Scatha - Seinor - Chyril 23rd

[wyrdgirluk]

Scatha had heard a great deal about Aveas from the remaining Panlings - mostly bad things concerning the Oneists and how they had driven the previous occupants from the place and taken it for their own, only to be driven from it themselves in the wake of the war. It didn't sound like a particularly nice place, as opposed to Seinor... which, according to the Panlings, was almost the equivalent of the Mother's potting shed. Scatha liked potting sheds - they were always full of interesting things, with the exception of old Hamish Alpen's potting shed in Dort, which contained nothing more interesting than Hamish. Scatha had always given his shed a wide berth after he kept pestering her to inspect his aubergines.

So Scatha was quite hopeful as she approached Seinor; at best it would contain food, and drink, and gainful employment, and hopefully hot water and a bath, and at worst it might contain any number of small implements for dibbing seeds.

[Finodborn]

His hands tucked in his pockets, Finodborn kicked a little rock. In his case, this had to be considered an unusually strong external display of aggression. He had been trying to find peace of mind in the tranquil glades near Seinor. To no avail. The now seemingly permanent presence of the occupation in what used to be his home city was one thing. But the inert acceptance of it by the majority of his kinfolk gave new meaning to the word frustration. At the same time, he resembled his old self enough to realize he couldn't do much about it on his own. He didn't feel like making music either, which used to be an infallible way to lift his spirits.

Right now, few foreigners would have had a positive influence on his mood, to put it mildly. The approaching blonde, roughly his own size, could be the exception to that rule, however.

His eyes started out as narrow clefts, trying to identify the vaguely familiar silhouette. As they approached each other, his eyes became bigger and his pace slowed down, until he was standing totally still, with a baffled stare direction Scatha Ashtir, whom he had considered lost in the war.

[wyrdgirluk]

As she drew closer to Seinor, Scatha fell in stream of people going to and from the Panling settlement, and quickened her pace. With all these people, there is bound to be an inn, and where there is an inn, there is bound to be a bath, and I am going to get straight into that bath, and just float in it until the water goes cold. And then I'll get more hot water, and do it all again... These delicious thoughts distracted her from paying attention to her fellow travellers, until she became suddenly aware of someone standing in the road in front of her. Scatha looked up and saw...

"FINODBORN!" Scatha emitted a shriek of pleasure and jumped onto the elf, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, and hugged him tight. The last time she had seen him had been just before the War of the One, and in the time since the end of the war she had neither seen nor heard nothing more of him... and given him up for dead. And now, instead, he was standing in the road to Seinor.

"How are you? I thought you were dead! What happened to you? Where have you been? What are you doing now? Oh, its good to see a familiar face!" She hugged him tighter, and waited for an answer, but the only response seemed to be a peculiar muffled noise that appeared to be coming from her bosom. Scatha glanced down, and realised that Finodborn's face was placed immediately against her splendid cleavage, and that she was inadvertantly suffocating him. Letting go of his neck, she gently took him by the ears, pulled his head free and kissed him on the forehead; "Take a deep breath, and tell me EVERYTHING," she said with a grin...

[Finodborn]

Next thing he knew, he found himself in unfamiliar but nevertheless pleasant surroundings. The sky here was of such a great density, that he couldn't see a thing. It was also of an unusual, warm softness, and then the smell... This place had clearly not been in contact with perfumes, soap or other cunning disguises of scent for a while. But it had a natural, dazzling sweetness that was even more delicious than that of a bread oven, spring flowers or fresh-ground coffee. It was something unlike he had ever smelled before, something that rattled him to his knees, that pulled him by some invisible handle deep in his stomach, causing a pleasant form of nervousness. This has to be Pan's glade, he decided with determination. I must have fallen in one of them portals or something. He wanted to mutter a prayer, but found it impossible. I see. Sacred silence.

