Reigna’s Eyes snap open, The slimy vine is still wrapped snugly around her neck and the distance between the ground and her feet is steadily growing. It hasn’t realized I’m alive. She takes a moment to process. Wait a damn minute, I’m alive? We’ll talk about it later. She can feel a warmth growing inside her body, something comforting, something rejuvenating. Let’s make this count. She raises her right hand, the vine stops for a moment as though the creature is confused. She turns her head to see the warped physique of the once graceful dryad half-emerged from within the hideous tree’s trunk, her face a perpetual scream, eyes reduced to hollow holes filled with rainwater and water and whatever foul detritus has been collected from her past feasts.
I bet she was really pretty once upon a time. Reigna blinks away a single tear, snaps her fingers and shouts, “Encore!” In an instant a salvo of spiraling green and red lights erupts from her fingertips sending jets of sparks up into the air and more than a few of the crackles and flares from her conjured fireworks display hit the decrepit creature squarely in the face causing it to stagger backwards for a moment.
The vine around her neck loosens enough for her to slip her head through and drop down to the ground. Once she lands, everything around her slows for a moment. “Make haste, little one.” She hears Death’s voice echo in her head followed by the sound of a ticking clock slowly increasing its tempo, the warmth she felt earlier radiating through her body and a sudden flash of golden light. I can make it! She breaks into a sprint. The wind rushing in her ears is so intense, a new sensation she’s never felt before.
The falling rain barely touches her as she dashes down the path towards Ifrita, the ground barely feels tangible to her. Is this what it feels like to move freely? She wonders. She gathers her momentum and springs up off of her left leg, launching herself into the air like a bullet. For a moment she breaches the canopy of dead trees and can clearly see the lights of the town, less than a mile away, a collection of torches approaching the road. The reinforcements Lyraax promised, no doubt. She touches back down to the old, wet cobblestone with a cat’s grace and continues her mad dash to safety.
Within minutes she crosses the threshold between the old swamp road and Ifrita’s town square, bolting past a small mob of armed villagers. She slides to a halt just short of the well and turns to face her would-be rescuers. Lyraax is hovering above one of the men, a burly looking man in a heavy raincoat with a torch in one hand and a blacksmith’s hammer in the other. The other people in the group stand in confusion, a cacophony of whispers exchange between them.
“Lady?” Says Lyraax, sounding both shocked and relieved.
There’s a long awkward pause as all the events of the last few moments hit Reigna, she reflexively throws up her traveling cloak in a flourish, places her right hand on her chest and takes a deep bow. “My apologies, dear gentlemen.” She announces in her best stage voice. “I appreciate your willingness to assist, but I am thankfu-” She stops as a dervish begins turning wildly in her stomach. She jerks forward and retches, the familiar, burning acidity tears its way up her esophagus. She can hear a couple of the men moan “Oh Gods, is she all right?” and other variations of such phrases as a wave of vertigo overtakes her and she collapses to the ground. I’m so glad I haven’t had any solid food today. She internally sighs as the stress and exhaustion set in and everything goes quiet.
Reigna tries to shift but is held still by a weight on her chest and the sudden avalanche of various pains from all over her body causing her to tense for a moment before lying flat down against the bed. She opens her eyes, a golden lance of sunlight pierces the space between the blinds covering a window on the far side of the room she’s in. She’s apparently been carefully laid down on an almost uncomfortably firm bed and covered in a soft, handmade quilt. The sheets of the bed are a little too rough for her liking, but compared to the last few days, this makes her feel like royalty.
The weight on her chest is Lyraax, curled into a tight ball of scales, his wings covering his face. As she attempts once again to shift to sit up she can see that his front claws are tightly grasping the quilt and the spot under his head is slightly moist. Has he been crying? She wonders. She manages to slip one of her hands from under the covers and place it against his back. At her touch, he immediately jumps into a standing position, prompting a gasp of pain from her as his weight shifts.
“Lady, you’re okay!” He says, stepping off of her chest and walking alongside her body to her face where he presses his small, horned head against hers. His tiny, jewel-like eyes are red on the edge. He has been crying, I didn’t know he could do that.
“Yes Lyraax, I’m okay.” She says, sitting up and stretching. Her back cracks painfully a few times and she is made aware of the stiffness in her lower back.
“What happened to you?” He asks, eyeing her carefully.
