Chronicle: Session 9

So, in the wake of burning a solid dozen goblins to death, Team Jailbird do the only logical thing: flee the scene of the crime.

Well, not before a moment of moral angst. Faeleth stares at her hands for a bit as the reality of what she's just done sinks in.

Tsalta, sweet girl that she is, wants to leave a symbol of apology and memory of the innocent lives lost. Unfortunately, she's so rattled by the event that she doesn't notice the message she carves into a little piece of cart-wood ("the innocent should not have been harmed here") isn't written in Common. In her dazed state, she's left her memorial in Draconic.

Nuth's already fast-walking away down the road, eager to put some physical distance between herself and the smoking hole in the ground, the ursine Spindle trundling along beside her.

Moment of moral angst completed, the others catch up and off they head towards Fryberg. The party follow the river's path well into the sunset evening until it gets too dark for Tsalta's comfort. She guides everyone to a good camping spot, everyone has sandwiches for dinner before they turn in for the night. Nothing bundles herself up in her bedroll near-immediately after eating, eager to put sleep between herself and the events of the day. Tsalta's less enthusiastic about the idea of sleep. She motions Faeleth over. Can she keep an eye and make sure Tsalta doesn't go walk-about again?

Of course she can. How about this? Faeleth reaches into her pack, and pulls out a length of rope. With either end tied to each others' wrists, that should do the trick; if Tsalta gets up and wanders, Faeleth will be the first to know. (Spindle "helps", tying himself into Tsalta's hair.) Her mind now at ease, the big girl settles down to rest as Faeleth keeps watch over the camp.

With the exception of a kerfuffle over waking Spindle for first watch (Faeleth learns she should use a little more rope - Tsalta bolting upright at the sound of her voice was an unpleasant experience for her arm), the night goes by...

"Nothing! Nothing, she's doing it again!" Spindle shakes the tiefling awake, and she opens her eyes to see Tsalta beginning to lazily meander her way across the camp, Faeleth being slowly dragged beside her from her tether. Again? Nuth rushes over and gives Tsalta's arm a shove - "Oi! None of that!" No response. "Tsalta, oi, wake up!" She grabs Tsalta by the arm now and shakes her, hits her once or twice, but nope. No dice. She keeps on ambling on, and Faeleth, deep in elven meditative slumber, doesn't stir either.

What does wake Tsalta is the stench of skunk-spray directly into her big ol' noseholes, courtesy of Spindle's druidic abilities. She sputters instantaneously to consciousness, dry retching, and the noise of it finally wakes Faeleth, who scrambles out of the way lest Tsalta throw up on her - "What the fuck?"

Spindle apologises, citing the stench as a really awful fart - he must have eaten something...really bad? As the air finally clears, Tsalta looks down at him and sternly chastens him - well, that means no more snake blood for him, okay? No more!

Everyone but Spindle returns to sleep, best they can after all this excitement. The rest of the night passes, the sun starts to rise. Spindle hears voices in the forest, but...can't tell what they're saying. Hold on - Nothing has that thing she wears that lets her understand everyone, right? He scampers over and ever-so-gingerly lifts the helm off without knocking her horns even once - Nuth frowns and shifts in her sleep, but doesn't wake.

Now then! He dons the helm as best he can on his tiny head, and he catches the tail end of the conversation...it's just bickering - "You idiot, this way!" - but Spindle has a great time remembering things he heard in other languages and discovering a whole host of Dwarven and Elvish swears he now knows are swears...that's fun to know!

Spindle gives Nothing her helm back upon waking her to take the final stretch of the watch. "I borrowed this." She frowns, but whatever. At least he gave it back.

-

The sun comes up, everyone gets woken up by Nothing, and the party continue their journey to Fryberg, along the main road, following the river as it winds its way through the countryside. They happen across a few elves and dwarves along the way, and Tsalta stops one to ask if her dad Brataich is still living in the town.

Oh, yes! He's still working the mines - why does she ask? Tsalta beams. "Oh, I'm his little girl." He stares allllll the way up at her... ‘Little’, yes, hmm. She laughs - it's a family in-joke, never he mind! She affably sends the dwarf to carry on his way, he's surely got things to do and she shouldn't hold him up.

As the party draw closer, the road splits off - one road towards Fryberg proper, the other leads back towards woodland. A pillar of smoke rises in the distance, a ways off in the trees. Nobody else pays it much mind, but Tsalta's put ill at ease. "No fires in the forest, everyone knows this!" And with that, she forges into the woodland road, the others following her as she strides off ahead.

