[Center][size=6][font=times new roman][img]https://i.imgur.com/mIntLwS.gif[/img] Death by Gold [img]https://i.imgur.com/VrmmSen.gif[/img][/font][/size]
[size=2]@NirinTallisbane , I'm subbed![/size][/center]
[Font=times new roman]The trees swayed merrily in the warm breeze of the mid-summer afternoon. The crowns of pink leaves every dark-wood trunk supported weaved and twisted together into one enormous mantle overshadowing the woods, and sent dappled rays of sunlight randomly spotlighting small clusters of fallen leaves or patches of uncovered dirt. Everyone in the small villages nearby knew these trees not to be cherry blossoms, but dragon's breath, trees that bore enormous crimson red fruits that seemed to glow upon night's coming. The dragon's breath fruits sent natural, glimmering light through the trees upon every nightfall, and when dawn came, they almost seemed to recede back into the canopy for protection from mischevious small creatures and foragers blazing a trail. The brush and bramble around the path formed by carts and horses trodding through had begun to overgrow, as there were few merchants still utilizing the old woodland road. From the smallest ferns collecting dewdrops from the previous rain to the largest thicket of nasty razor thorns forming its domain on the edges of the pathway, the trail no longer looked quite as welcoming, despite the beauty of the bright multi-colored forest surrounding it.
Gentle birdsong whisked along the branches, and soft frog croaks beat near the sound of the flowing stream nearby, its lily pads wavering in the fast-moving water and smooth stones shifting with every minow that rushed by. Among the peaceful cooing of little beasts in all of their small crannies, there was a much louder whistle that stood out as a humanoid's among the rest. A Tabaxi of tall stature and playful gait was leading a large, heavily decorated and gaudy purple caravan, pulled along by a stout mule with a humble rope for a bit. Several hooded lanterns hung all around the circus wagon, smaller lights strung in between along with flashy-colored banners suspended from the lavender-hued cloth roof. The Tabaxi who guided the beast of burden was clad in an outfit that well-matched the presentation of his caravan. From poet's beret sporting a large ostrich feather to an extravagantly patterned cloak, vest, and undershirt with flared cuffs, from vibrantly colored Patiala pants to a pair of tanned boots with ribbon tied around his ankles. An enormous cloth belt with pouches hanging from its top and two straps crisscrossing along his chest - one for a tribal style wooden lute, and the other connecting to an abnormally large satchel on his hip.
The hums and whistles of the giddy minstrel slowly turned into the fourth verse of a traditional comic song, 'The Lady and the Lizard', featuring the so loved misadventures of a pseudodragon who was caught stealing spices from a farmhand's pantry. He knew it through and through, fitting in perfectly in his enormous repertoire of stagecraft and jolly muses. He kicked his feet as he walked, and cleared out a path for his wagon as the mule snorted and trodded with great effort along the path, even the clicking of his hooves being turned into a rhythm for the bard. They were traversing the outskirts of the nearest city, also known as the capital of the most well-known country in the expansive world of Eablen; Meirlheim. From the looks of the caravan, his goal was to find a performing spot in a city where he could gain great acclaim instead of just local rumor. The whispers around his childhood nomadic party were fine and all, saying as they were in great favor of entertainment and joy, but nothing like what he would hope to be the notice of the country's ruler. Unlike most in the area, he had always been rather fond of the ruling power. It did gain him a kick in the rear or two when trying to sing a song and perform a trick for a humble coin on the way over. He was a storyteller, and though wealth could land him a place in an inn with fondness for song or an open-air stage in the center of a bustling market, he only had interest for those purposes. He would have rather gained knowledge than money, but with none of the latter, the former would come much harder. And that was the situation he was in now. Clover Quinwill, the very excitable, but very poor wandering musician.
"What ho, Bumblebee!" He called out to his oddly-named mule. "My mighty steed! We shall be getting you some good feed soon, if we can find adventure. Good adventure always pays off, does it not?" Clover turned his head to try and beg a response out of his work animal. When his expectations were thoroughly bamboozled by a creature that had no idea what he was saying, the Tabaxi went on his merry way of rambling off the daylight. "We shall gain adventure, one day, I know it. Every great minstrel and fool always does. Why, just the other day I heard my old halfling friend struck a deal with the king and became the royal court jester! Isn't that something? Just a week ago he had been beggin' for any spot of coin! Now, what's different about us that the ole' sirrah had?" A moment of silence. "...What do you [i]mean[/i] we're tryin' too hard, you saucy oaf!"[/font]
The trees swayed merrily in the warm breeze of the mid-summer afternoon. The crowns of pink leaves every dark-wood trunk supported weaved and twisted together into one enormous mantle overshadowing the woods, and sent dappled rays of sunlight randomly spotlighting small clusters of fallen leaves or patches of uncovered dirt. Everyone in the small villages nearby knew these trees not to be cherry blossoms, but dragon's breath, trees that bore enormous crimson red fruits that seemed to glow upon night's coming. The dragon's breath fruits sent natural, glimmering light through the trees upon every nightfall, and when dawn came, they almost seemed to recede back into the canopy for protection from mischevious small creatures and foragers blazing a trail. The brush and bramble around the path formed by carts and horses trodding through had begun to overgrow, as there were few merchants still utilizing the old woodland road. From the smallest ferns collecting dewdrops from the previous rain to the largest thicket of nasty razor thorns forming its domain on the edges of the pathway, the trail no longer looked quite as welcoming, despite the beauty of the bright multi-colored forest surrounding it.
Gentle birdsong whisked along the branches, and soft frog croaks beat near the sound of the flowing stream nearby, its lily pads wavering in the fast-moving water and smooth stones shifting with every minow that rushed by. Among the peaceful cooing of little beasts in all of their small crannies, there was a much louder whistle that stood out as a humanoid's among the rest. A Tabaxi of tall stature and playful gait was leading a large, heavily decorated and gaudy purple caravan, pulled along by a stout mule with a humble rope for a bit. Several hooded lanterns hung all around the circus wagon, smaller lights strung in between along with flashy-colored banners suspended from the lavender-hued cloth roof. The Tabaxi who guided the beast of burden was clad in an outfit that well-matched the presentation of his caravan. From poet's beret sporting a large ostrich feather to an extravagantly patterned cloak, vest, and undershirt with flared cuffs, from vibrantly colored Patiala pants to a pair of tanned boots with ribbon tied around his ankles. An enormous cloth belt with pouches hanging from its top and two straps crisscrossing along his chest - one for a tribal style wooden lute, and the other connecting to an abnormally large satchel on his hip.
