Daggerfall City
Nairn would not have to do much infiltration to get wind of local events, as it turned out. The city was quite abuzz with it. Here in Daggerfall - a bit more cosmopolitan and urban than the outlying farmlands, smallholds, and duchies - sympathies seemed to rest mainly with the persecuted elves, though every now and then a contrary whisper would surface about the 'elven threat' instead. Horrifying tales were relayed of torture, kidnap, and murder... but also of resistance, of elves fighting back. The city folk were beginning to become concerned about the large numbers of refugees seeking shelter in Daggerfall. Some elves were gambling on the city remaining safe, while others frantically sought to book passage to distant shores; in both cases, hastily constructed dwellings and tents began popping up in the streets, as citizens and guards kept a wary eye. It would likely be these refugees, if anyone, who could tell the truth of what fate was befalling their people in the countryside. Meanwhile, whispered tales of a mysterious elf leader known only as Farsight began to establish increasingly heroic proportions for this half-mythical figure who was determined to save the elf population from destruction at human hands.
In the inn, Fira would hear much the same rumors. In general, the Rosy Lion served a fairly average clientele, mostly locals drinking in the bar or rooms occupied by travelers passing through, with the occasional guest booking a more long-term stay. There were perhaps a few more elf guests than usual staying at the inn - though not as many as circumstances would normally dictate. So many had been forced to flee in haste with nothing but the clothes on their backs that few could still afford even as relatively modest accommodations as the Lion.
The only guests Fira would notice who really stood out were an Imperial family - a husband, wife, two grown daughters, and one adult son. These particular individuals seemed like fish out of water, far more formal in their dress and manners than anyone nearby, and seemingly with no fears of drawing attention. Quite the contrary, they seemed to enjoy the stir they were causing and were content to look down their noses at anyone who stared. The innkeeper seemed quietly resigned to them - their coin was good, after all, and as long-term residents of the inn, the family had spent quite a bit of it.
Islands on Another World (GW2)
Re: Islands on Another World (GW2)
Nairn Tuckamore
From her perch in one of the city's numerous arched facades, she could observe much of the alleyway tent city that was taking up what appeared to have been a merchant transport route. She'd given up on walking the streets herself as they became more congested with people and animals. It was exhausting to remain cloaked for any length of time anyway, so settling herself well above eye level was a ready compromise. Most people didn't notice her presence, but a pigeon was inching closer to the toe of her boot, fluffing its feathers and cooing. She gave it a stern eye, but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth her trouble to try to reason with a bird and returned her attention to the street below.
What they needed was a name. The identity of the instigator of this genocide wouldn’t likely come from the mouths of the refugees. Still, they might give a clue as to where this whole thing began – and if they knew where it started, they could likely narrow down a list of suspects. Well, with the help of local knowledge, hopefully they could.
The monumental nature of the task finally hit Nairn. Somehow saving the worlds hadn’t seemed like such a big deal. There was a trail to follow. A certain person responsible. But now, things had gotten a bit out of hand. How were they supposed to solve all the problems of all these worlds along the way to their overall goal?
She realized that she had been staring at the pigeon for quite some time. It was now sitting on her foot, preening and flirting with the brass buckle on her ankle. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The little thing was oblivious. Oblivious to the fact that a buckle would never return its affections. Perfectly oblivious to the fact that with a slight movement on her part, it would fall dead to the ground. And yet, it lived. Silly little birds lived and breathed and flew about every day - shouldn’t they have a right to? Perhaps in the grand scheme of things they were all just as oblivious as this little feathered beast. But maybe that was just the beauty of it. To live and move about ones business as though it would carry on until tomorrow seemed a luxury and a necessity all at once. And if she could see enough to prevent the end of that hope for someone, shouldn’t she act on it? Was that not the lesson Sonja Redflame had sought to teach her those years ago?
To observe was her nature, that was true. But to act? To act was a choice. And those choices she made said more about her than anything she could ever write down. So, perhaps it was time to take this journey a bit more seriously. Push herself into study that would assist in solving the problem instead of just indulging her curiosity. Her heart felt a bit heavy at that realization, though she knew it was the right path to take.
