A bard in time saves...

[Metarie]

Metarie checked the mixture Lanya had put together, then added a few more drops from another vial. That would be a decent shade of brunette for the woman and sufficiently different that her attacker might mistake her for another just long enough to give Lanya more time to run.

Metarie began painting Lanya's hair a warm brown color, continuing until all the strands were covered. She then wrapped Lanya's hair in cheesecloth and set it with hairpins. Washing her hands, Metarie said,

"Lanya, I forgot to ask one question. Please, have a seat at the table." As she crossed back to the livingroom, she pulled something out of the desk drawer. When she returned to the kitchen table, Lanya would see a book bound in leather and tied with thong and a charcoal pencil in Metarie's hand. Metarie took a seat at the table. "While we wait for the color to set, will you tell me in detail what this assassin looks like? From the shape of his face, his nose, his eyes, the angle of his cheeks.. everything and anything you can remember of his face." Metarie flipped open the book. Pages of sketches went past until she found a blank page. Readying the pencil, Metarie waited expectantly.

[Lanya Caliope]

Lanya sat at the kitchen table to allow Metarie easier access to the top of her head. As her hair was changed from its vibrant red to a warm auburn, the woman clenched her jaw and held her tongue. She hated to do it. She hated that she had to change any part of her appearance just to be safe. It felt like a lie that sat atop her head, broadcast for all the world to see. But she said nothing and made no complaints; it was necessary. And it had been her idea.

Flame tapped his little beak against her hand where it rested against the table and she looked at him. No antics for the moment. He simply sat in a puffed-up ball of robin and watched her right back. If there was communication going on, it was wholly silent and unseen.

Lanya watched the healer walk into the other area of the room, raising one hand to gently pat the wrap on her head. She knew it would have to sit for a while and dropped her hand to not interrupt the process. Metarie had said the stuff would wash out and she believed her; she refused to let herself worry that it might not. Auburn hair wasn't so bad, after all...

Now she looked up as the elf returned carrying a sketch pad. Her immediate reflex was to reply with "He has blue eyes." But this was insufficient, and the bard realized she would need to remember.

She closed her eyes to call forth the most appropriate memory. The best look she'd gotten had been in the streets, right after being tackled. He'd been right there above her, glaring down at her with a knife at her throat and preparing to cut her neck open.

One hand laid against her right knee as she swallowed hard and focused on the face hovering above.

"He was a slender man with a narrow face, but handsome and hard-set. Short facial hair around his mouth and under his nose, cut just so..."

She motioned with one hand to indicate a goatee.

"Black hair with blue eyes. Very short hair but not against his skull. And..."

Here she opened her eyes to eye the healer's pointed ears.

"His ears were smaller versions of yours."

[Metarie]

(joint post by Lanya & Metarie)

Metarie listened carefully and jotted down notes. Reading back through the notes, she made a quick sketch of a man who would be a half-elf, but leaning more towards an elf in appearance other than his goatee.

“Thank you for doing this. I think it important that we have a clear description of whoever attacked you. This will make it easier to keep an eye out.” Metarie turned the picture toward Lanya.

“Is this what he looked like?” The picture was not very close, but held some of what Lanya described.

Again, the woman gave no outward sign of distress beyond a tightened jaw. "Aye, that's him. The eyes were a bit more severe, but it is a good likeness."

As Lanya replied, Metarie looked back at the picture.

“More severe? In what way? Where his eyes more round or were they like mine, slightly almond shaped?”

Lanya replied, “Almond shaped, like your own. He was human but his build was very elven. Everything about him was lithe and lean; he was shorter than me as well."

Metarie nodded, then erased and redrew the eyes, but this time she reshaped them to be more almond and added intensity to the gaze. "Were his eyebrows arched like mine or straighter across? Were they thick or thin? And was there a frown-line between his brows?"

"I...I am not sure." The bard fidgeted a bit, narrowing her eyes as she thought. Had she gotten such a good look? "I...believe they were slanted, and straight."

