Grymar’s eyes go wide, he scratches his beard vigorously, as if he’s taking in this new information.  A small insect appears and seems to point a leg at Daerin, then disappears back into the thick jungle of the beard as he continues scratching.  He looks over at Vaerion and Shae, saying “Hey, uh, *ahem*, I was about to pack up for our trip, we should discuss what we are each carryin.  D’ya wanna talk that over for a minute as we uh, yeh know, prepare?  Mebbe one of you could carry one of these potions, in case one of us gets knocked out.  We need to talk, for a minute.”  He motions to an empty room on this floor if available or upstairs.  

Shae studies Grymar for a moment, noting his sudden shift in demeanor. He was certainly an odd one, but this seemed different—less bluster, more intent. She hadn’t caught anything in Daerin’s last words that would warrant such a reaction, so perhaps the dwarf had seen or sensed something she hadn’t. That alone made it worth entertaining his request.

She gives a small nod, adjusting her gear as if simply preparing for their departure. “A moment of preparation before we leave is wise,” she says evenly, casting a glance toward Vaerion. She still wanted to hear more about what he had seen the night before—if Pik had truly been in Oldtown, it confirmed more than just a rumor. And she had her own observations to share.

Vaerion had seen Grymar in many states—grumbling, boasting, chewing (usually loudly). But this? This was something else. The dwarf’s eyes had gone wide, his beard scratching was more vigorous than usual, and there had been a… gesture.

And his words.

“Hey, uh, ahem, I was about to pack up for our trip, we should discuss what we are each carryin’. D’ya wanna talk that over for a minute as we uh, yeh know, prepare? Mebbe one of you could carry one of these potions, in case one of us gets knocked out. We need to talk, for a minute.”

Vaerion’s gaze looks towards the table he had occupied earlier, where his gear was already neatly arranged—each strap secured and in place. A stark contrast to Grymar, who, likely hadn’t packed a thing beyond what was already strapped to his person. Preparation, it seemed, was yet another discipline on which the dwarf refused to engage.

A glance towards Shae. Then back to Grymar. Vaerion’s expression remained unreadable, save for the slightest tilt of his head, a near-imperceptible sign that he had noted the shift. An urgency, almost. And now understood the covert meaning in the dwarf's words and mannerisms.

 Ah.

He exhales softly through his nose, something almost akin to amusement flickering in his ice-blue eyes. So, the dwarf was capable of subtlety. What a truly harrowing revelation.

Vaerion moves with measured grace, adjusting the blade upon his back. His voice, when it came, an unmistakable undercurrent of meaning. 

“Of course,” he says calmly. “After all, preparation is vital. Some of us understand that.” His gaze sweeps over Grymar before shifting back. “Lead the way. I do so enjoy a well-planned excursion.”

He gestures-not just for Grymar to move, but for the others as well. A slight flick of the wrist, the subtlest of motions knowing that the elven blood within the remaining party members would be able to perceive it for what it was- unspoken, but clear.

Something has changed. Follow

The earliest parts of the morning have passed by the time the group has finished their interrogations of Daerin and headed out.  There remains only light cloud cover above the dark wooded valley, but the smell of rain seems to be ever-present here.  The sun's rays peek through intermittently and provide as sense of warmth you've not found since your arrivals here.  Foot traffic is heavier than normal with the fair weather as caravans move in and out of the village carrying loads of goods - lumber and ores headed out, liquors and supplies for manual labor headed in.  Many ravens sit perched on the rooftops throughout the small village and caw at passersby.

Your party finds a place relatively out of pocket to have a brief discussion of matters at hand and to discuss what their next course of action may be...

Looking around the town Vaerion instantly focuses his attention on the ravens.

“I believe It is time to test the resolve of these ravens.”

He closes his eyes for the briefest moment, steadying himself as the connection takes hold—his consciousness slipping into Aetheris, merging with their keen senses. The world sharpens, the air electric with unseen currents.

Aetheris launches from their perch, wings cutting through the air in near silence. They skim low, talons grazing just above the dirt, moving so swiftly that Vaerion instinctively shifts his stance to brace against the sensation of their speed. In a single motion, they angle upward, slicing through the air with effortless precision.

