AbyssalRoadTrip
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🕑 Added 2022-12-14 10:34:57 +0000 UTCI motion at their sandy boots. “May I?”
“Not going to make the youngsters clean their gear?” asks Androkles with a mischievous grin.
Rolling my eyes, I use a quick song to scour the salt, sand, and water from their gear, leaving the team—minus one—pristine.
Ipy snorts. “Cheater.”
His comment has me beaming. “That’s so kind of you to say, Ipy. Shall we go, Androkles? Anyone else coming along?”
When Androkles starts towards the dock with me, Phile and Nikias follow in our wake. Ipy and Myrto bid us all a good day and withdraw to their temples.
After hours spent walking and sprinting on loose sand, the walk down to the cove is pleasant despite the odours—I’m still unaccustomed to a ripened summer breeze.
The road down to the waterfront gives a clear view of the populated piers, the vessels secured and emptied of their morning catch. Women and children along the cove’s shoreline are tending to the drying nets, checking cords and making needed repairs.
One of the larger sailboats is swinging gently behind the seawall’s shelter, its crew adjusting sails to catch the ocean’s wind. A group of men push a wagon toward the dock to meet them while another pair ready a hoist on the old dock’s edge.
“I take it the larger boats always come back later,” I ask.
“More crew and bigger nets, but also a much bigger hull to fill,” pronounces Androkles.
“How well does the crab meat sell?”
“Merchants like it, as the giant crab meat keeps better than salted fish, so it’s a good trade item inland. We’re a fair way towards filling a barge with the tonnes you pulled out of the shells,” comments Androkles thoughtfully, and I catch a hint of concern.
“How often do the barges come through?”
“We get a couple every two to three weeks, sometimes more often. I think that will probably change with what you’ve been up to already,” replies Androkles.
His explanation makes the reason for his concern obvious; change won’t happen fast for river barges. “If they fill up with our goods, the locals won’t be able to sell what they have. We’ll need to do something different to avoid causing problems.”
My statement earns a respectful nod from Androkles. “That’s true.”
“How about we pay for it to be filleted and salted here and then take it ourselves to Stoneheart? That way, the local processing crews and salt harvesters make money,” I say, before glancing at Nikias. “Is your father’s tsikoudia potent? Dwarves love spirits if they’re high enough proof. I could buy a barrel from your father and see if there is a market. No risk to him.”
Androkles’ brows lift. “Why aren’t you suggesting an elven location?”
“I like dwarves. It might seem strange, but I know more dwarves than elves. One made me a harp that sings so sweetly,” I say, not wanting to discuss my concerns about elves.
My noticeable subject change has Androkles smiling, but he drops the matter. “I thought dwarves would be drums and chanters.”
“They also made me a metal drum set, but I’m better with the harp,” I explain, happy to keep the conversation away from elves.
“How many instruments can you play?” asks Nikias, though I think he only caught the excitement in my voice.
“I can play lap and floor harps, drums, flutes—long and pan—along with lutes, but I am most proficient with harps,” I admit.
That prompts Androkles to discuss the instruments commonly used by the greeks—I don’t mention my existing familiarity via Hestia. Comparing them has the conversation flowing until we reach the warehouse, though I have to interrupt him for some practical financial matters. By the time we get there, the boat is tied off at the dock, offloading its catch into the wagon.
Watching our approach, a large, bare-chested man stands by the warehouse door scrubbing his hands clean with sand from a bucket. A series of white scars that run from his right shoulder down his arm stand out from his olive skin. The rippling marks make no sense until I trace them down to the back of his now clean wrist and encounter an eye engraved just before the joint.
“Otis, this is Gail, Gail, this is Otis. He fillets more fish than the rest of the warehouse workers combined.”
When he hesitantly offers his hand, I take it readily, and he snorts in amusement when I don’t let go but examine the scars. “Did you cut yourself to give your arm the appearance of a giant fish? Or did you have some wounds and want to change their appearance?”