Nairn leaned out of her alcove to better survey the whole of the street. There had to be someone who knew more than they were saying. Someone who had an inkling of what was going on. It was time to dig in. She dropped to the ground, surprising a guard who looked up at her in alarm. Nairn spared him a neutral glance, then carefully stepped into the twisted mess of tents and people. The pigeon fluttered behind her, bobbing its head as it alternately walked and half-flew to keep up with its chosen buckle.
She didn't stop to talk with the people who gossiped on circles of crates. The children running around playing some sort of game, she ignored completely. Nairn stopped when her nose told her to. A man sat on the ground, tending a small pot over a fire built of a few coals. His back was straight under the tattered cloak. His eyes never left the steaming pot, but she could tell that he was listening to all the conversations around him. She could also tell that he'd noticed her arrival and was avoiding interacting with her. It was an air that she recognized. A small bag of herbs and salts dropped to the ground beside the man, which briefly caught his attention.
"If you would add these to your soup, I would trade them for a bowl of it."
Without waiting for a reply, Nairn sat herself down in a casual pose. Well, as casual as she could be while fingering a knife hidden in the top of her boot. The pigeon hopped up on her toe and settled itself down to roost. At least someone was comfortable.
From her perch in one of the city's numerous arched facades, she could observe much of the alleyway tent city that was taking up what appeared to have been a merchant transport route. She'd given up on walking the streets herself as they became more congested with people and animals. It was exhausting to remain cloaked for any length of time anyway, so settling herself well above eye level was a ready compromise. Most people didn't notice her presence, but a pigeon was inching closer to the toe of her boot, fluffing its feathers and cooing. She gave it a stern eye, but ultimately decided it wasn’t worth her trouble to try to reason with a bird and returned her attention to the street below.
What they needed was a name. The identity of the instigator of this genocide wouldn’t likely come from the mouths of the refugees. Still, they might give a clue as to where this whole thing began – and if they knew where it started, they could likely narrow down a list of suspects. Well, with the help of local knowledge, hopefully they could.
The monumental nature of the task finally hit Nairn. Somehow saving the worlds hadn’t seemed like such a big deal. There was a trail to follow. A certain person responsible. But now, things had gotten a bit out of hand. How were they supposed to solve all the problems of all these worlds along the way to their overall goal?
She realized that she had been staring at the pigeon for quite some time. It was now sitting on her foot, preening and flirting with the brass buckle on her ankle. A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The little thing was oblivious. Oblivious to the fact that a buckle would never return its affections. Perfectly oblivious to the fact that with a slight movement on her part, it would fall dead to the ground. And yet, it lived. Silly little birds lived and breathed and flew about every day - shouldn’t they have a right to? Perhaps in the grand scheme of things they were all just as oblivious as this little feathered beast. But maybe that was just the beauty of it. To live and move about ones business as though it would carry on until tomorrow seemed a luxury and a necessity all at once. And if she could see enough to prevent the end of that hope for someone, shouldn’t she act on it? Was that not the lesson Sonja Redflame had sought to teach her those years ago?
To observe was her nature, that was true. But to act? To act was a choice. And those choices she made said more about her than anything she could ever write down. So, perhaps it was time to take this journey a bit more seriously. Push herself into study that would assist in solving the problem instead of just indulging her curiosity. Her heart felt a bit heavy at that realization, though she knew it was the right path to take.
Nairn leaned out of her alcove to better survey the whole of the street. There had to be someone who knew more than they were saying. Someone who had an inkling of what was going on. It was time to dig in. She dropped to the ground, surprising a guard who looked up at her in alarm. Nairn spared him a neutral glance, then carefully stepped into the twisted mess of tents and people. The pigeon fluttered behind her, bobbing its head as it alternately walked and half-flew to keep up with its chosen buckle.
