RP:The Gualon Conundrum

Summary: Thamalys is bound to meet with a shady representative of the Droghan Orc Tribe. (Un)luckily enough, Loravelle happens to walk by at the exact moment when Orc and Avian are supposed to shake hands - which results in an awkward, potentially lethal conundrum. The Maid manages to evade the sticky situation, however, and reconvenes with Thamalys at the Grogshop. Apologies are issues on both sides, thus stirring some conversation that sheds some light on the past of both. When the bottle eventually dries up, the Avian returns to Larket- leaving a token to Loravelle behind.

Gualon: Overgrown Garden

This garden looks like it has been left a very long time, weeds are growing waist high, and the ground is covered with rubble from the surrounding buildings. There are remnants of string around, and the look of the raised flowerbeds suggests that this place was once tended. Perhaps if you search the undergrowth you might find something interesting.

Thamalys looked around, the uneven patch of untended grass somehow clashing with his innate desire for symmetry and order. Not often to be found in Gualon, exception made for seeking the services of the High Priestess, the Blue stood tall in the dead centre of the garden, either starstruck by the surroundings (unlikely) or dar more likely waiting for something – or indeed, someone. Brown leather trousers, worn to the point that some sand-like colour started to surface at knee-height, and a simple short-sleeved dark-green shirt of what was probably linen, much of his arms uncovered so as to feel the sun and the wind alike. Small things to many, fundamentals for Avians. On his skin, pale and scratched in multiple places, writhed countless tattoos shaped as creeping vines of ivy, presently dancing lazily despite their owner being perfectly still. A sizable satchel swung across his torso, and on his back, right on between those monumental silvery wings, neatly furled into a shimmering metallic cocoon, the pointy shapes of the Gossamer Halberd, its point glimmering in the red sun. From time to time, the Healer’s cranium would have turned to take in as much of the garden as possible, as if he expected someone to come out of the old grass. A huge mane of ivory hair, combed in the form of tattered dreadlocks, followed said motion swaying slowly across the sharp features of the Avian’s face. Few could have told, but he was tense as a violin’s string, each muscle and every tendon ready to spring, the rims of his wings twitching wildly from time to time. What was he doing there of all places, now that the sun decided it was done for the day? Time would have told…

Loravelle balanced the basket of damp laundry she carried back home against her right hip. She typically cut through the unsightly garden to make the trek back, since it kept her well out of the way of passersby and permitted her a few moments of comfortable silence. Her eyes, pale grey, tired, and often somewhat saddened, were not cast down as they typically were. Instead they went skyward. It seemed like a good day to fly her kite, but to her disappointment work took priority over leisure. Her clothes denote to some degree what she is. A maidservant, an attendant to a wealthy family. Modest, plain, covered from chin to ankle in fabric. A slightly wide-sleeved qizhuang made of linen instead of silk, dyed pale green, held shut with frog clasps made of carefully braided cord. The slits up either side of the layers of dress revealed russet-colored pants for ease riding on horseback. It all lacked the fine embroidery her mistress's dress had. Her slippers, once white, were stained green from walking through the grass. She coughs, patting at her chest with a small hand. The movement just so happens to jostle one of the several ornate ornaments arranged in her elaborate updo, so she moves to adjust it. In doing so, to her horror, she casts a glance at the towering avian right in the midst of the garden and freezes in place. She isn't alone. With how still he seemed to be, why, he may as well have been a statue. The thought crosses the diminutive woman's mind as she musters up the courage to keep walking, her footsteps taking her close enough to get catch a better glimpse of the strange, to her surprise mobile, tattoos on his skin, but hopefully just far enough to flee if she had to. Before her gaze can linger for too long, she notices a thick, exposed root in the high grass and nearly catches her foot on it. She stumbles in effort to not trip over it,tipping the basket of laundry to her stomach so its contents don't spill on the ground, and trips anyway. Thankfully with her height, it's a short fall. Knees meet the grassy floor, and her front feels cool as wet laundry soaks through her dress. Believing she may have bumped Thamalys, the maid slowly turns her head to beg pardon, and apologize for her mistake.