Spindle notices something odd. A stream runs along nearby the path, which is certainly not unusual for the terrain. It's the bubbles that are odd - the water doesn't run fast, nor are there eddies to churn them up. But the brook bubbles despite this, and as each one pops at the surface there's a soft fizzing, hissing sound. He's never seen something like that before.

"Guys? Have you looked at the water?"

Tsalta breaks her stride to come over and check it out - now, that's very strange. She urges Spindle not to touch it. Nothing peers over the bank, curious. "Is this a hot river or something, is that a thing that happens?"

Tsalta grabs the back of her clothes and yanks her back - "Don't touch it! No closer, we don't know what it is." Nothing huffs, but grudgingly obeys. Now she's got a look at it, though, it doesn't seem hot at all. It's like it's just...fizzy. Weird. She lets Tsalta usher her back to the path.

The path slowly winds up the hill, and in the distance everyone sights a cluster of truly gigantic oak trees - the smoke rises from beyond them, and the bubbly stream seems to emerge from beneath their root, spiraling lazily around the hill. As the party peer up, they catch sight of what seem to be washing lines strung between the branches of the oaks.

On the wind, Spindle's keen gnomish ears catch the sound of screams...children, screaming? Without a word of warning, he shifts into feline form and thunders along the path, Nothing chasing after him - "Oi! What? What is it, Spindle, wait up!"

As they round the hill, Spindle discovers his ears have not quite told him the whole story. Now he's closer, he can see the shallow pool where the brook has widened, a group of halfling children chasing one another around in the water, splashing eachother and shrieking with laughter as they play. A few adult halflings holding crossbows stand guard at the pool's edge. Spindle pulls to a stop as he reaches the clearing and sees there's no danger, but one of the halflings spots him and raises his crossbow, understandably wary. He is a giant cat, after all!

Tsalta scrambles up behind Spindle, sees the weapon trained on him and calls out with hands raised in supplication - "Pal, pal! We mean no bother! We heard cries and just wanted to see everything was okay, no bother here, I promise."

He looks her up and down, "Step forward." She does, and as she comes closer recognition dawns - she knows this guy, would recognise that shock of fiery red hair anywhere. If it isn't little Wilkis Roe, after all these years! They were childhood friends; he'd travel into town from the village just over now and again, and as two kids who stood out from their peers in their own ways, they got on pretty well. It seems he hasn't forgotten her either - "Ah, Tsalta! My, it's been a long time."

She is delighted. "Oh, wee Willie!" Tsalta runs over, and scoops this full-grown halfling man, crossbow and all into her arms for a gigantic hug. Time is no object, nor the fact that he's now into his fourties. "How's your Da?" He wheezes in response. Tsalta loosens her grip - ah, yes, probably shouldn't hug him quite so hard, he is rather dinky. She sets him down on the ground and brushes him down apologetically.

Still wincing a little from the mild crushing, he smiles up at her. "Now, you can't just give me a hug - Neilham wants one too..." He glances over at one of the other men standing guard, one who Tsalta doesn't recognise, but she remembers the name - Willie's little brother, oh, he was all but a babe-in-arms last time she was in town.

"Neilham! Oh, look at yoooou!" She grins down at him, eyes twinkling, "You've grown, like, an inch!"

Neilham, a little flushed with embarrassment, says, "Don't you dare..." but she's already upon him, and he gets the same treatment as Wilkis: a big Tsalta bear-hug that takes all the wind out of him. This nostalgic reunion has her giddy with delight - seeing Willie and Nillie again after so long, this is wonderful!

Willie sighs as she deposits his brother gently back on the grass. "I thought you'd have grown out of that," he says, and then glances at the giant bobcat sitting at the treeline, "Is that your pet?"

She stumbles over how to define her relationship to Spindle - he's...not a pet, exactly. Kind of? No. Um. He's not. He's...a step...grandchild?

"You're related to a bobcat?"

As Wilkis says this, Spindle's form shifts and shrinks back to his regular gnomish size and shape, and the halfling takes an immediate step back, crossbow snapping up in an instant to fix on him. Tsalta interposes herself between them - hey, no, he's fine! He's fine, he's harmless.

"Shapeshifters are not fucking harmless." Willie's whole demeanor has changed, tension radiates off of him, he doesn't shift his gaze from Spindle for a moment.

Tsalta does her best to put him at ease. "Honestly, he's nothing, he's fine. Speaking of! Would you like to meet my other pals? Nothing, Faeleth, come on out!" She waves enthusaistically, and Faeleth comes forward, but Nothing doesn't come all the way out straight away, eyeing the crossbow with clear discomfort.

"You sure?" she asks, sticking her head around a tree, ready to duck back if she's fired upon. He doesn't make any move on her, far too busy still staring at Spindle.