She didn't stop to talk with the people who gossiped on circles of crates. The children running around playing some sort of game, she ignored completely. Nairn stopped when her nose told her to. A man sat on the ground, tending a small pot over a fire built of a few coals. His back was straight under the tattered cloak. His eyes never left the steaming pot, but she could tell that he was listening to all the conversations around him. She could also tell that he'd noticed her arrival and was avoiding interacting with her. It was an air that she recognized. A small bag of herbs and salts dropped to the ground beside the man, which briefly caught his attention.
"If you would add these to your soup, I would trade them for a bowl of it."
Without waiting for a reply, Nairn sat herself down in a casual pose. Well, as casual as she could be while fingering a knife hidden in the top of her boot. The pigeon hopped up on her toe and settled itself down to roost. At least someone was comfortable.
Re: Islands on Another World (GW2)
Fira-Nar
Fira sipped her ale down to the dregs and ordered another. The gossip was pretty good and so was the brew. This 'Farsight' character piqued her interest - heroes of epic proportion were always of interest to the young templar. It wasn't that she necessarily had the ambition to be a great hero, but she certainly loved to listen to tales of their daring deeds and victories against all odds. Of course, stories were often just that - stories. She should track down this Farisight and see if there was any merit to these tales. After she finished this pint, of course.
She was halfway through her second mug before she felt like she had to ask the bartender the obvious question. He was nearby, buffing the bar when she leaned forward and whispered, "So, what's the deal with them?" Her head tilted to indicate the Imperial family as though he'd need the reference to know who she was talking about.
Fira sipped her ale down to the dregs and ordered another. The gossip was pretty good and so was the brew. This 'Farsight' character piqued her interest - heroes of epic proportion were always of interest to the young templar. It wasn't that she necessarily had the ambition to be a great hero, but she certainly loved to listen to tales of their daring deeds and victories against all odds. Of course, stories were often just that - stories. She should track down this Farisight and see if there was any merit to these tales. After she finished this pint, of course.
She was halfway through her second mug before she felt like she had to ask the bartender the obvious question. He was nearby, buffing the bar when she leaned forward and whispered, "So, what's the deal with them?" Her head tilted to indicate the Imperial family as though he'd need the reference to know who she was talking about.
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Monkey Kitty
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Re: Islands on Another World (GW2)
At the Rosy Lion
The bartender - one Grobert Dantaine by name - raised an eyebrow. "Them? They're the Lyrius family. From Cyrodiil. From the way they act you'd think they were fresh off the wagon, but they've been here for years. I reckon they're just going to stay here permanently - right here at the inn, ya know? They certainly show no signs of leaving. But their coin's good. They're more fortunate in their circumstances than many of the other refugees."
He seemed to realize that the latter was an odd statement. These looked like nobles, not impoverished safety-seekers. Not the standard refugee.
"You know what happened in Cyrodiil. The Daedra invading and all. These folks fled, like so many others. Daedra don't care who's rich or who's poor - though the rich definitely have an advantage in getting themselves away. I don't think these folks have had an easy time of it, truth be told. They had another son when they came here, their eldest, but he was gone one day. I guess he died? But they were real vague about how. And there was the youngest daughter, too. That one was adopted. An Orc, if you can believe that? She left. Can't blame her. Between you and me, they didn't treat her much like a daughter."
Being this gregarious was thirsty work. Grobert took a healthy swig of his wares to rehydrate for further conversation.
The bartender - one Grobert Dantaine by name - raised an eyebrow. "Them? They're the Lyrius family. From Cyrodiil. From the way they act you'd think they were fresh off the wagon, but they've been here for years. I reckon they're just going to stay here permanently - right here at the inn, ya know? They certainly show no signs of leaving. But their coin's good. They're more fortunate in their circumstances than many of the other refugees."
He seemed to realize that the latter was an odd statement. These looked like nobles, not impoverished safety-seekers. Not the standard refugee.
"You know what happened in Cyrodiil. The Daedra invading and all. These folks fled, like so many others. Daedra don't care who's rich or who's poor - though the rich definitely have an advantage in getting themselves away. I don't think these folks have had an easy time of it, truth be told. They had another son when they came here, their eldest, but he was gone one day. I guess he died? But they were real vague about how. And there was the youngest daughter, too. That one was adopted. An Orc, if you can believe that? She left. Can't blame her. Between you and me, they didn't treat her much like a daughter."
