it seems." A small, knowing smirk plays at his lips as he reaches for the goblet. "And it would be a shame to miss them."
"To your goddess. Let's hope she continues to watch over us.", he lifts the goblet and takes a measured sip.
Shae lets the older lumberjack’s words settle within her, much like one savors the depth of an aged wine—rolling its weight on the tongue, letting it breathe before committing to its full taste. There is something here, something unspoken but heavy, buried beneath generations of weary tradition and caution. These men know more than they’re letting on, but whether it’s out of fear, respect, or some other binding force remains unclear. Are the Jae a menace, extorting this town under the guise of a contract? Or are they the lesser of two evils, a shield against something worse? A barrier between the valley and something the young have never had to fear? The mayor speaks with the fire of a man bent on reclaiming power, but Shae has seen enough to know that not all chains are meant to be broken—and not all freedom is worth its cost.
She respects the wisdom of elders, though not blindly. Experience grants perspective, but it also breeds stagnation. Many refuse change not because they see deeper truths, but because change demands effort, and effort means discomfort. Yet, beneath that stubbornness, there is often something of value—a truth passed down in whispers, disguised as simple conservatism. And if these men are willing to guard that truth so fiercely, she needs to find out why. Her red eyes flick back to the older woodsmen, keen and searching, her weariness washed away momentarily. "Who are the eldest in this town?" she asks, her tone firm, commanding. If anyone remembers the original terms of the bargain with the Jae, if anyone still speaks of legends before the mayor’s ambitions, it will be them. The mayor might dismiss their accounts as outdated superstition, but legends have a way of carrying truths between their lines.
She leans back then, glancing sidelong as Vaerion returns to their table. The smirk on his lips is met with one of her own—a knowing, conspiratorial thing—as she listens to his toast. Her expression turns amused, her voice dropping lower, carrying a velvet smoothness laced with dark humor. “Few souls openly pray for my goddess’ undivided attention,” she murmurs, watching him over the rim of her goblet. She does not say Kiaransalee’s name aloud, but the weight of it lingers unspoken. "There is a... delicacy to the arrangement. To seek her favor is to align with her purpose, to find where her interests and yours meet." Her smirk deepens slightly. "And to know which prayers she deems worthy of answering." She lifts her goblet in return, her crimson gaze gleaming in the flickering tavern light. Whatever lies ahead, they will not walk into it blind, a small boon but one not to be underestimated.
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Sabetha sighs inwardly at the domineering tack taken by some of her newfound companions. While she cannot deny the effectiveness of intimidation, these are seemingly just ordinary people going about their evening, despite their secrets and mysterious surroundings. Punching down feels wrong.
She busies herself with making sure her latest round of drinks are distributed to all of the folk at the table.
I think when the older lumberjack said "Old Ones" just now, he was not referring to older townsfolk, but rather the Jae themselves. As if he is more comfortable keeping the bargain with those creatures than braving whatever risks or perils being "free" of them entails...
Despite her musings, Sabetha keeps quiet for now, not wanting the questioning by the entire party to feel like a cavalry charge. She merely attempts a winning smile and nods slowly, as if agreeing with the lumberjacks, young and old, encouraging them both to continue and watching their faces raptly.
Sabetha's Insight: 24
Inge(Barbarian2): Krayveneer's After the Fall|Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1): Uhtred's Windward Isles|Xarian(Fighter1): NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil|Soren(Druid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft|Nivi(Rogue4): Raiketsu's CoS|Ophelia(Sorcerer3): Ashen_Age's Risen from the Sands
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request|Toa(Barbarian6/Fighter4): MrWhisker's Dark Lord's Return|Sabetha(Monk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court
Traditions steeped in mystery and blood, the locals reticent to talk about them, and his new compatriots were already chomping at the bit to get to the bottom of all of this!
Geren loves to see it. The smile spread across his face is as genuine as it is out of place considering the serious mood of those around him.
