Chapter IV - Into the Hills

<<Dusk - Day 13 - Early Spring - The Hills - Wilderness>>

Picture this, if you will.

Exhibit A
Cithrel Vennoryn, a scholar-monk, a mage-surveyor. They stand at the top of a hill, above the treeline, surveying the terrain below. They are using their elven vision to capture the last rays of the sun's dying light, drawing a map of the valleys and prominences around the hill.

Have we been here before? they wonder.

Almost certainly, comes the reply.

But things seem a little... off. That mountain in the distance... is it shorter than some vague, long-forgotten memory that Cithrel isn't certain they have? Has the top of the mountain been removed by some incomprehensible force? They shake their head and return to their calculations.


Exhibit B
Drace Kassemi, Cithrel's entourage of one if you didn't count all the voices in Cithrel's head. Drace is the perfect travel companion if you are willing to look past the whole "assassin" thing. But the nice thing about assassins is that they generally want to be paid for their work, or to at least see some meaningful change arise from it, neither of which are likely in the Wilderness. Besides, what's the point of killing an elf? They'll just come back later and the might be pissed. (Or not. The trick is you could never tell in advance.)

Drace, fed by the healing energies of the Earth, has the happy ability to never need to eat, nor drink, nor sleep. He may exert himself tirelessly and never feel the effects. He travels light and fast and only sleeps when he is sufficiently bored. These are ideal qualities in the Wilderness.

The ninja-scholar needs no bed nor clothes; the slayer-healer needs no food nor water. But he does need a bit of warmth, and the nights are still precious cold. He builds a fire to warm himself; Cithrel may use it to heat their dinner when there is no longer enough light to work.

Unknown to all, a short distance away is:


Exhibit C
Draerngromlaes Hundathrim, an unlikely combination of vowels and syllables such as you find in Llaigisan. He's riding atop a fine steed, putting as much distance as he can between himself and The Ocean to the west. Recent events have convinced him that he must retreat to the woods to regroup.

But Draern must eat, and so must Rima, his wolven companion. Rima is on the trail of... something. It smells like an elk, but a little... off. And Draern can't quite understand the tracks he's following. The tracks look like an elk, but with the strangest spacing between them, almost as if the elk had stood up on two legs and walked off. Rima's hackles are up in a way that's unusual for a hunt. A chill creeps up Draern's spine as the creature comes into view in the dusky darkness...

Which leads us to:


Exhibit D
A beast which is stalking Cithrel and Drace while it, in turn, is being stalked by Draern and Rima. It is indeed an elk walking upright, if the elk is an undead abomination that is actively decomposing. Twice as tall as a man, with the teeth of a carnivore revealed by its deteriorating face, its front legs have claws instead of hooves. Its skeletal jaw quivers at the prospect of a feast, which it spies just ahead at the top of this hill...

Spoiler:

Cithrel watches as the sun's golden orb disappears over the horizon. They marvel at the fact that the golds, pinks, and purples of dusk can still take their breath away, even after all their lifetimes. Is it the cycle of new eyes that gives them this eternal ability to be awed, or is there some ineffable, sublime quality to sunsets? Did they ever become indifferent to its majesty in some of their longer lifetimes? Cithrel looks up, trying to remember, then shakes their head as the memories remain fleeting.

I wish I had brought my paintbrushes and canvas, she thinks. Cithrel frowns. No, wait, they correct themselves, Temisia was the painter.

Cithrel remembers the chiding they'd gotten from Rector Filaurel as a child. They had run up to him, excited to show him the painting they had made. It was exceptionally skillful for a child. The proportions were right, the lines clear. But the Rector had looked disappointed. You've already mastered the visual arts as Temisia, Cithrel. Nothing you can do will outmatch the masterpieces she's delivered to the Order. You need to secure your own legacy. The Rector had taken young Cithrel's painting, gently, but firmly, and thrown it into the hearth.

Cithrel blinks away the tears. They scoff at the sentimentality they were foolishly displaying. The Rector was right, of course, they tell themselves, trying to ignore the bitter knot in their stomach.

Cithrel looks up, and their eyes grow wide. The sun had fully set while they were lost in reverie. They had wasted precious minutes of work. They look over their shoulder, expecting recriminations, but Drace, their travelling companion, seems wholly unbothered by the elf's failure of discipline. Cithrel lets out of breath of relief.

The elven monk packs up their tools, the light cast by the last few rays of sunlight more than enough for such simple work. Once everything is secure and protected from the environment, they make their way to the small camp they share with their strange new friend.

"I made some good progress today," Cithrel tells Drace. "The hill was a great vantage point. I should not need more than an hour or two tomorrow before I am ready to move on."

They sit down in the dirt and rummage through their backpack. They pull out their travel rations, carefully measuring out a single portion. They hesitate for a moment and look up at Drace. "Can I interest you in some food tonight?" Cithrel had asked this every day, even though the human had refused every time. The elf had never seen him eat and the man had told them he didn't need to. Cithrel could see the flow of magical energy coming up from the earth and being drawn into Drace, which lent credence to his claims.

"Eating is one of life's greatest simple pleasures. You are missing out if you abstain just because you can." Cithrel looks down at their unappetizing travel rations. They grin and look back up. "Though in this case, I suppose I can understand if you choose to."

On the one hand Draern is happy that he was right with his assessment about the look and shape of the beast he had trailed. But in this particular situation being wrong would have been the preferable option. He is about to let the beast follow its path when he realises the two travellers ahead, oblivious of the danger. His mind starts racing. How much time is left until the beast leaps? He can't leave them to their fate. What if he calls out? But he would lose his advantage. He aims his bow at the beasts head (will it make a difference whether it has a head?) and steadies his hand. His mind reaches out to Rima Rima, walk over there so the beast is right between you and the strangers. Then howl. But keep a distance. Never be closer than the beast is to them!
When Rima disappears into the dark, he focuses again on his arrow and the target. This one shot has to find its target, this is the one that counts. The first shot always is.

moarhair wrote:

"I made some good progress today," Cithrel tells Drace. "The hill was a great vantage point. I should not need more than an hour or two tomorrow before I am ready to move on."

Drace raises his eyes when Cithrel reports on their progress, lightly nodding at the up dated timeline. The elf's words seem more self-reflective than an invitation to comment and either way, he had nothing to add.

moarhair wrote:

"Eating is one of life's greatest simple pleasures. You are missing out if you abstain just because you can." Cithrel looks down at their unappetizing travel rations. They grin and look back up. "Though in this case, I suppose I can understand if you choose to."

