Mica woke up to see late-afternoon sun filtering through the windows. Her wounds were bandaged; she didn’t remember that happening. She must’ve passed out. She went to find something to eat; the cook in the kitchen gave her bread, meat, ale, and cheese.
“Have your friends returned?” he inquired.
“I don’t know; I just woke up,” she informed him, thanked him for the food, and went out to the courtyard to munch. It was a nice day out, and she enjoyed watching servants and guards going about their daily routines. When she’d finished with her meal, she went to find Thistlepouch, but the kita wasn’t in her room. Neither was the gnome in his. All their stuff was gone, too. Concerned, she went to look in the dwarves’ rooms. Forge and all his stuff was gone as well, though Darwin’s stuff was present. No Darwin, though. Grog's things were in his regular room, though he was not there nor in his injured room. Mica, quite a bit not happy, summoned a random page.
“Could you be so good as to inform me where my companions are?” she requested.
“Of course, I’d be so happy to! For you, anything!” he gushed, then shook himself. “Oh, right, companions, yes. The gnome and the little elf girl, early this morning they just walked out the door.”
Mica raised an eyebrow. “Okay. . . um. . . what about the dwarves?”
“The red-haired gruff one is recuperating still from his wounds in the room next to the one the large, brawny fellow -”
“He’s not in his room,” she cut in.
“Yes, he left a little while ago and went looking for the gnome and the little elf girl.”
“No idea where they went?”
“No, they actually weren’t very talkative when they left, it was kind of odd, really.”
“Show me where the red-headed gruff one is.”
The page took her to the room and opened the door -- Darwin was inside looking really bad. She went over to check him out -- he wasn’t dying, but he was not doing well, either. She left, the page trailing behind like a little puppy dog.
“Thanks for your help,” she said, thinking perhaps he needed to be told he could leave.
“Anything else?
“If my companions come back, please let them know I’m looking for them.”
“Nothing else?”
“I’m. . . going to check the boat, and I’ll be back.”
“You promise?”
“Yeah!”
“Oh, all right. . .” He took a couple half-steps back.
Mica stormed outside, muttering to herself. “Oh, my god, stupid pages! Where do they get their help, anyway?!”
As she approached the docks district, she saw Grog headed toward her, the gnome draped over one shoulder and the kita perched on the other. The kita looked like she’d been beat to hades. With an exclamation of dismay, Mica picked up her pace.
Thistlepouch had been hovering in her own little world filled with pain and exhaustion and confusion. Tusit had really been upset at the thought of her dying -- she couldn’t quite get over that, and hadn’t been able to for the past three hours. It didn’t help that her thoughts went in circles and occasionally lost themselves completely. She was glad Grog had come by when he did -- she wasn’t sure what she would’ve done if he hadn’t found her. As they neared the edge of the docks district, Thistlepouch perked back to reality at a familiar voice -- Mica.
“What happened?!”
“The ball got huffy,” Thistlepouch told her wearily.
“The ball? What ball?”
“The big glowing ball that we followed and at first it was cute and little and yellow, but then it got red and huffy and Tusit pissed it off -”
“You hurt your head, didn’t you, my love,” Mica said in a sympathetic voice.
“Um. . .” Thistlepouch took stock. “Actually, it’s one of the few parts that doesn’t hurt.”
“Oohh. . . we’ll take care of you, don’t worry.”
“Tusit first. He’s worse,” Thistlepouch informed her.
Mica saw that Tusit’s shoulder looked like it had a vial of acid poured on it, and he was unconscious but didn’t appear in mortal danger.
Grog continued his plodding way up to Antonio’s and put Tusit in the room Mica recently vacated.
“Grog, down,” Thistlepouch requested.
He did so.
“Dragon, too,” she reminded.
“Huh?” Mica felt confused again.
The dragon jumped down, though Mica couldn’t see it. The priestess was becoming very concerned about these guys, where they’ve been, what they’ve been doing, what they’ve been eating...!
