What're Ya Buyin'? Sorrel Darkfire 16/06/21

It was late in the evening when the folded paper slid under Sorrel’s door. She put on her lockpicking gloves to avoid any traces of poison, just in case, and to avoid leaving prints, just in case, then flipped it open on the bed.

“Well met adventurers!

I am in need of assistance in acquiring a more unique item that can hopefully be sourced here in the quaint town of Daring Heights.
With myself not being all too familiar with this area, some insider knowledge with special skills adjacent, might be exactly what I need.

Look out for a Lord Leapington at the local market if interested.

Signed,
Lord Leapington of the Trinket’s Trove”

She smiled briefly. Most of the staff knew she was short of cash but only Shaleena knew which room she was in tonight. She blew a kiss at the door, set her usual traps and alarms and curled up, drifting towards sleep imagining the impressive aristocrat who would be recruiting mercenaries in the morning. A thought hit her. She eased out of bed, stepped over the wolf trap and pulled her curtains open to ensure the sun would wake her. She needed time to sharpen blades and oil up scabbards and armour. Stealth might be required. As she fell towards dreamland, the soft sounds of battle seemed to soothe her senses.

Sure enough, the sunlight hit her eyes bright and early. She set to work on her kit and by 6am, she’d scouted the market and noted a stall carrying a sign saying Trinket’s Trove. Something made her uneasy. The stall was small, which she could understand. Dwarven nobility were amongst the most generous of employers. But it was covered in the strangest collection of items… sparkling tat and tourist trifles. Presumably a cover story of some kind. All the same, she hung back in the shadows as an assortment of professionals assembled.

The first in sight was a firbolg – a druid by the looks of things, with a large wolf weaving between his legs and a neatly trimmed plant apparently growing from his shoulder. Then she saw a familiar face and relaxed a little – Viereari, the dark elf monk who’d travelled to Daring Heights with her on the protection job she’d picked up on day one. He’d been a fast moving, deadly piece of work and she remembered him chasing down the tree blight with unearthly speed. It was good to know he was on the team.

Then she drew in her breath a little sharply as a half-orc wrapped in a bearskin half cape stepped to the job. She preferred a half-orc to an orc – she briefly counted the notches on her dagger blade caused by clumsy twists as she hauled her blade from orc helms in mountain ambushes – but she still felt a little nervous. Then she saw… wait, what? A chinchilla? The half-orc had a chinchilla as a pet. She blinked. Was that better or worse in a crew member?

Before she could make up her mind, a scruffy jack sparrow born kenku rattled up who, by the look of his wild hair, deep eyes, thousand yard stare and vague impression he was being followed, must be some kind of warlock. Or sorcerer. Or both. Who can tell the difference these days?

And then her mind was wiped clean of thought as a tall, glowing woman of unearthly beauty dressed in flowing white robes with silver shield and icy blue spear shimmered into the square as if floating on a cloud of glory. Sorrel saw Selune’s moon carved into her shield and felt it crackle with celestial power. She had never seen an Aasimar before, but she knew this was an angel born child touched with radiance and grace. And that she should be a cleric of the goddess was a little too much to bear…

As if pulled by a powerful force, Sorrel found herself walking forwards - drawn to this vision by such a churning urge to connect that she found herself shaking like she was stricken with a palsy. She forced herself to slow down, but her preferred subtle strategic approach had become almost a galloping run. And so she blundered into the small party just as a talking rat - no, wait, a rabbit… no, too small… a hare? A hare. Just as a hare started issuing instructions.

Her mind flicked over the note. Lord Leapington. Right. Of course. She was working for a fucking hare. With a sheep tied to their wagon. But, whatever. She needed the money and the hare needed people killing. Sorrel was many things, but she was no racist. Or species-ist. When it came to business she loved every living thing that could pay.

She listened idly as the party rattled off their names - Carnan the druid, Varga in her barbarian garb, Sparks the kenku and then, like a choir singing just one word of heavenly worship from a star beyond her dreams, she heard Velania… Velania, cleric of Selune. She tried not to stare at Velania too hard, then did her best not to look at her at all but to focus instead on the rabbit… the hare. The lord. The employer.

They - she guessed they answered to he if they were using the title Lord but assumption is the mother of calamity - were half selling, half boasting about their business acumen in acquiring certain items for particular collectors. Sorrel shuddered. She’d heard similar phrases before and they usually involved glands, virgins or missing pieces of poorly understood demonic summoning devices, generally collected by people with more money than sense.