The hums and whistles of the giddy minstrel slowly turned into the fourth verse of a traditional comic song, 'The Lady and the Lizard', featuring the so loved misadventures of a pseudodragon who was caught stealing spices from a farmhand's pantry. He knew it through and through, fitting in perfectly in his enormous repertoire of stagecraft and jolly muses. He kicked his feet as he walked, and cleared out a path for his wagon as the mule snorted and trodded with great effort along the path, even the clicking of his hooves being turned into a rhythm for the bard. They were traversing the outskirts of the nearest city, also known as the capital of the most well-known country in the expansive world of Eablen; Meirlheim. From the looks of the caravan, his goal was to find a performing spot in a city where he could gain great acclaim instead of just local rumor. The whispers around his childhood nomadic party were fine and all, saying as they were in great favor of entertainment and joy, but nothing like what he would hope to be the notice of the country's ruler. Unlike most in the area, he had always been rather fond of the ruling power. It did gain him a kick in the rear or two when trying to sing a song and perform a trick for a humble coin on the way over. He was a storyteller, and though wealth could land him a place in an inn with fondness for song or an open-air stage in the center of a bustling market, he only had interest for those purposes. He would have rather gained knowledge than money, but with none of the latter, the former would come much harder. And that was the situation he was in now. Clover Quinwill, the very excitable, but very poor wandering musician.
"What ho, Bumblebee!" He called out to his oddly-named mule. "My mighty steed! We shall be getting you some good feed soon, if we can find adventure. Good adventure always pays off, does it not?" Clover turned his head to try and beg a response out of his work animal. When his expectations were thoroughly bamboozled by a creature that had no idea what he was saying, the Tabaxi went on his merry way of rambling off the daylight. "We shall gain adventure, one day, I know it. Every great minstrel and fool always does. Why, just the other day I heard my old halfling friend struck a deal with the king and became the royal court jester! Isn't that something? Just a week ago he had been beggin' for any spot of coin! Now, what's different about us that the ole' sirrah had?" A moment of silence. "...What do you mean we're tryin' too hard, you saucy oaf!"
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xSkets | She/Her | Bi | Capricorn | Meme | FR + 2
xAuthor | D&D Enthusiast | Worldbuilder | Too Many OCs
xPWYW Dergs
xMeowdy-do
Nochnyr
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((I'm subbed too! Hope this is alright, came up with a brand new character from scratch xD))
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/4cwrijo741uf1jb/lightmidsmall.png[/img][/center]
[size = 2]“[i]Ugh![/i]”
Sparrow’s cry of frustration bounced off the trees around her, unheeded by any but the birds and the forest. She kicked a large root with her booted foot, at a loss for what to do. She’d been wandering these woods for two, three days now, no idea which direction she was going or which direction she [i]should[/i] be going.
Exhausted, she plopped down on the root she’d just kicked, pulling her handkerchief off her head, where it had been holding back her hair. The white locks fell down to about her shoulders and she brushed a few strands from her face, using the handkerchief to wiper her brow.
“I should have grabbed a map,” she told no one in particular, mad at herself more than anything else. “I might have at [I]least[/i] known where I wanted to go!”
She thought of her younger sister, Lark, in the tiny slaves’ quarters in the house back in Meirlheim. [i]This was all for her,[/i] Sparrow thought dolefully, shoulders hunching slightly in defeat. [i]All the planning and watching and running and running and [b]running[/b]… And what have I done? I’ve gone and gotten myself lost like a complete fool! I’ve wasted all our efforts! I’ll die here in these blasted forests, and Lark will be stuck in Graeyorn’s house forever.[/i]
At the last thought, Sparrow’s fists clenched. Exhausted as she was, hopeless as it seemed—she would [i]not[/i] leave her sister there to rot, even if she died trying.
Standing abruptly she tied her handkerchief about her head again, binding up and heading her white hair. It used to be a light brown, but when she was ten Graeyorn used her as a subject in one of his magical experiments—and after the blinding flash, she found herself not only with the snow-white hair of an old woman, but a splitting headache to match. Lark, so far, hadn’t had to endure any of the would-be mage’s experiments, as Graeyorn’s wife had taken a special liking to Sparrow’s little sister and kept her as a personal maid.
All her life, Sparrow and Lark had been in Graeyorn’s service in Meirlheim, but now, nine years since his magic musings had changed her hair color, she had finally managed to run away. She’d been saving stray coins since she was a child, learning the mannerisms of everyone in the house and memorizing the daily routine. She’d tested a dozen plans and attempted to run away once before, though the endeavor failed; but now, finally, she’d managed to do it. She’d promised Lark she’d come back for her with enough money to buy the entire household and they’d leave Meirlheim forever and go on grand adventures and live free and wild and be their own masters.
But now she was lost.
Pushing on through the colorful forest, Sparrow adjusted the sleeves of her white blouse—it was a size or two too big, belonging to one of the men of the house. Her grey trousers too were a little big, but thankfully not as bad as the shirt. She wore a loose leather jerkin and a belt with a few pouches that Lark had swiped from someone else in the household; her boots were her own, and thus were the only things that properly fit her. Everything she wore was dirty from the aimless wandering of the past two days, and she’d already found two rips in her left sleeve, one near the collar, and a couple around the hem of her trousers. She just hoped it would all stay in one piece long enough for her to buy or find some new clothes.
Pressing on, Sparrow suddenly found herself stumbling out onto what remained of an old path, apparently having been out of use for a good while.
[i]Well, it’s got to lead somewhere,[/i] she reasoned with herself. [i]Even if I end up back in Meirlheim, I should be able to find work of some sort. It’s a big city—Graeyorn couldn’t find me in a hundred years. He hardly leaves his study, anyway. I probably should’ve just stayed in the city in the first place.[/i]
She hadn’t been on the trail for five minutes when she became aware of a voice coming in her direction, accompanied by the sound of underbrush being pushed aside and the clip-clop of hooves. Eagerly she headed towards the sound, making sure her handkerchief hid her tell-tale hair. Rounding a slight bend, she found herself facing an oncoming wagon, pulled by a mule and led by a colorfully-dressed Tabaxi.
She’d seen a few of his kind before in the city, and they generally seemed friendly; this one definitely seemed in a good mood, talking amiable to his mule as they walked. By his attire and the state of his wagon, she would assume he was a performer of some sort—either that or a gypsy.