“Well I had to use some creative pyrotechnics to get that disgusting old thing to let me go, and there was this light and-”
“Reigna, you died.” Lyraax says abruptly. She pauses to look down at him. There’s a sternness to his gaze, despite the little tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. “You died last night, I felt it. How are you here right now?” He asks, never looking away from her face. She can feel a cold chill fall over her for a moment, the memories of feeling her own neck get popped out of place started replaying in her head.
“I don’t know, honestly.” She says, rubbing the back of her neck. “I fell and the vine clocked the back of my head extremely hard. Before I knew it, it had wrapped around my neck and,” she makes a swift jerking motion. “I woke up in a cave with someone who claimed to be Death.”
“He let you come back here?” Lyraax asks, coming around to sit in her lap.
“He said that this wasn’t the end of my story and that I was not yet his to keep. Whatever that means.” She lifts her shirt to examine the damage. She’s covered in cuts, bruises and scratches, many of which have been covered in bandages and wraps, including a large brace that is wrapped all around her waist and up and across her shoulder blades. “I wish he would have healed me before sending me back.” She says, slowly getting up to approach a mirror above a small vanity table in the room. The soft pink of her skin is dappled with purple bruises and bumps and the nail on her left hand’s middle finger has been cracked and carefully covered over in bandage packed with an herbal poultice to stave off infection.
“I need a bath.” She says, exasperated.
“Aye, that’ll fix you right up.” Lyraax agrees. “If nothing else, it’ll wash the stench of mud and death from you.”
“I do hope so. I feel disgusting.” She sighs, before gathering her things and leaving the room.
The hall of the tavern has five rooms and the sixth is a shared bathroom. It’s clean and functional, not quite as nice as The Shoreline Sanctuary, but it’ll do. There’s no notable sound in the old place, save for the sound of footsteps from the kitchen. The whole tavern is a single floor, but the building itself is fairly long. The floor is made of the same kind of stone used to pave the road into town, a greyish-white stone that, at a glance, could pass for uncut marble. Many of the surfaces inside the tavern are a mixture of carefully varnished black wood and the same grey stone, giving the place an almost chess-board motif. She approaches the counter, behind it stands a stout older, Dwarven gentleman he’s wiping a couple tankards and has a small cup of tea on his left side slowly wafting little wisps of sweet-scented steam into the air.
He places one of the tankards carefully into a cabinet above the counter and takes a sip of tea. While sipping he keeps one hand behind his back, his posture is perfectly straight, his coal black shirt and stark white waistcoat are pristine and elegantly pressed. He’s completely bald, but his face is covered in a carefully manicured beard, it is intricately braided, filled here and there with pieces of silver jewelry and small beads. He glances over at Reigna, standing absentmindedly in her pajama pants and partially buttoned shirt with her clean clothes clutched to her chest.
“Oh, well it seems our guest is awake.” The man says, his voice an articulate rumble laced with hints of a brogue. “What can I do to help you, lass?” He asks, a polite smile skewing the symmetry of his beard.
“I was wondering if your tavern offers a laundry service?” Asks Reigna, not entirely convinced that she isn’t still dead somehow.
The man hops from the stool he was standing on behind the counter and comes around to stand before her. “Of course, miss. Follow me if ye will.” He says, with a nod before locking both hands behind his back and leading her back down the hall.
“Where am I?”
“Poor Richard’s Rags, we’re one of only two full inns in town.” The man says
“Oh, I’ll be able to pay for everything soon, I just have to finish this delivery!” Reigna says, a sudden panic overtaking her. “I just want to be presentable before I meet my client.”
The man opens the bathroom door for her and raises a hand to politely ask her to let him speak. “Dear lass,” he begins. “You don’t have to worry about the cost. Your wee dragon friend told our folk you were in danger, the fact you’re here right now is nothing short of a miracle.” He stops, giving her an opportunity to speak.
“I appreciate the offer, sir, but I can’t just take advantage of your hospitality.” She says with a nod as he beckons her into the bathroom.
“It’s no trouble, I assure you. We don’t get many travelers out this way so I have the space, and besides,” He pauses for a moment, reaching onto a shelf and placing a linen lined basket on the floor beside the tub. “I’ve been around for at least three of your lifetimes, it’s the older generation's job to care for the young and you my dear, look like you need quite a bit of caring, no offense.”
“I’ve only ever heard people extend that kind of sentiment to their own children.” She smiles awkwardly at the man.
