A Lesson Learned Pt1 Sorrel and Taffeta, wax on, wax off

Chapter Four - a lesson learned

The day is long and emotional in ways Sorrel hadn’t expected. As evening falls she heads back to the Dragon feeling drained to her core. She slips in through the back door as before and looks into the tap room, searching for Shaleena. The barmaid meets her eyes and Sorrel almost recoils as the shock of connection hits her as if for the first time. She can feel the familiar conflicting desires - stay or flee, fall or escape. She reminds herself that she has a poor track record when it comes to keeping lovers safe and resolves to keep this… this sensual woman… away from the wreckage of her life. She rubs her hand across her eyes then looks back at Shaleena and cocks her head in an unspoken question.

Shaleena detaches herself from the rowdy table of halflings singing songs about fiddles and moons and glides towards Sorrel then past her. Just as Sorrel is about to follow, the girl reaches out her hand and brushes Sorrel’s forearm, holding her wrist briefly, softly. Wait, the gesture says clearly.

After a moment, Shaleena enters the kitchen, pausing at the last to meet Sorrel’s eyes. The ranger moves casually, scooping up some dirty glasses and plates from a nearby table and hoping the grime her temple labours has etched into her skin passes her off as a convincing skivvy.

Shaleena waits near the oven, the roaring heat of the vast stone furnace giving her face a fiery glow. Sorrel forces herself to keep her gaze on the girl’s eyes as they stand together, exchanging whispers, their skin almost touching.

“People asked after you,” the barmaid says quickly. “Not good people. They didn’t know your name but they described you well enough for… for someone who knows you.”

Sorrel crushes the tiny thrill she feels as Sheelna claims to know her. “What sort of people?” she whispers, her lips close to the girls ear.

“Guild I think.”

“Thieves?”

Silence. No.

“Age?”

“Young. Two of them.”

“Qualified?”

“Barely.”

Sorrel breathes out, noting how Shaleena’s hair traces patterns across her skin in the slipstream of her relief. “I know who they are. That they came alone says they are keeping this private. I can handle them, but I would prefer not to.”

She reaches her hand into her pocket and Shaleena stops her, irritation catching in her voice. “Sorrel, please. Don’t offer me money. My loyalty is given, not sold.”

“Why give it to me?”

Shaleena shakes her head and moves towards the door. “You are the wisest looking idiot I have ever seen,” she turns briefly, met Sorrel’s eyes and is gone.

“Damn,” Sorrel leans her forehead against the wall then leaps back as the white heat of the furnace pierces her brow. She collides with the cook who brings the back of his fist up fast and pops a sharp left towards her cheek, which she dodges easily but deems it wise not to chance a second blow. She slips out, along the corridor and asks for her key at the front desk. Her room has changed, she notices with a grateful glow. Shaleena kept her word. The surly goliath just starting his night shift hands over the key and an envelope bearing her name in neat cursive script.

She stuffs it into her tunic and moves upstairs like a ghost, finding the new room, setting her traps and finally collapsing on the bed where she peels open the letter.

Inside is a note on thick temple embossed paper bearing just three words - Tabrud’s Yard. Taffeta. She is still looking at them as sleep steals over her, pulling her into darkness like she is sinking into water at the end of the world.

The following morning she sets out. ‘Tabrud’s Yard’ is not a very helpful address for someone very new to Daring Heights and various townsfolk’s additional directions like ‘behind Nerry the pie-man’s house’, ‘off Iron Street’, ‘round the back of Daffles Street’, ‘south of the Dawn Quarters’, or ‘kind of between the old town and Graveside’ only get you so far when you don’t know any of those places either.

Sorrel eventually finds her way to a street that turns left and then right before revealing an opening between two buildings. Through that gap is a spacious, irregularly shaped area of open ground surrounded by mismatched houses. Around its edges are small herb gardens, barrels and basins, a couple of enclosures of chickens, washing lines, a dog kennel – and, at the far end, a small group of figures. The tallest by far, even sitting down as he is, is a muscular, black-scaled dragonborn wearing a distinctive brown narrow-brimmed hat. Chatting to him in a relaxed, cheerful manner is a young halfling woman with light skin and short brown hair, dressed in simple orange and brown. Meanwhile another halfling, older a little shorter, is busy leaning a number of rough-sawn logs against a wall and placing stones around them to steady them. Her brown hair is gathered in a thick plait down her back, and she wears practical outdoor clothes in shades of brown and green. As she turns to fetch another stone, she seems to notice Sorrel and looks at the new arrival, raising a hand – perhaps in greeting, perhaps just to shade her eyes from the sun.

“Hello there!” she calls. “Looking for Tabrud’s Yard?”

Sorrel pauses. As usual, she’s been checking for the kill points as she wanders past the more pompous adventurers on her way through the winding streets - no civilians, a girl has standards. But a paladin with unstrapped helm? A downward blow, a tug on the straps and a knife to the throat. Three militia strutting through the crowd? In low to sweep the leader, stamp his fragile wrist bones with her heel and twist his spear into the guts of his number two before a feint and a short sword hilt to the unguarded temple of the new recruit. Nothing fancy.