In this case, however, the large lepus appeared to be after a piece of polished glass. She relaxed a little. It was more complicated than that, she gathered. A particular kind of stone that did something when something happened - she was hazy on the chemistry which the hare rather glossed over. And inside this little ball of transparent fun were tiny slivers drawn from the elemental plane of water.

At which point she stopped relaxing. Elemental planes were bad news. She remembered the Master instructing her class on the dangers - particularly on the dangers of the plane of water. “It sounds so safe,” he had a particularly strain to his voice that day, discussing something that had clearly once upset him gravely. “Water is clear and cool, you will be imagining - but the plane of water is as clear as gin and as cool as your true love’s farewell as they leave to meet their lover. Avoid it. Water douses fire, eats at rock and dissolves all things in time.”

But these were slivers, she reassured herself. All the same. She checked her weapons - three daggers, one in each boot and one in the belt. Two shortswords concealed in her pack. Her beloved rapier. The trusty shortbow slung over her shoulder with arrows at her waist. One day, she promised, she would buy one of those hand-held crossbows. She quite fancied one of them. But for now, this would do.

Sparks the kenku was asking the right questions, so she hung back and followed his line of thinking. “It’s basically see through and it’s somewhere in this city?” he had a faint drawl that implied a keen sense of humour or a badly shaped beak. “You might need to give us a little more to go on.”

“Ah, of course, a clue, a contact,” the hare bounced eagerly forward. “There is Binder, the bookseller. I hear he has some knowledge of this treasure. He lives in the Rift Valley.”

There was an incredibly long pause. The hare looked back down at his notes. “Sorry, sorry, Rift Alley, in Stone Side.” There was a sigh of relief. For a moment there it felt like a whole different storyline was about to evolve. “I don’t know Daring Heights, so I hired you!” the hare finished proudly. “Any questions?”

“Does this thing have a name?” Sorrel moved forwards carefully. “They usually do, things to with planes of existence.”

“Not that I’m aware of,” the hare shrugged.

“So who else is after it?” she tried to stare the hare down but found it hard to meet both eyes, perched as they were on the side of the head.

“No-one else,” the hare smiled.

“Let me get this straight - this thing has some connection to the vast and dangerous elemental plane of water, it has no legendary name and there is no band of killers racing us to find it?”

“Got it in one,” the hare nodded. “I’ll pay you 40 gold and I’m sure I’ve got some trinkets to add to the deal. Payment on delivery.”

40 gold. Sorrel had fought two twisted animated tree blights for half that money. Today would be a hard day, a killing day. She could feel rather than see Velania and resolved to keep her safe in the maelstrom of destruction that was sure to follow.

“On it chief,” Sparks said cheerfully and moved off quickly, the others stumbling to keep up. Sorrel kept a careful distance from Velania, a few steps behind and careful to avoid eye contact. As a result, she noticed Varga’s chinchilla slip from her shoulder and scamper over to the lean, hungry, prowling wolf. Sorrel reached carefully into her quiver for one of her Saturday night specials - an arrow with a hard rubber ball instead of a barbed hook, ideal for sharp blows to the temple and subsequent rapid unconsciousness in even the largest of targets. And given the wolf would eat the chinchilla and the half-orc would attack the firbolg it was a cert that whoever she could subdue would be large.

And then something entirely unexpected occurred. The chinchilla, the wolf and the druid started - she could only assume they were talking, although the combination of noises was unlike anything she’d heard before. She’d run with a druid for a couple of summers in her teens and picked up tiny fragments of magic when they blistered the air. The wolf, she figured, was getting on with the chinchilla. The druid was either weaving some kind of wyrd or they just dug each other. Either way it was kind of sweet.

She just hoped the chinchilla would receive the wolf’s protection when the shit went down. She returned the Pacifier to her quiver and stumbled to avoid cannoning into Velania as the party reached what was clearly a bookshop. Or at least was cunningly designed to look exactly like one.
Sparks pushed the door open and everyone filed in. Too easy. Too obvious. “I’ll wait out here,” Sorrel whispered to Varga as she passed. “I’ll cover the door in case…” she nodded wisely. Varga stared at her briefly then shrugged and nodded, handing her the chinchilla. Carnan barked something at his wolf as he passed by and before she could fully grasp the implications of her decision Sorrel was standing in the street with two entirely unmatched members of the genus canis.