Wilkis asks, "Tsalta. Where have you been. This week, where have you been."

What? She's confused, but she does her best to rattle off her travels - Log Town (he corrects her: Log Hill) - a caravan camp, ehhhh, also... Wilkis cuts her off - no, but where did she pick up the shapeshifter? "Oh, he picked me up, really! I got lost, he found me, in some cavern - I thought he was a hairless ballsack cat when I first saw him...."

Her rambling doesn't put him at ease in the slightest. So what she's saying is she doesn't know him? "Not from birth! But I know his granddad, so....but, I suppose no?"

Okay, it looks like Tsalta's floundering, and Nothing really doesn't want Spindle to get shot just for being a weird cat kid. She leaves the shelter of the trees and hurries over, "Hold on, hold on. I can vouch for him. It's a long story, yeah?"

"Then start talking."

Nothing takes a deep breath, and thinks really hard to try and remember the whole weird lineage of it all to sum it up quickly. "He's her ex's - hold on...he's her ex's...daughter's...son. Whatever that makes him to her. Kind of related, ish." Tsalta nods accord, that's the short form of it, that's right!

"And you say he's safe?"

Nothing moves over to ruffle Spindle's hair and finds that Wilkis' crossbow jumps to point at her - the guy's jittery, ugh. She doesn't bother, then, if he's gonna be like that about it. Tsalta scowls at her old friend - "Willie, what's your beef?"

"Fucking shapeshifters is what!" he says, and Nothing, who had missed that aspect of the conversation thanks to listening in at a distance until voices got raised, suddenly gets it.

"You've had shapeshifters?"

The penny drops for Tsalta too, as Willie explains the situation. Ohhhhh. It suddenly makes a whole lot of sense that they've sent armed folks to guard children playing in a brook. A week back, Willie says, their village was beset by the creatures, but they drove them off. Been keeping their guard up since, just in case.

Nothing shares her experiences with the creatures, explaining to him that the same happened in her hometown but they weren't so lucky - and now they're trying to get her kids back, and the others too if they can. It's been happening all over the place by the sounds of things. (Tsalta sits down behind Willie and braids his hair into bright red cornrows as the tiefling runs him through the details.)

And what of her shapeshifter? Nothing makes a noise of consternation - heck, she dunno what his deal is. He's not one of those, though. "And what does he turn into?"

Cats, mainly, like he was just now. Looks like he just got the hang of bears as well, he surprised us all yesterday turning into a big-ass bear? So...cats and bears.

"Does he ever turn into a dog?"

"Never. Not one of those." Nothing shakes her head, "We've seen those, know what they look like, been dealing with a lot of 'em. Spindle ain't never turned into one of those."

That seems to reassure him - not completely, but enough. He keeps a wary eye on Spindle but finally puts his crossbow away. With a word to Nillie to keep watch at the pool, he leads the party towards the oak tree hamlet. He'd invite Tsalta in, but...hard to fit her indoors. "It's nice to see you again," he says, "but you could have come at a better time." He sighs and looks out towards the pillar of smoke that first drew her here.

"You asked about my Da, well."

It transpires that the smoke is from a traditional halfling funeral pyre. Not everyone made it when the hamlet came under seige. Well, that sucks...Tsalta offers her condolences.

As he continues describing the altercation, Willie mentions that the shapeshifters were led by a man with strange blue skin. (The party exchange knowing looks. Bloody Albert, that genasi seems to be nothing but bad news.) They got more than they bargained for, mind. "They didn't know we had the gas."

When Nothing asks if he means the gas from the river, Willie nods.

"What does it do?"

He gives her a knowing grin. "Why don't you give it a sniff?"

She makes no move, skeptical partly because Tsalta warned her off of it earlier, and she's not sure if she's getting punked. Tsalta urges her to do it, but she shakes her head. "No, you sniff it!"

Tsalta, more used to Wilkis' mannerisms, recognises this impishness to mean the halfling's totally jazzed to show them something, so she leans over the brook and takes a biiiiig sniff. As she does, energy surges through her - she feels like she could lift mountains, leap the hillside in a step. Whoo! All this vigor needs an outlet, and so Tsalta punches the nearest tree as hard as she can. The tree shakes, the bark splinters under her knuckles. NICE! (It hurts like hell, as punching a tree would, but it's so worth it.)

The rush fades, and Tsalta turns back with a broad grin. That's good stuff! Wilkis smiles back - now we see why it's so handy, hmm?