“Hello,” she called, waving an arm to get the Tabaxi’s attention. “Hello there!”[/size]
((I'm subbed too! Hope this is alright, came up with a brand new character from scratch xD))
“Ugh!”
Sparrow’s cry of frustration bounced off the trees around her, unheeded by any but the birds and the forest. She kicked a large root with her booted foot, at a loss for what to do. She’d been wandering these woods for two, three days now, no idea which direction she was going or which direction she should be going.
Exhausted, she plopped down on the root she’d just kicked, pulling her handkerchief off her head, where it had been holding back her hair. The white locks fell down to about her shoulders and she brushed a few strands from her face, using the handkerchief to wiper her brow.
“I should have grabbed a map,” she told no one in particular, mad at herself more than anything else. “I might have at least known where I wanted to go!”
She thought of her younger sister, Lark, in the tiny slaves’ quarters in the house back in Meirlheim. This was all for her, Sparrow thought dolefully, shoulders hunching slightly in defeat. All the planning and watching and running and running and running… And what have I done? I’ve gone and gotten myself lost like a complete fool! I’ve wasted all our efforts! I’ll die here in these blasted forests, and Lark will be stuck in Graeyorn’s house forever.
At the last thought, Sparrow’s fists clenched. Exhausted as she was, hopeless as it seemed—she would not leave her sister there to rot, even if she died trying.
Standing abruptly she tied her handkerchief about her head again, binding up and heading her white hair. It used to be a light brown, but when she was ten Graeyorn used her as a subject in one of his magical experiments—and after the blinding flash, she found herself not only with the snow-white hair of an old woman, but a splitting headache to match. Lark, so far, hadn’t had to endure any of the would-be mage’s experiments, as Graeyorn’s wife had taken a special liking to Sparrow’s little sister and kept her as a personal maid.
All her life, Sparrow and Lark had been in Graeyorn’s service in Meirlheim, but now, nine years since his magic musings had changed her hair color, she had finally managed to run away. She’d been saving stray coins since she was a child, learning the mannerisms of everyone in the house and memorizing the daily routine. She’d tested a dozen plans and attempted to run away once before, though the endeavor failed; but now, finally, she’d managed to do it. She’d promised Lark she’d come back for her with enough money to buy the entire household and they’d leave Meirlheim forever and go on grand adventures and live free and wild and be their own masters.
But now she was lost.
Pushing on through the colorful forest, Sparrow adjusted the sleeves of her white blouse—it was a size or two too big, belonging to one of the men of the house. Her grey trousers too were a little big, but thankfully not as bad as the shirt. She wore a loose leather jerkin and a belt with a few pouches that Lark had swiped from someone else in the household; her boots were her own, and thus were the only things that properly fit her. Everything she wore was dirty from the aimless wandering of the past two days, and she’d already found two rips in her left sleeve, one near the collar, and a couple around the hem of her trousers. She just hoped it would all stay in one piece long enough for her to buy or find some new clothes.
Pressing on, Sparrow suddenly found herself stumbling out onto what remained of an old path, apparently having been out of use for a good while.
Well, it’s got to lead somewhere, she reasoned with herself. Even if I end up back in Meirlheim, I should be able to find work of some sort. It’s a big city—Graeyorn couldn’t find me in a hundred years. He hardly leaves his study, anyway. I probably should’ve just stayed in the city in the first place.
She hadn’t been on the trail for five minutes when she became aware of a voice coming in her direction, accompanied by the sound of underbrush being pushed aside and the clip-clop of hooves. Eagerly she headed towards the sound, making sure her handkerchief hid her tell-tale hair. Rounding a slight bend, she found herself facing an oncoming wagon, pulled by a mule and led by a colorfully-dressed Tabaxi.
She’d seen a few of his kind before in the city, and they generally seemed friendly; this one definitely seemed in a good mood, talking amiable to his mule as they walked. By his attire and the state of his wagon, she would assume he was a performer of some sort—either that or a *****.
“Hello,” she called, waving an arm to get the Tabaxi’s attention. “Hello there!”
((Ack, sorry for taking so long, my internet went down while I was writing the post ^^"))
"Aye, we're well on our way to-!" Clover's ears perked at they were just a little further into eyesight. "Well would you look at that! Someone who isn't rude and ignores all my wonderful musings." He tipped his head at the unamused, huffing plump mule, who desperately wanted a rest. To his dismay, his master immediately began making confident strides towards Sparrow. Clover clapped his hands together excitedly as he approached, face lighting up even further than before.
"Greetings, wandering stranger! You seem quite in a rush off to-" He peered over her shoulder and into the edges of the city, the opposite direction from where she was facing. From where Clover came, there was only vegetation for many a mile. "...Nowhere, really. Well, that's all well and good, an audience heading anywhere is still an audience, is it not? Beggars can't be choosers, now can they, my dear Bumble?" The Tabaxi turned his head, only to receive another confused grunt.
"Perfect! Well, clearly, you need a lift, all torn up-" Once again, he acted quite strangely in lifting a sleeve of Sparrow's oversized shirt. He leaned into a 'hmph!' and held his free hand up to his chin, stroking the clump of well-groomed fur poking out from there. "That just won't do, now will it? Nasty cuts you have in this fine garment, by the Gods. Someone hasn't been taking care of their clothing. Oh! Where are my manners?"
Clover cooked up a mock bow, one hand flinging into the sky behind him, and the other held across his chest. His hat nearly fell off in the process, along with his cloak mantle falling forward with the motion. "Clover Quinwill, tabaxi aged twenty-three years young, former heir of the Sands of the Sun coastal tribes, now soon to be glorified magical bard, incredible lore-sharer, praised jest-giver, and acclaimed splendor-bringer of the northwestern divide! And you are?" He lifted himself back into a straight-spine posture, a sharp-toothed grin crawling across his muzzle and an even sharper-clawed hand reaching out to shake Sparrow's.
((Ack, sorry for taking so long, my internet went down while I was writing the post ^^"))
"Aye, we're well on our way to-!" Clover's ears perked at they were just a little further into eyesight. "Well would you look at that! Someone who isn't rude and ignores all my wonderful musings." He tipped his head at the unamused, huffing plump mule, who desperately wanted a rest. To his dismay, his master immediately began making confident strides towards Sparrow. Clover clapped his hands together excitedly as he approached, face lighting up even further than before.
