Uther Jalbeorne

----> Conner sheaths his sword with an enormous grin slapped across his face. "Doggie!" he exclaims. Walking brazenly forward, he extends his hands as if welcoming the hound to come and play with him. "Doggie, doggie, doggie," he giggles.
----> The hound continues its barking and baying, stopping only to stretch its obviously old muscles. The odd green lights from inside move toward the front door.
----> Alasdair falls in behind Conner, both of them making their way toward the cabin. The bard smartly keeps the larger man directly in front of him.

----> The door swings open quickly and bangs against the wooden exterior with a boom. In the doorway stands an elderly man of about 60 years of age.
----> "Who's out there?" he calls.
----> He is balding, but has the long, white hairs that grow on the side of his head combed over in an attempt at camouflaging the bare spots. He has a long moustache, also white, and limps noticeably. He is carrying a large glass jug inside of which float curious little green specks of light.
----> He sees Conner and Alasdair approaching and stands his ground silently, wordlessly asking what business they might have with him.
----> The old man reaches down and pets the hound into submission before taking a few more limping steps toward Conner and Alasdair.
----> "Greetings, old man," Alasdair hails him. The hermit steps to the edge of his porch, its planks groan and creak in protest. The big dog stands up again and begins barking. The old man, obviously annoyed at the sound, winces and turns to breath a gritty, "Quiet, Gerald!" at the loyal hound.

----> Another movement inside the cabin draws attention. Another man moves from inside to the doorway. He is clothed in black and he keeps both his hands inside the sleeves of his ankle-length robe. This man is shorter than the elderly hermit. He remains in the darkness of shadows, making it difficult to make out any real features.

----> "We have come to you for aid, sir," the bard continues. The old man scowls and seems prepared to dismiss the group when he sees Meggana, who also hails him.
----> "Uther," she says, "it's Meg." Her uniquely raspy female voice distinguishes her from any other.
----> Uther squints passed his jar of light and takes a moment to allow recognition to set in. He makes a face like someone had just given him a spoonful of sourberries and makes a noise that sounds half like a sigh, half like an indignant cough. His moustache twitches about when he does. He turns his back on the group and motions for them to follow him inside. The other figure also reenters the cabin.

----> The group enters, all save for Tharg and Conner who remain outside to play with the dog. "Doggie bite?" they ask.
----> "Only if you bite him first," Uther replies, looking at Tharg and Conner with near amazement at their size. The two barbarians remain outside with the hound as the rest of the group enters Uther's cabin.
----> Continuing into the living area of his home, he sets his jar of light on a small wooden endtable and then sits down into a comfortable looking armchair. Upon closer inspection, it is apparent the jar is filled with fireflies. Several other similar jars litter the room, lighting it better than any fire could and without the heat.
----> The robed man stands behind Uther off in a corner of the room, near a cold and darkened fireplace. The walls here are lined with shelf upon shelf of various odds and ends; ropes, candles, flasks of oils, liquids, and elixirs, pots, jars, and jugs of seeds, powders, and grains, vials, shells, leaves, nuts, dried fruits, and even a skull or three take occupancy here. A door leads out the back.
----> "So, do you all need my help or just one of you?" Uther asks in jovial tones. "I only have so much help to give, you know." Despite his demeanor, the party has a very strong feeling of safety inside this strange man's home.
----> The party looks at one another. Cyrdan and Alliandra seem transfixed on the black-robed elf. Meggana is the first to speak.
----> "We need a boat, Uther," she states plainly.
----> "That seems to be the dilemma of the day," he replies, looking up at his elven companion. "Everybody needs a boat," he repeats the request and then pauses to light a thick pipe. He strikes flint on the edge of the pipe and the spark sets thick, pungent smoke wafting about the air. "So go to any one of the infinite number of little fishing towns out here and buy one," he answers. Then, to the elf, he adds, "Whew, that was an easy one!"
----> "Well," Alasdair decides to take up the barter, "that's where our plans fail us. You see, there are complications to—"
----> "Ahhh! Complications!" Uther is all smiles. "You mean you cannot. You cannot because you're the group who killed the four young men in Deepbush."
----> Astonished that Uther knows their predicament, as well as the astonishment at the speed of bad news and the severity of that news, the group sits slack jawed.
----> "Oh, you're surprised I know this?" Uther almost laughs at the gawking group. He looks to his elven companion as if he should be sharing the old man's joke. His eyes twinkle when he smiles.
----> "We didn't kill anyone!" Alliandra gasps.
----> Uther smiles even brighter as if pleased the pretty, blonde cleric had taken his bait. "Ah, but rumors grow and evolve as they spread. Just like a disease rumors are, but I tell nothing new." He seems to be thoroughly pleased with himself. The elf doesn't crack a smile.

