E'ni'cala's smile brightens even more. "I look forward to it." She shrugs one shoulder. "I'll be okay. I'm doing everything I can to help people. That makes me happy."

She waves to Vesta. "Be safe!"

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Vesta lets out the breath she’s been holding when E’ni’cala tells her that it’s been sent. Relief softens her shoulders, and she returns the hug tightly. “Thank you,” she murmurs. When she draws back, she nods, offering a warm, if weary smile.  “I’ll have tea waiting for you next time. And perhaps a few new chapters from my book.” She readies herself to leave. “You take care of yourself too, alright?”

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E'ni'cala accepts the bag and holds the bundle close. "I understand. I'll see it done. Wait here and I'll let you know when he's sent it off."

The elf turns and walks back towards the hall, turning the corner and vanishing from sight.

About fifteen minutes later, E'ni'cala returns with the bag in her hands. She walks right up to Vesta and wraps her in a tight hug. She squeezes once and then steps back.

"It's done. And..." She smiles brightly at Vesta. "I'm sure everything will work itself out. Please, take care of yourself, Vesta. I'm going to come check on you when I can, okay?"

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“Yes, it is.”  Vesta slips the bag over her head and places it gently in the elf’s hands.  “I appreciate this, E’ni’cala. Truly. And tell Lord Marquanthis that I am grateful to him as well.” Her gaze drops to the floor, a soft smile touching her lips even as sadness lingers in her eyes.   “This matter is very dear to me.” She says quietly. “I leave it in your hands.”

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E'ni'cala gasps and reaches over to close the bag, pushing it towards Vesta. 

She leans in conspiratorially, eyes darting around, and whispers to Vesta. "Don't let anyone see you with that." She steps back again and smiles. Hold on. I'll go ask Lord Marquanthis if he'll take that as payment. I'll be right back."

E'ni'cala turns and walks in the opposite direction from which she came and disappears down the corridor.

About five minutes go by before the young elf returns. She is grinning and the sleeves of her robes are pulled back down once more.

She walks over to Vesta.

"Okay. He said he'll do it but he wanted me to stress that he wouldn't normally do this since sending missives is reserved for other things." She is still grinning as she reaches for Vesta's hands. "I'm so glad I'm able to help! If you want, I'll just um.... Take the bag? And I can return it to you once the letter is sent. I assume the letter is in the bag too?"

 

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Vesta’s confidence falters, just slightly.

“Well… I don’t have any coin. But-”  She shifts her bag off her shoulder and nudges it towards E’ni’cala, opening it with a small, almost sheepish motion. Inside rests a wheel of cheese, carefully wrapped. “I have this. I’ve been saving it for an emergency. I’m hoping it’s enough.”
She exhales softly.

“If not, I can volunteer my services as well. For as long as it takes. Scrying, healing, whatever is needed.”

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E'ni'cala nods slowly and reaches out to set her hand over Vesta's clasped in front of her. "I'll go ask the Guild Second if he would be willing to do it. It's not really something we offer people here since we're healers but... Maybe he'll be willing to bend a little. If I say it's a favor for me." She gives Vesta a brief, soft smile. "But how much can you afford? I know components are getting harder and harder to come by so he's most definitely going to ask for payment. Not that I have any clue the going rate for components." She chuckles awkwardly and squeezes Vesta's hands. "I'll haggle as much as I can."

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Ignoring the blood and whatever else she might have on her, Vesta steps forward and wraps E’ni’cala in a tight embrace. She holds on for a few long seconds before pulling back.

“Sorry. It’s been a rough morning.” She sniffs, brushing quickly beneath her eyes. “I… need to send a letter to Tristan. A missive.”

Her fingers twist together in front of her.

“I know I could go to the Mage’s Guild, but I don’t really know anyone there. And this…” Her voice wavers just slightly. “This is too important to place in unfamiliar hands. I need someone I can trust. I was hoping you might know someone here.”
She straightens a little.

“I can pay, of course.”