"Greetings, wandering stranger! You seem quite in a rush off to-" He peered over her shoulder and into the edges of the city, the opposite direction from where she was facing. From where Clover came, there was only vegetation for many a mile. "...Nowhere, really. Well, that's all well and good, an audience heading anywhere is still an audience, is it not? Beggars can't be choosers, now can they, my dear Bumble?" The Tabaxi turned his head, only to receive another confused grunt.
"Perfect! Well, clearly, you need a lift, all torn up-" Once again, he acted quite strangely in lifting a sleeve of Sparrow's oversized shirt. He leaned into a 'hmph!' and held his free hand up to his chin, stroking the clump of well-groomed fur poking out from there. "That just won't do, now will it? Nasty cuts you have in this fine garment, by the Gods. Someone hasn't been taking care of their clothing. Oh! Where are my manners?"
Clover cooked up a mock bow, one hand flinging into the sky behind him, and the other held across his chest. His hat nearly fell off in the process, along with his cloak mantle falling forward with the motion. "Clover Quinwill, tabaxi aged twenty-three years young, former heir of the Sands of the Sun coastal tribes, now soon to be glorified magical bard, incredible lore-sharer, praised jest-giver, and acclaimed splendor-bringer of the northwestern divide! And you are?" He lifted himself back into a straight-spine posture, a sharp-toothed grin crawling across his muzzle and an even sharper-clawed hand reaching out to shake Sparrow's.
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xSkets | She/Her | Bi | Capricorn | Meme | FR + 2
xAuthor | D&D Enthusiast | Worldbuilder | Too Many OCs
xPWYW Dergs
xMeowdy-do
Nochnyr
|
.......................
|
((Ack, sorry for the late reply >.< I have no wifi excuses, only procrastination >.< By the way, it's probably too soon but I already
adore Clover <3))
The Tabaxi seemed friendly enough, clapping as he strode up and beaming broadly. His plump old mule seemed to be feeling quite the opposite set of emotions, but Sparrow imagined she would be rather sour too if she had to lug that big, gaudy wagon about.
The stranger launched into a greeting, rambling on about an audience—she didn’t know what he was talking about but she smiled absently all the same, not wanting to appear rude or unamused. If she wanted help, she was going to have to make sure she stayed on the good side of everyone she met. Shouldn’t be hard with this fellow—the way he was behaving she found it hard to believe he could have a bad side.
But, as she’d heard it said many times before, never judge a book by its cover, no matter how haggard or extraordinary. It was how the thing read that counted.
“Aheh, yes...” Sparrow said vaguely as Clover rambled on. It was entertaining, that was for sure, if not a bit odd.
She couldn’t help a small smile as he gave his dramatic bow then straightened again, extending a clawed hand. She shook it carefully, replying, “I’m afraid I don’t have a title quite so impressive. People just call me Sparrow.”
Goodness. That did sound terribly drab in comparison to “Clover Quinwill, tabaxi aged twenty-three years young, former heir of the Sands of the Sun coastal tribes, now soon to be glorified magical bard, incredible lore-sharer, praised jest-giver, and acclaimed splendor-bringer of the northwestern divide”.
What does all that even mean? she wondered, releasing his hand and asking, “If I may—are you headed to Meirlheim? Would you mind if I tag along?”
She wasn’t eager to head back to the city, but she knew it was what she should have done in the first place. Besides, she wouldn’t make it very far anywhere else, at least not without proper supplies. She wouldn’t have to stay long, she was certain—just enough to get a map and a few other necessities. Maybe a shirt with a few less rips, too.
At any rate, if this Clover person was willing to offer her a ride, she'd be an idiot not to accept it, no matter where he was heading. Her legs were about to give out after two days straight of tramping through underbrush and tripping over roots and rocks and chasing after every vague shadow and sound she thought might've been another traveler.
((Ack, sorry for the late reply >.< I have no wifi excuses, only procrastination >.< By the way, it's probably too soon but I already
adore Clover <3))
The Tabaxi seemed friendly enough, clapping as he strode up and beaming broadly. His plump old mule seemed to be feeling quite the opposite set of emotions, but Sparrow imagined she would be rather sour too if she had to lug that big, gaudy wagon about.
The stranger launched into a greeting, rambling on about an audience—she didn’t know what he was talking about but she smiled absently all the same, not wanting to appear rude or unamused. If she wanted help, she was going to have to make sure she stayed on the good side of everyone she met. Shouldn’t be hard with this fellow—the way he was behaving she found it hard to believe he could have a bad side.
But, as she’d heard it said many times before, never judge a book by its cover, no matter how haggard or extraordinary. It was how the thing read that counted.
“Aheh, yes...” Sparrow said vaguely as Clover rambled on. It was entertaining, that was for sure, if not a bit odd.
She couldn’t help a small smile as he gave his dramatic bow then straightened again, extending a clawed hand. She shook it carefully, replying, “I’m afraid I don’t have a title quite so impressive. People just call me Sparrow.”
Goodness. That did sound terribly drab in comparison to “Clover Quinwill, tabaxi aged twenty-three years young, former heir of the Sands of the Sun coastal tribes, now soon to be glorified magical bard, incredible lore-sharer, praised jest-giver, and acclaimed splendor-bringer of the northwestern divide”.
What does all that even mean? she wondered, releasing his hand and asking, “If I may—are you headed to Meirlheim? Would you mind if I tag along?”
She wasn’t eager to head back to the city, but she knew it was what she should have done in the first place. Besides, she wouldn’t make it very far anywhere else, at least not without proper supplies. She wouldn’t have to stay long, she was certain—just enough to get a map and a few other necessities. Maybe a shirt with a few less rips, too.
At any rate, if this Clover person was willing to offer her a ride, she'd be an idiot not to accept it, no matter where he was heading. Her legs were about to give out after two days straight of tramping through underbrush and tripping over roots and rocks and chasing after every vague shadow and sound she thought might've been another traveler.
"But of course darling Sparrow! It's only the greatest bazaar and most sublime architecture in this entire side of the country, it would only be right to find a place of such majesty for a real performance!" Once again, his hands joined together with a slap loud enough to send bird flying.
He really was excited, and whatever got him so jolly was completely unclear. No one ever was that ecstatic, even about opportunity. "What do you say, Bumble? Can you carry another splendid passenger on the ride?" Clover turned and sloppily rubbed the mule's head. The beast of burden snorted and stamped a foot, but at least he didn't seem too incredibly upset. He was well fed and with little grime on him at all, so it could be said for sure that he was well taken care of, over-sized load or not. Wait, another?