Are the Jae themselves the greatest enemy here or are they simply overcharging to guard the locals from some greater threat? It wouldn't be the first time mortals regretted the terms of a deal they'd made, that tended to be the norm rather than the exception. It was why Geren had yet to make any pact that required an unknown fee or had an indefinite ending.
Well, hopefully his weapons, powers over the energy of death itself, and his fellow party members (and maybe someday friends) would see him through this. Honestly he could probably fill an entire book with the experiences he'd had and was about to have.
He spreads his hands.
"Gods, fey, fiends, politicians, and other things better yet unsaid, it all comes down to deals and, ah, politics. Unless the secret's part of it there's no point keeping the truth hidden. We're open-minded and people do what they need to in order to survive."
Grymar focuses his attention on the old man who spoke up at the end, swiveling around and pointing his bees at him. If the old man's hand isn’t holding his cup of ale, Grymar extends the hand of bees and pulls the drink back on the table, just 6-10 inches or so, to get the man’s attention, so he isn’t looking down into the cup and thinking of drowning away all of his worries in a mug of beer.
“So, if you ole codgers is dyin out as you say, there's nuthin that yous should be holdin back! If you have any good will for the people of this town, any light that you want to give em in the darkness, let it be the light of your wisdom, the knowledge in your head, the stuff that may make a difference! Times a wastin! And just sayin shaddap and drink your beer and everything will be fine is no help atall! So quit stallin' and start spillin! Your guts that is! Like you were in that Mayor's office talkin all about how you used your bees to sting that knowitall in Berdusk, that pain in the asses' rear end when they were on the crapper ... as, uh, I guess everybody does something like that... right?"
Grymar flushes a little bit and points his hand of bees back at the old man, hastily saying "C'mon now, outwiddit!"
The older woodsman who'd made the 'dying out' comment keeps his head lowered as he responds to Grymar, "Us old folk don't matter so much these days. Folk stopped hearin' us and that Mayor is clear evidence o' that. Always been plenty that wanted the Jae out of this valley, they don't like what they draw to the Ravenswood." He looks up finally with a fearful look in his eyes, "Things have been too comfortable for 'em I think. The bargains been too balanced most o' their lives and they ain't never seen what it can be like when it ain't."
The younger speaker pipes in, exasperation evident in his tone, "You just wanna live and die and never get anywhere, Thom! We're just worker bees for the Jae. Have been since Oldtown stood. We ain't about to die and Jaekin won't ever grow the way things are."
The other older man slams his palm on the table in anger, "Jaekin won't grow if ain't nobody here to grow it neither!!" He cuts his eyes to Sabetha, likely because she represents the only friendly face that had approached their table. "The Old Ones tend to this valley. Yeah, there's things that are drawn in, but if ye just keep yer wanderin' to where it oughtta be, ye don't have troubles. These yungins can move off if they don't like the way of things!"
Another young man responds calmly, "And if we all left, there wouldn't be anyone here in twenty years either...
Mutters carry about the inn as other patrons have taken to quietly sipping or chewing as they listen in and softly utter their own commentaries to one another as the scene at the woodsmen's table unfolds.
Murder Court Discord OOC | Phandelver Discord OOC
It is happening here as it did with us in Waterdeep. Fracturing, falling apart despite the ties that bound us. When faced with threats from beyond.
Sabetha gently places her hand on the forearm of the young lumberjack nearest to her.
"I know how you feel. Why should we young ones always take the cautious approach handed down by our elders when we can make things better and put a stop to the atrocities instead of doing nothing? That is what we hope to do here, is it not? It was much the same in the last... place I was."
She turns to the older man who had last addressed her, who had spoken of the Old Ones.
"And yet, we failed. Because we younger ones were too impetuous, not listening to the wisdom of our elders within the group. And those with the wisdom in turn were too fearful, too vague in the information they shared until it was too late. The otherworldly evil we feared and their human allies discovered us. Tore our fellowship apart and slew us, every one, as far as I know, or turned us to their side."
Sabetha pauses a long moment, looking as if she is close to tears. She draws a slightly shuddering breath.