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The young woman with long brown hair is waiting around the front of the guild and sees Vesta approach. She lowers the wards for Vesta. Then she waits for Vesta to approach and gives her a soft smile.

"I'll fetch her. Wait here for me." The woman says and then heads off to disappear further into the Guild.

A few minutes pass and both the brown haired woman and E'ni'cala come into the room. They are speaking quietly. E'ni'cala has rings under her eyes and her robe sleeves are pulled up and tied at her shoulders. She is wiping a cloth down her arms to clear off any remaining blood or sick from her hands and arms. 

When E'ni'cala sees Vesta, her expression turns worried and she rushes away from the woman beside her and up to Vesta. She starts to reach for her friend's hand but stops herself short.

"Vesta! Are you okay? You..." She looks Vesta up and down. "What can I do for you, Vesta? I want to help you however I can."

E'ni'cala presses her lips together in a firm, determined line.

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Vesta approaches the Guild of Light looking like a shadow of herself. There are no silken skirts, no glittering jewelry save for the ring on her finger. Her curls are not carefully arranged. Instead, her hair has been pulled up hastily. Her clothes are practical. Where kohl and shimmer would normally frame her eyes, there is only bare skin and the faint redness of someone who has been crying for far too long.

She pauses at the entrance just long enough to steady herself, gathering what composure she can. 
Once inside, she moves quietly to the desk. Her voice is softer than usual, stripped of its usual lilt.

“I would like to see E’ni’cala, please.”

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“Thanks. I appreciate that.” 
Vesta turns towards the vardo, taking a few steps before hesitating. She pauses at the threshold and glances back at Storm.

“My ear’s always open for you too, Storm,” she says softly. “Goodnight.”

She gives her a small wave, then slips inside the vardo and closes the door gently behind her.

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Storm shrugs. "You needed an ear. I had two. I'm not the best with advice though. I'm a hunter. Not a philosopher."

Storm jerks her chin back towards the path they traveled. "I'll get you back to town. I honestly hope everything works out for you. Just keep in mind you're dealing with nobility and they do whatever they want. Us small folk don't really matter."

She waits for Vesta and then turns to lead her back through the woods to town.

When she gets back to the vardo, Storm rubs the back of her neck. 

"I know I'm not the best person to come to but..." She sighs and shrugs. "I don't mind lending an ear when you need one."

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“Yeah…” Vesta says quietly, her gaze lowered. “Friends should matter to us…”

She smooths her skirts absently, drawing in a slow breath.

“I feel a little better. Not a lot. But… it’s something.” She gives a small shake of her head. “I suppose that’s better than nothing.”

There’s a faint, tired curve to her mouth.

“I don’t think there’s anything else.” A brief pause. “Thank you for listening, Storm.”

She hesitates, then adds softly, “Sorry to disturb you with my antics.”

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Official Proclamation from the Seat of Dalefaer

Dated: 19th of Xaraxia, Year 426

Let it be known by all within the bounds of Forsetidale and the Empire beyond:

I. Regarding the Cessation of Private Courtship It is with a spirit of mutual respect and continued dedication to duty that I announce the conclusion of the private courtship between myself, Baroness Charlotte Greyshield, and Knightmaster Sir Fallin, Seneschal of Forsetidale.

Sir Fallin’s service to the barony is, as ever, invaluable. He shall retain the title of Lord Seneschal. However, the path of the heart and the path of the state have diverged. We return now to a relationship defined solely by our shared burden: the protection and prosperity of this land.

II. Declaration of Intent Regarding Suit With the weight of the Barony settling squarely upon my shoulders, it has become clear that the future of House Greyshield requires a partnership not merely of affection, but of fortitude.

Therefore, I declare my hand open to suit from those of noble standing or proven merit who wish to petition for marriage.

Let potential suitors heed this warning: I do not seek a decoration for my court, nor a placeholder for my lineage. I have recently disposed of those who treat titles as privileges rather than jobs. Do not bring me gold; Forsetidale has trade. Do not bring me armies; Forsetidale has steel.

