Chronicle: Session 13

So. Getting this cloak.

In hushed tones, crouched down by the wall, Tsalta and Faeleth deliberate about how they plan to do this. Tsalta can't help but wonder if perhaps it's worth fetching the others to get backup, just in case something goes awry...

Eager as Faeleth is to have that cloak in her hands, she agrees. It can't hurt to have a safety net. And so they hurry back to the canalboat, drawing a look of utter bafflement from Alf. Didn't they just pay him to look the other way...and now they're leaving? He makes no comment on it, content either way to have a little more jangle in his pocket.

Back at the boat, Fergus is working his way through his copy of Fifty Shades of Fey (Chapter title: I Can't Believe I Got Tied Up In This). Nothing sidles over and attempts to rib him about his 'interesting' taste in literature. "Oh, this is just what my mother used to read to me."

You what?

"We're a very close family." He says, deadpan.

Ew.

"No shit." Yeah, that's weirder than she's interested in dealing with. She says no more and walks away to the other end of the deck, leaving him to read his book in peace...just as he'd intended.

Catching the sound of hasty footsteps, Nothing looks to the bank and sees Faeleth and Tsalta arriving at the side of the boat. "Where you been?" Tsalta ums and ahs - they were doing something, and there's a chance they might get into trouble... Well, in that case, where does Nuth sign? And also were they seriously about to go get in trouble in Red Larch without her?

Well, not any more, she's absolutely invited - they could use her help. As is Fergus, should he not object to our "slightly materialistic" interests. "We're going to go get something that isn't exactly-"

"You were going to go steal something without me?" Nuth's incredulity rises another notch.

Yes, well, she's invited now. Tsalta bats the tiefling's protestations aside, her concern primarily about Fergus, who nobody really has a measure of yet. "You don't have to come with us if you don't want to."

Fifty Shades of Fey closes with a snap. Fergus looks Tsalta in the eye and replies, "Well, who else is going to look after you and keep you out of trouble?" Nobody pulls him up on the fact that so far it's been us keeping him out of harm's way. He can think he's the group's bodyguard if he wants, sure.

With an aside to the demon hunters to keep an eye on Chip so he doesn't get too high and sail off without us (since the guy is currently amidst a veritable cloud of pipesmoke), the party head back into town once more.

On the road, Faeleth and Tsalta share their observations of the garden party, and start outlining a plan: Keep it simple, a quick in-and-out job, find the cloak, grab it and get going. No hurting anyone if we can help it, if possible Faeleth and Fergus can try to mingle with the partygoers to case the joint and keep the whole thing pretty low-key.

Beside the garden wall, the party crouches together in a huddle, going over the plan one last time.

Nothing volunteers to stay outside - everyone in town knows her, she's very visually distinctive and anyone who knows her will think she's here to nick things. Which would be true, but that's beside the point.

And if worst comes to worst, someone can cause a distraction, we can bop someone on the head and run. (Nothing has to yank Tsalta's sleeve occasionally to remind her to keep her voice down - gods, the big girl doesn't have much volume control when she's excited.)

Tsalta tells Nuth to listen out for the sound of her horn. That's the signal that something's gone awry and her cue to draw people's attention.

(She has only one condition: "Bring me back some of those...fancy food, whatever you call thems. The little posh party foods, yeah?"

"Canapés?" ventures Tsalta.

Is that what they're called? They sound as fancy as they look, huh. She tests the word in her mouth, "Canapés...yeah! Bring me some a' those!"

Fergus isn't so sure. Aren't canapés the suspended sheets you use to keep something dry?)

Back to the planning. Does our guy have the cloak on him?

Nope, Tsalta replies, but...he might have a room at the manor if he's staying at the party. Nothing pauses, and gives Faeleth a thoughtful look over. Not being funny or anything, but maybe she could...you know, if he's got a room, she could convince him to 'show her it'...?

"What exactly are you implying." Faeleth glares down at Nothing, who laughs and waves a hand in response.

"I'm just sayin'! You did all that with the gargoyle, right? I see how people, like, look at you. I bet you could."

Is this because she's an elf? Is that it? He's an elf, she's an elf....is that what Nothing's saying? "You can't just fucking say that to people!" she hisses, indignant.

Nuth is taken aback - what, no! It's not cos he's an elf, bloody hell. Touchy, much? She rolls her eyes, not thinking she'd have to spell it out: "It's because you're pretty." (Tsalta, not quite understanding why there's an argument at all, gives Nothing a big smile and says she's pretty too. Hey, did Faeleth just add on, "Pretty ugly," under her breath?)

Faeleth still thinks it's flagrant stereotyping...but she takes Nothing's point, and agrees, boggling the kid's goddamn mind because *then what was the problem?*

ANYWAY. Tsalta's got a concern - hey, if this is the Baron's house, might that be a problem for Faeleth? Doesn't she have bad history with him? She offers to boost Faeleth up to look into the garden again to see if she can spot him. Up she goes!

The garden party's got livelier since they last took a peek, the conversation less refined and more spirited now everyone's got a bit more drink down them. And out in the middle of the garden, something's drawn quite the crowd.

At first, it's hard to determine exactly what the poshfolk are up to, bunched together as the spectators are around the event. There's a clang of steel on steel, a cacophanous shattering of glass. A flurry of applause rises from the elven portion of the crowd (those who share a race appear to have clustered together as they watch). And as some of the onlookers filter away to engage in an exchange of coin, Faeleth gains view of the broken window and the short, stout man in gleaming armour gingerly extricating himself from the broken frame.

Of course, Faeleth thinks. A tourney.

Nobles do so love their tourneys, obsessed with competition and one-upmanship as they are. And how better for noble houses to flaunt both their might and their money when they all get together? Dress up the house's best fighter in armour most folk couldn't buy with a year's pay, of course, and have them lock blades with your rival house's knight in shining ceremonial armour.

She sights the winning combatant as the crowd reorients itself. Standing victorious in the center is an elven man, his silver hair a touch dishevelled but carrying himself with haughty poise nonetheless. Before he walks away, he takes a moment to brush himself down, sheath his rapier, and straighten his cloak.

