Intrigue at the Hung Rabbit (downtime)

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A few days before the finale of the Amaranthine Games...


Milo approaches the door to the Hung Rabbit apprehensively. He looks again at the scrap of parchment which Igrainne (RETIRED) had hurriedly handed him earlier in the day, reads the words “Meet me at The Hung Rabbit at midnight”. Opening the door he steps through to the musty interior.

The half-Drow is already there, sitting by one of the round, wooden tables. Mulling over a half-empty tankard of ale, she perks up when she sees Milo enter the tavern area, and jerks her head to indicate he join her.

“First off, I apologise for all this...” she gesticulates with both hands. “...secrecy. It might not have been required in the end, but I wouldn’t like to lose my head over this.”

The ranger beckons at the barkeep to give her guest a drink. “The reason I want to talk to you is...I’ve heard you’re participating in the Amaranthine finale. And that you’ve met Queen Sarastra herself.”

Milo strokes his beard, frowning.

"'Met' might be too strong a word for it. I was in the party that escorted High Priest Rholor to her palace, and we were in the audience when she named him her chosen. I never spoke to her."

"Right. Of all the people she could've chosen, she chose to ascend the man who just happens to be an important member of the Council of Daring Heights. On top of that, she has a vassal king working for her, doing her bidding in the kingdom up north. Why do you think that is? What's she planning?"

"I think you've dug up some pyrite and haven't looked close enough to see it's not gold. From what I gather this ascension stuff isn't something you give to any Tom, Durkon or Harry off the street. Chances are everyone who's been chosen is important where they come from. I can't speak for any 'vassal kings' as honestly I'm not sure what you're talking about there."

Igrainne knits her eyebrows at Milo's expression, softly mouthing a confused, "Wha...?" She decides she'll look it up later. "But anyway, look at the other candidates for ascension. The River King chose some mage who made a pact with him. Titania's is a paladin who's sworn to protect the forests and wilderness over which she rules. Sarastra is making political alliances with men who have significant influence in this part of the Material Realm. First, with the Bear King of the Bear Kingdom – an ally of Daring Heights, I should clarify – and now with this high priest. Honestly, I wouldn't even bring this up if it weren't for..."

She falls silent when the barkeep arrives to slide a tankard of ale in front of the dwarf. Her eyes trail briefly on his back as he leaves before continuing.

"...the plague," she murmurs. "I assume you've heard the rumours? That Ulorian caused it to get an advantage in the games? No one here really knows what being ennobled as a fey truly means. But the stakes are high enough for him to do something like that. The Archfey are fickle immortals, yes, but unleashing a plague? It's absolutely unprecedented."

"Yes, I've heard the rumours alright. I even got caught up in that mess, couldn't leave my bed in the Ettin for two tendays! That's where I was staying at the time..."

Milo can see that Igrainne is getting frustrated, from his lack of belief or his diversion of the subject, so he puts down his tankard, wipes the foam from his moustache, and raises his hands.

"Alright, alright. Let's say there's something in what you say. The River King is dangerous and the Queen of Night is dangerous, and the fey are all dangerous. Tell me something I don't know! But if you've got specific concerns, why come to me? I'm just a smith! Go to the Council."

"Well, I can't very well go to the Council complaining about the Queen if the head honcho is in the Queen's pocket, can I?” she reasons. “And as for why you, Mr Brightmane, two things. First, you signed up to compete in Sarastra's name. And second." She considers her next words. "When I was out gathering information, I also looked into each competitor's reason for participating. I was told that you want to be there to make sure no one gets hurt."

She unhooks her leaf-shaped cloak clasp and places it on the table. The polished brass shines in the dim candlelight, highlighting the black engraving of a stag's head.

"I'm the same, okay? We at the Emerald Enclave are sworn to protect the natural order, but that doesn't just mean stopping too many trees from getting cut down and whatnot. People are part of the natural order, too. And people are gonna get hurt, if that thing from Mechanus gets his way, if Sarastra extends her dominion over the realms of men, if the River King shows up at the finale...

