Chronicle: Session 11

Tsalta takes Spindle home, and lays him down on her huge, huge bed. It's almost comical, how big the bed is and how small by comparison is his tiny body. But it's not, because he's dead.

With careful hands Tsalta tidies him up, and Nuth hovers nearby to attend her, holding the bowl of water she cleans him with.

It’s a strange experience for everyone, witnessing Spindle actually clean. It’s the first time he’s not been sporting some layer of dirt or dust, or carrying a veritable nest of broken twigs caught in his shock of blue hair. (Well. There’s still a few.) Stranger still is seeing his face, so enthusiastically emotive in life, devoid of expression. Even in his sleep he’d grimace and growl and smile. He looks serene and at rest, absolutely, but that very peace makes it clear that Spindle just isn’t in there any more.

Nothing goes to Spindle’s little satchel and reaches in. She pulls out his set of darts, holding them up to him in a trembling hand. “Little guy, I promise you I’m gonna-,” she stops, takes a shaky breath, “I’m gonna put these through her fucking eyes.” She pockets them.

Tsalta proposes that we bury him in the evening.

Faeleth and Nuth keep vigil for the rest of the afternoon, Nothing sitting in silence but internally beseeching her patron for a way, some way, any way to put this right, to bring him back. Her silent pleas, fervent though they are, meet with no success. Tsalta, exhausted physically and emotionally, drifts off to sleep in her chair as she waits for her mother to return home, the teartracks drying on her cheeks.

She's woken by a soft touch, a concerned hand on her face. Bráths' voice is quiet, gentle. "Tsalta, dear. What's wrong?"

Dissolving at once into tears, Tsalta blurts it all out in one huge run-on sentence punctuated with hiccups and sniffles and long shuddering inhales. For all her hugeness, as the words spill out of Tsalta she becomes so very small in her mother's arms. By the time her daughter's done, Bráths herself is a little teary-eyed, but she remains practical - where is the child, and what would Tsalta like to do about the funeral?

Tsalta just wants it to be in a nice spot.

Her mother pauses in thought for a moment. "Do you remember that nice willow tree on the river? You liked that place a lot as a child."

Yeah. That sounds perfect.

—

Tsalta suggests we take lanterns with us. Sixteen firefly lanterns, one for each year of Spindle’s short life.

(An aside, here, to note a fun firefly lantern fact! Just a wee diversion before we get back to all those emotions.

Popular decorations as they are in Fryberg, they're not a long-standing cultural detail - in fact, they were introduced only a few short decades ago...by Tsalta, bless her, who was happy to share the knack to convincing the little things to return night after night to jars in exchange for the sugar water inside. It really caught on!

Okay, back to the funeral.)

Faeleth bundles as many as she can carry into her arms, but Nothing doesn’t move to follow her.

“I was thinking,” she looks up at Tsalta, hesitates, “I...thought I could carry him. If that’s okay.” Her gaze turns to the floor, her whole body tense - it means more to her than she’s willing to vocalise. She can do anger, she can say it’s unfair and she can swear vengeance but this part, the guilt, is so hard.

A moment passes. "I was hoping I could, to be honest." Oh. Okay. It means just as much to Tsalta, and she’s visibly torn. But after her brief consideration, she agrees. Just as long as she can be the one to lay Spindle down.

That seems fair.

Tsalta hangs a single lantern in the crook of Nothing’s kinked horn, dangling by the side of her face. It's so silly, and so Tsalta, and she can't help but let out a choked little laugh. She fetches Spindle, swaddled up in one of her childhood blankets, and passes him to her.

She gives Nothing a sad smile. "Let's do this."

—

The spot by the riverside is genuinely lovely - one tall, beautiful willow tree overhangs the river, its leaves trailing in the water.

"I wish I'd brought you all here sooner," says Tsalta, "I think Spindle would have liked it. Although I guess he can see it forever, now."