Metarie listened intently and redrew yet again until finally, the eyes were just as Lanya remembered them. Metarie then added sharpness to the cheekbones, but brought the line of the jaw downwards in a slightly more masculine way than in an elfin male. The moustache and goatee lent the man a devilish look. Metarie paused then and looked at Lanya, "I know this is not easy to remember, but I thank you again for trying. I have one last question and then you can review the picture again. Was his hair spiked or did it lay flat against his skull?"

Lanya closed her eyes to help herself remember, setting aside her own emotions in favor of giving further detail. "His eyes were narrower than yours. His facial hair was all very thin and groomed. He had a...delicate nose. And his chin was narrow and pointed. His hair fell against his head but it didn't fall past his ears."

Metarie considered her drawing and then began yet again on a clean sheet of paper. With each stroke of the pencil, the assassin’s likeness – as well as could be remembered by Lanya and envisioned by Metarie through Lanya’s descriptions – came forth on the paper. When she was done Metarie turned the page to Lanya once more.

“Is this him?”

"Yes." The word was dead and cold as she stared at the face she remembered. She made no further comment or movement, only nodding a bit to emphasize how very much it looked like his semblance. In the chill silence that followed, Metarie’s next question fell.

“Do you know his name?”

“I do not,” was the terse reply.

Metarie sat the pencil down on the table and pushed the pad away from them with distaste. She gave a sigh and looked at Lanya. Impulsively, Metarie reached across to give Lanya a hug. “Thank you, again. Now,” Metarie pulled back, “Let’s get this business done with so you might get some rest.” Metarie gestured toward the sink, indicating they should rinse Lanya’s hair.

[Lanya Caliope]

With her hair washed and toweled relatively dry, Lanya felt drowsiness again settle against her eyelids. She was ready to lie down, and Metarie indeed suggested this moments later. The bard nodded her reply and began her trek back to the bedroom, Flame flapping ahead to settle on one of the pillows and snuggle in for a nap. He would watch her while she slept and glare at anyone who came near to rouse her.

Leaving the door to the room open, Lanya veered for the bathroom to wash up before resigning herself to the bed. She was an active person and felt sparks of her normal energy poking at her back, but she was too exhausted to act on these impulses. She wanted to scrub her face for no reason other than to feel cleaner than she already did. And she wanted to see herself in the mirror.

She didn't recognize herself for a moment. A tired woman gazed back at her as she reached up to tug at one of her curls, watching the odd color shift with her hair. It didn't look terrible. And her face was still the same.

She hated it, and would be glad when this was all over.

With a sigh she emerged from the bathroom and approached the bed, yawning impulsively as she neared it. Within those few steps her body had prepared itself for sleep and felt heavier. By the time she sat on the bed, she was fighting to keep her eyes open. She looked at Flame as he peered back at her, once more silent as they gazed upon each other. And, finally, she laid down to sleep.

Sleep never came on swift feet for the bard; she would lie silent, pondering over the events of the day or worrying over what further could happen to her. Or she would fight sleep as fear of what new nightmare she might have overcame her; she had come to fear sleep, for the tortures it presented to her.

It was the same now, and she laid silent for at least an hour, drifting ever so slowly towards the realm of dreams. Mercy would not visit her.

Within the dream, she stood before a great hall. It was pristine and clean, with none of the fancy trappings sung about in tales; this area was cold and sterile. There was no life or happiness allowed within this room.

No more than 20 feet in front of her sat a tribunal of misers. One sat mute, one deaf, and one blind. All three kept their faces set and blank, and when she tried to wave, Lanya found that her hands were confined in a set of shackles.

She felt confused and dumb. Something was blocking her thoughts from reasoning out what might be happening. She looked to the sides, to the walls. Nothing struck her fancy until a loud squawk drew her attention forward again. A pit had appeared before the triage of men, bright orange with flickering lights. She could smell the smoke and feel the heat, even from this distance. And above the pit hovered a bird cage with a tiny robin inside.

