Private Tales Wellspring Woe

[Farren Lóthlindor]

The Valen Wilds embraced the small town of Sylvarin with a dense autumn fog, unrest lingering in its air. The once bustling community now grappled with an affliction as peculiar as it was dire.

At the heart of Sylvarin lay the wellspring—a lifeline woven into the fabric of the town. For weeks, whispers had rippled through the hamlet, tales of a poisoned well circulating among its folk. Sending some into a slumber that they never awoke from as they wasted away within a fortnight. However, the Knights had been sent for to get to the bottom of this ailment, some of the elders of the town fearing it was caused by things beyond mundane revenge.

Although there were other townsfolk, the majority, that murmured accusations, pointing fingers towards the neighboring village of Alderwood, claiming this was caused from a feud over farming land—thus igniting tensions that danced on the edge of conflict. Sylvarin's once harmonious relationships now teetered on the brink of hostility. Their beliefs in the well's contamination divided them, threatening to spill blood over a crisis of water and trust.

It was why Farren found herself in the middle of town just before daybreak, her black fur coated in morning dew. She had sensed something amiss as she searched at the edge of the well, nose to the ground, strange scents wafting from the stones of the well like a miasma. It bore an unsettling tang, an anomaly that piqued the wolf's interest. It hinted at a presence that spoke not of contamination but of an otherworldly essence.

Sensing the waking collective of the townspeople that were readying for a harvest day in the fields, Farren made her way back to the small tavern that her and Gruki were staying at. Dipping into the side alley, and between one paw step and the next, Farren stepped back into her true form. A person once more with a trickling flare of silver flames.

Slipping in the back door, she made her way back up the stairs, lost in thought and forgetting to be quiet as she reentered the room she shared with her squire.

Gruki

 

[Gruki]

The letter from Alderwood's ealdorman was about as blunt as could be. We are not to blame, it read. If the people of Sylvarin wish to find the source of their woes, they'd be better off searching closer to home. The name and seal attached helped solidify Gruki's belief that the letter was genuine, as did the lack of tampering. Though, unless she took the time to question the whole village, it would be hard to say for certain whether or not there had been any bad blood before the incident.

Not that coma patients were likely to answer her.

'This is bad,' she said, giving voice to her thoughts before they could overwhelm her. There were footsteps in the corridor outside. Looking up, the squire was quick to stand as Syr Lóthlindor strode into the room, a distracted look upon her face. 'Syr,' she said, hastily clearing a space for the knight to stand. 'I was beginning to worry! Is all well?' Booting her pack under the bed and shifting her bedroll to one side, the tall orc gazed down at her.

'I prepared breakfast while you were out. Well, the tavernkeep did, I just made sure it kept warm.' Turning, she nodded to the only table they possessed. A steaming bowl of pottage sat there, smelling the place up. 'A bit watery for my liking, but he was kind enough to scrounge us up some bacon and vegetables,' she paused, grimaced. 'There would have been bread, but he told me the village baker has fallen, um... ill!'

She glanced at the floorboards between her feet, feeling guilty. Why, exactly, she wasn't sure. Feelings were funny like that.

'A letter arrived from Alderwood while you were out. Here!' She handed Farren the letter. 'Take a look!'

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

"Oh!" Came Farren's startled reply, she had been deep in thought and found she was pleasantly surprised to find Gruki even up at this hour. She looked about the room curiously and closed the door behind her.

"It seems you've been busy this morning. My apologies, I did not wish to wake you and decided to do some sleuthing before the townspeople awoke. Thank you though!"

The Dusker nimbly traversed their small room, removing her cloak and gloves onto her bed before depositing herself gratefully at the table, the last of the cold seeping from her bones.

"As for the baker, I imagine it was he who fell into that strange slumber only last night." Troubled grey eyes flicked to Gruki, her tone a teaching one, as if she wanted the Squire to follow along with her machinations. "It's why I wanted to check the well so soon after I found out. I figured if it had been tampered with, yet again, I could find something. Which I believe I have. Although what I found... well, it shouldn't even be here..."

