Like Minds

The Fetters, Shadow District

A number of dingy streets wind their way through the Fetters. This is one of them. Closely lined with buildings on one side, the other is guarded by what looks like a sorry little attempt at fields. There's even a closely-guarded, scrawny horse chained and padlocked to a fencepost, and a few sparse shrubs trying to make their way out of the inhospitable ground.

Oily yellow light seeps from the chinks in some of the buildings, and from the grungy windows. The most comes from the windows of the Beetle's Bounty, its cracked, warped sign creaking eerily in the wind. The street is empty, save for the occasional stray cat or skin-and-bones rat. Not many venture out here after dark - even in defense of that poor horse.

"Iffin ye don't mind me sayin, Your Grace, I think ye might've been better off stayin at home and leavin this part to the Imperial Blade," Notes the Lieutenant with a concerned but affectionate smile as he leans closer to Rowena and her horse. The five horses march as quietly as massive, burdened animals can, but come to a pause of reflection when they make to pass by the lone horse and his sorry plow ground.

Staring with mild disbelief at the chained animal, Rowena twitches her lips into something akin to a smile. Or smirk. "Blades don't know how to recognize the enemy that /I/ seek," she replies blandly, and jostles Umbrus reins to order the horse along. Umbrus is reluctant to move onward, as are the other horses for that matter, all having turned their noses to sniff curiously in the unfortunate equine's direction.

From the other end of the road comes a dim light, gently swinging aloft. Steps can be heard, a person on foot. "Light," says a woman's voice. "Ah'm los' aye. Tis ill..." Her worry carries along the road as she walks. Suddenly the light stalls. "Cor, who's dat?" she asks herself.

The horse directs a dull, pathetic gaze in Rowena's direction and knickers softly before looking away again. The sad brown eyes close, and the skin ripples across the painfully prominent ribs as it snorts quietly. An instant after the sound of the horse, there's a different sound, something similar to a moan emanating from one of the nearby buildings.

"For Light's sake," curses the youngest guard, breaking his silence again, but this time it's in favor of the local wildlife. Bringing a small blade to bear, he saws at something strapped behind the saddle and a rope pops free. A great deal of rustling occurs as the modest wad of hay is gathered into his hands before the other guards can reprimand. "C'mon," he snorts as one hand reaches to intervene with his task, "Our horses are fat in comparison." Steering his mount a bit closer to the pitied horse, the young man hurls the ball of hay at the beast to offer it a snack.

The others continue to plod ahead, noses wrinkling at the noxious smells. Upon seeing the swaying light of a lantern bob into few, the group packs tightly together. "As one, Gentlemen," Rowena murmurs and together, they clip-clop nearer to the healthier glow of what a drooping sign and moving shadows might identify as an inn or establishment of some kind. It was a better place to idle than an alleyway, at any rate.

Muri steps warily forward, light swinging again. Through the gloom she sees the sorry horse and the motion of the guard. She steps carefully off the road and leans against the fence a short way away. She turns her head toward the sound, then dithers, unable to decide whether to go where the moans emerge or not.

The horse snorts again, blinking blearily at the hay as it brushes past its muzzle. Another soft snort, and then slowly, wearily, it lowers its head to nibble at the straws lying on the ground.

As those approaching the moans grow nearer, so do the moans grow louder, ending at last in a fit of coughing. It can be told now that the source is not one place, but several, if not all, of the buildings here.

"Should I be feelin a tickle in m'breast?" Whispers the horse feeding guard when he catches up to the others, butting his mount's way into the group. His eyes have grown almost as wide and haunted as the starving vermins' that crawl underfoot.

"Oh, hush it," Snaps Rowena this time, casting the lad an annoyed look. "You've not even come near them, let alone shared their beds. Lest I decide to leave you here." Leaving the blushing guard a few moments to contemplate the scolding, she cranes her neck upwards with a squint. The wooden boards lashed together to form the sign look about as sturdy as a trampled feather. Perhaps she ought not to be beneath it. Umbrus back paces a few steps and her mouth moves to form a word, silent at first, then

"Beetle's Bounty."

