Vaerion rises from the table with the same measured grace that governs all his movements. He offers Shae a slight nod, acknowledging both her offer of the drink and, in his own way, her presence. “Your generosity is noted,” he says evenly, his voice carrying the cool cadence of someone accustomed to choosing his words with care. “And appreciated.” With that, he turns and strides toward the innkeeper, securing his lodging for the night with minimal conversation before ascending the stairs to his room.

The chamber is modest, as expected of such an establishment, yet serviceable. A single window allows a sliver of moonlight to cut through the dim interior, its pale glow casting long shadows against wooden walls. A sturdy door stands behind him, its iron latch solid but insufficient against true determination.  A simple bed, a writing desk, and a small washbasin complete the room.

Vaerion moves with practiced efficiency, sweeping the space with a scrutinizing gaze. First, he checks for signs of tampering—scratches around the lock, displaced dust along the sill, an object subtly out of place. He runs his fingers along the edges of the doorframe, feeling for the telltale tingle of residual magic, a ward left behind. His own touch flickers with arcane energy as he mutters a word under his breath, a minor divination weaving through the space.

 Just as he is about to turn his attention elsewhere, something shifts within him—a sensation not entirely his own. Aetheris does not speak in words, but Vaerion feels the presence of his familiar like a ripple through his own consciousness, an impression more than a thought. A pulse of unease, an urgency wrapped in silence. His mind extends outward, slipping through the tether that binds them.

 The transition is always disorienting, a moment of drifting where he ceases to be himself and instead becomes something more—something other. His perception alters, sharpening, expanding. The world shifts to the sight of Aetheris—everything washed in muted shades, clarity beyond human comprehension. The rustling branches below are as amplified ; the distant torchlight enhanced as it flickers like a lone ember against the night.

 A lone traveler? Or something more?

Vaerion does not move, his physical body still within the confines of his room, but his mind remains within the owl. His awareness, doubled, lingers there within Aetheris, the owl drifts silently over the treetops, the world below a shifting tapestry of shadows and silver light. The torch in the distance still flickers, but it is not the only thing that draws attention. In a clearing near Jaekin’s edge, another figure moves beneath the watchful eye of the moon.

 Sabetha.

 Aetheris perches on a gnarled branch, head tilting as they observes the rhythmic motion of blade and body. Slow, deliberate, striving for something beyond mere technique. The moonlight catches on her longsword, glinting off steel that has seen battles past and battles yet to come. Vaerion watches through his familiar’s gaze, noting the precision, the discipline—not yet mastery, but perseverance.

 She prays, he realizes, recognizing the stillness that follows. The way she stands before the night, head lifted toward Selûne’s light. Devotion in its own way. Strange… to believe something is listening.

 Aetheris shifts, feathers rustling, and for a moment, Vaerion remains watching. The owl is not alone in witnessing this quiet moment of faith. But faith is not something he understands—not truly. Gods, oaths, prayers… they are shackles or crutches, depending on who wields them.

 If the gods truly answered prayers, the world would be far different than it is, he muses, exhaling softly in the solitude of his room. Still, there is something to be said for those who endure, whether by blade or by faith.

A mental pull brings him back into himself. The sensation is akin to surfacing from deep waters, the weight of his own form settling upon him once more.

 Continue your watch, he instructs silently, the command carrying through their bond not as speech but as intent. Aetheris does not answer, yet Vaerion knows the owl will obey.

 He moves without hesitation, removing his sword and placing it within reach, its dark blade resting against the bedside. His gear is stowed with precision, not simply set aside but placed strategically—Leather armor arranged for swift donning, dagger within reach of his left hand, a spell focus unobstructed. Only then does he settle, lowering himself cross legged into a meditative stance in the corner of the room.

 From here, he commands full view of the door and window. Should anything stir in the night—within or otherwise—he will know. His breath steadies, his mind focuses.

 And so he waits.

.