The ravens perched above scatter in a chaotic frenzy as Aetheris barrels toward them—wings tucked, a blur of white and silver streaking through the sky. The first flock barely has time to react before Aetheris is upon them, forcing them into a panicked retreat. Another group takes notice, cawing in alarm, but Aetheris wheels sharply, diving into their midst with unrelenting force. The rooftop watchers abandon their perches, black forms erupting into the sky, their shrill cries fading as they retreat beyond the village.

Only when the last of them has fled does Aetheris arc back toward Vaerion, gliding in slow, controlled circles overhead. The connection lingers for a heartbeat longer before Vaerion exhales and returns fully to himself. He opens his eyes, his gaze settling on the group.

“We should have our privacy. For now.”

Vaerion then begins recounting what he has learned, in the past 24 hours his tone measured but certain.

Sabetha does not hesitate to promptly secure her pack and gear, joining her companions as they venture outdoors to a private spot to plan their next step.  Her pale green eyes glance up at the unlikely spectacle of a lone owl singlehandedly dispersing an entire unkindness of ravens (as opposed to a murder of crows, their smaller cousins).  Attentive and still, she then attempts to focus on what Shae, Vaerion and Grymar recount of their interaction with Daerin.

Yet the main emotion she feels in reaction is sympathy.  For the Innkeeper, under whatever enchantment is apparently keeping his elderly self captive and wordless while the glamor that surrounds him speaks of Pik and "Auntie" Woodswallow and the Bargains of Oldtown and Jaekin.  The outer glamor seemed enamored with this Auntie, Sabetha cannot help but notice, but somehow, she doubts that the silenced old man underneath feels the same way.

"It is good we took the healing potions.  I suspect we will need them.  I mistrust this 'Auntie' that the external Daerin speaks of so fondly.  And sewing shut of the older, inner image by insects that you spied, Grymar, is that not reminiscent of the fey flies belonging to the Selang you encountered, Shae?  Perhaps it is 'Auntie' who is one of the Dur Faug that the Selang referenced as holding dear while it battled you and your previous companions."

She sighs.  "Nevertheless, I say we strike out.  Even if my speculations about 'Auntie' Woodswallow have any merit, we cannot be sure without more evidence, and I doubt such a potential enchantress would leave herself open to being exposed so easily.  So is it Oldtown first, then?  I was going to suggest that Geren and I can scout at the head of our group if you all agree, though it appears he has taken his leave.  I am still happy to do it myself."

(Having spoken her mind, however, Sabetha does not insist on any particular course of action, preferring to see what the group chooses).

(If the others are willing to wait for a moment before setting off, Sabetha approaches Father Ely, as she thinks of him, for a quick prayer to the Moon Maiden to bless their journey, despite the sun being out, reflecting off the silvered snow fox and crescent moon below each of Sabetha's eyes).

Shae exhales, her fingers tracing idly over the hilt of her blade as she listens to the discussion unfold. Everything in this town seemed layered, veiled beneath riddles and half-truths. It was like wading through a fog where every shadow carried the shape of something unseen, and every voice spoke only in whispers of what lay beyond the mist. She watches as Vaerion disperses the ravens and considers what that implies. Were they merely birds, or eyes? If the Jae truly saw through them, then someone—or something—knew they were asking too many questions. And yet, what could they do about it? She turns her thoughts to Pik. Twelve years old. A boy, supposedly. Yet the way Daerin spoke of him, how the town regarded him, did not sit well. A child should not be able to walk into Oldtown unafraid when grown men feared to tread there. There was more to him, obviously, given his parentage. Yet, she just hoped he would be easier to reach than the others had been.

