Varensen City

By evening of the following day, Animir and Thorkil had reached the cosy shelter of Ruoyna's Den, the inn they'd stopped at just after the battle with Krista Ferns and her bandits. Its' host, the retired paladin Bear, was glad to see them again, and as his house was quiet that evening, settled to talk with them as they lifted their first mug of ale. He asked them how things had gone, given their kobold companion wasn't with them. Animir reassured him that Akara was now a hero in his home, and that the dwarves were back in charge in the copper mine. Bear smiled, pleased at the good news, and asked Animir to tell him more.

As she unfolded the tale he listened attentively enough, though casually, but when she mentioned the Fae Mhor he sat bolt upright and became very interested. "Were there any more? What insignia did they bear? Were there more tunnels leading deeper?" he asked rapidly. Animir struggled to keep up.

She reassured him that the dwarves had not seen any others, and they'd secured the mine without finding any more passages than they should have. She handed the paladin one of the spider-shaped pendants she'd brought back. Bear handled it, and shuddered. "A foul thing," he declared, "put it away, please." After a little thought, she remembered seeing the emblem of a staff made of copper on Da'treal's cloak-brooch; Bear agreed this was probably significant, but was unable to shed more light on it.

Changing the subject, the paladin diffidently mentioned that Animir seemed to have grown spiritually since their last meeting, alluding to her turning to the faith. Then a customer called, and he moved off to fill more ale-pots. Thorkil looked at the metal spider, crouching on the table in its' coil of thong like a venomous beast ready to spring. "We ought to destroy these," he said.

Ruoyna's Den Tavern, Northern Stryre, 24th April, 1601

The next morning, after bidding their host farewell, the pair set out. Once clear of the inn, they detoured into the trees and located a nice solid flat stone. Animir tipped the pendants onto it, and Thorkil smacked them with his small hammer until they were unrecognizable bits of bent metal. Then he buried them, where the forces of nature would degrade the metal and overwhelm any lingering malign influence.

Animir considered meting out the same treatment to the spider-headed mace, but finally packed it away again. It was beautifully made after all, and a collector might pay well for it.

Varensen, Northern Stryre, 3rd May, 1601

Animir's first sight of the city of Varensen was something of an eye-opener. Growing up on Viridor, she had seen cities before, but the cities of the elven island of exile were in tune with their surroundings; blended in. This mass of rock sat on the surrounding countryside like a mailed fist - solid, strong, aggressive. It was her first sight of the architecture of the Erlyid, for Varensen, like all Stryre's major cities, had been built while Stryre was a province of the Empire.

Strong walls and high towers ringed the metropolis, and four guards warded the gate she and Thorkil approached. Traffic was slight, and only three merchant caravans were ahead of them, so they were soon face-to-face with the warders, who blinked at them in evident surprise.

"What are you two then? What's your business in Varensen?" asked one. "Just passing through," said Animir cheerfully, "and picking up supplies."

"You're heavily armed I see," commented the guard. "Be warned; the town watch does not like trouble in the city." Animir smiled winningly. "The only time we plan to draw weapons is to clean them," she assured him. He grunted, and let them in.

By chance, their approach to Varensen had brought them to it on the northern side, and once past the gates they found themselves in the well-to-do district known as the Wealthy Quarter. Houses here were well-spaced by human standards, with gardens often as not, and usually fences and private guards. Nonethless, it was crowded and bustling to an elf, and it took Animir some time to get used to the press of people on the streets.

Some asking around for the sort of place where weapons were bought and sold directed her to "Blade Street, off Crensel". A little more exploration revealed that Crensel was one of the four squares - originally market places - around which Varensen was built. With directions finally secured, they set out into the Merchant Quarter, heading for Crensel Square.

As they walked, someone bumped Thorkil, and stumbled off into the crowd, apparently ignoring the dwarf's curses and fist-shaking.

Turning out of Crensel into Blade Street, they were at once aware that they'd come to the right place. The air was alive with the music of hammers and metal, the hum of speech and trading, and the occasional burst of laughter or anger. Shops and smithies lined both sides, with glittering weapons and well-finished belts, sheaths and shields to match on display. Merchants cried their wares loudly and eagerly.

Ignoring the brave display, the pair walked up the street a ways, past the more exuberant shops intended to catch the adventurer looking for his kit in a hurry, towards the less pushy and more serious establishments further up.

Finally, their eyes fell on a signboard. "Brion's Museum of Exotic and Unusual Weapons" it read. Below, more hoardings expanded on the theme. "See the arms and armour of all the folk of Alair, past and present! Dweomercrafted swords of the vanished Elf Lords! Mighty axes of the stone-born Dwarves! Brutal scimitars of the Savage Orcs! Cruel clubs of the Feral Lizard-Men of the Deep Trakar! All brought home for your entertainment by the enterprise of your host ... Brion Merriweather!"

Aha!

Animir led the way in. Inside was a small area, backed with a velvet curtain, containing a desk, behind which sat a dapper man in his forties.

"Welcome!" he boomed, his face lighting up as the pair entered. "Thrice welcome to the finest collection of war-gear in Stryre! A mere silver piece per visitor, and all of the world's history can be yours!"