Thamalys took notice of the Maidservant with a note or frustration – she was not who he was waiting for. “Maybe he won’t show up after all… pity…” whispered the Blue, eventually abandoning his post the moment Loravelle stumbled upon the treacherous root, only to fall a couple of feet short of the left ankle of the Winged Beast. “Here, let me help…” he would have offered the Healer, kneeling in turn with a speed somehow not quite adequate to stature of his figure, potentially picking up a couple of fallen handkerchiefs that might have been eluded the guard of the Maid. “This is quite an odd place to stroll around with fresh laundry…” noted in the flattest tone imaginable the Spellblade, allowing himself to take a look at the intricate patterns decorating her hair. He would have started to ponder about her business in Gualon, were if not for the sudden interruption that shook the silence as sudden as thunder. Quite literally emerging from the ground, at no more than ten feet away from Healer and Maid, rose the bulky, jagged figure of… an orc – and a rather impressive one as well. Taller than any the Avian could recall, this piece of green work was dressed, because dressed he was, in a purple robe. Yellow fangs sprouted from a mighty jaw, just below two big, black eyes. No armour, no weapons – nothing made any sense anymore, apparently. The Blue, however, was only marginally taken aback. With a calculated, precise, single movement, he stood and sidestepped so as to position himself between the growling apparition and the stumbling Servant. “Don’t move…” he barked as a sharp rebuke to her the Avian, even as he canted his cranium in what must have come across as a sign of welcome and good will toward the newcomer. “Tolphesius, son of Belphesius – thank you for coming…” opened the Winged Beast loudly enough to be heard over the crushing sound of the soil which was literally cracking at the feet of huge orc. “Ever heard of the Droghan, child?” whispered the Blue while turning the littlest toward the Maid.

Loravelle is a bit slow with getting to her feet, but to her shock and horror, the winged being hoists her up. Just her luck. Wolves and vampires in Frostmaw. Avians in Gualon. It seemed anything but humans crossed her path as of late, and the notion put the maid on edge. But this gesture seems without ill intent, so she hesitantly accepts the help. The tone of the avian's voice, while not monstrous, frightens her just enough to slightly tremble. Curse her nerves. Before she can even consider voicing a reply to his observation, her head jerks toward the dreadful sound of something coming. Gripping the basket with one hand, the other claps over her lips, stifling a gasp and potentially a scream. An orc. Naturally she had seen them before, given the locale, but they were still unnerving. Especially one this gigantic. Obedient as ever, Loravelle practically freezes in place at the barked order. Her eyes, pale grey and frantic, take note of various pieces of the scene to commit to memory. Orc and avian faces, the wings, the dreadlocks, the peculiar tattoos. Fangs, purple robes. Names. They're familiar enough that she is almost certain to have heard them in passing during her years since immigrating to this city, but their significance is lost on her. The Droghan is lost on her as well. Her reply to Thamalys is a subtle shake of her head, weary glance shot his way. What did she stumble into?

Thamalys answered the muted reply of the Maid with a curt nod and a brief explanation. “They’re shamans. This one is looking for a trade…” began the Blue; he would have said more, but Tolphesius son of Belphesius cut him short. “Who is she?” growled the Orc, quite obviously not very pleased to witness the presence of Loravelle. “I don’t like ya’ people meddling into me business…and you said you meet me alone!” went on the brute, squinting his eyes whilst taking in the small figure of the Maid and taking a rather threatening step forward. “She is not with me, Shaman – she just happened to pass by. Isn’t that right, miss… miss?” quickly replied the Winged Beast, moving toward the Orc himself whilst finishing that sentence with a clear request for a name from her. A quick glance at his side followed, to meet her gaze with solid blue eyes which did betrayed a hint of genuine worry...

