“Have you noticed the Cidal priest a few tables away, Aranwen? Will he do?”

"It seems he has noticed us too," Aranwen smiled in answer to Kith’s question, "I'll find out more of him."

A flaxen haired human woman, clad in a green blouse, dark skirt, and pale apron stood at the end of the table. “G’mornin’ an’ welcome ta The Countess an’ Cock’trice,” she said, “Fer breakfast this mornin’, we’re offerin’ a selection o’ meatballs, chicken or quail eggs, fresh pears, an’ nut bread. What can I get fer ye folk?”

“Meat,” the cat-man said, trying not to speak overmuch, “and eggs.”

"Nutbread and eggs sound lovely to me," Aranwen replied with her own order. 

Kithran followed with a request of her own and, as the serving girl took her leave, the Bladesinger began to rise from her seat with the intent of consulting the cleric whom Kith had pointed out. She was stopped (and perhaps a bit startled), however, by the sudden appearance of a tiny, monkey-child.

"Are you hide and seeking," the little girl asked, her tone indicating some familiarity with the Sylvari woman.

"Dear goodness, don't scare people like that," Aranwen sighed. Ch’dau shifted uncomfortably beneath his cloak and tried to shrink farther into the shadows of its hood as the bladesinger continued; "Did you find your parents, little one?"

"Yep! They said you pro-teckd them and we went inside like you said. I saw you and wanted to say thanks!"

"It was no trouble," Aranwen smiled back with a shrug. "You should wander back before your parents worry." With that gentle admonition, the Syl rose from her seat and, before making her way to the cleric’s table, said; “I'll be back in a bit."

Beneath the cowl, Ch’dau nodded, offered a faint grunt in acknowledgement, and tried not to move in such a way that the little girl might get a glimpse of his face beyond the shadows the hood cast. His discomfort and caution grew all the more when, rather than running along to find her parents as Aranwen had instructed, the tiny monkey climbed up into the bladesinger’s abandoned seat and gawked at him and Kith.

“Are you her friends,” the child squeaked curiously.

Other than a fleeting, sidelong glance in Kith’s direction, Ch’dau did little more than feign an interest in the tabletop directly before him, bowing his head in hopes that the fall of the cowl revealed nothing of the features beneath. “We are,” he answered in as soft a tone as he could manage, “though we are not good company for little ones.”

"It seems he has noticed us too," Aranwen smiles as she stares over at the priest, "I'll find out more of him."

Their server interrupts their interactions then, welcoming the group and requesting their orders. Kith’s stomach begins rumbling again at the list, combined with the warm smells around the room, and she can hardly wait for Ch’dau and Aranwen to finish ordering before she lists hers, “Lots of quail eggs, please. And pears. And I will have some nut bread as well. Thank you.”

Aranwen then makes to move up from the table when a small voice reaches out to her.

"Are you hide and seeking?"

A chill runs down Kith’s spine as she jerks away from the sound and draws her dagger before seeing the strange child at the Bladesinger’s side.

Aranwen visibly relaxes when she sees her, "Dear goodness, don't scare people like that," she sighed and Kithran resheaths her blade, keeping her hand on the handle, "Did you find your parents, little one?"

"Yep! They said you pro-teckd them and we went inside like you said. I saw you and wanted to say thanks!" the girl grinned aggressively at the Bladesinger.

Uninterested, Kithran looks back toward the kitchen. Their server walked out with arms full of food and the hungry thief sat up straight, excited for it to be laid in front of her, but the woman walks right by their table and she slumps back in her seat, crossing her arms in frustration. She turns back to their group to find the sandy-haired ragdoll looking back at her instead of Aranwen.

"Are you her friends?" the girl asks, and Kithran looks to Ch’dau, clearly attempting to hide his physique as much as possible.

“We are,” the cat-man replies in his low rumbling tone, “though we are not good company for little ones.”

Kithran grins at his unintentionally ominous reply and turns to the girl, leaning forward conspiratorially, “That’s right, kid, we’re not so good for little children like yourself,” she puts her hood up too, casting the top half of her face in shadow, “so you better watch out.” She glances to the kitchen from which her food has still not come.

“What are you doing?” the child asks, bringing her attention back.

“I’m . . . trying to . . .” she throws her hood down, “don’t you have some parents to go bother or something?”

“Oh, am I bothering you?”

Kithran watched as the messy-haired girl’s face suddenly changed. Whether upset that Kith may not want her around, or offended at the idea that she could be bothering them, Kith could not tell. She glanced back at the table where Aranwen was taking her time with the Cidal priest, to the kitchen once more where they were taking time with her food, and back to the girl.

She sighed, Aranwen had saved their lives, the least she could do was placate a child, “No, of course not.”

The girl relaxed and a smile reformed on her face, “Who are you?”

“I’m Kithran, this here is . . .” Kith looked to Ch’dau, unsure and unable to ask whether his name was compromising while still in this city, “Samuel.“

She giggled, “He doesn’t look like a Samuel.”

“Oh, he's a Samuel.” She felt her stomach rumble, the beginning of the storm, and tried to distract herself with this useless conversation, “Dooooo, you have a name?”

“Yes!” The girl beamed.

“Great.”

“Wanna know what it is?”

“I definitely do.”

((OOC: name?))

“That name is far better than Samuel. ” Kithran slipped further down in her chair, her hands on her stomach.

The girl leaned forward to follow Kith's movement as she slumped, “Where are you from?”

“I’m from Coria, Samuel is from . . . also Coria.”

Her eyes widened, “Oh wow! Have you been to Calstra?! I heard that you can find everything in Calstra!”

“Calestra," she corrected, "And you can find all of that and more, if either you try hard enough or don’t pay enough attention.” The little girl cast a quizzical look at her reply and Kith tilted her head back, how much longerrrrr?! She saw Aranwen stand up from the other table then and righted her head, sitting back up quickly.

As if the gods had finally deemed her trials worthy, the food finally arrived, and Kithran was grateful to Aranwen for now weathering the attention of the child while she popped the quail eggs into her mouth.

“Oh, he's a Samuel.” Kithran felt her stomach rumble, the beginning of the storm, and tried to distract herself with this useless conversation, “Dooooo, you have a name?”

“Yes!” The girl beamed.

“Great.”

“Wanna know what it is?”

“I definitely do.”

"Saina," The girl offered cheerfully with a wide smile. 

* * *

When Aranwen returned she frowned at the little girl who had taken her seat, "I thought I told you to find your parents. After last night they'll be even more worried about you if you wander alone."

"Not yet!" the girl protested, "I wanna know your name!"

Aranwen sighed. She was familiar enough with children to know they were incredibly persistent if they wanted something, "If I tell you, you will go find your parents then, won't you?"

The girl scuffed a foot as she fidgeted, clearly unhappy with that suggestion, but she finally nodded, "O-kaaaay" 

"Aranwen," The Syl offered to the girl. 

"Aran- Aran- uhhhh Aran-" the girl buffed as she struggled with the foreign name, "Can I just call you Ara?" she asked. 

Aranwen flinched as if struck, taking in a sharp breath. Her golden eyes were distant but she made herself nod, "If you must," she replied, her voice a bit strained. 

"Yay! I'm Saina! Call me Sai! I'll be off now, Ara!" the sandy haired girl hopped off the seat and quickly made her way towards the door. 

Aranwen didn't so much as take her seat as she fell into it, a hand going to her face, her other hand clenched tightly as she forced herself to keep her breathing calm, "Just a coincidence," she mouthed in silence. 

"I-I'm sorry about that," she offered, finally, subtly wiping her eyes before she sat back up straight and taking one more breath, "I talked to the Cidal, Mosic by name. He'll meet us after breakfast. Given he talked of the Right Hand and was treating an elder to breakfast, I've no doubt he is a devotee of Falloes," she reported, before taking a bite of the nut bread she had received. Her appetite had left her, but she knew she needed to eat. 

"I've not shared much more than saying we needed healing, but he may be willing to lend more aid than that if we share more of our situation," Aranwen continued, "That I leave up to you two, since it isn't my place to speak on your behalf."

The Syl woman resumed eating in measured bites, neither hastily nor slowly. Doing what she could to keep the meal down. 

The monkey-child was tenacious and fearless, it seemed. Ch’dau’s warning had failed to send the girl away and, so, too, had Kithran’s initial attempts at intimidation. In fact, if anything, those cautions only seemed to stoke the child’s curiosity. When it became apparent that the girl wouldn’t be leaving their table any time soon, Ch’dau simply sighed into the shadows of his hood and continued his bland study of the table’s surface.

“Who are you,” the little monkey asked.

“I’m Kithran,” the thief answered, “this here is… Samuel.”

Samuel? Ch’dau snorted softly but managed not to shoot a scornful glare in Kith’s direction.