“You okay, Grog?” Mica asked. The last time she’d seen him, he was majorly hurt, but she could spot no signs of that now.
“Yeah.”
“It was a healing priest,” Thistlepouch explained. “I went down to the healing temple. He said he couldn’t help you, though, because you’re Athena’s, and he tried with Darwin, but Darwin got pissy.”
“Like. . . the ball. . . right. . ? Yeeeaaaahhhh. . . ”
Thistlepouch would have been insulted, but she was too tired to care.
Mica lifted Thistlepouch up and set her on the end of Tusit’s bed by his feet.
“Could we send a random page for a healing cleric for Tusit?” Thistlepouch suggested.
“Grog, could you go bellow out the door for a page, please?”
“Kee.” He went to the door and cupped his hands to his mouth. “PAGE, PLEASE!!!!!” He turned back to Mica. “Good?”
“Very good. Thank you.”
A middle-aged page with a salt-and-pepper beard entered. “Yes, what do you need?”
“Do you know where the healing temple is?” Thistlepouch asked.
“Yes, I do. . . ah, you need a healer. I’ll be right back.” He paused at the door. “Excuse me, um. . . never mind.” He left.
Mica cut away the clothing from around Tusit's injury and tried to clean it. A page came in with a plate of snack-type foods and set it on a table.
“Thistlepouch, are you hungry?” Mica queried.
“I think maybe I should be.”
“Grog, would you feed the kita? And you, too, if you want some.”
“Kee.” He grabbed a bit of rolled meat and made flapping noises like it was a little birdie as it flew towards the kita.
She giggled, which made her wince. “I can feed myself, thanks.” She nibbled on a handful of snacks the large human handed her and idly watched her dragon lying near the table. . . its tongue occasionally snaked out to grab something off the tray.
Mica started on a prayer to heal the gnome.
A man walked in -- Thistlepouch recognized him as the doctor that had worked on Melissanna.
“Oh, my gods!” he cried, hurrying to the gnome’s side.
“I don’t think he needs a leech,” the kita observed.
“No. Has anyone dressed his wound yet?”
“I was just about to deal with it,” Mica said. “Do you have stuff?”
“Oh. Well, yes, I can dress it. I was informed that -”
“We’re also sending for a healing priest,” Mica told him.
“Oh, yes, yes, I was informed on the way.” He started bandaging Tusit's wound.
“Her too.” The holy warrior jerked a thumb in Thistlepouch's direction.
“Good gods!” the doctor exclaimed, shocked at her ragged appearance, but quickly recovered. “Where are you injured?”
“Um. . .” Thistlepouch wasn’t entirely comfortable with the idea of taking off what was left of her shirt for some strange guy, even if he was a doctor. “I’m okay, I think. I just need some sleep, and maybe have a bath.”
“Oh, certainly. There are pages waiting outside if you need anything else.”
“Thank you.”
Mica tried praying for Tusit, but something felt odd about the whole thing, like something unnatural was going on with Tusit. She beat a hasty retreat. “There we go! Oh, that’s so much better!” she exclaimed, patted Tusit on the head, ruffled his hair, and turned her attention to the kita.
Just then, the priest from the day before walked in the door.
“Hi!” Thistlepouch greeted. “He needs help.” She pointed to Tusit.
“Yes, of course he does,” he said with a distracted manner as he stared at the dragon near the kita’s feet.
The dragon made eye contact with him.
“Oh! You see him too!” Thistlepouch exclaimed, delighted.
“Yes, I do.” The priest stepped over to Tusit; Mica edged towards the door. The priest put one hand on Tusit's shoulder. His hand began to glow lightly.
Tusit floated in a dark void with no sense of space nor time. He felt strangely numb, the pins-and-needles feeling you get when regaining circulation to a limb.
“Greetings,” spoke a voice. Calm, slightly detached.
Tusit looked around. Nothing.
“Quite a spectacle you made today,” it continued in its objective observation.
Tusit tucked his head down, sheepish.
“Do you intend to do that often?”
“Do what?”
“Push your resources. Push the resources of the area.”
