“An inheritance,” Chlora says, “a substantial one.”
She could offer more, but instead sits back a moment, letting the implications take seed in the minds of her allies. They do, yielding immediate shock and excitement. She is very pleased with this harvest, and reaps just a bit more delight with each new, colorful petal blooming in the faces of her friends.
Until the bounty becomes an avalanche.
“An inheritance? How?”
“You’re going to explain that, right?”
“WHAT?”
“More ale over here please!”
Chlora’s head snaps back, overwhelmed by the rush of questions. Blinking rapidly as if to clear away a quickly fogging mirror, she holds up her hands in numb placation. “Wait, wait,” she urges over the cacophony. “Hold on.”
Tongues are bitten and the queries cease, excluding Thump who takes advantage of the ceasefire to more emphatically hail the tavern girl. “And bring something bigger!” she calls, demonstrating with her hands. “Pour it into a pot or something.”
Chlora chuckles at the warrior’s antics, but then even Thump returns her attention to the magic-user, waiting patiently.
Chlora takes a deep breath, nods to herself, and says, “Thank you. To explain : when I left, as decided, I sought training in the magical arts. It took a great deal of time, but eventually I secured the tutelage of a master of the craft. I stayed with him and he trained me while I helped around his shop. Our relationship wasn’t familial; he was no father-figure. He was a temperamental old fool, but also very wise and, on my count at least, fair.”
“Understand that when I call him a ‘master,’ the term is not superfluous hyperbole – he was a genuine artisan of the trade, and his shop, though small, always suffered an enormous backlog of orders. I couldn’t perform any of these intensive enchantments myself, of course, nor could I brew any intricate potions. But I was more than capable of standing behind the tiny, crooked counter-top and reassuring anxious patrons that “the master is running behind, but your order will be filled just as soon as possible. It’s at the front of his list!” Chlora giggles. “I’ve spoken some variation of that lie more times than I care to remember. Of course what it really meant was, “No, the old mage isn’t lazy, you’re just an impatient bastard!” She laughs again and several of the others join her. “Performing more than routine charms – I mean, high level, truly competent work -- requires a lengthy, devoted investment and few of the adventurers, soldiers, and brigands commissioning the wizard ever seemed to appreciate that. But... I... digress…”
Distracted, Chlora pauses to watch the tavern girl approach their table. In her hands, she carries a wide, wobbling, stone cooking pot that sloshes drops of clear fluid over alternating edges with each step.
“Finally!” Thump declares excitedly. She hurries from her seat to the girl’s side, relieving her of her burden. With noticeably less care, Thump returns with the pot and sets it atop the table. She re-seats herself, hoists a long-handled ladle from the pot’s foamy surface and begins scooping a portion of ale into her mouth.
“Go on,” she gurgles.
Chlora blinks twice, shakes her head, and continues. “Still, in-demand as his talents were, my master always found time to teach me. He was an attentive instructor, even more so as a disciplinarian. No matter how busy he was with his professional responsibilities, he ALWAYS found time to scold and belittle me when my output fell even a wisp short of his expectations. He was harsh – cruel, even; I have no delusions about the man – but he truly did care about my education. He wanted me to prosper, to become as skilled as he was or even greater. I am the only student he ever took on to my knowledge, so I think he viewed me as even more than a protege. I think he believed that by imbuing me with this portion of himself, his wisdom in the art, he would, in a way, survive beyond his own mortality. Perhaps that recontextualizes his sacrifice as something of a self-serving act, but I am no less appreciative of it if so.”
“As it turned out, however, he passed before ever seeing me outgrow my apprenticeship. Yes, my mind is swollen with arcane theory and eldritch lore, but his instruction rarely graduated into actual practice and performance. “Knowledge of the thing must always precede its application; better we live our lives as educated invalids than agile fools,’ he would always tell me when I became too impatient to “get to the REAL magic.’ Frustrating as it could be, I am eternally grateful for the lesson. We had just enough time together, I believe, for the essence of his wisdom to have transferred into me.”
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“Yet, that wisdom isn’t the only legacy he bequeathed me. As he had no offspring or surviving relatives, I, as happenstance more than anything, became inherited his financial wellspring as well.”
Chlora hesitates, considering her companions’ expressions, before developing an impish smile. Abruptly, she reveals, “A lot – there, I spared you the awkwardness of needing to ask.” Her eyes flick to Grove pointedly for a moment causing the fighter to smirk. “The sum is not obscene; I can’t buy a castle, but could surely rent one if the situation necessitated it. Had I chosen to stay in the city, I believe I could have subsisted on my inheritance indefinitely. But that, of course, was never an option.”