She could see through the window of the store, between the piles and piles of books to the heaped counter where a bespectacled tiefling stood. The party stepped over, under, round and sometimes through great piles of literature, recipe books, fighter repair manuals, celebrity wizard autobiographies and cleric self help books as well as a few piles of true crime memoirs from rogues of note. The tiefling seemed vaguely interested as Sparks regaled him with their request in a voice so piercing Sorrel could almost make out every word.

The tiefling, however, spoke quietly. He pointed towards a door at the back of the shop. The party, the fools, trailed after him. Idiots. Dolts. A classic trap. Where was the point guard? What were they thinking?

She looked down at the two animals with all the cheerful confidence of a wicked uncle suddenly given care of two bereaved orphans and smiled at them awkwardly. “Nice doggies,” she said, and reached down to pat the wolf - a gesture it accepted carefully, watching every move she made. That was her kind of animal, she approved.

A small party of acolytes scuttled past and she nodded cheerfully, trying to look as if standing outside a bookshop with two unmatched animals was her post-breakfast hobby of choice. She turned back and looked into the shop. Nothing. No sign of anyone making out from the rear room.

Her heart beat faster as she imagined poisoned darts thudding into the unprotected flesh of the frail albeit heavily armed cleric. They’d been in there for hours. She had to save them. But… she looked down at the animals.

They looked back up at her.

She opened the door to the shop.

They continued to look at her.

She flicked her head generally shopwards. “In,” she nodded, grinning. “Good doggies. Save master and mistress from poisoned darts.”

They gazed unflinchingly at her.

She sighed, unhooked her bow and notched an arrow, wrapping her fingers tightly round the string then reached down and picked up the chinchilla, bringing it to her face until their noses were touching. “Someone is slaughtering your mistress,” she said gravely. “We have to save her.”

She looked up and down her body desperately before placing the chinchilla in the only available spot - on top of her head. Then, balancing carefully, holding the bow string tightly in her right hand, she scooped the wolf up with her left and dear god how heavy does a wolf get? She staggered back against the door, prompting the chinchilla to scurry down her arm and up her sleeve into her leather jerkin.

“No wait,” she squawked, fumbling to keep hold of the wolf and desperately trying to avoid garroting herself with her bow string. Just as she was remonstrating with her bow and endeavoring to persuade it to do its duty, the chinchilla wormed its way up through her jerkin and popped out beneath her neck, causing the wolf to yowl in delight and try to clamber up to greet it.

Sorrel staggered backwards into the shop, flapping helplessly at the two wild animals cavorting merrily around her face, as various kinds of fur filled her eyes and mouth and ears and nose and her bow string kept twanging away as the wooden bow swung round behind and clocked a couple of sharp blows to the back to the head just as…. Crash! She stumbled through the mysterious door, tripped over the wolf and sprawled on the floor with a chinchilla in her mouth, scrabbling to get some kind of purchase on any kind of weapon before she was slaughtered. She could feel the blood of her companions spread beneath her as she skidded to a halt, vowing to make them pay heavily for her life as she heard a high, unfamiliar voice cry “oh now that really is fabulous!”

Sorrel staggered to her feet and looked around. The floor was covered in white leather book covers, some plain and monochrome, a few dotted with crazy coloured paints. One, she could see, was smeared in wolf hair, chinchilla hair, all the colours of the rainbow and shapes that could only have been made by her flying limbs and well stocked backpack.

“That one is perfect!” The tiefling was clapping his hands and jumping up and down. “Who’s next?”

Sparks stepped up. “I’m next - but you must turn your back if it’s real chaos you want.”

Sorrel looked around the room. Everyone was alive and well and covered in paint. Varga met her eyes and shrugged. “He likes order,” she nodded at the tiefling. “He has a client who likes chaos. He wanted chaos. This is chaos.”

Sorrel had to agree. Sparks was covering his butt in blue paint and sliding around on a white leather book cover, hooting with laughter while an uptight tiefling stared at the wall. If this wasn’t the dictionary definition of chaos they needed to write a new dictionary.

Finally all the books looked as if two or three paint filled body parts had exploded just beside them and the tiefling was as happy as a fiend at a barbecue after the meat has gone and the coals are just right for a 40 wink doze. “You need Michael,” he said. “She lives on Scalebark Road on Graveside. She’s a doorknob maker.”