Lanya screamed and ran forward, stopped with a painful jerk by the shackles around her wrists. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she pulled, hauling until the metal began cutting into her wrists.

"Stop! What do you want of me?!"

Her voice cracked and warbled under the strain of screaming at them. She promised that she would do anything, she would confess, she would let them kill her if only they would let him go...

We wish to make a proposal.

She froze, staring ahead. The voice resonated from within but had emerged from without. They were invading her thoughts once more, but she had no natural barriers or strength to stop them. She listened in silence.

There is a way to remove all that has happened. To restore the wolf thing and his wolf. To free your friend. And to correct what befell the child.

She looked at Flame where he flapped in the cage. The heat was hurting him, she knew. The cage was metal and it was directly above the inferno.

"What is this way?"

You must sacrifice that which you have protected.

Tears were already flowing again as she shook her head, ignoring the men to stare at the cage.

"Don't ask this of me. Please, I will do anything, I will give myself up -"

Your life means nothing. This is the price.

Guilt and fear and sorrow beat down upon her, bringing more tears as she shook her head. She couldn't do this; she wasn't strong enough for this. Anything else they would ask of her she could do, but this was asking too much. And even as she was blinded by her tears, the image of the little girl's hands and throat flowing with blood flashed before her. She had thought to herself in the past that she would do anything to bring that child back to life, to place her back within her family's arms. Could she call herself absolved of the crime if offered a chance which she refused?

Her legs buckled and she collapsed, shaking her head. I cannot do this, I cannot give this up. It is me, it is myself...

"Let him free. Let him go."

The responsibility of choice is yours alone.

The cage dissolved all at once, and the bird flew to her with great speed, landing in her outstretched hands. Sobbing and distraught, she brought Flame's head to her lips, kissing him gently before lowering her shaking hands to cup him as she would a precious gem. She was trembling all over now; she could not even see her hands before her, but she knew the little body. She moved her fingers around the feathered texture, whispering shaky consolations and shaking so hard the chains attached to her shackles rattled.

It took a bare second. Her hands were trained and her fingers dextrous; one great wrench and the bird's head was off. His blood stained her fingers, but she could not see through the tears that flowed from her cheeks to drip against the body she now held. She felt her mind swelling and expanding as sorrow draped over her like a blanket, soaking into her very pores until she could feel the physical pain of her own body breaking down. Her breath hitched; her sobs made her throat sore; her tears made her eyes sting as they dried out.

And then it was gone. Sudden and short, the depression spiked into an arrow which pierced through and exploded from her in one great wave. She felt it draining, taking with it the guilt of deaths which weighed against her, the guilt of Lucian's imprisonment, the guilt of a wasted life.

She felt nothing but cold. Stillness. Silence. Where thoughts and emotions had warred before, there was only a calm, emotionless void. She blinked and the final tears fell onto a body which held no further meaning to her. She actually tilted her head as she stared at it, wondering why it would have ever caused such horrible pain.

She tossed it aside as the sense of loss dissolved; there was no reason to worry anymore. No reason to fear or fret. The tribunal and pit were gone; the price had been remitted.

For it wasn't a life they had taken, to set the balance and restore that which she had caused to be destroyed.

It was humanity.

Against the bed, Lanya began gasping quietly as sobs wracked her internal landscape. The pain was too much to contain; a tear rolled along her face, across the bridge of her nose and down the other side to soak into the pillow. Flame knew no noise would rouse her, but there was help nearby. The bird set off from the room at break-neck speed, squawking in a hawk's voice for help. He fluttered in circles around wherever the elf might be before darting back to the bedroom, frantic for her aid.

