...In Which Trouble Isn't The Only Thing They Make

Out of Character:

Closed to Rayleigh, Dedalous, and Kinatoko.

Make all the "gotta' keep your plants watered" jokes you want, but this storm is getting ridiculous.

From what the guards told me when I arrived into Beinost, it had been raining hard for two days already and there were no signs of it letting up. This sea-born storm was dumping inches upon inches into the port city as the hours ticked by, causing all activity to come to a grinding halt. The port district had been closed, the street market vendors covered up their wares in heavy tarps and sought shelter until the storm passed, and the few families that made their livelihoods in this magically-crafted city kept their children inside to play, opting to lose their sanity from the noise and activity rather than risk them catching cold from the weather.

By the time I was able to trudge my way down the rain-slick cobblestone streets towards the closest tavern, I was absolutely drenched through the fabric of my hooded cloak. Useless piece of garbage that it is, it still allowed a considerable amount of water through. Everything was soaked--my hair, my vest, my briar-knit arms... It was like I wasn't even wearing the damn thing, and had decided to prance around in this mess like a lunatic.

The establishment I managed to find myself in front of was this decent looking place, the freshness of its wood and stone of its walls giving off the vibe that it was recently constructed. Burned into a wooden sign above the door was the name The Rusted Root, along with a picture of gnarled masses of the namesake painted below in symmetrical patterns.

I gripped the iron doorknob tightly, twisted it, and gave the reinforced oak a healthy shove. The change of atmosphere was almost sudden and shocking. The interior of the inn was quite dry and warm, compared to the windy torrent that raged outside. I tossed my traveling satchel onto the floor in a damp heap and slammed the door behind me.

The commotion caught the attention of a man a few years younger than myself behind the counter. He was a half-elf, so my age math might be off and he could be a few decades older than me--but the point is he looks a bit younger than me, at the very least. He stood a solid head taller than I did, and was dressed in a sort of casual finery that told me his little business here had been moderately successful in the time it was open.

Looking around the place, though, you wouldn't know just how well off it was either way. Granted, it was in the middle of the afternoon, but the place was empty by even those standards. Not a single patron sat in any of the oak chairs, nursing drinks and telling stories to friends. Off against the far wall, a fire roared that gave off enough heat to make the place comfortable.

The halfling host shot me the most professional of looks as I stood there a complete sopping mess. I grabbed a dripping chunk of my hair and moved it out of the way of my eyes. I shook my arms free of water, splattering rain all over the place like a dog. My pants added to the slowly-growing puddle. I looked back at the innkeep, a look of silent desperation etched on my thin, pale features.

"Would you like a room to wait this storm out in," he finally asked.

"That would be lovely," I confirmed with a quick nod.

Artheridge hunched deeper into her cloak, blowing a sigh out the corner of her mouth, and in the process, knocking an unruly bunch of damp hair out of her line of site.

Rain sucks, she thought to herself. Why’d I have to strike camp today. Shoulda just huddled up. But the town’s so close… In fact, she could see the dim glow of Beinost already; quite the feat considering it was raining so hard it seemed to be falling up in some places. Resigned to soldiering on, the damp and dripping Mal continued her dismal ride. Soon though, she noticed that Belfont, her chestnut gelding, seemed to pick up speed as the glow grew more distinct.

Greedy bugger probably just wants the sugar cubes he thinks are waiting for him. Chuckling wryly at this and shaking her head, she inadvertently straightened, catching a facefull of rain and promptly spitting and sputtering. She hunched back down with another sigh, trying to hide in her traveling cloak as she kicked the gelding into a gallop. Town’s close enough to risk running him in, and I might as well have him burn off whatever treats the stablehands decide to give him, she thought. Catching a few extra drops of rain was a fair trade for getting to a warm bed sooner at this point.

Quickly, the main gate of the town came into view, and quicker still, Artheridge found herself approaching the stables of the Rusted Root. Lip quirking into a smile at the alliteration, she leaned over to step down from her horse, causing her hobnailed boots to click loudly against the cobble pavement. A good thing, too, as it brought the head of the stableboy out of hiding in whatever dry niche he’d found.