As soon as it had come, it went. The breeze made the sweat on his face feel cold. As his mind reluctantly returned to logical deduction, he managed to reconstruct what had just happened and started to blush. He found Scatha sitting on his hips, and his hands somehow supporting her back too. As if it had been an era, he blinked, and his eyes slowly started regaining normal proportions as she kissed his forehead. Even though leaving them had been positive for his oxygen supply, he couldn't help his eyes from moving back to those admirable body parts with a feeling of homesickness.

"Hi miss Ashtir," he said with an uneasy but pleased smile, while breathing in, hence the squeaky vocal sounds he produced. "I'm very happy to see you too," he said, trying to get her to get back on the ground by means of a subtle but encouraging tap on the back. Delving up the words from his common vocabulary was hard enough, but under these distracting circumstances nearly impossible. "I feared something very bad had happened to you. Many things have passed. Where have you been yourself? Are you on your way to Seinor?"

[wyrdgirluk]

"All the better for seeing a friendly face," Scatha replied cheerfully, sliding off Finodborn and back on to her feet. "To be honest, I was worried that somehing bad had happened to me as well - but it didn't, I just got lost instead, and missed everything. I didn't even see anyone get killed... though I saw a lot of bodies, and buried a lot of people," she added wistfully. "And now... now I am going to Seinor, to see what there is to see, and hopefully find something else to do, other than help bury dead people and build broken houses." She grinned at Findoborn; "It is good to see you again - it seems a lifetime since we last met. So - what happened to you? Was the war very dreadful for you? And what are you doing her - are you leaving Seinor, just as I am arriving?"

[Finodborn]

The explanation of her recent doings was confusing, but from what he knew about this young woman, he reckoned it was not unusual. He wondered whether there actually existed people who shared the wavelength of this Force of Nature also known as Scatha.

"Yes, too many tides have passed since our last encounter. But I'm very glad nonetheless that we may meet again now, Pan be blessed."
As he continued, he lowered his voice somewhat. "I saw many people slain. But none of them were on our side. So the war itself wasn't too bad. It's rather what's happening now that's dreadful. My old home is inhabited by greedy foreigners, and my people seem to accept this. It makes me very sad." As if he felt caught with a somber expression on his face, he wiped it off, and straightened his shoulders.

"But what can I do?" he shrugged, with a faint grin playing around his lips. "After having taken a walk to take my mind of things, I was on my way back to Seinor. It isn't much yet, but I can show you around what's already there. Do you intend to stay here for a long time?"

[wyrdgirluk]

Scatha pursed her lips; "You say your old home is inhabited by foreigners... do you actually mean the house you used to live in has other people living in it now? Or are you talking about all the new people who have come to live here since the war?" She liked to have issues spelt out her in very simple terms; any other type of explanation just made her head hurt. "And yes, I would very much like to see what there to see in Seinor; I have never visited it before. Do you think there might be somewhere with a bath?" she asked hopefully...

[Finodborn]

Looking at the expression of cognitive challenge on her face, Finodborn elaborated: "The Oneist's wart called Aveas was Tal'FeaTaur before they came. I was born in that city. I had left it to travel a few yahren before the war. I don't know what happened to my parents. But I'm rather certain that some of those swines are actually living in my old home."

"I don't know Seinor very well yet. It's still somewhat... improvised. But I'm pretty sure I'll be able to find you a bath somewhere," he smiled -his teeth bare even-. The word bath reminded him of something, something of importance, but he couldn't recall, no matter how hard he tried. He shrugged mentally, and continued: "Or do we smell so badly that you doubted it?"

He offered her an arm to continue their way. "Your appearance is one of the most joyful things that has happened to me lately," he said, and started to hum a spirited tune.

[wyrdgirluk]

Scatha's eyes narrowed; "But that's terrible," she said angrily. "If someone else is living in the house that belongs to you and your family, then they should go and you should take back what is yours. That's simply not fair." Her expression sudenly brightened; "I know," she said breathlessly, "why don't I help you get it back? We could ask them nicely to leave, and if they don't then I'll hit them. That usually works."