“I prefer not to. I was. . . I was angry.”
“I see. Anger. . . does give one access to powers beyond one’s normal reach. Do you wish access to such power at other times? Without straining your resources? You occupy an interesting place. Already, five different powers have shown interest in you and your companions. We are indeed highly curious about what causes this interest.”
“We are nothing more than travelers trying to find our way.”
“Yet, the interest you have gained points to something more. Perhaps you are only travelers, but already some powers seem to have a plan in place for the path of your traveling.”
“Those plans be what they may, the powers that have shown interest will find me and my companions less than cooperative.” He paused. “Might I ask a silly question?”
“Certainly.”
“Who the hades are you?”
“That is not a silly question. It is a question I cannot answer. You may consider me. . . a benefactor. The position you occupy may lead to something. . . or may not. But if it does, we fear for the position you and those you travel with may find yourselves in. To this end, we are curious if you may wish our aid.”
“Meaning no disrespect, but given the company I have traveled with in the past, agreeing or asking aid from anyone you’re not completely familiar with could be. . . detrimental.”
“Of course. Your caution is wise. We simply wish to make known to you the many possibilities.”
“Our ears are always open.”
“Good! If you should ever need our aid -”
“Which would prove difficult as I know not who you are.”
“Oh! Of course. We shall give you the means to summon us. If you need our aid, simply speak the word ‘dryden’ to call upon us.”
A blue glow appeared to Tusit's right, and from it he heard a female voice he recognized as Athena.
“Greetings. And, what is this?”
“What is this, a party?”
“No, actually, we were just chatting, debating possibilities,” the first voice told the blue glow.
“I see. And, Tusit, have you made any decisions?”
Tusit laughed. “Decisions are best left for when all options have been explored.”
“Ah, I see. So you have not abandoned the direction you did preach once?”
Tusit searched for a way to tell the goddess he’d just been fooling around. “Good lady, I have seen quite a numbers of ways in the world which I had been previously unaware of, however, you have been good to us and I would be foolish to turn my back on one who has proven to give aid when it is needed and deserved.”
“But you have not decided whether or not to follow,” she concluded.
“To follow?” He blinked.
“Yes.”
“Milady, I am not a preacher,” he said humbly. “I am but a small gnome taking care of a party that tends to get itself into far too much trouble.”
A yellow glow appeared to his left, the vague outline of a snake in its midst.
“Greetings. Have you chosen a way, or do you wish to be healed?”
“You know, you all look like you’ve got some discussing to do,” Tusit observed. “I’ll be over here.” He tried to move away from the glows, though it had no effect.
From the yellow glow (Asklepios, Tusit guessed), “I take it that you have not chosen for healing?”
“I am in need of healing?”
“You have been grievously wounded.”
Tusit looked down at himself for the first time and saw the bare muscle of his left shoulder. “That’s new.” He paused, deliberating a good way to say this. “Ah, good lady, would it be offending you to accept his aid over here? He was not able to give your priestess I travel with aid because she is under your realm.”
“She has chosen my direction. As such, Asklepios can no longer aid her. Whereas you, if you were to choose his direction, I could no longer aid you.”
“You notice,” spoke up the first voice, “they are pushing you towards a choice.”
“Yes, they are.”
“If you wish to be herded, that is your affair.”
“I wish nothing other than to know the truth,” Tusit stated.
“Ah, but whose truth?” asked the voice enigmatically.
Tusit considered. “I know who she is, I know who he is, but you have yet to identify yourself.”
“I am associated with a place you have visited recently,” the voice hedged.
“Ohhhhhh!”
“I am not on their level,” the voice continued. “I freely admit this. We are not on their level. However, we find that it is important to take an interest in what they are doing.”
Still, it was a lot better choice than the other two. Tusit turned to the glows. “I dearly hope that this shall not offend either one of you, however I believe I need choose my own way.”
A pause.
“So be it.” Asklepios.
“Very well.” Athena.
The glows faded.
