On the Trader's Road

Kaive dismounted from his palomino steed with practiced fluidity, landing with both feet on the ground before the stable keeper. He cut an impressive figure compared to the young man, who could have been no older than eighteen years of age. Wearing a soft, black sable cloak, a vest of elven spun silk, and bearing a sheathed longblade at his waist, he looked like someone of particular importance. His ears, long and slender as elven ears were, flashed gold and silver and glittered with the fire of diamonds. He boasted two gold earrings on the right ear, three on the left, and on each earlobe was a diamond stud, square solitaires that winked in the afternoon light. He drew a small leather purse from one of the many pockets of his cloak.

“You take the King’s Coin?” he asked in the common tongue. The currency of Artegia was the most commonly used system in the world, and its money was good almost anywhere. In these lands, however, with barons, earls, and counts who ruled over sovereign states, it was never a precisely sure thing. Some locales only accepted local coin, others preferred dwarven thanes or Imperial crowns. Generally speaking, though, a purse of Artegian pennies and signets would pay one’s way anywhere in the world.

“We accept all coins here, so long as the money’s good,” the stable boy replied, hand outstretched. Kaive plucked a pair of copper pennies from the purse and dropped them in his palm. The stable boy took note of the numerous rings around his fingers. Two sapphires and a ruby, mounted on silver and gold, caught his eyes in particular.

“I’ll be here an hour or two. Feed her, make sure she’s ready to leave when I return,” Kaive stated crisply. The stable boy nodded and assured him his horse would be taken care of before leading her away to the stabling. Kaive’s eyes lingered on the horse a moment before he strode towards the door, his soft moleskin boots sinking into the damp dirt ever so slightly. It had rained recently, but only briefly, and certainly not enough to drive the taste from the air. As a light wind passed he ran the tip of his tongue along his lips and caught a trace of something imperceptible to the ordinary tongue. It was the faint taste of crackling ozone and daffodils. He smiled faintly as the magic tickled his taste buds. They were closer than he expected.

Kaive pushed open the door of the tavern and entered without attracting much attention. Travelers were not uncommon here, and it was a fairly busy day for the Grey Swan. Twenty-something people were scattered about the tables and at the bar including a bushy bearded bartender and a pair of waitresses shuffling here and there with plates, silverware, and tankards of ale in hand. He wasted no time in surveying the scene, and approached the bar with a casual ease and familiarity. His eyes, however, were anything but. They darted here and there, tracking faces and taking inventory of arms and armor.

“How can I help you, sir?” The bartender, who was cleaning out a used tankard with a rather filthy rag, was a jovial fellow with a broad smile. Kaive slid a light, silver coin the width of his thumb across the bar, an Artegian signet. The bartender kept himself from staring too long at it. Nothing anyone typically ordered at the Grey Swan was worth silver, meriting it a stare, but he was a courteous man and conscious of his manners.

“I’m looking for a tall, lanky fellow, an Isilidori in the company of a young Athelidori,” Kaive responded, his gaze focused on the bartender’s eyes. “You strike me as an attentive man. Surely two elves wouldn’t have stopped in at your tavern without your notice.” They had been here, he knew. He could taste the singed ozone of the Isilidori’s magic, the arcane footprint dancing on his tongue with every breath that passed his lips. The bartender knew as much as well. Elves were not particularly common in the region, and traveling Isilidori, with their dark skin tones that ranged from nightshade blue to light mahoghany, stuck out like sore thumbs. Kaive slid another silver coin across the bar. “It’s rather urgent,” he added.

The bartender nodded. “They stopped by two days ago. There was a third fellow with them, a man with a bow. Brown hair, I think. They were traveling the Trader’s Road on foot, due north,” he told Kaive. Kaive frowned. He couldn’t place who this third person might be.

“You wouldn’t happen to know if anyone here came down south on the road since then, would you?” The bartender indicated a few of the patrons with subtle nods. Kaive gave him a word of thanks and went off to gather some information. He knew he had to be swift, however. He was hot on their trail and there was little time to lose.

“You look unhappy. Are you unhappy?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m lonely.”
“You have me.” Silence. “So you don’t love me anymore?”
“I never said that.”
“Yeah, but that’s what you meant, isn’t it?” Another silence. He sighed, then continued. “So why not leave me?”
“Why would you ask me that?” It was his turn to remain silent. “You know my answer.”
“You could leave me.”
“Not unless you allow it.”
“Now why would I do that?” He smiled a small, tight-lipped, horrible smile.