"Every one of us except a young half-elven girl who colored her red hair dark and fled in the right direction, I suppose. So..."
She holds the older man's gaze with her green eyes. "So tell us, sir. Please. What is the danger you fear? What is it that the Old Ones protect this valley from? Or is it a threat of the Jae's own creation, a bogeyman to keep the town under their thumb? Do you fear to tell us, or do you not rightly know? We are not evil people, we adventurers. But if we strike out blindly, we will almost certainly fail, or worse... succeed only at destroying ourselves and you."
Inge(Barbarian2): Krayveneer's After the Fall|Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1): Uhtred's Windward Isles|Xarian(Fighter1): NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil|Soren(Druid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft|Nivi(Rogue4): Raiketsu's CoS|Ophelia(Sorcerer3): Ashen_Age's Risen from the Sands
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request|Toa(Barbarian6/Fighter4): MrWhisker's Dark Lord's Return|Sabetha(Monk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court
Shae listens and observes, letting the moment unfold as her companions press the woodsmen from every angle—some as a relentless wind that tears through the gaps in their resolve, others as the slow but inevitable erosion of a river carving through stone. She wonders which force will break them first, or if they will simply weather the storm, unmoved.
She notes, with some irritation, that her question about the eldest in the town has gone unanswered. But she does not press—not yet. The men are already being battered with words, pressed with scrutiny, and forced to navigate the treacherous ground between past tradition and future uncertainty. Better to let Sabetha’s softer approach work, if it can. If they yield to her gentle coaxing, then perhaps the answers will come of their own accord.
So, for now, Shae waits, watching the shifting expressions of the woodsmen as Sabetha weaves her tale, as she plays the role of a survivor, a ghost of youthful rebellion and tragic wisdom. It is a good story. One that should resonate with both the young and the old. Shae merely wonders—will it be enough?
(Shae freely hands out divine Guidance to anyone who gives her a cue.)
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Vaerion listens, impassive as ever, but within, his thoughts shift like the slow grinding of ice underfoot. I came to investigate, to trace the path of stolen relics, to determine if the Murder Court had dealings with elven artifacts-perhaps even Nysara and Sylwen. If they did, I would take back what was mine and in doing so, reclaim a piece of my honor long buried beneath failure. If they did not, I would move on, follow another lead, and leave this place behind without a second glance.
But this? This is nothing like what I expected.
Vaerion glances towards Shae. She gives away nothing, but she is always watching, always listening. Calculating. She weighs words like a jeweler weighs gold, testing their value in silence. Has she realized the same as I? That this valley holds deeper, older secrets? That the struggle between the Jae and the townsfolk may be a distraction from something far more insidious? Probably......
Vaerion continues. The younger men clamor for freedom, but freedom from what? The Jae? Or something far older, far more patient? The old one-fears the balance being disturbed, not because he is a coward, but because he remembers. He is worried that the bargains that once bound this valley together is unraveling, and with their unraveling, something watches. Waits.
He drums his fingers against the wooden table in slow, deliberate rhythm. The Old Ones. What was the bargain? What price had been paid to ensure Jaekin's survival? Perhaps, at the time, it had seemed fair-a necessary exchange to keep worse things at bay. But bargains only hold so long as all parties honor them. The younger generation, ignorant of what was once sacrificed, strain against the pact, blind to the cost. And the loudest voice among them?.......... The mayor.
Convenient.
The thought lingers, but another pulls at him, something Vaerion had not questioned before. The Selag. That twisted, looming figure, its presence heavy in his mind. If it does not serve the Jae, then what does it serve? I had assumed it was their construct, a tool of dominion-but what if I was wrong? What if it is something older? Something watching, waiting? If the Jae are caught in a struggle within, distracted, then what else moves in the dark? What other hands shift the board while mortals argue over their chains?
This was meant to be a straightforward task. Find twhat was taken from me, take them back, restore my honor and my families traditions. But this? This is a trap woven of history, desperation, and unseen forces. A game where the players do not even know the rules, and I, unknowingly, have stepped onto the board.
