The Hand that Grasps the Thistle - 23 Elesias (25 August)

“So I sez to ‘im, I sez ‘Listen ‘ere, you great lummox. You so much as look at that cow agen an I’ll ‘ave yer knackers for a door jam’”
Beside him on the drivers bench of the cart, Cob snorts derisively.
“Bren Stilwell, you keep tellin’ tales about bull-men ogling yer livestock and I’ll leave you in this damn field to walk home.”
“Ain’t no lie, Cob Fenwith” the plump, sandy haired farmer retorts indignantly. “Big as a horse ‘e was. Called ‘imself a My-Noe-Tore, an said they dint ‘ave cows where ‘e was from!”
His friend waves him to silence, squinting down the road at a plume of dust in the direction they’re heading and pushing the hat back on his sweaty, balding head.
“What in the world...”
His eyes widen and he saws at the reigns, dragging old Bessie off the road just in time to avoid the hurricane of dusk as it tears past them. Bren wipes the grit from his eyes and looks at his friend in abject befuddlement as a dozen turnips spill into the ditch beside the Angelway.
“Black Gods! What in the Nine Hells was that?”
Cob spits road dust and tries to clear his eyes as he turns to his friend looking equally nonplussed.
“Looked like a man riding a giant stag.”
As one they swivel in their seats to watch the plume recede into the distance, then share a long suffering grimace.
“Bloody adventurers!”
Several hours later, Tuevel pulls up in the deep shadows of the southern Angelbark Woods. From his back, Varis radiates smugness.
“Told you so.”
The great Silver Stag pointedly ignores him, instead inclining his head toward a particularly dense thicket ahead and a little to their right.
“This is the place Conrad mentioned.”
The smile fades from Varis’ face and he touches the sigil on his cuirass, closing his eyes briefly. The symbol glows red and the air seems to pulse around him. He opens his eyes, searching the undergrowth, then raises his voice to be heard over the birdsong.
“Taffeta? It’s Varis. We need to speak.”
A few moments later, a familiar voice calls out from the thicket.
"Stay where you are. What souvenir did I get from the gith?"
Varis pauses for a moment, listening to try and get a sense of where the voice is coming from. Getting no more than a vague sense of direction, he casts his mind back to the battle in the Underdark several months ago.
“You took a pair of stones that let you speak over great distances. You said you wanted them so you could talk to Nerry when you were away from home.”
More time passes with no sound but the murmurings of the forest. Then, the same voice again:
"What mask did you wear at the ball?"
Varis strains his ears, trying to pin down the location of the voice.
“A black stag. I also wore a Crimson Fist dress uniform in black and red. You wore yellow silk and a sparrow mask. Now will you stop hiding and speak to me?”
With a rustle of bushes, Taffeta steps out, her crossbow ready but not aimed. Her hair is less tidy than usual, the hollows of her eyes darker.
"Don't take that tone with me, soldier boy," she says. "What d'you want?"
Varis eyes the crossbow with distaste, a slight frown creasing his brow. He takes a measured breath before speaking, Tuevel turning slowly until they both face the Hin woman.
“I appreciate the necessity of your questions, so I hope you will not begrudge me taking similar precautions.”
He reaches slowly to touch the Crimson Fist on his breastplate, closing his eyes, and once more the air around him pulses. Seeming satisfied, he turns his attention back to Taffeta.
“I am leading a group of friends and allies to Sigil. I believe the information brokers there will be able to tell us how to find Khingo and another fiend I seek. I came to ask if you would join me - both because you are a formidable warrior and because it concerns you and the safety of your family directly. What say you?”
"Oh, I heard about your little notes. What was it, 'A situation has arisen with Taffeta Thistletop and myself'?" She recites the phrase in a mocking, pompous voice. "Did you think just because I can't read I wouldn't find out you've been throwing my name around to all and sundry so they'd agree to go gallivanting off to Sigil with you?"
Varis’ face goes blank, and his voice when he replies is strangely flat, with neither the fervour of old nor the good humour that has become so common of late.
“I understand you are afraid for your family’s safety - rightly so. But I would encourage you to remember you speak to an ally, to someone who seeks the same thing as you - an end to the threat that looms over your family and our home. I am sorry if you believe I have misused your name. Know it was only to further this shared goal - the safety of Daring, and of you and yours.”
"You would, would y–"
Taffeta stops talking suddenly and she turns her head slightly, seeming to listen intently to something off to her right. After a few moments focused on the sounds of the forest she seems to relax a little, then returns her attention to Varis.
"Listen, I don't know why you've come here. You didn't bother talking to me before you decided I wanted your help, or before you came up with this half-baked plan, or before you went telling it to half the town – including the rakshasa's lackeys I shouldn't wonder. Why bother talking to me now? Just to make sure I know where and when I'm to report for duty, Grandmaster Varis, sir? Or to give me the chance to thank you in person for so generously allowing me to take part in your– your heroic mission to rescue me and my– my–"
The bitterness and anger in her face seems to twist now into something more desperate as she fights to hold herself together.
"How dare you!" she chokes. "How dare you come here like this! You have no right! This has nothing to do with you!"
As Taffeta unleashes this deluge, Varis’ face goes from blank to frosty. The only exception is his eyes, which burn with a steady green fire. His words when they come are low and clipped.
“You think this thing will care who it hurts getting to you? Every friend, every casual acquaintance - hells, anyone you’ve ever said hello to in the street - it will torture them to death and laugh while it does it. You cannot hide from it. You cannot run from it. It will burn this forest to the ground and piss on your ashes.”
"As if you fucking care!" shouts Taffeta, her voice ragged. "Go on, fuck off to Sigil then! Just leave us alone!"
If Varis’ face was frosty before, now it is positively arctic.
“Fine” he hisses “cower here in terror while the rest of us fix your mess. You’ll know we’ve failed when that thing comes for you wearing your children’s skin.”
Without waiting for a response, he turns the great stag and gallops off through the trees. When they have gone half a mile, he feels Tuevel’s presence at the back of his mind, calm and matter of fact.
“I have seen you rage before, Godslayer. I have never seen you be cruel.”
The young man says nothing, but his expression is one of weariness and shame. For all his conviction, he cannot help feeling that somewhere, their enemies are smiling.