============

The river whispered to her. It was not nearly as demanding as the lapping of the ocean on the beach, but it called to her nonetheless. ”Come back,” it murmured to her, the water crawling over the smooth, slick rocks. The weeds that grew along the bank waved with the current, beckoning to her. ”Closer,” the green leaved cooed. ”All rivers lead to the ocean. All rivers will take you home.”

The young woman dropped her head into her hands. Her brown hair fell across her shoulders like a shawl, though it provided no comfort. Her small frame continued to shake with small sobs. The tears continued to slip silently down her cheeks. I cannot stay here, she thought to herself. If I do, I will surely go crazy. She sat like that a moment longer, a lone figure seated on the bank of some unnamed river. Was she lost? No, not quite. Lost would suggest she had something to go back to.

The sun was slipping slowly above the horizon. Emer stood slowly and dusted the dirt from the seat of her cerulean dress. She brushed back her hair from her face and readjusted the black sash that was tied loosely around her waist. She would keep moving, just as she always did. The young woman stooped down, retrieved a worn leather suitcase, and straightened again with a soft, pained puff of air. After so many nights sleeping on the hard ground, everything was a little stiff. She rolled her shoulders for good measure, taking pleasure in the small, satisfying cracks. Keep walking, that was what she would do. That was all she could do.

The sun moved slowly across the sky. Emer rested once when the sun was directly overhead but moved on quickly. There was no reason to stop. She had nothing to wait for. So she continued walking, her gaze normally on her black sandals. She would follow a path until it ended. Then she would take another. She did her best to avoid the river, but she always managed to find her way back. It wanted her, after all. But it could not have her. She would continue to fight its sweet, longing voice that endlessly begged her to come home. She would fight it as long as she could.

Then the sun began its decent. Emer prayed the daylight would linger, as the longer it was light, the more distance she could cover. But just as it did every night, the sun finally gave way to night’s darkness. But tonight, there was something different. A small glow off in the distance. She was certainly curious, but she knew better than to travel into the night. Darkness held untold dangerous, and she refused to die at the hands of some terrible night beast or angered madman. Nothing good came from the night. Her eyes were drawn to the light once more, but she finally pulled her attention away long enough to hunker down among some bushes on a crudely made bed of grass and twigs. There, she slept. And she did not awake for a long while. In fact, when Emer finally opened her hazel eyes, she was horrified to learn that the sun was already high in the sky. Hurridly, she scooped up her belongings and moved toward where the light had been the night before. How could she have wasted an entire morning? She had to make up the time she had lost. She had to put more distance between herself and the horrors she was trying to escape. She focused entirely on the spot where she had seen that light.. Her gaze only dropped when she was standing at the door to what appeared to be a tavern. Her hands clenched and unclenched into fists nervously as she considered entering. No one here will know you, she silently assured herself. You’re too far away. She took a deep, shaking breath. So enter. And she did.

She was immediately hit with a blast of warm air and a rush of smells and sounds. Her large eyes squinted into the darkness as she tried to adjust to the tavern. It was by no means completely dark, but it was still dimmer than the outside had been. As her vision cleared, she realized that there were a few patrons of the tavern looking at her suspiciously. She was, admittedly, a strange looking travler. A small woman in a flowing dress and sandals, with nothing but a worn suitcase. Her brown hair was also dirty, as she had not bathed since her last stay in a small inn. That had been over a week ago. Emer would not bathe in the river. She could not risk it.

Feeling the fire of a warm blush in her cheeks, the young woman dipped her head, clutched her suitcase to her chest and moved to an empty chair in the corner. When the waitress eventually made her way to Emer's table, the selkie asked simply for a glass of water. She was unsure if the face the waitress made was because of Emer's inexpensive beverage choice, or simply because she looked so pitiful. Perhaps it was a bit of both.

The sparrow drilled hole after hole into the crudely carven wood table. It moved in jerking spurts, stuttering around to another spot on the table to drill more holes into it and Catullus' skull.

The sparrow never flew. Its presence left a tingling sensation on Catullus' skin. It left a stinging sensation to linger on every nerve, like a blanket of needles and pins that prodded at his soul. It made his muscles clench and twitch, and his whole body and consciousness curled around its presence like a needle jabbed into his hips.