“In the eyes of The Great Maker, we’re all his children, all siblings. We’re all made of the same materials, just assembled differently.” He smiles widely at her. She can see now that pinned to the collar of his black shirt is a brass medallion of a large cog with a hammer in the center. She recognizes it as the insignia of a Dwarven God called The Great Maker or The Forgemaster. I suppose I can accept his help.
“Of course, in that case, thank you very much Mr?” She pauses, extending her hand.
“Cicero, Richard Cicero.” He nods, shaking her hand gently. “My friends call me Rich. You can call me whatever you fancy.”
“I’m Reigna, I suppose I’m glad to have landed here.” She smiles.
“Well, I’ll go have our cook make you some breakfast Miss Reigna.” He nods, once again tucking his hands behind his back. “Also, place your dirty clothes in the basket, I’ll have one of our housekeepers tend to them for you.” With that he gives Reigna a small bow and exits the bathroom, closing the door.
She returns to what she feels confident to call “her room” and collects her armor and other clothes and drops them into the lined basket before locking the bathroom door and drawing water for her bath. One of the finest innovations to come from Mae’Andel after the treaty was signed was infrastructure for running water, especially when coupled with the hot water heater from Hammerheim. Elves figured out how to bring the river and bathhouse to the comfort and privacy of your own home for all manner of hygiene and cleanliness, Dwarves found ways to keep water hot for the harsh winters, humans merged the two technologies and spread them to the world. What a great era to be born in. Reigna hummed to herself. Once the long tub is most of the way full, she strips off her clothes and the bandages , drops them into the basket and slides into the water. The warmth immediately radiates through her body. She sits, leaning her sore shoulders against the cool porcelain of the tub’s far wall, all the aches and pains slowly dull into background noise against the calming warmth and gentle sway of the water.
Without the bandages she can finally see the rest of the damage she’s endured. More bruises, and a particularly ugly, yellowing patchwork of bruises across her left side and down her thigh. My back probably looks like a map of Leonis. She thinks, bringing her tail up and laying it across her lap. The skin is still pink although marred with scratches and scrapes. On the side of the tub are a collection of glass bottles, labeled as either bathwater additives or lathers for her skin and hair. She adds a few drops of mint and lavender to the bathwater.
After adding the mint she falls into a bout of coughing, forcing her to exit the tub and spit into the sink. I guess I was congested. Fuck that hurt. Once back in the tub, the mint and lavender scents have mingled, mellowing each other out. She can feel some of the tension leave her shoulders as she takes washcloth and rubs soap into it.
A whole week since I left the Sanctuary. A whole week without bathing. I can’t keep doing this, it makes me feel so gross. Also, we should probably lay off on the whole “getting killed by hideous monsters” thing. Her mind races as she gently scrubs the larger and more tender of her bruises. Once I get this payment, I can head over to Hammerheim and maybe see about this whole curse thing. I really hope I’m right about that and I actually am cursed, otherwise I’m not sure what I’d do.
Once she’s finished with the actual cleaning part of the bath she just lays back in the water, steeping herself like a teabag as the water slowly cools down. Eventually the strength finds her and she climbs out of the tub and gets dressed. When she opens the door to leave she finds a woman, perhaps a little older than her standing, poised to knock on the bathroom door.
“Oh I’m sorry!” She says reflexively. “I was in there a bit too long, just got a little too comfortable.”.
“No, it’s no trouble.” Says the other woman, her voice low and husky. She seems at least partially Elvish, the slightest point to her ears. Her glossy red hair is neatly tied into a bun atop her head. Her brown eyes have an owlish focus to them, despite being startled a few moments ago. Her fingers appear calloused, perhaps from years of this kind of work, her nails have clean edges, but are a bit uneven, regrown after being bitten down, Will used to bite his nails too, especially before performances. I wonder what makes her nervous, or if it’s just for convenience.
“May I take your basket, ma’am?” She says after what feels like a long pause.
“Oh, yes, of course.” Reigna says, handing her the laundry basket. The other woman gives her a small nod and proceeds down the hallway. Reigna returns to her room to retrieve the parcel for delivery. Lyraax is fast asleep on her bed, clearly exhausted either from the traveling, the previous day’s harrowing events, the relief of knowing she’s actually alive and still herself, or some combination of all of the above. She opens her bag and grabs the little box from within the main compartment, a tag on the box reads Marchetty. She slides it into a pouch on her belt and returns to the bar. The building is still quiet and empty, save for her and the staff. Sitting on the counter are a small porcelain teacup and a polished silver tankard, beside them are a bundle of silverware carefully wrapped in a white handkerchief and a large wooden plate containing a small pile of fluffy scrambled eggs, some kind of fried and seasoned potatoes and three sausages.