[City Guard]

Idonir returned to the house a disgraced soldier and an annoyed man. He had Lanya's staff and bag in one hand, along with her little green cloak draped over his shoulder, but there was no guitar. The tavern innkeeper at the Rat did not know where it was, had assumed it was stolen, and none of the patrons there knew anything. He threw his weight around and invaded all their personal spaces to no avail. Whoever had stolen the guitar didn't stick around.

Idonir was annoyed mostly because he knew this was going to give the women an excuse to deny the reward that should be his. He did plenty of thinking walking to the Rat and back, and came tot he conclusion that Metarie was pulling his leg. She was too conservative a person, unlike some of the other more 'open' ladies he knew, to throw herself at him the way she did. She just wanted him to go get their things, and probably wasn't going to put out when he returned.

No matter. He wasn't going to ask this time. The human, Lanya, didn't look like she would fight back much. She was a big part of the reason he took the job in the first place. If Metarie didn't like it.. Well he was in charge of protecting Lanya, not the elf.

He checked the door when he reached it, found it locked, and banged three times in exactly the same way he did the first time. *blam blam blam* with the bottom of his fist. The door protested with a shudder. It wasn't going to hold out much longer.

[Metarie]

Metarie returned to the kitchen as Lanya fell into sleep. Metarie was not a fool. A man like Idonir could do worse things than bully someone. Thankfully, her home was once a barracks house for Elves. With re-enforced stone walls, metal shutters on all the windows, and doors built to withstand forced entry, her home was more than the doll-house some thought it might be.

As Lanya began to dream, Metarie set about preparing a meal and ale for her new "paramour." Regular spices were enhanced. Two place settings were set at the table. A small keg of ale was placed nearby.

There was a chance, Metarie considered, that the man would not want to eat or drink, but take what he wanted. Metarie prepared a few syringes and placed them in places she thought might be strategic - the couch, the kitchen, the bedroom, and two tucked on her person. The leather of her armor was good for that sort of thing. The dagger was returned to it's place on her thigh, as well.

The assassin, too, might come. If the dosage was for a bigger man and felled the assassin, so be it. Lanya had not been given to her care by Camulous only to have Metarie fail in that duty. She would face the consequences of her acts later, when the woman was finally safe - hopefully out of Marn.

Just as Metarie finished her preparations, the robin came to her. Distressed, it flittered and fluttered around her. Metarie's immediate thought was that something had happened to Lanya, so she ran to the bedroom, dagger in hand expecting to find the assassin slitting the woman's throat.

Instead, Metarie found Lanya in the throes of a nightmare that twisted the sheets and caused sweat to sheen on the woman's forehead. Tears flowed down Lanya’s cheeks and silent sobs wracked her body.

"Lanya," Metarie sat beside the woman. "Lanya! Wake up... it is only a dream. Wake up!" Metarie gently shook the woman, but became more insistent when Lanya did not immediately respond. "Lanya, Wake UP!" Metarie commanded Lanya to wake in her drill seargeant voice - the same one that made the lines of displeasure deepen on the Captain's face.

Just then pounding sounded on the door. To Metarie’s surprise, the sturdy door rattled under Idonir’s fist. Metarie cursed in the Elvish tongue. Idonir had returned.

"Lanya, WAKE UP, I need you to lock the door to the bedroom. Idonir has returned. We will keep watch while you sleep." Metarie glanced toward the hall. "Kona, come... protect!" The dog huffed and moved to stand by the bed. Metarie moved to the door connecting the bathroom to the bedroom and closed it. Metarie locked the door, and then pushed bolts into place at the top and bottom of the door. A metal pole was fit into a groove in the floor and against the door.

Metarie went to the door at the hallway and surveyed the room. Turning back into the room, she said "Do not come out no matter what you might hear. If you feel threatened, there is a trap door within the armoire that will lead under the house. Follow the crawl space and you can escape outside."

Metarie took a breath and walked down the hall. Reaching for the handle, she opened the door.

“Idonir,” she smiled for him, “you found her things. Please, set them on the couch. Are you hungry?” The warm scent of a savory stew wafted through the house.