She took Finodborn's offered arm with a smile, suddenly stopped, brought her head close to his and then... sniffed. She shook her head; "You don't need a bath," she said cheerfully, before a crestfallen expression replaced her smile; "But I bet I do. You could plant a crop of turnips underneath my fingernails. Take me to a place with a bath, and tell me more about your house, and who is living in it now, and that way we can make a plan on how to get your home back." Scatha liked that idea very much; the idea of helping someone she liked pleased her immensely, almost as much as his lovely compliments and his beautiful voice. "And I can't imagine that just meeting me has made you that joyful. Usually meeting me makes people run the other way. But it's nice of you to say so. Sing me something while we walk; I like listening to your voice."

[Finodborn]

"I wholeheartedly agree, miss Ashitr," he said, as they strolled to Seinor. "But they have an army. We aren't even allowed to enter what used to be our own city anymore." He imagined he himself would run away screaming, should a Scatha in a hitting spree show up at his door. Even if he had a full plate armor. Then again, he wasn't famous for his warrior cool or tough attitude.

His head instinctively tried to distance itself from the approaching nose. As his neck was of finite length, and her arm hooked in his, it couldn't go that far. Then he noticed the evading manoeuvre of his own body and turned to see what was coming. He stopped humming. He expected a peck of some sort or the other. The muscles in his shoulders started contracting, and gently lowered again at her sniffing sign.

Scatha made him nervous. Finodborn always wore a serene, detached mask with the duty of hiding his every impulse, so that he could not be judged on them. He didn't know her well, but he felt her tendency to behave totally unpredictably was a threat to the smoke screen. For it was impossible to predict wether Scatha was going to make him feel charmed, embarrassed, admiring, uncomfortable, scared or puzzled in the coming flicker (even though the latter was somewhat more probable than the other possibilities.)
She seemed to speak her mind always and everywhere, and was apparently unhindered by any sort of anticipation of problems or failure in whatever she did. Her confidence bordered on arrogance. In each of these qualities, she was his opposite. Which made her both difficult to understand and fascinating. On top of it all, she was very attractive in an unostentatious way, a quality that was usually calamitous for his ability to make any sort of sense.

He relaxed a bit again, and they continued their walk. "You're like the first swallow of spring. That's why I'm in a good mood now. Nothing but tiring or downright bad things have been happening lately. You're the first nice thing to come along in tides."
He thought of why people would run from Scatha. The image of the armored character fleeing from her temperament forced itself upon his mind yet again. "Surely you must have some close friends? You always struck me as a kind and... interesting person."

"Teach me a song from Dort then. Remember how I mistook you for a Trothguardian?"

[wyrdgirluk]

Scatha mused on Finodborn's reply; "They might have an army, but that doesn't mean that you need an army to drive them out," she said eventually. "There was a man in Dort, who had lots of money, and he came with his family to try and break the cattle trade in the Midlands. He had so much money that he could buy a herd, and then sell it at a loss, so that all the dealers went to him for their cattle. A lot of the small herders started to run out of money, so the rich man bought their land and their herds, and just got bigger and bigger. Everyone thought that eventually he would get so big and rich that eventually he would buy all of the land, and all of the cattle, and own all of the Midlands."

"Instead, everyone agreed to stop being nice to him and his family. No-one would trade goods with him, or sell him vegetables, or seed. That must have hurt his purse, but he was very rich, and could have still have bought those things in from Dort itself. And do you know what it was that stopped him, in the end? His family. No-one would speak to them, or give them the time of day, or play with them. And because his wife and children became so unhappy, he sold up, and went back to being a rich merchant in Dort. And that is what we need to do to make those people leave your home; stop being friends with them, and make life unpleasant for them - not horrible, kill-people-with-blood unpleasant, but just nasty enough that they want to leave. Then we could take back what was yours." Scatha paused to take a breath; these were quite big ideas, and they made her head hurt. "In fact, if you got enough people wth the same idea, you could easily disrupt lots of aspects of day to day life. If caravans and carts going to market never reached the market, the market would eventually close, and when people couldn't get the things they wanted, they would go somewhere else. Don't you see?"

