Vaerion remains still, his expression unreadable as Shae presses Daerin further. The innkeeper is not lying—at least, not about Pik’s connection to Oldtown. Vaerion had already seen proof of it the night before. A lone figure, torch in hand, moving through the dark where few would dare travel without purpose.

 He lifts a hand subtly, index finger brushing against his temple as he murmurs the incantation under his breath, weaving the magic of Message into the space between them. To Shae alone, his voice threads through the air, as clear as if he were standing at her shoulder.

   The spell delivered, Vaerion shifts his posture just slightly—an imperceptible tilt of his head, the faint arch of a brow. A silent cue, waiting for Shae’s reply.

Ely eats slowly, taking measured bites as he watches Shae's conversation with the tavern owner. No sense in overwhelming the man with questions—it'll only make him shut down. He leans forward slightly, studying Daeron with quiet intensity. Pik’s father, is he? There’s more to this father and son than meets the eye, no doubt.

A thought strikes him. He softens his posture, adopting a tone of idle curiosity. “Forgive my question, Daeron—I don’t mean to be impolite—but how old is Pik, if you don’t mind me asking?” So much for not overwhelming the man with questions!

His frown deepens in thought. And how old are you, I wonder? Something tells me the real answer would be far more interesting than you’d admit.

He shifts the conversation smoothly. “And Oldtown… how long has it been abandoned? It must have been many, many years.”

Shae maintains her gaze, unwavering, expecting answers from Daerin—whether they are the ones she seeks or not. Every flicker of hesitation, every shift of weight, every pause—she measures them all. When Vaerion’s message slips into her mind, her only visible reaction is a brief flick of her brow. She absorbs the information silently. Pik in Oldtown—good. But a torch? A light in the dark means confidence, not caution. Either he is protected, or he fears nothing.

She doesn’t immediately respond, unwilling to tip Daerin off. Her lips part slightly, but Ely’s smooth interjection provides the opening she needs. As the innkeeper's focus shifts (and only if it does), she swiftly responds to Vaerion under her breath, her tongue and lips barely moving (as a response to his message to her):

Then, just as quickly, she falls silent again, studying Daerin carefully—not just for his answer, but to see if he noticed her secret conversation.

Vaerion receives Shae’s response like a a whisper slipping through the cracks of a locked door—quick, precise, and unsettling. Flicker of magic? 

His gaze narrows slightly, though outwardly he betrays nothing. If there is illusion at play, Daerin is not merely withholding information—he is shaping perception....... their perception as well.

 Without a word, Vaerion rises from the table, movements fluid, deliberate. To the group seated at the table, it appears as if he is simply excusing himself, perhaps to step outside or retire momentarily. Yet his path carries him directly past Daerin, close enough to catch the shift of firelight against his features, to note the way shadow clings to his form. His sharp elven eyes sweep over the innkeeper with quiet scrutiny, searching for the telltale warping of space, the shimmer of falsehood hiding in plain sight.

At the same time, he lets his senses extend outward, reaching beyond sight, feeling for the subtle hum of arcane energy—an incantation lingering in the air, a weave of magic distorting what should be real.

Sabetha is beginning to feel a little sorry for the harried innkeeper, who seems to be receiving more attention than a pork chop at a piranha convention.

She makes no move to join the feeding frenzy herself, but stretches and yawns, then stands up.  As if she is going for a second helping of Grymar's culinary exploits.  In truth, she is no longer hungry, but balances on the balls of her feet, quietly poised for movement.

Ready to use her fairly respectable swiftness in the (unlikely) event that Daerin decides to make a break for the door.

Daerin pulls over a stool and sits down.  He'd faced questions from previous groups before, but se were quite thorough.  None of you catch any further hints of the shift that Shae had witnessed, and Shae herself might even question whether the effect had been only a trick of the early morning light struggling to break through the clouds and tree canopy outside. The innkeeper seems almost resigned to sit and answer your questions and most of you take his composure as that of man who either has nothing to hide or simply has little information to share. "Pik's never worked as anything really, and you'd be miracle workers if ya could git him to guide anything other than his own imagination. Lad's been a wanderer since he was born. Can't nobudy keep him hemmed in that's the truth."