In the physical realm, the priest’s hand glowed, then faded. He removed it from Tusit's shoulder. “I’m sorry. I can do nothing for this one.”
“Tusit, you dip!” Thistlepouch cried.
It was the first sound Tusit heard upon waking. He looked down at his shoulder. “Eeewww. . .”
“Don’t look, Tusit, it’s better that way,” Thistlepouch told him.
“Why can’t you heal him?” Mica demanded of the priest.
“Because he has refused the aid,” the priest stated simply.
“Why didn’t you let him help you, you idiot?” she turned on the gnome, irritated at his stupidity and obvious stubbornness. “Look at your shoulder!”
“Don’t look at your shoulder,” Thistlepouch countered.
“It wasn’t a simple choice of accepting the aid or not. . . it was choosing a path, and -”
“You’re trying to make my gnome take paths?!” Mica rounded on the priest.
“I do nothing but offer. Are there others here who need my aid?”
“No. Go away,” Mica snapped.
“Thank you for your help,” Thistlepouch said.
“I do thank you for your offer, however, in light of the situation we that we have been placed in and information that has fallen into my possession, I thought it better to find my own path.”
“I know not of the greater questions. . . I simply offer. If a path is not the one you choose, then so be it.”
“Thank you.”
“My pleasure. And my apologies that I could not do more.” The priest turned, paused, and looked at Thistlepouch, who smiled up at him as innocently as kitaly possible. “Are you -”
“I’m all right, thanks.” Maybe she wouldn’t have to take her shirt off for that one, but given the method of laying on hands. . . well, she wasn’t too keen on having hands laid on that particular portion of her anatomy.
The priest got into another staring contest with the dragon.
“She says she’s okay,” Mica reiterated. “Thank you.”
“What do you see?” Thistlepouch asked.
“I see. . . . I see I know not what. Very well. I shall leave you. I apologize.”
“Thanks for trying,” Thistlepouch said as he left.
“What the heck were you talking about and why did he keep stopping and talking to the floor?” Mica asked.
“Because there’s a dragon there! Can’t you see it?”
“It’s here?” Tusit asked in a dangerously level voice, raising his head.
“It’s nice,” Thistlepouch countered, defensive though she wasn’t sure quite why. Maybe it was his tone. “Don’t go antagonizing my dragon.”
“Get it away from my bed.”
“It’s not by your bed. It’s by the table.”
“Get it out of my room.”
Mica looked at the table. “Where?”
“There!” Thistlepouch pointed.
Mica suspected it was something like the hooter of Athena.
“Thistlepouch, don’t make me get rid of it,” Tusit warned. “I hurt.”
Thistlepouch sighed. Tusit was being huffy.
“It’s all right,” Mica comforted. “We’ll go get you a bath.”
“Come on, dragon. Let’s go have a bath.”
“Do you have any herbs you want me to put on you, Tusit?”
Tusit looked down -- there was a poultice on his shoulder, pretty basic herbs. He knew of stuff that could do better, but he didn’t have any and was the only one who could prepare it, anyway.
“No, but I thank you for the offer.”
“Sure. I can always have Katrina bandage you, too. . .”
“Given the condition you were in. . . no thank you.”
Thistlepouch went in search of a bath -- Mica followed the kita, a little worried about this dragon thing.
“Is it following you?”
“Yeah.” She pointed to where.
“Is it friendly?”
“I think it is. Tusit doesn’t, but Tusit I think doesn’t know the whole story, and he’s a little bit huffy and doesn’t want to find out right now.”
“Well, he’s got an owie, so he’s in a bad mood. Where is it?”
Thistlepouch took her hand, put her other hand on the dragon, and then tried to have Mica pet it. The dragon squirmed out of the way.
“I think he doesn’t want to be petted right now. He just moved out of the way.”
Murfle?
“He murfled. Did you hear that?”
“No, it must be your dragon.” Mica summoned one of the maids; a massive woman approached.
“Yes, what do you need?” she asked briskly.
“She needs a bath,” the holy warrior instructed. “A warm, soapy bath, and someone to help her.”