Her gaze shifts to Sabetha, nodding at her offer to scout. "Be careful. Don’t get too far ahead. If those fey insects silence you, we won’t hear you call for help." It’s said in her usual dry tone, but the concern beneath it is real. Then, lowering her voice slightly, she says, "Darthuul and Dur Faug. One spoken of by Arlayne, the other by the Selang but in eerily similar tones. If they are not the same, they at least seem to be two sides of the same coin, which may have some relation to Auntie, but I have no idea to be honest. The only ones speaking plainly are the things in the dark, or so it seemed to me, only they used an old language and more ancient terms, I guess. It has become clear that no one here will tell us what they really fear. Maybe they can’t. Maybe they won’t. Either way, I think we’ll find more truth in Oldtown than we will wasting our breath on these villagers."

As Sabetha steps aside to pray with Elyndor, Shae turns away, fingers moving deftly as she casts her ritual, conjuring a Tenser's Floating Disk that hovers beside her. Without a word, she slings her pack onto it and gestures for the others to do the same. "Might as well lighten the load. We don’t know what we’ll run into out there."  She pauses a moment, then with her gaze towards the road, she adds, "We should move soon. The forest may be dangerous, but I think I’m starting to distrust this town more than the trees."

Grymar indeed relates the tale of the image of the old man that he saw, out of the corner of his eye, with his mouth being stitched shut by some alien insect.  “He’s one of those things, thas no regular man in there we were talkin to!  Nearly knocked me outta my socks!  So, then, I wanted to stop talkin so freely in front of him about what we were doing, where we were going.  Should we grab him up, sit on him, make him reveal who and what the hell he is?”  Grymar looks down at his hands, finally taking the pouch off his waist and lifting it up, talking to the bees inside it seems.  “Bzzz, what do you think, hmm?  Should we?  Should we make him tell us the truth?”

When they make their decision to head to Oldtown, Grymar is game, figuring that more had to be discovered there, especially if they could find this Pik fellow.  “‘S’okay with me.  I just don’t trust that Daerin fellow anymore.  After what I saw.. creeped me out.”  Grymar takes out one of the flasks that he purchased from the man, undoing the stopper and inserting his finger into the top, he takes a tiny drop and samples it on his tongue, looking for the effect of it, wanted to test and make sure that this is indeed a potion of healing and not some disguised poison.

Shae folds her arms, her expression shadowed with thought. "I don’t trust Daerin either," she admits, glancing back toward the inn, as though expecting the man—or whatever he truly was—to be watching them even now. "But if he's controlled by something stronger, we don’t know what will happen if we push too hard. Maybe we force him to speak, and maybe whatever holds him simply lets him die and turns the town against us. We don’t have enough pieces to act just yet. If we move, it has to count."

She shifts her weight, eyes flicking to Grymar as he unstoppers the flask. The dwarf’s cautious taste-testing earns a faint smirk. "You’re braver than I am," she remarks dryly. "I can identify the potions properly, if you want. It’ll take some time. But you are right to be suspicious, it was alarmingly cheap. I’ll take a look during a break before we use it." Her gaze lingers on Grymar, assessing his reaction before continuing. (She can ritual cast Identify.)

Ely's thoughts linger on Daeron. He hadn't noticed what the others had about the man, but their descriptions were… troubling.

"Do you think whatever is controlling Daeron knows you've sensed its presence?" he asks, his tone thoughtful. "If not, it might be best to let it believe we've all been fooled—for now, at least—until we can find a way to free him."

He hefts his gear onto Sabetha's floating disc with a nod of appreciation.

"Do any of you think you’d recognize something like it again? If we can figure out exactly what we're dealing with, we might stand a chance of breaking its hold on him."

His gaze flicks to Grymer. "I certainly don’t trust whatever’s pulling the strings, but if what you saw is true—if it stopped him from speaking freely—then Daeron might still be an ally, if we can get to him."

A sudden thought strikes him. "And what about Pik? Could they have the same hold over him? Or are they using his father to control him?"

He exhales, shaking his head. So many questions, and not a single solid answer.

Straightening, he flashes a wry smile. "To Oldtown, then. My feet are getting itchy, and it’s been far too long since I last ran with a fox!" He nods to Sabetha. "That one was much older and greyer than yours—clever beast, always two steps ahead!"

Shae’s offer comes a moment too late, after Grymar has already stuck his previously greasy finger into the potion, gotten just a drop onto his finger and jammed it into his mouth.  He looks up at Shae questioningly as he does it.  “Hmmm?”  He awaits to see the effects and whether he can confirm that this is a potion of healing.  