His black, shimmering, gold-and-silver filigreed cloak.

There's her guy. (He's not the elf who purchased it at the auction, however, but that detail is at once consigned to irrelevancy in Faeleth's mind.)

She signals Tsalta to duck down, and whispers what she's seen to the rest of the party.

"Did you see the Baron?" Tsalta asks, concerned. Doesn't he have bad history with Faeleth? Might be good to know where he is, so she can avoid him. Another peek above the wall and she spots him, sitting alone at the back of the garden with drink in hand, in a blatant sulk. The man is genuinely pouting.

It's his party, why on earth is he looking so sullen? (Says the DM: "Give me an Insight. It's going to have to be amazing." Says Lubby's die: Yeah, okay, how about a Natural 20.)

She follows his gaze back to the tourney ring, and as she casts her eye over the fighters and back to him, a series of logical leaps all click together.

Not a single contestant is sporting his house crest. Oh, poor baby, he threw a party and didn't have a champion lined up - did he forget to bring someone when he last travelled back from his big house in Einhorn? What an awful shame.

Faeleth is feeling rather smug. "He's there, yes. Not all that happy, though, everyone else is participating in the fancy noble circlejerk and he's all billy-no-mates." She stifles a snicker. "No-one to jerk."

All the important figures staked out, the new plan is put into action. Tsalta and Faeleth decide to enter by the front door - rather than sneak in, why not just act like they're absolutely meant to be there? Confidence is everything.

Fergus, understandably lacking trust in his new companions, insists on coming too.

The door opens onto a crowded foyer, the sound of music and chatter intensifying as it swings open with a creak. Time to just...blend in. As she scrunches herself through the doorway, Tsalta's elbow knocks one of the suits of armour inside to the floor with an almighty clatter of metal on tile. Everyone turns and stares at the huge woman hunched in the entryway.

She gives a jovial wave to the crowd. "Hello!" Well. There goes 'blending in'. Tsalta grimaces apologetically, "I'll...pick that up."

As she gingerly tips the suit of armour back to its feet, a prim little halfling man clad in a neat black steward's uniform bustles over. "Excuse me, are you on the guest list?" Everyone at the door claims to have been invited, but the steward is skeptical to say the least. "I would like to see your invitati-"

"Hello! I'm actuall-" Nothing pokes her head around Tsalta with a wave. He turns to look at her, eyebrows raised and lips pressed together in a highly doubtful line.

"-Nothing, you are definitely not invited." Yeah? Is that so? She's an orphan of the town, ain't she? She's here to represent Red Larch's orphans! The charity auction- He finishes her sentence for her: The charity auction is *over.*

Nothing opens her mouth to protest...actually, screw it. Charm Person! The steward's eyes grow hazy, he frowns and blinks a few times like someone trying very hard not to fall asleep...then he meets Nothing's gaze and crosses his arms, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. "Nothing. You know that didn't work last time, and it's not working this time either."

She shrugs and flashes the guy an impish grin - hey, he can't blame her for trying, right? It's a party!

At that moment, there's disgruntled mutters and tutting from some of the partygoers as the Baron himself shoves his way towards the front door. By the look of his expression, his sulk has soured into a full-on strop, and in Tsalta he sees a welcome opportunity to vent his ire. (Nothing ducks out of sight before he can see her. Nope!)

"Who are *you?* You're clearly not invited." He draws himself up to his full diminuitive height, all puffed-up as though that makes him one ounce more imposing. Tsalta does her best to make up a good lie on the spot - she was at the auction and heard most of the folk there were coming to his party, that's all... He sniffs disdainfully, and prepares to no doubt order her from the premises so he can feel like he's exerting some kind of power...

...and then he spots Faeleth.

His eyes all but light up. He spins on his heel to address the guests. "Ladies and gentlemen, we've been waiting for them all evening - I would like to welcome my champion! She's the death-dealing assassin extraordinaire..."

The what. Faeleth stares at the back of the little Baron's head as he broadcasts her profession to an entire crowd of the well-to-do. They're going to know her face, the last thing she needs is a whole roomful of noblefolk who can recognise her.

"...she's quick with a sword, no elf can outduel her..."

Faeleth steps aside and with a flourish, gestures ever-so-grandly...to Tsalta, who takes her cue and strides forward - "Tsalta!"

".....Tsalta! Yes!" The Baron is visibly flummoxed and has no idea what's going on, but through the glorious act of exploiting the social classes' desire to not cause undue kerfuffle, he has little choice but to pretend there's been no switcheroo.

Eager to play her part, Tsalta steps out into the middle of the high-ceilinged grand foyer, draws her warhammer and covertly whispers, "blow." Her cape billows, and on Faeleth's hushed command there's a well-timed crash of thunder courtesy of the tiefling peeking around the doorframe.

Swinging her hammer aloft, Tsalta shouts, "Who here wants to take me on?" There's a murmur of oohs and aahs from the crowd, a few of those dressed in armour take a quick step away, not fancying their chances against this titan. But one does step forward - a sturdily-built dwarven fellow, his shining gear sporting quite a number of dents already.

(Nothing attempts to sneak into the room while everyone's eyes are on the "champion", but as she pulls up her hood she manages to pull it over her eyes like an idiot. She stumbles into the other suit of armour inside the door. The steward turns and glares.

"Alright, alright! I'm goin'!" Hands raised in supplication, she backs out of the door again.)

Back in the ring...

"The rules are simple! First blood drawn, or first man down, is the loser! Keep it clean, keep it fair..."

The dwarf squares up, raises his longsword...

"Fight!"

The clang of Tsalta's hammer connecting with her opponent's breastplate announces the commencement of their exchange of blows, a fierce back-and-forth where both land glancing blows but neither yet gain the upper hand. Tsalta's shield arm shudders with the impact as she brings it up to deflect his blade, and it's then that she realises he's not pulling his strikes, there is vicious intent in the way he's aggressing her. Gods, this fellow must be a terribly sore loser.

