As soon as Mary's blanket falls to the floor, Meira kneels down to pick it up. She's right there as Mary herself crumples to the ground. She simply takes the blanket and wraps it around the woman's shoulders.
For a moment, she gives Lyra the briefest of glances, then focuses back on the grieving woman. "I can hardly imagine what you must be feeling. It's only right you weep for Frederic right now."
She stays near Mary, and a million jokes flash through her head. But even she knows it's not the time. Again she glances towards the halfling. Surely a Cleric would be trained to deal with the grieving, right? Though she always thought more of Lyra being her accomplice for tricks and pranks.
Finally, she speaks softly to Mary. "Perhaps we should get you in out of the cold. It's a bit brisk here at the door."
Noticing her hand still clinched in a fist about the letter, she adds, "And maybe we can hold on to that note for now? You may wish to see what it contains another time."
Lady Alisande's gray eyes grow as wide Gareth explains the extent of his literary neglect, almost choking on her beef stew. "Good heavens. Well, we shall have to remedy that at the earliest opportunity. I daresay a copy of Volo's Guide to Monsters would serve you most admirably." She insists, going on to extoll the virtues of said bestiary for monster hunters like Gareth, quietly hoping to rekindle in him an enthusiasm for the written word.
Alisande spends a good portion of the evening dining and conversing with Zephyros, Gareth and Rasziel, inquiring after the particulars of their personal histories whilst also unveiling aspects of her own. Eventually she reveals that she is an initiate in the Many-Starred Cloak, a guild of arcanists who work to keep Neverwinter and neighbouring territories safe from danger.
"My late mother - may Mystra take her into her grace - was a member of the Order as well. She vanished many years ago and was long presumed dead, though in truth she laboured clandestinely to subvert the efforts of a cabal of necromancers amassing power here, somewhere in the Sword Mountains region. It was only in the twilight of her life that she returned to the family estate." Her voice quavers somewhat, the loss of her mother still raw in the memory. "I suppose that is why I am here. Heritage. I am compelled to finish my mother's work, to elevate the standard of House Immerwood once more, after years of... well, much neglect."
Two spots of colour bloom in her fair face, betraying the embarrassment she feels at revealing so much to relative strangers. "These Phandalin libations are rather more potent than I anticipated. Pray forgive me." The noblewoman murmurs and excuses herself, making a brief tour of the town on her own and using the time to compose herself.
When she returns, she concurs with Rasziel's proposal for the entire group, including Lyra and Meira. "If you would have us, I would be honoured to join you in your endeavours. Preparing for a confrontation with either of these dragons certainly seems the most pressing. It is difficult to believe two such fearsome beasts exist in close proximity, and I fear for the safety of Phandalin should their wrath be unleashed upon the town. Yet I cannot in good conscience ignore the mages in this woodland manse for too long. It is possible they bear some connection to the investigations my mother once pursued."
Lyrafelt a knot twist in her stomach as she watched Mary's face change—warm friendliness turning first to shock, then to raw grief. The sight struck her harder than she expected, clinging tight to her chest and cutting deeper than the white dragon's claws had. She'd known of loss before, of course—life and death were part of every cleric's faith—but she had never felt it that deeply before.
For a moment, the cleric could only stand there, frozen, watching Meira gently wrap the blanket around the sobbing woman. What do I do? she asked herself, even as she felt her goddess' presence settle around her like a soft breeze. She murmured a quiet "Yes"to Meira's suggestion and took the taller grieving woman's hand, guiding her gently inside.
Almost without thinking, Lyra closed the door with a whispered word. Spotting a few unlit candles, she murmured the same word to make them flicker to life—hoping their warm glow might ease Mary's sobbing, even a little. She led her to a chair and then she simply stayed close, holding the woman's hand and listening in silence.
Lyra shared more than one glance with Meira during those moments. Both knew there was little they could do, and that no words would lessen the pain. Grief took its own time, and would walk unseen beside Mary for a long while, just as Tymora walked beside Lyra. That thought brought the cleric a bit of clarity. If she could help Mary feel—even faintly—that she was not alone, perhaps that would help?
So, she prayed softly, asking the Lady of Fortuneto let a trace of her light flow through her hand towards Mary. "You are not alone in your grieving, Mary," she said gently, still uncertain that her words would help ... but trying to do so despite everything. "Please, Lean on your family and friends in the days ahead. Do you know Sister Garaele? She guards the Shrine of Luck here in Phandalin. I'm sure she would welcome you with open arms if you wish to spend some time with her."