“Nah, nah, nah, don’t you worry Daerin, I've handled many a skillet and many a griddle, don't you worry, I won burn the place down on ye!  You better hold onto your arse when you taste my homemade waffles, yul be wantin me to cook every morning, I suppose!  Here, lemme get my special ingredients now..."  

The bees are doing the cha-cha-cha around the edge of the cook stove, Grymar is wielding spatulas like twin daggers, with a twirl, a spin and flip as the bees do their dance.  He pulls a couple of things out of his pack and an earthy but tasty smell emanates from the kitchen, cinnamon and .... something.  You can't place it.  With a flip he pulls the waffles off at just the right time, flipping them onto a plate and the bees seem to pat some honey and syrup onto each, then form together into a hand, delivering the plate to the table.  As you come downstairs, Grymar is bee-bopping all around the kitchen, cooking with delight.  

"Toppa the mornin' to ya!  Ifn we are going to investigate big baddies and uncover vast secrets, we need to do so on a fully belly!  Hah!  Sit down now, here's some coffee and I'm still cooking up a special treat for ya!"  Grymar gives each of you a mock salute with his spatula and a toothy grin.

Vaerion rises from his seated meditation, his body still and poised as his mind settles from the depths of focus. With practiced ease, he secures his gear, ensuring every piece is precisely where it should be. Before stepping out, he pauses at the threshold, glancing once around the room. He may trust in Aetheris’ vigilance, but a prudent man—or elf—leaves no avenue unguarded.

From within the folds of his cloak, he retrieves a single strand of silver thread, winding it deftly around the latch and frame in a nearly imperceptible fashion. A subtle marker, easily broken by the careless hand of an intruder. A habit born of necessity, reinforced by experience. Only then does he leave, cloak settling around him as he descends the stairs.

Approaching the innkeeper, Vaerion keeps his inquiry curt. “Oldtown—where is it?”

The innkeeper, rubbing sleep from his eyes, gestures southwest. “Few miles that way. Not much left of it now, but you’ll see the ruins once you get near.”

Vaerion gives a small nod of thanks before turning, only to halt mid-step at an unexpected—and unsettling—sight.

The dwarf.

Daerin, of all people, stands proudly before the inn’s modest hearth, arms crossed as if surveying a battlefield he has conquered. A plate of food sits at the ready. A breakfast. Cooked. By him.

Vaerion’s gaze flicks between the meal and the dwarf. Slowly, he exhales.

This… this is what my life has come to. Staring down the culmination of every elf’s deepest reservations. The unwashed, ale-soaked hands of a dwarf, forging not steel—but sustenance. A forge of fire and batter. An mold of charred iron. And yet… it smells…very agreeable.

His stomach twists—not in revulsion, but in reluctant acknowledgment.

I must eat. Strength is necessary. Battle is all but certain. And yet… how do I reconcile this?

His fingers twitch, an internal war waging.

Did he wash his hands? Does he know the meaning of clean? Dwarves dig in dirt and grime, they revel in it. This food—is....tempting.

His stomach grumbles, betraying him.

He schools his expression, regaining composure before the moment can linger. Without a word, he moves toward the plate, picks it up with the delicate precision of a man who is still calculating every possible mistake that could have occurred in its preparation, and takes his seat.

If Daerin says anything, Vaerion does not acknowledge it. He is too busy focusing on his first bite—mentally bracing for catastrophe.

His gaze lifts to Daerin, impassive as ever, though a faint, nearly imperceptible tension lingers in his posture. He speaks with the weight of a man swallowing something far greater than food.

“…My thanks.”

A beat passes.

Then, as if to reclaim the upper hand, he adds coolly, “It was… adequate.”

Without another word, he resumes eating, committing himself fully to the meal—while studiously avoiding looking in Daerin’s direction.