Luckily, she's the kind of girl who knows how to end a fight quickly and...well, *relatively* cleanly. Back in the day when her Da was training her in traditional dwarven combat, she learned a pretty surefire way to cut practice short.

She lines up her strike juuuust so, and introduces her warhammer at great force to Angry McDwarfpants' crotch.

(This may also explain her lack of siblings.)

With a pained squeak, the dwarf passes out on the spot, his sword clattering to the floor. Congratulations, Champion of Red Larch: victory goes to Tsalta! The Baron, fast warming to this turn of events, addresses the crowd, "You see! No-one can defeat her!"

Most of the onlookers are suitably impressed, but it seems not everyone is swayed by the Baron’s lofty claim. Eyeing Tsalta with open disdain, the elven champion steps forward, silver hair as immaculate as his spotless armour.

"Hammers and swords - they are a thug's weapons. A true duellist needs only a rapier."

Oh. That’s a challenge if ever anyone heard one. Tsalta ums and ahs - “Well, you see, I actually don't have one of those....”

"*I'd* like to see your rapier."

Faeleth steps forward, locks eyes with the challenger with a brazen, insinuating smirk. Displaying cool disregard for the clear double-entendre, the elf draws his blade in a flash, bringing it around to within an inch of Faeleth's throat.

Does Faeleth flinch? Of course not. With a flutter of eyelashes and a hand lifted daintily to her brow, she feigns a swoon and fans herself - ooh, *goodness*! Alas, he remains unfazed by the display save for a sigh of faint irritation. (Good. If nothing else, she's managing to get under his skin.)

"You want to see more? Then please, let us dance."

Sadly, Faeleth doesn't get a chance to mess with him further - just as she's about to move in and slip an arm around his waist, he takes a neat step back to assume a duellist's stance, rapier at the ready.

She hesitates. Her eyes flicker to the cloak around his shoulders. Moments tick by and Faeleth's not taking up the challenge...so from the doorway, Nothing cups her hands around her mouth and yells, "FUCK 'IM UP!!" The crowd, impatient for the next bout to begin, follow her lead, egging both elves on to fight.

Tsalta leans down to exchange hushed words with Faeleth: why isn't she fighting him?

"I don't want to damage the cloak!" comes the whispered reply.

...Of course she doesn't.

Dipping into a shallow bow, Tsalta extends an arm. Oh, that’s clever. Faeleth finally steps forth into the true centre of the tourney ring. She unclasps her cloak and removes it with a flourish, throwing it over Tsalta’s offered arm. She looks to the elf, and draws her rapier.

Just as she knew he would, he mirrors her, handing his own cloak off to his attendant. Formality and ettiquette are so easy to use to one’s advantage.

“‘Scuse me please, the victor wouldn’t mind a wee drink...” Tsalta shimmies through the crowd towards Nothing, who has finally seized her chance to slip inside as Fergus distracted the steward. Nuth, though, frantically shakes her head and waves as to shoo her off, scurrying deeper into the crowd - the last thing she wants is for people to notice she’s here!

Tsalta takes the hint and drops her pursuit, just as a nearby dwarf beams up at her and offers to buy her that drink himself! He’s chuffed to bits by her performance - “You kicked his arse! He’s a prick, that one.”

Tsalta chortles. “Aye, is that so? Pal, please let’s discuss some more!” And with that, she and her new acquaintance pick their way through to the bar, where all kinds of fancy ales and spirits await. Tsalta casts her eye over what’s on offer, then points to a tall bottle of clear spirit. “What’s that seethrough shit?”

The dwarf laughs - that’s gin, that! Curious to try a new drink, she chugs from the bottle, and the dwarf’s eyes widen as in a blink she’s downed the entire thing. Can she handle that...? “Have you see the size of me?” Even so! The lass must have some dwarf blood in her, eh?

“Aye, I do!” Well, that’s not strictly true, but Tsalta’s half dwarf at heart, so what’s the difference. Her new friend immediately switches to Dwarven - can she understand him now? “Of course I can!” He guffaws and claps her on the lower back, pleased as punch to hear her speak his native tongue.

Meanwhile.... Fergus is gesturing up to the walls of the foyer as he continues to harangue the steward, detailing all the modifications he could provide - should the Baron be interested! That spot there would be absolutely perfect for one of those circle windows, it would let the light in beautifully...The steward doesnt pay much attention, save for the occasional curt ‘mm, indeed’ as he tries to do his job of arranging the upcoming bout with this dwarf chatting his ear off.

Hood up, shuffling through the partygoers, Nothing seeks out a position where she’s well-obscured. She sights a gaggle of willowy elves, darting over to stand between their backs and the wall so they’re blocking her from sight. She turns invisible.

The pair of elves in the circle take position, rapiers ready. Infuriatingly smug, a smirk plays on the elven man’s lips as he offers a wager...how about ten gold?

Done.

“Fight!”

Fergus counts ten marbles out into his palm as he abandons his sales pitch and turns his attention to the tourney ring.

Tsalta, chatting away back at the bar, learns her Dwarven friend’s name is Angus. Her ears perk up at the steward’s shout. Hey, Angus...how about getting a better view? He gladly agrees and helps clear a path for her towards the ring.

Among the sea of nobles, Nothing forgets all about her quest for fancy finger-food. There's far richer pickings than the little canapés in the foyer. So, so many unguarded coinpurses, fat with gold, jangle on noble hips...because after all who expects to be robbed at an upper-class party? It’s gloriously low hanging fruit, and she gets straight to picking. Yoink! One of the elves is going to find himself a purse lighter in the morning...

The dance begins, the elves circling one another before setting up a flurry of feints and parries and flourishes. In truth, Faeleth is stalling for time, gracefully dodging his probing strikes to draw out the match's run time. The longer this goes on, the longer the others have to get that cloak.

She can't dodge them all, however. Having gained the time to size her up, her opponent's beginning to get the measure of her - with expert precision, he strikes past a gap in her armour. Faeleth hisses a sharp inhale at the pain in her shoulder, cold and sharp, and for a moment she too becomes colder. Sharper.