“It started from existing wounds,” laughs Otis as I release his hand. “And you’re the first person who didn’t know the story that bothered asking, Lady Gailneth.”
“Call me Gail, or if you want to be formal, Gailneth. I’m not a noble.”
“Are you tired of saying that yet, Gail?” asks Androkles with barely suppressed amusement. His continued merriment since our return is quite peculiar, but likely it's his way of releasing stress post-battle.
Otis nods respectfully at Androkles before gesturing towards the cove. “You de-aged this old-timer, then fixed and fancied up our cove. Think you’ll find most referring to you as Lady Gailneth, even if you don’t let us address you that way.”
“I didn’t do it so that people would be all formal with me,” I protest, motioning to Androkles. “I got paid.”
“Yeah, I hear you charged our propappoús a stack of coins,” chuckles Otis, and other villagers listening nearby laugh merrily. “We all know he ain’t got any treasure worth the work you did, so whatever you charged him was a token of good intent. So we’ll honour the debt we have to you. Let us know what you need, and if we can, we’ll take care of it.”
Glancing past Otis to the weather-beaten men and women working in the warehouse, I smile. “I appreciate the offer, but I’ll be here for some time. How about we settle on giving me a fair trade and not taking my shirt in a deal?”
Waggling a finger, Otis smirks. “Now, where is the fun in that? Are you staying with Zosime or moving to that fancy place you built?”
“With Zosime, why?”
“When Androkles was still old and grey, he mentioned you’d talked about charging some daily supplies for dredging the cove and building new docks. Now, Androkles may or may not have paid for the work, but we’re not going back on that understanding,” Otis says, and waves expansively along the beachfront to include the village in his use of we. “Four of you living at Zosime’s place, right?”
Exhaling in frustration just broadens his grin. “Yes.”
With a smug look, Otis nods. “We’ll ensure you receive supplies daily.”
“Fish only,” I insist and catch the proud looks of those gathered, and they fold their arms.
Otis grumbles. “Fish plus some salt and herbs.”
“Then I insist on paying whoever delivers it, just like other community jobs on the guild’s board.”
“Even a copper for delivery of a basket is too much.”
“Then how about lessons in reading and writing? Or is paying in knowledge not allowed?” I ask.
“That would save their parents some time,” allows Otis.
“Only enough food for four people,” I insist.
“Of course, no point in wasting food,” confirms Otis.
“Some teaching for a basket of food for four each day, but only a meal's worth. Agreed?”
Glancing at the others, Otis gets an assortment of nods and shrugs before he shakes my hand. “Agreed.”
“Excellent. Lessons will start tomorrow afternoon at my property, and a teacher will be there daily.”
“What?! Who?” exclaims Phile, her eyes widening in disbelief.
Lightly tapping her nose, I wink. “I know some individuals who like to teach. I’ll ask one of them to come to teach languages and maths. Or would other subjects be more useful?”
“Lady Gailneth,” huffs Otis.
A tap of my foot cuts off his protest. “We agreed, Otis. Let that be a lesson: always ensure that the other party agrees with your assumptions in the terms. I’ll pay the teacher regardless of how many show up, so I hope the children can regularly attend—even if only for a little while each day. Now, onto what we came for: we’ve giant crab meat we’d like filleted and salted.”
Otis opens his mouth to protest and stops when I plant my hands on my hips and lean in.
“Don’t make me spend hours haggling terms because your propappoús already told me how much you should charge. We’ve 28 to handle, so first, do you even have enough salt?”
He mouths the number in surprise, gaining a look of concern. “Not unless you got a batch of the smaller ones.”
“There isn’t a rush to handle them. I’ve got them magically stored so that they won’t rot. Will you have enough salt to handle two today?”
“Two we can easily manage with what normally comes in,” agrees Otis.
“Say that after you see their size,” cautions Androkles.
At the flash of worry in Otis’ eyes, I glare at Androkles. “Not the wagon-sized one, just the first two. Where can I put them, Otis?”