“He doesn’t look like a Samuel,” the little monkey chittered.

Nor should I, the kazari chuffed inwardly, as Kith and the girl continued their awkward conversation. In addition to his contemplation of the tabletop, he took to fidgeting with his claws beneath the fold of his cloak. He absently wondered if the sight of them might send the little creature scurrying from the inn… and what fresh conflict might arise should she tell anyone what she saw.

“That name is far better than Samuel,” Kithran returned once she had coaxed the girl’s name out.

“Indeed,” Ch’dau murmured from the depths of the cowl; wondering, now how soon their food would arrive and if he would be able to eat it without the inquisitive youngster’s scrutiny.

“Where are you from,” the nipper pressed.

Bhak’chu’s balls, cub! Where are your parents?

“I’m from Coria,” Kith answered, “Samuel is from… also, Coria.”

That answer evoked the faint shrugging of “Samuel’s” shoulders and nodding of his head. Whether Kith knew it or not, she wasn’t wrong; Ch’dau had first arrived on Antaron’s shores in Coria, spent his first months in the Silver Wyvern’s guildhouse in it’s capitol. That he had arrived there by some strange happenstance was beside the point, he supposed.

“Oh wow! Have you been to Calstra?!” Saina sounded excited. “I heard that you can find everything in Calstra!”

If you are even allowed in, Ch’dau mused, I am sure you would have an easier time of it than I.

“Calestra," Kith corrected, "And you can find all of that and more, if either you try hard enough or don’t pay enough attention.”

"I thought I told you to find your parents.” Aranwen’s voice interrupted just after the serving girl had returned with their breakfast, “After last night they'll be even more worried about you if you wander alone."

He hoped the bladesinger would have more success in running the girl of than he or Kith had. The smell of his, as yet, untouched meal had set his stomach to turning in on itself and he was finding it more and more difficult to keep his paws hidden beneath the cloak. It took longer than he would have liked, of course, but, after the bladesinger and the monkey-child exchanged names (much to little human’s delight), Saina bid her farewells and finally scampered away.

Merciful Keziri! Ch’dau thought, falling ravenously into the plate of meatballs and eggs whose aroma had been taunting him so for these past moments.

"I-I'm sorry about that," Aranwen offered.

There was something different about her voice, just then, but as happy as he was to be eating, Ch’dau paid it little notice; acknowledging her apology with little more than a grunt and a shrug of his shoulders.

"I talked to the Cidal, Mosic by name,” the bladesinger continued. "He'll meet us after breakfast. Given he talked of the Right Hand and was treating an elder to breakfast, I've no doubt he is a devotee of Falloes.

I've not shared much more than saying we needed healing, but he may be willing to lend more aid than that if we share more of our situation," Aranwen added, "That I leave up to you two, since it isn't my place to speak on your behalf."

“My thanks, Aranwen,” the kazari nodded, finally looking up from the plate to which he was laying waste; a satisfied purr scarcely restrained. “I promise to repay you as best I…”

Ch’dau blinked as his eyes met hers and, suddenly, he stopped chewing. He’d known the bladesinger for mere hours and, yet, like her voice, he noted something different about her eyes than he was accustomed. Neither seemed as bright as they had, even minutes ago. He swallowed his most recent bite, then, and as his head tilted curiously to one side, asked; “Are you unwell, Aranwen?”

“Are you unwell, Aranwen?”

Aranwen blinked as the words reached her and she refocused on the present. She averted her gaze and nodded, "It's just a ghost," she offered as an explanation, "Something of the past I thought I left behind. Names I never thought I'd hear again, even if they're not the same," she looked back, and her golden eyes lingered on Kithran for a moment before she gave a gentle smile to the both of them, "I must remember that I am not in the past."

I am here, with two people who have their own troubles yet ahead of them. I should not bring my troubles from the past.

"Forgive me, that is not a topic best talked about over a much needed meal," Aranwen added, her voice recovering its warmth as she regarded both Kithran and Ch'dau, "Thank you for keeping me grounded. And Kithran?" She gave the half-Syl a smirk, "Yes, I did see you take one of the eggs from my plate."

What a handful you must have been in growing up, Aranwen mused as she examined Kithran once again, And where exactly did you learn to be so deft with those fingers? Let alone your affinity for shadows...

With the colour returned to her eyes, she tried eating again.

This time, the food didn't catch in her throat.

"If I tell you, you will go find your parents then, won't you?" Aranwen coaxes the persistent little girl and Kithran notices she’s already nearly out of quail eggs. She still has her nut bread and pears, but the quail eggs are the best part.

Saina looked upset by the terms of the strange compromise Aranwen offered, but conceded, "O-kaaaay"

"Aranwen," she said, and Kithran swiped one of the ignored, cooling eggs off of the Bladesinger’s plate, grinning to herself as she popped it into her mouth.

"Aran- Aran- uhhhh Aran-" the girl attempted before giving up, "Can I just call you Ara?" she asked, and Kithran could understand. Very small children often had trouble with the middle of her name which tended to result in them calling her “Kitten” instead, much to her dismay. She glared at Ch’dau for a moment as he munched on the pile of meatballs.

"Yay! I'm Saina! Call me Sai! I'll be off now, Ara!" Kith waved the girl off without looking up from her plate and continued in her devouring.

"I-I'm sorry about that," the Syl woman offered and Kith waved her off too.

“Not to worry, Ara,” she grinned, before finally looking up from her plate. Her smile slipped as she regarded the Bladesinger. She couldn’t discern what it was other than a small shift in the air about her, and if it didn’t affect her ability to help them slay a slitch, it shouldn’t matter. And yet . . . .

Aranwen continued to share the conversation she’d had with the Falloes priest before returning to picking at her meal and Kithran suddenly regretted taking that egg. However, she was delighted that she wouldn’t have to hear another “Kith” joke from another Kith-jora clergyman. The last one to bother her, she flat out told the man she did not care for his god. To which one of his flock responded, “You cannot Kith-run away forever.”

She had stabbed him very little and yet still they banished her from their temple. Not that she cared about their temple, it was just warm.

“Are you unwell, Aranwen?” Ch’dau broke her concentration, and she looked from the large Kazari in the cloak, to the distracted Syl.

"It's just a ghost," she offers in her poetic way, "Something of the past I thought I left behind. Names I never thought I'd hear again, even if they're not the same," Kithran takes a mouthful of her remaining nut bread just as Aranwen looks back at her, lingering longer than Kith knows what to do with, so she looks away and continues chewing.

"I must remember that I am not in the past," she says, and Kithran is finding she has taken much too large a bite, "Forgive me, that is not a topic best talked about over a much needed meal," Her mood and the air around her seemed to lighten again, and Kithran is grateful, if only in hopes that she would not be distracted in their tasks ahead.

"Thank you for keeping me grounded.” She says to Ch’dau before turning back to the half-Syl, “And Kithran?" She gave her a smirk, "Yes, I did see you take one of the eggs from my plate."

Kithran’s eyes go wide and she chews faster, swallowing hard, “What? Me? Heavens no, I  . . . that was Samuel, Ara, that’s who you must be thinking of.” Her smirk reflected Aranwen’s own and she held out her pear, “Your lovely eyes are too perceptive, Bladesinger. I’m sorry, this is all I have left.” She looks over at Ch’dau regretfully, then back to Aranwen and sighs heavily, holding out her other hand, “I actually also have this meatball, if you’re interested.”

At the trio’s table

“Are you unwell, Aranwen?”

"It's just a ghost," the Sylvari woman answered, her gaze ticking away to some nether point for an instant, "Something of the past I thought I left behind. Names I never thought I'd hear again, even if they're not the same." Aranwen’s eyes danced back, lingering briefly on Kith before fixing them both, and she smiled. "I must remember that I am not in the past.

Forgive me, that is not a topic best talked about over a much needed meal," the bladesinger added, her voice recovering its warmth, "Thank you for keeping me grounded. And Kithran?" She gave the half-Syl a smirk, "Yes, I did see you take one of the eggs from my plate."

The thief’s eyes were unable to mask the surprise at having been caught in her pilfering. “What? Me? Heavens no, I  . . . that was Samuel, Ara, that’s who you must be thinking of.” Her smirk reflected Aranwen’s own and she held out her pear, “Your lovely eyes are too perceptive, Bladesinger. I’m sorry, this is all I have left.” Kith’s black eyes flicked contritely in his direction, then, as they turned back to Aranwen, she heaved a sigh and held out her other hand, “I actually also have this meatball, if you’re interested.”