Scatha paused again to gather her thoughts, and to mull over Finodborn's compliments. It was lovely to be compared to the first swallow of spring, especially if it was a bite of strawberry, or a mouthful of cider, but not if it was a fly that inadvertantly flew into your mouth while you were burping. And being the first nice thing that came along in a tide was lovely too, as long as he didn't mean a dead fish. Scatha took a quick peek down her blouse, sniffed again to check and, re-assured, returned her attention to Finodborn's questions.

"I do have some friends - back in Dort, in the Midlands - but I haven't seen them in ages. Besides, most of them were getting really boring - all they ever talked about was boys and whether they were fat and whether their dresses were too tight. Dull dull dull. And then I made new friends in the Citadel, and in Trothgard... but I seem to have lost them along the way. So it's good to find someone from the past, here in the now. As for being interesting..." Scatha burst out laughing, and shook her head; "I've been called lots of things, but never that," she said with a smile. "Not unless you want to talk about cattle and hide."

Finodborn's next request - for a song - took her quite aback. Well - why not? she thought. One song is as good as the next. "Alright then," she grinned. "This is a song that the boys sing in the Midlands, when they want to catch the eyes of a girl. I'm no singer, though - my dad used to make me sing in the fields, to frighten crows away, so no complaining." And Scatha took a breath, and sang:

Will it be the girl from the city of Dort
With lips so soft and kisses of honey
And a da with plenty of money

Oh I'll not pick the girl from the city
I'd rather take a Midlands lass
For she is sweet and pretty

Will it be the girl from the Highlands far
Where the women are wild and frisky
And their kisses taste of whisky

Oh I'll not pick a girl so gritty
I'd rather have a Midlands lass
For she is sweet and pretty

Will be the girl from the dirty town
On an Islay corner with her eyes turned down
Who'd sell her kisses for just a crown

Oh I'd not pick such a girl for pity
I'd rather love a Midlands lass
For she is sweet and pretty


"There you are," she said when she'd finished. "Although I'm neither sweet nor pretty." Secretly, Scatha hoped that Finodborn was going to say she was, but she wasn't going to fish for compliments. "Now, you sing it back to me."

[Finodborn]

Cynism and appreciation fought over who could reply. He felt the urge to point out that the relations hardly involved friendly "Good morn'tide!"s or surprise meet and greet parties with the occasional home-made pie or fruit wine. They didn't need for carts to go to any market, since the bastards could reel in everything they needed by ship or portal-. Not to mention that most of his own people didn't seem to give squat about it anymore.
Following the analogy, the colonists would be cattle traders who were here because the soil allowed them to plant golden cows here and they didn't give a rat's ass for anything else. It would require serious damage to drive them away, either to their wallet or to their fundamental physical well-being, so to say. Kill-people-with-blood-in-a-painful-manner unpleasant. At least, that was Finodborn's opinion.
But Scatha's sympathy and commitment to the cause kept him from trying to destroy her spirit with a snide remark. Even if her plain and optimistic enthusiasm irritated the young demon in him. Especially the "Don't you see?" These moody thoughts were new, though, and today he felt more like his old self than he had felt for quite a while now.

He kept it at a "Now I have you on my side, I'm confident that the practical winning itself is going to be but a formality." With an irony that was only mild and balanced by genuine contentment with her support, he winked. A good compromise.

"Don't you ever feel home-sick then? I don't know exactly how old you are, but you look young for a human woman. When I first left home, few nights passed that I didn't long for my own familiar bed. I've been thinking about returning to the Citadel myself. There's little that still keeps me here, it seems."

Her comment made him laugh, a soft, almost inaudible snicker deep down his throat. "I don't think I ever talked about cows or hides. Maybe it's fascinating. But you sure do have a... unique way of seeing things and speaking about them. Surely, they must have told you that before?"