“Here I thought I was going to have to stable Belfont myself,” she called to the boy, stepping under the relative protection of the building’s eave and throwing back her hood. Wincing inwardly at the boy’s wide eyed shock to be facing a muzzle rather than a mouth, she smiled slightly, all lip and no teeth, trying to convey friendliness over predatory aggressiveness.

“You’re a wolf!” he exclaimed in shock, and Artheridge winced again, visibly this time. Obviously ‘tact’ was not a part of this boy’s vocabulary.

“Dog, actually. Did your mother raise you to be so rude?” she chastised gently, but firmly, pinning him with her best ‘I am displeased’ stare. “And shouldn’t you be offering me a stable for my horse and a pillow for my head?”

Wilting slightly under her stare, he muttered something sounding like No ma’am, then perked up when he realized he hadn’t cost a patron, before starting in on a well practiced spiel about prices, rooms, and meals, and ending with a breathless “Shall I ask a room be readied for you?”

“Please,” the Mal nodded, watching the stableboy run off, before turning to loosen the girth on her horse, and finally rooting around the stable to find a hoofpick and begin cleaning Belfont’s hooves. Before she even finished the second hoof, however, the stableboy was back, looking slightly confused.

“You know I could have handled that for you, right, Ma’am?” he questioned, holding out his hand for the pick.

“I’m well aware. I just like to get a head start. Belfont gets angsty if he’s standing on dirty hooves too long,” she replied, handing the pick to the boy, as well as a small tip, diminished slightly by his first reactions to her.

“He’s one of them, then,” the boy noded with understanding. “Well, then, Ma’am. I’ll take it from here. Your room is being freshened right now, and dinner will be served shortly.” With a nod of acknowledgment, Artheridge undid the fasteners for her saddlebags, slung them over her shoulder, and, with a last pat of Belfont’s flank, flipped her hood up and braved the rain one last time, noting the boys incredulous stare when he thought she wasn’t paying attention.

Slipping in the side entrance of the inn, she realized that the host and barkeep must have been warned of her appearance, if their reactions were any indication, as she unfastened her traveling cloak and hung it, still dripping, by the door. That, or they actually knew how to hide their surprise at seeing an anthropomorphic canine walk through the doors. Good. She’d get enough trouble from the patrons, if past experience held.

Scanning the room quickly, and noting the nearly empty common area with some surprise, and not a little relief, she moved to a nearby table, unceremoniously dropping her saddlebags from her shoulder, unfastening her sword belt and hanging it on the back of the chair, and unclipping her crossbow, VrontÃ*r, to begin cleaning it off from the road.

“That damp’s gonna play hell with the aim,” she muttered finally as she got comfortable, pulling a velvety rag and a flask of mineral oil out of her saddlebags, and setting to the task of maintaining her prized creation, stopping only long enough to request a light flavored ale and some stew when the host stepped by her table.

A peal of thunder rumbled overhead. It was a raw, satisfying sound, a trill that lasted for many seconds. The noise rattled the glass in the windows, tumbling across the charcoal sky just above the small inn. The clouds, swollen and heavy with precipitation, hung low like a smog over Beinost. A single bolt of lightening, fracturing into a dozen shimmering fingers as it pulled itself across the heavens, existed for only a split second. It was accompanied by yet another thunderclap.

This rolling percussion was what finally woke me. It was as if the storm revived me, pulsing energy into my unconcious form, and sending my jade eyes fluttering open. With a low, gutteral groan of exhuastion, my entire body contorted into a dramatic stretch. There was great pleasure and satisfaction to be found in the sensation of my still-sleeping muscles working inside the warm cacoon of quilts. When my body was finally still, and my gaze drifted to the room's large window, my coral lips curled into a soft smile. The rain fell more intensely now, soft staccato giving way to an endless, rolling drum on the windowpane. The sound drowned out my content sigh as I snuggled deeper into the pile of pillows. I could listen to the rain all day.

But after only ten minutes, nagging restlessness began to tug at me. Among other things, my father had instilled within me a desire to work while the sun shined. And, while there was a distinct lack of it that particular morning, I knew he would have been preaching to me about burning daylight. Before I could change my mind, I flipped back the heavy blanket, wincing as my skin prickled with goosebumps.