Instead of giving the same, polite if succinct refusal and returning to their companionable silence, Drace raises his head again and looks at Cithrel for a long moment. "Halving the eaters doubles the rations."  
Under different circumstances, Cithrel would not have been at fault for taking his words to be a threat.  "Rations that can mean the difference between life and death away from settled areas. They are compact, nutritious and on the very rare occasion, even somewhat edible."  Despite speaking in his usual deadpan and his expression remaining unchanged, there is something puckish to his demeanor as Drace turns his attention back to the fire.  As a matter of habit, he adds "Thank you, no."

The wolf's howl takes him by surprise, and Drace shifts closer to Cithrel.
"You may yet have a taker for those rations," he quips flatly, hands hovering by his daggers.

Rima howls as instructed. The beast immediately spins to confront the sound. Its gaze passes over Draern's hiding spot and falls on Rima. It picks something off the ground - it's hard to say what, perhaps a rock or a clod of dirt - and throws it in Rima's direction. It's clear that missile attacks are not its primary competence as it misses badly.

The delay gives Draern the last few moments he needs to line up his shot. Perhaps the poor aim is contagious, or maybe there are forest sprites playing tricks with the projectiles, because Draern's shot is just as bad as the beast's. His arrow sails well over its head and in the general direction of Cithrel and Drace.

Drace might be legitimately confused, as a howl followed by an arrow zipping out of the woods are an unusual combination. A hunter stalking a wolf? But to Cithrel's elven eyes the threat is clear: an unholy beast lurks on the edge of the trees, saliva dripping from its jaws.

Cithrel jumps to their feet as arrow wizzes by. The wolf's howl was not unexpected in a wild place like this, but an arrow meant something much more dangerous: people. Their eyes scan the trees and lock onto the large, antlered creature. Oh, it was much worse than simply people.

Memories flash in their mind. Horrific drawings, nauseating descriptions, and... had they fought one of these things before?

"Wetiko..." Cithrel mutters. It was one of the many names such creatures were called. Hungry, vicious things who liked to feed on live, sentient prey. "They're..." they start saying, then stop. The young scholar had been about to share all they knew about such monsters, but Drace was a practical man. He didn't need an academic lecture. He needed to know how to kill it. "Fire or iron, ideally," Cithrel says simply, confident their companion would fill in the blanks.

Cithrel shifts to put the campfire between them and the creature. They take a wide stance, extending their arms in front of them. They move them apart, wriggling their fingers like a charlatan entertaining an audience with sleight of hand tricks. Something akin to moving an invisible coin across their knuckles and making it vanish. "Ilmuvad Fantaasiamimese!" they intone in time with their movements, shaping the flow of magic into illusory forms.

Two humanoids drop from trees roughly 15 feet away from the creature on either side of it. Both are wearing dark brown clothes and carry a torch, which burst alight as Cithrel snaps his fingers at the conclusion of their incantation. The torchlight illuminatea the wetiko's monstrous form, unfortunately enhancing the horror of it due to the angle and flickering nature of the fire, but at least allowing Drace to see it.

Cithrel's illusiory allies start hurling throwing blades at the wetiko. Hopefully, they can keep it busy for a few seconds, the young mage thinks to themselves.

Drace cannot make out Cithrel's muttering, but 'fire or iron, ideally' is unmistakable, as are the words of power. The creature, now magically illuminated, was a terrible sight to behold.  Wolves would have been nice, he thought, drawing and throwing a thin blade at the wetiko with a nonchalance borne of countless hours of practice.  As the blade leaves his fingers, he knows that his aim is true, and before long he hears the satisfying, if disgusting, wet thunk of the weapon penetrating necrotic flesh.

Draern nocks and fires another arrow but it fares no better than the first. The beast seems to take no mind of Draern's attacks, either because it judges Draern the lesser threat or because it is completely unaware of them.

The beast springs forward with surprising speed. It looks like it wants to attack Cithrel but the elf has cunningly placed the campfire in the way. Instead the beast tries to knock aside Drace.

As the beast charges, Drace feels an uncommon, overwhelming feeling of cold, as if his body has been dipped in ice water. Then there's the stench of decomposing flesh, which would make him retch if he weren't fighting for his life.

The first attack is a glancing blow, a raking of the claws that's unpleasant but manageable. The second strike lands more squarely, a closed-fist punch to the solar plexus that takes the wind out of Drace. But, for what it's worth, the overwhelming feeling of cold numbs some of the pain.

The creature looks ready to chase Cithrel around the campfire.

Cithrel watches in dismay as their illusions are thoroughly ignored by the wetiko. The summoned warriors follow the creature after its charge, pointlessly throwing their blades at it. If anything, the monster seems offended by the young mage's attempt. Though it lashes out at Drace, it seems to be only to get the man out of the way so it can get at the elf. If the monster was seeking Cithrel, it wouldn't have to look far.

You must maintain a both healthy mind and a healthy body. At times one may fail you, and you must be able to rely on the other. Trainer Ollazahne's words surface in Cithrel's head. The old woman had been in charge of the physical education of the young scholars. Cithrel had liked her. She was one of the few teachers who seemed to expect the same of them as of every other student. The young elf had fought many training battles under Ollazahne's scrutiny. Their first real battle, they were about to fight far from her guidance. They silently pray that they'll do her proud.

Cithrel's muscles tense as they drop into a fighting stance. They circle around the fire, getting up close to the beast. As they shift their weight to strike, their foot lands on something soft and slippery. It was piece of rotten flesh knocked loose by Drace's thrown blade. It must have fallen off when the creature had lashed out at the healer. It carries Cithrel's foot forward, too far, and throws off their punch. The fist barely grazes the beast.

Wherever she was, Trainer Ollazahne would be shaking her head.

The beast’s first blow chills Drace to the bone, so much so that he is a bit surprised to not see the fog-like plume of condensed breath as the wind is knocked out of him with the second.  He would soon need to draw on the Healing Arts. Soon, but not quite yet. With the creature’s attention seemingly turned to Cithrel, he lets loose another blade, hoping that between himself, his companion and whoever is trying to distract it? with arrows, they would be able to kill or otherwise handle the thing before it can go after him again. Whether from the cold, the stench or his very bruised ribs, Drace’s blade misses the mark and he curses silently.

An arrow flies out of the woods but misses its mark, unless its mark was the ground.