"And… know that Frederic rests with his brothers by bond, in a graveyard close to the mine. Torrin and the others made sure of it. He gave his life to save them, to buy time so they could survive until help arrived. They were humbled by his sacrifice and spoke highly of him. I wish he'd never had to make it… but your husband's courage saved their lives."
She paused, then added softly, "When you feel ready, perhaps you’d like to visit his grave? Perhaps even read the letter he left for you then?"
After that, Lyra said no more, afraid to overwhelm Mary. With Meira's help, she prepared some tea and stayed until Mary seemed calmer.
Before returning to the inn, Lyra stopped by the Shrine of Luck to find Sister Garaele. She spoke of Mary and Frederic, asking if the priestess might visit the widow now and then—to offer what comfort she could.
Back with the others at the inn, Lyra was quiet. She thanked Zephyrosfor handling matters with the Townmaster and agreed to whatever task the group chose, but it was clear her thoughts were elsewhere.
Later, as the night advanced, the halfling drew closer to Meira, whipering to her:
"Will you stay with me tonight? I just…can you hold me, please?"
If Meira agrees, when they retire to sleep, the halfling will curl up against her, her small form trembling as she sobbed softly for a moment—until, at last, she drifted into a quiet, exhausted sleep.
(ooc: removed 1p 50cp for the dinner and drinks, and another 5sp for a room. And added 20gp as well!)
Having already gotten to know the young noblewoman, the young purple-robed dark-haired man with the sinister-looking scar would still politely listen as she shares personal information about herself, her blush drawing a tiny amused smile from his lips. He sincerely doubted they would ever have reason to be concerned about the young lady acting too uninhibited in any way. Still, there was something almost endearing about her heated cheeks, not what he would have expected from someone of blue blood. Also, her interest of restoring her family name aligned well with his own aspirations.
"As for me, I hail from the Moonsea region. My father was a merchant and I hope to do him proud by building a business of my own. I do need considerable funds to launch this business so for now I would like to help you with your heroics for a fair share of the earnings."Rasziel says plainly, but there is clearly more to tell that he doesn't feel like sharing, yet.
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Mary Gilmore's House
As soon as Mary's blanket falls to the floor, Meira kneels down to pick it up. She's right there as Mary herself crumples to the ground. She simply takes the blanket and wraps it around the woman's shoulders.
For a moment, she gives Lyra the briefest of glances, then focuses back on the grieving woman. "I can hardly imagine what you must be feeling. It's only right you weep for Frederic right now."
She stays near Mary, and a million jokes flash through her head. But even she knows it's not the time. Again she glances towards the halfling. Surely a Cleric would be trained to deal with the grieving, right? Though she always thought more of Lyra being her accomplice for tricks and pranks.
Finally, she speaks softly to Mary. "Perhaps we should get you in out of the cold. It's a bit brisk here at the door."
Noticing her hand still clinched in a fist about the letter, she adds, "And maybe we can hold on to that note for now? You may wish to see what it contains another time."
Rabbit Sebrica, Sorcerer || Skarai, Monk || Lokilia Vaelphin, Druid || Vanizi, Warlock || Britari / Halila Talgeta / Jesa Gumovi || Neital Rhessil, Wizard ||
Iromae Quinaea, Cleric || Meira Dheran, Rogue || Qirynna Thadri, Wizard || Crisaryn Melkial, Sorcerer || Bronnryn Hethgar, Cleric
Lady Alisande's gray eyes grow as wide Gareth explains the extent of his literary neglect, almost choking on her beef stew. "Good heavens. Well, we shall have to remedy that at the earliest opportunity. I daresay a copy of Volo's Guide to Monsters would serve you most admirably." She insists, going on to extoll the virtues of said bestiary for monster hunters like Gareth, quietly hoping to rekindle in him an enthusiasm for the written word.
Alisande spends a good portion of the evening dining and conversing with Zephyros, Gareth and Rasziel, inquiring after the particulars of their personal histories whilst also unveiling aspects of her own. Eventually she reveals that she is an initiate in the Many-Starred Cloak, a guild of arcanists who work to keep Neverwinter and neighbouring territories safe from danger.
"My late mother - may Mystra take her into her grace - was a member of the Order as well. She vanished many years ago and was long presumed dead, though in truth she laboured clandestinely to subvert the efforts of a cabal of necromancers amassing power here, somewhere in the Sword Mountains region. It was only in the twilight of her life that she returned to the family estate." Her voice quavers somewhat, the loss of her mother still raw in the memory. "I suppose that is why I am here. Heritage. I am compelled to finish my mother's work, to elevate the standard of House Immerwood once more, after years of... well, much neglect."