“On the trough table along the sidewall,” Otis says, pointing to a stone table with a deep lip running around its border.
Stepping around him, I nod politely to the onlookers and ignore the loose scales and debris littering the floor. The two mounds of crab meat appearing in the trough cause murmurs of wonder to ripple through the group.
Despite their surprise, a few of the group immediately start organising the sections of meat I’d laid out as soon as I was out of their way.
Slipping back past Otis, I tap the oldest wounds low on his forearm and give in to my curiosity. “Teeth?”
My question brings back the broad smile that lights up his hazel eyes. “Giant lamprey decided it liked my forearm when I was younger. I didn’t like how the healed scars looked, so I adjusted them and kept going.”
Nodding, I trace the eye on the back of his wrist. “I have an aunt that used to cut pictures into her skin.”
“Used to? Why did she stop?” asks Otis, unbothered by my familiarity.
Explaining that she turned into a dragon likely wouldn’t fly, so I shrug mysteriously. “Her situation changed; now she engraves metal and gems.”
After a moment of consideration, Otis nods. “For magical or artistic reasons?”
“Both. You’re the only other person I’ve met that turned scars into pictures,” I comment. “What gave you the idea?”
“A Norse adventurer had a picture of their world tree on his forearm done this way,” admits Otis, giving the now approaching wagon a look of discontent. “They’re going to want that lot sliced and salted.”
Taking the hint, I smile brightly and pass him the price Androkles had shared on the way down. I’d even made sure it was a purse of coppers to make paying others easier, along with a bonus above what Androkles had told me. “The fee in copper for those two, I’ll pay as I go for the rest.”
“Much appreciated,” Otis replies, bouncing the purse as if checking the coin count by its heft. “Much appreciated indeed, Lady Gailneth.”
“Oi, you’re a rascal!”
“As you say, your ladyship,” laughs Otis.
Grumbling good-naturedly, I shoo the others along, and we clear the doors before the wagon’s rumbling wheels get close.
“Who are you hiring now?” murmurs Phile.
“I’ll talk to my old teacher. He always had the best games to keep my attention on things I wasn’t interested in learning,” I answer, and send a message off to Hook. “Maybe he can help Sanctuary’s custodian when the children aren’t in class.”
“When did you plan to tell anyone about this?”
“Plan? I didn’t even know I was doing it until just then. Two can play at surprises; that will teach Otis not to dictate terms to me,” I huff playfully.
Androkles snickers at my response. “Fearsome indeed, giving things away in response to others treating you respectfully.”
Fixing him with a scowl turns the snickers into laughter. “Lady Gailneth? I told everyone it’s fine to call me Gail.”
“Poor Gail, what will you do?” teases Phile.
“Most just referred to Imhotep by his name alone, or as that guild wizard,” offers Androkles. “He might have been able to level the town, but he did nothing to improve its state.”
And that wasn’t a subject that I wanted to discuss. “Shall we go make sure Zosime stops to eat?”
“Gail doesn’t do subject changes subtly,” Androkles remarks dryly to Phile.
“Not so far as I’ve noticed,” replies Phile, ignoring my huff as she moves up beside Androkles, who thinks he’ll still get to lead the way.
My turning onto the first road away from the cove requires them to backtrack. “I’m just leading you into a false sense of security. I think I’ll make a separate building for the classes.”
Nikias moves to walk alongside me as I shortcut between buildings. “Why another building?”
“That way, they’re not distracted by adventurers. Plus, really, why wouldn’t I? I’ve got enough land, and creating gives me experience,” I reply flippantly, giving a young woman beating dust from a rug a quick hand. A Spell pulls all the dust free and leaves it piled away from her backdoor.
At her confused nod of thanks, I give her a smile without missing a step.
“You can level by building things?” asks Androkles, apparently content to follow in my wake at present.