"Is it kind of like poppers? Take a little sniff, get a little rush..." Willie probably wishes he never asked what 'poppers' are as Tsalta's case of chronic TMI kicks in and she begins to explain the potions Gandalf introduced her to back in the day. ("...Yeah? Kind of?")

Anyway! If we're trying to help deal with the shapeshifter problem and get people's kids back...he's got something to help us. He holds out a few glass bottles: some of that bubble gas. It's better than just huffing it out of the river, the bottled version is concentrated and it lasts longer. "If you're taking them on, this'll help." His gift is gratefully accepted, and the party part ways with Willie, who needs to get back to his post watching over the kids.

Tsalta gives him one last hug before she goes, which he grudgingly tolerates, though he grumbles and grimaces. She ruffles his braids. "You love me really!"

He hums noncommittally, but the smile he gives her as he sees her off is fond. "Bye, Tsalts."

-

The main road grows busier the closer we draw to Fryberg, the party passes many a halfling making their way between there and the hamlet, the occasional elf, and to Tsalta's delight, an ever-increasing number of dwarves. She starts to recognise the faces of old neighbors, and exchanges friendly greetings as though her thirty years' absence was just a little weekend jaunt into the woods. Visually it may as well have been - unlike Willie and Nillie, her dwarven neighbors look much the same as they always did. A new grey hair here or there on the older ones, perhaps.

A shadow darkens the road. Everyone looks up to see a green dragon coasting above the path - whether it's the same one from before or another is hard to tell. It pays no heed to the travellers below, nor do they seem to take much notice of it. The halflings on the road ahead glance upwards as it passes, but don't seem alarmed in the least by what they see.

"Well, that never used to happen." Tsalta murmurs, still watching the dragon wend its way across the skyline. She's sure she'd remember Fryberg having dragons - perhaps those guys ahead can fill her in?

"Tsalta! Hey!" They smile up with warm recognition - she doesn't even recognise these guys, but...she was memorable, she supposes! She points up to where the dragon is now but a smudge on the horizon - is that a common thing here now? Dragons? "A dragon, sure!"

"Just the one?" Nothing asks. The halflings nod, and one confirms - yes, just the one. He keeps to himself, the townsfolk keep to themselves, he doesn't cause any bother. Stays up in his little cave in the mountains for the most part.

How curious.

The hard day's slog finally shows signs of being near a close as the party find themselves on the approach to Fryberg proper. (It's a long road, and Tsalta sets quite the punishing pace with the length of her stride. Spindle, meanwhile, has been perfectly comfortable hitch-hiking in her hair.) Patches of the surrounding woodland show signs of logging, but for every stump there's a few fresh saplings nearby, ready to take their place. And around the riverbend beyond, there it is.

Fryberg, at last.

The town looks as though it could have grown from the woodland itself - beneath the canopy rope bridges hang from tree to tree, lights glow in the windows of homes built up among the branches themselves. There's tree-houses, and ­then there's tree houses - many of the grander oaks feature spiral staircases, carved or perhaps simply shaped into the wood itself, leading up into hollowed-out dwellings set into the trunks.

Where perhaps one might expect the 'streets' of Fryberg to be littered with leaves, the ground is clear and tidy (but for the serpentine roots of the great trees where they breach the earth) - it must be quite the task to keep it that way!

It's beautiful. Nothing, wide-eyed, takes it all in - she's never seen anything like this - they've got houses in the trees! In the literal trees! Look at all the little window lights - wait, are those fireflies? "Wow..." The kid's practically jaw-to-the-floor. She tugs at Tsalta's skirt to get her attention. "You used to live here?"

To Tsalta, it's just...home. "Yeah?"

"But it's so cool! Look at it!" Nuth gesticulates from the ground to the canopy in awe.

Tsalta beams. "Do you wanna come see my house? It's just round the corner, right on the path, this way!"

Up in the canopy, more lanterns glow softly to life as the last dregs of sunlight fade, casting soft golden light down on the party as Tsalta eagerly leads them through the trees, fizzing with excitement. Any moment now, she'll sight the prismatic glimmer of all the painted firefly jars her mother decorated their staircase with, the multicolour beacon in the dusk so she'd always find her way home.

The party are led to a gigantic tree - huge, even by the standard set by the other arboreal homes around them. Tsalta hesitates at its base, looking up at the massive staircase and the rows of unused lantern-hooks, a frown of confusion and uncertainty on her face.

She ascends a little way up the stairs. "Ma?"

There's no response.

"Ma?" She calls, louder now, climbing higher, the wood creaking softly under her weight.

Silence. And Tsalta, who had until now been so sure her Ma would always be waiting when she finally came home, has to consider that perhaps she was wrong. She keeps climbing.