Vaerion exhales slowly, barely more than a breath, his eyes flicking back to the woodsmen. This was not the path I intended to walk. But now that I have set foot upon it....
I will see where it leads.
The older and calmer man looks up at Sabetha absorbing the tale she'd spun as he takes a hard swallow, "Afraid we can't tell ye much. None of ye call Jaekin home and we're bound to bite our tongues when dealing with outsiders. I can tell ye that the minority here would prefer ye just pack up and move on. The Murder Court ain't nothin' to fear so long as we abide by the terms laid down at the village's founding. If you've been down to Oldtown then ye know what can happen if ye don't."
One of the younger pipes in, "I'll wag my own if yer too afraid. The Jae just want to keep us on a leash, take our gold, our livestock, our damn children when it tickles their fancies. We're tired of it, and we're glad yer here to help the Mayor. We voted him in to do just what he's doin' and the majority rules, so take all yer old superstitions and shove em!"
Old Thom seems to have just given up on his rebuttals and shakes his head as he swirls the last of his free ale around in the mug.
The younger man continues, "I wasn't around to see Oldtown before it was a ruin, but I'd wager most of the tales are just tall ones anyway. If you need Pik to help ya find a way up the mountain, though, I'd try there first. Or maybe even Coven Cave. Dunno what he finds so interestin' at either o' them spots, but I know he frequents both. Most wouldn't set foot in neither."
Murder Court Discord OOC | Phandelver Discord OOC
Outside the inn, Aetheris moves through the night like a pale specter gliding between the shadows of the eaves. The chill wind rustles through the village, but the owl’s passage is soundless, its wings slicing through the air without resistance.
It circles above first, a slow, deliberate sweep of the rooftops, its gaze scanning the streets below. Even the dimmest flickers of movement do not escape its notice—a stray cat slinking through an alley, the sluggish sway of a drunken patron stumbling home, the brief glint of steel as a wary watchman adjusts his grip on his blade.
Aetheris banks sharply and drifts lower, perching atop the wooden beam of a nearby awning. It tucks its wings close, slowing every movement until it becomes indistinguishable from the warped wood and cast shadows.
Minutes pass. Then an adjustment—a subtle turn of the head as movement stirs at the far end of the street. A pair of cloaked figures slip from an alleyway, moving with too much purpose for common drunks and too much hesitation for seasoned fighters. Their gait is uncertain, their hands hidden beneath heavy fabric. Aetheris watches.
It pushes off in an instant, a specter loosed from the rafters, arcing high before slipping into the void between buildings. It does not follow from above—too obvious. Instead, it weaves between the buildings, darting through open shutters, threading through broken beams, shifting from perch to perch in near-perfect silence.
When it emerges again, it does so ahead of them, settling onto a rooftop just above their path. See first. Move second and if compelled to do so, alert the master.
They approach the inn, hesitating for just a breath too long before continuing past the door. Their whispers are lost to the wind, but Aetheris does not need to hear them to know their intent. The way they carry themselves—shoulders tight, glances quick—reeks of men who either know something or intend something. Either way, they are not beyond suspicion. But at the same time not a threat. Not yet.
Aetheris pulls away from the rooftop, retreating into the higher rafters of the inn’s exterior. It will keep watch here, ensuring nothing enters that should not, nothing lingers too long where it should not. No steel will be drawn against its master without its knowing.
And if steel is drawn… it will be the last mistake they ever make.
Shae meets Vaerion’s glance, and for a brief moment, a spark of silent understanding flits between them. He had grown quiet, his usual sharp tongue still, which meant his mind was working through the woodsmen’s words just as hers was. She wonders what conclusions he is reaching—he seems perceptive, methodical in his approach. That was good. They needed clear minds in this tangled mess.