Ch’dau chuffed softly and shook his head. “You owe me no thanks, bladesinger,” he murmured, “I know of… how is it you say… ghosts... and memories of the past,” he offered a scant shrug of his shoulders, “I have my own that haunt me from time to time.” The kazari didn’t bother to expand on those memories, instead, he surveyed the ruin he’d left on his plate – a smattering of juices from the meat and yolk drippings from the eggs – before pushing the thing away and taking up the mug of cider that had come with his meal.

((OOC: Anything else here from either Kith or Ara))

*********************************

With Mosic and Mother

For perhaps the third time since the Syl had visited their table, Mother caught the diminutive priest glancing in the direction of the strange trio’s table. “Peculiar lot, them, eh, minister,” she grinned, finishing off the remnants from Mosic’s plate, “Can’t say when’s th’ last time I seen a bladesinger in Davnor, an’ tha’ big fella… dunno I’ve ever seen a man s’large…”

Her words drew Mosic’s attentions back and, over the rim of his flagon, the Cid’s eyes twinkled gray and blue. “Aye, Mother,” he smiled, licking the mead from his lips, “They’re a curious party, indeed.”

“Th’ dark girl seems almost ta ‘ome in a place like this,” the crone observed, “but them other two… Like sore thumbs ta these ol’ eyes they are.”

“Perhaps,” the cleric grinned, his gaze averting to the other table again, “foreign or familiar to this place, though, I sense a need in all three.” Once more, he abandoned his study of the group and turned his eyes back to his breakfast guest. “They call to me, Mother,” he smiled softly, reaching across the table to pat the back of her withered hand, “much as you did.”

“Well then, lad,” Mother grinned in return, catching the priest’s hand in hers and giving it a gentle squeeze, “I s’pose I should let ye see to ‘em, then. Ye’ve been more’n kind ta this ol’ woman, an’ ta ask any more blessin’s than ye’ve a’ready given’d be sin I ain’t ready ta atone fer.”

“Asking for help is never a sin, good Mother,” Mosic reassured her, “and giving it where it is needed is my calling.”

The woman got to her feet, then, wrapping the blanket he’d given her about her shoulders, and leaned over to kiss the little cleric atop his head. “Go where yer called, then, boy,” she inclined her head toward the table where the three foreigners sat, “an’ don’t ye worry no longer over this ol’ woman.” With that, Mother took her leave of the table and made for the door.

“Will you be alright, Mother,” Mosic called after her as he slid from his own seat.

The crone glanced back, her once cloudy eyes veritably twinkling in the light of the inn’s lanterns, now. “Much better’n I’d’ve been if I’d not met ye, minister,” she replied, pulling open the door, “I ‘ope ta meet ye ag’in.”

“Should you have a need, good Mother,” the Cid beamed, already making his way across the floor, “I have no doubt that you will.”

With that, the crone disappeared into Davnor’s streets, again, and the cleric proceeded to where Aranwen and her friends were finishing off their own repast. He paused only once, catching the serving girl as she crossed his path. “Pardon me, miss,” he said, gazing up at the girl with a warm and inquisitive smile, “Might there be a room available in this fine establishment?”

“I reckon so,” the girl replied, “I think there’s one or two open. They rent by th’ hour er th’ evenin’; what’s yer pleasure?”

Mosic’s smile stretched into a tight, contemplative line for a moment as he considered Aranwen and her friends, the returned to the bright grin as he looked back up at her. “Let’s call it an evening, shall we?”

“Right,” the girl nodded dutifully, “Tha’ll be a cullar an’ three dretch, then.”

“Very well.” Mosic’s fingers dipped into his purse and came out with a pair of silver coins which he offered up to the serving girl; “Keep whatever change comes of this for yourself, miss.”

The girl smiled at the generosity of the tip and slipped the coins into an apron pocket. “Thank’ee, m’lord,” she said, the drudgery of her day seemingly lifted from her shoulders of a sudden, “I’ll return directly with yer key.”

“Thank you, miss,” the Cid smiled, then tipped his head to indicate where Aranwen and her party sat, “I’ll be at that table.”

Another smiling nod from the serving girl sent her off about her duties and set Mosic back on his path to join the bladesinger and her companions. As he approached, he fell back into his study of the trio. Aranwen he had already seen up close but the other two he’d only glimpsed from across the room. The “dark girl,” as Mother had called her, was quite lovely, he noted, with at least some Syl blood in her veins judging from her mischievous features and fine build. The other figure, though, was far more imposing than he had appeared even from across the room, even despite the long-suffered pain that radiated from him. He was easily twice Mosic’s height, if not more, and quite broad of shoulder. Other than that and a scarcely contained sense of menace, the cleric of Falloes couldn’t determine much more.

“Greetings, again, Aranwen Galandel,” he smiled, his eyes flashing pale blue as he reached their table, “and blessings of the Helping Hand upon you all. I hope I’ve not arrived sooner than you were ready? Might I join you?”

((OOC2: I think I'll stop there for now, just to keep it from being too long a read and to let Kith and Ara have some input and such. The serving girl will likely return with a room key, soon, and, at that point Mosic will likely explain that he figured whatever conversations might be had with the group would likely be better entertained in private, particualrly where the healing is concerned.))

“Not at all, good cleric,” Aranwen smiled softly at Mosic’s query. She pushed the chair next to her out so that the Cid might freely climb up into its seat even as she turned to regard Ch’dau and Kithran. “The priest you noticed, Kithran,” she said, gesturing to the wee blonde man, “Mosic; adherent of Falloes.”

“Mosic Townes,” the little man appended, bowing his head in greeting such that the twin tails secured at his crown bobbed ever so slightly, “and you are?”

“Kithran,” the dark girl answered after a skeptical moment of studying the little priest. She gestured vaguely at the big shape at her side, then and continued; “This is… Samuel.”

The tiny man grinned, as if amused. “Samuel, is it?” he scoffed pleasantly after a pull from his flagon, “I cannot say as if I’ve seen a man so large called by such a moniker.”

He plunked his mug on the table, then, and, once more tried to peer into the shadowed depths that hid the figure’s face. “Despite your obvious potency, Samuel,” Mosic prodded, “I cannot help but sense that it is you who needs my attentions more than the rest about this table. Is that a fair assessment?”

The shape beneath the hood shifted, somewhat uncomfortably, and replied; “I am fine, t’mbili v’dogo. My friends warrant your attentions before I.”

Much like the man’s size and shape, the timbre of the voice and the strange words it spoke, aroused curiosity and, perhaps, a bit of trepidation in the Shadelin priest. Despite that, Mosic continued to smile. “You do honor to your friends, Samuel,” he offered, “but, and I intend no offense, I doubt that is true.” He rested his elbows on the table, folded his fingers together, and bravely leaned forward, still attempting a look under the hood. “I have felt your need, friend,” he said quietly, “felt your pain, since first you arrived here. If there is suffering to be known at this table, at this moment, yours is the greatest, the most urgent. Do you deny this?”

“I do,” the shape called Samuel rumbled from the shadows that cloaked it, “My friends… they are the…”

“He’s a stubborn s***,” Kithran interjected, cutting off further words from either warrior or priest, just then, as she leaned over the table, herself, and fixed dark eyes on the gold-cloaked cleric, “and, since he’s not likely to give you the truth of it, little man, I will.

You’re right,” she muttered, “Samuel, here, has been suffering for quite a while. He’d probably still be suffering or, perhaps worse, if I hadn’t found and freed him from the cage he was being held in not far from here. And, if it weren’t for this one,” she subtly jerked her head in the direction of the bladesinger, “none of us would be here to play these games with you…”

“Kithran,” Samuel started to protest, “I…”

“Shuddup,” she snapped, giving only a sidelong glance to the heap at her side before her narrowed, ebon eyes fixed back on the little Cid. “We’ve got work to do, priest,” she hissed into the space between herself and Mosic, “and you are our best chance to see it done, at the moment. Can you help us or not?”

Mosic’s brows lifted at the dark girl’s bravado but his smile never wavered. He lifted his mug, sipped, and, as the flagon came away from his lips, nodded assuredly. “I can, miss,” he grinned, thumbing a bit of the honeyed brew from his lips as his gray eyes flicked from face to face to hood, “though, I’m guessing more and more that the crowded common room of an inn is not the best place to do so…”

As if prompted by the cleric’s words, the fair-haired serving girl sashayed up to the table and deposited an iron key before the Cidal. “First floor, m’lord,” she muttered, “second door to th’ right, left o’ th’ landin’.”

“Thank you, miss,” Mosic smiled, taking up the key.

“Aye,” the waitress demurred, “Will there be anythin’ else?”

“No,” Aranwen responded, plucking a gold coin from her own purse and offering it to the girl, “unless that won’t cover the cost of what we’ve eaten.”

The girl dipped her head. “Tha’ll be fine, m’lady,” she smiled, “Keep th’ change?”

“Please.”

