Adventure of Eowyn 1

Beyond the private booth, the arena boils with torchlight and distant shouting. Below, chained beasts circle beneath the mad king’s crimson balcony.

Eowyn stands beside another guild assassin, her white hair veiled in shadow, while the guild master confronts their richly robed client.

The client’s smile tightens. From below comes a sudden roar, and every torch in the booth gutters blue as unseen sorcery passes through the arena.

Eowyn stills beside the booth’s carved screen, letting the arena’s uproar fall beneath the sharper sounds: the client’s quick breath, the chains below, the guild master’s measured silence.

The guild master ignores the protest. His gaze settles on Eowyn, while blue fire crawls briefly along the booth’s iron fittings and fades.

The client’s composure breaks at the name. Below, something heavy strikes the arena bars, and the crimson balcony falls silent as every beast turns toward the booth.

(named Fetren) will be joining me and what I should do to veyr, capture or kill?","outcome":"success","trait":"Reasoning","traitLevel":"Great","roll":-2,"register":"advance","commitment":"committed","committedIntent":"ask the guild master whether Fetren will join her and whether to capture or kill Veyr","shade":"yes_but","sceneTitle":"A Second Blade Joins the Hunt","location":"Private arena booth"}

The guild master studies Eowyn over the blue-lit fittings. Below, the beasts quiet, leaving the client’s breathing exposed in the silence.

A spark leaps from the iron screen and bites Eowyn’s gloved hand, scorching the leather and raising a sharp smell. The client flinches back.

The guild master gives a curt nod. Fetren slips from the booth toward the stair, already measuring the quickest path through the arena’s galleries.

The guild master’s hand closes around the client’s writ, folding the forged seal until the parchment cracks. Blue fire withdraws from the iron fittings, and the arena doors below open.

Eowyn turns her nose up at the exiled client, granting him neither answer nor glance. His insult dies beneath the arena’s renewed roar.

Fetren slips through the booth’s rear curtain. Eowyn follows, her white hair hidden beneath shadow as they enter galleries crowded with torchbearers and masked patrons.

They pass above the arena’s iron tiers. Chained beasts pace below, while blue remnants of sorcery shimmer across the stone and vanish beneath passing feet.

Fetren leads her down a narrow servants’ stair and through a cracked arch. They emerge beneath the eastern gate, beside the headless stone saint.

Fetren crouches beside the headless saint, rubbing disturbed dust between two gloved fingers. Beyond the gate, the road divides beneath rain-dark walls.

He points through the gate toward a muddy lane marked by wagon ruts. A faint smear of pale dust crosses the stones, leading west before vanishing among hoofprints.

Eowyn falls in behind him, guarding the rear as Fetren guides her beneath the eastern gate and into a maze of servants’ corridors.

They pass sculleries, shuttered storerooms, and a stair smelling of wet stone. Fetren moves without haste, choosing turns that avoid guards and royal red cords.

At last a warped service door opens onto the capital’s western streets. Rain darkens the cobbles, and the Ash Bell’s painted sign creaks above the crowded road.

Fetren crosses toward the tavern, and Eowyn takes the rear as instructed. Behind them, the servants’ passage swallows its echoes beneath the city’s restless din.

Eowyn chuckles at Fetren’s unusual thanks and follows him beneath the Ash Bell’s creaking sign. Wet cloaks, sour ale, and woodsmoke crowd the low-ceilinged common room.

She lets her gaze travel across the hearth, serving benches, stairwell, and shuttered windows, marking exits and hands before settling near Fetren’s shoulder.

A serving girl crosses her view, and behind that brief obstruction a mud-spattered patron slips from the nearest bench toward the back passage.

The patron vanishes before Eowyn can distinguish his face or clothing. Her sweep has failed to identify the suspicious figure, but the back passage bears fresh river mud.

Eowyn steps toward the nearest benches and lets her white hair fall clear of its hood, offering the room an easy smile and a polished, inviting manner.

Her charm gathers a few glances but no lasting fascination. Cups pause, then resume, while several patrons watch her with guarded amusement instead of turning fully away.

Fetren reaches behind the bar and opens the lodging ledger. The keeper notices at once, planting one broad hand over its pages before he can search further.

Eowyn turns from the keeper with practiced disappointment, then catches a server’s laden tray with one swift hand before it can topple into the nearest patron.

Cups clatter against wood, ale splashes across the bar, and several patrons rise at once. The keeper’s attention snaps toward the commotion.

As the keeper rounds the bar to inspect the spill, Fetren bends over the exposed ledger. His gloved finger pauses at a fresh entry inked beneath yesterday’s names.

The keeper settles the tray upright and glares across the room, still absorbed in the disorder. Above, a floorboard creaks once, followed by careful silence.

Eowyn bats her eyelashes and lowers her gaze, adopting a flustered apology while ale glistens across the bar. The keeper’s scowl loosens into wary impatience.

Fetren closes the ledger beneath his coat and slips toward the rear stair. Eowyn hurries after him, leaving the keeper to grumble over the spill.

The stair groans beneath their weight. On the landing, the tavern’s smoky din fades, replaced by damp plaster, narrow doors, and the faint scent of river mud.

Fetren reaches the second-floor corridor and pauses beside the last door. A thin line of lamplight shows beneath it, while somewhere inside metal touches wood.

Secure the black reliquary