I need you to be my eyes and ears on Sarastra's side on the day of the finale, Mr Brightmane. I'd do it myself, but due to recent events I'm..." She sucks in air through gritted teeth. "...beholden to Titania. I'm keeping an eye on her side of things, too. I just want to protect everyone, sir, but I can't do it without some help."

Milo looks Igrainne in her clear blue eyes, so stark in that dark face.

"I think you underestimate Rholor. He's sensible, under the pomp and bluster.

And the 'natural order'? That's a conveniently vague phrase. I get the impression these games have been running for a long, long time. Probably longer than your Enclave has even existed. They practically are the natural order.” He pauses a second, two.

“But I do agree that something doesn't feel right. And that the fey are dangerous. I'll keep my ear to the ground, alright? It's closer than yours already," Milo says with a wink. The corners of Igrainne’s lips curl upwards.

“You might be right about the games being an ancient tradition,” she replies, “but I suspect that involving and ascending non-fey is a new development. I’ve never heard of Archfey allowing humans, tieflings, and... whatever Jack is into their courts until I arrived in Kantas.”

“Have you spoken to anyone else? Someone representing Jack?"

“No, not yet. A lot of the people rooting for him seem to take pity on him, even though the situation where he wins could be the most dangerous. A creature of Mechanus does not belong in the Feywild, it goes against his very nature. That’s something I have to deal with once I’m done with...” she trails off and shifts in her chair. “You wouldn’t happen to know anyone in Jack’s box who’d be willing to help me, would you?”

Milo takes another draught from his tankard as he thinks. "I haven't encountered Jack at all yet, but from what I hear he - it - is already pretty mad. I guess too long in the Feywild has already had an effect on him. Maybe he'd fit in better than you'd think. I don't know, that kind of thing is far outside my understanding. Even the concept of other realms of existence boils my brain a little, but I think I'll have to adjust quickly in Kantas...”

“I think he’s more concerned with revenge than fitting in,” she mutters darkly, half to herself. Milo doesn’t comment.

“As for someone on Jack's team... Perhaps Markas, the young monk, but something... I don't know. Maybe he's too young. But then look who I'm talking to! And there's some back home who would call me young too. We're all young to someone. Maybe he is the right person. He's got a good heart."

Igrainne grins. “I certainly believe you’re young at heart, Mr Brightmane. And Markas, yeah, I’ve met him,” she says, remembering the agile half-elf youth dressed in rags. If Milo has a good opinion of him, then he’s worth trying. “I’ll talk to him later, thank you. By the way, how do you reckon we communicate on the day of the games? We’ll be put in separate tents.”

Milo tugs on his beard a little.

"I don't know that we can communicate. Unless there's a point where we're all together. I guess we'll just have to be careful, play our part, and act if we need to. And keep each other updated if we get the chance."

"Right. I'll figure something out later. I, uh, I didn't think this far ahead," she confesses and takes a gulp of ale. "As a Drow, I really ought to be better at this plotting and scheming stuff."

"On the other hand, they say the eyes are windows into the soul, which would make you mostly human.” Milo smiles. "Who I generally find to be brave and caring, if quite reckless. I suppose with such short lives they don't want to waste time. But whoever gave you those eyes also gave you a little more life to play with,” he says, standing up. "So take care of it."

He drains the end of his drink, and sets the tankard down on the table. Laying his heavy, broad hand on Igrainne's shoulder which, seated, is only just below his own, he says, "See you at the Games." And makes his way out into the dark town.

"Goodbye, Mr. Milo," she says quietly. Her eyes glued on his gradually diminishing form, Igrainne picks up the cloak clasp on the table and absently tries to put it back on. She lets out a hiss of pain when the tip of the pin misses and briefly buries itself in her index finger. A drop of blood, squeezing out of a vessel, rises on the surface of her obsidian skin.

She presses a thumb against the wound and tries to ignore it.