"Cold, cold, cold." The small, plainly decorated room filled with my muttering as I waddled across it, doing my best to let my feet rest on the chilly wooden floor for no more than a split second. Scooping up my small pile of clothing from the night before, I raced back to the warmth of the bed to dress. When I emerged a second time, I was outfitted tan breeches and a loose, flowing forest-green tunic that hung mid-thigh. Had I had bigger plans that day, I might have cinched the wild top with the single black belt I carried with me. Instead, my wardrobe reflected the lazy day that lay ahead of me. Pausing long enough tug on my boots, and shoulder my heavy, leather backpack, I slipped out the door and into the hallway.

There, I was met by two other individuals. The first was entirely unfamilar to me, and the second was the half-elf barkeep. Though the dripping woman's face was bereft of emotion as she reagarded me, the man grimaced. "Miss Aston," he began, faking a smile and working to keep his displeasure from his voice. "I see that you are at it again."

"Aye," came my answer as I brushed past the pair. For obvious reasons, I pressed myself against the wall of the narrow hall to keep from bumping into the sopping stranger. The half-elf, however, I accidentally nudged as I scampered down the steps.

"Miss Aston," he called out again, his tone now dotted with traces of desperation. "Miss Aston, please, do your best to keep from denting the tables any further than you already have." I did not turn back, but his voice carried after me down the stairs. "And if you get any more grease on the tapestries, you will have to buy them! We cannot get those stains out!"

The main room was nearly empty as I entered. This was the third day of the raging storm, and I had passed the time hidden away in the small inn. Smoke and liquor, scents of the previous night's events, hung heavy in the air as I cut toward the table in the corner. I inhaled deeply, savoring the smell as if it were an expensive perfume. There were so many new things to experience, and while I had the Tarot Hierarchy to thank for the opportunity to explore, I was in no hurry to return to the House of Cards.

"Hello," I greeted politely, noticing the lone patron that shared the room with me. I did not pause, but with a flick of my wrist, I waved in her direction. She was cloaked in shadow, as the darkness of the outside storm spilled in through every window, and I paid little attention to her as I reached my usual spot.

Slipping my backpack from my shoulder, I thumbed the clips and flipped open the top. Then, unceremoniously, I spilled the bag's contents. In a melody of clinks, thunks, and thuds, gears, tools, and scraps of metal tumbled freely to the wood below.

"Miss Aston!" The pained voice drifted from the second floor. "The table tops, please!"

Most would have hated this situation, trudging through a torrent of rain and wind on foot, the flashing of lightning and the clash of thunder overhead. This was not the case for a certain young jex however. Her lips curled up into a smile as she walked through the puddles that formed, her pawed feet sinking into the mud with each step.

Kinatoko was, needless to say, soaked to the bone. The black robes she wore clung tightly to her body from all the water, and her brightly color fur was matted down, especially the fluff of her large tail, making it hang low as it swayed behind her. She looked straight ahead towards the soft glow of the town up ahead, her two bright golden eyes shining faintly from under the large brim of her hat as the rain washed over it.

The jex always loved walking through the rain back home, always more than happy to go out on a walk even through the heaviest of downpours, and this one was nowhere near the worst she had ever braved. She kept up a steady pace as she walked, holding her oaken staff in her left hand as a walking stick, her other hand resting by her side next to her sheathed iron sword.

As she neared the town, her eyes began to light up, having never been to a settlement larger than her home village. She made a mental note to go exploring once the rain let up and the sun came back out, but for now she wanted to get out of the rain long enough to dry her fur and rest her tired legs.

She finally came to a halt just outside the first inn she happened to pass, and looking over the large building at the sign that hung over the door frame. "The Rusted Root.." She spoke to herself as she approached the door, reaching out to the doorknob and giving it a turn. She stepped through the open door into the warmth of the inn, letting out a soft hum of delight as the dry comfort of the building washed over her dripping form.

Kina at first seemed oblivious to the others within the room, setting her staff against a wall as she began to wring the water from her tail, forming a considerable puddle at her feet. It wasn't until she removed her wide, pointed hat to do the same that she looked around, noticing the other people in the otherwise empty establishment, namely the half-elf who seemed to be giving her a disapproving look as the puddle grew larger and larger beneath her.