The mention of tangible terms catches her attention—the villagers are bound by them, but they cannot speak of them? She taps her fingers against the table in thought. That was the essence of it, wasn’t it? A contract, deeply rooted, its language so absolute that even discussing it was forbidden. Whether by oath, magic, or fear, these people were locked into silence. The Mayor, in contrast, was pushing against those terms, stirring up resentment in the young and willfully ignoring the warnings of the old.
And yet, everything loops back to one person—Pik. Shae sits up a little straighter at the mention of Oldtown and Coven Cave. 'Ha, there we have it. Finally, a clue to go by.' And Oldtown—it kept creeping into conversation like an open wound, a past that refused to heal. For some, it was a reminder of failure, for others, a symbol of oppression—one they had not personally endured but still railed against. What happened there, exactly? Had the bargain been broken once before? By the population of Oldtown? By all -or most- at once like in a rebellion, or just by one -or a few- whose misstep caused devastation for all?
She leans forward slightly, voice steady but firm. "We should go see Pik tomorrow after the lumberyard." She doesn’t mention Orren by name, leaving it unspoken whether Geren wants to keep his contact discreet. Instead, she lets the idea settle, glancing at the others to gauge their reactions. 'The boy is our best lead, we must find out what he knows.'
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Elyndor watches, and listens. It seems that Oldtown broke the terms of the agreement with the Murder Court then. I wonder what they did? His eyes take in the older fellows, studying them slowly. That's probably all we'll get from them, but the young lad....there's more to be got from him. Whatever happened to Oldtown was before his time...does he know what the Jae are capable of?
He rolls the name "coven cave" around in his mind. Witches? Hags? Seems a strange name for a cave.
Ely rubs his face. Time for a rest, but one last thing.
"Well gentlemen. Thank you for your time. I would love to hear some of your tales about Jaekin, but not tonight, I think." He smiles. "Would you like a refill before we retire? I do have one last question for you though. Have any of you ever met the Jae?" He pauses just a moment before adding, "or the Murder Court?"
I will have Eryndor, the owl, give me a perception check.
The eldest and most irritable of the group shakes an empty mug at Elyndor's offer, "I know I'd take another. We've all seen Jae in the woods. Our work ain't always done before the sun begins to dip. They watch over us along the road, though, after all it us that bring in most of the coin 'round here. As for the Court, ain't many that can say they've been up there. Most wouldn't want to. Ain't a place for none but the Jae nobility and those summoned to answer for somethin'. They got eyes all over the valley, crow's eyes. Ain't much need for em to come 'round when they can see things from afar."
Murder Court Discord OOC | Phandelver Discord OOC
“Thank you, fellers, for tellin us this… even if it gets us killed! We gotta try, see. I think we all need some good shut eye. And daylight.” The dwarf lets out a long stretch, and two small flies buzzing around near his armpits fall lifeless onto the table. “Oooh, heee, aaahhh! Bedtime! Night fellers.” He turns to the group of assembled adventurers. “Meetcha here in the morning? I cook helluva good waffles and eggs. You won’t wanna miss it.” The dwarf starts to scratch his nether regions, then turns to head toward the stairs, making a slow ascent.
The owl familiar spies one more thing in the distance southward...
The night and rain blankets the valley of the Ravenswood and most traffic into the village has ceased, most torchlight grown dim. Southwest by a mile or two, the owl's sharp eyes spot a solitary dot of torchlight.
The party all soon retire to their rooms for the night having gleaned as much information from the woodsmen as they'd seen fit. At least for now...
Murder Court Discord OOC | Phandelver Discord OOC
As the conversation winds down and her companions begin to scatter for the night, Shae resists the pull of exhaustion just long enough to get one more answer. She moves with quiet intent, intercepting the older woodsmen as they rise from their seats, catching their attention with a glance that carries neither demand nor desperation—only understanding. Lowering her voice, she asks again, but this time in a tone less prying, more familiar—a fellow survivor trying to piece together the past. "Who are the eldest in Jaekin? Where can they be found?" Her words are measured, not just seeking names, but offering a chance for them to share their knowledge without the weight of prying eyes and ears.