The haughty tilt of his head as he steps away displays every vulnerable inch of his slender throat. His arrogance may as well be an invitation. Done right, it would probably take, what? One neat upwards slash?

No, that isn’t who Faeleth is today. She pushes that thought aside. There's more than one way to make nobles pay, isn't there? A smile creeps across her face as the flash of murderous intent passes and a new idea begins to dawn on her. He seems like the kind of elf who values his grace. She can *disgrace* him.

Faeleth smirks through the pain, blows the elf a kiss...and flips him off with the same hand. “Is that your rapier," she goads, "or are you just happy to see me?” (“That’s my girl!” Tsalta calls from the sidelines.) His lip curls, his eyes darken, and he rushes towards Faeleth, who with a single quick sidestep and an elbow to the back of his head sends him sprawling to the floor just beyond her. The dwarves whoop and cheer her on - now this is an elf they can get behind!

Tsalta pushes forward just in time to find the elf at her feet. To Angus' abject delight, she “accidentally” spills a little of her gin onto his head. She feigns surprise to see him down there. “Oh! You wanted a sip of this too?” She turns to Angus with a grin and finishes her glass. “Actually, this is far too good to waste on such *common* elves, wouldn’t you agree!” (It’s a miracle the gin doesn’t evaporate instantaneously from the heat of his simmering fury as he glares up at her, incensed by the indignity of his situation.)

Nothing edges her way towards the attendant with the cloak, slowly but surely. She’s not in any hurry, happy to make a few stops along the way...Yoink! Another purse for Nothing’s pocket, the dwarf she plucked it from glancing around for a moment before assuming the nudge was merely the jostling of the crowd.

Fergus looses his marbles. They roll across the ring, coming to rest...in front of Faeleth’s feet, who doesn’t notice them in the slightest. He curses under his breath. Those were supposed to end up by the other guy!

What Faeleth was going to do: stride over to Poncy SmugElf the Third, step on his chest and bask in the glorious satisfaction of making him look pathetic.

What Faeleth does: goes arse-over-tit as the marbles send her feet out from under her.

Who needs fog clouds, eh, Fergus?

“Interference!” Tsalta yells as Faeleth falls flat on her ass, “Someone’s thrown some shit on the floor!” Nope, no foul is called, the steward dismisses her as pissed and the fight goes on. Is that so? Well then! As the elf rises to his feet, she hooks a foot round his ankle and trips him - his outraged cry of accusation likewise dismissed by the steward. “Nonsense! Everybody’s pissed!” he shouts, wine glass in hand, slurring just a touch.

Tsalta’s foul play gives Faeleth time to stand and gather herself. Oh dear, it seems her fellow elf is looking rather less composed now, isn’t he... As he staggers back to a standing position, his hair dishevelled and wet with gin, the look he gives Faeleth is withering. Her grin only widens - she steps back, taunting. “Go on, then. Come at me.”

Deft, invisible hands swipe one final purse from one of the elves as Nothing passes by. She's reached her destination - the elven champion's aide is right by her, cloak over arm, no idea she's here. Time to get the big ticket item!

Unaware that anyone's already on the job, Tsalta, too, is homing in on that cloak. She chivvies Angus around to the elvish crowd to get "a better view".

And what a view it is right now. The elf is red in the face as he dusts himself down, furious, panting, his silvery locks all out of place. With a grunt of frustration he rushes at Faeleth, only to be felled by the marbles she'd made sure to position between them. Something definitely goes crunch as he slams face-first onto the tiles. Hee hee.

She strides over, kneels over him and delivers a hearty spank to his skinny ass. There’s a collective gasp and murmuring from the elven nobles - how rude, how uncouth!

The dwarves in the crowd? They’re fucking loving it. They whoop and whistle and cheer, chanting her name - fancy dwarves after a few drinks are still dwarves after a few drinks, after all. Amidst the cheering masses, Nothing seizes her opportunity! She crouches beside the attendant, and delicately pulls the corner of the cloak, hoping for it to “slip” out of his grasp - by the time he looks down to catch it, she’ll have it tucked under her arm and it’ll be gone. But damn it all, he’s the attentive type - she gets it juuust starting to fall and then he hikes it back up, tucking it securely under his arm. Shit.

Fergus spots the guy adjusting his hold on the cloak. That's not going to make it easy for the others. He makes his way around to the attendant, nudges him, and points up to the foyer wall. “Don’t you think a nice circle window would look wonderful there?”

There’s a moment’s pause as the elf processes that he’s the one being addressed out of nowhere. And then a bright smile sweeps across his face - “I could not agree more! In fact, I love circles-“ Fergus finds himself in a reversal of roles as the man eagerly waxes lyrical about the beautiful intricacies of geometry and how circles in particular are a wonder and a delight from a mathematical perspective. From an engineering standpoint, sure, Fergus understands the technical side of it, but...this is way more enthusiastic about shapes than any one person should be! Circles are just circles, right?

Tsalta crouches down to offer Angus a conspiratorial whisper and a nudge. “Hey, Angus, pal. How about we fuck with the elves, eh? Cause a little ruckus? What do you say?” Angus beams, a twinkle in his eye - Aye! That’s a thought, that! All it takes is a shout out to a few of his mates and with Angus at the lead, they rush across the tourney ring, fists flying. The elves are not above retaliation, and within moments all turns to bedlam, everyone’s punching everyone and kicking everyone and fancy wine glasses are going flying.

...This is not great news for Nothing! Since no-one can see her, no-one’s remotely trying to avoid her, and it’s all she can do to maintain her spell as she’s buffeted and elbowed and shoved further and further away from her target. Tsalta uses the madness she’s unleashed as her opportunity to move in to the elf with the cloak - “Dance with me, pretty boy!” - she grabs his hands in hope of pulling his arms up and giving Fergus a chance to make away with the cloak. He resists, arms clamped to his side.