 He looks to Ely at the question concerning Pik's age and pauses momentarily before answering, "Pik's soon to celebrate his twelfth year, if you can believe it.  Couldn't tell lookin' at him though.  Boy could drag a stack of lumber from the yards all by himself, heh. I think yer wastin' yer time, honest. Pik won't give ya much more than frustrations if you can even find him." And there were the lies, or at least half-truths, hemming. Those of your party that showed great insight (above 13 on the previous [skill]insight[/] check) could tell it by his posture, his roaming eyes, the slight nervousness in his voice.

"Now, if there ain't nothin' else, I really should get to work. Got rooms to flip before the day's next batch comes through, ya know?"

Vaerion frowns inwardly. Had he misjudged? Had Shae? A trick of the morning light, a fleeting illusion of the mind? He considers dismissing the notion altogether—chasing ghosts serves no purpose. And yet, Shae is not one to act on mere speculation. She sees what others do not, reads between lines left unwritten. If she had noticed something, it was worth considering.

Uncertainty gnaws at him, but he does not let it dictate his next move. He strides past the innkeeper with deliberate ease, slipping free of the unfolding interrogation as though it no longer holds his interest. In reality, his steps are measured, leading him toward an unoccupied corner of the inn—a vantage point where he can observe without drawing attention. The shift in position is purposeful, not retreat but repositioning, a quiet recalibration of his approach.

He slows his breathing, centering his focus. A subtle shift in his perception follows—an attunement to the unseen. The air seems to hum faintly at the edge of his awareness as his sight stretches beyond the ordinary. Colors may shift, outlines may waver, the weave bending to reveal what lies beneath.

Whether Daerin conceals something or not, this will tell him. And if nothing else, the spell will illuminate what lingers in the room—the magic carried by his own companions, the traces of the arcane that might cling to the caravaners slipping out the door. A moment’s patience may yet yield something of worth.

Grymar gets a look on his face, he knows when enough is enough.  "Righ.  We'll perhaps I can help ye out in the morning again, ifn you want me to Daerin.  One less thing off yer shoulders.  Would that help ye?  I enjoy doing it.  If you would have me, as yer mornin cook.  Righ.  Let's gather up and get going then!"  He turns around and sees Vaerion beginning his process, he busies himself, heading upstairs to get his things and making himself ready to go for the journey of the day - 

Shae listens closely, her eyes locked on Daerin’s every shift and hesitation, but she senses that pushing further might yield little. His words aren’t entirely truthful, but neither is he openly defiant—just a man guarding something, perhaps out of caution rather than deception. She reflects on her earlier warning to Vaerion and wonders if she had been too quick to trust her instincts. Could it have been just a trick of the light? A lapse in her own judgment?

She tightens her jaw slightly. She should be more careful—unfounded warnings could be mistaken for fear, for weakness. Her mind is sharpened steel, and she cannot afford to dull it with hesitation. Letting her guard slip, even for a moment, is unacceptable. She makes a mental note to be more measured next time.

Shrugging as if satisfied, she nods to Daerin. “Thank you for your time. We won’t take more of it.” She turns to leave, but something tugs at her thoughts, a loose thread in an unfinished weave. She hesitates just a moment longer, then pivots back. “I do not wish to pry,” she says, her voice softer now, measured, “but I wonder—where is Pik’s mother? I hope nothing ill befell her.” Her gaze remains steady, not pressing but open, watching carefully for the reaction that follows.

Vaerion’s eyes narrow slightly as the arcane energies reveal their secrets, their shimmering truths layered over his vision. Daerin is no simple innkeeper—that much is clear. No active spell binds him, yet something lingers. A blend of transmutation, illusion, and something… stranger. Not quite temporal magic, but adjacent, like echoes of a thing that once was or might yet be. It is neither malevolent nor benign, merely present, woven into him in a way that suggests it is not entirely external. Not a trick of the light, then. Shae’s instincts, as always, had been sharp.