“Then, I bid ye good day,” the serving girl said, dipping in the semblance of a curtsey before taking up the empty plates and cups and taking her leave of the table. “Enjoy yer stay in Davnor, m’lord,” she appended, purposefully eyeing Mosic as she sauntered away.

“The Right Hand’s Blessings upon you, miss,” Mosic smiled at the retreating girl’s back.

The Cid took up his mug, again, and sipped slowly, his gaze travelling over the three others at the table. “I’ve secured a room,” he said, holding the key up before him, “in order to assure a bit of privacy. If you lot are ready and willing, might you join me?”

It didn’t go unnoticed to Mosic’s eye that both the thief and the thing turned a gaze to Aranwen, just then. The Syl woman, in response to those unspoken queries, simply nodded and, even before he had slipped from his own seat, the darker pair had gained their feet and queued up behind him. “Just this way,” he grinned, motioning to the stairs at the side of the common room, “You’ve nothing to fear from me, friends, I assure you.”

While Kith and Samuel seemed skeptical, at first, Aranwen followed easily and, at her lead, the others followed as Mosic guided them up the steps.

"I had a vague understanding of those who follow Falloes' tenants,” the bladesinger murmured as they climbed the flight, “but never have I seen such in person. I am glad to know there are such people as you, even in this cursed land."

“No more glad than I am to find folk such as you, here, Lady Galandel,” Mosic returned as they reached the landing and bore left, “For all I’ve heard of Sendria, I expected naught but trial and tribulation. You and your friends are the second encounter to assure me that there is more than that to be found here.”

In Mosic’s wake as he toddled along the corridor, Kith and Samuel remained silent. Even as he put the key to the battered iron lock on the door, they said nothing. The bladesinger, though, seemed unconcerned and followed easily, maintaining an easy banter, pausing only to look both directions down the hall before they slipped into the rented room.

“Very well,” Mosic sighed softly, shrugging his pack from his shoulders on to the pallet bed as Kith closed the door behind them, “here we are.” His eyes, wavering between gray and blue, fixed upon Samuel’s massive form as he patted the mattress, indicating that the man should sit; “Let’s have a look, shall we?”

Samuel’s hood turned to regard Kith, first, and the lithe thief nodded faintly. Then, the shape seemed to regard the Syl and she, too, offered a similar nod, adding; “I would not lead you here if I thought it dangerous,” she gestured to the mattress, “Please.”

Samuel’s hood swiveled back to Kithran as she slipped into the room, the door secured behind her. The dark girl rolled her eyes and sighed; “For f**ks sake, cat-beast! Sit before you fall!”

Cat-beast? Mosic arched a brow and, once more, regarded the massive cloaked form that loomed heavy in the tiny room. “I… uh…” he stammered, wondering about the term as he rummaged through his pack and pulled out his supplies, “I will need you to doff your cloak and such, Samuel, if I am to attend your wounds.” He unfurled his healing implements at the foot of the pallet even as he heard a languishing sigh seep from the shape behind him, “and, if you please, have a seat right…”

Even as he patted the thin mattress, again, he turned and caught the thing complying, ever so hesitantly, with his instructions, saw “Samuel” for what he really was. “Oh… Sweet Father Falloes!!!” The priest couldn’t help but stagger back a few steps as he blinked up into the face of terror. “Wha… what in the name of all that is holy…???”

“Oh, relax, priest,” Kith sighed, jandering easily up beside the monstrous cat-man that had appeared from beneath the falling cloak, “If he’d have wanted to eat you, he’d have done it, already!”

The bladesinger, too, seemed to have trouble in containing her amusement at Mosic’s reaction to Ch’dau’s revealing his true form. “Rest yourself, Mosic,” she almost chuckled, catching the toppling cleric by a shoulder to still his retreat, “despite his appearance, I assure you that you have nothing to fear.”

“What…” The Cid, at first, couldn’t seem to control the rapid blinking that had beset his lids, “What... what is that???”

The kazari froze, his slit-pupiled eyes flicking, at first, between Aranwen and Kithran as the little monkey stumbled backward at the sight of him. When he realized that both women seemed amused and not concerned, though, he fizxed his gaze on the agape Halfling. “My name,” he rumbled softly as he could, “is not Samuel…”

“W-w-w-well, no s***,” Mosic sputtered, still held to his feet by Aranwen’s firm but gentle hand.

“I am called Ch’dau,” the cat-monster said, uneasily sinking onto the mattress where the Cid had only recently indicated that he should do so…

“Unable to take his eyes from the horror that faced him, Mosic nodded faintly, looking away only when he heard Aranwen’s voice speaking calmly from his right. “Tell me, Mosic,” the soft Sylvari voice cooed, “in all of your travels in these past years, have you not heard tales of the Silver Cat of Coria?”

Still unable, or perhaps unwilling to avert his gaze from the kazari, the tiny cleric might have nodded; the twin tails of his hair shivering against his scalp. “I… I have…”

“I believe this is he,” Aranwen soothed, the amused chuckle filtering from her tone, “and, as you can plainly see, he requires your aid. Heal him. Please.”

At her words, Mosic’s feet seemed to firm beneath him and, after a moment, the little cleric was able to tear his eyes from the massive humanoid tiger that sat upon the palette. He blinked, first, at the dark girl and, then, slowly, his head swiveled toward the Syl and he nodded. “I… go… where the Right Hand leads,” he whispered, blinking, again, as his eyes returned to the cat-beast. He took a hesitant step forward and, tentatively reached out a tiny had to touch the wound at the creature’s shoulder. “…and, only He knows why, He has led me to you.”

Blinking, again, his expression slowly melting from horrified to inquisitive, he reached for the phials and tools he had unraveled. “The Silver Cat of Coria,” he whispered, almost disbelieving, as he blindly pulled the stopper from a bottle of disinfectant salve, “I thought you to be but a story, meant to terrify those who would oppose the Wyverns.”

“I am not,” Ch’dau snorted as the tiny monkey stepped even closer and swabbed the seeping hole in his shoulder with the balm.

“Obviously,” Mosic nodded, lacing a curved needle with waxen thread, now. “Tell me, Ch’dau, how is it that you come to the shores of this land?”

((OOC: Stopping here, as I can’t write anymore tonight. Been a long day and I’m done! I’ll pick up again tomorrow or Monday, at latest. If either of you feel like posting any reaction or other input, please do. If not, stand by, and I’ll wrap this up ASAP))

As Kithran pushed for Ch'dau to accept help, Aranwen sighed inwardly. She knew full well the resistance Ch'dau was offering, and she was glad Kithran was there to push him into accepting the ministrations of Mosic. Once Mosic looked steady on his feet, having recovered from learning the identity of the one Kithran had called Samuel, and Aranwen saw him retrieve needle and thread, she moved to Ch'dau's side.

The question Mosic asked of Ch'dau gave her pause. In all the rush, she had never given thought to the question of Ch'dau's origins, her concern only for Ch'dau's wellbeing in the present, especially resulting of the state she found him in. Aranwen already saw in him a companion in need. That he was someone people would be afraid of, someone so out of place on Antaron, she didn't think of that. He was a proud warrior who she would be happy to fight beside, and that was what she saw when she looked at him. 

With a gentle smile, she offered him her hand. Aranwen might not have had much skill as a healer, but she knew it was going to hurt.

Though she had no doubt as to Ch'dau's strength, and so she had offered her left hand as a precaution for herself.

“Tell me, Ch’dau, how is it that you come to the shores of this land?”

The kazari blinked, his gaze flicking from the cleric’s face to the needle he prepared and back, again. This was not a question he had been asked in quite some time and, even to Ch’dau, all of the details of it were far from clear. “That is a tale long in the telling, little one,” he rumbled in reply.

“Oh, I’m sure we’ll have the time to hear it,” Mosic chuckled softly, tugging the suturing thread taut and even, “Despite your claims otherwise, your wounds are quite extensive and it will take some span to see to them all…”

The big cat snorted, his eyes widening a bit in surprise and tracking to the bladesinger’s face when he felt her hand fall to his.

“…Consider the telling of your tale to be payment for these services,” the cleric suggested as he pushed the needle through the cat-man’s skin and began the sewing of the wound.

“Very well,” Ch’dau sighed, his massive fingers folding over Aranwen’s slender ones and his gaze shifting from face to face, “By the reckoning of time, here, it was a bit more than two of your years ago…”

**************************************

Recollections of how a Kazari Came to Antaron

The Barrier Islands of Capasha’s Northwestern Coast; Season of Storms; 31 Moons Past (22^nd Olemra, 450 E.R.)