Fergus goes to help Tsalta by stamping on the guy’s foot, but the attendant shoves him away - and as he does, Nothing moves in behind him, whips the cloak out from under his arm, and books it for the door. In all the commotion, he doesn’t even notice it’s gone! Nuth tugs Tsalta’s sleeve as she darts by - “See you at the boat!” And she’s gone, already scampering down the lane with all her ill-gotten gains.

There really isn’t anything like a bit of comfort theft. Everything’s going to hell, but nickin’ stuff from the rich folk always feels like a little victory. Fuck ‘em.

(Crouched amidst a brawling crowd that’s already spilled into where the ring once was, Faeleth discovers that her opponent has full-on passed out. Must have hit the ground hard when he fell - or some guy’s boot just hit him in the head, so maybe it was that. Either way, he’s out cold, so she searches him. It’s not like anyone’s paying attention! He’s got a very nice golden brooch, inlaid with a trio of coins she doesn’t recognise the currency of... into her pocket it goes. Winner takes all!)

“Feel bad for causing this, sorry, gotta leave! C’mon Fergus!” Tsalta shouts and makes for the exit, urging Fergus towards the door, out and away. Faeleth knows a getaway signal when she hears one, but can’t resist lingering at the entryway to take a deep flourishing bow towards the skirmishing crowd. (Oh, and she pockets some silverware on the way out. She just gotta.) The steward, who has returned to at his post at the doorway, laughs and gives a wobbly bow in return - “I wouldn’t worry ‘bout it, happens eeeevery time they get the elvsh and the dwarvsh together!”

Tsalta shakes his tiny hand before she leaves, “Thank you, lovely night, my regards n’ apologies to the Baron!” Fergus just calls back over his shoulder that he’ll ‘be back about the windows’ as he hurries on his way.

They see Alf round the corner - he sights the party, glances towards the mansion from which the sounds of brawling still emanate...and turns around and goes back the way he came, whistling as he goes.

Good man.

Everything is far more serene back at the boat. “Jerry” stands watch, Chip lies asleep against the side of his sheepdog, the evening breeze is cool and comfortable. Tsalta can’t help giving the dog a wee pat, briefly awakening a groggy and disgruntled Chip as it stirs and gives her hand a slobbery lick.

Nothing blinks back into sight, holds the night’s booty aloft, beaming. “Cloak!” Tsalta tuts and shoos the tiefling onto the boat proper - not out here in the open, kid!

Fergus, who was more along for the ride than anything, has his own material interests to indulge...where’s Chip keeping his booze? He searches the gnome’s cabin, but finds only an empty bottle of port. Damn.

With everyone inside, Tsalta peers through the cabin doorway to take stock. “So, what’ve we got?” Nothing wads up the cloak and throws it to Faeleth. Then she pulls out her trio of coin purses and gives them a little jangle. A check inside reveals they’re not super full, but hey, any gold from a noble pocket is money they ain’t wasting any more.

Faeleth sweeps her luxurious new cloak around her shoulders, and fastens it with the golden brooch. She fixes her silver chain to sit over it...there. Perfect. As everyone discusses turning in for the night, she gives the rest of the party a serious look - “Nobody steal my shit.” Tsalta looks a little hurt at that - Faeleth rolls her eyes. “Not you. I trust you.”

Yeah, well. Nuth performatively straightens her demon hunter cloak, chest puffed out with pride - she likes her own one just fine, thanks.

In the morning, Faeleth is still plagued by faint suspicion. To ease her mind, she pats herself down and checks all her pockets. Of course, she’s not missing anything, because her party members are fine upstanding members of society, but she has gained...something? She pulls the anomalous object from her pocket, discovering it to be a brass doorknob.

Weird. She turns it in her hand, and as she does Nuth peers over her shoulder and snickers. “D’you steal a doorknob?”

Faeleth frowns, “I stole a lot of things.” But as far as she can remember, no...she doesn’t recall taking this. With a shrug, she offers it around. Anyone want a doorknob? To Fergus’ great consternation, she gives it to Tsalta even though he asked for it first - but he can attach it to an actual door!

When Chip announces his intent to resume sail, Faeleth heads above deck to truly appreciate her new cloak in style. “Tsalta, can I borrow your cloak a moment?” She carefully fastens Tsalta’s gigantic cloak underneath her own, steps up to the prow, and as the magical whirr of the boat’s arcane engine revs to life, announces: “Blow!”

...Admittedly, the boat starts to move very slowly, but with her cloak whipping about her shoulders, stood proud at the front of the vessel, Faeleth still looks pretty damn cool.

With the barge making its leisurely way towards Einhorn, the party have plenty of time to while away. Tsalta sits at the prow, braiding her hair and watching the trees pass by.

Nothing pops herself down by her side. She swings her feet off the edge of the boat for a bit in silence before she finally speaks.

“So, all that last night...Spindle woulda loved that.”

“Hm?”

“Spindle. Woulda liked it.”

“Aye. Aye, he would have.”

A few moments pass. Then, with a bittersweet smile, Tsalta pulls Nuth in for a little comforting side-hug. “It all woulda gone to shite, imagine!” She laughs softly to herself. “He wouldn’t have waited, he’d’ve just run on in, everyone would be all ‘why the fuck is there a cat in here?!’, we would have been all ‘aaargh, Spindle!-“ she shakes her head, “Could have gone any which way. Little scamp.”

That’s the Spindle they want to remember - the energetic, uncontrollable little beast-child, the little shit, the pint-sized force of nature - not the tiny body lying still under the willow tree. Better to imagine him clawing up the Baron’s carpets.

Nuth smiles ruefully down at the water, “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Overhearing their conversation, Fergus joins them - who’s this Spindle they talk about?

He was...a gross, weird kid, he was great. An utter pain in the backside, Tsalta adds, but a good lad. A good lad, who was a cat sometimes. Since Fergus doesn’t ask, neither bring themselves to explain his absence, and the conversation turns to plans.

Fergus, new as he is, checks in with where we’re headed, what we’re going to be doing. He’s not sure yet what the whole deal is here, having gleaned only bits and pieces over the last couple of days. He’s still adjusting to the strange new path he’s been set on.