----> "So you need a boat?" he continues.
----> "Yes," Meggana answers directly. "We want to sail to Baragona."
----> The old man's twinkling eyes light up like fireworks at the news. "Ah, perfection!" he yells suddenly, looking up at the elf. "My companion, too, sails to Baragona. You must travel together."
----> Travel together?
----> "Yes, together you shall go," Uther adds.
----> Shaking his head in what appears to be dismay, the elf speaks at long last. "Your tongue is as slippery as your mind, Jalbeorne." His voice is thick with an elegant and unplaceable accent.
----> The grace characteristic of the fae is nothing compared to the way this elf glides across the room. Both hands folded under the sleeves of his robe, he slides over beside Uther like water over ice before speaking. "U-dah," he says in a foreign tongue, "Tu cana goran poda pietran."
----> "Oh, but you must," Uther urges. "I have only two operational boats and I need one to fish with. I cannot give them both away!" he explains. "And how silly would it be? You all travel to the same destiny."
----> "Destination," the elf corrects him in the common tongue.
----> "Whatever," the old man's eyes again twinkle like fireworks of turquoise.

----> "I am called Taer Tilwic," the elf states coldly, bowing only slightly. Alliandra breathes in slightly and then excuses herself for the outburst. Cyrdan stares wide-eyed at the elf. Alasdair, too, is deeply intrigued at the sound of the Blackrobe title.
----> "Tilwic is on diplomatic commission for the Marryk," Uther informs them.
----> Tilwic scowls at the old man. "Again, Uther, your oily tongue has spilled more than it should."
----> Uther squints his eyes, still smiling. "Oh, pish-posh!" he humphs. "Trust them, I say."
----> "What is the Marryk?" Grant, standing idly by, finally asks.
----> "Elves," Cyrdan answers.
----> "True enough," Uther agrees, "but not just elves, no! They live only in the jungles here in Nuatuc and they have distanced themselves from all human contact."
----> "They are a tribal group of my people," Tilwic adds. "They are very superstitious and extremely militant. They'd as soon eat the flesh from your bones as allow you to sit at their table."
----> "Pish-posh!" Uther quickly interjects. "They're no more bloodthirsty than the rest of us!" he smiles broadly and waves a hand at the other occupants of this cozy living room.
----> "Taking humans endangers my mission," Tilwic replies, raising his voice.
----> "Pish-posh again to you," Uther seems to be enjoying the upper hand he has in the situation. "Do you doubt my judgement, Taer Tilwic?" Uther's voice is completely non-threatening, though there seems to be some kind of powerful overtones present.
----> Tilwic is blatantly unhappy about the situation. "Nit, U-dah Jayl-born," he says in his distinctly foreign dialect of elven. "Er tu cana respodryn kenna mi jobotru fali." His patience with the old man is quickly waning.
----> "Oy defan mai ti fali," Uther answers him. "And it won't."
----> The defiant elf makes a sound that resembles a loud 'Bah!' and Taer Tilwic walks through the front door.