Catullus took a gulp from his tankard. His vertebrae protruded from his back while he sat, curled around his mead. His clenched lips had difficulty opening to accept the cool drink, leaving some of it dripping down his beard. His eyes averted the sparrow as his lengthy fingers wound like wires around his drink. He could do nothing but stare down into the pool of liquid. What looked back at him was just the gnarled face of an old man. He stared into it for a long time, momentarily forgetting it, before it returned. Numbed by deep introspection, he failed to notice the sparrow work its way up onto his shoulder.

His head slowly and begrudgingly turned to gaze on its humble visage, and it began to slowly saunter its way down his arm again. As it came back upon the table, it jumped from its edge. Catullus' heart fluttered, his soul flapped, and his mind soared, but the sparrow did not. He could only dream that one day, one lovely day, it would jump of that edge and fly, to meet the soft, pillowy clouds and the sun's shining visage. But that day was not this day, and on this day it landed on his lap. He buried his talons in his thighs, and lied down in its clothy nest on his lap.

If he couldn't distract himself after a certain period of time, it would begin to burn. The needle, inches deep into his screaming flesh, began to sear and sizzle. His body was coated in sweat, as heat rushed through his body, further clenching and tightening his muscles. It would dig its damned little claws into his lap, thinly veiled in aged and wrinkled skin.

He let out a bellowing and coarse grumble and returned to his drink. He looked down to his hands, both cupped around his cup like a beggar, and to his fingers, still wound about its circumference. Wrapped in wrinkled, loose, frail skin, he looked at them, and they began to change. His fingers thickened and became firm; the skin of his arms and hands tightened, became smooth; the wiry and white hair on his arms became thicker, and more of it sprouted from his pores. Finally, his strength returned to him, and he could almost feel his feet rise from the splintered, shabby wooden floor.

The sparrow suddenly plucked its tiny blades from his flesh, and repeatedly dug back in and out, in and out of his aged flesh. Readjusting itself, he continued to terraform Catullus' clothy robe and flesh to make a better nest. Its talons finally sunk back in, and it snuggled itself back into his lap, rooted firmly in its master.

It made him beg for it to fly. It made him beg for sweet release, and it made him beg that the pain would soften. Its presence, its meager, insignificant presence gently and lightly prodded at his soul, while the rest of it convulsed in agony.

Of all the things the damned sparrow did, it never flew.

Catullus' face was flushed, and as his rage seethed and boiled out of every crevice in his body, and even dribbled some from his mouth in the form of saliva, he snatched the sparrow by its back. The sparrow's talons were ripped from his flesh, leaving miniscule wounds in his legs. Leaning against his chair was a lean, smooth, wooden staff, and attached to its end was a small birdcage, held with black metal. Catullus snatched it in his already bent fingers, and slammed the small bird into the cage and sealed it with a simple hook handle. The sparrow was clearly cramped, even for a small and lithe bird such as itself. The metal binds constricted it, and by the cage's binding powers, Catullus received a measure of relief.

Catullus relaxed, and his muscles were at ease for the time being. His mind slowly crawled away from the thoughts of the wretched bird, no longer on its guard. He was left to think of other things, but the itch still lingered in the deepest folds of his most secluded recesses. He let his drink finish off the rest of his troubles, and he let his ears and eyes do a little crawling and sprawling of their own, taking a moment to enjoy the show performed on the world's stage.

It was not often that Aaerin could call a ride in a wagon’s rear comforting, but the nauseating journey did allow her to rest aching feet that had traversed too many miles for her own comfort. The river she had needed to cross days ago had but one ferry run by brigands who called themselves entrepreneurs.

Ten signets to cross a pond? What a ludicrous scheme.

Granted, the young dedicate did have more than that amount on her person, but just barely. After weighing the options, Aaerin had dismissed the pirates with their lascivious grins in favor of spending an extra’s day walk to the bridge further east, ironically in the same direction as her childhood village. She tried not to dwell on it, though the symbolism was not lost on her: Putting more distance between herself and the temple while moving close, but not quite toward the place she had left gave her an odd sense of loneliness.

There are many thoughts to sort through when all there is to the day is walking, walking, and more walking.