I had gone up to my second floor room the second I snatched my key out of the halfling's bony hands. The accommodations were a notch or two above adequate; despite the raging storm outside, the place was kept relatively warm and dry. There was an empty wash bin sat on a modest wooden chair in the corner of the room, and a couple candles resting on top of an old dresser against a wall. A matchbook was set between them for the convenience of those who don't know a little pyromancy.

Setting down the soggy satchel at the foot, I fell into the bed. I bounced up once or twice before settling on the thick padded mattress, sinking into the green-dyed comforter. The events of the previous weeks played out in my mind as I stared blankly at the ceiling. I saw the transparent faces of Pode's chosen float before me in the dim light of the storm-choked afternoon. Each face frozen in abject terror, the last looks they would have before they felt the sweet embrace of death by my hands. Death brought on by jealousy and the sweetened words of a bespectacled psychopath.

I closed my eyes and rubbed them, trying hard to eliminate those memories. The whole ordeal was over now. I could rest. I could move on. I had to move on. I had to find a new purpose in life--I would find it back in the cold depths of the Salvar wilderness, deep within the recesses of the Seventh Sanctum. I would find it in my laboratory. I would find it in my experiments, in my archives, in the hard work of myself and others who stand beside me or have walked the same path before me.

Weary from my ordeals in Raiaera, I muttered a vow to never accept the promise of power from a god--false or otherwise--ever again.

A burst of light from my window and a terrible clap of thunder shook the room, and the visions of the dead were gone. I rolled up into a sitting position and fumbled around with the slick latch of my traveling bag. Once I got the thing open, I began poking around for a set of dry clothing. I would have no such luck; the rain was thick and heavy enough that it soaked right through the canvas, and everything I had inside had become varying degrees of damp.

I muttered a small string of curses as I set about spreading the clothing on the frame of the bed, draping it over the sides in an effort to let them air dry. I selected a dark wool sweater and a fresh pair of pants, both of which were only slightly damp from the road, and slid into them. I threw the clothes I walked into the Rusted Root wearing into the wash bin with a soaked pile, put on the dryer spare, and pulled my black hair back into a ponytail before tying it in place with a spare band from my pack.

I was nearly out the door when I remembered I should probably slip on a pair of gloves to hide my briar-knit hands. I was doubtful that I would be recognized by my rather unique features, but I didn't really want to take any chances.

Shortly thereafter, I found myself descending the stairs into the common area of the inn. What had been barren before was now full of life--relatively speaking, of course. The first being I noticed was this sort of... anthropomorphic dog-wolf-thing. She (clearly a she, given the placement of curves that her clothes showed off) had brilliant crimson fur, piercing blue eyes, and a white marking on her throat that went down into the recesses of her clothing. As she was polishing up a mean-looking crossbow, I opted to avert my gaze and survey the others.

The next person was similarly fuzzy in nature. Hidden underneath a cloak, she was relatively short and sporting white fur all-over. Much to the chagrin of the half-elf behind the counter, she was standing in an ever-expanding puddle of rain water, looking more than a little lost.

I found myself gravitating more towards the third person in the common room for more than one reason--and I will have you know it's not because she was human. She was a young-looking brunette, fit in form and huddled over her table while lost in deep thought. The reason for her distraction was a massive pile of knick-knacks, tools, spares, and scraps.

Being somewhat of a tinkerer myself in my spare time (whenever I wasn't concocting horrible diseases and poisons and such), I felt the pull of her work. I slowly made my way over to her cluttered table. The poor girl didn't notice me until I cleared my throat.

"Hello there," I said with a pleasant smile. I motioned towards a chair with a gloved hand. "Mind if I join you?"

Artheridge glanced up at the stranger as she rushed past with a brief wave, a little surprised at the lack of reaction to her muzzle. Maybe she’s familiar with the Kin? she mused, waving back to be polite, then having to stifle a giggle as the woman pointedly ignored the desperate pleas of the proprietor of the inn. The malamute’s ears perked and swiveled as she heard the distinctive clink and clatter of tools and machine parts spilling on the table. Least there’s one other here that understands the symphony of machines, she thought, returning to trying to work a bit of mud out of the action of Vrontìr.