Being this gregarious was thirsty work. Grobert took a healthy swig of his wares to rehydrate for further conversation.
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Monkey Kitty
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Re: Islands on Another World (GW2)
In the Refugee Camp
The man regarded Nairn with a casual disinterest that was ever-so-slightly too studied to be genuine. He nodded nonchalantly, and served Nairn a generous serving of stew in a steaming bowl. The ingredients were meager fare - some old potatoes and root vegetables, a handful of wilted greens, some sort of rodent meat that one would generously assure oneself was a squirrel - but what the man had foraged was expertly prepared, the meal of one who had spent much time left to his own devices in the woods and fields without the luxury of a well-stocked market or warm cooking hearth.
"Well," he said after a moment. "What exactly is it that you want? And don't bother wasting both our time by saying you just stumbled upon me and wanted some soup. You could have had a meal from anywhere, prepared as you are to pay. So tell me - what brings you to my fireside?"
The man regarded Nairn with a casual disinterest that was ever-so-slightly too studied to be genuine. He nodded nonchalantly, and served Nairn a generous serving of stew in a steaming bowl. The ingredients were meager fare - some old potatoes and root vegetables, a handful of wilted greens, some sort of rodent meat that one would generously assure oneself was a squirrel - but what the man had foraged was expertly prepared, the meal of one who had spent much time left to his own devices in the woods and fields without the luxury of a well-stocked market or warm cooking hearth.
"Well," he said after a moment. "What exactly is it that you want? And don't bother wasting both our time by saying you just stumbled upon me and wanted some soup. You could have had a meal from anywhere, prepared as you are to pay. So tell me - what brings you to my fireside?"
Re: Islands on Another World (GW2)
Nairn Tuckamore
Accepting the bowl, she blew lightly at the surface, watching the steam rise from between the oil droplets dotting the liquid. His blunt manner curved the corner of her mouth upward. She rested the bowl on top of her left knee and spoke around the side of the dish.
"I came to your camp because I could see you and I had something in common. You aren't really partaking - you are listening. I wanted to know what you've found out. Perhaps you know how all this truly began."
Fira-Nar
Odd story to be sure. As it all came out, the details were interesting but didn't all seem to fit together. If these people had fled - why had they decided to stay long-term in an inn? The missing boy - the family seemed to know what happened well enough to keep it on the down low - but it seemed fishy to her. And ... an adopted orc daughter. Right. Could it be?
Fira eyed the Imperial family once more, thinking to herself how adamant Ulga had been that they not stay at the inn. And she came to a conclusion. That it wasn't any of her business. She'd gotten all she could from the local gossip at this particular watering hole, so she paid the man behind the bar and stepped back out into the light.
Some skeletons should just stay in the ground. She stopped off at a few other establishments along the way to meet up with the group, abstaining from the drink as she lapped up any extra information. In the end, she didn't have much, but she'd bring back what she did hear about the elves - and nothing more.
Accepting the bowl, she blew lightly at the surface, watching the steam rise from between the oil droplets dotting the liquid. His blunt manner curved the corner of her mouth upward. She rested the bowl on top of her left knee and spoke around the side of the dish.
"I came to your camp because I could see you and I had something in common. You aren't really partaking - you are listening. I wanted to know what you've found out. Perhaps you know how all this truly began."
Fira-Nar
Odd story to be sure. As it all came out, the details were interesting but didn't all seem to fit together. If these people had fled - why had they decided to stay long-term in an inn? The missing boy - the family seemed to know what happened well enough to keep it on the down low - but it seemed fishy to her. And ... an adopted orc daughter. Right. Could it be?
Fira eyed the Imperial family once more, thinking to herself how adamant Ulga had been that they not stay at the inn. And she came to a conclusion. That it wasn't any of her business. She'd gotten all she could from the local gossip at this particular watering hole, so she paid the man behind the bar and stepped back out into the light.