Tsalta begins trying to fill him in, places and plans and more snippets of context, but Nothing cuts across her. Hold on. She reckons he deserves to know the stakes.

“I don’t think Willie and Nillie knew what they were sending you into. And if I’m totally honest, I dunno if I even know what we’re sending you into. But, right, if you’re willing to help us fuck up some...proper, actual monsters, we need all the help we can get.”

Fergus isn’t dissuaded. He’s happy to provide whatever assistance he can be, so if we can fill him in now, that would be great. Tsalta gives him a rough briefing on the situation so far - the who’s who and what’s what - finally pulling out her map to point our eventual destination. “So if you’re ready to save some kids, that’s where we’re going.”

She also takes care to run him through general jackalwere safety protocols! Silver or magic to hurt ‘em, don’t bother with anything else. “And for god’s sake, next time don’t look them in the eye and pass out.” (Fergus claims to remember no such thing, but his beet-red face tells another story.)

“And what do we know about this...woman?”

Not much that he doesn’t already know by now. She’s taken people - holding people close to us. Blonde lady, lion body... “Tits out,” Tsalta helpfully interjects.

“Sounds nice.” Fergus! Fergus, no. Nothing quickly shoots that folly down: ain’t so nice when she’s cutting someone’s head off. She’s a nasty piece of work - we’ve all seen what she can do.

Yeah, talking of magic...Fergus is curious about Nothing’s. He’s seen her casting a few times now, yes?

“Oh, yeah, I do magic, sure! Set things on fire, go invisible...” So does she have a book? Anything like that? She laughs at the question - nah, no books, she ain’t some kind of wizard if that’s what he’s thinking.

How strange... Fergus understands the basic theories of magic - divine magic, studied magic, but he’s never encountered someone who just is magical innately. And now everyone’s all interested - the topic’s never come up before. “Oh, really?” Tsalta settles down on the floor beside her, genuinely intrigued, “So where do you get your powers from?”

It’s an easy enough question to dodge, she doesn’t even have to strictly lie. Nothing shrugs. She’s been doing magic since she was a baby, see. Gave ‘em at the church all one raging headache whenever she cried, she was so awful loud, like properly too loud, screamed the place down. And her tantrums - well. Fireplaces blazed, doors slammed themselves... she snickers. “Honestly? Reckon they were relieved when I left. Made the place hell for them. No surprise they thought I was...” she rolls her eyes, “you know.”

“Sounds like no home, though.” Tsalta gives her a sympathetic look, which the tiefling brushes off - eh, it was whatever.

Fergus says he’s reminded of an incident back in his village - some person got possessed, screaming all the time...everyone leans in, wide-eyed - were they okay? What happened next? Fergus, to everyone’s disappointment, becomes visibly uncomfortable and changes the subject: anyway! What do the rest of us do?

Tsalta pulls a noncommittal face. “I...walk about?”

Faeleth, straight to the point, says, “I steal shit.”

He frowns at that. He's not keen on those sneaky types, apparently. “Got stabbed in the back by some friends of mine who dabbled in all that sneaking...”

Well, Faeleth reckons they sound like pretty bad friends. Tsalta agrees emphatically, none of that here. We don’t backstab each other - only people who are trying to stab us! Hell, mainly we don’t even stab. Sometimes we just hit ‘em in the balls. (Fergus remembers the fate of the dwarf back in the ring and winces.)

“So our skills are magic, walking, and...stealing.”

Everyone is quick to point out that Faeleth is good at things that are not stealing. She’s taken out most of the nasty things we’ve encountered! She nods, “I’m pest control.”

Now, what of our plan? Nothing reckons it’s best to gather allies, chat up the demon hunters in Einhorn and amass as many people as we can. Then we forge in, give the Collector what for and get the kids back! Everyone’s on board with that - Fergus proposes a code name for himself in case we’re ever out of the necklace’s protection. If that happens, we can call him Flint.

He’s still not sure we’re prepared enough - as far as he can tell, that plan is still “go in and see what happens”.

Nothing grimaces. Yeah, when he puts it like that...

“Many plans are better than one plan,” he insists.

Yeah. Well, talking to the demon hunters to see what they think is probably a solid start. “Cos I don’t know about the Collector, and the stuff she does? Honestly, it scares me. And I’m starting to wonder how long she’s been watchin’.”

Nothing turns to Faeleth - the only person left who'll have a clue what she's on about. Faeleth remembers the room back under Red Larch with the gargoyles, right? And she remembers Moira, right?

“Yes...?”

And she remembers how Moira just...smiled? Never said anything, never answered her, just smiled. Just that weird smirk on her face the whole time? She voices the anxiety that’s been niggling at the back of her mind for the last day. “After what happened with Albert...now we know what the Collector can do...” She shudders, “I start to wonder, you know.”

It didn’t make sense, with Moira. She’s known her for years, she fed her and the other kids for years, gave them cooked food and a warm sitting room for an afternoon every so often. She was a good old lady. It didn’t make sense, but perhaps she’s still a good lady. Perhaps she wasn’t herself.

Faeleth nods thoughtfully. Perhaps.

(Fergus turns his silver scimitar in his hands, musing on the potential for future jackalwere encounters. “Guys. Any tips on how to use this?”

“Pointy end. Put that in them.” Faeleth’s got no interest in handing out tutorials! She learned by herself and so can he.)

Tsalta also sternly warns Fergus of manticores. He’s never heard of one, so she does her best to describe: big, hideous beasts all made of bits and pieces. Spines everywhere. Dangerous. Very. Watch out for them.

He says he will, but Nothing doesn’t feel he grasps it. “No. Seriously.” She looks him straight in the eye. “It was rough, when we fought one. Real rough.” She pauses, looks away. “They’re why Spindle’s ‘was’ instead of ‘is’.”

However she might want to remember Spindle, she doesn’t have much choice of which images flash into her mind - claws, blood, Tsalta screaming.

Nothing gets up abruptly and returns to the cabin. A few moments later the soft, methodical *thunk. thunk. thunk.* of darts striking wood starts up. Three beats, a pause...and then it repeats, over and over. On and on.