Loravelle detested speaking, but not just because Common was not her mother tongue. She spoke fluently enough, but if she didn't have anything worthwhile to say, she believed it best to stay silent. That and the maid just happened to be horribly shy. Tolphesius, son of Belphesius didn't look the type to accept the excuse she usually used to evade having to talk. Timidly, she tried anyway, a trembling hand reaching up to tug down the high, white collar of her dress just enough to reveal the beginning of a multitude of scars criss crossing her throat, only to disappear further down beneath the fabric where more most definitely were. Thamalys, being a healer with presumably a sharp eye for these things, may notice that the scars are quite old, faded, and clearly not at all damaging to the woman's vocal cords. But perhaps the orc might not know. She turns slightly away from the pair, making a sweeping gesture with her hand toward the city. She could leave the avian and orc, and pretend she never drifted into their encounter.

Thamalys felt the situation might have been about to precipitate quite rapidly. “She doesn’t talk, eh? Maybe she with ya’ after all, oi?” enquired the Orc, moving one more step closer to Avian and Maid, the tattered edges of his purple robe swaying into the morning breeze. “No no no… in fact, she can’t even talk – see? Look at her…” offered the Avian, his bony fingers pointing toward Loravelle’s neck. The Blue gave his best performance, but he did not like to lie – he could not know for sure, but those scars seemed too old and too shallow to prevent someone from uttering even a name. “Mmmh…” grunted the brute, who luckily enough seemed to accept the rather frail explanation for the Maid’s silence. “She still saw me, though. Ya’ know I didn’t want me to be seen…” complained the Orc crossing his arms, not quite as a little child complaining, but close enough. “Listen, the poor thing can’t even talk – and I am sure she won’t be telling anyone about you” pointed out the Spellblade. “Isn’t that right?” continued, this time addressing the Maid, “just nod, it will be fine. No one, Orc or not, is going to hurt you, that much I am telling you…” promised the Avian – and he meant it. What to do about the scarred servant… he had a few ideas, but most of them revolved around her leaving Tolphesius son of Belphesius alone with the Blue.

Loravelle shakes her head at the notion of being with Thamalys. She made a point of avoiding anybody and anything that didn't pertain to the family she served. The thought flusters her. Alone with a male? The rebuke she would receive if found out was not worth the trouble. Tugging her collar back up, cheeks flushing from the inappropriate amount of skin she had revealed, the maidservant considered taking a few steps back, clutching the laundry basket so her knuckles turned white. For a second time her head shakes, pressing her lips into a thin line. Not a word from this one. She even goes so far as to pantomime a key locking over her lips and tossing it away. Curious. What did an orc and an avian want to do out in the middle of this mess? She turns to walk off, in hopes that that'll be the end of the encounter, but those pale grey eyes tended to wander, and the maid cast a glance over her shoulder at the pair once she has moved a few feet away from them.

Thamalys allowed himself a small sigh of relief, as the Maid agree to simply walk away from that rather dangerous situation. “Thank you, miss, your cooperation is much appreciated indeed…” whispered the Blue in an undertone as she stepped back to collect her laundry. “I feel apologies are most definitely in order, given I got you into this – I might be found in the Grogshop later today. If you would happen to spare some of your time and your will, I would be keen to make amends” offered the blue, with what might have been an attempt of a smile but came actually across like a broken grin on that sharp, inked face. “Now go, go!” sort of shoved her away the Spellblade, soon after turning to face the grumpy Orc once more. “Well then – about our business, shall we? Have you brought it?”. And with that, Orc and Avian would have retreated to a more secluded corner of the garden, talking and at times yelling at each other – what exactly they were negotiating, no one but the grass and the chill air would have heard.

Having had dodgy experiences in bars as of late with a certain rougish and utterly nightmarish werewolf, the maid is very hesitant about accompanying this avian later in the day. This is Gualon however, and not the frigid hellscape that is Frostmaw, so she feels a few hairs safer in her home turf. Maybe it'll be fine and Loravelle can slip away if she becomes too uncomfortable. Besides, the maid believes she owes him something for letting her slip away from what she perceives to be a hostile situation between Thamalys and the orc. She turns her head just enough mid-stride to allow for the tattooed avian to catch a glimpse of her face, and nods. Sure, I'll stop by. With that Loravelle departs properly, scurrying to her master's home to hang laundry on the line to dry and mentally prepare for a visit to the Grogshop with Thamalys.