Nodding happily, I don’t stop. “Yep, the cove, temples, and changes to the Guildhall added a level to three classes. Admittedly, I was likely close, but the efforts still pushed me across the threshold. Oh, and I evolved a Skill today; my trip here has been great for progression.”
Phile purses her lips thoughtfully before she speaks. “The Duet Skill or something else as well?”
“Only Duet. I think it evolved because it normally works with people in proximity, and I stretched it to include Nanok when he was a distance away. At least that’s my theory why,” I explain.
“What’s your plan for the rest of the day?” enquires Phile.
“I need to practice my harp playing. But I can either teach you and Androkles some magic theory and exercises while I do that, or you can get Ipy to continue teaching you. He seemed happy to help.”
“Perhaps check with Ipy,” suggests Androkles. “I had thought he offered to free up your time.”
“I thought so too, but I don’t want to assume,” I replied before sending a Message to Ipy.
The affirmative response isn’t long in coming, and I convey the news. “Not that I wouldn’t have happily helped, but it will let me focus on my harp playing.”
“Does having accompaniment help your singing magics?” asks Phile.
“Not normally, but some special harps can amplify its effects. I’m not good enough at playing to use any of those I have access to yet, and I need to improve,” I admit with a sigh.
Zosime already has lunch cooking when we arrive. Noting Phile’s smugness, I glance at the messenger’s ring she’s still wearing and laugh when her expression turns innocent.
“Should I take it this morning went well?” asks Zosime, carefully turning some long fish fillets grilling over the firepit. “Phile said there weren’t any injuries. It was most startling to hear your voice out of nowhere, daughter.”
“You took time to go shopping?” asks Phile.
“Otis had these delivered from the first catch that came in this morning,”
My tsk draws an amused look from Phile, and I shrug broadly. “He didn’t even wait for an agreement to be struck.”
Androkles sits down, clear of the smoke. “You overpaid him, didn’t you? He seemed too pleased with the purse.”
“Only by a few coppers,” I admit. “I didn’t expect him to know without opening the pouch.”
Lunch doesn’t take long to finish cooking, and we rapidly demolish the food with the appetites created by this morning’s fighting.
When Phile and Androkles head off to meet Ipy, Zosime returns to her loom. Though I’ve cleaned his gear, Nikias gets busy checking it and tending the nicks the morning added to his sword.
My setting the harp down causes him to pause with his whetstone in hand. Staring pointedly at the nicks on his blade, I don't start until he resumes. The mithril frame looks like a twin silvery waterfall pouring down across a crystalline cliff into the widening pool of its base.
The warm tune I’d heard from Zosime’s cloth the first day serves as a nice warm-up piece.
When Nikias finishes tending his sword, I eventually get him to head to the Guildhall for practice with Nanok and resume my playing.
The wooden walls of the courtyard muffle some sound, but as my practice moves through various songs, I hear the neighbours responding to the differing beats. From those that make the string dance pixie-quick to the slow, melancholic tunes and everything in between. Despite his big ears, Esdras comes to sit in the courtyard after politely getting Zosime’s permission for a front-row seat.
I draw a lingering elven tune to an early close when it reaches late afternoon. When I lay my hands across the string to still their last echoes, he smiles in appreciation.
Esdras nods looking satisfied and rubs his hands appreciatively. “Well played, Gailneth. You know quite a variety of music, though not all of it does your harp’s range justice.”
“Some I play for fun more than their suitability to the instrument,” I admit, and the harp vanishes. “Is there something I can help you with, Esdras? You’ve been here nearly all afternoon; I’d have thought you’d need to mind your store.”
“I put the closed sign up after I heard you playing,” explains Esdras. “Perhaps you should put that auditorium facility to its proper use.”
“I’ve got a long way to go before I’d be happy to play for anyone officially,” I demur.
“What, you’re a Senior Master and need to be a Grand Master?” scoffs Esdras.
“I’m only Master ranked,” I protest, and his snort says I proved his point. Fixing him with a cross look that sets him chuckling, I continue over his soft laughter. “My teacher is far better than me.”
