The Silent Runes of Suzail

Merienne watches the exchange unfold with the stillness of someone measuring several risks at once.

“You did not tell me the location of your safehouse,” she says calmly to Iromae, answering the concern before it can fully form. “But people who are frightened, exhausted, and hiding from authorities tend to behave predictably. I assumed you had one. I also assumed you would return to it.” She folds her arms lightly. “If I can infer that, others can too.”

At Vorenus’ twirling confidence, one corner of her mouth threatens the faintest smile. Threatens — but does not quite succeed.

“The marking is not mystical,” she says. “Not necessarily. You caused a disruption in a tightly managed district. Clerks intervened. Someone observed. Someone followed.” Her gaze shifts briefly toward Iromae. “Your instincts were correct.”

She steps away from the cutting table and moves toward a narrow cabinet, opening it to retrieve several folded lengths of fabric, setting them atop the work surface one by one.

“You are fortunate, however, that Suzail is crowded and diverse enough for faces to blur together. This city is not exclusively human, despite what the Crown pretends through ceremony and portraiture.”

She gestures lightly toward the street beyond the shuttered windows.

“You have seen dwarves in the trade wards and smithing districts. Halflings are common enough in markets, kitchens, messenger routes, and caravan work. Gnomes appear less often, but they are present — scribes, clockworkers, artisans. Dragonborn are uncommon, though not unheard of. Most who remain in Suzail long-term are attached to mercenary companies, diplomatic retinues, or specialized trades.”

She pauses.

“The Crown tolerates variety better than it tolerates unpredictability.” Her fingers brush over one of the fabrics thoughtfully. “People remember behavior before they remember faces. Especially in bureaucratic systems. That is why your disguises helped. And why returning openly to the same hidden location immediately after an incident would be foolish.”

When Shenua asks about lodging, Merienne considers.

“You may remain here until the ball tomorrow evening,” she says at last. “Upstairs is cramped, but private. Safer than wandering the city. Safer than attempting an inn while tensions are elevated.”

She looks toward Vorenus.

“As for retrieving your belongings ... one person is less conspicuous than three. Particularly one capable of changing his appearance.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “But if you do this, you do it carefully. No heroics. No improvisation unless absolutely necessary.” A breath. “That last instruction may be especially directed at you.”

Now she turns back toward Iromae’s earlier question regarding the ball itself.

“At the Feathered Silence, your first priority is survival. Your second is observation.” She begins unfolding one of the fabric pieces as she speaks. “You are looking for disruptions. Strange absences. People who speak carefully because they are afraid of being overheard. Watch who avoids whom. Watch which servants are nervous.”

Her gaze flicks briefly toward Shenua.

“And if you encounter Lirae again ... listen more than you speak.”

Then, more quietly:

“The ball exists to project control. Which means it is one of the few places where cracks become visible.”

She smooths the fabric flat.

“If you must, decide what must be retrieved from the safehouse. Decide who goes. But before that ...” Her eyes move between all three of you. “I need measurements.”

Measurements. The necessity for the mundane seemed amazingly calming to Iromae. "Of course, measurements will be necessary. Just tell me what you need," she replies.  Quickly she steps towards Merienne, essentially offering to go first.  She follows whatever her requests are precisely. It gives her time to collect herself and she feels much more focused after. 

"Staying here seems wise. Is there even a need for all of us to go out?" she wonders. "Although if Vorenus goes to retrieve items, we should be somewhere to observe and close enough to help should something go wrong. I guess we should all try to act 'normal' I guess? Go out for a bite to eat by ourselves. Then collect nearby the safehouse, though different locations, at an appointed time."  

She then pauses, looking at Merienne. "Might I ask about worship here in Suzail currently? Is there a temple of Deneir? Would it be unusual for some to perhaps go and pray?"  The look on her face is a bit hopeful. "I'd really like to be able to go and do that if at all possible. Though only if it is not potentially going to draw undue attention." 