Gualon: Gualon Grogshop

The locally famed rathskeller appears to have undergone recent renovations to bring it up to date with the city ordinances passed since its construction as one of the first buildings established in civilized New Gualon. The flautist no longer appears in employ and rumors as to his whereabouts run rampant. A hearty piano sits in his stead, built for durability over elegance. Roomy booths line the perimeter of the room for when the crowded bar is too raucous for more reserved patrons or those that desire a more clandestine rendezvous. The floor has recently been stained a deep walnut color, perhaps to counter the mild corrosive effects of fungus beer spilled one too many times. Grargh, the ever faithful barkeep of yesteryear and the years before that, presides over the bar proper, now fashioned in a large horseshoe shape, and made from the imported lumber that suggests a thriving commerce trade with other ports of call throughout the countryside. Indeed, much of the Grogshop's offerings reflect the international flavor of the bar itself. The beer selection includes Larketian to Venturillian brews, while liquor is imported from sources throughout the lands, so that only the finest are used in each cocktail concoction. The Grogshop pays homage to its roots and namesake in its famous grog the choice of many orcish inhabitants and only the heartiest humans with the strongest of constitutions.

Thamalys, later that day, sat on a wooden bench right behind a small table at the far corner of the grogshop, not too far away from the ever-watching eyes of Grargh, presently mopping his beloved counter with a damp cloth while grumbling something largely inaudible. The only difference in the Blue’s attire if compared to his morning visit to the Overgrown Garden was the size of his satchel, the brownish leather stretched in the attempt to accommodate the bulk of some mysterious object – potentially the result of the Spellblade’s trade with the Droghan. Not very supportive of the Gualon’s fashion in terms of favouring the local fungus beer, the Avian requested instead some Larketian wine – a suboptimal choice still in his rather picky view, but exploring the potential of the wine list was not the main reason for the Winged Beast to be there in the first place. As a matter of fact, his entrance into the grogshop ruffled some proverbial feathers, Avians being not exactly common to be spotted in Gualon. A generous tip to Grargh, though, served to improve substantially the overall judgment of the Blue in the eyes of the onlookers. The bottle was only half-empty, but the Healer was seriously considering to declare as concluded his business in Gualon for the day. “One last glass, then I’ll be on my way…” grumbled the Blue, by then almost entirely certain the Maid would have forfeited her visit to the grogshop. With a long sigh, the Blue leaned back onto the wall, the silver-coated feathers of his wings clicking ominously upon the bricks with a rather eery sound.

Having completed the majority of her daily chores, she found an excuse to slip out of the Bradley's manor to make her way to the Grogshop. She changed out of her dampened outer dress into an essentially identical one, only rich brown in color now, and re-arranged her hair so it looked less jostled. Her go-to style is liangbatou, with her dull, lengthy black hair neatly parted down the middle and wrapped carefully around an ornate, silver bianfang to hold it into place. It made her hair frame the top of her head like a pair of tiny, squared off wings. Modestly dressed meant modest decoration as well, so she tucked a pair of silk flowers on either side of her hairstyle for balance. Lavender. Just outside the tavern's door, she takes a few deep, calming breaths, only to be nudged aside by a passing half-orc who trudged in before her. Figuring she may very well have been spotted already by Thamalys, Lora slips in after the half-orc, head lowered with hands loosely clasped at her front; Her typical posture when walking, even when not accompanying her master. Her eyes sweep the room for the avian, and she finds him easy to locate. Approaching his table, she doesn't move to sit, instead dipping into a sort of half curtsy. “Hello,” she greets, finally breaking her silence. Her voice is soft, gentle. Hardly there. What she grew to believe the voice of a caregiver should sound like.