Her stomach rumbles its demands as the smells of the excellently plated food waft into her face. Mr. Cicero appears behind the counter with a small saucer of sugar cubes and a silver boat of what appears to be either milk or cream.
“Ah, Miss Reigna, I had this prepared for you.” He says, beckoning her over to sit.
“Oh, thank you so much.” She says, politely sitting down and doing her best to resist the urge to hunch over the table like a rabid ape and shovel the food into her mouth with her bare hands. “It smells wonderful.”
“Why thank you.” Mr. Cicero nods, firmly pulling and adjusting his waistcoat. “We do our best to source quality ingredients from Hammerheim and Glimmerfrost on the other side of the mountain.” He says, a hint of pride in his tone.
“Why is no one here?” She asks, skewering a few potatoes on her fork and taking a bite. Oh yeah, that’s the stuff. She once again manages to restrain the ravenous urge.
“Well, Ifrita is a trade and labor village. Many of our people head down to the coast and fish and those who are more able head into the swamp.” He says, lifting the sugar dish and signaling with his hand how many cubes Reigna would like in her coffee. She asks for three with her left hand before swallowing her food to speak.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
“What could they possibly be looking for in the swamp?” She asks, unnerved by the thought of having to go back out there eventually.
“Sometimes, they go just to keep the monster numbers down.” He says, carefully stirring cream into the cup. “Other times, those of us who have been quite unfortunate, go out there to retrieve whatever is left of our loved ones.”
He slides the coffee back over to her and they sit in silence for a few minutes as Reigna works her way through what remains of her eggs before slicing her sausages into medallions.
“When you say whatever is left of them, you mean,” she hesitates.
“Trinkets, wedding bands, scraps of clothes and armor, undead.” The word hangs thick in the air, heavy and suffocating like smoke.”Many of our people are also salvagers as well.”
“What is there to salvage out here?” She asks, confused.
“Well, this area is technically part of the Kyrrodian Wastes and the wastes are filled with errant magic.”
“So does the swamp’s mud or water have inherently magical properties?” She asks, biting into a piece of sausage.
“In some areas, especially closer to the Old Kyrrodhil, yes.” He says with a small pause. “But the concerns for our salvagers isn’t that. The residual magic from the incident makes it so that sometimes rifts open up, either in clouds of swamp gas or beneath the mud and these small rifts move things sometimes.”
“Oh, so you all can sometimes retrieve artifacts and trinkets from these rifts and sell them to towns or cities like Ambria that have museums.” She says with a smirk.
Mr. Cicero taps the tip of his nose. “Exactly. We find all manner of things. Sometimes relics from Old Kyrrodhil, sometimes just things dropped by travelers. Either way it’s lucrative. Most importantly, sometimes the residual magic solidifies into crystals like calcium or salt does.” He says, refilling her water cup.
“I didn’t know that could happen.” Reigna says, a bit awestruck,
“It’s called Kyrronite, it’s a fairly useful reagent for enchanting items or temporarily holding spells for later use. Some artificers are experimenting with using it as a powersource for airships, or so I’ve heard.” He says, after which point they fall into a comfortable silence as Reigna finishes her breakfast.
With her meal finished she piles the empty cups and used silverware on top of her plate. “Thank you very much for the meal, Mr. Cicero. Could I trouble you for one more favor?” She asks, bowing her head slightly.
“Of course, what can I do for you?” He asks, grabbing her things from the table and preparing to take them back into the kitchen.
“I’m looking for someone in town named Marchetty, do you know where I can find them?”
“Ah, yes. Erin Marchetty.” Mr. Cicero says simply. “She runs the general store, it’s right down the road near the well, you can’t miss it.” He says, pointing towards the door.
“Thank you, I’ll be back once I’ve finished my business.” Reigna says with a nod before bounding out the door.