“Hah!  That’s righ my good elf friend, Vaerion!  A name that rolls offen the tongue, so fancy and highfalutin that it sounds you produce pure marble from what you eat!  And eat you will, eat up, it’ll grow hair on your chest, hah!  Here, lemme give ya some extra special food, it’ll help youns in our quest!”  The dwarf has a greasy towel around his neck and he wipes his hands off it, licking his lips and sniffing the air, proud of what he has produced.  He insists that everyone wait before leaving until he is done with his cooking, which takes an hour this morning.  He looks like a proud papa who has given birth to something special.  

To all : 

 To Vaerion, and one more : 

Geren awakens well-rested and in a good mood to the smell of some sort of breakfast pastry.

Making his way down the stairs (sliding down the banister for part of it), he strolls up to Vaerion and Grymar whistling a hymn to Sharess/bawdy song.

Seeing the Dwarf wielding a cook's utensils he pauses, then laughs.

"Wonderful! Always good to have a chef on the team."

Loading up his plate he prepares to tuck into the meal with gusto.

Like Geren and unlike Vaerion, Sabetha descends to the common room having to overcome no hesitance before eagerly helping herself to the hearty breakfast (and treat) that Grymar has whipped up.  Despite barely having met the unkempt dwarf, the young half-elf places a childlike kiss on his cheek.

Sensitive to the group dynamic, with so many new faces (her own among them) to go with the two who remain from the previous day's excursion and reported encounter with the Selang, Sabetha maintains a companionable silence for the most part, knowing that there exist strong personalities within the group, perhaps Shae and Vaerion above all, who will likely have proportionately strong opinions on the party's topmost priority for the day.

Oldtown?  The Lumberyard?  Coven Cave?  The mountains?  Sabetha eats and listens to the others.

She does favor Father Ely, as she thinks of him, with a warm hug if he allows it after he enters the common room.  She remembers the peace of mind and inner calm she had felt after her moonlit prayer to Selûne, moving slowly from form to form with her blade in the stillness of the night as she always has.

More inner peace than the Moon Maiden has graced me with in longer than I can remember.  Perhaps it is time to stop running...

Elyndor’s trance drifted between waking and dreaming, his consciousness floating in the silver radiance of Selûne. In his mind lay beneath a vast sky, the full moon casting its glow upon an endless sea.  Each ripple on the water shimmered with divine light, reflecting the ebb and flow of fate.

A whisper, not in words but in feeling, brushed against his mind. Light in darkness. Hope where none remains.

When morning comes, the warmth of the vision lingers in his spirit as he opens his eyes. The soft candlelight of the inn’s room flickers against wooden walls, and for a moment, he remained still, listening to the distant sounds of a waking town. The scent of waffles in the air.

Descending to the common room a sudden unexpected impact nearly knocks him off his feet as he enters.   Elyndor blinks in surprise at the hug before chuckling softly, patting Sabetha’s arm.

“May the Moon Maiden shine upon you always, Sabetha,” he says, his voice still warm with the calm of meditation.

He raises an eyebrow at Grymar.  The waffles smell good, but let's hope he's speaking figuratively or we all could be in for a very uncomfortable day!  '"It smells fantastic Grymar," he says appreciatively.  "These waffles aren't spicy, are they?"

Elyndor eyes the waffles warily but reaches for a fork, his frown turning to a smile as he eats. As he stirred, his thoughts turned back to the silver sea of his trance—the reflection of the journey still ahead.

“Once we’re done eating, we should focus on finding Pik,” he said, his voice shifting to quiet determination. “Start close, then move outward.  The Lumberyard. and Oldtown.  If we need to go to the Coven Cave, so be it.”

Elyndor took a breath, centering himself once more. Selûne’s light had guided him through the night. Now, it was time to follow it forward.

Shae's night was one of careful precaution and deep rest. Before retiring, she performed a quiet ritual, casting Alarm around her room, a well-practiced habit honed from years of caution. Only after ensuring her safety did she allow herself to sleep. The moment her head met the pillow, exhaustion took her.