“Yes she does! Here you are, dear.”
She seemed motherly enough, a little on the brisk side, but the kita was obviously in good hands. Mica went to do some staff practice. She had a good sweat up when she noticed a young page standing off to one side, obviously waiting for her to be done. Mica finished her routine and turned to him.
“I’ve been asked to deliver this.” He handed her a pastel green envelope with “To the Lady Mica” written in scrollwork across the front. The back was sealed with lavender wax imprinted with Antonio's shield.
Mica carefully peeled off the wax and removed a lavender piece of paper that read:
It is an honor and privilege to inform you that you are cordially invited
to a masquerade ball held in one week’s time
in honor of the Lady Melissanna's return
to the loving arms of her father, the Merchant Antonio.
Festivities will take place over three nights
at Merchant Antonio's manor house.
Response requested.
Mica groaned. “Thank you.” She stuffed it in her back pocket.
“Are you going to be attending?” inquired the page. “There was a request to reply.”
“A week. . .” She did some mental calculations -- she could be anywhere in a week. “Yes.”
“Very good. She shall be most pleased to have you attend.”
“Oh, I’m sure.” Mica finished her staff practice and went to bed.
* * *
Tusit’s door opened. He opened his eyes, but didn’t see anything. He raised his head. Nothing. “Draft.” He laid back down and closed his eyes. There was a sudden weight on his blankets, like a cat just jumped up, but a lot heavier. He slowly opened his eyes to find the dragon staring him dead in the face.
Murfle. The dragon’s eyes gleamed.
“I don’t know why you left the kita,” he sighed, “but the kita prefers your company much more than I do. Please leave.”
The dragon pulled his head back, turned around, and disappeared. The weight was still there, but heading towards the edge. It paused, and an acrid smell met Tusit's nose. The base of the blankets became wet.
“Well, well.”
The weight left the bed. Tusit called for a page. A page walked in.
“Would it be possible to replace these bedclothes?” the gnome requested, levering himself up so he could scoot back against the headboard. “Something was left when my companions left. I don’t know what it is, and I don’t want to deal with it right now.”
The page had a knowing smile on his face. “Of course.”
“The wet spot is down there.”
“Of course.”
“Look, gnomes don’t pee from their toes, okay?”
“Of course.”
As the page started stripping off the bed, Tusit swung his feet over and tried to stand.
The next thing he knew, he was looking at the floor and not quite sure how he got there.
“Are you all right? Do I need to get the doctor again?” asked the page.
“Could you just help me to the chair?” Tusit asked in a disgusted, tired voice.
“Certainly, sir.” He reached down, put an arm around him, and helped him up. “Are you all right?”
“Define ‘all right.’”
“Are you going to die?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Thank you for your concern. If you could just replace the blankets, it would be much appreciated.”
The page took away the bedclothes, returned with new, and made up the bed. “Do you want to rest, or. . . ?”
“I think I’m going to sit in the chair for a little while. There’s a window. . . nice view. . .”
“Very well.”
The page left, and Tusit spent a while running over events in his head, reviewing some of the notes he took while at the library, and trying to figure out if there’s any way to reverse the damage since he knows the spell that hit him.
“Note to self: study healing Magick.”
* * *
Once in the bathing room, Thistlepouch untied the makeshift smock from around her front and gingerly stripped down.
“Good heavens, child!” the maid cried, shocked to see her condition. “You need a doctor immediately!”
“The doctor’s a guy!” Thistlepouch protested lowly, almost as red as her hair.
“Oh. . . I see. A little shy, aren’t you,” the maid observed indulgently. “Very well, let me go fetch the goodwife. Now sit here and soak, and don’t do anything. If you need anything at all, call for one of the maids. I shall be back.”
“All right. I’ll stay right here.”
“Don’t move.”
“I’m being very good.” She gave the maid her most innocent, charming expression.
The maid looked askance at her, as if to say, “I’m not sure if you’re gonna misbehave me or not, but I’m thinking you are.” She shrugged and walked off.