"Oh, measurements. Of course," Shenua says, waiting for her turn to be measured.

Once that is done, she tells Merienne, "Please don't forget my tail! A lot of people tend to overlook tieflings' tails, unfortunately. I've had to take many clothes to my mother so she could fix them. She's a seamstress too," she comments.

Then another thought occurs to her. "Oh, and could I have inner pockets, please? Why don't they add pockets to dresses, I wonder? Girls have to store their lockpicks and daggers somewhere, do they not?"

When they are finished, the artificer remembers something else. "Merienne, you mentioned something about building a persona for us, didn't you? What did you have in mind?" She cannot help but feel curious about what they will have to pretend to be in order to belong at the ball.

"Thank you, by the way, for allowing us to stay here tonight."

Vorenus nods as Merienne is speaking, taking her smile and a laugh as two new personal achievements to be unlocked.  He picks up a quill and a piece of parchment and starts to scribble on the paper, in a completely different script, making purposeful effort to be different from the other earlier writings.  “ERRANDS” he writes at the top.  Then “Pick up laundry.  Groceries.  You know what I like.  Mail.  Check for competing bids.  Look for vacancies.  Then return home, posthaste!”  He folds it and puts it in an envelope (if available), but with no seal.  

“So we are agreed?  I will go there with one identity, pocket the items, change my appearance, then head back here via a different route with a different appearance.  Any concerns?  Last minute ideas?  You guys prepare the next steps, discuss the details.  Then tell me what I’m to do when I return.  It is probably best that way.  Oh, and you need to take measurements of me, in the form that I am currently, right?  Let’s do that next.”  He lets her begin to take his measurements, holding his arms up, whatever is required.  As she does so, he starts to speak, making his voice so that just she can hear… but not hiding it from Iromae or Shenua either if they are nearby.  “The last I … I am reluctant to ask.  A last resort, Merienne.  In case I am caught.  I don’t want to let on about you, about Iromae, about Shenua … do you have a small fast-acting poison?  A pill?  Something that would end my life quickly as a last resort?  In the worst case if they do catch me at this last step - I don’t want to be tortured or give you away.  A quick end would be merciful.  And effective in keeping you safe.”  Vorenus meets her eyes and searches for understanding and acknowledgement.  

"Agreed," Shenua says absently, not looking at Vorenus as her measurements are being taken.

But when he continues speaking, she turns sharply toward him. "What in the Nine Hells are you even saying? Are you crazy!?"

Then, toward Merienne: "Don't listen to him."

She turns back to Vorenus, pointing an index finger at his face. "First: you are not going to get caught. And even if you were, Iromae and I would get you out of trouble. But even if we failed at that: is that really the kind of confidence you have in yourself? That you would have to die to stop yourself from saying anything about us?"

Her voice tightens with emotion.

"You? The man who would tell the wildest, most ridiculous stories before giving away even the slightest hint of truth?" She shakes her head. "Please, Vorenus… don't ever suggest something like that again. We came here to retrieve a friend, not to lose another."

By the time she finishes speaking, Shenua is so agitated that even her turquoise cheeks had darkened into a vivid purple.

When Vorenus had made his request for a fast-acting poison, Iromae was stunned. Fortunately Shenua jumped in to say something while she tried to gather her thoughts. It was a mixture of emotions that played across her face, fear and sorrow followed by anger as Shenua continued to speak.  

She couldn't have agreed more. Finally, she just says in a whisper, "Really Vorenus? You'd just... do... that?" She finds herself unable to even voice what he had been proposing to do.  