Scatha was certainly not a singer in the strictest sense of the word. But she was a musician - she showed herself in the song (as she did in practically everything) and gave it an accurate interpretation in that she knew its soul. He listened carefully. The melody of folk songs was mostly repetitive, but rhythm was sometimes a pain. Before his mind had figured out a reply to her self-depreciating remark -subtle enough not to be racy and clear enough not to seem merely courteous- it was too late.

He started reproducing what he could remember of the song, trying to imitate the somewhat angular accent. But he had a hard time, for he hadn't even understood all the words. Well aware that he was singing gibberish here and there, he filled up total blanks in his memory with random vowels and hoped for the support of Scatha so he could safely nestle himself in a second voice. What he lacked in textual knowledge, he tried to compensate with a raw and cheerful sound the song seemed to ask for. A gentle prod in her ribs at the last line of the last refrain was the boldest attempt to contradict her.

[wyrdgirluk]

Finodborn had got a lovely voice; she could listen to him sing all day. It was true that he hadn't quite got the words right - she had never heard of the Highland women being weird and fricassed - but it was a jolly good effort, and she applauded him at the end.

"You've ever so good," she enthused. "You ought to consider making a living out of it. I've seen people pay good money for a lot worse." She was actually reminded of her aunt Etain, who once paid a filthy old beggar to stop moaning outside her window, but decided that Finodborn might not appreciate the comparision. And he was good - far better than she would ever be.

"I bet you could inspire people to follow you, if you tried," she said as they continued on their way. "And once you had them following you, you would be able to help you drive out the people who have your lands. And it wouldn't have to be an army... just a few people, with a common idea, starting to small actions that get noticed, starting slow and getting bigger and bigger until in the end it becomes unstoppable. But I suppose you must really, really want to do something about it in the first place. Is that what you want? And are there people like you who feel the same way?"

[Finodborn]

"Thank you," he replied, hoping he wasn't blushing. "Even though my interpretation of the lyrics was rather free, I'm sure."

He chuckled. "Believe it or not, but I have been living of it of the last yahr or so. It was very tough in the beginning, but you learn what which people want to hear." He looked at her as if she were a delicious cupcake, and tried to imitate the pseudo-suave manner of conversation he'd heard from impresarios before: "I could use a dancer to improve my act though."

As she got down to more serious business, he forgot about the questions she hadn't answered. He lowered his voice, and started talking near her ear. "How good are you at keeping secrets?"

He figured Scatha was the kind of girl that liked secrets. Or was allergic to them, depending how you look at it. He wasn't entirely sure about her ability to keep them secret.

[wyrdgirluk]

Scatha nodded approvingly; "I bet you'd have no trouble getting a crowd of people to pay to listen to your voice. It's lovely. Even the way you sound things wrong is lovely. Although I can imagine it must get annoying having to sing songs that you hate, but other people want to listen to." She burst out laughing when he mentioned dancing; "You should get me! I love dancing, and I always get people watching me, although its mostly boys. My brothers don't like it though - they say its like watching jelly on springs. And Daisy Applebottom said that I kept putting people's eyes out, but she soon shut up after after I hit her."

Her eyes widened as Finodborn mentioned secrets. Scatha adored secrets, especially ones she could use to her advantage, like catching Daisy Applebottom behind the barn with one of the judges of the Summer Queen festival, or that the man living opposite her aunt Etain stole her underwear. This secret, she suspected, might not be to her advantage, but was probably something that was important to Finodborn, and therefore worthy of the most solumn oaths. Scatha crossed her fingers, licked them, then drew a cross over her ample left bosom; "Cross my heart and hope to die if I tell," she said gravely. "What is it?"

[Finodborn]

"You are most kind, miss Ashtir. Although I must say I prefer stages that already have a crowd, like in taverns or at festivals. I'm not always brave enough to draw a crowd by myself. Which is why... you're hired! And if you can put out eyes too, you can double as a body guard."
He recognized Daisy Applebottom as Scatha's archetypical arch nemesis in pretty much everything. He wondered if she truly existed, and if she did, how she'd ever managed to survive the wrath of Scath.