Some skeletons should just stay in the ground. She stopped off at a few other establishments along the way to meet up with the group, abstaining from the drink as she lapped up any extra information. In the end, she didn't have much, but she'd bring back what she did hear about the elves - and nothing more.
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Monkey Kitty
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Re: Islands on Another World (GW2)
Aimosh Meersh
"It might be that I do," the old elf replied, absently stirring his own stew and then bringing the chipped mug he was using as a vessel to his lips. "I'm not from here, you see," he commented idly. "My name is Aimosh. I'm from another place. Just like..."
He gestured toward the bustling center of the camp. If Nairn followed the direction of the hand, she would see Tempest and Cullen moving among the refugees. Tempest was providing magical healing, salves, potions, and herbs to those who were ill or injured, while Cullen faithfully guarded her back while she worked and carried her supplies.
As Aimosh regarded the healer, Nairn might be aware of an odd series of expressions crossing his face. Subtle, but traces could be read of anger, scorn, and disgust.
"As those hypocrites," he finished, half under his breath.
"Anyhow, not sure how much there is to tell. The Dread Wolf wants to tear down the veils between the worlds and let all the magic in. It would be a cataclysm. The humans fear that. Of course they do. But they hold all elves responsible, and we didn't all have anything to do with it. We're all just trying to survive. You want to know what's happening in Glenumbra? Look to Duke Esten. He's not the one behind it, but someone has turned his head - him and the other nobles around here."
"It might be that I do," the old elf replied, absently stirring his own stew and then bringing the chipped mug he was using as a vessel to his lips. "I'm not from here, you see," he commented idly. "My name is Aimosh. I'm from another place. Just like..."
He gestured toward the bustling center of the camp. If Nairn followed the direction of the hand, she would see Tempest and Cullen moving among the refugees. Tempest was providing magical healing, salves, potions, and herbs to those who were ill or injured, while Cullen faithfully guarded her back while she worked and carried her supplies.
As Aimosh regarded the healer, Nairn might be aware of an odd series of expressions crossing his face. Subtle, but traces could be read of anger, scorn, and disgust.
"As those hypocrites," he finished, half under his breath.
"Anyhow, not sure how much there is to tell. The Dread Wolf wants to tear down the veils between the worlds and let all the magic in. It would be a cataclysm. The humans fear that. Of course they do. But they hold all elves responsible, and we didn't all have anything to do with it. We're all just trying to survive. You want to know what's happening in Glenumbra? Look to Duke Esten. He's not the one behind it, but someone has turned his head - him and the other nobles around here."
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Monkey Kitty
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Re: Islands on Another World (GW2)
At the Blue Anchor Inn
Fira's last stop would be a small, rundown pub by the waterfront. Optimistically referred to as the Blue Anchor Inn, this establishment seemed to be just a main room with a battered bar counter and a handful of tiny guest rooms - not a sizable or noteworthy inn like the Rosy Lion. The sign bore an insignia of a stylized anchor in chipped blue paint.
In the inn, a messenger was trying to recruit adventures... but seemed to be having little luck with his pitch.
"For Duke Esten," he repeated to the stream of mostly uninterested patrons. "His grace needs a small job done. A caravan of squatters has set up camp in one of the duke's fields. They're stomping the field into mud and stealing from his grace's gardens. We are looking for someone to run them off."
The barmaid raised an eyebrow. "Eh? His grace the duke's got a personal guard like all them other rich folk do, ain't he? Why don't he just have 'em do it?"
The messenger shifted uncomfortably. "There are two slight problems with that. One is the problem of appearances. We've only just rooted out the nasty elves, and now more vermin have taken their place... it looks bad if we're just constantly chasing our problems off onto other people's lands. These also aren't... uh... standard refugees. They're hellspawn from another place, with horns and skin of brimstone. They may be beyond the capacity of a simple honor guard to handle."
A grizzled old sailor took a swig from his mug and asked bluntly, "You're saying you want someone to kill 'em. He don't want people talking 'bout how they saw his guards kill civilians on his orders, yeah?"