Vorenus turns to Shenua and Iromae, facing their confusion, concern, and anger.  “No, no, no, no, please, don’t misunderstand me.  I value my life just as much as you.  At the same time… I feel like these next steps … they are bigger than us.  Our success is important not only for our world, but for this one as well.  When that man in the mask captured us and was preparing to strap us to that node, use us to suck the life and magical energy out of our bodies, it became clear to me that this is bigger than me.  Bigger than us.  This is world altering stuff that we are talking about here.  And the importance of our success … well, frankly… it is more important than my life.  My failure of a life, such as it is.”  He turns and looks at Merienne with a wry smile.  “A charlatan.  A fake.  A pretender.  An obvious disappointment to my father, whoever he was."  He turns and looks at Shenua and Iromae, touching them both lightly on the arm, "A disappointer of my friends.  If by my life or death I can help to save our world and this one... it is worth it.  But hear me clearly, I would only use it as a last resort.  To avoid betrayal.  To avoid them strapping me to some machine as some arcane battery for the rest of my life or to keep them from extracting information by torture about you, about what we plan to do here."  He pauses, then straightens up and wipes his eye for a moment, then gives them a forced grin.  

"But plan A is to get our things and beat these cheeky bastards at their own game.  Good ole Vorenus still has a trick or three up his sleeve, I tell you."  If the measurements are done, he starts to prepare to cast his spell, glancing at the others to see their reaction to his words.  

Shenua's eyes soften, and she takes a step toward Vorenus, placing a hand on his shoulder.

"You are not a failure. Do you think we'd still be here with you if we believed you were a disappointment as a friend?" She shakes her head. "We wouldn't. So please, stop saying those things about yourself. You are more than you think you are."

She pauses, then adds, "Also, excuse me? A disappointment to your father? I'd say your father was a disappointment to you. Think about that, Vorenus. You were the child, and he was the adult. Who do you think failed whom?"

The tiefling steps back slightly before continuing.

“No masked man — no one else — is going to stop us while we're together. Not after everything we've been through. We are a team, and we'll face this as a team."

She falls silent after that, feeling she has already said more than enough. She cannot force Vorenus to abandon his plan if he truly means it, but she hopes her words and Iromae's will make him reconsider.

For several moments after Vorenus speaks, the room is quiet save for the faint rustle of fabric and the muted sounds of Suzail beyond the shutters.

Merienne does not immediately answer his request.

The measuring tape still hangs loose between her fingers as she studies him — not mockingly, not coldly, but with the careful attention of someone reassessing a pattern that has suddenly become more complicated.

Then Shenua erupts.

The sharpness of her reaction cuts cleanly through the room, and Merienne allows it to happen without interruption. Her eyes move briefly between the three of you as emotions spill out that none of you have had much space to voice since arriving here.

When Vorenus speaks again — quieter now — rawer — the seamstress finally resumes her work, drawing the tape across his shoulders with precise professionalism.

“A masked man,” she says at last, tone even. “A node. Extraction of arcane energy.” The tape pauses. “You neglected to mention those details.” Not accusation. Not quite. But close enough to feel the edge of it.

Her gaze lifts to the three of you in turn.

“In this city, there are many kinds of cages. Some are legal. Some are secret. The distinction matters less than people pretend.” She finishes noting another measurement before continuing. “If someone attempted to use you as living conduits, then you have already crossed paths with forces operating beyond ordinary Crown bureaucracy.” Her expression tightens slightly in thought. “Which explains certain irregularities better than I would like.”

Now she looks directly at Vorenus again. “And no,” she says calmly, “I will not give you poison.” Simple. Absolute. “If you are captured, dead men tell investigators just as much as living ones. Sometimes more. Sudden deaths invite scrutiny.” She folds the tape neatly once before setting it aside. “Also, contrary to your apparent self-image, you are more useful alive.” A faint pause. “As are your friends.” The words land bluntly, but not unkindly.

Then, unexpectedly, her attention shifts toward Shenua. “Your mother was a seamstress?” Something softer enters her voice there — not warmth exactly, but recognition. “That explains the pockets.”

Without waiting for an answer, she moves on again, though the corner of her mouth lifts the slightest amount as she begins making notes. “Yes. I can accommodate the tail. And the hidden pockets.” She gestures toward several sketches partially visible beneath layered fabric scraps.