Clover made his way to the caravan as it finally caught up behind Bumblebee, attached to a thick and stable but long pair of ropes to the mule. He opened the door and pulled out three built-in light weight steps, offering it to Sparrow to climb inside. "It's not too far off a journey from here, but you still look like you could get some rest. I've got a spare cot, all the food you could ever desire, and a costume chest filled with apparel that I'm sure will be a better fit on your poor soul. Come, and make yourself at home!"
Just from the looks of it, it was easy to tell that, though the sleeping space he spoke of was clean and there was plenty of room to move around, there was in fact only enough rations to last the next three days for two people. Additionally, most of it was grain and fish, and the entire place just seemed... obscure. Small cases and compartments and pouches scattered everywhere, everything from more instruments to stacks of card boxes. Dice containers with all different sets, capes sporting rainbows of colors and jester-hats adorned with a collection of separately sized bells hung on the wall. All sorts of bags of tricks and baskets of unrecognizable treasures - if you could call them that, the worth of each one too seemed unknown along with the origin. There really was no telling the amount of trinkets, music-pieces, and gizmos that filled every wall and much of the floor space. Finally, on a hammock hanging above Sparrow's new cot was, in fact, that 'other' passenger.
They were undoubtedly Elven, their ear length being abnormally long even for their race, curled up in a tight ball and in a dead sleep. Their breathes moved slowly, and from where the two could see from below the hammock, two enormous gashes along their bare chest - spare a large wrapping of bandages tied firmly around that area - bled intensely and smelled fresh. The rest of their clothing was typical forest elf material. A long, winding skirt of leaves and branches, bunchy hair tied up in a large, horribly messy bun, bare feet, and the unmistakable tufted tail of high-magic elves that matched that of a woodland unicorn. It was difficult to tell from there whether they were male and female, for if you knew anything of elves, they generally dressed the same and had little bodily differences unless looked at up close.
Now, their purpose sleeping wounded in a bard's traveling caravan headed toward the city would be completely unknown, there were so many reasons why a forest elf shouldn't be in this situation.
"But of course darling Sparrow! It's only the greatest bazaar and most sublime architecture in this entire side of the country, it would only be right to find a place of such majesty for a real performance!" Once again, his hands joined together with a slap loud enough to send bird flying.
He really was excited, and whatever got him so jolly was completely unclear. No one ever was that ecstatic, even about opportunity. "What do you say, Bumble? Can you carry another splendid passenger on the ride?" Clover turned and sloppily rubbed the mule's head. The beast of burden snorted and stamped a foot, but at least he didn't seem too incredibly upset. He was well fed and with little grime on him at all, so it could be said for sure that he was well taken care of, over-sized load or not. Wait, another?
Clover made his way to the caravan as it finally caught up behind Bumblebee, attached to a thick and stable but long pair of ropes to the mule. He opened the door and pulled out three built-in light weight steps, offering it to Sparrow to climb inside. "It's not too far off a journey from here, but you still look like you could get some rest. I've got a spare cot, all the food you could ever desire, and a costume chest filled with apparel that I'm sure will be a better fit on your poor soul. Come, and make yourself at home!"
Just from the looks of it, it was easy to tell that, though the sleeping space he spoke of was clean and there was plenty of room to move around, there was in fact only enough rations to last the next three days for two people. Additionally, most of it was grain and fish, and the entire place just seemed... obscure. Small cases and compartments and pouches scattered everywhere, everything from more instruments to stacks of card boxes. Dice containers with all different sets, capes sporting rainbows of colors and jester-hats adorned with a collection of separately sized bells hung on the wall. All sorts of bags of tricks and baskets of unrecognizable treasures - if you could call them that, the worth of each one too seemed unknown along with the origin. There really was no telling the amount of trinkets, music-pieces, and gizmos that filled every wall and much of the floor space. Finally, on a hammock hanging above Sparrow's new cot was, in fact, that 'other' passenger.
They were undoubtedly Elven, their ear length being abnormally long even for their race, curled up in a tight ball and in a dead sleep. Their breathes moved slowly, and from where the two could see from below the hammock, two enormous gashes along their bare chest - spare a large wrapping of bandages tied firmly around that area - bled intensely and smelled fresh. The rest of their clothing was typical forest elf material. A long, winding skirt of leaves and branches, bunchy hair tied up in a large, horribly messy bun, bare feet, and the unmistakable tufted tail of high-magic elves that matched that of a woodland unicorn. It was difficult to tell from there whether they were male and female, for if you knew anything of elves, they generally dressed the same and had little bodily differences unless looked at up close.
Now, their purpose sleeping wounded in a bard's traveling caravan headed toward the city would be completely unknown, there were so many reasons why a forest elf shouldn't be in this situation.
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xSkets | She/Her | Bi | Capricorn | Meme | FR + 2
xAuthor | D&D Enthusiast | Worldbuilder | Too Many OCs
xPWYW Dergs
xMeowdy-do
Nochnyr
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Sparrow’s jaw nearly dropped off at the sight of the inside of the caravan. She’d never seen anything so wonderfully unique and colorful—unless you counted Graeyorn’s study, and she didn’t, because its assortment of personal items was rather grotesque and unappealing.
This, however—this was extraordinary to a girl whose living quarters had previously been shared with another person in a space a little bigger than a glorified closet, with no personal items whatsoever besides the stick figures scratched into the walls.
The runaway’s jaw nearly dropped off again when she realized she wasn’t Clover’s only guest. An elf of this variety was something she’d never seen before either, and though she could tell the poor thing was hurt, she had a great desire to stand on the cot and get a better look. But civility called for more respect than that and Sparrow looked away, just barely remembering to thank Clover.
“Thank you,” she exclaimed, though she was careful not to speak too loudly and disturb the elf. “You really wouldn’t mind if I borrowed some clothes…?”
She was already moving towards the chest he’d indicated, tentatively lifting the lid and peering in. She could hardly imagine the sight of herself in anything so colorful, though she definitely intended to take the Tabaxi up on his offer.
Oh, Lark would love to see all this, she thought wistfully, looking around at the caravan a little sadly and fingering a shirt near the brim of the chest. Her younger sister would be thrilled to death at the sight of all the instruments—Lark was a wonderful little dancer and singer, far better than Sparrow.
“Really,” she said again, looking back at Clover. “Thank you—I owe you a favor someday. I’ve been lost in those woods far longer than I should have.”
She glanced back at the elf in the hammock, desperately wanting to ask about them but figuring it would be useless. If it was something she needed to know, she’d be told.