He hesitated for a little while longer, and then decided to confide in her. He spoke close to her ear: "There is a group of Panlings that actively resists the oppressors. They're known as Pan's Thorns, or Bloodlings. They're a secret group, you mustn't tell anybody about them. I've been investigating how I can help them, perhaps join them. Their methods are far from... civil though."

OOC: We might need to look for a mod soon...

[wyrdgirluk]

Scatha's eyes went as wide as saucers; "Bloodlings... that sounds very dramatic. I've never heard of them, so either they are a very small group, or else they are very secret... or maybe both." She pursed her lips at Finodborn's last comment; "Not civil? Do you mean they go around being rude to people?" The prospect of dealing with a group of irate Panlings intent at making loud raspberry noises at passerbys didn't strike Scatha as being particularly daunting. "I was thinking of something a little more extreme, like stopping the flow of trade, or causing disruption in town centres. Do you think your Bloodlings would be up for something like that?"

[Finodborn]

Mentally, he laughed at the misunderstanding. "Actually... they might consider that a little soft. They're more into... killing people and as such. Even though they're motivated to take part in anything that would make the life of their enemies sour. They're not exactly my Bloodlings, though."

"They're a very old group, and known far beyond the borders of our Isle. You see, the worship of Pan is divided. There is those that seek beauty, the Artlings. They worship Pan as the God of dance, music, theatre and all the other creative boons. The Bloodlings see in Pan the god of bloodlust, the representation of the passion one can find in fighting the evil. And then there's the Joylings. They uhm... worship Pan as the god of physical pleasures. They're the most well-known."

[wyrdgirluk]

Scatha pursed her lips; "They sound like the people you need to be dealing with... it's just the killing I object to. My da always told me you should only kill in three instances; if something is in pain and you can't help it get better, if something is trying to kill you, or if you're dealing with something that just has it in its nature to do bad. But making life sour for the people who took your homes... that's fine with me, and I'd be happy to help you. How exactly do you find these Bloodling, anyhow? If they're so secret, how do people know about them?"

Scatha considered Findoborn's other comments about the Panlings; she'd never given much thought to other faiths other than her own belief in the Mother, and the idea of three different kinf of Panlings was something of a novelty. "I suppose you must be one of the Artling types, with your lovely voice," she mused out loud. "So I could see that the Bloolings could make a living as soldiers or hunters, and the Artlings could make a living as singers, or dancers, or painters or craftspeople. What do the Joylings do for a living?"

[Finodborn]

An ironic huh escaped his mouth. "I guess only the third condition is certainly fulfilled. I don't expect anything good to come from something that kills, loots, and chases away entire cities just to sell some coffee. They haven't tried to kill us much lately, but I'm sure they won't hesitate if it can increase their profits at any point. How much pain their twisted world view causes them, I can only guess, but I can't say I really care." Finodborn had been purposely nourishing his hatred for these intruders, and the crueler their fate, the merrier he'd be.

He tried to calm himself, took a deep breath, and continued somewhat more tranquilly. "I would of course really appreciate your help. I'm afraid I wasn't born for this kind of activities. I'm nothing much of an athlete, warrior or woodsman."

Everybody knows of them, but little about them. They say they have camps in the denser woods." He wondered with how much detail he should continue. He trusted Scatha, even though there were few rock-solid arguments to. But knowledge can be forced out of people. Which usually hurts too.
"Some people have noticed how I ... worked during the war to tip the balance in our favor. It has got me a certain reputation. That's hardly enough for them to trust you, of course, since secrecy is their only shield. But I have been present in the taverns of Seinor since as soon as they were opened. And I've been talking. There's some people I suspect know more. They're probably considering whether they can trust me or not."

"Well, umm. Amongst the Joylings there are dancers too. The exotic kind of dancers. And then there's men and women who offer... personal services. And of course priests, bartenders, massagists."
"I myself am convinced that this division is not good for us. The Panlings should unite in the worship of the God of all Passions. Whereas I indeed used to be a pure Artling, I now pray to all the aspects of my Lord."