A wolf (!) flies out of the woods and latches onto the beast's leg, growling and pulling it. Evidently nature does not approve of this abomination, although Rima complains to Draern terribly about the stench.

The creature ignores Drace's attack - such as it is - and readily engages with Cithrel, swinging at her. The blows connect but are not strong. The creatures arms seem thin and atrophied, more like the tree branches of a sapling than properly-formed limbs with claws. Getting raked across the face doesn't feel good, but nor does it create permanent scars.

If anything, the biting cold is more oppressive than the actual assault. Cithrel is not accustomed to feeling cold; the bitter freeze emanating from the beast must be magical in nature. Cithrel's magical senses clearly detect the source of the chill in the chest of the monster, where its heart would presumably be.

Cithrel staggers back from the monster's blows. They use the momentum to spin around on one foot and bring the other in an ascending arc towards the wetiko's chest. It connects with a crack. The creature's rotten flesh was hardened by the cold emanating from the freezing thing sitting where its heart should be, but now a spiderweb-like pattern was visible where the young monk's blow had landed.

With the melee too chaotic for throwing blades, Drace switches to his dagger and lands a blow.  While he always made sure to take care of his weapons, the wafting stench was a constant reminder that he would have to remove even the slightest trace of the creature.  He tries not to think on how much worse the smell could have been if the thing emanated heat rather than cold.

"C'mon Draerngromlaes, pull yourself together!"
Three arrows he had sent everywhere but where they were meant to go. Was he nervous? Afraid? He lowers the bow, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he opens his eyes ahain, he focuses on the beast and slowly lifts his bow. He pulls the string, holds his breath and lets go. Thuck! The arrow strikes true. It didn't seem to have done much to the beast as it continues to savage the strangers without heading the arrow in its shoulder any attention, but Draern just nocks the next arrow.

Assaulted from every side, the wetiko howls in frustration. It takes a step away from its prey, then turns and runs.

The horror of what Cithrel has read has not left their mind. Wetikos were vicious, malicious creature who fed on fear and flesh. "It'll hurt someone else," Cithrel mutters. "We have to stop it!" They exclaim.

The monk bolts after the fleeing monster. As they close the gap, they leap, bringing their right knee up. They crash into the wetiko's back. The force of the blow makes it stumble and it falls forward. Cithrel lands on top of it, their knee against the creature's spine. It breaks with a sickening crunch.

The wetiko's death rattle somehow sounds surprised, like it can't believe that this is how it ends.

Cithrel picks themselves up, the gore on their leg sliding off easily, helped along by the magic the elf surrounds themselves with. They listen for a moment, making sure the creature is dead. They turn to their camp. "I think I got it," they say, loud enough to be heard by Drace, the wolf, and the mysterious archer.

It only takes the beast a few seconds to transition from hunger to alarm and then to outright panic. It kicks its leg to dislodge Rima, then flails its arms to disengage Drace and Cithrel, then takes off running.

It doesn't make it far before Cithrel brings it down from behind. The beast faceplants into the dirt, its horns plowing up the earth.

The cold radiating out of it does not go away. It hurts to stand near it, although Cithrel's magical protections ward away the worst of the chill. Cithrel's senses can see the creature's "heart" slowing as it fades. But the heart is an unnatural shape, serrated and sawtooth like a ball of broken glass. Cithrel's knee has knocked away the flesh behind the rib cage, allowing the elf to see through the chest. Their elven low-light vision reveals what looks like a heart of ice, which breaks and reshapes itself in jagged jumps instead of beating smoothly.

After half a minute, the motion of the heart finally stops, but the stench and the cold do not dissipate. It feels like the depths of winter next to the carcass. A frost surrounds the corpse as the moisture condenses on the nearby grasses.

Draern shoulders his bow, as he steps out of the woods. Stopping just outside of the shine of the fire he is a dark silhouette before a dark wall of trees. Except for Cithrel, but for that he is unaware.
Rima trots to his side.
"You have to watch out in these woods. The animals won't harm you, if you leave them be. But as you saw there are worse things out here." Ignoring his own poor performance during the fight he continues, "This could have ended much worse." He looks the two companions up and down as he asks "Where are you from? What brings you here to nowhere?"

Cithrel makes their way back to the camp. They take a moment to look at their would-be rescuer. He is clearly a man of the woods. Dirt and bits of plants stick to his clothes. The magic that flows around him has a sort of feral nobility to it, much like the currents that traverse the Wilderness. Cithrel doesn't see any sign of maliciousness to his expression. It would have been easy to let them be killed by the wetiko and loot what it left behind. Instead the man had chosen to intervene.

Cithrel brings their hands together, and bows to the wolf and the stranger. "Thank you for your warning, assistance, and words of wisdom."

They straighten up and smile. "I must admit, I did not expect to encounter such monsters of myth and legend and was taken quite unawares. I am Cithrel and my companion is Drace. We are travelling scholars from beyond the wall. This region is uncharted, and I aim to change that."

Cithrel motions to their humble camp. "We do not have much to offer, but you are welcome to share our fire and what rations we can spare."

Drace places a hand on his chest and takes several deep breaths, shifting the placement of his hand between breaths.  The pain around his solar plexus and the cold ache in his lungs were unpleasant, but nothing that couldn't be addressed by time and some rest.

"Well met," Drace follows Cithrel's lead in also acknowledging the wolf - it couldn't hurt.  Given the monster that they had just taken out, the stranger's advice seems more like commonsense than words of wisdom as Cithrel had put it. That said, the warning and assistance had been given despite his not knowing either of them, which were undeniable points in his or their, I suppose favor.

"Is there any part of that creature that might be worth something or be of some use?  Or should we be destroying the carcass before it contaminates the local flora?"  The questions are directed at Cithrel who had seemed to recognise the thing, but Drace also looks to their human guest on the off chance that he might know.

Cithrel crosses their arms and thinks for a few seconds, trying to recall their readings on the matter. They start to pace, back and forth. "Well, according to Frech and Pryden, the heart of a wetiko will provide a constant freezing temperature in its vicinity, even after death. They theorized that the heart could be used as part of a refrigeration device. Such a device could be use to preserve food, samples, to create ice, to cool an indoor space..."

"The heart could also be used, as stated by Urinan Nuphosso in 'Necromancy: There is a use in beating a dead horse, actually', as an arcane reagent for necromantic spells and workings. Maybe one of you knows a necromancer who could be interested. I'm afraid all the ones I've known are either dead or have relocated to parts unknown."