Days later, she was able to pay a farmer three silver signets in exchange for her current mode of transport to the next inn. The journey was less than comfortable, but Aaerin remained touched by the compassion she continued to find on her journey. She was welcome to use the spare hay as bedding and had the company of a weathered old man headed north to one of the larger cities. Being able to assist a dedicate of Luhare meant a lot to rural folk, as she was one of the chief deities in those areas.

Luhare, your folk are so kind to me. Let me continue to be found worthy in your moonlit eyes.

Lost in her meditation, Aaerin felt the world still as the cart stopped. Careful not to jostle the chicken cage, she hopped out of the wagon’s cart and looked around, brushing stray bits of straw from her brown tunic and breeches. The farmer looked back and motioned her over.

“Priestess, this be the Grey Swan,” he said while looking at her a bit apprehensively. She opened her mouth to correct him but he spat at the ground and continued, “It’s not full of bad sort, but I nay think you should spend much time here.”

The adolescent in Aaerin nearly rolled her eyes, but that sort of behavior was unbecoming of a dedicate. Instead, she smiled politely and turned back to the wagon so she could retrieve her satchel, bow and quiver. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a silver signet and five copper pennies that went into the farmer’s open palm.

“Thank you for seeing me safely to this point, sir,” she said carefully. “I will heed your concern and move on as Luhare sees fit. May your journey be ever fruitful.”

With a slight bow, she offered the farmer one last smile before walking into the tavern, tunic sleeves covering the henna tattoos on her wrists. The noise inside the tavern was manageable, though deceptively louder than it had sounded from outside. Looking around the room, she saw an imposing looking Isilidori step away from the bar—and the bartender palming something. She strode over and offered the barkeep a beatific smile, which he returned with raised eyebrows as he picked up a tankard and began swiping at it halfheartedly with a soiled rag. Trying to keep composure, Aaerin focused on the task at hand.

“How much for a bed? I will be needing one for the night,” she asked briskly, hoping to avoid the obvious innuendo by pulling her purse forth with a tattooed hand. The man, presented with the most obvious sign that the woman in front of him was cut from holier cloth than most of the Grey Swan’s patrons, looked left and right before leaning in slightly to speak.

“It’s normally four signets for the rooms with a basin and pot, but I’d be happy to charge you two, Priestess.”

With a raised eyebrow of her own, Aaerin fished four signets out of her purse and placed them on the bar. Generosity was one thing, but there was nothing about this man that made her want the discount, which was more likely to give him other ideas about what he could get. In return, she got an unreadable look and a key, which she stashed away in one of the tunic’s pockets before ordering a cup of tea and retreating to a less lively corner of the room. With her back to the wall, Aaerin sat and observed the patrons of the Grey Swan. It was a world of noise and belches and cries from the kitchen, but the young woman found it easier to detach herself and meditate in such chaos.

None of them looked like Luhare’s folk, but Aaerin knew the world was full of surprises.

The door to the Grey Swan swung wide open again. Some of the patrons turned to look who entered this time -- many of them turned back to their drinks, frowned, and took another look. Tall, disheveled, and most importantly quite dangerous of appearance, Maphrodite strode into the tavern with confident steps. It was not his attire that betrayed the danger he was, really, as he wore a simple cloth tunic, shapeless trousers of the same material and very dirty leather boots. His hair was a fantastic mess that seemed to defy gravity to an unreasonable degree, stiff with dirt and the like, but it was the face south of it that made people do a double-take. Split into a wide grin for no easily identifiable reason and featuring eyes that made even the hardiest of men in the tavern feel uneasy (except, perhaps, the Isilidori, whose outlandish appearance Maphrodite almost chuckled at) as Maphrodite scanned the room and made eye contact, it was like something out of a prison dungeon or a fright-play (one of the western theatrical traditions).

Of course, the fact that his clothes looked like they may have been covered in blood at some point in the past week didn't help either.

Done surveying the place, Maphrodite approached the bar and dropped the grin he had been wearing. Appearing solemn all of a sudden, he stared at the bartender for a few seconds, who returned the gaze warily. Maphrodite reached for his pockets and pulled out a beautiful leather purse, something that looked like it should belong to a woman, and shook out a bunch of copper pennies. Without counting them he casually deposited them onto the worn, wooden bar and lisped: "Two mugs of ale." Without saying anything to respond, the bartender turned to fill two tankards, unwilling to engage in conversation with the filthy man. As the bartender did so, Maphrodite took another look around the room and spotted someone had missed the first time around. A woman, quite young, looking definitely out of place. As he narrowed his eyes, Maphrodite identified something on the woman's wrist -- was that henna? What was a priestess doing here? Maphrodite's expression unreadable, he turned back to the bartender and picked up his ale. With slow, loping steps, he walked over to the young priestess. She was sitting in a more quiet part of the tavern and there was a chair available opposite her. Without asking permission, Maphrodite sat down and put the tankards on the table in front of them. Slowly, he pushed one of the mugs of ale towards the priestess, well aware she was probably not going to drink it if she really was a priestess, but that was part of the joke.