Those words, the finality of them, break Nuth's goddamn heart. She's usually so good at not crying, or at least pretending she's not, but in this moment she can't help but just hug him tight to her chest and sob into his hair. It's so fucking unfair. He was a kid.

While Nothing pulls herself back together, Tsalta digs the grave. With the pickaxe from back in the mines, because she hadn't even considered the fact she'd need something to dig with. Luckily, in her able hands the pick from back in the mines does the job.

Tsalta and Faeleth go around hanging up the lanterns in the boughs of the tree, twinkling in the dusk.

"Right." Tsalta sighs. "Are we ready?"

Jaw tight and still fighting tears, Nuth gives a sharp nod and hands Spindle over. Faeleth sighs, resigned - "Yes."

She lays him down.

Faeleth lays the bottle of Gaviscon in the grave beside him. “This is for all the sick burns that you’re going to be handing out in the afterlife.” A single tear escapes to run down her cheek, and she quickly retreats from the lantern-light as she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. She hopes the others didn’t see that. (They absolutely do, but nobody mentions it. Gotta give the elf her dignity.)

They throw down a handful of dirt each - it's a dwarf thing, really, not in Nuth or Faeleth's customs, but Nothing didn't think to bring any grain and Faeleth's trying really hard to not look too sentimental. And then he's covered over, and Tsalta so meticulously re-applies foliage that nobody who wasn't here to see it would know a grave was here at all.

Tsalta raises her fiddle to play a song in his memory. Unfortunately, the events of the past few days start to catch up on her - she finds it hard to think beyond the awful events of the past days. Grief and anger at the injustice of it all swells in her chest, and her grip on the neck of the fiddle is so tense the wood twists and snaps moments after she puts the bow to the strings. Faeleth steps quickly to Tsalta's side, placing a reassuring hand on her arm as she breaks into another wave of stifled sobs.

It's just the worst. It’s been the worst kind of day. The morning’s levity feels like a lifetime ago.

Nothing kneels down by the graveside, takes off her Bag of Holding. "So, uh. I know you told me to hold on to this, but...I reckon you should have it, I think." She reaches in for his piece of shiny boulder that he loved so much, and...comes up empty. What? She pulls out her hand, regards the bag quizzically and tries again, still without result. Well, that sucks. She shakes her head. "Guess you really, really wanted me to keep it, huh?"

(Or, you know. That's what she wants to think. But it does niggle at the back of her mind - sweet as the idea of Spindle insisting from beyond the veil that she keep that rock is, you're not supposed to be able to lose things in Bags of Holding, right?)

And then, abrupt and jarring, the somber silence of the evening is broken by the sound of voices crying out for help, and the all-too-familiar growls and snarls of jackalweres.

Tsalta sighs.

"Well. We'd better go and help."

Now that she's actively listening, though, her resignation gives way to genuine concern - is that Willie and Nillie's voices? Let's go, let's go! Collector's up to her old tricks, it seems! That name's all Nothing needs to snap her out of her mournful reverie - silver scimitar in hand, she rushes out into the trees, eager (perhaps too eager) to get into the fray and spill some dog-man blood.

As do the others, quickly overtaking her because actually Nothing's pretty much tripping over her own feet in her haste. They burst into a clearing and discover Tsalta's friends engaged in urgent combat with a group of slavering jackalweres. Aiding Willie and Nillie are a couple of other halfling men, and a dwarf - shirtless, bearded, shaven-headed. (Curiously for a dwarf, he lacks the bulk most would expect from his kin - this one's musculature is lean, wiry even. Were it not for the traditionally braided beard and the set of his facial features, one might not think him a dwarf at first glance at all!) One halfling lies on the ground, perhaps dead, perhaps unconscious.

A cart lies overturned just off the road. Seemingly trapped beneath it are several halfling children, wide-eyed and whimpering in fear. Not great! Especially since the cart appears to be in the process of catching fire.

Tsalta hastily arranges her priorities. She locks eyes with Nothing - "Go help Willie and Nillie!" - and then rushes over to the cart, lifting it and ushering the kids out. She helps them all up into a nearby tree, instructing them to stay put until it's safe.