But as the hafling calls out something unexpected happens. She turns and, out of habit, rehearses her attack - a high blow… then… no, wait. She looks again. Perhaps she could duck in… no.. She considers. Maybe a wide feint and… no… Nothing. She’s briefly baffled then realises her problem. For the first time in years she has met her match. She corrects herself. For the first time in her life she is spectacularly outclassed. The way the halfling moves, her awareness, the way her weight shifts constantly like the deadliest dance Sorrel has ever seen… this is a professional. More than that. This is an artist.

She feels her skin prickle. There is more even than an artist to this one. There is something that reminds Sorrel of her final job, protecting the sages. The job that lost her everything. This halfling has an energy that crackles at right angles to reality, the energy those old men used to walk through the infinite in the way most people amble through a busy marketplace.

Sorrel’s stance changes - she can feel herself almost becoming a child again. In the glow of this halfling’s skill, she seems to shrink until she’s looking up at the nut brown skin and taut, sinewy muscles. Hell, this woman seems to have muscles in her teeth. Unaccustomed as she is to respectful tones, she bows her head briefly and spreads her hands to show she is weaponless. “I think so. I have been at the temple of Selune,” she gestures off behind her. “They suggested…”

She pauses, remembering the all too brief conversation with Rholor Vuzehk as she scrubbed at the worn sunset stone steps. The priest had watched her labouring away for a few moments then asked her to stand. He looked deep into her eyes and she felt something stir, some fluttering at the edge of existence, then Rholor’s eyes clouded over sadly.

“Sorrel, Seraphina has told me something of your story. We feel your darkness and your pain, but we also feel your ambition and your love. The temple is here for you whenever you need the goddess but I do not think the life of a priest or an acolyte is for you. I have looked into your future and it is…” the priest paused. “So much blood. There are beautiful and terrible things ahead and you cannot hide from them in here. You are not ready to face even the least of them, for all your braggadocio. You have so much to learn and we, I am afraid, cannot teach you.”

Sorrel’s stomach churned. She had briefly felt safe here and now they were sending her away. “Then who can?”

Rholor looked out over the jagged rooftops and off into the haze of the morning until Sorrel felt he’d forgotten her. Suddenly he snapped back, looked at her briefly and started back up the stairs. “Start with Taffeta,” he said, and was gone.

Sorrel flickers back to the present and feels the halfling’s eyes on her. “I am looking for someone called Taffeta,” she says carefully. “I have been told to come here. At least,” she smiles briefly to herself. “This is the direction they pointed.”

“Well,” the small figure smiles reassuringly, “You’ve found me!” She beckons Sorrel over. “Taffeta Thistletop, that’s me. This is my daughter Aila, and our friend Ghesh–”
The introduction is interrupted by a raspy honking sound as a white goose waddles out of an open door nearby. “Oh, you’re wanting to be introduced too, are you?” says Taffeta to the bird. “This is Moose,” she says to Sorrel with a chuckle. “I didn’t choose the name.”

Sorrel laughs - a deep laugh that becomes a coughing fit then dissolves into giggles. It feels like a pressure valve, releasing long held tension. “It’s my pleasure Moose,” she bows low to the goose with comic exaggeration then turns to Aila and Ghesh, places her hand on her heart and bows her head. “It’s good to meet all of you,” she raises her eyes to meet theirs. “I am fresh off the boat, so please forgive my manners. I have been with sailors for too long.”

She turns to Taffeta. “I was told to seek you out by Rholor, priest of Selune….” she hesitates. “He suggested you had a lot to teach me. But…” she stumbles a little, still puzzled. “I have to say he could have been more specific. So I am here, I am willing to learn, but I hope I am not unwelcome… and perhaps, Selune willing, not unexpected?”

The tiny woman frowns. “Rholor’s a stuck-up two-faced shit,” she says, stooping to pick up another rock, “and him sending anybody to see me is about the least expected thing I can think of.” She jams the stone into place at the foot of the wooden beam and turns back to fix Sorrel with a searching look. Her brow relaxes. “But sure, you’re welcome, so long as you don’t mind me saying things like that. What is it you’re wanting to learn? I know a bit about cooking and keeping a good house, hunting and foraging, bows and crossbows. Ghesh here can swing just about any weapon you can think of, including his fists, and he’s a pretty good tracker too.”

Sorrel snorts a laugh which she hastily chokes back. “You know the high priest far better than me, given my conversation with you has already lasted longer than my chat with him,” she gives a wry grin. “I’ve been a bounty hunter for five years and I’ve been at sea for three months so I doubt there’s any language that could shock me - but I’m always keen to improve my vocabulary.” She pauses and looks at Taffeta thoughtfully.