Sparrow’s jaw nearly dropped off at the sight of the inside of the caravan. She’d never seen anything so wonderfully unique and colorful—unless you counted Graeyorn’s study, and she didn’t, because its assortment of personal items was rather grotesque and unappealing.
This, however—this was extraordinary to a girl whose living quarters had previously been shared with another person in a space a little bigger than a glorified closet, with no personal items whatsoever besides the stick figures scratched into the walls.
The runaway’s jaw nearly dropped off again when she realized she wasn’t Clover’s only guest. An elf of this variety was something she’d never seen before either, and though she could tell the poor thing was hurt, she had a great desire to stand on the cot and get a better look. But civility called for more respect than that and Sparrow looked away, just barely remembering to thank Clover.
“Thank you,” she exclaimed, though she was careful not to speak too loudly and disturb the elf. “You really wouldn’t mind if I borrowed some clothes…?”
She was already moving towards the chest he’d indicated, tentatively lifting the lid and peering in. She could hardly imagine the sight of herself in anything so colorful, though she definitely intended to take the Tabaxi up on his offer.
Oh, Lark would love to see all this, she thought wistfully, looking around at the caravan a little sadly and fingering a shirt near the brim of the chest. Her younger sister would be thrilled to death at the sight of all the instruments—Lark was a wonderful little dancer and singer, far better than Sparrow.
“Really,” she said again, looking back at Clover. “Thank you—I owe you a favor someday. I’ve been lost in those woods far longer than I should have.”
She glanced back at the elf in the hammock, desperately wanting to ask about them but figuring it would be useless. If it was something she needed to know, she’d be told.
"Oh, no need to fret about thanking me, really. If I didn't already live in this dang thing, these tiny conditions would send my head a spinnin'. I'm glad you're satisfied, at least. Take anything you need from the crate, I have so many different disguises and ensembles everywhere, I don't need anything too badly from in there. And don't be afraid to poke around, either! I've always got somethin' up my sleeve!" Clover yanked strings of ribbons from under his cuff, an enormous childlike smile poking at his face from ear to ear. He winked and stepped out into the trail, hand still resting on the caravan door. "Ah! Almost forgot. Don't worry about that whole owein' me a favor thing - you'll pay me back soon enough, I promise." With a hearty chuckle, he shut the door behind him and headed to the head of the wagon where he could lead Bumblebee once again.
That was... Ominous. At least he stayed light-hearted through and through, so the malicious sound of the words was quickly overturned by his happy tone that he adopted each time he spoke. It probably wasn't... Anything.
From inside the wagon, is was much easier to take a look around. There was so much to explore within it, from hangings to bags with unknown substances scattered all around, even some alchemist viles laying half-empty in an open small chest, and bags of multicolored sand propped up next to it. Most bags had a label, and those that did were seemingly harmless powders. Some made the audience sparkle, a few turned the tips of your hair blue for an hour, and others made goblins adopt a strange craving for herbal tea on Tuesdays between three and nine o'clock. There was nothing in the caravan unable to strike wonder in the hearts of the curious.
But there was no time for thinking or being creative with time when a sudden, sharp gasp hissed from the hammock hanging above, and the young-looking forest elf rolled over, tipped the cloth, and sent himself falling hard down on the wooden floor. It luckily didn't make much of a sound to be noticed from the outside, only a soft thud that sent a few leaves and mud bits from the elf's hair and clothing into the air. "Where am I!" They huffed in common, in a voice that was clearly sparky and reminiscent of a boy. "Who are you! Why are we moving? Eurgh, I feel sick..."
He rolled over onto his stomach and slowly lifted his shoulders, one arm clutched tight to his chest. Her lurched over, finding it difficult to move at all from his wounds. It was even worse up close. He looked obviously drowsy, both of his palms had some sort of bruises on them, along with some of his arms, neck, and another smaller gash on his leg. His nose was bleeding just slightly, and he wobbled in his balance just being on two knees. He was in far more rough shape than Sparrow had been, by a landslide, at that.
"Oh, no need to fret about thanking me, really. If I didn't already live in this dang thing, these tiny conditions would send my head a spinnin'. I'm glad you're satisfied, at least. Take anything you need from the crate, I have so many different disguises and ensembles everywhere, I don't need anything too badly from in there. And don't be afraid to poke around, either! I've always got somethin' up my sleeve!" Clover yanked strings of ribbons from under his cuff, an enormous childlike smile poking at his face from ear to ear. He winked and stepped out into the trail, hand still resting on the caravan door. "Ah! Almost forgot. Don't worry about that whole owein' me a favor thing - you'll pay me back soon enough, I promise." With a hearty chuckle, he shut the door behind him and headed to the head of the wagon where he could lead Bumblebee once again.
That was... Ominous. At least he stayed light-hearted through and through, so the malicious sound of the words was quickly overturned by his happy tone that he adopted each time he spoke. It probably wasn't... Anything.
From inside the wagon, is was much easier to take a look around. There was so much to explore within it, from hangings to bags with unknown substances scattered all around, even some alchemist viles laying half-empty in an open small chest, and bags of multicolored sand propped up next to it. Most bags had a label, and those that did were seemingly harmless powders. Some made the audience sparkle, a few turned the tips of your hair blue for an hour, and others made goblins adopt a strange craving for herbal tea on Tuesdays between three and nine o'clock. There was nothing in the caravan unable to strike wonder in the hearts of the curious.
But there was no time for thinking or being creative with time when a sudden, sharp gasp hissed from the hammock hanging above, and the young-looking forest elf rolled over, tipped the cloth, and sent himself falling hard down on the wooden floor. It luckily didn't make much of a sound to be noticed from the outside, only a soft thud that sent a few leaves and mud bits from the elf's hair and clothing into the air. "Where am I!" They huffed in common, in a voice that was clearly sparky and reminiscent of a boy. "Who are you! Why are we moving? Eurgh, I feel sick..."
He rolled over onto his stomach and slowly lifted his shoulders, one arm clutched tight to his chest. Her lurched over, finding it difficult to move at all from his wounds. It was even worse up close. He looked obviously drowsy, both of his palms had some sort of bruises on them, along with some of his arms, neck, and another smaller gash on his leg. His nose was bleeding just slightly, and he wobbled in his balance just being on two knees. He was in far more rough shape than Sparrow had been, by a landslide, at that.
