frog legs

Stonehill Inn was quiet in the early morning hours. Not that she minded, of course. The events of the past week were draining and Thelowyn knew she’d need a strong brew to replenish her social repository.

As if reading her mind, a smiling Trilena Stonehill set a steaming cup of some saccharine beverage on the wooden table in front of her.

Wynnie thanked her with a nod and hoped her silence wasn’t too imprudent. She was grateful, truly, but her muscles ached and her eyes were half-lidded against the first beams of morning.

She wrapped her hands around the (thankfully) large mug and let the warmth seep through her fingertips. Whispers of memories floated about in her periphery - ones of similar quiet mornings spent alongside her mother in the kitchen after a late-night dalliance. Others of earlier mornings surrounded by parchment and ink and rehearsed conversations planned in league with her father.

Her fingertips tightened. She took a sip before anyone could notice.

The radiating heat was a welcome reprieve from her thoughts, and she hummed softly as the honey tea worked to rouse her body from the last dregs of sleep.

Sweetness was a delicacy rarely enjoyed on the road, and she planned on enjoying it fully. Multiple times, gods willing.

As she sat and sipped, her memories gave way, yielding to the awareness of her companions. Though they had only been travelling together a short while, she felt a strong connection to each, different as they were.

She’d had acquaintances in Waterdeep. She’d even considered some of them to be her friends. But none of them could understand her reasons for leaving - not that she could explain herself without risking her parents’ reputations, anyway.

She’d told them her father was sending her as an envoy, that she had to care for a sick relative, that she aimed to finally court a suitor and bolster her family name.

And of course they’d believed her. Why wouldn’t they?

Wynnie knew that any of those poor attempts at excuses would earn her nothing but needling and accusations with this group. Even Ootah, silent as she was, could merely look her in the eyes once to know she was lying.

Only the gods knew how they’d ended up together and whether they’d last. Wynnie thanked the gods silently either way.

Now on her second tea and picking over the small plate of meat, bread, and cheese at the table, Thelowyn glanced sidelong at Runo. He sat quietly as ever, polite in every request for his breakfast with extra (extra) chilis.

His large frame sat hunched and compacted, as though he was afraid of offending the table by sitting the wrong way. His mannerisms were not so unlike a newborn fawn - unsure of his true scale and measure, and skittish of those who noticed.

Though he stood a good head-and-a-half taller than her, she felt a sort of protectiveness for the tiefling. She didn’t need to know his whole story to see he was running from something, from someone, from somewhere.

She just hoped that one day - maybe not soon, but one day nonetheless - he would confide in her as she had in him.

Across the table sat Igno, facing the entrance and daring someone to disturb them. Always alert, always aware, always ready to take up arms at a moment’s notice. She wasn’t the type to act out of emotion or without surveying the scene.

Everything was calculated and assured, a trait that Wynnie found herself envying slightly. She supposed it wouldn’t be the worst thing if that rubbed off on her, if only a little.

If anything, she appreciated that Ingo packed a punch that had saved them in many a skirmish, and a menace that prevented countless more. Intimidation, it seemed, worked just as well as a trident when wielded by a towering fiend. And towering, she was.

Runo and Igno together were the best shield wall Wynnie could ask for, she chuckled to herself.

Wynnie drained her second mug, thankful for the energy boost she’d surely need once they set off toward the manor. She glanced over at Ootah, who leaned across the worn bartop in deep conversation with Toblen. No doubt she was getting intel that Wynnie and the devilkin at her table were less-than-adept at securing.

Of anyone else in her cadre, Wynnie was most grateful for Ootah. She reminded her of her own mother often, and in more ways than one.

Ootah made sure they were fed, rested, and provisioned when emotions were high and plans were feeble. She never coddled, though, and could silence them all with just a look (or, rather, a glare.)

She’d saved Wynnie’s hide from departing this mortal coil, something that seemed a daily occurrence at this point. There was much she could learn from Ootah. Very much, indeed.

After the food was cleared and the morning calm dissipated, the group gathered around the large circular table at the back of the tavern to hash out their plan for the manor.

While Ootah relayed what she’d learned from the innkeeper, Wynnie took a moment to revel in the easy camaraderie.

They each brought traits and skills that strengthened each other. Where one of them lacked, another bolstered. Respect was not freely given but hard-earned, and by the gods she respected them all.