Tsalta, likewise overwhelmed all of a sudden by the topic of conversation, gets up and moves to the other end of the boat where the air feels clearer somehow.

“What happened? What’s wrong with those two?” Fergus asks Faeleth. She opts to switch the topic rather than reply: he seems an avid reader, can he recommend her a book? He offers her his copy of Fifty Shades of Fey, wondering what the hell landmine he’s unwittingly stepped on.

The atmosphere remains a little off for the rest of the afternoon, each member of the party keeping to themselves as they hit the low after last night’s high, processing the reality of their situation in their own ways. Faeleth buries herself in her new book. Fergus practices shortsword drills on the deck. Tsalta watches the scenery roll by, lays back and picks out shapes in the clouds. Nothing holes up in the cabin, peppering a knot in the wood with dart punctures.

Chip isn’t happy to see what’s become of the cabin wall when he stops by to grab himself a drink - Nothing finds herself on the receiving end of a stern lecture...or would! She cuts him short, “It’s fine. Look.” She waves a hand at the holes in the woodwork, which close up as though they were never there. “See? Fixed. *Sorted*.”

“Yes, well. Don’t let me see you doing that again.” Chip bustles off, none the wiser that the mending was one hundred percent Minor Illusion.

The afternoon wears on, the muggy heat doing no favours to anyone’s mood or energy levels - save for Chip’s dog, who revels in jumping from the deck to take a swim in the cool water of the river, running soggy trails all over the boat when he scrambles back aboard.

Fergus tries to blag some booze from Chip, who never seems to be without a drink in his hand despite the shortage in the cabin. “Fresh out, sorry,” Chip says. Well, what about a bit of the halfling hash he’s always puffing on? “Fresh out.” Okay, the drink is one thing but that’s a blatant lie - Fergus raises his eyebrows at Chip, who relents. “Got a pipe?”

....Ah, no. Chip snorts. “Well, the fuck are you using mine!”

Tough luck, Fergus.

Tsalta helps pick out a good mooring spot, since Chip’s interested in stopping for the evening and searching out something to eat. He gets a fire going down on the bank, and sends the party to forage.

(Faeleth doesn’t go. She’s too absorbed in her book, which has turned out to be a fascinatingly torrid read, full of all sorts of drama in between the lurid love scenes.)

Foraging is an easy task for Tsalta! She heads out into the woods to pick mushrooms and fresh greens, and it doesn’t take her long before she’s started amassing a pretty hearty portion. A restless Nothing, antsy from being cooped up on the ship all day, decides to accompany her. Not to pick greens, though - with her little crossbow drawn, she’s on the hunt. There’s got to be rabbits in a place like this.

Nothing draws her crossbow, eyes scanning the woods for the kind of wildlife that makes good eating. It’s not that Tsalta’s meals aren’t nice and all, but they’re not real food, you know? ...but also she knows Tsalta’s gonna hate it if she kills an animal. Ugh.

Yep, Tsalta’s already giving her a canny look. “What are you expecting to find out here...?”

Nuth shrugs, nonchalant. “Look, there might be *things* in the woods.” Yes. Things like rabbits, or a fat woodpigeon. If Tsalta thinks ‘things’ are wolves and monsters, well, she never said that.

Ah! There we go, a warren of rabbits, perfect. She figures the easiest way to do this is just get it out of the way before the big gal can protest. Nuth taps Tsalta on the arm, shoots her an apologetic grimace as she puts on an act of discomfort, shifting from foot to foot.

“Oi, Tsalta, do you mind turning your back a sec? I...gotta pee, yeah?”

Tsalta doesn’t buy it - the kid was fine a minute ago, and her grip on the crossbow is far too eager. “Kid, you’re radiating muderous intent right now. Fancy telling what’s going on?”

Nothing scowls. Was it that obvious? “There’s rabbits over there, and I’m hungry. Come *on*.” She just wants some proper foooood. To her utter frustration, Tsalta’s having none of it, pointing out that she’s a big lass and lives happily on nothing but veg, so Nothing can too.

Sulking, unwilling to shoot anything while Tsalta’s looking, Nothing hunches her shoulders and grumbles. “Just wanna have a proper fucking meal.” It’s not that the big girl’s spreads aren’t nice, but...it’s not real food, is it. Tsalta just stands, arms crossed, waiting Nothing out.

“Please. Tsaltaaaaaaa. I just wanna eat.” Nuth tips her head back and groans.

But see how many little bunnies there are, Nothing? Parents and wee babbies, there, they’re a sweet little family. Nothing insists that’s the point: there’s fuckin’ loads of them and she’s only after one...

“That’s as bad as being like the Collector, that!” Tsalta chides, “-‘oh, I only want one kid’...

She wishes she could take it back from the moment the words leave her lips. Nothing’s eyes widen, a split-second emotional journey taking her from utter shock through distress to the final destination of absolute fury. She gives Tsalta a vicious kick in the shin, really goes for it, before storming off back towards the river without a word, her tail lashing behind her.

Fine. She didn’t need Tsalta to watch her back anyway. Fulled by spite more than hunger now, Nuth continues her hunt elsewhere, more determined than ever. Before long she encounters a duck and drake waddling around in the grass nearby. She takes aim, pulls the trigger, and the female duck quacks in alarm and flaps away as she puts a bolt through the drake’s head. Yeah, whatever. Nuth snatches up her future dinner and continues stomping her way back towards the boat - but not before she spots the ducklings paddling around the river bend.

Again, whatever. Her petty exceeds her pity. She’s not like the fuckin’ Collector just for accepting her place in the food chain. Hell, she’s better than Faeleth, those birds have got one parent left and she got by without any, so.

Fergus goes fishing! Barehand fishing, in fact. With a single well-timed strike into the water he skewers three big juicy trout on his arm. It’s gross, but it’s amazing, and he really wishes someone had been around to witness it!

Tsalta tracks Nothing’s trail back to camp, stewing in regret. She shouldn’t have said that. It was a bit much, even if she does disagree with the kid’s food choices. She hears the quacking of ducks nearby, peers that way, spots the smudge of blood on the grass. She feels a bit less bad all of a sudden.