"...Tsalta?" A face appears at the window above her. An elven woman, her face framed by waves of flame-red hair, looks down to see if her ears do not deceieve her. Her eyes grow wide as she sees her daughter for the first time in thirty years.

The frown melts from Tsalta's face immediately, replaced by a wide and heartfelt smile. "Ma! It's been a long time."

"You're back?"

Tsalta nods. There's a few moments where her mother just stares, lost for words.

"You're back." And she springs to joyous life, her whole face lights up as the truth of Tsalta's return sinks in - "You're back! You're back, you're back, Tsalta, you're back! My goodness, I have to-"

She vanishes from the window, and her mile-a-minute chatter mingles with the clatter of cupboard doors and the clinking of glass. Atop the staircase, the front door slams open to reveal Bráths carrying a veritable mountain of lanterns in her arms. She bundles them into Tsalta's open arms - "Come on, let's string these all up, come along now!" It's as though she's never been gone.

Despite all the time gone by, Tsalta could do this with her eyes closed - together, she and her Ma begin to hang up the jars all along the staircase. It's a big tree, and there's a whole lot of lanterns to put up (and that's before the matter of filling them with fireflies!). Tsalta invites the others to join in and they gladly do - save Spindle, far too small to reach, perched on Tsalta's shoulder as she bustles hither and thither. Once they're done, the tree is once more a beautiful technicolour lightshow, just as it was in Tsalta's memory of home.

(As Bráths chatters, supervising everyone in this solid half-hour's worth of tasks, everyone but Spindle - who doesn't speak a word of Elvish - notices the transformation to Tsalta's accent around her mother. She's speaking Elvish, absolutely, but the thick dwarven twang is so pronounced that even Nothing with her magically-aided comprehension finds her a little hard to keep up with. It's a very curious combination of accent and language, for certain.)

Passers-by take note as the tree is lit back up, nudging their friends and pointing - Tsalta's back! She waves down to them before her mother chivvies her and the rest of the party inside for a celabratory dinner.

Dinner is gorgeous - a grand spread of elven home cooking at its finest, verdant leaves and spiced nut bakes and all kinds of wonderful things that Tsalta herself hasn't seen before! Her mother must have spent the long decades concocting some new recipes. Even Nothing, whose tastes aren't usually quite so herbivorous, finds her mouth watering at the sight and smell of it all.

Bráths smiles at Tsalta, and says softly in Elvish as her daughter takes a seat in the one huge chair at the end of the table, "Always prepared." (It's a little small for Tsalta now, but...it's hers, and it feels so good to be back at her own dinnertable with her Ma's cooking before her.)

As Tsalta immediately tucks in, Nothing looks to Bráths and gestures with a fork to the food in front of her. "Can I...?" It looks so good she's amazed to be allowed to have it.

"Of course! A friend of my daughter's is always welcome here, dear!"

SWEET. She digs in with gusto. Damn, this stuff is amazing. (Spindle, poor thing, sits unnoticed in the doorway. He can't speak a word of Elvish and doesn't know if he's been invited inside or not.) Between massive mouthfuls of vegetable tart, Tsalta beckons Faeleth and calls, "Faeleth! Come sit next to me!" She pats the chair beside her, and Faeleth dutifully takes a seat, joining the table but barely touching her food.

There's a lull as everyone savours the food, too busy eating to chat, and Tsalta's mother watches on with a smile, braiding her hair with a pair of what are essentially a pair of fancy knitting needles. Their clicking gradually slows, then stops, as Bráths ties off her braid. Her smile fades away as she fixes Tsalta with a stern glare.

"Where have you been."

Tsalta, mouth stuffed with salad leaves, shrinks under her gaze. She grimaces, swallows... her Ma raises her eyebrows at her. Tsalta whines a drawn-out 'eeeeeehhh' of discomfort, refusing to meet her mother's eye.

"Why haven't you been back. Tsalta. Where have you been."

Tsalta shuffles awkwardly in her seat. "Well, you know how it is...I....took a nap one day and, and..." she swallows thickly, "...how long has it been?"

It feels like the room could freeze over from the chill in Bráths' voice. "You don't even know how long? Thirty years, Tsalta. Thirty. Years."

....Oh. Well. Tsalta hesitates in thought. "Hang on, how old does that make me, then?"

"You left when you were fifteen. You were taught maths, you can work it out. And get your elbows off the table!" she snaps, and Tsalta jumps and shifts her arms onto her lap. (Faeleth and Nothing glance back and forth between Tsalta and her mother whenever either speak, keeping very much quiet and very much out of the family drama. Spindle doesn't have the least idea what's going on.)