At the break of the blue hour, when the sky turned the deepest shade before dawn, Ekko stirred beneath her sleeve, the small bat nudging her awake with instinctual precision. Shae greeted the morning with ritual and prayer, cleansing herself in silence and offering her daily reverence to Kiaransalee. The routines anchored her, ensuring her mind remained as sharpened as her blade before facing whatever this valley held.

Descending the stairs, she was immediately met with the fine, unexpected aroma of a grand breakfast. Shae inhaled deeply, expecting some sort of local festivity for which the innkeeper had gone the extra mile. She was surprised to learn that the source of the meal was none other than Grymar. 'Huh,' she mused, 'This dwarf is something else.' Shae was no stranger to the bonds forged over food, and she knew well that a cook could often be the heart of a company. She offered Grymar an appreciative nod as she settled in at the table. "These are excellent, Grymar. I’ve always heard it said that a fine cook is the soul of any gathering—seems you’ve taken that role already." She took another bite, the warmth of the meal settling her after the long night. It was a small thing, but small things mattered in places like this.

As the morning talk flowed around the table, Shae took a moment to fill in the newcomers on what had transpired the day before—the unexpected and violent confrontation in the Ravenswood, the Selang and its magic, the companions who had decided to leave, and what little they had learned of the Jae and their influence over the valley. By the time the plates had been cleared, the conversation turned to their next move. Elyndor spoke first, suggesting that their main goal should be locating Pik, starting at the lumberyard and moving outward. Shae nodded, agreeing with his plan, but adding her own thoughts. "We should meet the contact at the lumberyard as well," she pointed out, eyes flicking briefly toward Geren, uncertain if he wanted that connection known yet. "It’s not exactly on the way to Oldtown, but it’s not an entirely different direction either. Maybe there’s an old road between the two. It could save us time and effort."

She sat back, folding her arms. "Besides that Pik might be found there, we need to see Oldtown." Her voice carried a weight to it. "We need to understand what can happen to those who cross the Jae. That place is the closest thing we have to proof of what happens when the balance is disturbed. If we’re going to take on the Murder Court, we should see the remnants of what they’re capable of—what breaking the bargain leads to." With that said, she let the others weigh in. 

Vaerion listens in silence, his mind a still pool beneath an icy surface, absorbing the details Shae recounts. The events in the Ravenswood, the Selang, the departed companions—each piece slots into place, forming a picture that is still maddeningly incomplete.

But it is her glance—quick, deliberate, but not imperceptible—that truly captures his interest. A flicker of hesitation toward Geren at the mention of this contact.

Ah.

Vaerion almost smirks. Almost.

Up until now, Geren had down little more than quick with a jest, slower with anything of actual substance. Vaerion had pegged him as one who prefers to keep things light, lest anyone look too closely. But now, there’s a moment of weight behind his name. A hint that perhaps the man is more than just convenient light heartedness.

Imagine that. A hidden depth. I had nearly written him off entirely.

He leans back slightly, fingers tapping once against the table before stilling. His expression remains unreadable, the cool veneer of elven detachment firmly in place.

“This contact,” he says, voice even but pointed. “Who are they?” A pause. He tilts his head ever so slightly toward Geren, his gaze sharpening just a fraction. “And how, exactly, do you know them?”

Daerin overhears the chatter at the party's breakfast table as he goes about his morning routines.  The innkeeper had run the Olde Crow for ages now and seen plenty recently come through at the Mayor's behest.  Not to mention the profiteers hungry to trade the riches of the Cragsmoot or the seemingly endless lumber from the Ravenswood.  He wipes down a few glasses and whispers to his barkeep suspiciously before making a move to skulk away into the back. He'd just as soon disappear as have the sellswords interrogating him about the location of his son...

 The barroom is sparse of patrons this morning with only one group of caravaners making their way out and nodding to you in passing.  They likely had a haul of their own to get out of the valley before nightfall.