“There’s always someone better, Gail,” Esdras says. Rising, he heads out the front door, thanking Zosime on his way.
Heading out to the front room has Zosime looking up at my approach.
“Shall we go talk to Basileios about some suitable furnishings?” I ask. “Nikias needs a bed, and I’d like to get him to make a writing desk for me and storage cupboards for downstairs. We can argue about who’s paying for it , but I’d just like to point out you wouldn’t need the furnishings without me being here.”
Zosime stops in mid-protest at that statement and laughs instead. “You could just make them, couldn’t you?”
“I could, and that’s how I made my chair, but I’d prefer to give people in the community work. The chairs and desk Basileios made for Imhotep are beautiful.”
“Do you make coins?” Zosime asks warily, her gaze flicking past me to where I know she hides her stash behind the courtyard’s cupboard.
“No, my aunt Am was quite firm that I should never do that; it's bad for people’s confidence in a currency. My money comes from adventuring or making things that I then sell,”
Sighing in relief, Zosime nods. “Like the weapons you made for your team?”
“Yeah, like that, and refurbishing temples. I was going to make some armour after I’ve gotten some rest tonight, but I might make some boots that prevent us from sinking into the sand. I didn’t realise how much effort it took to move along the sand,” I state.
“Have you never been to a beach before?” asks Zosime.
“Not one with sand like here; it was all rock or pebbles,” I reply. “I’d like your input on the furniture I get from Basileios to ensure you like the style I’m commissioning.”
My wording has Zosime fixing me with an exasperated glare. “I get to pick, but you’re going to insist on paying for it?”
“Yep, I need to commission furniture for Sanctuary as well,” I say, waving to the west.
After tightening the latest strand she’s added to the cloth, Zosime stands. “Right, shall we?”
Arranging furnishings with Basileios is as straightforward as I hoped, and we pick out some pieces from his family’s collection of plans. An unasked-for melody that renews the ink on the oldest parchments nets me a discount in the later haggling. When I’m taking it easy on him, Zosime steps in and settles a sharper deal that satisfies them both.
“Lady Gail, would you be able to help my father’s hands?” asks Basileios, and the barrel-chested man stoops slightly as if making himself smaller would change my response. A sudden shift within a proud melody in the room above us has me aware of his father’s attention on our conversation.
“You called me Gail before; titles aren’t needed. I doubt it would have the same result as Androkles; I think my healing triggered his elven blood,” I caution. “With that said, would you introduce us?”
Basileios hurries away and returns with an older man. Hazel-eyed like his son, his powerful frame has faded with age, and there is barely a splash of colour in his hair. The swollen and twisted joints across fingers are far worse than Androkles’ had been, and there is a slight tremor in them when he’s standing still.
Thankfully, he doesn’t use titles in introducing me to his father—Dareios. The components in his song that time has worn away are easy to identify, but I keep the adjustments light this time. A melody to block pain before I ease inflammation in all his joints and set to restoring the cartilage and tendons in his joints and spine. As the changes set in, his posture and fingers straighten, and a joyous smile lights up his gaze, making my efforts worth it.
“Done,” I say when I let the last note fade.
“What can I do to repay you, Lady Gail?” whispers Dareios, still gazing at his hands in delight, he flexes them, and his surprise grows at the absence of pain.
“Two things: please just call me Gail, and if you’d make me something beautiful to accompany the writing desk I ordered, we’ll call it even,” I reply, and when he goes to argue, I lift one brow, daring him.
Instead, Dareios nods and shakes my hand. “Agreed. Thank you, Gail.”
Heading off their offers of hospitality, I quickly retreat with Zosime in tow, a giggling chorus bouncing in her theme. “You can’t help yourself, can you?”
“He wasn’t a bad person, not perfect, but family-focused and proud. There are some I wouldn’t help even if they asked, but there are limits to those I’ll help. Do you want to cook dinner tonight, or should I?”