She trailed off and dug into her breakfast with a mindless gusto. If Farren found herself disappointed at the rather lackluster breakfast that was provided, she did not show it to Gruki. Instead, she extended her other hand to read the letter the squire offered.

Quickly glossing over the missive, she waited until she had finished all but the bacon, before pushing her dish away and placed her chin on templed hands.

"Hmmm..." Her eyes reread the slanting cursive letters. "You said this was delivered while I was away?" An idea forming between her furrowed brow. "Did you see who it was? Or rather. Was it the tavern keeper that passed it along and did he look angry in any way?"

Gruki

 

[Gruki]

'Um, he looked... uh, apologetic?' Gruki smiled sheepishly. 'Sorry! He looked sorry, and, yes, it was the tavernkeep that brought the letter to me. With breakfast.' She nodded to the bowl. It was good to see that her knight was eating. Farren was such a small, slight thing. A hearty meal would do her the world of good, and help prepare her for the day ahead.

Gruki, having foreseen a busy one, had already downed two bowls in her absence. To prepare, yes.

'Um, are you going to...?' She hooked a finger at the rasher of bacon Farren had opted to neglect. Waste not, want not, Ma used to say. The memory made her smile wistfully. 'On second thought, never mind! You're probably still hungry.' Knitting her hands together, the Squire took a seat on the edge of the bed. The straw mattress poked her in the hind parts, but it was still a damned sight comfier than the floorboards.

Gods, did she miss the Monastery.

'What was it you discovered at the well?' she asked, watching the dusker closely. 'You said you had found something.'

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Farren's laughter at Gruki's stumble was free of scorn and clear like the silver bells at the end of her braid. A mirthful twinkle in her eye as she realized where the disconnect was.

Folding her hands demurely in her lap, she said, "Actually, you are more than welcome to my share! I'm a vegetarian, Gruki." She waved a hand at herself, "At least, I am in this form." Leaning in close, as if telling a secret, she continued, "Although I do try to never change while hungry."

She cut her self-deprecating laughter short by slapping her palms against the tops of her thighs.

"Now! A game plan. Hmmm. Let's see." She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms, turning to watch the first rays of daylight wash their room in timid gold. "Well, now that I know the tavernkeep isn't one of those townsfolk ready with a torch and pitchfork, we can actually rely on him to tell us what he remembers happening in the village the weeks before the illness started."

"Then, we should visit the town's medicine woman. Or what they have for one. I need to know what stages a sickened person went through before death and what they've done to treat them. It will help cement the theory I have."

The shape shifter heaved a large sigh and stood up to don anew her discarded cloak and gloves. The flourish of her green cape the only sound in the room until Syr Lóthlindor turned to her charge with an uncharacteristically stoic expression.

"Because I don't think that well is poisoned. I believe it to be cursed."

Gruki

 

[Gruki]

'Cursed?' Eyes widening, Gruki stopped nibbling the bacon in her hand, got to thinking. A curse was the last thing they needed, but it went a long way towards explaining why the village apothecary was having such a hard time of things. 'Any idea who put it there?' She asked, wincing at her own foolishness. 'Oh, right, that's why we're questioning people. How stupid of me!'

To gather information, yes, and to find a motive. Bad blood was the usual source but not always. Sometimes... sometimes folk were just plain evil.

Imagine any malingerers in the village would have been lynched by now, the half-orc thought, devouring the rest of the bacon in a single bite. Sucking the grease from her fingers, Gruki wiped them clean on her trews. 'Who do you wish to see first? The tavernkeep's just downstairs. He'd know who's who around here. Not to mention where to find them.' Standing, Gruki began rifling through her pack for pen and parchment.

'I have my journal if we need to take notes,' she smiled. 'Not that you need help keeping track of things. Just as a precaution, y'know? A record of our investigation, y-yes.'