[wyrdgirluk]

"Oh, I'd be glad to help," Scatha said cheerfully. "I'm good at running, and I can live in woods and highlands, and I'm brilliant at hitting things, especially people. I just hope that your Bloodlings might let me join..." A sudden thought crossed her mind; "They wouldn't kill me because I believe in the Mother, like the Oneists would, would they? Or would being with you give some some form of protection, as you are so famous?" That was actually an interested point, and Scatha was quick to follow it up; "What exactly are you famous for? Was it the work that you said you did in the war? What kind of work was it? Singing?"

OOC: I am away for a couple of weeks now - hope you find a mod to pick us up!

[Brytan]

OOC: That'll be me. Let me know when you're back Scatha

[Finodborn]

"It sounds like you are good in all those things I lack skill in. A welcome addition to our cause."

"I don't think they would be hostile towards you. After all, The Mother is the Mother of Pan and no Panling will deny that. As long as you don't impose your faith upon them, they should be kind, even if they are a bit... stressed these days. Especially since you're offering help."

He felt caught when Scatha returned to the subject he'd tried to dodge. "Oh, it's certainly not that I'm famous," he tried to minimize. "I think it's better that you don't know about it. It's better forgotten altogether. I'd rather not talk about it, if that's ok for you." He tried to feel whether Whimsy was around, and if so, he apologized for not recognizing her in this matter.

As they approached Seinor, he said: "Now, lets find that bath for you, shall we?"

[wyrdgirluk]

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of trying to make other people believe in something they don't want to," Scatha said hastily. "That would just be doing what the Oneists tried to do." She tried to remember an impressive expression that Barrett had used... intolernone... internalanace... no, thats not it... ah, wait...; "Religious incontinence, thats what it is. But if you think your Bloodling friends might let me help, then I'm all up for it."

Scatha was a little bemused about Findoborn's reluctance to discuss his part in the War, and was in half a mind to pinch him until he told her, but then decided against it; perhaps it was something heroic, and he doesn't want to show off. Scatha made a mental note to ask later, probably when he was drunk, and returned to a far more important matter.

"Bath! Yes! Definitely. You know, in the Citadel they have entire rooms filled wth baths, and they have pipes carrying hot water to them so that no-one has to carry the water up, and in Amun Rah they have an entire swimming pool you can bathe in. DO they have things like that here, or will it be a wooden tub?"

[Brytan]

Seinor, formerly known as Gatetown. The "city", if it could be called that, looked vastly different than Aveas did. The ancient city now overrun by the Mouth, it didn't remind much of the days it was still called Tal'Fea'Taur, but still, it used to be home to many on the island.
Now, chased from their capital city, many Panlings had sought refuge in the town they had dubbed Seinor. Hidden deep within the woods of Pan's Isle, far to the north and east of the raided Aveas, it was a home away from home.

In the moons past, it had been expanding exponentially, with more refugees coming in seeking shelter among what used to be a collection of wooden huts and tents. Now a proper town, it held much of the conveniences a man or woman might demand.

Houses were scattered almost randomly along the main road leading to the Portal. A number of side roads had since been tread into the soil, along which more houses had been built. The temple of Pan, one of the largest structures in the city, rose between the trees and wooden log houses, inviting rather than intimidating all who gazed upon it. The inhabitants clearly showed reverence for their island. Houses were built around and next to large trees, of wood and thatch, only a few larger roads giving access to the center of the town and the gate which lay a bit beyond to the northwest, perched on a hill, guarded by the adhiel who had lived here since The War.

Scatha and Finodborn entered the town from the south, walking along the main road. Entering the outskirts they were soon met by a few tall adhiel guards, brandishing bows and swords. They were stood near the main road and stopped them as they passed. "Na'maste travelers." One of them started, eyeing Scatha in particular. "What brings you to Seinor?