As they start to walk he looks over to Ely, saying “I caught it out of the corner of my eye, very subtle, a flash.  For a moment I thought it was one of my seasonings going haywire on me.  But no, it was real.  I’d be curious about Pik.  May be somma the same thing.  Let’s get on our way and find im.”

Shae watches Grymar with a mix of exasperation and morbid curiosity, already bracing herself to intervene if he starts foaming at the mouth. Half expecting to see him drop where he stands, she tenses—but then relaxes slightly. Dwarves are stubborn. Even if he'd licked the deadliest poison in the valley, he'd probably just grumble about the taste and ask for another round. She crosses her arms but remains ready to step in. “That’s certainly one way to test it. Let me know if you live.”

Later on the forest road...
Shae slips away from the group under the pretense of scouting ahead, but in truth, her reason is far more mundane. Even the most hardened travelers must answer nature’s call, and she has no intention of making a spectacle of it. She moves with deliberate ease, stepping over gnarled roots and through damp undergrowth until she finds a spot that offers some semblance of privacy. The others likely assume she is simply checking their surroundings—good. She would rather not invite commentary.

As she crouches among the foliage, the hum of the forest presses in around her, layered with the rustling of unseen creatures and the distant cry of a bird. She had intended to use the moment to clear her mind, to shake off the mounting unease that had settled in her gut since they left the village. But then, her thoughts drift to the flies. The tiny, unnatural things that had sewn Joy’s mouth shut before her very eyes—before the Selang’s magic unraveled their presence from this world. She remembers the way Joy's eyes had widened in shock, the helpless struggle against something so small, so insidious. And now Grymar had seen them again, creeping over Daerin’s flickering form, stitching a silence over something unseen. Shae shivers, despite herself.

Something shifts in the foliage, just at the edge of her vision. A shadow slanting against a tree, a patch of sunlight wavering through the canopy. For a heartbeat, it looks too smooth, too deliberate—like something watching. She forces herself to breathe evenly, to settle the spike of unease curling in her stomach. It's nothing. Just the wind. And yet, as she makes her way back toward the group, she cannot quite silence the lingering thought that, perhaps, it was not.

Vaerion moves through the woods with the soundless grace of a shadow cast by moonlight. The trail ahead is uneven, knotted with roots and damp from the lingering morning mist, but he navigates it without effort. The others speak in low tones—Grymar’s gruff voice, Shae’s sharp-edged retorts—but he listens only in passing. His focus is elsewhere, turned inward, sharpening against the whetstone of his thoughts.

This group is... unexpected.

He had not anticipated meeting anyone at all. He had arrived at the inn scarcely two hours before their return, following a lead on trafficked elven artifacts. That was all this was meant to be—another investigation, another empty chase. He had ordered a drink, let the noise of the common room wash over him, and listened. A slow hunt, patient and methodical listening hoping to catch the whisper of a lead in a place of natural congregation.

Then the group had entered. Mud-streaked, exhausted, carrying the weight of a hard fought win against a being known only as a- Selang.

Now, as they tread deeper into the woods, he studies them as much as he does their surroundings.

Within Grymar there is an odd, unshaken optimism to him, as though life’s hardships are merely seasoning in his next questionable meal. Shae, sharp-eyed and sharper-tongued, conceals her worries beneath her veneer, yet she watches the world too carefully for someone unbothered. Ely—quiet, measured, but brimming with curiosity—and has devoted himself with out question to a believe in something higher. That faith alone warrants wariness. And then there is Sabetha who moves with the least wasted motion. There is an efficiency to her, a body honed to purpose. Vaerion recognizes it, the way she walks—a trained fighter’s balance, an awareness of space, the constant readiness to shift, strike, evade. But seems to choose to remain relatively soft spoken.

And the flies

He had not witnessed them firsthand, but their existence unsettles him more than he would ever admit. Unnatural things. Lingering remnants of a magic that should not be? Or a curse, that stitches flesh closed, binds tongues in silence. Such curses are not simply woven—they are crafted, refined. 