Crouched amidst a small copse of palms at the top of the island’s rocky beach, the young kh’ur’s blue-green eyes scanned the dark, brackish waters of the channel he had recently swam. Night had fallen in the time it had taken him to traverse that strait and Khr’a’s Silver Eye was masked by the storm clouds that gathered in the skies; he could no longer see the shore of the island on the other side. That island had been the third he had crossed in as many days and the waterway between it and the isle he found himself on, now, had been the fourth he had braved on this quest. All he had to show for any of it, so far, aside from salt-stiffened fur and aching muscles, were the skins and skulls of a couple of ny’oka’ya’m’ji. Those alone would be fitting tributes for Strakhan N’thu’th at the Khanate’s Gathering but hide and bone were not the prizes he truly sought.

From the time he was but a cub, Ch’dau had heard tales of a place hidden amongst these islands – a place older than Rrowl and Keziri and, perhaps, even older than Khr’a, herself – a place ancient and out of time, wrought through with and by powers beyond reckoning. It was whispered among the khr’dun of the clans that there were magicks, there, stronger than those to be found in the Twilight Forest, greater even than those that had raised the Hell’s Mouth Mountains and brought forth the decimation of The Waste. So ancient and terrible were the powers that stirred there that the Kazari had refused it a name in their own tongue and, though the place had a name of its own, few kazari mouths were capable of sounding it out and, those that could often refused to speak it…

Euridian.

…The name was as unnatural as the things that were purported to be found there and, while few Kazari dared to utter the name of the place, even fewer had dared to venture out in search of it and of those who had only three were known to have ever returned. Legend had it that Rrowl, himself, had been the first. Fierce and fearless as He had been and despite having brought back the secret of steel, whatever He had encountered there had been disturbing enough that, for as long as He lived, He refused to ever go back. The second Kazari ever to travel to Euridian and return to her clan was a powerful Khr’dun called N’ghali of the Notched Ear Clan. She had been young and sharp of mind when she set out on her quest for the place, the tales said, but when she returned, bringing with her the cat-folks first written words, she had aged beyond her years and had become prone to mad ramblings until she joined The Eternal Hunt. Finally, there had been a boastful kh’ur of the Far Eye Clan named Ch’kos who had undertaken his own expedition to the place. The stories of his adventures there were few and lacking much detail, though, as upon his return, he refused to speak at all and, within three moons of having visited Euridian, he had left his clan behind and wandered into Khr’a’s Lament never to be heard from again.

Tales of terror and madness aside, Kh’ur Ch’dau was not prepared to abandon his own quest. He had come so far already – through the ranges of several clans of the Bhak’chu, across the spits of briny waters that separated Capasha from the barrier islands and, too, those islands one from another – to turn back now would prove nothing other than that his fear outweighed his honor and that was a thing he would rather die than admit. Besides, he was close – the ny’oka’ya’m’ji that had tried to drown him in the channel were proof enough of that, the vile creatures were reputed to gather around Euridian during this season, after all – and, the longer he lingered on this beach, the more he was sure that he could feel it. The breezes stirred by the coming storms chilled him, raising his fur, despite their tropical warmth, and, as they whispered through the trees at his back, they seemed to stir voices which spoke in tongues his ears couldn’t comprehend…

“Very close,” he rumbled softly, shaking off the shudder that the storm winds stirred in his bones as he set his blade to the work of skinning the second ny’oka’ya’m’ji. “I will find the place tomorrow, under the light of Khr’a’s right eye. First, though, I will tend these skins and fill my belly with this meat…”

Dawn – The Next Day

Khr’a’s Orange eye had failed to pierce the storms that raged over the barrier islands. It was day, of that Ch’dau was sure, as night would have been much darker and the heat that seeped through the tempest could have only been granted by the sun hiding somewhere behind its veil. So it was that the young Kazari had been stirred from his fitful slumber by the crack of lightning and the boom of thunder rather than the bright light of a rising day-star.

Grumbling, he kicked aside the palm fronds he had used to shield himself from the rains. Stretched, and padded a few paces deeper into the tree line where he found the skins he’d hung to dry. They hadn’t cured as yet, of course, due to the absence of the sun, but the slimy coating had, at least, sloughed away thanks to the night’s downpour. The skulls he had saved, too, had been rinsed clear of the bits of blood and flesh that had clung to them after the skinning. He gave a satisfied grunt at the state of his prizes and, after having relieved himself in the pool of gore spattered sand beneath the skins, carefully rolled them up, and tucked them into his pack before he lashed the skulls together and tied them to the belt of his dak’tar. This done, he stalked back to the head of the beach and made breakfast of the rest of the ny’oka’ya’m’ji meat as he sharpened his blades. He didn’t bother looking back across the channel in hopes of spying the mainland, though. Even in the light of a full sun, Capasha wouldn’t have appeared as much more than a dark heap against the horizon and, given the squalls of the Storm Season, it was unlikely he’d have seen that much, now. Finished with his meal and the maintenance of his blades, the silver furred kazari regarded the eastern horizon one last time and, with a wordless prayer to his gods and ancestors, turned his back on the storm-tossed seas to stride purposefully into the expanse of teak, ebony, palm, and bamboo that dressed the island.

Morning passed with little more than the sighting of a small herd of Hog Deer and a brief encounter with a sloth bear that amounted to only a passing glance between cat-man and creature before each went their separate ways. As Khr’a’s orange eye climbed higher into the sky and, at last, broke briefly through the tumultuous skies, though, the jungle warmed and mists sprouted from the ferny undergrowth as the rays of The One’s sight peeked through the dense canopy of the rainforest’s center. It was during one of these moments of respite from the rains that Ch’dau first notice the shimmering greens and purples of the crystalline stones that sprouted from the forest floor and, scarcely an hour later that he realized that, despite their apparent chaotic scattering, there was truly a pattern in which the stones seemed to appear. A spur here, a spur there, and yet another poking through the undergrowth in the midst of a shallow clearing where the canopy was thinned and let more light in from the skies, showed him that, after he had examined them all at length, created a spiral formation which found it’s center at a shallow depression just under a slender sapling of a jak tree at the very heart of the cleft. The screeching of a purple faced leaf monkey at the top of that seedling, too, seemed to confirm that he had reached his destination.

As shy as that particular breed of primate usually was, though, when Ch’dau chuffed and growled at it, the thing refused to abandon its perch. Instead, it only cawed louder, its long tail waving and its eyes wide as it scrambled higher into the thin branches of the jak. When the monkey reached the highest point it could, it plucked a green, egg-shaped fruit from among the boughs, shrieked, and tossed the jackfruit to the forest floor. Neither the simian nor the pod was any sort of threat to the massive kazari, of course, but the fact that the monkey refused to scamper away was curious enough that Ch’dau found some profound need to investigate where the fruitlet had landed. After chuffing another warning growl at the monkey and drawing both his blades, the kh’ur of the Stalking Ghost clan rolled his shoulders and strode resolutely into the center of the clearing. So intent were his attentions on the green, leathery skin of the drupe, where it nestled in the tiny depression that pocked the forest floor, that he failed to notice the ring of mushrooms that spanned its perimeter. Neither did he perceive the tiny crystals which began to glow as he broached the border defined by the fungi. It was only when he crouched to pluck the jackfruit from where it had landed that anything struck him as out of the ordinary. No sooner had his clawed fingers closed around the ellipsoidal fruit, lifting it from its resting place, that the ground started to dissolve at his feet, only to be replaced by a strangely, liquid surface that somehow mirrored his own features and the forest above and about him.

In the span of time it took him to blink, Ch’dau stared into his own eyes, saw the jungle reflected above his head, and, somehow, heard the waves of the sea crashing about him all at the same time. Then, the ground gave way beneath his feet, replaced by a deep chasm rimmed with walls of green and purple crystals that pulsed with strange light as he fell into its depths. He tried to run. ..Tried to leap to the edges of the crevasse and cling to its sharp, pulsing edges… but escape was beyond his reach and he fell. As he toppled into the abyss that had opened beneath him, the skulls at his belt regenerated their flesh and skin; snapped fiercely at him as they took form and grew back their bodies; clawed at him, too, as, when the glow from the crystalline walls that defied his reach surged in their brightness and revealed the flat, mirror surface waters toward which he plummeted. A roar of frustration and, perhaps, fear welled in his lungs as he toppled closer and closer to the silver-blue surface of the waveless waters but, just before his body broke that reflective plane, he saw visions of a white-sanded shore on which armored monkeys stood. Beyond them rose structures the likes of which he had never seen and, past those, still, loomed a darkness more impenetrable than even that wrought by the storms that had forbidden him a glimpse of his home before he left the beach. The roar escaped him just as he hit the water and the air that had left his lungs was instantly replaced with salty tasting water that choked and chastised him all at once.