----> "Ha, ha!" Uther laughs heartily. "It seems the noble Taer Tilwic has become flustered! Ah, but do not worry for him!"
----> Alasdair stands and asks Uther about Tilwic. "Is he what I think he is?"
----> "That, my good bard," Uther replies, eyes twinkling again, "depends on what you think he is."
----> "He is Blackrobe, is he not?" Cyrdan offers the conversation.
----> "He is," Uther affirms. "But Blackrobes are mortal, too, despite what legend and rumor have made them out to be. They are clerics, such as the Princess here," he says, nodding in Alliandra's direction.
----> "Princess?!" Alasdair nearly jumps out of his chair at the suggestion. Eyes shoot to Alliandra's blushing face.
----> "Then you did not know?" Uther takes a moment to slap himself on the knee and laugh amiably. "Ha, ha! Rich is the world, rich is the world! Yes, a Princess!"
----> "Good, sir," Alliandra attempts to parley, amused at the idea, "I'm afraid you have me mistaken for something I am not." With her ragged cleric's robe and her long, blonde hair all unkempt and snarly, Alliandra looks no more like a princess than Tharg or Conner appear as scholars.
----> "Oh, but did I slip another secret?" Uther says, suddenly shocked. "Maybe my tongue is oilier than I myself even expected, eh?"
----> Alliandra is still smiling, her eyes never leaving the old man's face. "I'm sorry, sir," she attempts to correct his obvious case of mistaken identity, "but I am no Princess." She turns to the rest of the faces staring at her, "Though if there's an opening for the position, I'd gladly accept!"
----> This brings a small bit of laughter from the group. A bit guilty it feels, however, to laugh at an old man's senility.

----> "Well, then," Uther moves on, seeing he cannot win the battle, "things will be as they are." Still, he smiles. "At any rate, my boat does not go for free."
----> Alasdair is suddenly suspicious. "I knew this was too easy," he mumbles under his breath.
----> "Ah, but aren't all things so?" Uther catches the comment. "What I require is simple. Under the great temple Baragon is a system of catacombs. In a chamber of gentle water grows a flower of magical property. The Hydrezzamine. You will bring me this flower in repayment for the boat rental."
----> "A flower?" Grant asks, semi-bewildered. "That's all?" He seems a bit displeased and relieved at the same time.
----> "Oh, you'll not find this task to be A-B-C, 1-2-3!" Uther laughs at him. "This flower is deadly to the touch. You will have to find some other way to harvest it."
----> Alasdair groans and Meggana gasps at the information.
----> "And there's my other stipulation," Uther continues his list of conditions. "Do not defile the temple in any way, shape, or form."
----> Doesn't seem like a problem.
----> "And no hurting the apes that live there," Uther goes on, shaking a finger at the party. "They are unique to Baragona and can be found nowhere else in Urthania."
----> That doesn't seem too terribly troublesome either.
----> "Oh," Uther says, as if he just remembered. "And you will have to give me something of equal or greater value as collateral."
----> "Well," Alasdair thinks, "we don't have much gold."
----> "Bah! What use have I for gold?" the old man snaps. He laughs aloud like he knows the punchline to a joke that wasn't told.
----> "What else have we to give?" Alliandra asks.
----> "Well," Uther ponders. "I guess one of you will just have to stay behind."
----> "Now wait just a minute," Alasdair jumps up. "I know you don't know us and have no reason at all to trust us, but our cause is noble!" He goes on, explaining the events leading up to the here and now. He includes and elaborates on the part where Slim is cut by the drunken pirates. "We can pay you what little wealth we have, but we cannot leave one of our own behind."
----> "Beggars can't be choosers, young bard! My boats are my life and livelihood; I must be guaranteed their safe return." He pulls the pipe from where it had settled in the corner of his lips and then runs his fingers over his head to readjust the long white hairs that poorly hide his balding dome. "But I suppose that since your cause is indeed noble, I shall have to settle for something lesser."
----> The group looks at one another. All that they have is necessity. Their wealth is minimal, if nonexistent.
----> "Since I trust Taer Tilwic, I will allow you to use my watercraft without collateral," the old man says, adjusting his hair with the swipe of a hand.
----> The group is relieved, however momentarily.
----> "However," Uther goes on, smiling widely, "I want a portion of whatever you find in Baragon. I trust Taer Tilwic to keep you all honest."
----> Alasdair is quick to snap, "I thought you weren't interested in gold?"
----> The twinkle returns. "There's wealthier things in Baragon," Uther's smile turns up a bit in the corner of his mouth, "than mere gold."

----> The barbarians return just then, and Uther leaves the conversation at that.
----> Tharg and Conner bring in a kanchil (mouse-deer) and dinner is promptly cooked and served. Conner feeds gerald a healthy portion of the kanchil's meat. It is decided that the party will leave at first light. The group sleeps on the floor while Uther retires to a bedroom off the living area. Tilwic never reappears.