Familiar, that coughing. "Light," Muri whispers. "Deys got it 'ere." She chews her lower lip, shoulders her pack and heads toward the building. If she passes the group of horses and the guards, then that's where her steps take her. Her lantern bobs along as she walks quickly toward the sounds of suffering.

The coughing comes primarily from the area near the Beetle's Bounty - a good deal of it actually inside the tavern, come to think of it, though there's also a substantial amount in the surrounding buildings. The sign creaks ominously above Rowena's head, but it does not fall. From the looks of it, it could have been up there from years... or perhaps only reinstalled a few hours ago since its last fall.

"So that explains it, then," Rowena muses, sharing a wry smile with the guard to her right. "One of you may accompany me inside. The rest - guard the horses. Spare no blood of those who would make harm." Her motion to dismount from the horse is stalled suddenly then, when Muri's figure comes meandering closer into view. The Lieutenant steps his horse a bit forward and outstretches his lantern in left hand to shed greater light over the situation.

"Easy with yer stepping there, Missus. For the time being, this here ground is a touch more regal." And there's no mistaking what he means, breast plates, griffon crests, and colors aside. The most diminuitive rider - the woman - grips her ebony mount's shoulders with white, snaplizard gloves and a bending of an arm casts a radiant glare off a passively snarled maw of the argentite dragon head that engulfs her forearm. Bandits, brigands, shadowfolk, peasants...not likely.

Muri comes up short, a few feet away from the guard. She peers around the lantern and a small gasp emerges from her throat. "Ah me pardon, m'lord," she stammers as she drops into the most awkward curtsey ever seen. She looks like she'll topple at any moment as she bends low. "Dinnae mean 'arm. Doh if'n Ah might speaks more foreward, Ah'd 'astin' t'say...Ah means, tis dangerous 'ere, m'lord. Ye shouldnae goed in dere wid out masks. Dere's somefin' in de air makin' folk ill." She trembles but never looks up, gaze fixedly down on the ground. If the guard looks closely, though, the woman bears a mask around her own face, bright blue and layered.

"I find that diagnosis doubtful, but not entirely without possibility," Rowena states, ending the drop from Umbrus' back. Her requested guard does as well, stepping hastily between horse butts to reach her side. The others gather up the loosed reins. "If it were born on the air, far more would have been infected throughout Fastheld. Nay, I believe it to be carried by far more tangible a form, but...caution is noted." Offering Muri a nod, Rowena reaches into her pack and silently fishes for cloths.

Muri swallows and shifts nervously. Eyes still downcast, she nods. "Aye, yer...ah...me...oh, Grace?" she says, stumbling over the protocol. "Ah'm jus' a 'ealer from de Refuge. Don' got much learnin' but Ah c'n say...wahl...see dere's anofver 'ealer, a Messer Taran dat Ah'm travelin' wid, doh Ah seems t'ave los' im. See we thin' tis 'avin' to do wid dust from de fields, but only special fields, one usin' a sort o' soil mender only made dese parts. We trace de stuffs from Marble Grove t'Free'aven t'ere 'bouts." It all comes at a rush and the woman shifts her feet throughout her tale, never looking up to the others. "If'n tis made 'round 'ere, den tis in de wind e'en now."

"The soil," Rowena echoes, eyeing Muri hard with a stare that suggests the little woman has her /full/ attention. Meanwhile, the other guards are fidgeting with their own belongings in efforts to make a makeshift mask. "I'd suspected someone had poisoned the water supply or earth in some form...the Church had been my primary suspect, but perhaps this is all a far more innocent fluke. Strange, then, if your theory proves true, is the small and slow rate it is spreading elsewhere in the realm. Most people are hardly affected by it but those here...suffer a far more concentrated form?" The Duchess goes on a personal ramble now, murmuring thoughts to herself and then rebuking them in turn. Her hands are successful and she pulls forth a pair of leather swatches intended to be used as slings. She offers one to the guard but holds her own in her hands for the time being.

"The man you speak of - Taran - we crossed paths about a week ago in Light's Reach, if that's of any help. He was returning to the Refuge with medicines of mine to give to ... a woman."