"The main challenge in harvesting the heart would be the logistical complications in transporting it. The freezing cold would follow it and we would be subject to its effects until we could conclude our transaction. Seeing as we do not have a buyer or a use for it at the moment, we could be stuck with it for some time."

"The skull also has uses, mainly as a focus for rituals of an... unsavory character, such as those detailed in Bermus Tuhek's 'Cults, Blood Sorcery, and Flesh Sacrifice: An Overview'. It it rather large, but once cleaned would be much easier to transport than the heart."

"Finally, the antlers could be ground into powder and sold as an aphrodisiac. Many cultures' traditional medicine uses the horns of great beasts for such purposes, from Llaigis to Emed-Kist."

Cithrel stops pacing and looks back to the two men and realizes from their expressions that the young scholar maybe have been talking for too long. "Sorry for the lecture. I think I channeled a bit of Minurian. He was a teacher for most of his life..." Cithrel's eyes go unfocused as they remember the feeling of molding eager young minds. Sharing knowledge and being surprised by the insight of their questions. Cithrel blinks away the fleeting thoughts, then smiles sheepishly at Drace and the stranger.

"Heart, Skull, Antlers. In that order of value and logistical complexity."

A puzzled look on Draerns face shows how much he understood and in his rough accent Draern sneers at the wetiko and comments "I say, burn the damned thing and let us get away from here. I know I will remove myself from this place. Who knows if there are more."
He briefly closes his eyes and reaches his mind out to Rima. Does she scent anything alarming?
"Or make the fire bigger. Keeps the darker creatures away."

Drace is impressed with Cithrel's recapitulation and when they pause apologetically he waves them off, saying as much.  “That was a suitable synthesis of the relevant sources. Seldom have I met someone with more than a passing familiarity with Nuphosso’s seminal work,” he pauses, looking a bit sheepish. He was not in the habit of lavishing such high praise on his interlocutors unprompted.

“Do you have a camp that is more secure or better outfitted? Else, I would favor building up the fire over moving in the middle of the night for parts unknown.” Drace tosses a log on the fire to underscore his statement.  “What should we call you?  To reiterate, you are welcome to stay with us, but not in total anonymity. It is impractical."

Speaking of the impractical, Drace considers the wetiko's heart and how they might go about transporting the damn thing. The ability to rapidly cool things without needing a wielder of the arts had tremendous implications whether for healing and care, or for 'information retrieval'.

Cithrel shakes their head. "There is no need to move camp. In 'Guess Who's Coming (To Have You) For Dinner: A Taxonomy Of Anthropophagi', Ammianus Marcellinus gathered a wealth of testimonies about the habits of wetikos from multiple survivors and witnesses. They all described a single attacker. Never have they been witnessed hunting in groups or living in family units. Some legends say they are born of greed and, as such, are unwilling to share their prey with others of their kind."

Cithrel glances at the dead wetiko, then back at the humans. "I believe we'll be quite safe here. Other predators should avoid the carcass' unpleasant smell and chill."

"Without a buyer or a use in mind for the useful parts of it, I agree with..." Cithrel realizes the woodsman has still not given them a name. They pause for a half second, thinking of what to call him. "...our rescuer," they finish lamely, saying the last word with a questioning lilt. "It would be best to burn the creature's body. However," Cithrel's eyes grow wide with excitement, "I would like to take some time with it before we do. If I can perform a thorough examination, take some notes and draw some sketches, what I learn here could be of use to other unfortunate souls who must face a wetiko in the future."

"My name is Draerngromlaes Hundathrim." These men are clearly not from Llaigis and also clearly no bounty hunters that might be after him. These people won't make it long out here he thinks and feels a pang of protective responsibility. He reaches out his senses to the distance, his eyes seemingly staring into the distance, his face looks absent minded. "I think you are right. Noone seems to be near, you can stay." , he says in a gruff voice. Annoyed by their fancy words, of which he understands close to nothing, he leaves the chattery scholars to do with the wetiko as they please. He wants no part of the unnatural beast.
Draern walks around the clearing and gathers some of the arrows that went astray and then throws additional wood onto the fire.
Finally, Rima and him lie down next to the fire and fall asleep wthin moments, as if the fight against the supernatural foe had been the most normal thing.

Drace clenches his jaw at the sight of Draerngromlaes recuperating his arrows, realizing that he should have done the same with his blades. He does so in silence before returning to the fire.
“I will remove the antlers to make medicines. Begin your documentation with them so that I might proceed.” Taking in Cithrel’s open enthusiasm, Drace adds “Please.”

Once the elf gives him leave to do so, Drace removes the antlers and sets about reducing one of the two into paper thin slices for boiling. Once the gelatin is released from the bone matrix, both components could be processed in a number of different ways, but this first step was necessary to get anything of use. The task does not require a high degree of precision but Drace is meticulous; setting an even pace with his blade and creating slivers of antler of near identical thickness. Once finished he cleans the blade and observes his companion.

“Cithrel," Drace calls to the scholar at a moment when they do not appear to be lost in thought. “The wetiko's heart can fetch upward of ten stone in silver. In the morning, we will ascertain the feasibility of transporting the heart before deciding whether to dispose of it."

Cithrel proceeds with their examination of the wetiko, starting with the head and working their way down. As they work, they pause to take notes and sketch body parts.

Once satisfied with their factfinding endeavor, Cithrel steps away from the carcass. They plant their feet and focus, getting ready to call upon the arcane to help dispose of the foul creature's remains. Burning it would risk setting fire to the woods. If they removed the surrounding vegetation first, it would have nowhere to spread. The mage opens their mouth to begin the incantation.

Another AKA wrote:

“Cithrel. The wetiko's heart can fetch upward of ten stone in silver. In the morning, we will ascertain the feasibility of transporting the heart before deciding whether to dispose of it."

Startled, Cithrel aspirates some saliva and starts to cough. "Oh!" they say between coughs. "Um... right. That makes sense," they wheeze.

Cithrel rejoins their companions at the camp. They see that Draerngromlaes is fast asleep. Cithrel observes him for a minute. They look at the aura surrounding him. There was something predatory about it. Perhaps some sort of defense against wildlife? A 'don't fuck with me' broadcast to natural world? Their eyes follow the lines of magic flowing from the man to his wolf companion. Ah, so their bond goes beyond a simple taming. The young mage looks at the man's proud steed. No such bond existed between the man and the horse. Maybe he's limited in the number of animals he could influence?