Shortly after, however, she was distracted again by a peal of thunder rumbling through the open door of the common room. A sopping figure dressed in a witches hat and black robes stepped through, removing and wringing her hat as soon as she was past the threshold. Artheridge, only paying attention long enough to note the outfit, failed to notice the furred nature of this newest arrival, too focused was she on cleaning her bow. She was only pulled fully from her task when the wench (Or would it be waitress in a place like this? she wondered.) came by with her stew and ale. Placing her partially disassembled crossbow to the side, she set to the task of trying to fill her belly instead, letting her eyes and mind wander over the pile of odds and ends on the nearby table.

Ideas began flitting through her mind, too fast for her to grasp, half formed, but enticing. Her eyes drifted across the pile of parts as she mindlessly shoveled food into her maw. From a brass sheet, a filigreed wing, small and delicate. A bar and a few odd gears turned into a reduction set coupled to a piston driving… Something. A long spring and a copper tube morphed into the driving mechanism behind a high speed iron spike. Or a launcher for a noisemaker. Or… The next object caught her eye, cutting short that train of thought, and forming a miniature tracked chassis, whizzing around the table with the clank and whine of spring driven clockwork. A spiral spring power mechanism sat in the heart of dozens of ghostly gadgets, turning in her minds eye.

So many possibilities in that unformed pile of potential, keeping her distracted until her spoon scraped across bare porcelain, pulling her from her plotting as she realized her meal was done. Shaking her head and filing the best formed of her ideas for later, the malamute began reassembling her prized crossbow slowly, gears in her mind still turning, but now aimed at how to improve the fine instrument of bloodshed in her hands. She was distracted from her plotting once again, just as she put the final pin back in Vrontìr, with the arrival of an earlier patron that Artheridge had dismissed, as she’d almost immediately disappeared. Most likely for her room. The malamute couldn’t blame her, what with how dripping she had been, stepping directly in from the rain.

“Hi there. Mind if I join you?�

Maybe I should stop daydreaming and do the same. Couple of tinkers at the same table, we could have all kinds of fun, she thought, gathering up her stuff and putting away her tools for the short hop to the next table over.

“How about me as well?� the malamute asked, saddlebags and swordbelt slung over her shoulder. “All those shiny parts have been taunting me since you spilled them out.�

The newcomer moved up alongside my table without making a sound; I did not even noticed her, and when she spoke, I nearly toppled from my chair.

"Uhm, uh," I began in most awkward fashion, grabbing madly for words that would not come to me as I willed my heart to stop beating so quickly. I had not always been this jumpy. While my father was still alive, he had had a habit of unintentionally sneaking up on me. He would move behind me to grab a different tool, or enter my bedroom to tell me about a new job. He had never knocked, or announced his presence; it was his house, and so he had felt that there was no need to do so. I had grown accustomed to it over the years, and for most of my life, nothing could startle me. Somewhere down the line, I had lost that.

The woman waited patiently as I struggled to regain my composure. By that time, another individual had asked to join my table. She was unlike anything I had ever seen before, and I had to force myself to look away to keep from staring. Still, the image burned in my recent memory, and I briefly reflected on this stranger's race. She looked a bit like a large dog, though I would never admit that to her. There were few things as impolite as telling someone that they resembled a mutt.

A handful of seconds passed. When I was finally able to string together a sentence, and reflect on what it was that they had requested, I looked to both of them in turn. Now that they think you're either dumb or mute, I replied, "go ahead." Finally, a small, lopsided smile found its way to my lips. "Sorry," came my soft apology as the pair took their seats around my table. "You just scared me a bit."

At the comment, both newcomers winced. Immediately, I recognized that I had said the wrong thing. "I meant startled," I added hastily. "Not scared. I'm not scared of you. You know." My voice trailed, and silence enveloped our small corner of the inn. Why had the two individuals reacted so strangely to my words? Had they experienced being the subject of someone's fear before? Perhaps that was the case for the fur-covered woman, who was of a race very few had seen before. But the human in the wool sweater? Nothing about her was even the slightest bit frightening, and I could not fathom what had made her behave so strangely. In my normal display of unease and awkwardness, I brought my thumbnail to my lips and chewed at it. Then, I coughed once. "Alright then."

BlackandBlueEyes receives 385 EXP and 30 GP!

Rayleigh receives 280 EXP and 30 GP!

Dedalous receives 195 EXP and 30 GP!

Kinatoko receives 95 EXP and 15 GP!

All rewards have been added (ages ago - sorry!)