Muri nods, but remains downcast, the lantern bobbing in her hand. "Aye, twas fer a fren' o' ours, Missus Zia," she replies. "De rem'dies ye given 'im 'elps wid de symptoms - coughin' 'n' rashes on de skin. De illness takes away de stomach --folks don' lahk t'eats wen deys got it. She gettin' stronger now, aways from Fas'eld. We lef' de 'scrips fer de rem'dies wid de 'ealers in Marble Grove 'n Free'aven. Seems only farm folk git it, aye?" She gestures to the field with the lantern. "We was tol' t'look fer a feller dese parts, a seller o'de soil mender dats got people sick. Names Septus Black. If'n we c'n knowd wot all makes de mender diff'r'n't den ofver menders, den mayhaps we c'n knowd wot's kind o'cure tis needed." She sighs. "Doh, dats wot we're thinkin'. Mayhaps ye knowd more." She peers up at the woman, then quickly back down. "Yer de Royal 'ealer, aye? Messer Taran say 'e gone t'seen ye."

"Aye," Rowena says quietly, a small amount of relaxation softening her stony features as she ties the supple leather loosely around her own mouth. "Rather than interrogating you I should instead be thanking you, it seems. All the places I have gone haven't turned up half that information. We're here only because, well," Steamy breath huffs out between the leather and her chin as she lifts her face to eyeball that sign with continued distrust, "A man who calls himself "Beetle" suggested I venture this way. Apparently there are many "Beetles, here." With a finger, she points up to the tavern's name and shakes her head, wearing a masked smile in spite of the gravity of the situation.

"Come. Let us see if he's here, the 'bug' I spoke briefly to. Perhaps he knows a bit more about this Septus Black and his whereabouts. Anyone who dabbles in alchemy, be it for person remedies or crops, falls under my scrutiny."

Muri's eyes widen, but she nods, glancing toward the guards and picking out a safe route a distance from royals and horses both. Which means she lags behind everyone, but manages to follow. "Ah don' knowd nufin' fer sure, yer Grace," she says. "But Ah'm sore t'find who's got so many folk sick. Ah'll 'elps ye in anyways ye wish. But Ah gots t'say, if'n dem coughs any tell, dere's lahkly none t'say 'ceptin' de one dats a'makin' de mender." She furrows her brow worried. "Ah done some alchemy testin' on a sack o'mender in Marble Groves, dats 'ow we knowd dere were somefin' more den jus' horse 'n cow leavin's in de stuffs. De 'ealer dere's gonna keep tryin' rem'dies t'seen if'n 'e c'n fin' a cure. Somefin' more den treatin' de symptoms. Ah 'opes dat were all rights by ye."

Rowena straightens her coat and tugs her satchel off the saddle behind her. It gets slung casually over her shoulder, creating a brief symphony of jingles and clinks from the mail underneath. "You are very wise, in that," Rowena grants, nodding with approval to Muri. "I'd like to sample some of the earth here for my own inspection. If it is the 'mender' as you call it, then the best route would be to cease its production all together. Bury the stuff best we can to prevent more from being lifted into the air. Actually, in all truth, a mass poisoning is less worrisome than genuine illness. Less heart-breaking to contain and...estinguish." Tact having found its way back into her vocabulary, she exchanges a knowing glance with her guard, causing his lips to twitch. No, there'd be no talk of reducing the town to ash when surrounded by so many volatile ears.

Situated, Rowena takes a bold step forward and pounds the door once, twice, with her lightly armored fist. "Remedy rides. Be wise and let her in."

Muri nods. "Ah'm sure dere's such we c'n fin' fer ye," she murmurs. "Ah fear'd dat tis used muchly dese parts. We caint stays 'ere long, doh. If'n dis git in our lungs, we gots two, three days afore we sets t'coughin' den a week's afore we're t'bed. We bes' works fas'. Don' knowd if'n tis poison by 'ntent or by folly or if'n somefin' newly growd in it dat ought not be deres. In any case, mayhaps more t'be larned workin' t'gethers if'n ye'll 'ave me." She eyes the guards, but follows the Royal Healer where she leads.

Return to Season 8 (2008)