Topher sank, steaming slightly, into the pool of hot water with a groan very like that of a dying man. The last bath he had had, he recalled with painful clarity, had been in the inn in Wanbourne; before that, in the inn in Frostford. But this? This was something else entirely.

Per Hana's surprisingly specific instructions, he had stripped, rinsed himself with water from a pump and bucket while standing over a drain (a sort of primitive shower, he mused), then scrubbed himself with soap and repeated the process until the water cascading over him was no longer gray and dingy. Next, he had soaped, rinsed, and combed his hair and beard until they were no longer tangled and grimy, then repeated the do-it-yourself shower process a second time and worried at his dirt-caked skin until his fingers squeaked against it. And, at last, once he was certain that he was as clean as possible and would no longer risk bringing contamination into the spring, he had carefully dipped his toes in the hot water and gently acclimated himself a few inches at a time until he was up to his navel before taking a cautious seat on the natural bench of rock that rested a foot or so beneath the waterline. By the time his body temperature had fully adjusted, he was so relaxed that he was in danger of dozing.

Bemused, he let himself float and soak for nearly a half-hour before his state of repose began to turn towards restlessness; finally, he could no longer stand the inactivity and forced himself out of the water for a vigorous toweling. Turning to recover his clothes, he was shocked to discover that they were missing; he scrounged around for something else to cover himself, and found a folded robe that was somehow perfectly sized for him. He slipped it on, noting that it smelled faintly of some creamy, vaguely buttery substance; strange, but not entirely unpleasant. As he was getting ready to leave, he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror and stared, aghast.

The creature who scowled back at Topher was almost unrecognizable; a bald pate rose like a mountaintop from a crown of long, wavy brown hair shot through with gray, which merged seamlessly into an equally long and gray-streaked beard that concealed a mouth permanently set in a half-scowl. Bitter, tired eyes gazed out from behind cracked and chipped spectacles, nestled beneath wild eyebrows like dark brown caterpillars. Topher was astonished. Holy shit, I really do look like a textbook crazy wizard. No wonder they believed I was a spellcaster so easily. Squeezing his eyes shut in embarrassment, Topher turned away. Florida Gandalf, that's me.

His bare feet slapping loudly against the stone steps, he made his way back upstairs to the cottage's main floor, only to find Hana in the kitchen preparing a meal; the young Japanese woman was chopping a few carrots and potatoes while occasionally stirring a large iron pot from which a meaty, savory aroma was wafting. "Hey," he started, feeling awkward. "Sorry I was in there so long." Belatedly, he noticed a large pair of slippers near the exit from the basement, and wedged his feet into them as surreptitiously as he could.

Hana favored him with a slight smile before returning to her cooking. "A bath in a hot spring is the least of what you are owed, Bailey-sama. If you would like to rest, the meal should be served in another half-hour; Zee is taking care of your laundry, but should return by that time."

"Do what now?" Topher frowned. "Hey, you guys don't have to do stuff like this."

Hana paused, then set down the knife (her Flux Blade, noticed Topher with surprise) that she had been using with slow and careful precision. "Bailey-sama, have we offended you?"

Topher's face twisted in confusion. "What? No, of course not."

"If someone offered you a present," Hana continued, still looking away from him, "would you throw it away in their presence?"

"Jesus, no," sputtered Topher. "What's that got to do with anything?"

The young woman picked up the knife and resumed her preparations, beginning to peel a large russet potato. "That is how I would feel if you did not accept my hospitality. I understand that you are American, but..." she let the sentence trail away.

Topher blushed, getting the message. "Okay. Sorry. Cultural differences." How does this tiny little twenty-something keep me on my heels all the time? he marveled, feeling ugly and graceless. "I'll try to keep out from underfoot until dinner."

Retreating back to the storeroom where his bedroll and bag were resting, Topher fled into the comforting ritual of perusing his Ledger; he was just about to resume his work on factoring visualizations when a thought struck him, and he instead began tinkering with another spell which seemed to occupy much of his research time.

He was deep into his calculations when a hesitant knock sounded on his door; looking up in surprise, he beheld Zanasha looking at him appraisingly. "The meal is almost ready, Friend Topher. Your clothing is drying; I am hopeful it will be dry by sunset, but I will wash it again tomorrow if not."

Topher opened his mouth to protest, remembered what Hana had said, and shut it again. "Thank you. I'm very grateful."