Shae had woken with one singular purpose today—to find Pik. The more she learned of Jaekin, the more it became clear that the boy was a keystone to understanding the tangled web of bargains, superstitions, and truths buried beneath the surface of this town. As she sat at breakfast, she listened to Vaerion’s sharp line of questioning, not missing the way his attention latched onto Geren’s contact. It was the kind of calculated, probing curiosity that marked a man used to pulling secrets from the shadows, and it told her something about the eladrin—he was always watching, always hunting for the edges of a puzzle. But before the conversation at the table could unfold further, Shae’s eyes caught a different movement.

A quiet glance. A stiff posture. A hand wiping a glass with slightly too much focus. The innkeeper, Daerin. She noted the whispered exchange with the barkeep, the way he seemed poised to slip away rather than engage with them, like a man who knew far more than he wanted to say. There you are. Her mind was set in an instant. She would not let him disappear.

With a smooth motion, Shae rose from the table, leaving the others to their talk and moving toward the innkeeper with the quiet, assured authority of someone who would not be ignored. She intercepted his path with a measured step, her dark eyes locking onto his with unspoken insistence. There was no hostility, only certainty—a presence that left little room for evasion. "I imagine you have important business to attend to," she began, her tone steady but edged with purpose. "But before you leave, we need to speak." She did not phrase it as a request.

"We are in the mayor’s employ, and we need to know where to find your son, Pik." She let that settle, watching his face for any flicker of reaction. "He’s not in trouble. Not from us, at any rate. But we need to ask him some questions about the forest—" she let her voice shift just slightly, adopting a more practical, matter-of-fact tone, "—he seems to be the most capable scout in town, and we need his expertise."  Her gaze remained steady, unwavering. "So tell me, where can we find him?"

Vaerion remains seated, fingers idly tapping the table, but his focus sharpens as Daerin shifts. The innkeeper mutters to his barkeep, shoulders tensing before he moves to slip away. No bluster, no denials—just quiet retreat. Curious.

He watches as Shae rises, intercepting Daerin’s escape with quiet authority. No demand, no raised voice—just presence. A trap closing without a sound.

Vaerion smirks faintly. A knife does not need to be drawn to be dangerous.

He considers turning back to the conversation at the table but dismisses the thought. This is far more interesting.

Grymar takes note of Daerin leaving the room, thinking to himself Simplest is best… the dwarf with the apron on starts to walk back in the same direction as Daerin, calling after him.  

“Hey, uh, Daerin, are you hungry?  D’ya want to try any of my waffles?  I told ye that’s I’d na burn the place down.  Folks seem to like ‘em!  Are you hungry?  Can I get you anything, good sir?  Thank ye for trustin me and allowing me to cook for the folks this morning.  Prolly no one ever asks what they could get you, do they?  Well, I’m askin -“

Grymar stands, rocking up and down on his toes, spatula cleaned off but at the ready, looking to hear his reply.  

Grymar barrels forward with all the subtlety of a pot boiling over. The dwarf’s voice is warm, chipper—utterly at odds with Shae’s carefully measured pressure. A blunt force of kindness, wielded with all the grace of a cleaver hacking through dough.

Daerin, caught between the two, is now faced with a choice: retreat deeper into himself, sidestepping them both, or latch onto the path of least resistance. And Grymar, with his relentless, affable insistence, is making himself exactly that—a distraction, a lifeline, or, perhaps, an escape.

Vaerion folds his fingers together, resisting the urge to interject. He does not know which method will yield results, nor does he particularly care. He only cares that one of them does.

And yet… Waffles?

Shae does not miss Grymar’s sudden charge into the conversation, nor does she move to stop him. She meets Daerin’s eyes with the quiet intensity of someone who sees exactly what is happening—the dwarf’s relentless warmth pressing in from one side while her own unyielding presence holds firm from the other. A two-pronged approach, much like before with the lumberjacks.