Ifrita is a quiet village nestled in a curious part of the coastline. Surrounded on three sides by the swamp and the most westward edge of the Kyrrodian Wastes, four hours south will bring you to the coast proper, a soft-sanded beach and the endless horizon stretching out as far as the eye can see. To the north, through the wastes and back to the main trade route you can follow the road to Hammerheim, the city of Dwarves, and knights and many mercenary organizations, further still up the mountains will bring you to Glimmerfrost, a pastoral, snowy village where ice is harvested from the higher mountain peaks. West from here takes you deeper into the Wastes, to a place known as The Hub, one of two that are known to exist where thieves and smugglers exchange their wares, this Hub is overseen by a man known primarily as The Grafter, The Stitcher, or simply The Plague. People say he’s been around for thousands of years, but he’s never been apprehended by the law and any who’ve gone looking to claim his bounty have never returned.
That being said, Ifrita, by all accounts, is a much more humble place. Some 300 people live here, and as stated by Mr. Cicero, their business is much divided between fishing off the coast and attempting to drag the swamp for lost things or valuables. The grey and black cobblestones that line the pathway into town also make up the roads in town as well. One primary thoroughfare runs from one side of town to the other, branching here and there into small clusters of residential buildings, most of which are single floor buildings, some small, seeming to consist of only one or two rooms at best, and some are slightly longer. The People here build their houses out rather than up. It must be because of the swamp, they don’t want their buildings sinking. Reigna considered.
Near the town’s entrance is a small public stable, asking for one copper to rent a horse or seven silvers to buy one with variable costs for renting carts and carriages. A small well with a stack of buckets next to it, the same one Reigna had almost crashed into the night before. On the other side of the well, sandwiched between what appears to be a residential building and a small tavern is a squat building with a hand-painted sign above the door that reads Marchetty’s General Goods. That’s smaller than I’d expect for a general store. Reigna thinks. Many of the general goods stores she’s seen over the years tend to be larger to accommodate bulk stock or general organization.
She opens the door to step inside, a rather overzealous spring mechanism on the other side pulls the door shut with a loud bang! After which point she hears a muffled “One moment please!” coming from somewhere, though she cannot place where.
Another door behind the counter opens and slams shut. The room is at best 40 feet from end to end, ten of those feet are dedicated to the well-worn countertop. There are a few rows of shelves that line the store itself, stacked carefully with simple things like flasks, inkwells, scroll cases and the like. One aisle consists of jars of homemade jams and carefully wrapped packs of hardtack and jerky.
Standing behind the counter is a woman, at least partially Elven, skin like oak bark, sun-kissed and weathered. Her bush of tight, deep-brown curls is peppered with streaks of silver and held back from her face with a red bandana which has been patched and stitched with the remains of other cloth many times over. She’s around Reigna’s height, with broad shoulders, the long sleeves of her work shirt are rolled back to reveal thick veins pulsing beneath her skin, the kind of definition that comes with a combination of age and hard, repetitive work. She pats her hands against the small lap-apron around her waist and stands up straight. She has the posture of a dancer, or maybe of orator. Reigna notes to herself.
“How can I help you, love?” Says the woman, resting her hands against the worn wooden counter.
“I’m looking for Erin Marchetty, is that you?” Reigna asks, fishing the parcel from a pouch on her belt.
“That is indeed me.” She smiles, a flash of excitement behind her eyes.
“This is from the Sylvantus Steamworks in Ambria.” Reigna places the box down on the counter. “Can you please confirm that this is your order?”
Erin opens the little box, the seconds feel like hours as her face gradually changes from excitement to confusion, to disappointment.
“Oh dear, that’s not good.” She says, mostly to herself.
“Did something happen to it?” Reigna asks, feeling her heart swandive to her toes. “I was instructed not to open it.”
Erin reaches into the box and retrieves a small, mechanical model of a nightingale. The body is carved of polished, black wood and carefully inlaid with gold and silver filigree. One of the wings is dented and has broken off of its delicate, hair thin hinge. There’s an inscription on the underside of the little bird. Erin says something in Elvish and the bird hops up and begins to sing a beautiful rendition of an old folk song, its one good wing flaps in an attempt to fly until eventually it finishes its song and returns to the static state.
“It’s a gift for my daughter’s birthday, she loves these little birds which is why I had this commissioned for her.” She pauses for a moment. “I’m sure I can find someone to do the repair though, so thank you for getting it here on time.” She nods, opening her register which is a drawer with a locking mechanism beneath the countertop.
“I’m so sorry, I got attacked on the road and I thought it’d be safe in my bag I-” Erin reaches across the counter and cups her hands around Reigna’s, she can feel the weight of a few coins being placed in her upturned palms.