He exhales slowly, cold breath curling into the air before dissolving into nothing.

Ahead, Shae has rejoined them, emerging from the underbrush with her usual unruffled gait. But there is something in her shoulders—a tension that does not belong.

Vaerion does not ask. If she wishes to speak, she will.

Instead, he lifts a hand, fingers making a brief, silent gesture. Aetheris stirs from where they had perched among the branches above. The barn owl’s abyssal-black eyes meet his own, and he gives them a single command— "watch".

Aetheris takes wing, cutting through the canopy with eerie silence, vanishing into the gloom ahead.

If something lingers in these woods, watching them, waiting—Vaerion intends to know.

Tensions remain high even in the light of an unusually bright day as the party soon reaches the bridge along the road leading westward.  The stream babbles along across slick rocks its banks swollen from recent rains; and the trilling of insects fills the air. The scene is rather idyllic and the forest much more inviting than it had been in the dark of night beneath storm clouds. You each cast concerned looks at one another, perhaps in silence, as you know that here is where you must truly venture into the Ravenswood to follow the stream to the ruins of Oldtown.

The dwarf had been pleased to discover the healing potions were just that and nothing more. Each of you remains a bit unnerved at the revelations discussed concerning Daerin, but you press on. This valley had plenty of secrets it seemed and you were eager to unravel some of them (as well as collect a hefty reward).

Aetheris flies from tree to tree but realizes quickly that a bird eye view is nearly impossible as the group leaves the main road and heads into the dense forest.  Still, Vaerion's familiar keeps watch as best it can through the dark pines.

Noon nears, and you stop for a bite to eat...

There is darkness here and I do not know my companions, yet I have faith we can make things right here...  help these people, even Daerin if he is trapped...

The determined and vigilant cast to Sabetha's countenance as she first sets off gradually fades as the sylvan surroundings subtly relax her.  In truth, she is reminded of her time as an adolescent training under her grandfather on the outskirts of the High Forest.  Despite her relative youth, nostalgia sets in.

Upon halting, she unwittingly sits next to the person with whom she is most comfortable, Father Ely, remaining quiet unless spoken to.  Lost in thought.

Sabetha's Perception:  13

As they settle for their midday rest, Shae calls upon Kiaransalee, murmuring a quiet invocation under her breath. The faintest shimmer of divine favor lingers around her fingertips as she draws on her goddess’s power to sharpen her senses against unseen threats. There are too many secrets in this valley, too many forces lurking beyond their understanding. She will not be caught unaware. (Perception 23, incl. 3 from guidance)

While they eat, she absently turns her dagger in her hands before finally speaking. “The Selang we encountered spoke in an ancient tongue. Sylvan.” She flicks her gaze toward the others, gauging their reactions. “One of my former companions could understand it, but I could not. This morning, I prepared a spell that allows me to understand the language—but I cannot speak it.” She lets the statement hang for a moment, then asks, “Do any of you have the means to communicate with the fey? If we cross paths with another creature like the Selang—or something worse—I’d rather not be at a disadvantage. Moreover, gaining any information from them would be easier if we could actually ask questions or prod them to speak, or curse.” Her voice is even, but there’s an edge of expectation there. The Selang had commanded terrifying magic, and the flies… Shae suppresses the memory, focusing instead on the answer her companions might give.

Vaerion does not sit so much as he settles, folding himself into a position that requires the least effort to rise from. His back is straight, his movements deliberate—habit, honed over years. While the others ease into rest, his attention remains sharp, listening without looking, his focus divided between his surroundings and the measured cadence of Shae’s voice.

At the mention of Sylvan, his gaze flicks toward her. Not quite surprised, but assessing.

“I too, understand it,” he says simply. His voice is even, low, offering nothing more than fact. Then, after a pause, a faint shift in his tone as he finishes his thought. "But I prefer not to encourage them.”

He leaves the statement to linger and absently reaches into his belt pouch. His fingers close around something small, wrapped in cloth, and without thought, he pulls it free and takes a bite.