He raised a finger - wait - and reached down behind a table, his hand emerging with six leather bound books. “These books will help you,” he said.

“Are they guides to the city? Ancient tomes of enchantments?” Velania’s voice kissed Sorrel’s ear.

“No, they’re books about doorknobs,” the tiefling explained. “She’s really into doorknobs.”

“Right you are, you horny old devil,” Sparks said cheerfully, grabbing the books and handing them over to Carnan.

“Don’t you want…” the tiefling reached for a cloth and some turpentine spirit. “Your, um, posterior quarters are still blue.”

A peaceful smile spread across Sparks face. “I know,” he said. “It’s perfect.”

And they made their way to Scalebark Road with ease, crowds parting as the paint stained, animal hauling, book laden adventurers traipsed along the cobblestones and down narrow alleyways. Sorrel could hear thieves abandoning their positions and dropping their darts at the sight of them and bands of muscular drunks stopped brawling to allow them to pass, making way politely. In one case, they even bowed.

When they reached Scalebark Road, they didn’t need to check the address. One door was so covered with knobs it looked like an early analogue synthesiser and Sorrel knew that analogy worked even though it was entirely beyond her wildest imagination. This looked all too easy, she thought. We’re told to look for a doorknob enthusiast and their door is covered in knobs… right. Who do you think we are?

She unstrapped her bow and notched an arrow in place as they approached the door. The others knocked as she moved to the opposite side of the street and casually placed just enough tension in the string.

The door opened and the party went inside then the thick wooden frame clunked with a dull thud as it shut behind them. Sorrel let the tension out of her bowstring and pulled her thieve’s tools out from the hidden pocket as the wolf and the chinchilla eyed her warily. The tools were an impressive collection, hand made by the guild craftsman in Elturel and only handed over to her under extreme duress by their third owner, who’d valued them highly. All the same… she counted the locks and flicked through her options. This could take some time.

She was comforted by Varga’s strength and she knew Vierari could hold off a small squad of thugs without drawing a sweat. So when the clanging and crashing started to echo from inside, she assumed battle had been drawn and prepared to attack. It sounded like close quarters work, shortswords perhaps, and the blades hissed as she drew them from their hiding place.

With a quick glance, she established the street was clear then, with a surprisingly confident whistle to the animals - which, in turn, produced a surprisingly obedient response - she made for the door as the crashing reached an enormous crescendo then stopped dead. Her heart lurched. Was she too late?

Then the door opened and the party trooped out with Carnan lugging a large copper pot. She looked at it incredulously. He met her gaze. “Don’t ask,” he sighed. “We’re going to Old Mama’s Soup Shop.”

This was the first destination Sorrel had heard of. Old Mama’s Soup Shop’s reputation had already reached her newcomer ears. Wyvern Way, near Dawn Market, its soups were the stuff of legend. Soldiers locked in foreign wars wrote home for small containers of just a spoonful of the chowder. Nobility and commoners alike, everyone queued for Old Mama

They passed around the edge of the vast Dawn Market and came to a side street with a little hole in the wall shop where a crowd thronged, clamouring for Old Mama’s attention. Tables and chairs dotted the cobblestones outside and, despite the busy crowd and open fronted shop, Sorrel still took up a cautious position to cover her team as they went in. With an unexpected feeling of pleasure she noticed the wolf and the chinchilla take up positions at her feet, eyeing the passing crowds carefully. Sorrel had never seen the value in pets before, but these two… she could understand something of the appeal of a loyal animal… She knelt down and patted them and almost purred as they nuzzled their noses into her.

Suddenly she caught sight of the party marching out of the shop in a determined single file, lead by a tiny old woman who she assumed could only be Old Mama. She fell into line right at the back, making sure everyone was in the line with a quick head count. She checked up at the roofs and canopies for possible archers, tried to catch any watchful eyes then, when the party arrived at Old Mama’s house, decided for the first time to follow them in.

“It’s a small house so if it’s to be knife work, it’ll be better if we fight back to back,” she thought, noting three exits and a possible last stand spot on the ground floor as the passed down deep into a cellar beneath the house.