Two spots of colour bloom in her fair face, betraying the embarrassment she feels at revealing so much to relative strangers. "These Phandalin libations are rather more potent than I anticipated. Pray forgive me." The noblewoman murmurs and excuses herself, making a brief tour of the town on her own and using the time to compose herself.
When she returns, she concurs with Rasziel's proposal for the entire group, including Lyra and Meira. "If you would have us, I would be honoured to join you in your endeavours. Preparing for a confrontation with either of these dragons certainly seems the most pressing. It is difficult to believe two such fearsome beasts exist in close proximity, and I fear for the safety of Phandalin should their wrath be unleashed upon the town. Yet I cannot in good conscience ignore the mages in this woodland manse for too long. It is possible they bear some connection to the investigations my mother once pursued."
Mary Gilmore's house
Lyra felt a knot twist in her stomach as she watched Mary's face change—warm friendliness turning first to shock, then to raw grief. The sight struck her harder than she expected, clinging tight to her chest and cutting deeper than the white dragon's claws had. She'd known of loss before, of course—life and death were part of every cleric's faith—but she had never felt it that deeply before.
For a moment, the cleric could only stand there, frozen, watching Meira gently wrap the blanket around the sobbing woman. What do I do? she asked herself, even as she felt her goddess' presence settle around her like a soft breeze. She murmured a quiet "Yes" to Meira's suggestion and took the taller grieving woman's hand, guiding her gently inside.
Almost without thinking, Lyra closed the door with a whispered word. Spotting a few unlit candles, she murmured the same word to make them flicker to life—hoping their warm glow might ease Mary's sobbing, even a little. She led her to a chair and then she simply stayed close, holding the woman's hand and listening in silence.
Lyra shared more than one glance with Meira during those moments. Both knew there was little they could do, and that no words would lessen the pain. Grief took its own time, and would walk unseen beside Mary for a long while, just as Tymora walked beside Lyra. That thought brought the cleric a bit of clarity. If she could help Mary feel—even faintly—that she was not alone, perhaps that would help?
So, she prayed softly, asking the Lady of Fortune to let a trace of her light flow through her hand towards Mary. "You are not alone in your grieving, Mary," she said gently, still uncertain that her words would help ... but trying to do so despite everything. "Please, Lean on your family and friends in the days ahead. Do you know Sister Garaele? She guards the Shrine of Luck here in Phandalin. I'm sure she would welcome you with open arms if you wish to spend some time with her."
"And… know that Frederic rests with his brothers by bond, in a graveyard close to the mine. Torrin and the others made sure of it. He gave his life to save them, to buy time so they could survive until help arrived. They were humbled by his sacrifice and spoke highly of him. I wish he'd never had to make it… but your husband's courage saved their lives."
She paused, then added softly, "When you feel ready, perhaps you’d like to visit his grave? Perhaps even read the letter he left for you then?"
After that, Lyra said no more, afraid to overwhelm Mary. With Meira's help, she prepared some tea and stayed until Mary seemed calmer.
Before returning to the inn, Lyra stopped by the Shrine of Luck to find Sister Garaele. She spoke of Mary and Frederic, asking if the priestess might visit the widow now and then—to offer what comfort she could.
Back with the others at the inn, Lyra was quiet. She thanked Zephyros for handling matters with the Townmaster and agreed to whatever task the group chose, but it was clear her thoughts were elsewhere.
Later, as the night advanced, the halfling drew closer to Meira, whipering to her:
"Will you stay with me tonight? I just…can you hold me, please?"
If Meira agrees, when they retire to sleep, the halfling will curl up against her, her small form trembling as she sobbed softly for a moment—until, at last, she drifted into a quiet, exhausted sleep.
(ooc: removed 1p 50cp for the dinner and drinks, and another 5sp for a room. And added 20gp as well!)
Peindre l'amour, peindre la vie, pleurer en couleur ♫
Auriel | Shenua | Arren | Lyra
Having already gotten to know the young noblewoman, the young purple-robed dark-haired man with the sinister-looking scar would still politely listen as she shares personal information about herself, her blush drawing a tiny amused smile from his lips. He sincerely doubted they would ever have reason to be concerned about the young lady acting too uninhibited in any way. Still, there was something almost endearing about her heated cheeks, not what he would have expected from someone of blue blood. Also, her interest of restoring her family name aligned well with his own aspirations.
"As for me, I hail from the Moonsea region. My father was a merchant and I hope to do him proud by building a business of my own. I do need considerable funds to launch this business so for now I would like to help you with your heroics for a fair share of the earnings." Rasziel says plainly, but there is clearly more to tell that he doesn't feel like sharing, yet.