Thamalys was about to reach for his pocket, leave a few coins on the table, and call it a day, when Loravelle did in fact enter the Grogshop. Fairly confident the Maid will find him soon enough, the Blue simply waited in place, trying to muster a facial expression a tad less severe than his usual grin – with mixed results. “Afternoon…” replied the Spellblade, just about canting his head to the right, in a voice equally low but loud enough to be heard on top of the humming background noise generated by small talk and big mugs of beer. “Please, sit – can I get you anything? Nothing is exceptional but everything is edible, I think…” went on the Blue, as he gestured toward one of the chairs at the opposite side of the table. Grargh, crafty innkeeper that he was, was already sending a skinny specimen of half orc, clad in a not exactly spotless apron, in the general direction of the duo, brandishing a pencil as it was a longsword. “Anything for the lady, mister?” inquired the young lad, his eyes constantly looking around to each and every table in the shop. The Blue looked at him with an expression that betrayed some confusion. “Well, the lady can surely speak for herself, child – ask her!” retorted, somehow still puzzled by the notion that anyone might be in charge of anyone else’s choices. All that he got in return was a small sigh, but the half-orc did turn to Loravelle with a half-smile, eagerly waiting.

Loravelle anticipated being offered a seat, but the gesture still perplexed her. It isn't orderly. She should be standing or kneeling. Obedient as ever, she lowers herself into one of the vacant seats across from the avian, pale gaze lifting just a fraction from its usual downcast position to observe Thamalys. Believing herself to be in trouble for intruding on his...meeting? The encounter with Tolphesius, son of Belphesius – She is bracing herself for some sort of scolding. Declining his offer for food or drink with a slight shake of her head, Loravelle lifts her head, blinking with surprise when the question is posed again by a half-orc waiter. If she has no choice and must have something, Lora assumes water is the cheapest option. “Water, please,” is her quiet request, her hands wringing themselves in her lap under the table. Once the half-orc has left to get a glass of water for her, she lifts her head to look at the Blue fully – mostly. Her eyes don't quite meet his, instead settling just a hair above them to hopefully give the illusion that she is making eye-contact. “Please f-forgive me for interrupting your...” She takes a deep breath. Talking too much frustrated and frightened her. “...For interrupting you earlier. I did not mean to add to your burdens.”

Thamalys was trying to make sense of the Maid’s behaviour. Shy and composed, traits he did appreciate, but somehow brought to the extreme in this case. The Blue knew by then that he was often perceived – and righteously so – as massively intimidating, but he hoped the context of a tavern might have helped to quench her nervousness. Even her choice of drinks reflected the spartan nature of her ways – at least he heard her voice for the first time. “No need to apologise, at all. If anyone is to blame is me, I could have picked a less public place to meet up with Tolphesius…” explained the Blue, putting some effort into softening his usually rough tone. He paused for a while, as her drink of water arrived. “In fact, I am the one who should apologise – it wasn’t my intention to put you in danger. I am sorry if that exchange has frightened you.” Another pause, as to consider where to go from there. “They call me Thamalys, by the way…” decided to share the Spellblade, soon after offering some hopefully reassuring credentials, “I am part of the Healer’s Guild, most often found in Larket or Frostmaw, though. Can I ask for your name? Forgive my bluntness, but I would guess you work for one of the few affluent families to be found in Gualon? You don’t have to answer me, though – curiosity is one of my biggest flaws, as you can see...” concluded the Blue with a grin that could have been a smile. Or something close enough to it - in his defence, he was trying...

Loravelle wasn't one to volunteer information willingly. Not entirely due to secrecy, but due to being frustratingly shy paired with the belief that she had little worth saying. But this Thamalys seemed to be making some effort to be social, so she supposed she could try as well. With the glass of water delivered, Lora takes a drink and keeps the glass held tight in her small hands to keep herself from picking at her skin or fidgeting. His apology shocks her, brows raising with some surprise. Why apologize to her? She was the one in the way...It would be impolite to refuse it, so instead her head dips with a slight nod of acceptance. The information he offers about himself is taken in with some curiosity. A healer? From such far off places too, though she had unfortunately been to Frostmaw for the tournament. Involuntarily shuddering from her encounters with a certain lycan, she lifts her head just a bit. He's asking for her name. What she does. The movement is minuscule, but Lora's head tilts just a hair. Why? Particularly her name. With her old master dead, killed by the Blue Demon before the final bout in Frostmaw, she could reclaim her old name, couldn't she? The one before the family she served immigrated to Lithrydel, stripped from her to 'acclimate'. There is an unnecessarily long lapse of silence while the maidservant considers this. This isn't something of significance to others, but to her... “...Souxin,” she breathes. Like a sigh. Soh-sheen. Like Thamalys, there is a hint of a grin on her face. “I am known as Lora here. ...I serve the Bradley family.”