Cithrel sits close to the fire. Their magic had kept the worst of the chill emanating from the wetiko's heart at bay, but the warmth of the makeshift hearth was soothing nonetheless. The young monk looks at Drace over the flames. They tilt their head towards Draerngromlaes. "Interesting fellow, don't you think?" Cithrel asks Drace, keeping their voice low to avoid disturbing Draerngromlaes' sleep. "Hopefully, he'll stick around after spending the night. I've never met a Llaigisan Beastmaster before. I have so many questions about his Arts! Do you think he'd help me learn Llaigisan? I used to know it, of course, but I haven't spoken it in a few lifetimes. Not a lot of writings in it and, as such, it's not favored by scholars. Which is too bad, as it has a very interesting etymology..." Cithrel keeps talking until Drace askes them to stop, or they start drifting off to sleep...

Drace did not find Draerngromlaes to be of particular interest but does not bother saying so. It was irrelevant as Cithrel would undoubtedly continue speaking. He was not always openly receptive to Cithrel’s endless chatter, but more often than not allowed himself to be drawn in by the depth and variety of knowledge that was so happily shared.  On this night, like many others, Drace listened as Cithrel flowed from one topic to another, to another; the knowledge of their many, many lives shaping the impromptu lecture.  

Eventually, pauses for reflection begin to stretch into ever lengthier silences, and the corner of Drace’s mouth twitches upward.  Cithrel was nodding off again. Given the topic that had gotten them started, Drace wondered if his night would be punctuated by snippets of a seminar on comparative linguistics, or would it be some other softly mumbled trace of one of Cithrel’s previous lives. Llaigisan, of course. He was not entirely certain, but this felt like at least the fifth language that he had heard Cithrel speak fluently in their sleep.

<<Morning - Day 14 - Early Spring - The Hills - Wilderness>>

The night passes; the morning comes.

Drace, not needing to sleep, has plenty of time to work on his antler extracts. By the time the sun begins to crack the eastern sky, the gelatin has been released from the bone matrix and has been processed in a number of different ways. These are now available for testing and/or trade.

Drace's wounds heal themselves over the course of the evening. Cithrel's wounds similarly knit themselves shut, plus wizard's grandeur allows the elf to mask any other evidence of the fight.

If time were still kept on a 24 hour clock - and, for convenience, we will pretend that it is the case - then the first rays of light would be around 5am, with 30 minutes each for astronomical dawn, nautical dawn, and civic dawn, before culminating with sunrise around 6:30am.

The morning is bright and crisp and clear, which is to say quite chilly. The heart of the beast is still freezing its immediate surroundings. Now that the beast is dead, the rest of its body can no longer keep the subzero aura at bay: the corpse is now quite frozen. The good news is that this is suppressing the awful stench, which is now considerably muted.

Speaking of scents, Draern's savage senses have no trouble identifying the pungent tang of wood smoke in the distance. Indeed, everyone's eyes are sharp enough to spy smoke rising a couple miles to the north. In the valleys beneath the hilltops, it seems that someone has lit a fire. Several fires, in fact, judging by the multiple strands of smoke, which suggest a small hamlet or village there nestled among the hills and trees.

Cithrel sits up with a yawn and a stretch. They blink a few times, then look around the camp, smiling at the fact that Draern and his animal entourage were still present. "Good morning, Draerngromlaes Hundathrim! Good morning, Drace."

Cithrel notices the smoke rising over the trees as they reach to grab their bag to retrieve rations for breakfast. "A settlement? I need to add it to my map!" They turn to the others excitedly. "We should check it out! I still need an hour or so to finish what I started yesterday, but afterwards, I mean." They focus on Drearn. "I don't presume to know where you were heading before you ran across us, but if your path runs alongside ours, you're welcome to join us." Cithrel's eyes flick to the wetiko's carcass and back. "There's strength in numbers."

"Didn't head anywhere specific."
Draern packs up his backpack, whispers something to Rima and walks into the forest. Wolf, the horse, follows them unasked. The day before Draern walked by a small creek and a clearing with mushrooms and young greens. Since he has no leftovers from the night before he decides to have a drink at the creek, fresh water beats the skin any day, and round out the breakfast with some fresh greens. It takes a good half hour hour until he reaches the spot and another half hour to gather food, enough for himself and the others.
Then he mounts Wolf and heads back to the camp.
Eating his fill on the way, he arrives fed and content back at the makeshift camp.
Making sure to stay far away from the wetiko and throwing mistrusting glances there again and again, he addresses the two scholars: "Found some breakfast. You two ready?"

Cithrel's examination of the corpse provides significant fuel for thought, requiring not only the elf's scholarly knowledge but - somewhat to their surprise - also their familiarity with the healing arts.

While the outward appearance of the creature is of a bipedal elk in various states of decay, the internal organs are all unmistakably those of a human or a demihuman. The heart is made of ice, yes, but the stomach, liver, lungs, spleen, pancreas, and kidneys are all humanoid. Furthermore, the creature has a gallbladder, while cervids - such as elk - lack a gallbladder. The brain resembles a demihuman brain, except twisted to fit into the confines of a differently-shaped skull.

The most logical conclusion is that the creature, rather than being a separate species, is actually a demihuman suffering from some terrible curse.

Suffering? a voice inside Cithrel's mind questions. Men have been known to make strange bargains for power.

Meaning?

A curse is most likely, yes, or perhaps a terrible accident, but we may find that this was a voluntary transformation.

Tecumseh wrote:

A curse is most likely, yes, or perhaps a terrible accident, but we may find that this was a voluntary transformation.

And how would we find that? It's not like the creature can be questioned.

Follow its tracks back to its lair. Otherwise, predators choose hunting grounds with abundant prey. If you can find them, they may also have answers.

+++

Thelonius wrote:

Draern packs up his backpack, whispers something to Rima and walks into the forest.

Cithrel is slightly disappointed as he watches the woodsman leave. He had hoped he would stay - the more the merrier - but the man preferred solitude. Or the company of beasts.

The young scholar spends the next hour completing their map from atop the highest nearby hill. Once satisfied with their work, they pack their tools and walk down the gentle slope to their camp. They are pleasantly surprised when they spy Draerngromlaes emerge from the trees and head in their direction.

Cithrel raises their hand and waves it cheerfully.

Thelonius wrote:

"Found some breakfast. You two ready?"

Cithrel accepts the foraged greens gratefully. "Just about. I still have a thing or two to pack up."