"Oh no, no," the messenger said hastily. "His grace would not recruit mercenaries to kill refugees. Never. Even those of... an inferior race. The duke is a kind and generous man." His voice dropped conspiratorially. "But remember, these squatters are breaking the law. If a few of them should meet such a fate in the course of the commission of their crimes and their subsequent removal from his grace's land, his grace would - I think - shed no tears."
Fira's last stop would be a small, rundown pub by the waterfront. Optimistically referred to as the Blue Anchor Inn, this establishment seemed to be just a main room with a battered bar counter and a handful of tiny guest rooms - not a sizable or noteworthy inn like the Rosy Lion. The sign bore an insignia of a stylized anchor in chipped blue paint.
In the inn, a messenger was trying to recruit adventures... but seemed to be having little luck with his pitch.
"For Duke Esten," he repeated to the stream of mostly uninterested patrons. "His grace needs a small job done. A caravan of squatters has set up camp in one of the duke's fields. They're stomping the field into mud and stealing from his grace's gardens. We are looking for someone to run them off."
The barmaid raised an eyebrow. "Eh? His grace the duke's got a personal guard like all them other rich folk do, ain't he? Why don't he just have 'em do it?"
The messenger shifted uncomfortably. "There are two slight problems with that. One is the problem of appearances. We've only just rooted out the nasty elves, and now more vermin have taken their place... it looks bad if we're just constantly chasing our problems off onto other people's lands. These also aren't... uh... standard refugees. They're hellspawn from another place, with horns and skin of brimstone. They may be beyond the capacity of a simple honor guard to handle."
A grizzled old sailor took a swig from his mug and asked bluntly, "You're saying you want someone to kill 'em. He don't want people talking 'bout how they saw his guards kill civilians on his orders, yeah?"
"Oh no, no," the messenger said hastily. "His grace would not recruit mercenaries to kill refugees. Never. Even those of... an inferior race. The duke is a kind and generous man." His voice dropped conspiratorially. "But remember, these squatters are breaking the law. If a few of them should meet such a fate in the course of the commission of their crimes and their subsequent removal from his grace's land, his grace would - I think - shed no tears."
Re: Islands on Another World (GW2)
Nairn Tuckamore
Nairn's eye tracked his gaze, but registered no response to his accusation. Curious. If the Rutherfords had required the use of that large mirror to arrive in Tyria, then this man must have come to this world by a similar route. She had come to the conclusion that no one ended up in another world by chance. And he was aware of the scheme of the Dread Wolf. Perhaps...
"They are not working with him. They are trying to stop him - as you are. That is...if I have read the situation correctly."
She sat so still, but fingers played more intently with the hilt of her boot dagger. This man's animosity...she didn't trust that he wouldn't make an action appropriate to his feelings.
"Regardless, we will seek out this Duke Esten. Thank-you."
Fira Nar
"I'll take the job."
The argonian rose and moved toward the messenger, drawing near enough to tower over him in as menacing a fashion as she could muster. It seemed to work, as the tension in the pub intensified.
"One thing. I don't like competition. I want a guarantee that I'll be the only one on this job."
Of course, Fira had no intention of offing any refugees - either kicking them out or killing them. But people from another world again? They needed to get to those people first and find out what brought them here. And maybe...how to get them home.
Fira gave the messenger one last sneer, downed her drink and swaggered out of the bar. No time to waste - she had to meet up with the others and fill them in on the situation.
Nairn's eye tracked his gaze, but registered no response to his accusation. Curious. If the Rutherfords had required the use of that large mirror to arrive in Tyria, then this man must have come to this world by a similar route. She had come to the conclusion that no one ended up in another world by chance. And he was aware of the scheme of the Dread Wolf. Perhaps...
"They are not working with him. They are trying to stop him - as you are. That is...if I have read the situation correctly."
She sat so still, but fingers played more intently with the hilt of her boot dagger. This man's animosity...she didn't trust that he wouldn't make an action appropriate to his feelings.