It worked then. Why shouldn’t it work now? So she waits. Silent. Watching. Letting the dwarf’s affability coax Daerin toward comfort while her own unwavering gaze reminds him that comfort will not spare him from answering. 

Despite her usually sharp eyes and ears, Sabetha had not noticed Daerin (Perception 8), though once she observes Shae pursue the Innkeep, she has guesses (Insight 15) as to why the man may be reticent when it comes to discussing his son with a new party of adventurers.

Figuring the half-drow and dwarf are enough of a dogpile for Daerin to deal with, Sabetha continues enjoying her breakfast, trusting the others to tell her what they learn of this mysterious young man, Pik who seems to wander safely through these dangerous woods and perhaps mountains as well.

Geren is loathe to disclose the fact that the reason he was able to find a contact was thanks to a necromantic divination ritual he'd performed. He didn't know the newcomers THAT well.

Still, there's a need for some trust. For now though he enjoys the delicious breakfast, complimenting the cook.

Daerin halts his retreat as he looks between the jovial dwarf and the elf who seems to offer few options other than to speak with her. His shoulders slump and he pats the barkeep on her shoulder nodding for her to give them privacy. This wasn't the first time he'd been asked of his son, though he tired of the queries and wishes it would be the last.  He looks to the dwarf and politely refuses the breakfast he'd whipped up in the kitchen.  Then his gaze flickers to Shae with a suspicious stare that lasts but a moment before he looks away.

Shae blinks as she sees some shimmering wave pass over the man's features.  For just a second as he looks at her, she could swear that the man appeared decades older than he had.  The image passes so quickly that she wonders if it was even real...

"The mayor oughtta mind his business, leave things be. Yer not the first to ask of Pik, may not be the last. Pik's his own and I ain't got much sway over the lad no more. Nothin' much has ever bothered him in the Ravenswood nor Cragsmoot. Boy goes where he pleases and critters steer clear of him." He looks past Shae to the others as if measuring the group's effectiveness. "He's been down to Oldtown alotta days lately. Can't say why nor how he walks out of that place when others seldom do. Now what else ya need to know?"

Shae’s eyes narrow slightly as the fleeting distortion passes over Daerin’s features. An illusion? A trick of the light? Her instincts whisper that she shouldn’t ignore it. Too many things in this town hide behind veils. Keeping her expression carefully neutral, she subtly studies him further, searching for any lingering trace of glamour or concealment. (Investigation: 21) She listens to his words with measured silence, nodding just enough at his grumbling about the mayor to appear sympathetic—or at least non-confrontational. There is wisdom in keeping an open mind. If the Jae’s presence, and the old bargains, were truly the best option for Jaekin, then she would consider leaving things be. But first, they needed the truth.

"Pik’s been to Oldtown often, then," she acknowledges, carefully watching Daerin’s reactions. "When was the last time he was here, either in town or the inn? Has he ever worked as a guide before?" She keeps her voice calm, level, conversational. "Do you think he might consider it now? Or would he rather keep his distance?" She lets the questions hang in the air, her keen gaze reading every flicker of expression that crosses Daerin’s face. (Insight: 20) What is he holding back? What does he fear? Everyone holds something back, everyone has something they fear. 

Without breaking eye contact, she subtly signals to the others—a slight tilt of her head, a shift in her stance. If they have more to ask, now is the time.

Grymar stops his advance and stands there with arms crossed, spatula in one hand, duel with the griddle on pause.  He cocks his head back and forth, noting the subtle shift in stance of Shae and he hears the line of questioning.  (Passive perception 18).  

What is up with this town?  Everyone has something to hide, seems.  One of those fellers we’re talking about Jae hiding or disguised as townsfolk… this feller seems to be very keen on having us not ask many questions, stop diggin into things… hmmm.

In the end, Grymar stays quiet, watching Daerin answer, looking to his mannerisms and trying to discern if he is telling the truth.

Insight : 13