There was a wonder she could barely have imagined, let alone expected - a deep pool of crystal water filled with teeming life and, at the bottom, all manner of crabs, shrimps and lobsters scuttling about furiously. To her immense surprise, the moment they arrived the largest of the crabs - a vast creature with giant, snapping claws clambered out of the pool. Sorrel ran through the weak spots in his chitin armour - slice for the eyes then wedge a blade into each shoulder to disable the attack, she figured. And then the crab reached a blackboard resting on a low rocky outcrop and started writing.

The party watched in amazement as it greeted them in an ungainly scrawl. Carnan muttered a brief incantation then his voice became a series of clacks and shrieks which the crab seemed to understand. The two drummed out a cacophony of discordant rhythms until Carnan nodded and asked Old Mama, very politely, to give them all a minute.

“There’s an intruder in the pool,” Carnan explained. “That’s what’s upsetting them. That’s why they’re not delivering.”

Sorrel was bewildered.

“Long story from the shop,” Varga whispered. “Just go with it.”

“It’s an electric eel,” Carnan continued. The others looked shocked. He ignored the weak visual pun and carried on. “If we can get it out, I suspect peace will return.”

“We could kill it?” Sparks offered.

Caran held up his hand. “No animal will die.”

“At first,” Sparks agreed.

“No. Animal. Will. Die.” At which, the druid dived into the pool and started swimming towards a slightly swollen part of the pool’s bed where they could all see the faint outline of an electric eel. The druid swam around the eel and the two writhed together in an elaborate dance, making patterns that seemed to tell ancient stories that spoke of things before the two legged creatures walked the earth, before even the beasts had left the sea. Eventually Carnan surfaced and clambered, dripping, from the pool.

“He’d probably settle for some chocolate cake,” he said finally.

The party stared at him.

“I mean, that’s just the start,” Carnan explained. “We could get him into the copper pot with the cake but then I’d have to find a suitable home. Not the sea, interestingly, which is unexpected for this particular species….”

Sorrel had heard enough. “I’ll get the cake,” she said, and peeled ou, moving swiftly and noiselessly up the stairs.

From Old Mama’s house she glided towards the market then stopped at the edge and surveyed the place with a practiced eye – seven viable exits, three rooftop routes and decent cover from snipers provided she kept close to the stalls. She moved carefully, checking each stallholders counter carefully – meats, cheeses, perfumes, small semi-pornographic carvings, the usual market fare. Then she saw it – Bake Cake Jake’s Cake n Bake. Keeping a safe distance she checked the produce and saw her target – it seemed obscenely gooey, with rivulets of liquid chocolate dribbling down the dark, moist sponge. Sorrel found her mouth watering like a rainy night in the Chult jungle as she honed in on fleshy Jake’s smiling face.

She met his eyes, a hint of steel to her glare, ready for the full savagery of an extended haggle. “How much for the chocolate cake?” she hissed.

“Two copper, my little petal,” Jake said beaming. “And we’ve got a special on malt loaf.”

Sorrel did a swift calculation. “Oh… that’s extremely reasonable,” she let the surprise show in her voice and cursed herself for her weakness.

Now of course he would double it, she sighed to herself. But no. He wrapped up the warm gooey mass and held out his pudgy hand. Sorrel placed two copper into his palm and took her package, stepping cautiously backwards with her eyes still fixed on the jolly smile and rosy cheeks. “If this is poisoned I will find you and kill your entire family,” she warned.

“Fortunately it isn’t poisoned,” he beamed. “Give it a try. Then you’re near enough to kill me.”

She opened the paper and stared at the soft dark mess, then kicked up her boot and drew her throat cutter from its hidden sheath. She looked at the dagger fondly for a second, remembering the sentries on Castle Titannica, the impregnable castle, built to last forever, and how quickly they’d died. Good times.

Then she sliced off a tiny mouthful, let it drop onto her tongue and froze, unable to move. For a second she thought she had been poisoned, but realised her body had just given up on everything, so intense was the sensation of this cake in her mouth. It was like mothers milk flooding her new born brain, bringing hope and life and warmth and sustenance, all wrapped up in silky pleasure that faded all too soon and left her briefly bereft.

Jake smiled. She looked over to Old Mama’s. No-one watching. Big slice of cake. She sliced off a larger chunk and stuffed it into her mouth like a greedy child, licking her blade clean as she wrapped the remains back up and hurried towards the door.

If the others noticed the chocolate on her lips or the dagger blade shapes in the soft chocolate they didn’t say anything. They tempted the eel out with Varga’s shiny axe and fed it chocolate cake in the copper pot until it fell asleep, satiated. Sorrel knew how it felt.