The half-orc's eyes widened slightly, then looked downwards. "It was my pleasure. I do not often have occasion for such pursuits; Hana-chan is the more domestic between the two of us. She often teases me, saying I will make a poor wife."

"Any man with an ounce of brains would be lucky to have you for a wife," Topher said instantly, then belatedly got control of his mouth and blushed furiously. "I'm sorry. That was really inappropriate."

Zanasha's mouth had dropped open slightly, but at his apology her head ducked and she looked away quickly. "It is nothing. We should not tarry; the meal will grow cold." Abruptly, she left him there, hating himself; growling, he finished the calculation he'd been working on, triple-checked his conclusions, and closed his Ledger with a satisfied snap before banishing it. Least I got one thing done.

With a sigh, he rose and cinched the robe more tightly around himself; his belly still stuck out embarrassingly prominently (though no longer as much as it once had), but he felt this was the most presentable he could hope to become. Reluctantly, he made his way into the cottage's main room, where the two women were seated at the dining room table and waiting patiently.

"Sorry," he mumbled, sitting down in one of the table's two chairs; Hana, he noted with discomfiture, was seated on a small stool instead of a normal chair.

"You have no need to apologize," murmured Zanasha for what felt like the millionth time. Hana, her face placidly composed, began to assemble a plate for him, but Topher stopped her with an upraised hand.

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"Before we get started..." he paused, then took a deep breath. "I feel really awkward, and that's not your fault. It's just..." -- he had to take another breath -- "...nobody's ever done stuff like this for me before, so I don't know how to deal with it. So, thanks. And I hope this helps show my appreciation." Concentrating furiously, he raised both hands over an empty spot on the table and muttered, "Xow Koth Ish Suu Shoi Ikei."

A pale staticky glow manifested from his palms, floating downwards to aggregate into a globe of ashen light perhaps eight inches in diameter; it brightened, then took on a heavy solidity and settled onto the table. When it faded, it left behind an unexpected object; a large bowl of dwarfmeal, filled to overflowing with a perfect half-sphere of piping-hot glistening rice.

Hana's eyes bulged nearly out of her skull.

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After the meal, they were all stuffed nearly to insensibility; Zanasha had been amazed to discover that the bowl for the rice had been food, and declared it delicious before eating nine-tenths of it (without even having to soak it, due to her Eat Anything Unique Skill). Hana left the table early, professing fatigue, but Topher could detect more warmth toward him than before; he had to suppress a smirk at the thought. Move over, Uncle Ben; it's Uncle Topher's Rice now.

When he could eat no more venison curry, Topher rose with difficulty and practically waddled back to his bedroll; he wanted to exercise, but he was too full and too sleepy. He was about to turn in when a thought occurred to him, and he poked his head out to see Zanasha gathering up the dishes. "Hey, thanks again for washing my clothes. It's been a long time since I've had anything clean to wear."

The half-orc nodded, eyes downcast. "It is the least we can do, for a guest."

Topher snorted. "Lady, the least you could do is ignore me, if not throw me out. Stop devaluing all the amazing shit you do, Jesus." He turned away, shaking his head. "I still don't know where you even found a robe that could fit me."

Behind him, Zanasha chuckled. "Friend Topher, there are only two people who live in this house. Did you imagine that the robe belonged to Hana-chan?"

Topher's eyes widened, and he closed the door hurriedly; he shucked the robe and climbed into his bedroll naked in defiance. I gotta learn a Summon Clothes spell next.

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For most of the next week, Hana worked day and night to cultivate plants, brew them into potions, and prepare them for various eventualities; Zanasha alternately hunted, fished, and cleaned in between twice-daily sessions of exercise and weapon training. Left to his own devices, Topher alternated relentlessly between spending almost all his MP on Remove Fatigue while exercising and studying his Ledger; with great effort, he began to grow more practiced at entering a Metaphrastic trance, though it was clear he still had a long way to go. At first, he only did so while at 0 MP out of an abundance of caution, and even then only while half-unconscious from fatigue; but, by the sixth day, he found that he could enter it roughly one time in five just by contemplating the interrelations between various runic transforms. Unnoticed, his chest, arms, and shoulders continued to grow (despite already being nearly twice the size they'd been in Wanbourne), but the majority of his attention was focused on controlling his mana while trancing. On the seventh day, he risked Metaphrasty away from the cottage while still at 10 MP; several trees were scorched, but by the time he ran completely dry he found that he could channel the akasha into a form rather than blasting it indiscriminately in every direction. He couldn't stop the flow, no matter what he did, but he found that if he concentrated mightily, he could instead focus and narrow the stream of energy in a single direction.