[Lanya Caliope]

Frantic chirping did not rouse her, but the commanding voice snapped the bard to wakefulness. Her eyes popped open and she pushed herself into a sitting position, drowsy and unbalanced. Her throat felt raw and her eyes stung; she reached up to wipe her face and realized she'd been crying.

The dream remained, as they always did. She could remember each moment and thought, the bite of the chains into her wrists, the feel of Flame's corpse in her fingers. She widened her eyes in a blind panic for a moment, but Flame already knew he was needed; he hopped directly into her lap. She lowered a shaking hand to pat his head, afraid to touch him further for the feel of his death she could still remember.

"I'm sorry."

Her voice was small, a bare whisper. The bird only nuzzled her hand in reply.

Now Lanya swung her legs over the bed, working like an automaton to obey Metarie's orders. She had been asked to lock the door and barring a trip would do just that. She shut the door behind Metarie and bolted the locks in place, her face blank as she thought of what the elf had said and done. If Idonir had returned, why was she required to bolt herself in as though he were a threat?

Because he was. Metarie was a warrior and could recognize a threat when it invaded her home. Their teasing earlier must have incited more than Lanya thought. And now the healer was outside of this locked and barred room, placing herself in danger on behalf of the bard.

Another person for the flames.

Lanya turned to look at Flame where he sat perched on the bed. Exhaustion still weighed her down, and the dream itself now battered her weary thoughts.

The responsiblity of choice is yours alone.

She approached the armoire to figure out the trap door mentioned. It took a few tries, but she realized that the armoire itself was the trap door, rather than housing the door within. She knelt to check the size of the escape route - Metarie was far more slim and could fit through a tighter entrance. But it was wide enough for Lanya to pass through without difficulty.

For an insane moment she envisioned herself crawling away to run as she had before. But that choice only ever led to more running, more pain, and more deaths in her defense. It was a useless struggle against something fast approaching the inevitable, and she was beginning to see that the only way out of this mess was to accept her fate and stop risking other's lives for her own.

She clenched her jaw; she could not easily abandon the healer to her own fate. And so she stopped the thoughts as they came, shoved them aside until she could just barely hear them above the ever-present roar otherwise. She would ponder that later. Now she approached the door she had previously locked, to press an ear against the grain and listen to the conversation outside as best she could.

[City Guard]

He stared down at her when she opened the door. She looked just as good as she did earlier. When the smell of food hit him he realized that yes, indeed, he was very hungry for a lot of things. Idonir's stomach was bigger than his manhood though, and it took precedent over concerns of the flesh.

In the gruff, military fashion so typical of the guardsmen, he addressed the issues at hand first. So instinctual was his training that he could be in the process of bedding a woman and still answer tactical questions without missing a beat.

"The guitar was not there. I interrogated the occupants, they knew nothing."

The good ones were all like him. The response was instinctual. It came out like clockwork, but it didn't last. He grinned a wry, unattractive and very suggestive twist of his mouth that showed yellow teeth, and encroached on her personal space once again as he entered the house on her invitation.

"I'm starving."

He tried to gauge her responses to him again as he went to put Lanya's things on the couch, this time considering more carefully whether she was using him or if she was serious earlier with her suggestive behavior.

[Metarie]

Metarie leaned against the door frame and looked up at Idonir as he stepped into the house and unnecessarily close to her. It was an awkward and not easily defensible position, but it was expected after engaging with him once already. The slim line of her throat was wholly visible as was the line down to the bodice of the "demi-armor" she wore. Ree had not put on the full plate armor the guards use, but instead had put on parts of the sturdy, flexible leather armor, which normally went on underneath the plate, in order to bulk herself up enough to look more like Lanya. The original plan had been that Metarie would put on Lanya's clothes and go retrieve the woman's things. Metarie had also thought that by pretending to be Lanya, she would draw the assassin away from the real Lanya. But, then Idonir had shown.