Thamalys observed the Maid’s internal conflict with a hint of surprise. Servants tended to be, in his very elitist and thus majorly limited perspective, quite open as far simple information such as names and duties went. And yet, Loravelle seemed to take an unusual amount of time to muster a coherent answer. The latter was rife with mystery as well. “Lora it is, then… for now. Albeit there must be a story attached to someone known by more than one name. I won’t pry…” quickly added the Blue, to clarify he was not after an investigation of any kind. “The Bradley family… I must admit I do not know them at all. Are they… treating you well?” asked the Healer, slowly moving his solid blue gaze from her eyes to her neck, obviously hinting at the web of scars he must have noted earlier today. He was hoping his questions were not to be taken as inquisitorial - just mere curiosity, albeit he tended to show very little patience when confronted with the often cruel, inevitably boorish so-called nobility, in Gualon as much as anywhere else.

Loravelle's appearance and behavior had often fell under the scrutiny of others and she typically didn't mind it. It came with her work. She had to look and carry herself a certain way or else she may be punished or out of a job. The Blue's gaze confused her, however, so she kept hers downcast, taking sudden interest in simply rotating her hardly-touched glass of water on the tabletop. Is he concerned? Genuine concern? She notes that he did say he was a healer, so maybe...Sven above, she showed a few of the scars earlier, realizing with alarm. Her head lowers, nodding. The Bradleys did treat her well now, especially with the head of the household dead and gone. His daughter had taken over the estate, and made a point of shoving more food at Lora and warmer, nicer clothes than she had ever seen. Not since several years ago anyway, when she acquired her scars. This can't really be met with a wall of silence, so the maid tries to confront it, albeit in her usual, timid fashion. She lowers her collar just enough to reveal them again, wary eyes shifting about the room before doing so for fear of onlookers. Nobody seemed to notice or care, thankfully. “Self inflicted,” she carefully explains. “I threw myself to the wolves,” a pause, for what she expects to be laughter by Thamalys at her phrasing. She meant it literally. “For freedom.”

The more Thamalys inquired, the more he felt something was mightily out of order. He himself would have scoured the room to make sure they were not being observed – he took him a stern look to re-direct the curiosity of an especially ugly traveller presently exchanging pleasantries with Grargh at the counter. It was just a quick, almost casual glance that the Blue devoted to inspecting the Maid’s scars. “To the wolves, you say…” mumbled the Spellblade, tapping with his bony fingers the wooden table, pondering. “I can imagine such memories will be painful to bring up again, but perhaps you could elaborate a bit further?” offered the Avian, pausing a short while to take a pensive sip of what remained of his red wine. “Mind you, this is not just me being curious. If you are still suffering from those scars or… more recent ones, even, the Guild might be able to help. Just a thought – again, you don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to…” but the sound of his voice betrayed some urge to know more. What was it that she was hiding? What sort of potentially dark story she lived?

Loravelle wished that she could be matter-of-fact with her past, but discussing it so openly was a rarity. She didn't cry about it, or think it particularly traumatic now, save for her healthy fear for any sort of canine, but with her stammer and general discomfort with speaking, she likely looked distressed. In truth she was, but not as much as her appearance indicated. Talking to healers came with far more ease than others, given how many she had spent her time around through childhood and adulthood. “I didn't want to be...” she begins, then pauses. There was a lot to unpack here, and divulging her life story would mean a lot of talking that the maid was not at all prepared for. But this was a way to start becoming comfortable with socializing, albeit incredibly dark. She considers summarizing the scars and her steps toward 'freeing' herself. That might be the best route to go. Short enough and hopefully succinct. “I served in a palace. I was chosen to be a consort. Like my sister. We were going to live together and I would have healers to keep me from feeling sick all the time, but I didn't want to...” A polite way to say it didn't come. “...whelp heirs. Since I couldn't leave or say no, I made myself useless in that regard. It isn't unique. I am not the first to have done it.” Envisioning that day and the unbearable pain of it all was unpleasant to recall. Lora involuntarily shivers. “It wasn't enough, with how we dress. You can't really see the scars.” A pause, in which the maid takes a drink of water. “...So I paid a healer to make me infertile along with it.” Warmth rises to her cheeks at the embarrassment the words caused. No shame, just embarrassment, and a hint of a smile. “I got to stay with my sister in the end, serving her and her children until I was sent here.”