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xSkets | She/Her | Bi | Capricorn | Meme | FR + 2
xAuthor | D&D Enthusiast | Worldbuilder | Too Many OCs
xPWYW Dergs
xMeowdy-do
Nochnyr
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Sparrow stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door and suddenly a little dubious of her willingness to join a stranger on the road. Clover's tone just then, though overly cheerful, had a very odd undertone--not to mention what he'd said gave her the strange feeling that she'd just gotten involved in something she wasn't sure she wanted to be caught up in.
Well, nothing to do about it now. Maybe she'd misheard him?
She busied herself elsewhere, digging through the chest and trying to find something that caught her eye amid all the curious treasures.
Sparrow had just pulled on a vibrant blue shirt, with puffy sleeves and gold designs on the cuffs and hems; it fit quite nicely, to her surprise, but before she could try and find a reflective surface to admire herself in, the elf in the hammock had come toppling from the heights.
Sparrow jumped back in shock, eyes wide as she realized just how roughed-up the poor fellow was. She wasn’t used to seeing people in such disrepair, and while a little blood didn’t bother her, anything much more than a dog bite or a scratched knee was a little beyond her expertise.
“Easy,” she exclaimed, reaching out instinctively as the elf flailed around. If he topped over she’d be sure to catch him—he looked like one more hit would kill him. King’s sake, he looked like a sneeze might kill him.
“Easy, there,” she went on, trying to sound calm. “My name is Sparrow—we’re moving because we’re in a caravan. There’s a tabaxi outside named Clover—”
Clover what? What was that last name again…? Pinwheel? No…
“Quinwill,” she said abruptly, proud of herself for remembering. “Clver Quinwill—this is his caravan.”
She hesitated a moment, then dared to move closer, crouching next to the elf. She was still ready to catch him if he should fall or spring back if he tried to swing at her. She’d known people to lash out when they were hurt, even if they weren’t as severely wounded as this one.
“Are you alright?” she asked after a slight pause. Obviously he wasn’t alright, but she didn’t know what else to say. Excuse me there, anything I can do to keep you from dying on the spot? That wouldn’t do at all.
Sparrow stood there for a moment, staring at the closed door and suddenly a little dubious of her willingness to join a stranger on the road. Clover's tone just then, though overly cheerful, had a very odd undertone--not to mention what he'd said gave her the strange feeling that she'd just gotten involved in something she wasn't sure she wanted to be caught up in.
Well, nothing to do about it now. Maybe she'd misheard him?
She busied herself elsewhere, digging through the chest and trying to find something that caught her eye amid all the curious treasures.
Sparrow had just pulled on a vibrant blue shirt, with puffy sleeves and gold designs on the cuffs and hems; it fit quite nicely, to her surprise, but before she could try and find a reflective surface to admire herself in, the elf in the hammock had come toppling from the heights.
Sparrow jumped back in shock, eyes wide as she realized just how roughed-up the poor fellow was. She wasn’t used to seeing people in such disrepair, and while a little blood didn’t bother her, anything much more than a dog bite or a scratched knee was a little beyond her expertise.
“Easy,” she exclaimed, reaching out instinctively as the elf flailed around. If he topped over she’d be sure to catch him—he looked like one more hit would kill him. King’s sake, he looked like a sneeze might kill him.
“Easy, there,” she went on, trying to sound calm. “My name is Sparrow—we’re moving because we’re in a caravan. There’s a tabaxi outside named Clover—”
Clover what? What was that last name again…? Pinwheel? No…
“Quinwill,” she said abruptly, proud of herself for remembering. “Clver Quinwill—this is his caravan.”
She hesitated a moment, then dared to move closer, crouching next to the elf. She was still ready to catch him if he should fall or spring back if he tried to swing at her. She’d known people to lash out when they were hurt, even if they weren’t as severely wounded as this one.
“Are you alright?” she asked after a slight pause. Obviously he wasn’t alright, but she didn’t know what else to say. Excuse me there, anything I can do to keep you from dying on the spot? That wouldn’t do at all.
"I don't think... I..." He held his body close to the floor, and finally fell onto his side with a heavy groan. The elf's arms wrapped tight around himself in a desperate but fruitless attempt to numb the pain. "C-clover? Clover the cat..." He furrowed his brow and winced simultaneously while trying to remember what exactly was happening. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, not with joy, but a sudden realization. It was as though someone knocked him upside the head with a rock and sent memories rushing back. "C-clover! I was attempting my druid ceremony, a-and I was sent i-into the woods to deal with the gnoll clan, and..." He clutched both forefingers and thumbs to his head, until clutching his entire skull completely while trying to rack his brain.
Suddenly, his breathes grew more rapid, panicked, and stifled. "A-and the ravagers found me... and I w-was going to fight them off, I swear! I didn't fail... I know it..." And the panic increased, until Sparrow seemed a part of in-existing surroundings. It looked as though the poor boy was about to suffocate. "I got so close! And I f-fell into the dirt, and I almost killed them, I did..."
Then, everything stopped. He lifted his pained head, shook off the incoming headache, and the next words came out in a hiss. "Clover. That sap-sagging goblin-mouthed feline ruined my chances! H-he came in... I was going to get the clan... and he snatched me up in this cursed caravan and ran! He stole me away from my hunt! I-I failed because of him, the knave, and now I can't ever return to the forest or show my face to the trees again! AUGH!" His movements were so sudden, shaking a fist and trying to get to his feet, that the elf immediately fell down again and sent a small pool of blood beginning to gather in a depression in the wood. There was no way he was going to be moving any further from the sleeping quarters anytime soon, let alone go out and pick a fight with a knife-for-teeth tabaxi.
He groaned and rolled against Sparrow's cot in a final push to get somewhere more comfortable than the hard floor. "Orurialy." He muttered in between his slowing breaths. "My name. Oru. I'm... not allowed to t-talk in Elven until I succeed my trial, but from the fact that I can't hardly inhale without needing to puke, I don't think that's happening anytime soon."
Well, there it is. Sparrow had a name for the stranger, and it was no doubt he was younger too, perhaps around her age, due to the extreme lack of melodic flow in his voice than even grown city elves seem to have. Using contractions, speaking fast, forgetting eloquence entirely even when in grave pain. There was no way he was anywhere past twenty, more experienced elves would have been much more sophisticated by now. Also, they wouldn't accept help from a sketchy cat.