He lets the information settle, shifting his gaze to the others. The expected flickers of magic dance about his companions—the hum of their auras revealing the presence of the arcane. The healing potions behind the bar catch his notice, their glow a steady pulse of restoration nestled among bottles of far more mundane intoxication. A useful thing to remember.

Satisfied, he allows the magic to fade from his vision and exhales, focusing on Shae once more. The spell is second nature, a flicker of intent and a whispered thread of magic spun between them. His voice reaches her ear, silent to all others.

Vaerion lets the connection linger, the arcane thread still open between them. His expression remains composed, unreadable, as he shifts his weight slightly, positioning himself where he can keep both Daerin and the rest of the inn in view. He does not fidget, does not pace—only waits, keenly attuned to the moment before the next move.

He has given Shae the information. Now, he waits as her mind turns it over.

Sabetha remains standing and stretching.  Smiling as if enjoying a lazy morning (which, for once, would be nice).  She remembers the simple comforts being raised by her elven grandfather and master in his little forest cottage at the edge of the High Forest, feeling a pang of nostalgia.

She senses that the others have caught a whiff of some secret.  At least some of the others.  She herself senses that the innkeeper, Daerin may be concealing something, particularly about Pik, the boy's age or true nature.  There's something there.  But beyond that, she could not say.

Helping bus and wash her own (and others') dishes as a small appreciative gesture towards the harried Innkeep, she prepares to depart for whatever the party's destination may be once the interrogation and subsequent discussion has concluded.

Ah, look. The dwarf has arrived.

Vaerion shifts his gaze, settling on Grymar with the same measured scrutiny he applies to all things—though, as always, it carries an undercurrent of quiet disbelief. The insects flitting about him, tangled in that untamed thicket he calls a beard, are yet another testament to the dwarf’s ongoing war against hygiene. The battle rages on. The beard remains undefeated.

And yet… I ate his food.

More than that—I survived it. No fever, no stomach pains, not even the faintest sign that my body was staging a rebellion against whatever dubious alchemy went into the batter. I had been certain I would need a potion. And yet, here I stand. Whole. Unscathed.

And, if I were being entirely honest… it was not entirely terrible. Not that I would ever be entirely honest about that.

Vaerion’s gaze drifts from the shelves behind the bar back to the dwarf, his expression as still, save for the faintest glint of amusement lurking beneath. “Behind the bar, by the liquor,” he says, his tone light but edged with deliberation. “Three healing potions.” A moment of carefully placed silence. Then, his gaze flicks to Daerin, as if considering some unspoken calculation.

“Since the innkeeper has been spared the unfortunate necessity of reviving his patrons after your breakfast, perhaps you might persuade him to part with them. A small gesture of goodwill, in recognition of the truly miraculous absence of…
...culinary casualties this morning.”

His lips twitch, just slightly, before settling back into their usual stillness. There. That should give the dwarf something to do—for a moment, at least.

“Hey, er, uh, Daerin.  One las thing.  I know you want to help us and all, and I don mind cookin for ye in the morning, it’d be my pleasure and so forth.  But we are going into places where angels fear to tread so to speak, so I was just noticin - up on yer shelf.  You have some potions there made for healing.  What say we borrow them for just a bit, just in case?   If we don’t use ‘em, don’t need ‘em, we’ll bring ‘em back to you.  Whatcha say there good feller?  Ya can’t sell us rooms or have us help people if we all go a dyin on ya.  Whatcha think?”  Grymar rocks up and down on his heels, giving a big toothy grin to Daerin, waiting to see what he thinks.

The boy's a child!?  Ely blinks in astonishment at that revelation.  Shae voices his next question before he can properly gather his thoughts.  Here I was thinking that Pik was a young man....yes, where is his mother.