Metarie kept his gaze and gave slight smile and quirked an eyebrow. "The food is in the kitchen. Go on... have seat." Metarie padded behind Idonir and moved to the kitchen when he went to place Lanya's things upon the couch. Catching up the plate from the table, she stepped to the stove and began ladling the stew on it. The plate was more like a shallow bowl, and would do fine for the meal.

[City Guard]

Idonir was hungry, and he couldn't go being uncouth to the hostess if he intended to get anything from her in terms of a good meal. So he went along with it, letting her direct him to the kitchen like he was some huge dog. She emphasized the word food in such a way that it was apparent to him that she knew what he expected. The elf was playing games with him, but to what end?

Idonir didn't rightly know. He didn't know why she was eager to feed him. Maybe she was one of those women who just loved cooking and feeding men? He knew a few of those. Perhaps she respected him because he was a guardsman, and wanted to do everything she could to help the city's protectors. That would explain why she was doing Camulous favors by taking care of Lanya, and it would fit in with her past employment with the city, which Idonir knew very little about other than the fact that she had an important job long ago. Or so he heard.

He shrugged and meandered into the kitchen to have a seat. The man still felt out of place in the plush surroundings, what with everything smelling nice and looking clean and all. He decided to try and soak it up and enjoy himself while he could. His eyes fixated on her ass as she ladled stew.

"Looks good."

[Metarie]

Metarie half-expected the man to change his mind and just come up behind her at the stove. Perhaps there was some redeeming quality there, though, because he sat nicely at the table.

Looks good.

But then, maybe not. Maybe she should have drugged the ale. Too late for that now, she thought. Maybe if he went to the bathroom, Baresi help her plumbing, she could drug it then.

Metarie turned to look over her shoulder, glanced down at her butt, and placed the plate on the counter. Metarie reached into a cabinet to retrieve a tall pint glass and place it by the plate. The pint glass was then filled with strong ale she had gotten from the Smithy in payment for some healing work she had done.

Taking up the plate and the glass, Metarie served Idonir stew and ale. Metarie smiled and said, "You're the second guardsman to tell me that." Let the man come to his own conclusion about who that first guardsman might be, she thought. Perhaps the conclusion might make him think twice about his ideas about getting something additional for doing his duty. In the meantime, she'd pretend she didn't know what the hell he was talking about - from implied favors to who the first guardsman might be.

Utensils sat beside the place-setting as did a napkin, pepper grinder, salt shaker, sliced bread, and fresh butter. Metarie surveyed the table then moved to collect her plate as well. Time. They needed to buy time for Camulous to find this assassin and return to relieve Idonir from his assignment. Should the worse come, she'd stab him in the cartoid with a syringe and inject him with the sedative. Providing her calculations about his weight were correct, he'd hopefully just think he'd drank too much and wake with the headache to prove it. She didn't want to kill him, just incapacitate him and had compiled the sedative accordingly. She also hoped she'd be able to do the deed if the time came. If he remembered...

[City Guard]

Idonir didn't get what she was suggesting by the second guardsman. It went in one ear and out the other like idle banter. Distracted by food and her ass, he was not paying attention to subtleties.

Not that Idonir was the kind of guy who usually did.

At any rate, if Metarie was just one of those women who liked to cook, she had found the right man at the right time. Idonir was capable of consuming a cow at one sitting when he was hungry, and he was hungry. The smell of the food and spices alone was more than he was accustomed to, and had him salivating like a madman.

He began stuffing himself with the food, working away on the bread and stew. The salt and pepper went unnoticed, but not the ale, which he used to wash down the stew. It was not that Idonir was actively behaving himself, but rather that he did not take the time to misbehave in any way, that prevented him from giving Metarie any trouble.

[Metarie]

The man started to eat; wolfing down food as methodically as he gave a report.