Ch’dau found himself, then, looking up at the brilliant sun hanging in a blue sky, fragmented by the churning of an azure sea. He struggled to the surface, refusing to take more of the waters into his chest before there was air to replace it. When his head came above the waves, he coughed out the brine in his lungs and, at the same time, scanned every horizon about him. There were no signs on the barrier islands. No signs of the dark streak of Capasha that should have been at his back in this brightest of days. Ahead of him, though, farther away than any distance he had ever swum before, he spied a faint white line that betrayed the sunlight reflecting from a distant beach and, beyond that, a faint promise of green hues that indicated land beyond. So it was that he swam… and swam… and swam some more until his muscles were numb from the effort and he could no longer keep his head above the water. As he sank beneath the waves, he caught sight of the shore he had struggled toward, and the curious shapes that moved along its rapidly blurring lines. As he stopped swimming and his lungs filled with brackish water, an alien voice, surely kindled by his drowning, tinkled like a crystal whisper in his ears in a tongue he had never heard… “You are home, now, Kazari. This place you will learn.”

**************************************

“…I do not remember swimming to the beach,” Ch’dau rumbled softly as Mosic finished stitching the wound in his thigh, “nor can I recall how I got from there to the Wyvern’s keep in Coria, but that is where I awoke and came to know Rodric Cassel.

It was he who taught me your language and he, too, who told me that Capasha, my home, lay far beyond what you call the Titan’s Walk Reefs. Impassable, he called it, and yet here I am.”

"Dear Adaron,” Aranwen breathed beside him, “I was curious of the story of the Silver Cat we had heard about in Megilindor Nost, but never would I have guessed you hail from beyond the Titan's Walk. To fall through the world... through somewhere not of this world... such a tale brings to mind tales of Syl children who are lost in the woods, and those who are found healthy may speak of impossible places not found in Antaron. Even as far from home as you are, I am glad you did not become one of the Lost."

“As am I, I suppose,” the kazari muttered, “As long as I am here, I have hopes of seeing Capasha, again; though, unless the same strange magicks claim me, once more, I know not how that might happen.”

“Fascinating,” Mosic said, shaking his head faintly at the bizarre tale as he knotted the suture on the cat-man’s final wound and snipped away the excess thread, “I thank you for sharing your story with me, Ch’dau.”

“Mm,” the kazari grunted in reply, offering a nod of his shaggy head, “It is not one that I tell often, little Mosic.”

The Cidal grinned and stretched out a hand, placing it in the center of Ch’dau’s chest. A prayer whispered over the cleric’s lips, then, and a faint golden glow radiated from his tiny fingers to wash over the entirety of the kazari’s form. When it abated, the pain of Ch’dau’s wounds was well diminished and the blood that had stained his fur was all but washed away. "That sees to our silver furred friend's injuries,” Mosic said with a smile, his gray eyes turning to Aranwen and Kith in turn, “but what of your wounds?"

"I don't have any; none that require attention anyhow,” the bladesinger returned, “Few bruises and cuts from last even that have more or less healed."

Mosic looked skeptical. "I can generally get a sense for when someone is in need or in pain,” he smiled gently, “and you seem to be in a lot more pain than you show. Are you sure there is nothing that can be done for you?"

"I... I don't know," Aranwen confessed.

The Cid glanced at Kithran, then, and raised a brow; “And what of you, young miss?”

"Dear Adaron,” Aranwen breathed in the wake of Ch’dau’s fascinating story, “I was curious of the story of the Silver Cat we had heard about in Megilindor Nost, but never would I have guessed you hail from beyond the Titan's Walk . . . “

Have I heard of this Silver Cat before? Kith wondered from her post at the door. The Wyverns had never served any purpose for her, and so, like the bladesingers, she had never given their news any mind. And people were always wont to embellish anyway, so even if she had heard of a massive cat-man among their ranks, she could see herself rolling her eyes at the story and continuing on her way.

“. . . as long as I am here,” the Kazari was now saying, “I have hopes of seeing Capasha, again; though, unless the same strange magicks claim me, once more, I know not how that might happen.”

“I know of an evil tome filled with some strange magicks,” Kith winked at the cat-beast, “Perhaps there will be some hope for you in there.”

“Fascinating,” Mosic said, too enthralled with Ch’dau’s tale to give any notice to the shady thief, “I thank you for sharing your story with me, Ch’dau.”

“Mm,” the kazari grunted in reply, offering a nod of his shaggy head, “It is not one that I tell often, little Mosic.”

The Cidal completed his work by placing a tiny hand on the massive Kazari’s chest, repeating his chant quietly, and ushering in a golden glow that washed over his body. It had been a while since Kithran had seen such a blessing--since she had lightly stabbed that Kith-jora acolyte, in fact. The cleric-types never seemed to enjoy her company for very long, despite how much coin she happened to find to give them.

"That sees to our silver furred friend's injuries,” the tiny one said as he completed his work, “but what of your wounds?"

"I don't have any; none that require attention anyhow,” the bladesinger returned, “Few bruises and cuts from last even that have more or less healed."

Mosic looked skeptical. "I can generally get a sense for when someone is in need or in pain,” he smiled gently, “and you seem to be in a lot more pain than you show. Are you sure there is nothing that can be done for you?"

"I... I don't know," Aranwen confessed and Kith rolled her eyes at her back. Such hesitation from such a fierce warrior. It was the second time in one morning that haze of weary enigmatic energy surrounded the Sylvari, and she sighed silently to herself. All that matters is her ability to accomplish my--our---task, she reminded herself.

The Cid glanced at Kithran, then, and raised a brow; “And what of you, young miss?”

Kithran pushed herself off the door, waving the others away so that she could sit near the priest and present her arm. Through the slashing in the material there, Mosic could spot the awkward bandage work Kithran had managed on her own in the cellar, as well as the spots of blood still seeping through, “This is probably the worst of it, but,” she points to the clear dark finger marks around her neck, “I am rather sore in this bit as well. And my side hurts from when a large cat-beast tackled me through a two-story window.”

Her eyes danced, watching the priest’s silent reaction before helping her roll up her sleeve, “I may have been able to sense the need in you three as soon as you walked into the inn, but,” he shook his head, disrupting those two ponytails, “to such a degree, I could not imagine.”

“Back out while you still can,” Kith teased with a grin before wincing as his needle pierced her skin, “or join us, in the next of our unimaginable follies. We are obviously in need of some assistance, none of which includes someone unable to keep themselves together in the face of a couple . . . monsters.” Her eyes flit very briefly to the golden-eyed Sylvari’s before wincing once more at the needle and trying not to jerk her arm away from his small hands.

“As I have told you, I go where the Right Hand leads me,” he says determinedly, focusing on the last of the stitching before tying it off, “I will not fail you because I will not fail Him.”

Kithran smiled sweetly despite herself, until he suddenly moved to touch her neck and her side. Her reflexive jolt did not go unnoticed.

Aranwen offered her a gentle smile, "I know of your aversion to touch, so I know it is not easy. But it is not a Syl's touch, at least. Come on, you might not be nearing complete collapse as Ch'dau was, but you will still need your strength."

Kithran’s attempt not to glare at the woman trying to help her while the Cidal once again pressed his hands to her resulted in a strange mixture of expressions that felt strange even on her face, and she tried to focus on something she had at least some modicum of control over.

“Stealth, priest,” she said, looking up and away from him and the others, “will be vital in our mission. You are small of course, so that should help, but your cape is rather, ostentatious, to say the least. Do you need it or can we stash it for now?” The blessing began to wash over her, and with the pain and discomfort of some of her injuries, so went a slight portion of her anxiety, “I can likely find another for you if you need one, though you may not approve of my means.”

Mosic chuckled and felt relief as he sensed the half-Syl relax just a little with the healing, “I may doff the cape for now, Kithran.” he sat back, “Have you any other concerns about my abilities while we are here?”

“Your abilities, no,” she jumped up next to Aranwen and bounced for a moment, tilting her neck from side to side before landing and twisting at her waist, “I feel much better, thank you. I do have some more questions, but I will let you take care of our mighty bladesinger first.”

"Now Kithran,” Aranwen said in reply, turning to the thief, “give the good priest back his medallion," she poked the bouncing thief in the side quite suddenly and Kithran nearly hopped back into the wall at the feeling, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you were making a game of what I can see in my periphery."

Kith did glare at the Syl this time, though a smile played at the corner of her mouth. She took a step forward so that she was in front of her accuser, “First of all, Ara, please do not do that again. Second of all,” and now her grin widened much too fully, “you are right, Syl. Incredible,” she turned to the Cidal, handing him back his medallion, “She really is too good at this, but I’ll get her. And,” she shrugged, “I am sorry, I suppose.”

She gestured to the bed beside Mosic, “Go on now Ara, you stoic, golden-eyed, terror. Even gods need a little assistance sometimes.” And I need you in perfect form for my--our--task ahead.