Meanwhile, Nothing rushes a jackalwere, and in her blind fury tries to use a scimitar for stabbing, because that's what you do with blades as far as her experience says. (Yeah. Um. She doesn't actually know how to use one, each and every successful hit has been the result of sheer good luck as she waves it around. Because your chronicler failed to notice that Nuth isn't proficient in scimitars and got informed of that riiiiight at this point.) It goes exactly as well as trying to stab with a blade made for wide slashes can be expected to go. The jackalwere laughs in her face, its eyes glow an unearthly green and she abruptly feels...tired. Too tired. A weird amount of tired.

And then she falls asleep on the floor. Well done, Nothing.

Those tricks don't work so well on Faeleth or Tsalta, no they do not! The dog-men find themselves at quite the disadvantage as their hypnotic gaze elicits no effect. Tsalta gives hers a wink, and its face falls in confusion as it realises that the sleepytime eyes aren't working. Faeleth's rapier, meanwhile, does a great job of letting out quite a lot of jackalwere blood. The dwarf fends the dogs off with his staff, delivering staggering blows to the head that may not wound them much but certainly stun them - he sends one tumbling to the floor, then the other, opening them up to the others' attacks!

One of the ones he fails to topple leaps into the air, bringing its scimitar down in an arc that takes Wilkis to the ground, unmoving. "No! Willie!" The dwarf cries out as his friend falls.

Nothing finds herself very rudely awoken by a vicious stabbing pain in her shoulder. Thanks, dogboy! But also no thanks!! She scrambles to her feet, turns and flees across the clearing towards Tsalta.

Faeleth, dropping jackalweres left and right with ruthless efficiency, notices her dwarven battle-companion seems to be struggling to wound them at all. She catches his eye, tosses him her scimitar - here, this'll make life easier! A searing flash of light emanates from Nothing's wand as lines of fire blaze their way towards those few jackalweres that remain, engulfing and burning one of them to smoking ashes on the spot. The other one she manages to hit certainly looks...charred, even if he does still stand. The smell of burning fur is absolutely godawful.

Tsalta rushes to Willie's side - oh gods, he's not breathing - and casts Cure Wounds, hopes she's got to him in time. After a moment that feels like a lifetime, he gasps raggedly to life. Well done, Tsalta!

The jackalwere who isn't all messed up turns to flee, but Fergus lashes out with his newly acquired scimitar, right across the back of the legs. No more running, no sir! You need your tendons for that. The other, though, slips away into the treets.

Oh well. We at least have someone to question! Fergus awkwardly tucks the scimitar back into his sash. Nuth checks over the guys on the floor - one of them's definitely dead, the other merely sleeping. RIP, Nameless Halfing #2.

Screaming, snarling, spitting and calling his captors every name under the sun (though not 'bitch', which is lucky for him really), the jackalwere on the ground writhes in a mixture of agony and fury.

Meanwhile, Tsalta goes over to the tree. "Kids?"

No reply.

She looks up into the branches, and they're not bloody there any more, are they. God fucking damn it. She leans heavily against the trunk, exhausted in every sense of the word, groans under her breath. They're not there.

The skinny dwarf looks to Faeleth and Nothing. "Thank ye for your help there! ...Who are ye?" Faeleth doesn't even know where to begin answering that, if she's honest. Tsalta storms over to the jackalwere, furious, towering over him.

"Where. Is she. The Collector."

Through the pain, he laughs, revelling in not telling her.

"Where have your pals gone?"

Another raspy, throaty chuckle. "To regroup..." He grins, snarls, snaps his jaws close to Tsalta's ankle. She looks down, disgusted, and then she looks up to meet Faeleth's eye.

"Just kill him."