“As for personas: the ball will be filled with lesser nobles, attachés, merchant heirs, academic sponsors, political hopefuls, and people pretending to be all four simultaneously.” Her eyes flick toward Vorenus. “You, at least, will not find pretending difficult.” Then toward Iromae. “You will need something quieter. Scholarly. Respectable enough not to invite challenge, but not important enough to attract sustained attention.” And finally Shenua. “You ...” Merienne studies her for a moment. “People will remember you no matter what you wear. So the trick will be giving them a reason to remember the wrong things.” She begins writing now in a small ledger. “A minor foreign artisan’s daughter, perhaps. Someone attached to a trade delegation. Intelligent enough to be interesting. Unimportant enough to dismiss.”

The scratching of the pen continues another few seconds before Iromae’s earlier question resurfaces. “The temples still stand,” Merienne says without looking up. “Most of them. Including one dedicated to Deneir.” Now she does glance toward Iromae. “But worship here is ... careful. Public faith is acceptable. Independent gatherings are watched more closely than they once were. Especially where knowledge, prophecy, or arcana overlap.” A small pause. “You could visit. Briefly. Quietly. During daylight hours, no one would think much of it.” Then, more pointedly: “But if you do, do not go as someone hiding.”

"You haven't even flinched at the mention of the masked man and the nodes. Have you heard of something like that before? Of people being used as conduits for nodes?" Shenua asks Merienne. The seamstress certainly knows more than she lets on. It is good they are on the same side.

She thanks Merienne for agreeing to her requests for the dress, but even more so for refusing Vorenus's.

When the conversation turns to the personas they are going to impersonate, she says, "A minor foreign artisan's daughter. I think I can do that. I'd have to use another name, though, since Deamhain is well known here. What about ... hmmm... Talyra Voss? Talyra Voss from ..." Shenua turns to Merienne, "What city could be foreign and far enough?"

Once the measurements are finished, she turns to Vorenus and Iromae.

"I know we're all exhausted already, but I think we should deal with the safehouse issue now, right? Then we'll actually be able to rest properly. Fewer worries hanging over our heads."

She thinks for a moment before continuing.

"So, I think Vorenus should leave first. I can find a quiet café near the safehouse and pretend I'm unwinding after a long day of work. That should not be too difficult." She pauses. "I still have a bit of magic left, so I can disguise myself as well. I'll make myself look human — brown hair, brown eyes, wearing one of those muted-colored dresses everyone here seems to wear."

"If it takes more than twenty minutes for Vorenus to gather our things, I'll assume something went wrong and enter the safehouse myself. Does that sound alright?"

Vorenus smiles and nods to Shenua, considering her words, thoughtful, and quiet.  When Merienne continues, his head bows as she denies poison to him, seeing this only as a last resort.  He considers her words, his eyelids raising when a confession from the dead is mentioned.  A small part of him seems relieved, his shoulders relax as the measurements continue and finish.  A deep sigh and exhalation of air.  He looks on fondly at his friends, like he is capturing the moment with his eyes in a memory.  

“Well, that should do it.  I suppose you have your measurements.  All of us could use a couple of hidden pockets.  Thank you, Merienne.”  

Shenua describes the plan and Vorenus nods.  “Twenty minutes.  Agreed.  If I can’t accomplish it in that time, assume something has gone wrong and see what is happening.  Speed is key, I will get our necessary items and pack the rest away, then quickly leave.  Let me know if there is anything else you need.  I plan to get my needle … and the shard as well.  Anything else you want me to bring?”  After hearing that, Vorenus begins waving his arms, muttering words and he suddenly appears before you as a halfling, much smaller than his usual stature.  He takes the envelope with the parchment inside and readies himself to leave, if all is in order.

Iromae nods at Merienne's suggestion of taking on a scholarly persona. "Thank you, I think I could do that. Something not too far from the truth would work best for me."  