Tsalta entreats her Ma to hear her out - she honestly didn't mean to go away, it was an accident and she really tried to find her way back! Bráths fixes her with another stare. What did she tell Tsalta about wandering too far?

"I'd get lost," Tsalta replies quietly, pouting.

"And what happened?"

"I got lost."

Bráths sighs. Her tone softens just a little. "But I suppose you're back now." She leans closer to her daughter, and in a more hushed voice adds, "And you should pay a visit to your father, now you're here." Tsalta agrees, making sure to sound adequately chastened...but she's sure her Da will just be happy to see her, she's always been Da's little girl. He won't mind.

Introductions! Tsalta finally notices Spindle sitting in the entranceway, and asks him in common what he doing all the way over there? When he explains, she laughs and waves him inside. Silly wee thing. She turns to her mother - "Sorry, can we talk in Common for a bit? Got a friend who doesn't understand." Still in a bit of a huff, she refuses and insists that Tsalta can translate.

She introduces Spindle, making the grievous error of describing him as 'her little ballsack' and prompting a lecture from her mother on inappropriate language.

She introduces Nothing - "...How twisted are your parents to call you Nothing?" Bráths asks, and Tsalta winces, trying and failing to dissuade her from continuing that line of questioning. Nothing's not too bothered about it. "Oh, they didn't," she explains, "I picked it out. Didn't even know 'em. They died, so!" She shrugs. Bráths apologises for Nothing's loss, and she shrugs again.

Then Tsalta's mother's gaze turns to Faeleth. "Well, it does seem my daughter has some taste in friends." (Tsalta exclaims in tandem with Nothing - oi!) Faeleth introduces herself, and finds herself faced with a question she wasn't expecting: Faeleth of which house?

Ah. That's not a question she's had to think up an answer to for a while. And to think, she was uncomfortable enough just attending an elven family dinner. Now there are personal questions, which are far from her favourite thing. "The past is in the past," she says, not feeling like lying for once. She's just Faeleth.

Bráths huffs. "Even your elf friends are vagabonds."

BIT RUDE, Tsalta's Ma! Bit rude! But then, this lady is an elf of the prim and proper variety, and Faeleth categorically...isn't. Rude as it may be, it's not wholly untrue.

Nothing does her best to reroute the tone of the room by complimenting the cooking, because it was genuinely amazing and she genuinely has never tasted a thing like it. That, at least, does seem to be met with appreciation. Tsalta's poor grasp of the passage of time (and of cow lifespans) shows again when she asks...about...how the cows are doing.

"Oh, yes. You weren't even here for Tabitha's passing, and you loved her so." Oh, Tsalta's favourite cow. :( But there's something to remember her by, if she's interested - in her room is a signalling horn made from one of Tabitha's horns. Her mother gives her a sympathetic smile, her mood finally seeming to warm again - and thank the gods for that! It seems she's got the frustration out of her system, and she asks with genuine curiosity about Tsalta's adventures over the missing years. Tsalta chatters away, filling her in while making sure - for once! - to avoid touching on the more lurid elements. She makes no mention of Gandalf whatsoever. When her tales draw to a close, she finds her Ma regarding her once again with a shrewd eye.

Is she sure that's...absolutely everything?

"Well, I nearly died like yesterday, that was a close call..."

No, no. That's not what she's speaking of. She received an 'interesting visit' from a wandering bard a few years ago. A little gnome fellow, who had some curious things to say about- OH BOY. Spindle, catching the name among the Elvish, perks up his ears. Tsalta, too, realises who she's talking about. "OH! Bobby!"

Bráths looks at Tsalta, looks at Spindle, and sighs into her hands. "Oh, Tsalta...you didn't..." Realising the very understandable misunderstanding, Tsalta flaps her hands in protest - no, no, no, he's not...not him. She promises. No. He's unrelated. Not...blood related, anyway.

She knows Tsalta's still hiding something, and says as much. And knowing it's not worth trying to lie to her Ma, Tsalta cracks a nervous smile. "Guess who's a granny....?"

"With who." Tsalta crosses her arms and mutters about how she's a grown strong woman and she's independent and doesn't need a partner and- "None of that, with who." Tsalta continues to grouch and refuses to specify, and Bráths concedes that her daughter is indeed a grown woman who can make her own decisions, so...well. When can she expect to meet her grandchild?

Tsalta stumbles over her words, pauses, and starts to sniffle. Spindle patters over and curls up in her lap to try to comfort her. "I haven't seen my baby, she was taken from me." With a sigh, Bráths inclines her head in respectful understanding - that's something they can talk about later, perhaps, they can have a private mother-daughter chat. Appreciating that she's not being pressed into discussing it right now, Tsalta nods and asks if she can pop by her Da's now...?