"I don't ask this to stir trouble," she assures them, leaning in slightly. "But you know as well as I do that some knowledge shouldn’t be lost. And if we walk into this blind, it won’t just be us that pays the price. You know what happened to Oldtown." She lets that hang for a moment—an unspoken promise that she won’t let the past be discarded so easily—before stepping back, leaving the moment for them to decide what to do with it.
Then, finally, she allows herself to retreat, the weight of the day's discoveries pressing on her as much as the need for rest. Without another word, she turns and heads for her room, her thoughts already shifting towards the morning and the journey ahead.
(In case we skip it here, during breakfast, she will share with the group what she learned and her thoughts -from the posts above- about the whole situation.)
|| Oriace - Halfling Bard - Dragon Heist || Valerian - Pallid Elf Rogue - Wildnis || b'Reh - Stig Order Cleric - Humblewood || Rowan - Halfling Giant Path Barbarian - Runewarren || Shaephina - Half-Drow Blood Cleric/Wizard - Murder Court || Ianjin - Gallus Open Hand Monk - Mad Empiricist || Khazela - Spiritfarer Dervish - Tribute Court || Arista - Human Frost Giant Sorcerer - The Old Keep ||
Sabetha lingers with the folk of the town, speaking quietly and companionably with them of less fraught things as she sips her ale. No longer prying.
She listens to Shae's repeated question and any answer that is forthcoming but does not press further. She focuses instead on getting to know the people. Their families, their friendships, their little frustrations and joys and laughs. Listening more than she talks.
The memory of her mentors in Waterdeep whisper to Sabetha. Two ears, one mouth, to be used in proportion.
Only after an hour or more does she arise and take her leave. She first secures her lodging before making her way out of the Inn and into the night.
In a clearing near Jaekin's edge, under Selûne's silvery moonglow, Sabetha stands perfectly still. For a long moment, then another, her breathing slows before she draws her gleaming longsword gently like a long-stemmed flower. A parting gift from an older mentor in the High Forest. Her grandfather.
Slower than the rustling of leaves she moves, striving for, yet not quite perfecting the forms she has been taught, yet persevering nonetheless. Working long after her skin and hair are damp with sweat despite the chill. With only the trees as witness. Or perhaps nocturnal creatures as well. A bat, an owl.
Her nightly prayer done, Sabetha finds her way back to the Inn, to her washroom and to her cot. Head clear and heart at peace. For now.
Inge(Barbarian2): Krayveneer's After the Fall|Seri(Cleric1/Sorcerer1): Uhtred's Windward Isles|Xarian(Fighter1): NioNSwiper's Tyranny of Dragons
Dyson/Eleo(Cleric4): Vos' Beyond the Veil|Soren(Druid5): Bartjeebus' Ravenloft|Nivi(Rogue4): Raiketsu's CoS|Ophelia(Sorcerer3): Ashen_Age's Risen from the Sands
Joren(Fighter6): NotDrizzt's Simple Request|Toa(Barbarian6/Fighter4): MrWhisker's Dark Lord's Return|Sabetha(Monk3): Bedlymn's Murder Court
Following a bit more hedging, Shae discovers from the lumberjack that there are many elder souls about the valley. If it's those actually living in the village that she speaks of, though, Auntie Woodswallow would likely be the oldest. He hints that she and her sisters had been in the valley since before Oldtown was settled, well over a century past. Beyond those sisters, most in the village had only been around since the boom that brought precious metals from the mountains and saw Jaekin begin to thrive. Most of what is known of The First Bargain, as he describes the binding of Oldtown to the Jae, are stories passed down.
He stops Shae as they part, "There is only one other that I can think of that's seen beyond the years that Jaekin stood and that's Arlayna. Most of the long-lived folk don't stay in the valley long unless ye count the ones that make their homes between the leaves of the Ravenswood."
And with that, your ways are parted and rest is sought...
Murder Court Discord OOC | Phandelver Discord OOC