Errow nods. “You paid for my travel,” he says, glancing around the table, “and, I think I can now safely assume, everyone’s as well.” A statement, not a question. Several members of the party respond in the affirmative, regardless. He goes on “And, based on how familiar you seem to be hinting you are with our new lives, likely expended significant resources to check up on us as well before tonight. Fortune or no, you’ve already invested a great deal in this venture.”
“Indeed,” Chlora confirms. “Though, my investigations have not gone beyond careful peeks, I promise. Your lives beyond our shared purpose are not my business unless you choose for them to be, even if I did INADVERTENTLY stumble across a FEW humorous personal details...” She begins to chuckle until she notices several faces tighten in suspicion. She sobers mid-guffaw, her own expression hardening. “You’ll forgive me, I’m sure, for not wanting to waste resources to bring (or try to bring) someone here who wasn’t truly committed to our cause.”
“But how could you decide something like that ahead of time?” Oath asks. “I’m sure you know about our living situations, who we associate with, and that’s fine. But I don’t care how much money you have, Chlora, you couldn’t truly judge my devotion without confronting me directly – not with this. I’d imagine this applies to the others as well.”
“Not necessarily” Chlora allows, “though I take your point. But I would argue that I had indirect means of estimating your intentions. Most pointedly, friend Cleric, your pursuit of and fervent adherence to your vocation was a clear indicator that you would remain faithful… pardon the pun.”
Thread shakes her head adamantly, “Chlora, we decided our paths BEFORE we parted.” She gestures around the table at the others, “Hell, I first RECOGNIZED most of you by how you’re armed and armored. No offense, but these half-matured faces still appear strange and foreign to me, yet I could probably recite each of our professions by heart – including those who chose not to come.”
Oath smirks, “Don’t be so modest, sister; you HAVE done so… many times.”
Thread shrugs as she scratches at a patch sewn into her armor. Before the alteration, the leather beneath was worn thin enough for the skin beneath to show through. “It helps me concentrate,” she confesses.
Frowning, Grove says, “We did, Thread. But I believe our host is insinuating not everyone followed through…?”
Chlora sighs and admits, “Yes; very disappointing.”
Thread holds up a hand, shaking her head again. “Hold on. Misgivings about accelerating the timeline, I understand. Concerns about the rendezvous location I sympathize with.” She nods to the mage, “For the record, adding just a little of this explanation to your summons would have saved us a lot of consternation, I think.” Her extended palm curls into a fist, “But just out-and-out not following at all? Leaving here, finding a new home, and NEVER taking any steps to become anything more than a put-out orphan?” Both of her balled fists dig into the table beneath, knuckles twisting roughly against the wood with each word. “We needed time to heal – or recover at least; I sure as hell haven’t healed – to find our footing. That’s understandable; foremost we needed to survive. But we vowed to DO something about what happened, not to just live our lives as victims. Breaking that oath, ignoring the past and that promise -- that’s completely unforgivable.”
The group is quiet; none choose to argue the point because none disagree.
Eventually, Thread, eyes narrowed and mouth crooked with contempt, barks at Chlora, “How many? Tell me that. Of those who have neglected to return, how many made no effort at all? How many have chosen to cower behind ordinary lives and ordinary toils?”
Chlora meets the thief’s glare; her own eyes are oval stones, unmoved. “More than I care to recall,” she says.
Thread scowls and looks away. She shifts uncomfortably, then again. Finally, she rises, mumbles “I need some air,” and brusquely leaves the table.
Grove stands as well, keen to follow, but Oath waves a hand toward him. “Please,” the cleric insists, “she’ll be fine. This is how she processes... bad news.”
The fighter nods, and settles back into his seat, frowning. “I’m supposed to be the hot-headed one,” he says.
“You are,” Chlora smiles at him sweetly. “Fear not; none shall ever usurp that throne, Grove.”
Grove snickers and takes a drink of ale.
Errow watches Thread stride toward the door, patrons eyeing her cautiously until she is gone. Then he leans toward Chlora and quietly asks, “Who?”
But Chlora shakes her head, “I’m sorry, dear elf; I can not and I will not. The roster would be both surprising and disappointing, and with this, I wish for you neither.”
Errow nods reluctantly and sinks back against his seat.
Thump growls, a low and menacing rumble at the back of her throat. Hearing this, the others regard her warily, though she offers no further elaboration. Instead, she carefully scoops another ladle-full of spirit into her mouth. She closes her eyes, letting the brew dab tiny pinpricks of sensation across her tongue and cheeks. Finally, she swallows and moves the ladle to toward the pot once more. It hovers above the diminishing reservoir a moment as she sternly observes, “Traitors,” before dunking the ladle again, and repeating the process.
This, too, invokes no dissension.