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

On her way to the door, Farren rested a hand gently on the squire's shoulder. "Not stupid. Curious. And I encourage curiosity. So, let's be kind to ourselves, shall we?" She softened her admonishment with a toothless grin.

Continuing onward, the Dusker opened the door and waited for Gruki to gather her things. "Besides, you're on the right track of things. Who better to collect news and rumors from than the very man who people drink their secrets to?"

---

The old bar was a quaint place, the rustic walls adorned with chipped mugs and mismatched tankards that hung precariously over the bar. The soft light of dawn filtered through the latticed windows, casting a warm hue over the worn wooden tables and chairs.

Despite the early hour, a couple of regulars were already perched on stools, nursing tankards of ale that seemed more habitual than recreational. The smell of fresh malt and hops hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of freshly brewed tea that the tavernkeeper seemed to be setting up at the far end of the bar.

Approaching the bar, she found the tavernkeep to be a man with a weathered face, lines etched like old memories, whose graying beard seemed barely tamed by its braid. He moved with a deliberate competence, arranging steins and mugs with practiced hands.

"Good morrow," Farren greeted with a nod, her voice carrying a warmth that echoed through the tavern. "Quite the early start today."

The tavernkeep glanced up, his eyes the color of polished oak, crinkling at the corners as he responded. "Aye, 'tis the way it goes, miss. Folks 'round here don't mind a sip with their sunrise."

He began wiping the counter with a faded rag, but glanced back at Gruki briefly, a thoughtful look crossing his face before he returned his attention to Farren, a wry smile revealing a missing bottom tooth.

"Ah, it was you that letter from Alderwood was for. I had been wondering who was going to show up to handle this mess we've got," he remarked loudly.

One of the lone patrons sitting nearby cast a disapproving glance over their shoulder at the mention of the letter, prompting the tavernkeep to lower his voice.

"Name's Bernard," he introduced, "Bernard Greenthorn, but folks 'round here call me Bernie."

Leaning against the counter, Farren inquired, "You've got quite a cozy place here, Bernie. How long you been running the tavern?"

The man paused, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Ah, I reckon it's been more'n a few decades now. Took over from me pa, I did."

"Impressive," Farren acknowledged with a smile. "I'm curious, with the turn of the season and the harvest time upon us, does this place get busier than usual?"

The tavernkeep nodded, deftly wiping down the bar's surface. "Aye, comes the harvest, more folk drift in. Celebrations, travelers passing by, you name it, but not as much since we've been having people fall ill."

"I see," she mused. "And before the illness struck, anything out of the ordinary or noteworthy that you recall? Any unusual happenings?"

Bernie's stopped working and flung his towel over his shoulder, gaze wandering for a moment, lost in thought. "Now that you mention it, you know the rumors flyin' around regarding Alderwood poisoning our well?" He scoffed. "Buncha hooey if you ask me. As to what's really going on, nothing solid, miss. Just whispers."

The Dusker's eyes flashed with interest, "Oh? And what were these whispers?"

Bernie cleared his throat, dropping his voice even lower so they had to lean in. "Aye, during our harvest festival, tis a grand affair. Well at the end of it, we usually gather and burn an effigy and make offerings to the local spirits of the land. This year, twas no different. We've been doin' it for generations; it's a time-honored tradition."

He paused, a furrow forming on his brow. "But this time, something went amiss. We had a whole lotta folks from Alderwood here, celebratin' with us. Which some people weren't too happy 'bout. We were sharin' food, drink, and stories just like always."

"Ya see, the way we make our offerings, is to a talisman we was given. A precious one, mind. It's been with us since the first settlers arrived in Sylvarin. Said to be a gift from the local spirits, as a truce between the spirits and the people that shared the same land."

He gestured subtly with his hands, "During the festival, we'd bring it out, display it, rememberin' the pact. But this year, the talisman vanished. Gone without a trace."

Bernie's expression soured slightly. "Rumors started circulatin' like a wildfire. Some blamed the children from Alderwood, sayin' they snatched it. But their parents were adamant, refused to believe their kin would do such a thing. That's when the rift started. And now with our well gone bad, it's all but a blood feud now that folks h've been dyin."

