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Message: <blockquote data-quote="(contact)" data-source="post: 495422" data-attributes="member: 41">Wealsun 13, CY 59341:  Be quiet, we’ll wake gran.Upon their return to Cur’ruth, Pris and Heydricus icily part ways, Prisantha off to her room to cry, and Heydricus to take his evening nightcap with Dabus and Jespo.“I see Prisantha got her hair done again,” Dabus says.“She did?” Heydricus asks.“In Hommlet?” Jespo wonders.  “Gods alive, and they say she’s the smart one.”“No, we went to Chendl,” Heydricus says.“You said you were going to Hommlet.  Listen, Heydricus, I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”“We did go to Hommlet, then we went to Chendl.”“Did you see Halrond?” Dabus asks.“No, I was fundraising.”“Listen, Heydricus,” Jespo says.“And Pris got you into a school, Jespo,” Heydricus says.“She did? Wonderful! I’ll . . .”“But not the one in Chendl.  The new one in Willip.  The, uh, ‘Willip Community Wizard’s College’.”There is a pause, as Jespo’s brows furrow.  “Oh.” He says.  After a pause, Fräs hisses.  “But I’m grateful, I suppose,” Jespo adds.“Where were you fundraising, Heydricus?” Dabus asks.“The lady Maia’s estate,” Heydricus says.  Fräs hisses.  “Well, you’re amongst a large company there, you know,” Jespo says.  Fräs hisses.“How do you mean, Crim?” Heydricus says quietly.“Well, Fräs has told me things.  Let’s just say that you’re not the only penniless adventurer begging for scraps from the late Duke’s estate.  Between you and me,” Jespo says as he leans in conspiratorially  “it doesn’t exactly cover you in glory.  Perhaps you should explore more  . . . uncharted territories, if you get my meaning.”Heydricus looks at Jespo and drains his drink.  “Let me tell you something Crim.  I always find new territory where I explore.  If you get my meaning.”  Heydricus stands up.  “Big day tomorrow, Dabus—we’re killing Iuzians.  Good night.”“Good night, Heydricus,” Dabus says softly, as Heydricus leaves the room.“The Willip Community Wizard’s College,” Jespo sighs.-----In her bed, her tears still drying on her face, Prisantha stares at the ceiling and reaches a decision.  She softly gets up, washes her face, and then buckles on her spell component bandolier.  Taking a quick inventory of her remaining spells, she makes herself invisible, then teleports to Hommlet, inside her grandparent’s house.  Guessing correctly, she appears in the small corner room where Anon is quartered.There are no candles or lanterns lit in the room—the moonlight streaming in from the window is the only light illuminating the small cot and shrine to Tritherion that furnish the place.  Anon, freshly scrubbed and still dripping wet from his well-water bath, kneels at the foot of his bed.  He is dressed only in a towel, and whispers his bedtime prayers, so as not to disturb the tranquil sleeping house.  Prisantha notes the chill in the air, and the goosebumps on the young cleric’s smooth skin.“Anon,” she says.The cleric startles and looks about the room.  “Prisantha?  He stands up, and catches his towel before it can fall from his waist. “I am here,” she says as she dispels her invisibility.“Uh,” Anon stutters.  “Can . . . can I be of some service?   Is there an emergency in Tenh?  I can fight—I’ll . . .”“Shh,” Prisantha places a finger to his lips.  “You’ll wake my grandparents.”  As if on cue, the creaking of their bed can be heard through the wall, as her grandfather stirs.  Pris moves closer to the shaken cleric and says, “I didn’t come about Tenh.  I’m here about us.”Anon stares at Prisantha, the expression on his face very much identical to the one he would have if she had just said, “Fiends are green, but most ogres are ochre,” instead of “I’m here about us.”“Us?” Anon says.Pris smiles and sits down on the cot, pulling Anon down to sit next to her.  “Don’t act so surprised,” she coos.“But, Pris.  This is . . . well, I . . . but . . .” The cleric scoots away from Pris, disengaging her hand from his knee.  “I just couldn’t.  He’s a Holy Liberator, Pris.  That would be blasphemy.”Pris crosses her arms.  “Whatever are you talking about, Anon?”“You and Heydricus,” Anon whispers.“Heydricus and I aren’t together,” Pris whispers.“You’re not?  You’re not!” Anon says.  “But everyone says you are.”“Who says?”“You know, the guys.  In church.  Plus, I see how you look at him.”“Oh?  And how do I look at him?” Pris demands.Anon widens his eyes and cranes his neck forward, allowing a slight wistful smile to cross his face.-----Dabus prepares himself to enter into a commune with Tritherion, cleaning his hands and face, and breathing deeply.  He sits on the floor of a dark room, illuminated only by candlelight.  He is still for several minutes, then calls to his mind the questions his group has given him:Is Cranzer of Riftcrag dead?  No.Is the wicked necromancer Maskaleyne in league with the Lord of Stoink?  No.Is he accompanied by the faithful of Iuz in Stoink?  No.Does he seek to further his experimentations in Stoink?  No.Is he still actively pursuing an agenda for the old one?  No.Is he currently an active Lesser Boneheart member?  Yes.Does he have ambitions in Tenh?  No.Does Maskaleyne know that Festering and Martak have been killed?  Yes.Does he know who killed them?  Yes.Does he seek revenge against us?  No.Does he have reason to fear Iuzian reprisals for his failures?  Yes.Is Maskaleyne in hiding from the other members of the Boneheart?  Not yet.Dabus smiles to himself, then walks to his desk, where he writes down Tritherion’s answers while they are still fresh in his mind.-----Anon leans in to kiss Prisantha and she closes her eyes, just like in the romantic plays, but their heads knock against one another, and Pris says “Ouch,” around a mouthful of lips.  Anon’s cot is not much wider than he is, and his lone blanket is thin and far to short.  Prisantha’s feet are continually exposed to the cold air.  The metal bed-frame squeaks horribly whenever weight is shifted, provoking a “Shh!” or “My gran will wake up!” The mattress is straw-stuffed burlap, and pieces of straw keep poking Prisantha in the back.When it is over, Pris lies awake, staring at the ceiling.  Anon, gallantly lying half-off the tiny cot says, “Will you be staying?”“I’d better not,” Pris says.  “We’re fighting Iuzians in the morning.”“I see.  Well, good luck.  I mean, I’m sure you’ll win.  Um, when will you be back?”“I can’t say.”“Oh.  Should I write you, or . . .”“No, no.  Don’t do that.  I’ll just scry you from time to time.”“Oh.  You can do that?”“I can.”Pris teleports back to her room in Cur’ruth, and prepares herself for bed, then sits in front of her diary, finally deciding to write this entry in Auld Elvish.</blockquote>

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