Thamalys could see words came at a price for the Maid. As her story unfolded, the Blue found he could hardly blame her. He remained silent for a while, even as she finished her dreadful tale. A small sigh would eventually have followed, as he buried part of his face into his left hand – he forgot how to cry and never quite remembered that welling up was an option for most people. If anything, hearing of Loravelle’s past managed to impart a good degree of anger into the Spellblade’s state of mind. “Horrible” flatly commented the Avian, suddenly bringing down the very same left hand he was until a moment before resting on his cheek to slam on the wooden table. A couple of heads turned for a moment, then quickly returned to their own business. “And are you happy now? You walk, talk and behave extremely carefully, as if constantly dreading the worst to happen. Granted, bumping into a tense dialogue between an Avian and an Orc probably did not help…” added with a wry smile the Blue, as with his right he went to fetch something, something small and glossy, from his satchel. It looked like a chess piece, perhaps a rook. "If you are reason to believe the Guild might help with anything, would you consider getting in touch with us? I have a very low tolerance for injustice, and from what I have seen and heard you are a gentle soul - a rairity, these days, which I would hate to see wasted under the ruling of some spoiled, so-called noble brat".

“Horrible,” repeats Loravelle, though quieter, and she jumps at the abrupt slamming of the Blue's hand on the table. Though afraid of his outburst and back to trembling again, she nods. “Happier, but...” her demeanor says it all, just like he said. Almost constantly on edge. “I'm comfortable with my sisters,” she stammers, for explanation. “And music. ...I like flying kites on the rooftops when I'm strong enough to climb. And bird watching,” adds the maid, sheepishly. Frowning, she looks to Thamalys, embarrassed by her pitiful nature. “I was not always this way.” Lora finds herself envisioning older, better days with her sisters, racing on horseback across sandy plains and slipping away from their duties at night to hide on rooftops, hidden beneath a shawl while they ate halva and pointed out constellations in the starry sky. A distant, fond smile appears on her face briefly. She wanted to reclaim that more than anything. Taken out of her thoughts at the sound of the avian's voice, she refocuses, warily eyeing the strange item he presents to her. Unable to take without giving herself, she reaches up for one of the silk lavender flowers pinned there and presents it to him in exchange for the rook. There is hope evident on her face, that perhaps a guild of healers might be able to make her feel less like a walking corpse and more like a functioning human being. Her fingers enclose around the rook once it is in her hands. “I will treasure this, Mister Thamalys. Thank you.”

Thamalys nodded, slowly, as she shared a little section of her everyday struggle with Avian. The Blue listened in silence, accepting the flower into his callous, ridiculously long hands. He found a place for her gift in one of the many pockets of his satchel, fidgeting a little while with laces and strings. “I should be the one to thank you…” offered the Spellblade, moving away the by then empty bottle of wine, “… for bearing with me during a much unexpected encounter and for trusting me with some story about yourself. Trust is dangerous gift to bestow upon anyone, but I shall make sure yours won’t be betrayed. As per that chess piece…” he went on, lowering his voice as if he was about to reveal a deadly secret, “… throw it in a fire or put it on a candle flame, and I shall be sure to reach you quickly enough. Perhaps one day you might want to visit us Healers – or doors would be open for you, you have my word. For now…” he concluded, already trying to free himself from the wooden embrace of the table, “… farewell, Loravelle. May the Wind smile upon you and your days to come.” And with that blessing, which he only rarely invoked, the Avian would have left a few coins on the table and started to walk toward the heavy door. Grargh mumbled something to which the Blue had no intention to respond. A moment later, the Winged Beast would have vanished from Gualon entirely, with a hefty prize for the Guild and an expected story to ponder upon.