>>5935679>>5935693>>5935712>>5935756>>5935769>>5935842Logically, you know there is not a constant flow of information between the Celestial Gods of Freedom (such as Pricness Yllarquin) and their earthly subjects. There is every chance that you remain relatively unknown to the peoples of the Sylvan Realms. But then again, how great to the Moon Goddesses perceive your transgression to be? Would they think it genuinely necessary to alert the authorities to your escape from Holy Luna? How dangerous do they think you are, exactly?
(Rather: how dangerous have you in fact BECOME?)
No, better to not chance it. You will send a message via Veloz, but it will not be to Clanirae, nor the bard Endingray, nor even to your own mother. Rather, it will be to the one elfman you know to be outside the social structures of Sylvan society: the dire lycanthrope Oncyth. The werewolf owes you a life-debt, not yet called in, for your having liberated him in mind and body from those awful Unseelie slavers who bound him and forced him to fight like a beast of war. You borrow Izzy’s inkpot and quill, and tear a small enough scrap of paper that our winged companion can carry it in his thin beak; upon this, you crawl the simple shorthand: ‘Ezreal. Do'suul udossta delmah, wern'in dobor. Sila chimera.’
You pass the paper to Veloz, whisper a description of the elfman you seek—in BOTH his forms—and give the little bird a quick kiss on the forehead. Then, hoping and praying that the wildman reads elventongue as well as he speaks it, you let Veloz fly forth to carry your note.
“I thought we were doing this the right way?” Pearce inquires, though without judgement in his voice.
“We are,” you assure him. “But just in case things don’t go according to plan…”
You blush a little, faintly embarrassed.
“I sent for Muffins.”
Pearce doesn’t laugh at your desire to reunite with your pet, though, instead merely nodding.
“I miss the big old furball, too,” he admits. “As much as I appreciate Muffins, though, he can’t exactly read. Who are you sending for?”
“You’ll see,” you say.
(‘I hope’, you think.)
No response comes for some time, and eventually you must either sleep or, in casting <Daylight> to keep yourself awake, draw attention to the fact that you are waiting for something or someone. Worried about the Rangers’ reaction, you eventually allow yourself to fall into a much needed sleep. You don’t even drag yourself to your tent, simply wrapping your robe around you by the fire.
You are half-awake when you hear the chuffing, rumbling breath and feel the pressure of a wet nose, and a tugging upon your hair.
“Nnn,” you groan. “Still nighttime… Lemme’ sleep, Muffins.”
(…Wait…)
“Muffins!” you shout, sitting up.