Old Mama was delighted, gave the party a huge bowl of soup, ladle upon ladle of mixed fish and told them to head for Miss Deery’s store. “It’s a jewellry shop on Dreamer Street – lots of curved designs, full of hippie necklaces, rings, gems, that sort of thing. Popular with tourists and the youngsters I’m told,” Old Mama sent them on their way.

They found Dreamer Street and Miss Deery’s store and she was suitably delighted with Old Mama’s gift. “I think I have the item you’re describing,” she said, her voice floating on the breeze. “Why do you want it, might I ask? It’s an unusual thing and I’ve not had call to open this drawer for some time,” she said as she pulled open one of the many small wooden drawers behind her, looking over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow, clearly waiting for the party to answer.

“Well, we are acting on behalf of Lord Leapington,” Velania began.

“A hare,” Sparks butted in.

Miss Deery stopped moving. “A hare?” She seemed stunned by the news. “I must meet your client. I insist. I cannot do business with a hare by proxy.”

And so they made their way to Leapington’s stall, Sorrel holding the party tight in close protection formation, her training cutting in as they made the last few miles. This is where they will strike, she thought. Just as we think we’re home and dry.

As Deery and Leapington came face to face, the party fanned out, weapons at the ready, incantations on the lips - a shield of unimaginable force ready to unleash certain death.

“Has it occured to anyone else that we’re essentially escorting a snowglobe?” Viereari said idly. No-one answered. They just shuffled uneasily.

Surprisingly quickly the deal was done. Miss Deery departed and Leapington was delighted. He handed out fistfuls of gold and searched his store for trinkets, finding strange items that he handed over personally to each party member, producing a strange silence each time.

To Sorrel he gave a bloodstained shoulder sash bearing the military rank of a legionnaire – “from some continent miles away,” the hare shrugged. “Worth nothing I’m sure.”

Sorrel stared at it. She knew this insignia. She remembered the day she had refused this rank as the mercenary regiment formed up to fight for the House. The Master had pleaded, but she had not finished her revenge. She would return to fight for the House, she promised. Just not today. His face was pale and old. The House does not go to war, he told her. This is the first time in my life. The dark power has forced unity on old foes and we must field an army for only the second time in our history. This may not be an apocalyptic struggle but worlds lie in the balance.

Sorrel handed him back the sash, this very sash she was certain of it. I will be back, she told him. The war will be won or will still be underway. One day I will take this sash and wear it with pride.

He looked sadly at her. “If you do not wear this sash and march today, I pray you never hold it again,” he whispered. “I see…” he stopped. “No, what I see cannot be. The sash, the cloak, the hare and the hangman. How could that be?” And he was gone.

She was still staring at the sash when Leapinton threw a great cloak over her shoulders. “This seems perfect for you, my mystery girl,” he chuckled. “You but think of a style and this cloak becomes it. Perfect for anyone who wishes to travel anonymously,” he chuckled.

“If you call me a girl again, I will stew you,” Sorrel hissed, and stalked away, her eyes briefly meeting Velanias. “I… it was… I am a disciple of the goddess too,” she felt the words tumble from her mouth. “There is a temple in town. Perhaps I will see you there?”

“Perhaps,” Velania nodded, and moved on her cloud of glory off through the marketplace.

Sorrel made her way slowly to Selune’s temple as the heat of the day melted slowly away, stopping briefly at the Dawn Market for a container of mixed fish with extra spices from her new favourite soup shop.

She reached the temple square, empty as the service started, and climbed a few steps to look out over the town.

She opened the container of Old Mama’s soup and watched the rays of the setting sun light up the stone of the temple like the goddess herself was walking through its cloistered halls. The soup was perfectly spiced, just sharp enough to scour the roof of her mouth. She could feel beads of sweat pricking her forehead and any minute now her nose would start to run.

Sorrel smiled. There was a lesson in the day, of that she was sure. Was it the goddess teaching her? Or mischievous fate? And what, exactly, was the lesson? Humility? Love of nature? That chocolate cake can be more useful than the blade of a sword?

Perhaps, she thought, it was simpler than that. Perhaps the message was – don’t worry so much. You saw the town, met some nice people, earned a bit of cash, blagged a nice cloak and now you’re drinking excellent soup. You had a nice day. Enjoy it.