"I don't think... I..." He held his body close to the floor, and finally fell onto his side with a heavy groan. The elf's arms wrapped tight around himself in a desperate but fruitless attempt to numb the pain. "C-clover? Clover the cat..." He furrowed his brow and winced simultaneously while trying to remember what exactly was happening. Suddenly, his eyes lit up, not with joy, but a sudden realization. It was as though someone knocked him upside the head with a rock and sent memories rushing back. "C-clover! I was attempting my druid ceremony, a-and I was sent i-into the woods to deal with the gnoll clan, and..." He clutched both forefingers and thumbs to his head, until clutching his entire skull completely while trying to rack his brain.
Suddenly, his breathes grew more rapid, panicked, and stifled. "A-and the ravagers found me... and I w-was going to fight them off, I swear! I didn't fail... I know it..." And the panic increased, until Sparrow seemed a part of in-existing surroundings. It looked as though the poor boy was about to suffocate. "I got so close! And I f-fell into the dirt, and I almost killed them, I did..."
Then, everything stopped. He lifted his pained head, shook off the incoming headache, and the next words came out in a hiss. "Clover. That sap-sagging goblin-mouthed feline ruined my chances! H-he came in... I was going to get the clan... and he snatched me up in this cursed caravan and ran! He stole me away from my hunt! I-I failed because of him, the knave, and now I can't ever return to the forest or show my face to the trees again! AUGH!" His movements were so sudden, shaking a fist and trying to get to his feet, that the elf immediately fell down again and sent a small pool of blood beginning to gather in a depression in the wood. There was no way he was going to be moving any further from the sleeping quarters anytime soon, let alone go out and pick a fight with a knife-for-teeth tabaxi.
He groaned and rolled against Sparrow's cot in a final push to get somewhere more comfortable than the hard floor. "Orurialy." He muttered in between his slowing breaths. "My name. Oru. I'm... not allowed to t-talk in Elven until I succeed my trial, but from the fact that I can't hardly inhale without needing to puke, I don't think that's happening anytime soon."
Well, there it is. Sparrow had a name for the stranger, and it was no doubt he was younger too, perhaps around her age, due to the extreme lack of melodic flow in his voice than even grown city elves seem to have. Using contractions, speaking fast, forgetting eloquence entirely even when in grave pain. There was no way he was anywhere past twenty, more experienced elves would have been much more sophisticated by now. Also, they wouldn't accept help from a sketchy cat.
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xSkets | She/Her | Bi | Capricorn | Meme | FR + 2
xAuthor | D&D Enthusiast | Worldbuilder | Too Many OCs
xPWYW Dergs
xMeowdy-do
Nochnyr
|
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|
Sparrow sat there, staring at the elf with wide eyes. Half the things he said went right over her handkerchief-bound head. Druid ceremony? Gnoll clan? Ravagers? Maybe it was all part of some secret elven ritual…or maybe he’d been hit over the head a little harder than he realized.
“I’m sure it’s not all that bad,” she interjected, trying to keep him from hyperventilating or hurting himself even more—but he didn’t seem to hear her, raging on about how Clover had ruined...well, just about everything.
He finally seemed to calm down, or at least exhaust himself, rolling against the cot before introducing himself. Sparrow wasn’t sure she could pronounce his name, but thankfully he gave her an easier-to-remember nickname and she said slowly, “Well, nice to meet you, Oru. And don’t worry, because I couldn’t understand you if you spoke Elven and that wouldn’t be much help to anybody.”
He wasn’t exactly how she would have imagined an elf—though of course he did seem young, and maybe young elves were different than the others you usually saw gliding through the streets with an air of solemnity and grace. Not to mention the one time she’d heard an elf speak, they’d sounded much, much different from this one. Maybe he was a different type of elf than the kind she’d seen before? It was definitely possibly. Graeyorn had once mentioned something about different elven races inhabiting different parts of the country.
Standing, Sparrow considered calling for Clover until she realized that was probably a bad idea, considering Oru’s apparent hatred for the tabaxi. But what else could she do? The elf’s wounds needed redressing and the rest of him could use with some cleaning up, but she didn’t know how to do any of that. She didn’t even know where to begin looking for the supplies to do it.
The idea to wait until Oru had calmed down a little more occurred to her, but one glance at him lying there on the floor, leaving little pools of blood everywhere, made her think he’d die before he’d calmed down enough to warrant calling for Clover.
“Here,” she said, moving over and tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let me help you into the cot, you’ll be more comfortable.” And maybe you won’t die so fast, she added silently.
She was curious about him, after all. Clover too, for that matter. Graeyorn had always told her she was too curious for her own good, but she preferred to think it was one of her better qualities.
Sparrow sat there, staring at the elf with wide eyes. Half the things he said went right over her handkerchief-bound head. Druid ceremony? Gnoll clan? Ravagers? Maybe it was all part of some secret elven ritual…or maybe he’d been hit over the head a little harder than he realized.
“I’m sure it’s not all that bad,” she interjected, trying to keep him from hyperventilating or hurting himself even more—but he didn’t seem to hear her, raging on about how Clover had ruined...well, just about everything.
He finally seemed to calm down, or at least exhaust himself, rolling against the cot before introducing himself. Sparrow wasn’t sure she could pronounce his name, but thankfully he gave her an easier-to-remember nickname and she said slowly, “Well, nice to meet you, Oru. And don’t worry, because I couldn’t understand you if you spoke Elven and that wouldn’t be much help to anybody.”
He wasn’t exactly how she would have imagined an elf—though of course he did seem young, and maybe young elves were different than the others you usually saw gliding through the streets with an air of solemnity and grace. Not to mention the one time she’d heard an elf speak, they’d sounded much, much different from this one. Maybe he was a different type of elf than the kind she’d seen before? It was definitely possibly. Graeyorn had once mentioned something about different elven races inhabiting different parts of the country.
Standing, Sparrow considered calling for Clover until she realized that was probably a bad idea, considering Oru’s apparent hatred for the tabaxi. But what else could she do? The elf’s wounds needed redressing and the rest of him could use with some cleaning up, but she didn’t know how to do any of that. She didn’t even know where to begin looking for the supplies to do it.
The idea to wait until Oru had calmed down a little more occurred to her, but one glance at him lying there on the floor, leaving little pools of blood everywhere, made her think he’d die before he’d calmed down enough to warrant calling for Clover.
“Here,” she said, moving over and tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let me help you into the cot, you’ll be more comfortable.” And maybe you won’t die so fast, she added silently.
She was curious about him, after all. Clover too, for that matter. Graeyorn had always told her she was too curious for her own good, but she preferred to think it was one of her better qualities.
Death by Gold 