The texture is dense, the oats slightly coarse, but the infusion of honey spreads across his tongue in a way that is unexpectedly pleasant. He stills, his thoughts momentarily derailed as he registers the faint warmth of satisfaction curling in his chest. It is only when he shifts his glance toward the dwarf that a slow realization takes hold.

His chewing slows.

His eyes narrow, subtly, as he studies Grymar with newfound wariness.

He changes his expression into something unreadable, finishing the bite with a neutral sort of efficiency, as if tasting nothing at all.

His attention drifts, briefly, to Sabetha. She sits quietly, apart yet not isolated, her posture relaxed in a way that suggests familiarity with places like this. She is not simply resting. She is reminiscing. Vaerion does not ask of what.

Instead, he exhales, slow and steady, and shifts his focus back to Shae.

“If we encounter another Selang, like yourself I can translate,” he says at last, resuming the conversation as if there had been no interruption at all. “But it will have to be enough.”

No false promises. No pretense of diplomacy. "In my experience, Sylvan creatures do not always care to listen, and I have no intention of pretending otherwise."

Ely sits in stillness, eyes closed, sinking into quiet contemplation. He lets the sounds of the dense forest wash over him—the rustling leaves, the distant calls of unseen creatures, the murmured voices of his companions. The forest. The forest. It had been so long since he was home. The towering, ancient trees, the hush of a world within a world. His mind drifts to Selûne.

"Guide me, mother, and keep those who wander with me safe from evil. Let your moon be my light, and I shall let my sword be your shining symbol," he whispers, reverent and steady.

When he opens his eyes, he is pleasantly surprised to find Sabetha seated beside him. 

"I have no Sylvan, I’m afraid, but I’d always rather try to understand a creature before fighting it—even if it seems hostile," he says to the party and his gaze sweeps the treetops before settling back on the ground. "Don’t mistake that for shying away from battle. I have no patience for orcs or goblins—I know their kind all too well. But many creatures, even dangerous ones, act out of instinct rather than malice. Understanding them, even a little, might just save our lives."

Grymar makes a show of smacking and licking his tongue many times after the taste, then pronounces the potions good, saying “Yep.  Sure ‘nuff.  Healing potions, they be.  My taster is good enough to judge it, though I thankee for the offer to identify it, Shae.  About flavors, tastes, cookin and such things, I’ve got more knowledge about it in my little finger than you’ve got in your whole body.  Heh!”  He puts the potions away, satisfied in his taste test.  

When Shae asks a question from all of them about the language of the fae, if any knew Sylvan, Grymar pops in "Nope, can't say that I do."  He's crunching on a bar with gusto, licking his fingers periodically and making loud crunching sounds, smacking his lips and unfortunately leaving his mouth open when he chews.  "I can speak to elvish folk in their tongue, but thas as far as I go.  Have to be one of you learn-ed people who mayuve studied it..". 

He sees Vaerion looking over at him and he smiles, giving a little laugh.  "You like the honey there, Mr. Elf?  Scuse me, Vaerion.  I dunno why I misplaced yur name in my mind for a moment.  Memories sometimes is like a merry go round, one of those circular game thingies that they have in big towns, the littluns reachin out for the ring as it goes round and round.  Welp, sometimes thas how memories work, you jus have to wait for it to come round.   Hah!"

He sits in silence, listening to the insects, the sounds in the woods, a big smile coming over his face, he closes his eyes and feels a beam of sunlight peek through and warm his face, he leans his head back to have full enjoyment.  He opens his eyes from time to time, but otherwise he seems intent on resting and taking it all in, and listening...

Sabetha shakes her head with a faraway look on her face, though she does manage a smile at the interaction between the Eladrin and the Dwarf.

"I do not know Sylvan, Shae, nor any special way to parley with the Fey, or Jae for that matter, whatever they may be.  Though sometimes in the High Forest, when I was young...  I felt a connection.  Almost..."

She trails off, lost in her thoughts, subconsciously adjusting her seated position to be a little closer to Father Ely.

"I do agree that information is more valuable at this point than anything we gain by slaying these creatures if we are not forced to in self-defense."