“Do you have a preference?”
“You handled breakfast and lunch, so I’ll cook,” I reply and consider what options appeal. “Perhaps you can start teaching me some of your recipes tomorrow night?”
“It would be my pleasure, Gail.”
Only the four of us are at dinner this time, and the meal’s conversation focuses on the day’s fighting. With Phile still answering Nikias’ questions about positioning and strikes afterwards, I leave them to it and retire to my room. Though it’s still fully light outside, I don’t have a problem settling into my reverie after I activate the room’s wards.
The fatigue that had settled in my bones is gone when I wake to find the house quiet. Most of the neighbourhood is just as still, with the only people moving about being the guards upon the wall.
With what I intend next, I set some protections before I lean into a different Power.
Since I still haven’t trained it enough, World Step unsurprisingly doesn’t deliver me precisely where I want. The dirt road is still in the kingdoms, but it takes a few spells to learn that I’m 15 kilometres to the northwest instead of Sanctuary. Still, that’s pretty good. I could have ended up in the middle of the ocean with a whole planet to choose from; though Apprentice rank with the Power should prevent me from hopping to any location too far away.
I risked another try only to end up hovering over swamp water near an enormous crocodile that snaps at me in its surprise—that was a mistake. I still look around at moss-covered trees rising from the murk, and the long strands in the surrounding canopy before I move on. Various locales follow—ocean, land, and swamp—with the dead crocodile along for the ride—until I eventually have Sanctuary within a quick walk.
The electrified crocodile gets skinned, and I fling its body out into the ocean for the predators. Once I’ve got the hide cured and tanned, I tuck it into Inventory and give up practicing World Step for the night.
Facing a dusty, empty road that is more of a wheel-torn path, I opt to turn it into a proper dwarven road. Cutting and compressing a straight path through the dirt, I set the six layers in place from the deepest gravel for drainage to the tower-shield-sized granite slabs atop it. The road is wide enough to allow for three wagons side-by-side, so I can use only a slight angle from the road’s midpoint to shed rainwater into the new drainage gullies. It doesn’t take long to set all five of the kilometre-long stretches in place. Standing atop the bluff, the last section runs to the village gate, with the gullies turning into the stake-lined depression before the wall.
“Can't help myself, bad habits.”
Softly singing the rest of the song that aunt Sarah taught me, I head inside the fence line. Taking in the nearly three dozen harmonies of adventurers within the dormitory, I create the school building with its entrance facing the main hall. Though the ground isn’t a slippery stone, I still mark out a cross-hatched T-shaped path to help prevent spills. The base of the T lines up with the gate, and its branches end at the steps of each building.
The school building is an open hall with an arched ceiling to allow summer heat to lift away and let enchantments cool it. I tint the six three-metre-long windows to welcome in the sunlight but block some heat. The outer stonework is in the same style as the main building and ensures their organic looks blend.
Midyåci is busy debating proper legal structures with a pair of priests, so I don’t disturb them but head to the room that mirrors Imhotep’s office. Carving a summoning circle in place to ease the next summoning only takes a few minutes. The mithril gleaming in the stone tempts me to contact aunt Am, but I stick to the night’s plan.
Hook appears in a blaze of light, having to stoop to keep his height beneath the four-metre ceiling. My swaying as he appears has the typical canine muzzle of a Hound Archon twisting in concern. Feeling wobbly I reach across the circle to break the summoning confinement before he asks. With no conditions or restraints on his summoning, the Allegiance Bond snaps into place firmer than Midyåci’s own.
He shrinks into a Human form losing all the fur, his only hair a long topknot of auburn hair with the shaved skin of his scalp decorated with woad tattoos. His face finishes adjusting to the sturdy features common to the Norse, and he adds woad tattoos. Hook remains clad in loose Persian garments of black and silver with golden edging that changes size with him. The crest on his right shoulder—candle and broken chains—ensures his affiliation is clear.