Draern's return comes as a bit of a surprise to Drace, who had assumed that the woodsman would be wholly uninterested in being saddled with a pair of relatively inexperienced travelers. "Thank you, no." he says firmly, before adding "I seldom require sustenance."

Drace looks over his pack and their campsite - a touch annoyed with himself for verifying that everything is packed when he knows very well that he has been ready to depart for some time - and nods an affirmative to Draerngromlaes.

"Transporting the beast's heart appears to be impractical. Unless one of you has an idea on how to do so without slowing us down overmuch, perhaps we should dispose of it."

Cithrel nods. "It's for the best. We'll need to burn it. If you two can gather some wood, I'll set up a stone circle around it."

They walk back to the carcass and begin looking for stones.

After some time, the dead wetiko is surrounded by rocks and covered in sticks and dry branches. Getting the fire started proves to be a challenge, the heart's cold aura snuffing out small flames. Cithrel ends up having to carry a burning log from the camp's fireplace to finally get the pyre to light up.

The young scholar waits until the fire is going. They bow their head and recite an old mantra in Recurrent. They don't remember the source, but it wishes the lost soul redemption in their next cycle. It feels appropriate.

Cithrel opens their eyes and looks to their companions. "Ready. Let's go."

<<Noon - Day 14 - Early Spring - The Hills - Wilderness>>

The fire sizzles and hisses and gives off a lot of steam. The heart doesn't seem to melt so much as it seems to vaporize, or turn directly to steam.

Standing around the fire is a funny sensation. Instead of a warm glow there's a cool breeze. But the freezing aura dissipates as the heart slowly shrinks, and eventually the fire wins out. It is not a fast process and it takes a while to ensure the beast is properly destroyed.

Having packed, you begin to follow the creature's path up and down the nearby hills. With Draern's nose sniffing out the trail, it is not difficult; there might as well be a fluorescent pink line painted through the grass and trees and shrubs. Down a valley, along a stream, then up a hillside, then repeat. The primary challenge is Cithrel's regular desire to stop and map the new location.

After a couple hours you find a 'lair' even though it's hardly worthy of the name. It's more like a small, flat patch of dirt on top of a hill that has some broken bones scattered around it. There's no evidence of young or scat or anything that suggests long-term residence. It's out in the open, exposed to the elements, but a creature with a heart of ice clearly isn't concerned about conserving body heat. The only thing that recommends the location is a relatively good view of the surrounding valleys below.

Cithrel and Draern both recognize the bones as those of humans or demihumans. They've been thoroughly cleaned so there's no evidence of their previous owner(s) other than the bones themselves. Any clothes they wore or possessions they carried were abandoned elsewhere. The bones have been broken and the marrow removed.

You are within an hour of the smoke trails you saw earlier in the morning.

Drace is careful to stand well upwind of the fire, not wanting to breathe in whatever came from the heart's sublimation. While curious as to the effects of inhalation, he was disinterested in learning first-hand.

One of the many times that Cithrel slows to try and capture a feature, Drace approaches Draerngromlaes. "They will stop periodically, but not when inopportune. I trust that this will not be an issue."  He is surprised to be defending Cithrel's drive to map make; apparently the chatty elf had grown on him.  I wonder what they'll have to say about this thing's lair

Said lair is unimpressive and unless something stands out to either of them, Drace waits until the others have had their fill of the place.

Following the wetikos path is easy. The stench of it lingers long past its physical presence and wherever foul pieces of it dropped, gras and smaller bushes withered.
When Drace talks to Draern about their companions mapping activities a confused look spreads on his face. "Who is they? I only see us two and her. Him?" Suddenly he realises that he cannot place the elf and embarrassment mixes into his confusion. Quickly he tries to get past this awkward moment and decides to listen closely in the future in order to determine how their companions refer to the elf. "It is no problem. We are not being pursued."

At the lair, Draern tries to determine other paths the wetiko took quickly to connect the remains and the nearby village. A dreadful though dawns on him and triggers a sense of urgency. "These remains may well be human and the settlement is close by. Small chance this is coincidental. Either the people of the village might live in fear and be harmed by it, or worse they are affiliated. Maybe worshippers? Maybe the village is also connected to this beasts existence in the first place. Wait here. "
With this hanging in the air, Rima and him start towards the village. As they get closer he becomes more and more careful about being spotted.

Cithrel is disappointed by the wetiko's "lair". They had expected a cave, with skulls on spikes, crude drawings in blood on the walls, a tattered journal documenting the monster's descent into madness and corruption!

You spent too much time in the fiction section of the Library. I never would have made such childish assumptions.

Cithrel rolls their eyes and starts looking around. Despite the lack of of dread furnishings, the lair was serviceable for the creature's needs and made sense based on its observed abilities. The vantage point would allow it to spot potential prey as well as keep its smell up where it couldn't easily be picked up. It was also relatively close to the smokestacks Cithrel and the others had spotted earlier, adding further evidence pointing to that village being a source of food for the creature. Cithrel takes out a sheet of paper and a quill to take some quick notes.

Thelonius wrote:

"These remains may well be human and the settlement is close by. Small chance this is coincidental. Either the people of the village might live in fear and be harmed by it, or worse they are affiliated. Maybe worshippers? Maybe the village is also connected to this beasts existence in the first place. Wait here."
With this hanging in the air, Rima and him start towards the village.

"Oh, they most definitely are. Human or demi-human," Cithrel says as they write, without lifting their nose from their work. "Tuhek did note that some cults do use human sacrifice as a way to placate angry gods or spirits. The wetiko could definitely qualify as such to people who didn't know better. However, I think..." Cithrel trails off as they look up and notice that Draerngromlaes had gone.

They glance at Drace and smile sheepishly. "He's been gone this whole time, hasn't he?" They sigh and look downhill, trying to spot the woodsman. When they can't, they shrug and start taking out their tools. "This place is a pretty good vantage point. I'll get some work in while we wait for Draerngromlaes Hundathrim to return." After setting up, they look over their easel at Drace. "Would you like to hear more about Tuhek's observations on sacrificial cults?"

<<Early Afternoon - Day 14 - Early Spring - Hillside Above the Village - Wilderness>>

As far as sneaking goes, this is fairly easy business for Draern. He has the eyes of a hawk, the ears of a bat, and the nose of a wolf. He doesn't need to get particularly close to see something, and he's always aware of which way his scent is blowing. And, when the need arises, he can use Rima to scout ahead. All this is to say that Draern has no trouble getting into position to see where the smoke is coming from. He finds a vantage point up on a hill that's downwind of the rising smoke.