Maphrodite leaned back and smiled his most charming smile at the priestess, which still looked like he had just slaughtered a whole barn of chickens and was now trying to forget all that and think of something else.

"Tell me, priestess," he began, his voice rising and falling with unusual cadence, "what deity is it that you serve? What mission brings you here? I'm pretty sure I have lost my way, you see. I'm not really a man of the gods anymore. Doesn't matter which pantheon. But perhaps you can steer me back on the right path, eh? With your honeyed words of faith and deliverance?" His tone turned sour with the last sentence and the smile fled from his face, replaced by a mild frown. He took a large gulp from his ale and wiped his chin with the back of his hand, his eyes never leaving those of the priestess.

Kaive took a seat at the bar and ran a hand through his sleek, black hair before gathering it in a ponytail. He had spoken to nearly a dozen people and learned exactly nothing. Well, not exactly nothing. Given the fact that he had no desire to explain the complexities behind his pursuit of these two elves and their enigmatic addition to their party, the best way to deflect questions concerning his circumstances was to insist on talking about theirs. While some kept it short and sweet, apparently others found garishly dressed strangers an excellent opportunity to vent their frustrations and lecture on the various day-to-day inanities of their lives.

He had learned a great deal about the market for iron ore between Erandor and Ostlin from a traveling merchant, and had learned a thing or two about the increased number of bandits and brigands on the roads from a pair of militiamen. At worst, one older woman had attempted to introduce the goddess Luhare into what seemed to be an innocuous conversation concerning her husband’s smithy in a small town between the Swan and Erandor. Hardly a godly man and sensing the threat of a an attempt at his conversion to the faith, Kaive hastily excused himself from the conversation and fled to the bar in search of the safe haven of alcohol’s embrace.

“Something strong. Some sort of spirit,” Kaive said to the bartender, taking a seat before him as he passed by. The bartender nodded, pulling a small glass from under the bar and sliding it to him. He drew a skin from the stocks behind the bar and filled perhaps a third of the glass with a caramel colored liquid. Kaive lifted the glass and took a waft of the liquor. “What is this?” he asked. The smell was delightful, though he couldn’t place it.

“Burnwine, called brandy in some parts. Distilled wine, aged in wooden casks, and shipped south from a distillery in Erandor. It’s a fine beverage,” the bartender replied. “And it’s a signet a glass,” he added as it became clear that the Isilidori was not immediately forthcoming with payment. A signet was a fair bit of money for a drink, but after taking a hesitant sip Kaive realized that it was a fair price all the same. He slid one of the silver coins across the bar and the bartender shuffled off to continue on with his work. Kaive, taking a look around, wondered what he was to do with no leads and barely the faintest trace of magic on his tongue. Even that was fading fast, just a few footprints in the sand slowly slipping away with the waves.

He surveyed the tavern, his eyes narrowing as his prospects did. A man with a sparrow, an attractive, if homely-dressed, young woman with henna tattoos, a fairly filthy young man, and a host of other, wildly ordinary looking patrons young, old, and in between. And then there was one more, a young woman in a cerulean dress who looked desperately in need of a bath. She had entered earlier, and the looks she’d been given suggested that she was not a frequenter of the tavern. He might as well ask, he figured, and so he made his way from the bar to the table she sat at.

She was quite the sight, he decided as he sat before her. Rather dirty, a lone suitcase, and a single glass of water on the table. He absently wondered what her story might be.

“Forgive my intrusion,” he began with an almost unintentionally delicate tone (she seemed the sort of person to whom one talks softly and politely), “but if you don’t mind me asking, are you traveling from the north or the south today?”

A door swings open and shut as the din dies down momentarily before resuming its cadence.