“Keeping a good house isn’t high on my list so I assume Rholor suggested I seek you out because….” she tries to find the right way to say it, “I thought I was a skilled warrior until I saw the way you hold your balance. I’ve not seen a warrior who could switch from punch to counter punch so easily. And I still can’t work out if you’re a southpaw or not. I’ve only fired once since coming ashore and the last time I strung my bow before that was…” she thinks. “Let’s just say it’s been blade work for a while. I have no idea what the flora and fauna of this continent are. So I’m hungry for everything else on your list. I work hard. I expect to pay my way in coin and labour. I’m quick to learn, I can cook well enough, carry more than my share on a forced march and know how to follow instructions.”

She hesitates. She can feel how much this woman could teach her and her soul cries out for the oblivion of the hunt, the focus of combat, the steady ritual of bow and target but… “I do need to earn,” she apologises. “My fare was more than I expected and I had to travel before I wrapped up my business affairs, so I have jobs I need to take. But whatever time you can spare and whatever you think I need to learn - let us not pretend you haven’t already spotted my weaknesses - I will work hard and never complain, even if you need me to apply and remove wax repeatedly, sand the floor, catch flies or paint your house.”

“Well now!” says Taffeta, looking a little surprised. “I don’t know that I’ve time for a… an apprentice, I suppose, is what it sounds like you have in mind? But if it’s practice with a bow you’re wanting, I can surely help with that, and maybe give you a few tips if you need them. You’ve got one with you? Aila, love, could you run and get your bow and mine, and some arrows? Ghesh, do you want to join us?”

Soon Sorrel is standing beside the two halflings and the dragonborn, each drawing and releasing in turn and hearing the arrows thwack into the standing timbers at the end of the yard. Taffeta is neither stern nor effusive but practical, pointing out good and bad aspects of Sorrel’s form even-handedly, making simple suggestions, watching her try to follow them; and doing much the same for Aila, though with a lightness and brevity that shows the two of them have trained together countless times over many years. When the arrows run out, Taffeta surprises Sorrel by instructing Moose to retrieve them – and the white goose surprises her even more by doing so, waddling around and picking up fallen arrows one by one and bringing each back to a growing pile while the others pull out the arrows that are embedded in timber too high for the bird’s long neck to reach.

As the day goes on, a few more townsfolk arrive at the yard. One brings food to share and spends some time with Aila, showing the young woman the quickest and easiest ways to trim and chop different vegetables, and then watching in turn as Aila demonstrates her favoured way to prepare a rabbit. Meanwhile Ghesh enlivens the makeshift archery range by taking up an old wooden shield and running back and forth across the end of the yard, providing a moving target for Sorrel and Taffeta to aim at. In due course another neighbour comes to learn some basic swordplay from the veteran warrior, leaving the two archers practicing again with still targets but challenging themselves to hit more precise spots, to draw and loose more rapidly, and other variations. Taffeta seems to sense Sorrel’s drive to improve and becomes more critical, setting ever more difficult challenges and pointing out ever finer points of technique.

The heat of the day comes and goes, and so do this and that local visitor – some who come to teach, some to learn, some just to talk. No more than half a dozen in total but, as Ghesh explains at one point, this is the first time he and Taffeta have done this. He’s trained many people at Fort Ettin, but those are mostly dedicated, full-time warriors and adventurers, and the training is strictly in combat. This is something a bit different, less defined. He isn’t sure he yet knows quite what it is, and he doesn’t think Taffeta does either. But whatever it is, he thinks it’s begun well.

Sorrel remains after all the rest have left, practicing every new idea she’s been given, drawing every mote of wisdom she can from the older woman. But eventually the slanting shadows close over the yard and she realizes that Taffeta has tidied everything away and is leaning against a water-butt waiting for her to pause.

Sorrel eases her bowstring back gratefully. She’s suddenly aware of the burning in her exhausted muscles and she briefly feels dizzy, realising she hardly ate - forcing the admittedly excellent rabbit stew down in a few gulps so that she could keep working. Why had she worked so hard today? She can’t remember losing herself so completely in the rhythm of action before, sometimes feeling as if the bow was firing itself and she was merely an observer, like something more powerful had taken control of her. And yet, she knows this is not magic - this is part of her, just a part long hidden.

Then gradually it dawns on her. She craves Taffeta’s approval. It comes as a shock to her system. Since she could remember, she has defied and rebelled against those who claimed they could teach her - from her parents to the Master to the patronising muscleboys offering to ‘teach this little lady a bit about sword play. Make sure you don’t pick it up by the sharp end, love…’ usually followed by some variant on ‘ow, fuck, that nearly took my ear off… this is going to need stiches you fucking weirdo...’

She searches Taffeta’s eyes for a sign that she has done well - that her work has past muster and the wiry ranger is not disappointed in her.

“So…” she pauses, almost too scared to ask. “How was it? How did I do?”

“It wasn’t a test, you know,” Taffeta smiles. “But you’re doing grand.”

Pride and gratitude floods Sorrels body and she suddenly feels exhausted. Sorrel makes her way back to her room, tired, content, confused and a little unsure. She thought she knew how to handle a bow, but crashing into bed with her fingers raw and bleeding and her muscles on fire she realises everything she learned in Faerun was like a school audition. This strange continent and this sprawling mess of a city is where she was going to really learn her craft.