“It’s okay, nothing is broken which cannot be fixed.” She smiles tiredly at Reigna. “You’re the girl who passed out in the square last night, yes?”
“Yeah, that was me.” Reigna says, bowing her head. If the world could open up and swallow me whole right now I’d be elated.
“I’d heard that you were in rough shape, so I’m not going to be hard on you. I can have this sent to Hammerheim for repairs and have it back here in time for her birthday.” She says simply, pinching the bridge of her nose before scratching some notes into a ledger behind the counter.
“I can bring it to Hammerheim for you, no charge!” Reigna blurts out.
“Oh, you don’t have to do that.”
“I’m heading there anyway, it won’t be any trouble.” She insists.
Erin considers for a moment before exhaling a sigh, “Alright, Delivery Girl, I’ll let you take it to Hammerheim for me, but I’m still going to pay you for it.” She says firmly
“But it’s my-” Reigna starts but is cut off.
“No, you’re a young lady and something bad happened on the way here.” Erin begins. “I’m a mother of four young women and I'd be damned if I’d let anyone take advantage of my daughter’s misfortune just to get a little more work out of her. So I’m gonna give you the money to get from here to there and a little extra to pay a shipping fee to have whoever repairs it send it back to me so you don’t have to put up with that damn tree again.” Erin stops her motherly tirade and gives Reigna a firm glare. “Does that sound good to you?”
“Yes ma’am, sounds good to me.” Reigna says with a defeated nod. “I’m Reigna, by the way.” She extends her hand.
Erin shakes her hand and claps a few more coins into it. “Count that when you get back to wherever you’re staying, and thank you for taking care of this for me.” She gives Reigna a sly smirk, “Now is there anything else I can help you with?”
Once back at Poor Richard’s Rags, despite her upset at the delivery being damaged, Reigna did find a positive. Erin was kind and even jovial with her and told her to stop by before she leaves for Hammerheim so that she can examine what’s left of the tent and see if they can work out a deal to get her a new one. I guess I broke even on the luck this time around since Miss Erin appears to be a reasonable woman and a loving mother. She stops for a moment, on the road outside the inn. Her daughters are lucky to have someone like that in their lives. Once inside, the atmosphere is different than it was earlier. There are a few people seated at the bar and at least two of the tables have people sitting in them.
Looks like some people are coming back from their day’s work. She strolls past the bar, into the hallway where the rooms are, as she goes to open her door, she hears the bathroom door at the end of the hall open and shut again and glances over to see Mr. Cicero wiping his hands with a handkerchief.
“Ah, good, you’re back.” He says expectantly.
“I am, do you need me, sir?” She asks, turning away from her door to face him completely.
“I just may, depending on your answer. Your dragon friend has informed me that you’re a performer?”
“Yes, I studied at a small arts school in Lake Syrril for four years.” She says, trying her best to disguise the pride in her voice.
“Well, we don’t get many bards in Ifrita, would you like to earn yourself a little extra coin this evening?” He asks, his eyes squinting. He certainly has an angle, let’s see what he has to say.
“I’d love to, I could certainly use the extra money.” She chuckles. “Plus I have a couple ideas I’ve been workshopping that I’d like to try out if it’s not too much trouble."
“Wonderful, I’ll even sweeten the deal for you.” He starts. Alright here’s his hook, let’s hear it. “You give me three hours tonight minimum. If your performance brings in a lot of people, I’ll give you 25 percent of all the sales done during your time slot. If it goes better than expected, your time here is on me and I’ll even give you a voucher for four nights for the next time you’re in town, how does that sound?” He says, his pitch doesn’t have the shark-like pub manager excitement to it, it doesn’t feel like a bad deal yet.
“I love the sound of that, but as people of business can we talk about what the bad scenario is?” She asks, soberly.
“If your performance doesn’t go quite as well, I’ll cut you off at an hour and a half, you can keep whatever tips come your way, but now voucher for a future stay and I’ll need you to clear out by the day after tomorrow, unless you pay.” His words are careful and stated in plain terms, no trickery, no attempt at getting more out of her than she puts in.
“That seems fair to me, but this does seem skewed heavily in my favor on the good end, why is that?” It may be rude to ask, but I have to know.