Yes, yes. He should be done with work for the day by now.

Tsalta collects her horn. Everyone excuses themselves, the party thanks Bráths for the wonderful meal, and makes for the stairwell. "I'll not be thirty years again this time," Tsalta says, before she and her mother share a parting hug. Bráths' shoulders shake just a little as they embrace, and there's the faintest of cracks to her voice as she whispers, "You'd better not leave it thirty years this time."

"I won't. I promise."

They break apart. Bráths smiles and daintily dabs her eyes with a sleeve as she waves her daughter off.

-

To Tsalta's Da's house!

Down towards the mines, where the forest meets the mountainside, the architecture is much more utilitarian. The dwarven dwellings are sturdy, blocky constructions, and braziers take the place of firefly lanterns. Dwarves, for the most part, are practical folk!

Tsalta locates her father's house, and conspires with her companions - okay, she's going to surprise him! Everyone keep quiet! She creeps around to the back of the house...or she would, were her footfalls not so....stompy.

And besides...nobody's inside. Awwww.

(Nothing asks just one thing of Tsalta when we meet her Da - just call her Nuth, yeah? Just the short version. She's starting to realise that outside of the context of Red Larch where everybody knew her, her chosen name confuses people.)

Well, to the mines! Boistrous and grinning, Tsalta claps Faeleth on the back - "Everyone tired of walking yet? Got a way left to go!" UGH, she's so peppy and the other girls are so tired. But okay. This is Tsalta's big reunion and nobody wants to take that from her.

There's plenty of small reunions first, though! A number of work-weary dwarves' faces light up at the sight of Tsalta, she gets lots of jovial greetings and no small number of hugs from her old neighbors and distant relatives - the big lass is well-liked down here and it's easy to see it. She fits right in among her dwarven kin, size notwithstanding.

Amongst some of the workers, Tsalta finally sights her father - and he hasn't yet noticed her. A second chance to sneak up on him! She puts a finger to her lips towards the party, tiptoes around behind her Da, cups her hands to her mouth and..."MOOOOOOOOOOOO."

Tsalta's never seen a dwarf six feet high before, but now she has! Brataich leaves the ground well behind with a startled yelp, and Tsalta grabs him under the arms and spins him to face her, pulling him into a hug. "DA!"

He returns the hug warmly, and he beams at her as she sets him back down on the stone. "Tsalta! Wasn't expecting you home!" She winks - gotta come back some time, right? He invites her - and the rest - back to his house for a catch-up, happily nattering all the way back...in Dwarven, so Spindle doesn't understand a jot of this either. At least he's not alone, nor does Faeleth. And frankly, with how fast he speaks and how very Dwarven he sounds, Nothing is only catching perhaps a third of it! But Tsalta's in her element, and she and her father laugh and yammer on about ogres - she about her near-death experience, he about dispatching two-headed ogre-beasts down in the mines.

Tsalta introduces her friends, who he seems very much happy to see. He's curious about some of her 'pals' - isn't this small one a bit young? She just laughs - it's a funny story, she's not actually known many of us long at all! Baffled as he might be, he doesn't raise objections: a friend of Tsalta's is a friend of his, as far as he's concerned.

Reaching Brataich's house, he asks...do we want dinner? At first, Tsalta ums and ahs...Ma's put on a spread already...but he chuckles and clarifies in the form of a raised keg of mead. No, do we want dinner?

Ayyyyy. Absolutely. Go on then!

The steins go around (Tsalta tries to protest and suggest Spindle be provided a thimble, but too late, he's already guzzling his share). Everyone sits down and gets chatting, and Tsalta's father admits...he's surprised to see her back, if he's honest!

Tsalta asks why - of course she'd be back!

"Well," he looks about at the rest of her friends, "...How much can I say in front'ae these? Dunnae want to speak too much on ye personal life." She confesses that her new friends are practically all the personal life she's had in a while - she's had a lonely time of it - so he can go right ahead, she's not worried.

He says that the other year he got some interesting news...?

That's sounding familiar! "Oh, fucking Bobby..." Tsalta groans into her mug of ale. He takes that as confirmation, of course, and just like Bráths his gaze falls on Spindle, a look of very mistaken realisation sweeping his features.

"Oh no..., oh, Tsalta, you didn't."

Tsalta jazz-handses. "You're a granddad!" Quickly, she appends, "BUT! It's not him, though. Not that one."