Faeleth doesn't hesitate to oblige, never one to pass up a chance to pass her rapier through a jackalwere's throat. Then Tsalta returns to the tree, and on closer investigation...there. Pawprints. And alongside them, the little footprints of the children. A few drag marks. After a few steps the little footprints vanish, the pawprints that follow are sunk just that little bit deeper into the soil. The story they tell is really quite clear.

"Willie? Nillie?"

Willie doesn't respond, still only half-conscious on the ground, but Nillie manages a strained response. (The dwarf gives the sleeping halfling a little kick.)

"The kids have been taken."

Nillie groans. That's what he was trying to stop! Nothing chimes that it's okay, we'll get them back! Except, like, she's bleeding super bad and she very clearly got put the fuck to sleep during the fight, so it probably doesn't fill him with confidence. Tsalta, bless her sweet heart, bustles over to administer a little healing magic to her wounded friend without even needing to be asked.

The dwarf crouches down by Nillie's side. "They struck down Gareth over there. I'm sorry, mate." Bad news for everyone today. Gareth, the kids, where does it end? Nillie groans and staggers to his feet, and he explains the situation - he was headed to Fryberg, market day and all that. They were jumped on the road.

Tsalta's concerned - will they be able to make it the rest of the way, like this, with Willie and...this guy here, in this state? Is there anything she can do? (Her hands glow softly in anticipation of any more potential healing.) He shakes his head.

"We'll be fine. Take Fergus with you. Without him, I don't think we'd have made it." The dwarf - Fergus, was it? - seems as taken aback by this as anyone else, but he agrees to his friend's request.

Fergus.....what clan, Tsalta asks, curious. McDougal. Huh! Quite a prolific clan, she's certainly heard the name, but most of the McDougals live much further up in the north. She'd ask more (always one for a chat, Tsalta) but he's being quite vague in his explanations of why he's in town and honestly, the priority is getting back these kids.

Fergus agrees. What's the good in standing around - let's go!

As this conversation occurs, Nothing and Faeleth notice some silhouettes cresting across the night sky. Their wingbeats are almost syncopated, erratic, but the jagged shadows that pass by (and the unpleasant scent that drifts by on the breeze) are unmistakably familiar. Manticores.

Flying after them, a third shadow glides its way across the horizon, sleek and aerodynamic as it coasts on huge leathery wings. Fergus catches sight, whistles everyone's attention as he points upwards. Tsalta misses the manticores, but spots the dragon!

....Okay, but yes, we really do need to get moving.

In a moment, that is.

"I'd like to have a quick word with Nothing," Tsalta says, and her tone is stern - chilly, even, "if you don't mind. I'll be right behind you guys."

Fergus, a little awkward surrounded by strangers, agrees to go on ahead, although not before asking, "Where, uh, exactly are we headed.....?"

Tsalta motions towards the tracks - we're going to rescue the kids, just follow the trail. At his bumbling protestation - can anyone actually read tracks? - she waves a hand dismissively his way. "I'll literally be just a second."

As the others finally move away, Tsalta motions Nuth to stay with her behind the tree. The little tiefling hunches her shoulders, arms crossed, ready for the inevitable chastisement about how she she shouldn't rush into danger and blah blah blah it's irresponsible blah whatever.

"Right." Tsalta begins, the single word carrying a decisive weight. "Back when we were talking to the Collector-"

Oh. This isn't going where Nothing thought it was going. She swallows. "Yeah?"

There's ice in every syllable when Tsalta speaks. "You can give my name. You can give anything about me. But you mention my daughter's name, for the sake of your sodding person, if you do - if you do - if you use that information to save some kid that didn't listen to you the first time, I swear to god, I swear to every god-"

Nuth stares up mute and wide-eyed at Tsalta, who right now radiates a missing decade's worth of maternal protective ferocity. Like this, she's actually quite imposing.

"-I am not. losing. my. child."

So taken aback that she's reduced to a shocked stammer, Nuth replies, "I...I won't. I wouldn't." (She wouldn’t, right? She thinks she wouldn’t.)

"Is that clear?"

Nothing nods.

"Then let's go."