As for her comment, she could have said, “The sky is blue,” or “when you cauterize a wound, that means you burn it” and gotten the same reponse – a general sort of glazed over look that implied nothing was as important as getting something to eat. Metarie looked at her plate, shrugged, and then placed the plate back where it belonged. She then took the pot, the ladle, and an ovenmitt to the table and placed them near to Idonir – pot on top of the ovenmitt and ladle in the pott. May as well give him all of it, she thought, he looks as if he could eat it and still eat more. Besides, she wasn’t hungry. Even if she had been, she would have lost her appetite seeing and hearing him eat. At least the savory scent of the stew minimized the man’s smell, thank Baresi for that!

Next the came the small keg – ‘small’ meaning it was around the same height as the distance between her waist and her collarbone. The keg was built similarly to the rounded shape of the larger barrels found in taverns. She really should have thought of putting it on the table beforehand. Inwardly, Metarie sighed, and then moved the keg to the table. She had only a little trouble moving it due to its weight. Metarie was stronger than she looked – partly because of racial heritage and partly because of her training. Metarie slid the keg across the table just enough to allow the tap to hang over the edge. Idonir could fill up his glass easily if he so chose.

“Please, help yourself.” Metarie indicated what remained in the pot with an incline of her head and touched the keg with her fingertips. “Feel free to finish it or take it with you when you go. I won’t drink it.” The place setting she had laid for herself was put away. The glass was retained and filled with water from the tap for her to drink. A book she had been reading was retrieved from the counter where she last left it. Placing the book on the table, Metarie sat across from Idonir, propped her chin in her hand, and began to lightly skim the lines. Metarie hoped Lanya was resting well and wondered what would happen next.

[City Guard]

Idonir ate away with great pleasure, savoring the warmth of a hearty meal that went far out of the bounds of his normal work routine. Better than a free meal, he was getting paid for time spent eating. And it could be considered a favor to Camulous, because it was a special, "secret" job that nobody else knew about.

Idonir thought it very unlikely that this Dennison thug would show up at Metarie's door looking for Lanya. The house was in a safe enough area that was well patrolled, and her house was easily defensible. Life was good, and Idonir deigned to indulge himself.

More food was brought to him, and with a stupid grin he ladled that into his bowl before he was even finished what he had. Left to his own devices, he grabbed most of the meat and left the other stuff. Whatever space might have been left in his stomach from the food was filled with ale, gulped down at regular intervals.

He finished all but some trimmings left collected at the bottom of the pot and slid back in his chair. Armor that had trouble fitting him before began to seriously strain under the pressure. There was the sound of leather stretching and giving way when he did something to the straps holding his breast plate, and the man's gut immediately grew an inch.

He languidly filled his glass with more ale, moving as little as possible, and sat there drinking. His eyes wandered back over to Metarie and his old conduct resumed, this time tranquilized without the need of her syringes.

"Yer lookin' good..."

He did not look as though he had any intention of acting on his impulses, but was stating them in some vain hope that she would help out.

[Metarie]

A semi-quiet fell throughout the house. The sounds that interrupted the silence were Idonir eating, Idonir drinking, Idonir scraping the pot, Idonir refilling his glass, Idonir loosening his chest plate and in between the soft punctuation of the wisp of paper moving as pages were turned. Another sound filled the silence. Idonir spoke.

The Gnomish physiognomy is not so different from elves or humans; however, it is important to note that Gnomes have a denser bone mass than the former and the latter. When healing a ...

Metarie, continuing to read, replied, "Thank you."

... broken bone, the healer should first verify the break is clean. Then...

Metarie snorted and shut the book. The author assumed the reader had no experience with healing at all. Instead of providing insight the book was preachy and ignorant of the facts to boot. Flipping over the front cover, Metarie checked the original publication date.

"Tch. Figures," she muttered under her breath. This book was older than she. Metarie shoved the book away from her and stood. "If you're done I'll just clean up the dishes." Metarie reached for Idonir's plate intending to put the pot upon it and move the whole lot to the sink.