Bring me competence.

I seek a consort who understands that to rule is to serve. I seek a partner who will stand beside me in the mud as readily as in the manor. If you cannot carry your own weight, do not expect to share in mine.

Petitions may be delivered to the Lord Protector’s office for initial vetting.

Signed and Sealed,

(Signature) Baroness Charlotte Greyshield Baroness of Forsetidale
 

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Writ of Severance and Abrogation

Issued from the Seat of Dalefaer Dated: 19th of Xaraxia, Year 426

By the hand of Her Excellency, Baroness Charlotte Greyshield Under the Auspices of His Majesty, King Vlastimir Daggerheart

TO THE FORMER LORD, TRISTAN AND CITIZENS OF THE REALM:

It is written in the founding tenets of Forsetidale that "power, like burdens, should be distributed amongst us all". You were given a share of this weight, a sacred trust to uphold the balance and protect the community. Instead, through gross negligence and a willful abandonment of your station, you have let that burden fall upon the shoulders of others. You have sought the privileges of the Gauntleted Fist without respecting the Scale it holds.

Therefore, in accordance with the laws of the Ariadnian Empire, which designate the Nobles as the Eyes, Ears, and Voice of the King , and with the direct ratification of the Crown, I hereby enact the following Noble Order:

Stripping of Title: You are hereby stripped of the title of "Lord." You hold no rank, no station, and no privilege within the peerage of Ariad.

Abrogation of Lineage: You are severed from the House of Greyshield. You may no longer bear the name, display the crest of the Gold and Blue, nor claim kinship for the purpose of succor or status. The history of the Greyshields is no longer your history.

Exile: You are hereby branded an exile within the borders of Forsetidale. You have three days to cross the border. Should you be found within these lands past that hour, you will be treated as a trespasser and subject to the judgment of the Baronial Court.

Seizure of Assets: All lands, estates, and assets previously held in your name within this Barony are reclaimed by the last living heir of the Greyshield estate and Baroness of Foresetidale, Charlotte Rose Greyshield.

So Ordered,

(Signature) Baroness Charlotte Greyshield Baroness of Forsetidale

(Royal Seal) Ratified by King Vlastimir Daggerheart King of the Ariadnian Empire

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A few days after escorting Lord Tristan through town, the heavy doors of the Foresetidale Embassy burst open and an entourage of troops file out.

At their point, is a man with short, neatly trimmed salt and pepper hair. He is wearing gleaming heavy platemail that is decorated in medals with the Foresetidale favor hanging down the front of his waist. On his hip is a sword that glistens brightly in the sunlight.

The remaining Foresetidale knights, equally as polished and neatly organized, form a sort of diamond around a young man in the center. He is wearing fine silk clothes of yellow and blue with a bag on his hip, a common sight for a courier.

The soldiers march across town and into the tavern, all eyes forward and not stopping for anyone. People part around them like the sea parting for a ship.

When they enter the tavern, they approach the missive board. The leader of the knights steps aside in a sharp, curt step with his hand resting on the pommel of his sword now. The courier steps forward, pulling a scroll from his sack.

In a few short moments, the young man has it pinned to the board. Then he reaches into his sack for a second scroll which he unrolls and posts to the board as well. He takes a second to make sure they are perfectly placed at the center of the board, nods once with satisfaction, and looks to the lead knight.

The soldiers shuffle and reform their diamond around the courier before marching back across town and back into the Foresetidale Embassy.

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Storm chuckles. "Ok. Well. Make something from werewolf or not. As long as you apologize especially since she already has. Our friends should matter to us, ya know?" 

She pushes away from the tree and wiggles her shoulders so her wings fluff out. 

"Alright. Well. I listened. And offered some words of advice." She shrugs. "I got nothing else for you, really. I hope I helped. Anything else you need to get off your chest? Now's the time. No one around but us."