The Grey Swan's noise surrounded Aaerin like a bubble as she observed the room flatly. It was difficult, separating the regulars from the travelers, but Aaerin was learning a little more with each day she spent out of the temple. Regulars, she noted, did not approach the bar as frequently as the travelers. Occasionally a table's occupant would raise a hand and, rather than come over, the barkeep would just refill whatever the drink was and bring it over. And by the look of those who signaled him, Aaerin would be getting no assistance from them. Not only were they primarily men, but they seemed to be of...whatever sort that farmer had spoken of. One or two of them had openly eyed her and the empty seat at the table, so she had brandished her hands like weapons and shields to warn them away.

That left the travelers, a scant group of individuals peppered around the room like odd ornaments. Each stood out not only because of they smelled like the road, but because the regulars kept eyeing them oddly. The Isilidori, with his garish-looking baubles and outrageous skin tone, stood out like a sore thumb in the room.

Bulbor's wit, he probably stands out in every room, Aaerin chuckled to herself. There was something oddly comical about the long-eared figure. Perhaps it had to do with the fact that he was wearing more jewelry than the Duchess of Ostlin.

A shadow fell across the table as Aaerin's view of the elf was suddenly obscured. Pursing her lips, the dedicate looked up into the face of her new companion. The newcomer was forward, snatching the table's empty chair and planting himself in it before she had the chance to determine just how much larger he was than her. Silently berating herself for allowing this lack of awareness, the man began to speak.

Quote:

---

"Tell me, priestess, what deity is it that you serve? What mission brings you here? I'm pretty sure I have lost my way, you see. I'm not really a man of the gods anymore. Doesn't matter which pantheon. But perhaps you can steer me back on the right path, eh? With your honeyed words of faith and deliverance?"

---

His strange inflection was nothing like Aaerin had ever heard before -- she found herself scrunching her eyebrows in slight concentration as she tried to determine if he was being serious or taking the mick, as it were. When he'd finished, her lips unconsciously pursed as she determined just what he meant. The man had placed an ale in front of her and, seeing as the barkeep probably wasn't going to show up with her tea anytime soon, the dedicate took the mug in hand and tried not to wince at how undeniably grimy the handle felt. Lifting it with two hands, she sipped at the bitter liquid, letting the ale fill her parched throat and finding solace in the broken eye contact before responding.

"Luhare the Huntress is not one to call for deliverance, lest you be the buck she aims at with her mighty arrow," Aaerin began, inexplicably gripping the mug tightly. "As a member of her temple, I am charged with spreading her love and the love of her siblings to the Four Corners until she calls me home. However, She understands that all are not prepared for her love. It is for that reason that you will receive no honeyed words from me, fellow traveler."

By the end, Aaerin also sported a deep frown as she contemplated her current status. There was an air of not-quite-right about this fellow, but she was fairly backed into the corner. And as he sat directly in front of her, it was very difficult to avoid the man's gaze. Never before had the young woman felt like prey.

"Is there a particular reason you have joined me here? This was not the last open seat on the floor." Silently, she hoped he would leave, but this was not something She could assist her in.

There was a sudden shiver crawling up her spine, and the young woman immediately glanced up to survey the room. She had been staring blankly at her glass of water, her mind elsewhere, until she felt a heavy gaze on her. Her guard went up quickly, and she had to figure out who it was looking at her. If they were staring at her, perhaps they recognized her. Maybe they knew who she was. They might try to take her back. Her hands tightly gripped the edge of the table as she searched the patrons of the dimly lit tavern. One of them would be looking at her.

When she met the gaze of the young man at the table, she immediately looked away, her cheeks warming. It was always a strange sensation, meeting eyes with a stranger. But she had looked at him long enough to know she did not know him. Of course, this only brought another wave of questions. Who was this man, and why was he looking at her? The more paranoid part of her immediately assumed he had been sent to find her. A spy or detective of some sort, perhaps. She hoped to shake off this terrible thought, and perhaps she might have, had the stranger not moved from his stool at that moment.

Her entire body tensed. What was he doing? As the man neared her table, it became painfully clear that her table was his intended destination. For a fleeting moment, she considered running. She could grab her suitcase, and she had a clear path to the front door. But she quickly thought better of it. Were she to run, she would appear guilty immediately. Maybe if she feigned innocence, the man would move on and search elsewhere. Then, once his back was turned, she could make her escape. As the stranger took a seat opposite her, she pretended to be incredibly interested in the glass of water on the table. Then, when he spoke to her, she looked up at him with an expression of soft surprise and confusion.