Kith did glare at the Syl this time, though a smile played at the corner of her mouth. She took a step forward so that she was in front of her accuser, “First of all, Ara, please do not do that again. Second of all,” and now her grin widened much too fully, “you are right, Syl. Incredible,” she turned to the Cidal, handing him back his medallion, “She really is too good at this, but I’ll get her. And,” she shrugged, “I am sorry, I suppose.”

She gestured to the bed beside Mosic, “Go on now Ara, you stoic, golden-eyed, terror. Even gods need a little assistance sometimes.”

Mosic returned a look somewhere between bemusement and annoyance at the sleight of hand Kithran had just performed, "I would very much appreciate that not happening again," He noted, "We who follow the Right Hand carry little that isn't for the benefit of others less fortunate than ourselves."

Aside Kithran, Aranwen flinched again, as she had each time she had been called Ara. On some level she had thought to endure it, if only to reduce the ache she felt by exposure, but it didn't seem to work as she had hoped, "If you will use my full name, I won't do that again," she offered.

With a sigh, she shrugged her shoulders, looking between Kithran and Mosic, "Well then. I see you will not be convinced..."

She began loosening the leather bands around her arms, and winced as she took each sleeve off. Unbandaged were numerous wounds where blade or skeletal hand had managed to land a blow through the leather, sealed by coagulation as the leather was tight enough to hold the wounds closed. Perhaps that was another reason why rather than leather plates, hers was more like winding vines. Eventually the entire armour was off, leaving her in the light layer of clothing she wore underneath which left her shoulders bare as well as her arms.

"It looks worse than it is," Aranwen reassured the others.

"A-are you certain of that?!" Mosic asked incredulously, "Why are your injuries uncared for?"

Yet, as he examined Aranwen over, his face went from shock to relief. True to her words, her bloodied arms looked a lot worse than they were, as she hadn't the opportunity nor real means to clean them since the string of encounters from the prior evening. All of the injuries she had sustained were minor, though there were a fair number of them.

After Falloes' blessing, her arms were easier to see properly. Aranwen's body overall showed many scars across the otherwise fair Syl skin, especially along her left forearm where she had evidently used her vambrace in an attempt to deflect blows she hadn't avoided.

"Thank you, Mosic," Aranwen gave a smile, "The others' injuries were far greater, and the supplies I had to treat them with was never meant for more than one person over the length of their patrol," She offered as an explanation.

"I see," Mosic lifted a hand to his chin in thought, "Then, what is it that ails you so? Even as you sit here, without it showing in your face, I have the sense of a pain of some kind. I would know of it to see how it may be helped, if not healed."

Aranwen shook her head, "It is not important right now. Kithran has a book she would like to get her hands on, and we have Adedre actively scheming something that-"

Mosic however had turned his attention to the cloak Kithran wore, "That cloak... Is that yours?" he asked

((Kithran commenting it is hers for now but was lent by Aranwen))

Mosic nodded solemnly, "I think I understand," His generally warm tone seemed subdued before he looked to Aranwen, his eyes with a gentle sympathy for the Bladesinger, "I am sorry for your loss."

Aranwen's eyes widened, and once again she bowed her head, her hand going to her face as she began to cry.

Mosic looked to Kithran and Ch'dau, "That cloak... I wasn't sure until I saw it closer in better light, but I've seen its like before," He offered as an explanation, "As a priest, how could I have not? The pattern stitched into the fabric marks it a cloak worn by a Syl in mourning."

Mosic gently placed a small hand on Aranwen's arm, "This is, indeed, a deep wound that will not heal easily."

Mosic narrowed his eyes at the thief, "I would very much appreciate that not happening again," He noted, "We who follow the Right Hand carry little that isn't for the benefit of others less fortunate than ourselves."

"I shall try my best, priest, as I have been unfortunately blessed with good fortune."

"If you will use my full name," the bladesinger began, pulling Kith's attention back to the woman in front of her, "I won't do that again," she offered.

“Agreed, Aranwen,” Kithran nodded at the bladesinger’s request, and watched as she revealed her new and old wounds to their cleric. The half-Syl couldn’t help but be impressed with her. She didn’t know many Sylvari, but she knew that they could live lifetimes and more on any human or half-Sylvari, and she wondered just how many this one had behind her. Were they all the life of a bladesinger, or did they vary until she landed there? The woman could have been around Kithran’s age, if not a few years older, or have centuries on her, and yet here they all were.

The name bit was interesting. Kithran also preferred her full name out of strangers, but she would take a “Kith” over a touch any day. Perhaps their lines were drawn for similar reasons. Perhaps “Ara” was too much of a reminder of something she’d had that she had lost in one of those past lifetimes, that she did not want or was not ready to receive from anyone else.

Of course, someone touching Kithran unwantedly was also a sign that that someone needed to be stabbed, so that was probably a little different from the bladesinger’s name thing.

"That cloak... Is that yours?"

“What? Oh, no,” Kith replied as the Falloes cleric took her out of her reverie, “No, the Kazari is using the one I usually use, since it is quite large and offers him some form of discretion.” She holds out one of the sides of the cloak and strokes it, “This is actually Aranwen’s, though I may need to hold on to it. I think it looks rather nice on me. Don't you think so, Ar . . . .” Kithran stops, looking back at the Sylvari who had once more fallen into her pained, fragile air.

Mosic nodded solemnly, "I think I understand, I am sorry for your loss."

Kithran’s eyes flit back and forth from the suddenly solemn Mosic to the stoic bladesinger, unable to hide the concern on her face as the formidable woman began to break down in front of her. She took a step toward her, “Aranwen?”

Mosic looked to the confused thief and Kazari, "That cloak... I wasn't sure until I saw it closer in better light, but I've seen its like before," He offered as an explanation, "As a priest, how could I have not? The pattern stitched into the fabric marks it a cloak worn by a Syl in mourning."

Mosic gently placed a small hand on Aranwen's arm, "This is, indeed, a deep wound that will not heal easily."

“Oh . . . no,” realization hit her and her fingers fumbled as she tugged at the cloak’s knots, but she managed after a moment, yanking it off of her. She crouched before the bladesinger and placed it on her lap, “I am sorry I insisted, Aranwen. I . . . I apologize for persuading you to lend me your . . . this cloak. But,” she took a moment trying to find her words before this woman shedding herself before them, knowing that her voice would sound more filled with cold than the warmth she wish she knew how to offer, “I cannot go into the hells before us carrying your ghosts on my shoulders. I won’t do that to you, regardless of how naked I feel without a cloak.” She stood then and stepped away, allowing the others to offer the comfort she was not capable of giving.

Ch’dau nodded his thanks to the cleric of Falloes and, as Kithran waved he and Aranwen aside to take her turn under the little man’s attentions, found his way to a corner of the room. “This is probably the worst of it,” he heard the thief say as he settled into a crouch, turning just in time to see her expose the finger-shaped bruises at her throat, “but I am rather sore in this bit, as well. And my side hurts from when a large cat-beast tackled me through a two-story window.”

Mosic’s brows climbed a bit further up his forehead as he regarded the bits of glass he had pulled from Ch’dau’s back and, then, glanced in the kazari’s direction. The cat-man simply chuffed softly and offered a shrug. The priest shook his head, twin pony-tails bobbing as he turned back to examining Kithran’s injuries. “I may have been able to sense the need in you three as soon as you walked into the inn, but, to such a degree, I could not imagine.”

“Back out while you still can,” the half-Syl teased, wincing faintly as Mosic’s needle pierced her skin, “or join us, in the next of our unimaginable follies. We are obviously in need of some assistance, none of which includes someone unable to keep themselves together in the face of a couple . . . monsters.”

“As I have told you,” the cleric stated without looking up from his work, “I go where the Right Hand leads me. I will not fail you because I will not fail Him.”

An uncharacteristically sweet smile ghosted across Kith’s lips, then, but just as quickly disappeared when Mosic reached his tiny fingers to the bruises at her neck. As she recoiled from the priest’s touch, a faint smile played on the bladesinger’s lips.

 “I know of your aversion to touch, so I know it is not easy. But it is not a Syl's touch, at least,” Aranwen chided gently, “Come on, you might not be nearing complete collapse as Ch'dau was, but you will still need your strength.”

The thief’s ebon eyes flicked to meet the Syl’s golden ones for an instant. Then a sigh blew past her lips as she relented to Mosic’s administrations. “Stealth, priest,” Kith said, purposefully averting her eyes from those of any others, “will be vital in our mission. You are small of course, so that should help, but your cape is rather, ostentatious, to say the least. Do you need it or can we stash it for now? I can likely find another for you if you need one, though you may not approve of my means.”