She's still finding it hard to understand Vorenus' thoughts around the poison. She's finding it hard to look at him really, not knowing what even to say. Trying to fathom how he thought that he could just... She doesn't want to think about it and tries to put it out of her mind. The mention of temples and one to Deneir still standing catches her attention.  As the others mention plans, and who might go first, she cuts in. "Maybe I could leave first," she offers. "I'd really like to go to the temple to pray for a bit. If I could leave first, it would give me more time." She looks at Merienne. "That is, if it is still early enough now to go. You said daylight hours. It would hardly be in secret, I keep the symbol of Deneir on me always. I would just be a person stopping in to pray. Completely the truth." 

She looks at her friends, hoping they are understanding of her request. It would certainly help her focus herself for all that is to come.  "I'd then go from there to find a spot near the hideout to be ready to jump in if needed." 

"I left a pouch with a wand, an infused returning dagger and my tuning fork," Shenua replies to Vorenus. "If you could bring me those, please?"

Then, turning to Iromae, she adds, "Oh, of course. You first, then Vorenus, and finally me."

As she speaks, she pulls out one of her lockpicks, and with a flick of her hand, her horned, turquoise-skinned features begin to blur. Moments later, she has transformed herself into a young human woman in her early twenties, with lush curly brown hair and hazel eyes. Shenua even adds freckles to her light pinkish skin.

"Well?" she asks with a grin. "How do I look?"

The human-looking Shenua twists slightly to glance at her now tailless back and laughs softly. "Gods, that looks weird."

"Ready when you are," she finishes.

"Oh, yea. I just need the quill. That's it," Iromae says to Vorenus when Shenua mentions what she needs. After Shenua's transformation, she smiles. "You look very nice. And not at all like yourself."  She pauses a moment, wondering if that might be taken the wrong way. "I mean you look nice too as your normal self. I just mean, you look very nice in this guise too." 

"Right, I'll bring the pouch with the dagger, tuning fork, and wand, your quill Iromae, and I'll bring my needle and shard back here.  Just the crucial items, nothing more.  If there's nothing more... I'm off!  Don't worry so, I'm sure everything will be fine.  Now, gotta get used to hurrying along on smaller legs..."  Vorenus starts to head for the door unless someone stops him, moving out and then he picks a different route to get back to their safe house, walking with purpose, but not so fast that he can't keep an eye out for anything odd.  He's not used to being this height however, and it does seem to limit his visibility.  Which can be both and advantage, and disadvantage.  

Perception : 6

Merienne watches Shenua’s transformation with open professional interest now, circling once slightly as though evaluating tailoring on a mannequin. “Convincing,” she says. “The freckles help. Most people overcorrect when disguising themselves. They make themselves prettier instead of forgettable.” She pauses. “And for the record, the brown dress is an excellent choice. Suzail’s middle class has declared war on color.”

That almost sounds like humor.

When Shenua asks about the masked man and the nodes, however, the faint lightness leaves her expression again. “I flinched internally,” she says dryly. “I simply do not make a habit of displaying every reaction on my face.”

She moves toward a worktable, gathering pins and chalk while she speaks. “I have heard rumors. Missing people. Seized mages who are never processed publicly. Stories about certain restricted facilities beneath the city.” Her eyes lift briefly. “Most rumors are nonsense. But not all.” Another pause. “Arcane extraction on that scale would require resources beyond ordinary enforcement offices. If what you describe is accurate, then someone in Suzail is conducting operations the Crown would never officially acknowledge.”

The implication settles heavily in the room.

“But,” she says sharply, cutting through the mood before it can deepen too far, “that is a problem for after tomorrow night. One catastrophe at a time.”

When Shenua begins working out her alias, Merienne considers. “Talyra Voss works well enough.” She taps the chalk lightly against the table. “And if anyone asks, you are from Athkatla.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “Far enough away that few here know details. Wealthy enough that confidence passes for legitimacy. And the accent variations will not matter.”

Then to Iromae: “You may certainly visit the temple. In fact, a visibly devout scholar is probably one of the least suspicious things imaginable in this city.” After a brief glance toward her holy symbol, she continues, “Faith comforts bureaucracies. Knowledge without faith unsettles them.”