“Oh, it is quite alright,” Emer replied, referring to his intrusion. But then she hesitated. If he was indeed attempting to trap her, telling him her travel plans would be a terrible idea. Then she nearly laughed. Travel plans? She had none. The young woman had just been wandering, trying to cover as much ground as she possibly could. There was only one direction she would not travel, and that was the direction from which she had come. The place from which she was running from. And that direction was to the east.

“I am traveling to the North,” she told him finally.

“North? Curious,” Kaive replied. Something was indeed curious, but it was hardly the direction this girl was traveling. He held her eyes, and what eyes they were. He found himself gazing into captivating black globes, deep and dark as a moonless night sky. It was unnerving, and he lifted the glass of burnwine to his lips. He took a sip of the smooth, golden liquor, but not before testing the air ever so subtly with his tongue. There was nothing, no taste of anything, which ruled out any glamour, illusion, or other sorcerous trick of the eye. He set the glass on the table and smiled at his new partner in conversation.

“I have a question I’d like to ask you about your journey, nothing too personal, I promise, but I’m interested,” Kaive said swiftly. He undid the clasp at his neck and let the sable cloak drape over the back of his chair. Without the cloak, his attire was far more visible, and it was (unsurprisingly) out of the ordinary. He wore a collared vest of elven spun silk, a sleeveless piece of clothing that shimmered with a color that seemed like fresh forged bronze given textile form. He wore no armor visibly, save for a segmented leather spaulder which sported a sheath. The sheath held a wickedly curved blade, and, fearing that it might spoil the conversation, Kaive chose to address it immediately.

“I hope the weapons don’t intimidate you, it’s just protection for the road,” Kaive lied with a smile. He thought nothing of the idea that the intricate web of glyphic tattoos that ran the length of his arm and further from his wrist upward might also make her uneasy, but tattoos are easy to forget about as the years march on. “I’m simply wondering if, in your travels, you might have come across two elves, a male Isilidori in the company of a female Athelidori. The dark elf’s tall, six-four, gaunt, wears his hair in a short ponytail most of the time. The girl is – I don’t know – shorter than me, maybe even your height?” He had spied the girl only twice in his life, and both occasions occurred over a year ago. His time overseas hadn't done anything for his memory of her.

He took another sip of the burnwine and watched the liquid turn in the glass as he shifted the incline to and fro in an unknowingly distracting manner. “Two more questions also come to mind, if you care to answer either. Namely, why a young woman like yourself is traveling alone on foot in this corner of the world, and if you need a signet or two for the road. You look to be in dire need of a hot bath, miss,” he said with a knowing smile.

The way he held her gaze was unnerving, but it was not merely the fact his eyes met hers that caused fire in her cheeks and her anxious heart to beat faster. No, it was the intensity with which he looked at her. She broke the connection by glancing past him. She nodded to demonstrate that she was listening to him, but the fact that she looked past him made her appear distant somehow. At least, she hoped that that was the air she gave. It was not until he had finished speaking that she looked back to him, regarding the young man with a mixture of interest and distrust. His first question had come as a surprise to her. Why would a man who had been sent to find her ask about some unrelated business? She had nearly let her guard down, deciding that this man posed no threat to her. Then he spoke again.

Yes, those were the personal questions that she had been expecting all along. The personal questions that he assured her were by no means personal. She inhaled sharply, the small smile that had been tugging on the corners of her pale pink lips disappearing instantly. And with the off-handed comment on her personal hygiene, her face grew hard.

“No,” Emer replied flatly, shaking her head as if to emphasize her answer. “I have not seen the elves which you seek.” Her eyes darted to the weapon the man carried, before dancing across the tattoos that adorned his wrists. He was a strange man. Many who wore such tattoos were the dark type, perhaps convicts or gang members. Men who might take advantage of a lonely traveler like her. His questions regarding her travel plans concerned her, especially since he pointed out that she was alone. But the clothing he wore and the way in which he carried himself made her think he was something more than a simple bad man. He both frightened and intrigued her. She took a middle ground, and decided to proceed cautiously.

“I would rather not tell you of my own business, should it please you,” came her response. To address the second part of her question, she shook her head. “And I do not need your charity.” My hygiene should not be of your concern, she nearly added, but thought better of it.