His eyes shift to the healing potions as Grymer asks the innkeep.  Those would be useful in an emergency.  "You also have my promise, that if anyone here needs healing...I have some skill in it...and I have the resources to spare," if I have the resources to spare, "and the need is great enough, they will have it.  We are here to help the town and protect it, in any way we can."

The elf stands, eyes Daerin and sighs.  He didn't answer my question about Oldtown either.  He grins at Grymer.  "Breakfast was rather good, wasn't it!"

The innkeeper looks first to Shae as he pushes up his sleeves, "His mother? Why, she runs the mercantile in the village. Mattildh Woodswallow. Never coulda talked that woman into takin' my family name, heh. Most round here just call her Auntie anyway though. She's looked after folk round here for years." He clearly has the look of a man still very much in love with the woman as he speaks of her. He turns his attentions quickly to Grymar, "Tell ya what, I'd let those old brews go for 10 a piece. I'll even wipe the dust off em if ya'd like. They ain't doin' much for me but takin' up the space of better bottles."

Grymar smiles at Daerin, saying “I’ll take that deal!  Here’s 30 gold, thank ye for yer kindness.  Clears out some space for somethin even finer..”. Grymar whispers into his pouch on his side, “A good deal!  I know….”

 "Oldtown's been ruined for some fifty years or more now. Place had grown much more grand than Jaekin before The First Bargain was broke. Went downhill quick when that happened."

Shae turns the pieces of information over in her mind, fitting them together like an unfinished puzzle. Pik’s parentage—his mother, the so-called Auntie of the village—was unexpected, though it explained some of the boy’s independence. The ruins of Oldtown, a once-thriving settlement brought low by the breaking of some ancient agreement, stood as a stark warning to those who might seek to upend the current order. And Daerin… whatever lingers about him, whatever faint threads of magic are woven into his being, is yet another unanswered question in this tangled nest of half-truths and guarded secrets. 

She exhales quietly, masking her resignation beneath a thin veil of patience. “The First Bargain?” she repeats, tilting her head slightly, her voice measured but edged with curiosity. “How many are there? And what exactly did they do to break it, is it known?” A bargain implies an uneven exchange. But someone, at some point, must have thought it worth the price on both sides. And yet, it is rarely the wise or the cautious who pay the higher side of the bargain. Perhaps, it is due time to re-negotiate. Perhaps, this should be their real mission. But first, they must find out what exactly the contract entails, which is made difficult by the fact that no one wants to, or is allowed to, talk about it. Which again only really favors those that receive the lion share of it, usually the ones in power. 

"I think it is high time for us to see Oldtown with our own eyes," she concludes and thanks Daerin once again for his patience with them. 

This time it's the rather perceptive dwarf, Grymar, who catches sight of something as the innkeeper begins to speak.  The aged face and thick, nearly white, mat of hair and beard waver over Daerin's features once again like a superimposed image.  Just for a second the dwarf sees it.  And as Daerin's words are uttered, the last the dwarf sees of the vision is a tiny strange insect that rapidly flies about the man's face and sews the image of the older Daerin's mouth shut!

Daerin seems undeterred or possibly even unaware that some alien insect has sewn the illusion of his older self silent.  "First Bargain was with Oldtown, that's right.  Just that one an' The Second Bargain we got now here in Jaekin.  Can't say I know much about either, only that Jaekin's is much stronger.  This little village'll be rollin' in the gold before long!" He pauses with a look of concern before continuing, "Take great care lurking around Oldtown now.  Always darker there than anywhere else in the valley.  Place is haunted they say.  Pik never minded that, but he's the only one."

I wonder if Oldtown was always called Oldtown, Strange way to name a town when first built.  Or perhaps it was a town long before the people got there...

With a slow shake of her head, Sabetha pushes aside her own idle musing as she finishes busing everyone's dishes, helping wash them clean and setting them to dry with a respectful nod to Daerin after the grilling the man had just withstood from her new companions.