As Vorenus prepares to leave, Merienne steps toward him one final time. “Listen carefully,” she says. “If you believe someone is waiting at the safehouse — leave immediately. Do not investigate. Do not get clever. Cleverness is what nearly unraveled your courier operation.” Not cruel. Merely factual. “Retrieve only what you can carry quickly. And if anything feels wrong ...” She taps two fingers lightly against the folio he carries. “Trust discomfort before logic. Your instincts are often faster than your reasoning.”

Then she opens the door for him.

Cool evening air spills briefly into the workshop as the disguised Vorenus slips out into Suzail’s streets. The streets are not disserted, but less hectic as those milling about are looking for food and rest. And from his current height, everything feels larger: boots, wagon wheels, elbows, and crowds.

The disguise helps. No one looks twice at a hurried halfling running errands through Suzail. But the lowered perspective comes with costs. Sightlines vanish behind carts and pedestrians. Conversations become fragmented noise. The city feels denser now, more difficult to read. Still, the route toward the safehouse unfolds without immediate incident. No one stops him. No one calls out. No obvious tail emerges.

Yet as he turns onto the street leading toward the district containing the safehouse, a faint unease begins prickling at the back of his neck. Not certainty. Just ... wrongness.

A wagon stands parked farther down the lane than he remembers. Two laborers linger near a corner well, speaking too little for men supposedly resting. And near the mouth of the alley leading toward the safehouse district itself, Vorenus catches sight of something subtle: A man adjusting the cuff of his glove while scanning passersby with entirely too much attention. The man does not react to Vorenus specifically. But he is watching the street. Carefully.

Iromae is a little suprised as Vorenus leaves first after having suggested that she go first to the temple. "Ah. Well, I best get moving. I'll make a quick visit to the temple then come back to the vicinity of the safehouse as we agreed."  She looks at Merienne. "I'll head your advice as well. Trust my instincts."  She forces a smile. "I'm sure we'll all be back here shortly." 

If there is no other interruption, she then heads out to find the temple of Deneir. 

After Iromae's awkward clarification, Shenua cannot help but laugh softly. "Don't worry, I know what you meant," she says with an warm grin.

"That makes sense," the disguised tiefling says after Merienne explains that she flinched only internally. "When one has been involved in this kind of work for as long as you have — which, I imagine, has been quite a while — I suppose you learn how to conceal your feelings." She exhales softly. "Us, on the other hand... well, we're still pretty new to all this. Though," she adds, almost to herself, "I think we've done pretty good so far."

When the conversation returns to her false identity, she nods thoughtfully.

"Talyra Voss from Athkatla," she repeats, as though committing it firmly to memory. "Alright. Then that is who I’ll be."

Shenua listens attentively as Merienne speaks about seized mages, arcane extraction, and the sort of operations the Crown would never publicly admit to conducting. But the seamstress is right — they already have enough on their plates for one night.

"Best of luck," she tells both Vorenus and Iromae as they leave.

The brown-haired and hazel-eyed young human waits a little after they are gone before heading out herself. Then she makes her way toward the nearest café she can find near the safehouse. There, she orders whatever passes in Suzail for a cappuccino, along with some kind of pastry, and settles into the role of a young woman unwinding after a long and exhausting day of work.

She never once looks directly toward the safehouse. But all the while, she keeps careful track of the twenty minutes she agreed upon with Vorenus.

Vorenus feels the wrongness of it all, when he sets foot into the district and starts to make his roundabout way to the side street where their safe house sits, the little cellar door and quiet side street - something feels off before he gets there.  He notes the man scanning the street and the two more further down the way.  It feels .. wrong.  He absentmindedly looks at his parchment folio as a reminder, stops well before entering the area, and looks for another doorway that he can step aside into for a second.  As he does so, he looks at and consider the building of their safe house.  Is there anything connected to it?  Any other entrance that he can gain entry, then find his way into their space?  His eyes flit down to see if any of the folks he observed are moving at all, or just standing, waiting, watching.  