Brataich's face journey is one hard to catalogue, but his expression comes to rest at just complete confusion. This poor dwarf has been thoroughly perplexed, and no wonder! He seems relieved that his grandson isn't a little grey gnome, at least. "But even if he were, he...wouldnae technically be my grandson anyhows," he confesses.

Absolutely blindsided, Tsalta stammers, "Hang on, what?"

Oh. He thought she knew. In fact, he thought that was why she left! He claps a hand on her shoulder, "Tsalta. Now, you'll always be my girl, I love ye to the bottom of the earth. But ye knew yer mother had....a thing, right?"

No.....? She did not know this.....???

And it all comes to light. A troupe of 'big fellers' came through, long ways back. Goliaths. Her mother took a shine, he supposes. Did Tsalta never wonder why she was scared of the dark? She shakes her head - it's not something she's ever questioned, she chalked it up to a weird irrational phobia, a fear of caves expanded to inclue all things dark. Brataich carries on - he'd thought all these years that she'd found out and gone to seek her real Da. He'd been heartbroken, but he understood.

Tsalta shakes her head. "No. You'll always be my Da." Then her face scrunches in a frown, "Bit pissed off at Ma, though, that's a bit..." She harrumphs. Sneaking around on her Da like that! But he waves it aside - it was long ago, and they were having a funny patch, these things happen. And her Ma, she wasn't quite so straight-laced as she is now - she was a wilder lady back in the day! Hard to believe, maybe, but it's true!

She takes it all in, processes it...and proves all her father's fears unfounded, because this reveal hasn't in the least distanced her from her dear Da. She's still his little girl, always, even if they're not of the same blood. "You could have told me sooner, you know." She smiles.

"Ach, well. I was plannin' tae tell ye when ye were grown, but then ye were gone, so."

"Yeah, I took a nap and wandered off, Da."

He chortles. Well, that sounds like a story! What took her thirty years for her to get back? Where's she been?

"Oh, well, up in a mountain for a bit...forests...met a friend in a cave who I didn't see..."

He stops her there. What cave? But she taps her nose and winks - ah, see, that's her little secret of her own! Also she's not sure. Also her friend told her it was best not to tell people where they lived. Tsalta carries on, and her father happily listens to her rattle off her travels to here there and everywhere with lots of sleep-walks in between.

She tells him about her child, too, and explains the situation as best she can. She had a little girl, but she was made to forget her with magic and her baby was taken away...she only just remembered her at all.

"I did warn you about magic," Brataich says, and Tsalta says that yes she knows but also she can do magic now, and she can heal things now! Isn't that handy? He can't argue with that - that does sound handy indeed. And he's not one to talk - speaking of magic...does Tsalta remember that bead he gave her? He'll let her in on a little secret - Does she still have it?

She does, of course! Tsalta points out one of the beads woven into the braids that hang either side of her face.

"Well, do ye not now wonder why've ye got...dwarven characteristics?" No? What? Oh - that hadn't crossed her mind, if she's honest, and she'd had no reason to wonder it before! But now, perhaps yes?

If she shows him that bead, he can explain it. "Come here a sec, let me show it ya." She unties it from her hair and hands it to him, and he begins to explain.

This bead, he says, is an old family heirloom. It's passed for generations in his family, mother to daughter. But his mother only ever had lads, is the trouble, so in the end it fell to him. And he passed it on to Tsalta!

"See, it's imbued with old dwarven magic-" he murmurs a few words that are distinctly Dwarven, but the dialect is archaic and hard to understand even for Tsalta - it's only Nothing who can parse it as Dwarven's ancient root language. The bead lights up in his fingers, runes dancing over its surface that tell the names and the story of the family it's belonged to over the many years. It ends on Brataich's name, and he smiles down at it, "I always did wonder...now, it picks up on the blood in the family, but I'll do a little trick here for ye."

He brings the bead to his lips and whispers Tsalta's name into it, and Nothing sees the ancient dwarven form of her name flash across its surface. Tsalta is delighted by the lightshow, but has no idea what just occurred. "What does it say?" She clasps her hands together and leans in.

"Oh, it's just the family history, those it's been passed down tae over the generations. An' now it's got you in it." And he tells her at last that it's this gem that imbues her with her dwarvish features - so long as she keeps it close, her adoptive family line may as well be her blood.

-

Closer than ever in spite of (or, perhaps, because of) the revelations this conversation brought, Tsalta and her Da laugh and drink into the depths of the evening, chatting with Nothing and Faeleth as Spindle snores in a corner. It's a good night. The mead is fine, the chatter is lively as everyone shares stories, and in the end all find themselves in a deep and peaceful sleep, blissfully unaware that this is merely the calm before the storm.