By the time she returns to camp, the smell of roast duck is rich in the air. Nuth is making short work of her portion, and the tiefling makes a performance of taking a biiiig bite, locking eyes with Tsalta who glares daggers back at her. Nothing, unfazed, carries on chewing and raises a greasy middle finger.

Fergus is back! He hands off his trio of trout to Chip, who prepares them and sticks them over the fire to roast. Tsalta borrows a pan and starts putting together a stew, which Faeleth happily partakes of...Oh, actually, this hasn’t turned out as nice as usual. The mushrooms are a bit burned...Tsalta’s not on her usual form tonight. “Hey, Tsalta. You alright?”

Nuth spots the two talking, and through a mouthful of duck shouts across, “You gonna tell her what you said?” Tsalta ignores her completely.

(Fergus isn’t getting involved. No thanks. He is going to sit here, and he is going to eat the trout that Chip so skilfully prepared, and he will have a peaceful evening.)

To at least help ease Tsalta’s side of the tension, Faeleth starts sharing excerpts from her new book with her. At first it works a charm, the two of them get giggling over some of the more implausibly written scenes, and Fergus scoots over to join in with the book club!

“Say, Fergus, I love the character development in this chapter,” Faeleth says, pointing out a paragraph in ‘The Magic of Pixies’, “I love the part where Fernald and Ariel finally decide they’re going to get married and...’tie the knot’ - and they tie themselves up in vines -“ He nods enthusiastically, yes, it’s really poetic! Tsalta’s in stitches.

(THUNK! Nuth, well aware they’re having fun without her, lobs a dart into a nearby tree with far more force than is necessary, and continues practicing as obnoxiously as she can. THUNK. THUNK. She hopes it’s annoying. Some of those quotes sound really funny and it’s infuriating to listen to.

More infuriating still is the fact they don’t pay a jot of attention despite her best efforts to be a nuisance.)

“And as they’re being strangled and saying their vows, it’s such a beautiful scene, the simultaneous-“ Faeleth’s super invested in this book, where ironic entertainment ends and sincere appreciation begins is now impossible to discern. And as she goes on, describing scene after scene, Tsalta’s laughter starts to falter.

This...sounds familiar. Too familiar.

These scenes. These...acts. Blow for blow (so to speak) the descriptions match up to...Oh god.

She knows who wrote these books.

Faeleth and Fergus are having far too enthusiastic a discussion to notice Tsalta’s face fall in the background.

“I suppose they got their ‘white wedding’!” Fergus says with a wink, and the elf sniggers.

“Well, that is why he calls her ‘Salty’!”

Her horror intensifies. Gandalf’s even used her bloody pet name and dropped the silent T, this is a nightmare. She snatches the book from Faeleth’s hands - “Gonnae borrow this now, please, thanks!” She flips to the back of the book. How does it end? What’s Gandalf’s fanfiction happy ending, eh?

Oh. Yep. There it is. On the final line, “Ariel” announces her pregnancy. She lets Faeleth think she’s just borrowing the book, and without its open pages to read from the conversation moves on.

Growing quickly bored of trying to be disruptive, Nothing settles down into a more muted sulk. The evening draws darker, the party retire to the boat, the night’s watches pass without incident.

When morning breaks, Fergus clambers atop the cabin roof to knock loudly on it with his staff. “Right, everyone! Morning! Let’s get going!” There’s a chorus of groans from inside. Ugh, what a way to be woken up. Chip, liver of iron, has his flask ready to go already the moment he’s above deck. No, Fergus - he’s fresh out, just finished his last bit. (Again??)

(Chip is in a sour mood for the rest of the morning until he gets a decent amount of drink down him. Fergus gives up on trying to talk to him until he’s done so, because sober Chip is snappish and kind of a dick.)

“Okay, but for real, who keeps slipping shit in my pockets while I’m sleeping?” A doorknob is one thing, but Faeleth’s new pocket discovery is a dead mouse and she’s far less happy about it. “This is super fucked up, stop!”

She looks at everyone, her gaze extra accusatory as it lands on Nothing, who puts up her hands. “What? It ain’t me!”

Faeleth scoffs and flicks the mouse at her. “You’re the only one who likes killing things around here!”

HA. That’s some choice irony, can Faeleth even hear herself? Nuth bats the projectile rodent out of the way before it can hit her. “Uhhhh, sorry, did I hear you say I’m the one who likes killing things? Listen, all I did all night was sit up on the roof, watch the woods, then go to sleep. Wasn’t me.”

There’s a splash as Fergus dives into the river for a morning wake-up swim. “Ain’t you, was it Fergus?” Nuth calls over the side. Nope, Fergus says he only deals with fish! ...yeah, she didn’t think it was him anyway. He was all pally-pally with her last night, it wouldn’t make sense.

How about Tsalta, hmm? Trying to make it look like Nothing did it, was she? Tsalta’s confused and affronted - why would she ever kill a mouse? ...ugh, that’s a point. Maybe she just found it like that. Who knows.

Everyone bickers a little, but it doesn't get anywhere. Nobody can prove anything about the mysterious pocket mouse, so in the end they let it go...but Faeleth’s going to be keeping a close eye on her pockets from now on.

Time for the last leg of the journey!

Chip starts up the engine and on the boat chugs, sailing down winding waterways that, as the morning goes on, grow wider and busier with trade. There’s elves with fishing boats, dwarves ferrying ore... And on the banks, forests and grassland gives way to civilisation. At first it's the odd house or farmstead peppering the countryside, but soon habitation grows steadily denser - homes, stables, shops, as the barge pulls towards Einhorn proper.

At last, they sail into the town itself - and here, buzzing with activity, there's a plethora of stands and stalls where folks of all stripes ply their trade. Red Larch’s tiny marketplace doesn’t hold a candle to this. There’s everything - fabric-sellers, metalworkers, booths with tubs of exotic spices and delicious-smelling food...

Welcome, Team Jailbird, to Einhorn!