"Regardless, we will seek out this Duke Esten. Thank-you."
Fira Nar
"I'll take the job."
The argonian rose and moved toward the messenger, drawing near enough to tower over him in as menacing a fashion as she could muster. It seemed to work, as the tension in the pub intensified.
"One thing. I don't like competition. I want a guarantee that I'll be the only one on this job."
Of course, Fira had no intention of offing any refugees - either kicking them out or killing them. But people from another world again? They needed to get to those people first and find out what brought them here. And maybe...how to get them home.
Fira gave the messenger one last sneer, downed her drink and swaggered out of the bar. No time to waste - she had to meet up with the others and fill them in on the situation.
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Monkey Kitty
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Re: Islands on Another World (GW2)
Aimosh Meersh
The man's face abruptly clouded as if a curtain had been drawn. Any rapport Nairn might have been forming with him was gone in an instant.
"You think I'm stupid?" he demanded angrily. The volume of his voice stayed low, but the words came out at a harsh clip now. "Of course they ain't working with him. They're human, ain't they? Why would they do that? When he wins, he'll destroy them too."
Despite Aimosh's annoyance, there was no hint of threat in the 'when.' Just a cold inevitability. Aimosh might not be a supporter of the Dread Wolf, but if Nairn had gotten the impression he intended to try to stop him, either, she was sorely mistaken. He was - as he had told her - merely trying to survive, and he figured he had clocked the winning side already and resigned himself to it.
"That ain't what I was talking about. It's this 'I'm just a humble healer who loves the poor elves' routine. You know it's an act, don't you? Or maybe you don't know as much about her as you think you do. She wasn't some meek little hedge witch back in... back home, ya know? She commanded armies back in the day. Ask her about it someday - or don't. Doesn't matter to me any more than elves matter to her, which is not at all. There were refugees that strayed onto her land back when, ya know? Escaped elf slaves from the Imperium. A girl was stealing food - yes, she was stealing, but is that such a horrible crime? They were starving. Your friend accused her of being there as a spy and had her soldiers hang the poor kid. Died for some moldy bread and a few rotten turnips. That's the company you keep, much as she may play the sanctimonious healer now."
Aimosh wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself and turned away, signaling the conversation had come to an end. "You got your soup and your information. Go make friends with Duke Esten. Get lost." He closed his eyes and ostentatiously pretended to have fallen asleep.
The man's face abruptly clouded as if a curtain had been drawn. Any rapport Nairn might have been forming with him was gone in an instant.
"You think I'm stupid?" he demanded angrily. The volume of his voice stayed low, but the words came out at a harsh clip now. "Of course they ain't working with him. They're human, ain't they? Why would they do that? When he wins, he'll destroy them too."
Despite Aimosh's annoyance, there was no hint of threat in the 'when.' Just a cold inevitability. Aimosh might not be a supporter of the Dread Wolf, but if Nairn had gotten the impression he intended to try to stop him, either, she was sorely mistaken. He was - as he had told her - merely trying to survive, and he figured he had clocked the winning side already and resigned himself to it.
"That ain't what I was talking about. It's this 'I'm just a humble healer who loves the poor elves' routine. You know it's an act, don't you? Or maybe you don't know as much about her as you think you do. She wasn't some meek little hedge witch back in... back home, ya know? She commanded armies back in the day. Ask her about it someday - or don't. Doesn't matter to me any more than elves matter to her, which is not at all. There were refugees that strayed onto her land back when, ya know? Escaped elf slaves from the Imperium. A girl was stealing food - yes, she was stealing, but is that such a horrible crime? They were starving. Your friend accused her of being there as a spy and had her soldiers hang the poor kid. Died for some moldy bread and a few rotten turnips. That's the company you keep, much as she may play the sanctimonious healer now."
Aimosh wrapped his cloak more tightly around himself and turned away, signaling the conversation had come to an end. "You got your soup and your information. Go make friends with Duke Esten. Get lost." He closed his eyes and ostentatiously pretended to have fallen asleep.