From there he can see a small village: there are probably two dozen structures of various sizes. Some are small and round huts that look like they wouldn't fit more than a couple people, or maybe a small family. Others are medium-sized and look like they might fit five or six people comfortably. These are also generally round. Two of the largest structures are rectangular instead: they are quite long and look like they could fit a dozen families or more, depending on how they are divided inside. The construction of these is mostly wood, rather than stone or thatch.

Draern sees many villagers going about their business. They are clearly human or demihuman and they do fairly normal things, like fetch water from a nearby stream or prepare food or tend to fires. What's most notable about them though is that they all wear large, wooden masks that cover the whole face, extending below the chin and above the forehead. The masks are mostly flat and smooth with nothing more than two eye holes and a mouth hole. From this distance, they do not appear painted or decorated.

An additional moment of observation suggests that most of the folks doing domestic work are male. Draern does not see many females. One female makes a brief appearance; she points and give directions, which the others seem to follow. Draern notes that her mask is a bit more ornate than the others, with additional lines, details, and texturing that set it apart from the flat masks of the males.

Drace looks on in amusement as Cithrel speaks with, or rather towards, Draerngromlaes and Rima well after the pair has faded into the woods. He nods in response to both questions, and sits facing the direction in which he had lost sight of Draern, flicking a throwing blade in and out of its hiding place. As Cithrel opens their mouth to begin, Drace holds up a hand, blade between his fingers. "With a caveat: be concise. We would do well to keep our wits about us and to not draw undue attention."

Draern has seen many different groups and habits in his days on the run. There were those who were running around naked and chasing any clothed person away, then there were the ones worshipping chicken and then there was the village that was alive only during the night, sleeping during the day, afraid the sun would burn them alive. Masks he hasn't seen so far and the reasons behind peoples oddly demeanour frequently eludes him anyway.
After having observed the community long enough, he turns around and makes his way back up the hill. He is faster on the way back, knowing what is ahead and soon arrives back at the wetikos lair, finding Cithrel chatting away about some dead persons opinions about other dead things, all the while sketching things on her papers. Drace is more aware of his surroundings and noticed Draern as soon as he comes close. He is probably the reason she (he? They?) is still alive.
"I was at the village. The villagers don't seem dangerous, but behave most strangely..."
In, what seems like a flood of words for his otherwise silent self, he describes what he saw. Much to Cithrels delight, lacking any interpretation he came up with, he plainly describes what he saw.

Cithrel finds Drace's caveat to be a challenge. Knowledge could be wielded in many ways. For example, you could swing wide, like with a greatsword, covering more ground but with less focus. Cithrel tries their best to wield it like a spear and get to the heart of the matter with precision. They pause frequently to structure their thoughts and make sure every sentence uttered provides new and meaningful information. A few times, they catch themselves slipping, swinging their spear instead of thrusting, so to speak.

When Draerngromlaes returns, Cithrel pauses their lecture and listens to the woodsman's findings. The elf gets up and starts to pace as they process the information.

"It sounds like they're a matriarcal society. I wonder what purpose the masks serve. A way to ensure equality in some way? A deception to hide their numbers from their enemies? Or is it just a relic of the past, a cultural norm whose origin is lost to time? Why do the women stay inside while the men work? Is it a way to protect the tribe from predation? The wetiko's lair didn't seem to have been used for long, so their culture wouldn't have adapted to it fundamentally. Maybe it's a temporary measure in light of this new threat?" Cithrel gets increasingly enthusiastic as the questions pile up.

They wheel on their heels and look at Draerngromlaes, their eyes twinkling with excitement. "Other than the masks' decorations, were there differences in clothes of men and women? Did the men seem to have a hierarchical organizational structure or did they work in tandem without recognizable authority figures within their group? When the woman addressed the men, did they act in a subservient way or more like they were listening to counsel? Did you hear them talk? Could you recognize the language?"

Cithrel shakes their head and goes to pack their tools. "You can tell me on the way. Grab that, will you?" They say pointing at one of their tools.

Once everything is packed, Cithrel starts down the hill. "Let's go meet them!"

As Cithrel rattles off questions, Drace wonders whether Draerngromlaes would be irate, angry, or indifferent. From what he has seen of their new companion to date, he lands on some form of irate.  Had no instructor ever bothered to repress Cithrel's enthusiasm? Or had it proven to be an exercise in futility? He muses with a slight grin, which was threatening to turn into a smirk if not outright laughter. He'd intervene if things got too heated (or when Cithrel inevitably came up with another slew of questions), but was otherwise content to watch this scene play out.

Draerns brows furrow as a look of confusion, mixed with annoyance spreads on his face. Ignoring the order to pick up after Cithrel, the middle aged man only answers "The only thing I wonder is, will they welcome us? Weird habits, weird people." With that he fastens his pack on Wolfs saddle and follows the rest into the woods.
He listens patiently Cithrels constant stream of statements and questions, but gives one syllable answers at best. As they get closer to the village Cithrel and Drace focus for a short moment on the settlement unfolding before them and when they turn back, Draern has once again vanished.

Having used the short moment of distraction of his companions, he slipped into the thicket next to the path and walks a small arc in order to see his companions approach the village and the inevitable reaction of the towns folk.
"Somebody has to watch the kids afterall", he mutters to himself.

Cithrel tries their best to coax some useful answers out of Draern, pivoting to yes or no questions. Why is this so difficult? It's like pulling teeth from a shark! Is it the language barrier?

Not everyone is as curious or as verbose as you are. You're making him uncomfortable. Be patient and understanding.

Besides, many of your questions are beyond his ken. Can't you see this man is a simpleton?

That's not very nice. His magical ability is plain for us to see and he has shown himself to be quite skilled.

Beasts have keen senses and an affinity for tracking and stealth. Does that make them intelligent?

I believe it does. Your definition of intelligence is flawed if it limits itself to being able to answer an endless torrent of questions about a subject one has not studied.

We are simply asking questions about observable facts. Things a keen mind would have noti-

"Quiet!" Cithrel shouts, exasperated by the bickering of their past selves. They notice the strange looks of their companions. "Sorry..." they say sheepishly. "Sometimes my mind just... starts wheeling out of control." They spend the rest of the walk to the village in silence, Cithrel silently ciding themselves for their lack of empathy towards their new companion.