Gruki

 

[Gruki]

Following Farren down the stairs and to the bar, Squire Gruki found herself a stool to perch on as the knight went about asking her questions. To say she had a way with words would have been an understatement. Jotting down notes, her golden eyes flitting between Bernard -Bernie to his friends!- and Syr Lovely-Lindor, Gruki tried not to appear too awestruck.

A little awestruck should be okay though, right?

Flipping to the back, Gruki scribbled the question down for later. Looking up, she continued her quiet observation of the pair. The few regulars about this early kept shooting them curious glances, but that was to be expected. Taverns were good for three things: Getting drunk, getting laid, and finding juicy gossip to sink one's teeth into. Now, they already had beers on the go, and Gruki wasn't feeling particularly amorous...

But gossip? There was plenty of that to go around.

'Excuse me, Mister Bernard?' The stool she was sat on groaned as she shifted to lean her weight on the bar. 'Sorry for interrupting, but would you, perchance, happen to know of any bad blood existing between your two villages prior to the incident?' Gruki smiled encouragingly. She could feel eyes on her, the kind that made her want to wilt under the pressure.

'I apologise if the question seems a bit... um, loaded. I assure you, it was not intended to leave you at odds with your neighbours.' Straightening up, she cleared her throat. A glance over her shoulder got the patrons to examining their cups. Nosey buggers.

'It's important we identify the cause of this illness, be it the result of spirits, sprites, or men. If we can achieve that, a motive should be more forthcoming. As for effect, well, I'm sure you're already aware of that.' Her expression fell as she thought of the dead, and the void they left behind.

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

Farren tried to resist the proud mentoring smile that wanted to grow as she observed Gruki. The girl, nay, the woman was just over a decade her junior. And a Squire still at that. And yet Farren admired the way this she-orc tackled issues with an eagerness to assist and learn, albeit with some apprehension.

But something Gruki said sparked the Dusker to interject before the barkeep could answer her squire.

"Actually, Bernie, forgive me for pressing on this again, but could you elaborate on the actual tradition of the harvest festival? Specifically, regarding the talisman you mentioned. How significant is it to the festival and the people of Sylvarin?" Farren's tone was insistent, as if she was waiting for Bernie to only confirm the answer she had already found.

The barkeeep stopped wiping the stein in his gnarled hands and met her gaze, his oak eyes reflecting a stoic sorrow. "As I said. The harvest festival's a grand affair, it is. We gather to thank the land and the spirits for their bounty, for keeping us through the seasons. The talisman... well, it's the heart of the festival. Passed down generations, said to be gifted by the spirits themselves as a token of peace when our forebears settled here."

"And how likely would the disappearance of that talisman halt the daily going ons of the town?"

He paused and set down the mug, "Anything done on our land while the talisman is gone is done in bad faith and seen as bad luck. We're a suspicious lot, that's for sure. Baptisms, trading, livestock births, even weddings."

Thinking for a moment, a shadow flickered across his features before adding slowly, "Its disappearance... it's more than a lost trinket, miss. It's a rupture in our bond with the land."

Farren nodded along attentively. "I see." Redirecting back to Gruki, the woman gestured to the orc. "And like she said, were there any disputes or conflicts before that event, any grievances between Sylvarin and Alderwood that might have escalated things?"

"Can't recall there was anything much. But..." He paused, a pensive furrow creasing his brow. "Well, there was one thing. Some conflict between a girl from our town and a lad from the other. The girl was to marry the lad, but claims started to surface that her betrothed had a nasty temper. Troublesome business, that."

"Then what?"

"She held her ground for weeks, the daughter did. Refused to tie the knot, much to the dismay of her father. But eventually, the whispers say, she relented. Gave in, she did."

"And who, pray tell, is that girl?" Farren leaned in encouragingly, her answer finally close.

"Ah, well, that would be the baker's daughter, Miriam."