"Actually," said Animir, "we've more come to add to the collection." Brion looked at her more closely. "Thrice welcome, sir dwarf and lady... elf? My house is indeed honoured!" and he stood up and bowed. Animir preened a bit. Lady? She could get used to this.

"I am ever ready to purchase interesting additions," continued Brion. "What have you got to pique my curiosity?" Animir opened her Bag of Holding and rummaged for a second, before producing the spider-mace.

Brion hefted it - competently enough, she noted - and gazed at the inscriptions carefully. He looked up with a quizzical expression on his face. "This is either a fake, or the work of the Fae Mhor," he commented. "It's real," replied Animir, "we met one, and that fact that we're here should show how that went." Merriweather grinned. "Perhaps I may want to deal less sharply with such a dangerous foe," he commented, with an almost-completely-jovial air. He turned back to the mace.

Consulting a battered book, he muttered some words and cast a spell on the weapon - his technique looked a bit rusty, Animir thought - and then another. It was clear after that that he could read the writing,as he studied it again, then laid it down. "It appears to be genuine," he said with some surprise, "I'll give you two-fifty for it." At that point the haggling began....

In the end, he acquired it for three hundred - it was plain he'd have gone higher if there had been more provenance, such as the clan or house it had come from - and he paid cheerfully enough in a mix of platinum and gold coins. Animir promptly gave half to Thorkil - he'd fought Ryl as well after all - much to the dwarf's delight.

"It has been a pleasure doing business with you, My Lady," he beamed, as he tucked the weapon under the counter. "Of course, entry to the exhibition is on the house, for business partners," and he swept the curtain open.

Up to this point, there was always the chance that Merriweather could have been a charlatan, with poor swords painted silver marked "elven" to gull the simple. Such was not the case.

Glass-fronted cases lined the walls of a considerable space beyond, and more free-standing ones dotted the floor. Laid on racks within and backed by black velvet were specemins of every weapon Animir had ever heard of, and many that she hadn't. There were straight, slender, tengwar-carved swords of elven make, dating back to the end of the Dragonwar; dwarf-axes from the Erean Mountains; hideous crude weapons from the orcs of Orc-Land; Kin doubleswords; gracefully curved paired blades from far Rokugan. Some of the exhibits she couldn't see how to use until she read the cards. It was a fascinating education.

Emerging from the exhibition, Animir quietly laid two silver pennies on the counter in front of Brion.

"May fortune follow your steps, my lady," the collector smiled warmly at this subtle praise of his show, and the adventurers left the shop.

Returning down Blade Street, they chose a shop - Douglas' - before reaching the gaudy sucker-traps near Crensel Square, and went in.

A customer was already there, a guard by the looks of him, just paying for a piece of work rebinding the wire hilt of a sword. Once he was dealt with, the proprietor turned his attention to Animir. "Hello, dear, are you looking for your husband?" he asked. Animir replied, "No, I've come to see if you're interested."

The shopkeeper's eyebrows went up in puzzlement, but then Animir laid Krista Ferns' mace on the counter. "Ah, got an heirloom to sell, have we dearie?" he asked. "No, I paid for this with a crack on the head."

"Embroidery group get rough then? I'll give you fifty."

"Three hundred."

"Three hundred?! Are you mad? I could buy siege weapons for three hundred! One, and that's only because you're a pretty girl!"

"One hundred and fifty"

"Done!"

The mail armour and Animir's original shield were soon similarly dealt with, and she once again split the proceeds with Thorkil.

"Don't hesitate to come back," said the shopkeeper dourly as they left.

Animir's next objective was a temple. Some research showed that there was no temple of Nodonn - or any elven deity for that matter - in the city, but that there was one to Ehlonna. Of all the gods of the Erlyid, Ehlonna's church had been the closest to the elven ones, and it was likely that the priests of the woodland goddess would look favourably upon an elf's request.

The temple itself, in the wealthy district, was a stone building, but much care had been taken to carve the frontage to look as if trees grew up it. Inside, the whole interior had been dressed to appear like woodland; while the elf found the style and execution of the carving gauche and simplistic, it was reassuring and she felt immediately comfortable.

After a few moment, a priest came over and bowed to her. "Pardon my asking," he said quietly, "but are you of the Fair Folk?" "I am," she responded.

"You honour our temple," the priest said, "I had heard that the Elder Race were returned, but I have never seen one; I didn't realize they had reached this far south." "Not many have," answered Animir.

"What do you seek of the Lady of the Forests?" he continued.

Animir explained that she had an elven sword of unknown powers she wanted to know more about. The priest was a bit puzzled that an elf should bring an elf-blade to humans for this, but took her over and introduced her to Levian, an older priest. "Levian here was a student of the arcane arts before the Lady called him," he explained, "he will be able to assist. It is, however, customary to make a small donation in such cases..."

From behind, Animir heard Thorkil snort, as if his expectations had been confirmed. Ignoring this, she handed over 5 gold pieces. Levian extended his hand, and she laid the scabbarded Anvarna in his grip.

His spell confirmed that Anvarna was indeed enchanted to aid the wielder in combat [+3], and that there were other powers locked within it. "I cannot read them while they slumber," he added, "but maybe you can unlock them... one day."

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