The soft bark of a chuckle escaped Ch’dau, at that, in concert with the priest’s own. He shifted on his haunches, watching with mild amusement as the scene played out before him. The banter between thief and cleric; Aranwen, once again, catching Kith’s sly pilfering of Mosic’s medallion; and Kith’s playful taunting of the bladesinger upon being called out on her actions. These furless folk, the kazari mused quietly with a slow shake of his head as Kith goaded Aranwen to submit herself to Mosic’s healing, I do not know that I will ever fully understand them.

Aranwen had begun to strip off her armor and, even from where he sat, Ch’dau could see the marks left behind, from injuries new and old, on her lithe form. The scars spoke of many battles fought over the course of many years and, that the Sylvari woman had survived so much, told the kazari of exactly the sort of warrior she was. One more than worthy of fighting beside, he thought, his eyes tracing over the pale lines that crosshatched her skin, and, even following into battle. A true khatun as I see her, now.

“It looks worse than it is,” the bladesinger assured.

"A-are you certain of that?!" Mosic asked incredulously, "Why are your injuries uncared for?"

Ch’dau’s tail flicked and his ears twitched as, following Mosic’s examination, the golden light of Falloes’ blessing washed over Aranwen, briefly highlighting each scar that graced her body. Further affirmation of the warrior’s life she led in the kazari’s mind.

"Thank you, Mosic," Aranwen smiled as the glow abated, "The others' injuries were far greater, and the supplies I had to treat them with was never meant for more than one person over the length of their patrol."

"I see," Mosic lifted a hand to his chin in thought, "Then, what is it that ails you so? Even as you sit here, without it showing in your face, I have the sense of a pain of some kind. I would know of it to see how it may be helped, if not healed."

Aranwen shook her head, "It is not important right now. Kithran has a book she would like to get her hands on, and we have Adedre actively scheming something that-"

Mosic however had turned his attention to the cloak Kithran wore, "That cloak... Is that yours?"

“What? Oh, no,” Kith replied, the cleric’s query seemingly have roused her from some deep contemplation, “No, the Kazari is using the one I usually use, since it is quite large and offers him some form of discretion.” She held out one side of the garment, her deft fingers gliding over the fine fabric “This is actually Aranwen’s, though I may need to hold on to it. I think it looks rather nice on me. Don't you think so, Ar…” Kithran stopped and looked curiously at the Sylvari who had once more fallen into her pained, fragile air.

"I think I understand,” Mosic nodded solemnly, his tone condoling as his gray eyes turned back to the bladesinger, “I am sorry for your loss.”

Aranwen's eyes widened at that, and she bowed her head, her hand going to her face as she began to cry.

Even as Ch’dau’s ears flattened slightly and his tail fell limp, an expression of puzzlement fell over Kithran’s features, as well…

“Aranwen?” the thief took an almost tentative step toward the weeping Syl as Ch’dau slowly rose from his crouch, wondering to himself what could possibly bring a warrior such as the bladesinger to tears.

"That cloak... I wasn't sure until I saw it closer in better light, but I've seen its like before," He offered as an explanation, "As a priest, how could I have not? The pattern stitched into the fabric marks it as a cloak worn by a Syl in mourning.

This is, indeed, a deep wound that will not heal easily."

“Oh,” Kithran gasped softly, “no.” The thief, not so dark as she had once appeared, now, struggled from beneath the borrowed cloak and, full of sympathy and apology, placed the thing back in Aranwen’s lap. “…I cannot go into the hells before us carrying your ghosts on my shoulders. I won’t do that to you, regardless of how naked I feel without a cloak.”

“The hells are a place for the evil and wrong-minded, kibibi,” Ch’dau murmured as he padded across the floor, “and, your choice of vocation aside, I do not think they are for you, yes? Nor for whomever it is that our friend mourns, now.”

He settled his bulk on the bed beside Aranwen, then, and, somewhat awkwardly, gathered the mournful woman in his arms. A soft purring sound rolled in his chest as he pulled the bladesinger close – not the same happy sound he had made when he had eaten earlier but, rather, a soothing, consoling rumble. “I know very little about what any of you believe about what comes after this world,” the kazari said softly, cradling Aranwen’s head against his chest, allowing her tears to soak into his fur, “but, among my folk, it is believed that the honored dead find themselves called to the Eternal Hunt.

It is a place of beauty and bounty,” he explained, “where pain is no longer found. When you leave this world, you are greeted in the next by those who were called to The Hunt before you – your ancestors and the companions who have fought by your side – and, for the rest of time, you feast in their presence, hear tales told of their bravery and yours, and remain guarded by Rrowl and Keziri as both of Khr’a’s eyes smile happily down upon you.

Death is not a thing to be feared,” he finished, tipping his head forward to press it against Aranwen’s, “but embraced. What awaits us on the other side are all the things we will never find here.”

In spite of the sadness that seemed to fill the room, Mosic Townes could not help but to smile at what had come of Aranwen’s tears. He had sensed need from this strange trio from the moment they had entered The Countess and Cockatrice and, in some fashion or another, all three of them had even admitted to it. As he watched them, now, though, he felt his heart warm. These three disparate beings, each needful of something vastly unlike the others, it appeared, had all started to find what they sought simply by having come together…

 Perhaps their need of me, he mused happily, the gray of his eyes giving way to blue as he observed them, was simply for the grace of Father Falloes’ healing. The blessings of the Helping Hand have now knitted together their individual threads just as, by His benevolence, my own hands knitted their flesh.

…It was quite a thing to see and, for his part, the cleric felt privileged to bear witness. The falling away of the stoic bladesinger’s physical armor had precipitated the doffing of that which had armored her emotions. That, in turn, had brought down the brassy, lone wolf façade of the thief, revealing that she was capable of concern for others beyond herself. And the terrifying battle-beast known as the Silver Cat of Coria… who could possibly have known that there was such tenderness concealed behind such a terrifying presentation of fur and fang?

Mosic set about packing away his healers kit, he smiled softly to himself, listening as Ch’dau cradled a weeping Aranwen, murmuring softly to her about his people’s idea of an afterlife that he referred to as the Eternal Hunt. Until today, the Cidal had believed that the stories he had heard of the Silver Cat and the Kazari, in general, were just that; terrifying tales of horrible, blood-thirsty monsters who knew nothing but violence. For all of those accounts or, rather, despite them, the way the cat-man described what he expected when he left this world behind sounded beautiful, even peaceful, and Mosic found himself fascinated by it.

“Your Eternal Hunt sounds a worthy respite from the cares of a hard lived life on this plane, good Kazari,” the priest said when Ch’dau had finished his telling, “and, the more time I spend in your company, the more I wish to hear about your people and your culture. There seems to be so much more to you and your folk than has ever reached my ears.”

The cat-man’s turquoise eyes framed the little Cid and he offered a fractional nod; “This does not surprise me, little man. In all my time in your lands, I have yet to have seen, let alone heard of, another of my kind, here. What is it you would like to know?”

“Everything,” Mosic laughed, making an expansive gesture, “The nature of your language, the details of your homeland, the ways of your people…”

“That is quite a lot,” Ch’dau chuffed, “You may have to stay with us for some time before I could tell it all.”

The Cid nodded his understanding. “Falloes has led me to all of you for a reason,” he grinned, “and has yet to lead me elsewhere. Until he does, I’ll be happy to stay if you promise to tell me more. For instance, when you spoke of the Hunt, you mentioned names… Rrowl, Keziri, and Khr’a, was it?... who are they?”

Ch’dau looked surprised and, perhaps, pleased that Mosic had pronounced the names as properly as he had. His ears flicked and his tail twitched in what the little priest was quickly coming to understand might be the kazari equivalent of a smile. “They are what you might call our gods,” the Silver Cat offered, “Rrowl is Lord of Battle and the Hunt, Keziri is Mother of Us All, and Khr’a is ‘The One;’ She made the world… made us.”

“And what other gods do you have?”

The cat-man shook his head; “We have no need of any others. What more could we want than what can be provided by those?”

“Only three?” It was Mosic’s turn to look surprised. “Our kind have so many more,” he blinked, trying to imagine how so many divine domains might be given over to only three gods, “I… I’m not certain I understand how that can be…”

The kazari chuffed out a chuckle and, once again, offered a shrug of his massive shoulders. “Perhaps your monkey-gods are not as strong as ours,” he suggested, “and so you need more.”

Mosic blinked and the word ‘blasphemy’ played through his mind for an instant… but only for an instant… The casual way in which Ch’dau had said it led the Cid priest to believe that the Silver Cat had meant no offense and had simply stated a fact as he saw it through kazari eyes. “It would seem we have a lot to discuss on that matter,” Mosic chuckled, perhaps a bit uncomfortably.