Gruki

 

[Gruki]

'Miriam? I like that name.' Nodding, Gruki smiled sheepishly at the bartender. 'Sorry. Where can we find this, um, baker's daughter?'

'Where do you think? The bakery, of course!'

'Oh, right! Silly me!' Putting down her notebook and pen, Gruki went rooting in her satchel for a glass vial. 'Sand,' she explained, noticing the strange way Syr Farren and Mister Bernard were looking at her. 'To dry the ink.' Peering inside, the half-orc smiled as she discovered what she was looking for. Pulling the vial out, Gruki poured a pinch of sand into the cup of her hand before gently blowing it across the page she had written on.

'There! All done!'

Placing the vial and notebook back in her satchel, the tall squire thanked Bernard by placing a coin on the bar. 'For your help,' she said, smiling. 'I know it can be difficult, talking like this. I-I mean, we appreciate what you've done, and promise to take your words into consideration whilst we carry out our investigation.' Turning to Farren, Gruki tilted her head towards the door.

'Shall we?'

Following the dusker outside, Gruki drew her cloak a little tighter about herself as she stomped down the steps after her knight. 'Well, that was enlightening,' she said, shortening her stride to match. 'Restless spirits, blessed relics with ties to the land and its people, and an arranged marriage turned nasty. I fear we've got our work cut out for us, Syr.'

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

They made quite the interesting sight striding through the wakening streets of the hamlet, cold morning fog clinging to their cloaks and dampening the clamor of their boots on patched stone.

Silver bells softly tinkled at the end of Farren's long braid when she turned her head to address her squire, "That was well done, by the way. You have a way of putting people at ease who you might otherwise intimidate. That's a skill admirably earned." A sardonic grin. "As someone often underestimated for their size, I admit I'm a tad envious." She laughed a serene sound at Gruki's expression and turned back to cast an eye along the thatch-roofed buildings made of daub and wattle in search of their destination.

A wine merchant, where muscadine could be purchased for mere copper pieces. An apothecary, with flower boxes hanging from the front windows, hardy herbs growing stubbornly despite the chill. And there even, was the distinct clanging of the blacksmith's hammer upon the metal of the shoes that were needed for the town's few horses.

But what she was really looking for was... ah, yes. There it was. The burgeoning smell of yeast and freshly baked daily bread. Which she found odd, considering the baker was supposed to have fallen ill. Her nose taking her down a side street that split the heart of the town. The stares of residents who had emerged to start their morning chores, followed them as they went. Some cautious, all flint and suspicion, but many seemed instead sad and distant. It was obvious which families had already lost loved ones. Their haunted looks familiar to those who knew of loss and its unfair gambit on the living. Farren frowned tightly. She mourned those they had not been able to save. But if her hunch was correct, no one else would fall ill to this mysterious sickness that no medicine could temper against its consumption.

When Farren and Gruki finally found the bakery, she thought how ironic it was that the chimney happily pumped out woodsmoke from its kitchen fires, while its master lay somewhere dying.

Stepping into the shop, her eyes immediately fell onto a pleasantly plump woman with her back facing the Dusker, ignorant to the Knights' presence. Golden curls spilled from beneath a faded green cotton kerchief. Simple earthen skirts and rolled up cotton sleeves completed the woman's humble garb. She was elbow deep into a pile of dark brown dough on a stone counter that ran the length of the back wall when Farren cleared her throat politely.

The woman flinched and seemed to swallow a startled shriek, her body whipping around to take in her two new guests. Bemused blue eyes and bright rosy cherub cheeks set into a heart shaped face greeted Farren and Gruki with a wary smile, "H-hello there."

Farren stood with her feet squared, shoulders back, and her hands clasped neatly in front of her. Leveling a cool look at the woman, she answered, "Miriam, I presume?"

Gruki

 

[Gruki]

'Y-yes! Can I help you?' Looking around for something to wipe her hands on, the baker, Miriam, floundered for a moment as her eyes befell Gruki. 'Oh...' She stammered, bright blue eyes betraying the sudden fear most people felt when confronted by an orc so large. 'I-I... um, I'm sorry, y-you've caught me at a bad time! I'm not usually this...' Scared? Worried?