“Crazy girl.”
“I missed you too. Your arse is fat. I thought you would give me a nosebleed, even using a summoning circle,” I retort. “I’ll have you know I didn’t need that to open Midyåci’s Gate.”
“Yeah, well, no Prestige Class for me yet, so you managed it,” murmurs Hook, and he tries to check my eyes for bleeding.
Batting his hands away, I sit down near the wall. “Maybe you can save a kingdom in between teaching kids.”
“A few decades teaching kids sounds like a pleasant break from fighting the undead, or at least, so it seems at present,” jokes Hook.
“What name do you want to use?”
Hook thinks for a while before he shrugs. “Hagen.”
“Need a deed name if you’re not faking a family,” I point out.
“Brat wrangler,” drawls Hagen.
My lifted brow gets an amused snort. “I think that would take some explaining. If only I could have summoned Ras—at least he shows me some respect.”
“Well, he’s got a tribal background and you’re the child of his leader. How are you handling mostly sticking to one form?” enquires Hagen curiously.
“Holding one gender is the hardest part—it feels like I’m lying to myself half the time. We were killing giant crabs today. I found the first few fights okay, but as the morning went on, I kept having to stop myself from shifting.”
Resting back against the wall, I let my form shift to normal to ease Protean’s tension, and he scruffs the short hair I favour in my male form. The bright glow from my gaze adds to the illumination of the office. I idly consider what others will make of the golden light, but tinting the clear window feels like too much work.
When Hagen sits beside me, I use his shoulder as a pillow.
“Have a nap,” rumbles Hagen. “I’ll keep an ear out.”
Closing my eyes, I try for a meditative state, but since I rested recently, my reverie state isn’t within reach. “Tengu.”
Hagen rumbles with laughter. “You and Amdirlain both say silly things.”
“I’m going to tell on you to auntie Am,” I sigh.
“I don’t think you’ve given yourself enough rest after the Guildhall. Have you fully recovered from saving that boy?” asks Hagen, his voice soft with concern.
“I’m mostly recovered, but I’m still tiring more easily. My health is fine, but my tolerance for the strain has lowered. Roher says the fatigue from True Song is from the channelled energy causing a dissonance between Soul and flesh. It was a big performance, so maybe another week; it’s that last 20 percent or so that seems to take the longest.”
"What does Amdirlain say about it?"
"There's no such thing as a free lunch, and with great power someone has to foot the bill," I quote.
“Want me to come with your team?” offers Hagen.
“Even without a Prestige Class, I think each of your classes having a 70-level advantage over mine might lessen the possibility Gideon will see it as a challenge,” I reply and poke him in the ribs.
“Current betting is that you’ll get an achievement for restoring the Tower, but not for finding the harp or freeing Amdirlain,” informs Hagen.
“Tell you what, if you want to help—besides teaching kids—I’ll sic you on Nanok in the evenings. Consider it part of the teaching job.”
Hagen laughs. “Sic? Really?”
Without looking, I show him a palm. “I had to go there.”
“No, no, you didn’t,” grumbles Hagen, and shakes his head sadly. “That was a very rough joke.”
“Shh, I’m trying to nap here.”
Hagen pats the top of my head and doesn’t pull away when I mock-growl. “Sitting still and letting your body rest is what I meant. You can’t sleep as humans do.”
Snorting in protest, I push his hand away. “I spent hours playing the harp. I was sitting still.”
“I’ve seen you play the harp. The focus and intensity you have when caught up in the music means that playing isn’t a physically restful activity—no matter how much you enjoy it,” states Hagen. “When you’re caught up in the more complex melodies, your hands move so fast they look like willow branches thrashing in the wind.”
“Drats! I might resemble that remark,” I grumble.
“Shh, you’re trying to nap, remember?”
I soak in his amusement and relax against his familiar presence. My mother now has another information source to reassure her. Hopefully, that’s enough to do the trick.
Comments
Gopard
Thanks for the chapter!