“Well like I said, we don’t get bards often in Ifrita. If we get a really good one and she’s in my bar, lifting spirits and getting others in the mood of lifting spirits as it were,” he says, lifting his hand above his head as though raising a toast. “Then giving you a reason to come back and perform in the future only benefits us both.” ‘
“You’re a sly one, Mr. Cicero, I like your style.” She says with a smirk.
“Aye lass, you have to be to make money in a place like this.” He winks at her and walks down the hall, a small spring to his otherwise even and measured steps.
Inside her room, Lyraax has laid out her tambourines, her triangle, and her lute and seems to be searching through her bag for something.
“Lyraax, what are you doing?” She asks, both confused and concerned.
“Oh, just looking for something.” He says not looking up at her. “Lady, have you ever given a draft horse a root canal?” He asks suddenly.
“Um, no. Why?”
“Ever extracted an impacted tooth from a suffering mare?” These questions keep getting weirder.
“No, can’t say that I have. I’m not a veterinary dentist, Lyraax.” At that moment he raises his head out of her bag and looks directly at her.
“Ah, that’s right you’re a bard.” He says, a bit sardonically. “You’ve no formal training in the practice of equine dentistry and yet you insist upon performing a full oral examination of the charitable stallions that smiled upon us this day?”
“I’m sorry, you lost me Lyraax.” She says, her eyes locked with his and blank as a fresh parchment sheet.
“Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Reigna.” He says, exasperated. “The man gave you a good, solid offer, why would you ask to explain why the deal favors you?”
“Are you mad at me for wanting to clarify the terms of a deal with someone we just met?” She asks, beckoning towards the door, her brow furrowed into a severe arch above her eyes.
“Lady, I am not angry with you, but for someone who spent four years of her life studying the art of charm and eloquence, that was uncharacteristically tactless of you.”
Reigna bites her tongue to hold back from saying something else Lyraax might find particularly tactless, filled with expletives and at least one implied long evening with his mother. Ah so he’s not mad, just disappointed.
“I’m not telling you not to clarify terms with people, I’m just saying there are better ways to ask these questions that don’t cause you to fall out of favor with the people who extend such offers to you.” He says, slowly sliding the extra things back into her bag.
“Okay, I get that, but did you have to take everything out of my bag to set the scene?” She asks, sweeping her arm flaccidly over the mess of things scattered around the room.
“No, that was just part of the show.” He shrugs. “This man has been good to you, good to us and he seems to have a good business head on his shoulders. If it were anyone, anywhere else, I could say that was the correct course and manner of action, here though, not so much.”
“Are you done critiquing my social skills yet? Because today hasn’t been the best and now I have a show to prepare for. So can you stop being my manager and go back to being my friend for a while?” She asks, sitting hard on the bed and lying back across it.
“I’m sorry Lady, I thought you’d find the equine dentistry line funny and we’d have a little banter.” Lyraax says, his voice concerned as he comes to sit beside her face. “What happened with the delivery?”
“That busted, bark-hided old bitch of a tree damaged the thing I was delivering when it killed me!” She shouts, throwing her arms up. “Thankfully the lady I was delivering to still paid me and we made a deal that I’ll take it to Hammerheim for her to get it fixed and she’ll pay for shipping.” She says, her voice slowly coming back down to normal levels. “I’m just upset because it was just one stupid little thing and it didn’t have to happen.”
“Many things don’t have to happen, Lady, but they do anyway. But I have another question for you.” He says inching a little closer to her face.
“What?” She asks, trying to maintain her frustrated pout.
“Was today a bad day, or did you decide that one bad revelation would set the tone for the rest of the day?” He presses his small head against hers.
“I don’t want one stupid thing to ruin all the good the day still has to offer.” She sighs.
“Good, we need you in top form.” He says, blowing a small puff of bluish-purple smoke in her face.
She begins to giggle, as her body begins to warm, the feeling of hundreds of tiny little fingers tickling her in various places. It’s a comforting feeling, for a moment her mind drifts and she’s sitting beside a bonfire, her mother and father on either side of her tickingling her, and blowing the occasional raspberry against her cheeks. The tickling fades until it’s just the warmth of the fire and her mother’s arms wrapped around her once tiny waist as her father sings an old song from his younger days. She lets the memory of the warmth envelope her and heaves a sigh.
“Did you conjure that memory, Lyraax?” She asks, still caught in the afterglow of the tender moment.
“No, my breath just shows you something that made you happy once. Did it give you any ideas for tonight?” He asks.
“Yeah, I think there’s one song I haven’t heard in a while.”