Vorenus quickly looks for any other route of entry, barring that, any nearby doorway that might lead to stairs, some way of getting higher up and observing the observers through a window, to watch for an opportunity.  He also thinks of any other approaches, maybe he needs to choose an alternate street, an alternate door to enter the house.  

If none of the above seems possible by the layout of the buildings, he leaves.  There is no way that he's going to approach an alleyway that is being directly observed, hearing Merienne's warning in his head,  he heeds it.  If there is no other path beyond the observers, he heads back to Merienne's shop, feeling defeated.  If he sees Shenua (or Iromae) on the way back there, he'll flash a "no go" signal to them as he makes his way back.

Perception : 16

By the time he reaches the district surrounding the safehouse, Vorenus' odd feeling has sharpened into something colder. After spying what he believes to be some kind of trap, Vorenus slips into the shadow of a recessed doorway before any gaze can linger too long on him. From there, he studies the safehouse building carefully.

The cellar entrance remains shut. No visible tampering. No broken lock. No obvious sign the space has already been breached.

But the neighboring structures crowd tightly together here — narrow brick buildings with shared walls, upper windows overlooking the lane, steep slate roofs nearly touching above the alleyways. There might be another route in through adjoining basements or rooftop access ... but not quickly. Not quietly. Not alone.

And certainly not within 20 minutes.

One of the lingering men shifts position again. Not toward the safehouse. Toward him. Not directly. Casually. But enough. Enough to tell him the street is no longer safe.

Merienne’s warning echoes sharply in memory: "If your instincts tell you something is wrong, leave immediately."

So he does.

The halfling courier mutters to himself, glances at his folded errands sheet, and simply keeps walking as though he has realized he took the wrong street entirely. No hurry. No panic. Just another tired runner navigating Suzail’s evening maze.

Behind him, the watchers do not follow openly. But neither do they disperse.

Elsewhere, the Temple of Deneir rises in quiet dignity above a smaller side avenue not far from the scribes’ district.

Not grand in the way of martial or royal temples. No towering statues. No braziers roaring with sacred flame. Instead, its beauty lies in restraint.

Tall windows of pale glass catch the last traces of daylight. Script in flowing Espruar winds along the outer arches like illuminated thought frozen into stone. Lanterns burn softly near the entrance, their light warm against parchment-colored marble. And notably:

People come and go freely.

Scribes. Students. Messengers carrying copied documents. A weary woman with ink-stained fingertips. An elderly priest walking slowly with a stack of repaired manuscripts held lovingly against his chest.

No one pays Iromae undue attention as she approaches. If anything, her holy symbol earns only small nods of recognition. Here, at least, worship still lives openly. Not loudly. Not politically. But genuinely.

Inside, the temple smells faintly of parchment, candle wax, and old bindings. The sounds of Suzail fade almost immediately beneath the hush of turning pages and quiet prayer.

No alarm. No scrutiny. Only sanctuary.

She may worship in solitude within the congregation, or she may approach any of the numerous attendants.

Meanwhile, Shenua finds her café with little difficulty: a narrow establishment tucked into a corner building overlooking one of the feeder streets near the safehouse district. The evening crowd is modest — clerks ending their shifts, a pair of merchants murmuring over ledgers, two young women gossiping quietly over steaming cups.

The cappuccino arrives frothy but bitter, dusted lightly with spice rather than chocolate. The pastry is flaky, filled with honeyed figs and crushed nuts.

Not bad. In fact, it's good. Perhaps more out of its normalcy, when the tiefling's life has been anything but normal for about a tenday.

Best, here, she is forgettable. It's exactly the sort of place where no one remembers faces for long.

From her position at an opening onto the avenue, Shenua never directly watches the safehouse street, but she does notice movement eventually: A halfling courier walking briskly away from the district. No items in hand. No signal of success. Only a brief glance. And the agreed indication.

No go.