'It's okay!'

Holding up her hand to stall any further explanation, Gruki smiled reassuringly. 'We're from the Order. We're here to help.' Upon hearing the words, Miriam's eyes widened. Then, she sighed, relieved. 'I see. Sorry. I thought you might be-' She paused, shook her head. 'No. Nevermind. How can I help, Syrs?'

Glancing towards Syr Lóthlindor for permission, Gruki nodded.

'We'd like to ask you some questions, about the sickness spreading about the village.' Reaching for her satchel, Gruki pulled out the same journal from before. 'Is there somewhere we could go, perhaps? Somewhere quiet.' Thinking on it, her tasks momentarily forgotten, Miriam nodded. 'Yes, um, we can go out back.' She froze. 'Forgive me! Would you mind getting the...'

Gruki closed the bakery's front door behind her.

'Thank you! Please, come through.' Turning, she led the two knights -Gruki hadn't yet been able to correct her mistake- out back. 'Would you care for some tea? I was just thinking about making a pot for... well, for myself.' With a sheepish smile, the baker's daughter turned to look over her shoulder. Gruki was glad to see hope blossoming behind her eyes, and not the fear she had grown so accustomed to seeing in others.

'That would be lovely, thank you!'

Farren Lóthlindor

 

[Farren Lóthlindor]

"Thank you." Farren nodded courteously when Miriam placed her teacup in front of her.

The amber liquid seemed of a humble quality and if she could guess by the smell, was of an earl grey variety. She noted that Miriam took the chipped cup for herself but said nothing—hospitality was one of the few commodities people could trade in small villages like this.

Forgoing her refreshment, the Dusk Knight sat back and rested her clasped hands on the top of her crossed knees, "I'll not take too much of your time, Miriam. And as I'll be honest with you, I encourage you to be honest with me." A wan smile as she made a show of looking around the establishment. "It seems the bakery is no worse for wear after losing, it's well, baker." Her eyes came back to do a quick scan of Miriam from her well-made shoes to the flour dusting her apron and cheek, a faded bruise that peeked out from her sleeve, and finally the clean sheen of her wheat-hued hair. "In fact, it seems you have been doing better than most. How is your father, by the way?"

Miriam swallowed her tea audibly, but Farren applauded the woman for her otherwise nonplussed reaction.

Clearing her throat, the woman kept her eyes on where she gripped her teacup handle, a soft whitening of her knuckles. "Ehem. As well as to be expected, considering no one has woken yet and lived, so I have been fortunate that he taught me all he knew. But I thank you for your concern. It means a lot coming from knights of the Monastery."

Farren hummed noncommittally in her throat, her head quirking in thought. "I just find it odd is all. You know?" She threw a look of mock bewilderment at her Squire before continuing, "Here you were arranged to marry a man from Alderwood who was known to abuse women—and your father, who refused to hear your pleas as he was a man that beat you himself...." Her voice trailed off as Miriam grew still.

"Fast forward to the harvest festival. A day of celebration that instead delved into such resulting chaos that your towns are now approaching an all-out blood feud together. And yet—" Farren leaned forward and placed a hand gently over the top of Miriam's left one, which trembled against the table. "I think I find the most interesting thing to be the fact that I don't see an engagement yarn on your finger any longer."

It was an old practice. One that some villages in the far outreaches of the Valen Wilds like this one still upheld. Where the husband and wife to be would tie strings of delicate yarn around the ring finger of each other's left hand. And if the yarn survived until the wedding, the marriage would be a blessed one and had earned the merit of being replaced with a band of silver that would last them their lifetime. But if that yarn was broken, or untied by the wearer, it foreshadowed an unhappy and miserable marriage.

Tea forgotten, Farren's voice softened to a concerned whisper, "Was this the only way that you could escape, Miriam?"

Gruki