His first attempt was, naturally, a sword-like beam; Topher, like most American males born after 1977, could not resist the temptation to create a lightsaber. But early versions were embarrassingly brief and chaotic until he hit upon the idea of forming a tight loop with the stream; upon doing so, he discovered that he could reabsorb the energy he was emitting, slowing and then halting the depletion of his MP during Metaphrasty. This must be what Kelfir was doing, he thought to himself in amazement. Enter a trance, channel akasha into a Wyrd, then leave the trance and still have MP. Too bad I have no idea how making a Wyrd works, or I'd actually be able to use this shit. Nevertheless, he was proud of the progress he'd made; before, entering a trance had been near-suicidal since it rapidly drained his MP and damaged his surroundings (not to mention being a brutal source of friendly fire to any allies, if he'd ever had them). Topher was nearly whistling with cheer as he returned to the cottage -- at least, until he saw what was waiting for him.

Kelfir Leafwind, well-rested and at least half again as imperious, was glowing splendorously on the cottage's front lawn; Topher pulled up short, took a brief breath, then steeled himself. "Fancy meeting you here."

"It is not, I assure you, on an errand of leisure." Kelfir's gaze settled upon Topher, regarding him like an errant turd upon a freshly-laundered carpet. "Are you sufficiently rested and provisioned for departure?"

Topher blinked, confused. "What the hell are you talking about? I'm not going anywhere."

"You are mistaken, Master Bailey." In a blink, Kelfir flowed forward, bourne by his golden Wyrd; he was abruptly a foot from Topher's nose and about six inches higher up, staring down with lordly superiority. "My duties, as I told you previously, keep me rather occupied; occasionally I may summon or otherwise engage a minion on my behalf, but not in this circumstance. You, therefore, shall be my cat's-paw."

"Oh, you fucking elves," groaned Topher, rolling his eyes. "God forbid you ask or otherwise respect the autonomy of another person." He crossed his arms, meeting Kelfir's gaze without budging. "From how much of a dick you're being, I'm guessing you already dispelled your automagic conscience curse, or whatever."

Kelfir's lips twitched in a suppressed smile. "Not exactly. It would be more correct to say that I have found myself in a situation where 'being a dick', as you term it, is the socially appropriate modus of interaction." He inched slightly closer. "You, Christopher Bailey, have a debt; it is a debt that I gather you will only repay reluctantly, and thus I will bludgeon you with my authority so that you may feel suitably aggrieved. So primed, you will direct your ire towards me, rather than others upon whom you might otherwise vent your spleen."

Topher started, then pursed his lips in thought. "Okay, that does kinda sound like you have my number," he admitted sourly. "Getting predictable if even magic elves know how to manipulate me." He directed his stare back to Kelfir. "But I don't have any debts that I know of."

Instead of answering, the archmage turned to look eastward; behind him, Topher could see Hana and Zanasha, watching from inside the cottage with rapt attention. "Among the free peoples, Master Bailey, there are three archmages; I have mentioned them to you before, though I doubt you understand the subtleties of what the title signifies. A small portion of it is this; that we have agreed not to interfere in the matters, mysteries, or lands within each others' remit." He nodded to the east. "Quint Aumraham, Archmage of the Gray Tower in Strathmore, has sworn to protect and aid the peoples of Sheonn; however, as we discussed previously, matters related to the Summoning occupy much of his attention and industry at this time. As a result, with his blessing, I divide some of my attention to administering his protectorate; however, such a pretext will not avail me in the city of Strathmore itself."

"Uh huh." Topher didn't like where this was going. "And what makes you think I'm going to be able to do anything about that? The one time I talked to that guy -- if he's even the dude I think he is -- he barely said four sentences to me, and all of them could be summed up as 'you're fucked, sorry pal'." He scowled. "And I still don't see what this has to do with any debt."

Kelfir continued to ignore him. "I do not require you to interact with Quint on my behalf, Master Bailey. I require you to return to Strathmore -- a place I myself cannot go or send minions on my behalf -- to perform a task of both delicacy and subtlety; a task that only you are both capable and culpable for." The archmage turned, at last facing Topher. "I want you to return to Strathmore, Christopher Bailey, and determine who is ultimately responsible for my son's murder. Or do you still profess that this is not your responsibility?"