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The heavy, rhythmic thud of granite against wood echoes off the cobblestones as a long-bed hauler of deep, black-stained oak turns the corner toward the Artisan’s Guild. The carriage is a masterpiece of grim utility; its massive wheels are reinforced with iron bands that show signs of recent, meticulous grease, yet the wood of the chassis is weathered and salt-streaked.Stacked with clinical precision in the back are three rows of caskets. The brass fittings on each box catch the weak, filtered sunlight, polished to a mirror sheen that stands in stark contrast to the dust-covered street. Hanging from the sides of the wagon, suspended by thick, frayed hempen ropes, are a dozen blank tombstones. They sway with every dip in the road, clinking together with a sharp, percussive clank—a sound like a macabre windchime. Two large horses are anchored to the front of the carriage, their ribs disturbingly visible beneath their coat of matted hair as their breath vapors in the cool air. Master Silas Vane pulls the reins with gloved hands, bringing the heavy hauler to a halt. He wears a silk waistcoat of an intricate, dark brocade, but the fabric bunches and folds where it should be flush; his frame is noticeably gaunt beneath the expensive tailoring. He climbs down from the driver’s seat with a stiff, measured gait, adjusting a pair of silver-rimmed spectacles.He pauses at the footboard, looking up at the boy sitting there. "Elian," he says, his voice a dry, disciplined rasp. "Watch the stones. Stay with the carriage. I am not spending the night searching the alleys for you again. Stay here."The boy, who looks to be in his mid-to-late teens, doesn't offer a verbal reply. He wears heavy, mud-caked leather boots and a cloak of fine wool that is beginning to fray at the hem. He sits with his shoulders hunched, staring blankly at the gutter, his face pale and hollowing at the cheeks. Between his fingers, a small, orb-like flicker of pure white light pulses—a casual, bored display of his Light magic that dims and flares in time with the clinking of the tombstones.Silas doesn't wait for a nod. He turns and marches toward the heavy doors of the Guild, his boots clicking a sharp tempo against the stone. Elian remains behind, sighing heavily as he turns his head slowly, his eyes flicking rapidly about his new surroundings. As soon as the Master Merchant disappears into the guild building, Elian hops down from the carriage and begins meandering casually toward the direction of the tavern. 

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Vesta listens to Storm, nodding here and there, though her gaze stays lowered at first. Eventually she wipes at her face again, dragging in a slow breath that trembles on the way out.

“I can’t… not- not yet.” She shakes her head, fingers twisting in her skirts. “Not until I can get it together. Not until I can make it up to her.” She exhales shakily and tips her head back towards the sky for a moment, blinking hard as if trying to dry the last of the tears there.
 “It’s not her fault that I’m a coward. I can at least make an effort that’s more than just words.” Her breathing begins to steady. The sobbing has stopped, though her voice is still raw around the edges. She presses her palms flat against her cheeks, grounding herself.

“I can’t ask her to look into Forsetidale business.” She swallows. “I just have to wait to hear from Tristan… and hope nothing is terribly wrong.”

She mutters something in Tovi under her breath, then lightly slaps at her cheeks again, leaving them flushed. “It sucks not knowing if he’s okay…” 
A few more tears slip free, but she brushes them away almost irritably this time.

“Ugh. I’m annoying myself with all this. If I could fight half as well as I cry, the famine would have been resolved ages ago.” She gives a breath of a laugh that borders on hysterical, then reins it in, drawing her shoulder back, finally caring enough to sit properly.

“I still need to find a group to go hunt werewolves. That definitely can’t happen until I know Tristan’s okay. But I’m going to do it.” Her jaw tightens slightly. “I might even… take a swing at them myself.” Her fingers curl into her skirts again, but this time it’s in resolve.

“Perhaps Jade would appreciate something tastefully made from a werewolf.” She shudders, as if the words are contradicting themselves. “Maybe something from the teeth. Or whatever those from Seshtau like.”

She waves a hand dismissively.
“She knows how terrified I am of the creatures. If I'm willing to face that for her… maybe she’ll forgive me for being stupid.”

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