As they near the settlement. Cithrel pauses. They take a moment to gather their thoughts and formulate what they want to say. "I owe you an apology, Drearngromlaes. After a few centuries, it is rare to find something new and I got carried away by my enthusiasm. I will endeavor to limit my inquiries in the future. Please forgi-" Cithrel's words die in throat as they turn around to finish their apology and see that only Drace is standing there looking back at them. Draern has vanished. Cithrel deflates. "Was he gone the whole time again?"

Cithrel turns back towards the village. "So, should we just walk up and introduce ourselves? Maybe we should cross the stream and approach them from the other shore. The distance would make us look less threatening and it would put a natural barrier between us and them in case things go poorly."

Drace looks on in amusement as Cithrel speaks with, or rather towards, Draerngromlaes and Rima well after the pair has faded into the woods again.

moarhair wrote:

Cithrel deflates. "Was he gone the whole time again?"

"Were you ever a healer?" Realizing that the question could easily lead to a deluge of new information, Drace raises his hand swiftly to stop the scholar. "No, don't tell me. That is a matter for some other time.  One approaches a fracture differently than nausea.  You, my friend, keep reaching for splints and slings instead of getting a basin and herbal tea.  This too, is a matter for another time; if ever you are in the mood to talk, that is."

With a hint of a smile still on his lips, Drace considers their options. They did not harbor ill intent towards these people, and since it was just the two of them for the time being, they should come off as non-threatening or as easy targets.

"Walk up. Stop within a reasonable distance. Determine whether we are being met with hostility. Proceed accordingly."

<<Mid-Afternoon - Day 14 - Early Spring - Village in the Hills - Wilderness>>

Drace and Cithrel walk up, stop within a reasonable distance, and observe the villagers to determine whether they are met with hostility.

They find the scene much as Draern had described it with his monosyllabic answers: there are villagers going about their daily tasks, including cooking, cleaning, and gathering firewood. It does not take long to confirm that all the villagers you can see from your vantage point are males. Their wooden masks conceal their faces but their figures are clearly those of men. Their clothing is simplistic, mostly unadorned furs and plain, woven garments.

A villager spots Drace and Cithrel and a cry goes up. Cleaning is dropped, firewood is scattered, and cooking pots are abandoned. The men retreat to the relative safety of their huts. At this range you cannot understand the language and don't know if it's a common tongue that's garbled by distance, the masks, and a sense of urgency, or if it's an unknown dialect.

A few moments after the alarm, a female emerges from one of the larger huts. Her mask is much more elaborate than those of the males, with additional carved details, and her garments have been dyed deep, rich colors. She stands across the dirt path leading into the village, her hands on her hips. 'Defiant' might be too strong of a word for her stance, but clearly it is meant to be imposing.

Cithrel notes an aura of energy surrounding the woman, indicating magic in or around herself. It is clear that to pass into the village, you must go through this woman, either by words or by war.

The skittish behaviour of the villagers and the strong presence of this woman gave Drace the impression that this village, while peaceful, likely had to deal with sporadic attacks from threats that outmatched most of its denizens.  It would be best to come across as non-threatening as possible and since in all of his years of schooling he had never heard of anyone being literally talked to death -  With Cithrel it was perhaps only a matter of time - he knew that the elf would make the desired first impression. With a conciliatory smile, and his hands slightly raised and away from his torso, Drace takes a step back; effectively designating Cithrel as the main interlocutor.

Cithrel watches with obvious curiosity as the village's men scatter and run to hide in the safety of their huts. How unusual. In most cultures, men are the warriors, tasked with defending the tribe, but not here. What factors could have led to this society developing in such a way?

A possible answer is provided when the woman comes out to face them. Cithrel eyes the currents of magic surrounding her. A village mage, perhaps? No other woman has come out, so maybe the defense is the responsibility of a special class of people: those who wield magic. Are they always women, or has the role been held by men in the past?

You won't find out by gawking.

"Right..." Cithrel mutters.

Keeping the expression on their face neutral - they hide their faces behind masks, perhaps facial expressions are considered intimate? - Cithrel brings their hands together in front of their chest and bows respectfully. "Greetings," they say, projecting their voice to be heard across the distance separating them from the woman. "My name is Cithrel, and my companion here is Drace. We have another travelling with us, but he is not comfortable in social situations and has chosen to keep his distance."

"We are humble travelers exploring this region of the world. We come in peace and friendship. If you would be so kind as to grant us access to your village, we would like to trade and exchange information. We have coin or can pay in labor. Drace is a healer. I am a scholar and have extensive knowledge I can gladly share."

The woman doesn't react for a moment, and then another moment, then another, long enough that you wonder if something is lost in translation, but then finally she leans forward a few inches in a very slight bow.

The woman gestures to her left - which, as she is facing you, is to your right - to enter the hut from which she emerged. It is a medium-sized hut with wooden sides and wooden boards for roofing. Some smoke rises from the hut, indicating a fire inside.

Inside, Cithrel and Drace find pillows and cushions around a fire. They are colorful, like the woman's dress. The woman indicates the Cithrel should sit nearest the fire and that Drace should sit behind Cithrel. The woman waits for you to be seated before she sits cross-legged on the other side of the fire. The skin of the woman's hands and legs is wrinkled to the point where you assume that she is in her 50s or 60s, but she moves easily without limitations. It would be a stretch to call her athletic, but nor is she carrying around any extra weight. She is barefoot and her skin is bronze-colored.

After a moment, three men enter the hut. They bow low and approach in this bent-over position. One carries soft animal skins, which he offers to Cithrel first and Drace second even though it is pleasantly warm in the hut. The second offers drinks, again to Cithrel first and Drace second. One drink is cool river water while the other is a warm infusion of some sort, likely a local herb. Your host accepts some tea after it has been offered to Drace. The third brings gourds of some sort of stew. Again, Cithrel is served first and Drace second. Then the men retreat from the hut, never turning their backs toward you as they withdraw in their bent-over position.

The woman raises her tea to Cithrel before sipping. The mechanics of the cup and the mouth hole of the mask are a bit complicated and one wonders how the woman doesn't splash hot tea on her face. Practice, presumably.

"Your man knows his place," she says at last in accented Trade Cant. Her tone is complimentary. "Most men come in here and yap yap yap yap." She makes a motion with her hand like the shadowpuppet of a yippy dog. "Barking orders, demanding this, insisting on that. They must usually be removed, often at spearpoint."

This is curious, as there are no spears around that you've seen.

The woman raises her earthenware cup up towards the ceiling in a salute to you.

"I give thanks to The Goddess for your company. Come, tell me what you would trade for. If it is in my power, I will give it."