Thistlepouch obediently enjoyed her soak when all of a sudden she heard a sploosh! She backpedaled with a yelp.
A snout poked up out of the water. Murfle?
“You’re a waterdragon!”
Murfle!
Thistlepouch wondered briefly if she should be embarrassed having a he-dragon in her bath with her, but decided it was probably all the same to the dragon anyhow, seeing as how it didn’t have any clothes on, either.
The dragon swam around, then settled to floating on his back. Thistlepouch tickled his belly -- he murfle-giggled and water flew everywhere as he frantically splashed about. He gave her an indignant, offended expression -- Murfle! -- and floated back. Thistlepouch went back to soaking with her eyes closed.
Murfle!
She opened her eyes; the dragon hovered at the bottom of the tub.
The door opened, and the large matronly woman walked in, a thinish wiry woman behind her. The second woman approached with a very determined air.
“Ah, you must be the one who’s hurt. Come out of the tub so I can see.”
Thistlepouch did so, obediently.
“Oh, my! Child, why did you go so long without bandaging this? Children these days!” She went about cleaning and bandaging and such -- Thistlepouch submitted without a whimper. “Can’t slow down long enough to take care of themselves -”
“I put an apron on it!”
“Apron! Children. . . aprons. . . can’t do anything with them, just no good at all. . . well, there, I’ve done the best I can, as long as you don’t decide to go running about and open up the wound or hurt yourself again or -- what did you do to yourself, spill water on yourself, no doubt, shouldn’t you know that you shouldn’t be cooking -- I don’t understand. . . children! Now be careful, and I don’t want you to hurt yourself anymore. You’ve got to keep any dirt off of that, change the bandages later on today, whatever you do, don’t let any dirt get on it, you must try to keep it clean. Can you do all that?”
“Yes, ma’am,” she replied in a small voice.
“Oh, very good. Now, I’m going to have Martha keep an eye on you, and if she sees you’re doing anything, I’ll be right back here to keep you in your bed and tie you there so you can’t get out.”
“Thank you,” Thistlepouch said meekly.
The goodwife bustled out. The kita, feeling bowled over and extremely tired, looked back in the tub -- the dragon still hovered at the bottom.
“You might want to come up now.”
Murfle?
“Time to get out of the bath.”
He hopped up to gets his front paws on the edge, then scrabbled over the lip of the tub, hopped to the ground, and shook off.
Murfle?
“I’m tired, how ‘bout you?”
Murfle?
“I think I am going to bed.
Murfle.
“Come on.”
Thistlepouch wrapped a towel around herself and padded off to her room, the dragon trailing along off to the side, responding with murfles at occasionally opportune and occasionally inopportune times as she chattered at him. She found a mint green envelope artfully placed on her pillow. She picked it up. The back sported a lavender seal with Antonio's coat of arms imprinted on it.
“Why do you think they’d send me a note when they could just have a page tell me?”
The dragon’s tongue flipped out and licked her face.
She giggled. “I don’t know either.” She carefully opened the envelope, avoiding breaking the seal. Inside she found a piece of lavender paper that read:
It is an honor and privilege to inform you that you are cordially invited
to a masquerade ball held in one week’s time
in honor of the Lady Melissanna's return
to the loving arms of her father, the Merchant Antonio.
Festivities will take place over three nights
at Merchant Antonio's manor house.
Response requested.
“That was awfully nice of her to invite us. I think I’m going to go as a dragon.”
Murfle. The dragon looked skeptical.
“Well, yeah, you’ll have to help me on the details.
Murfle. Murfle!
Thistlepouch put the invitation on the bedside table and trundled over to the wardrobe, but the softest dwarven clothes were woolen. She went to an elven room and grabbed a silky something, too big, but with a nightshirt it doesn’t much matter. The kita heard an odd thumping behind her -- she turned to see the dragon half-wearing one of the discarded nightshirts, his head buried in it, murfling and rustling. Thistlepouch smiled crookedly, helped him disentangle himself, and went to bed.
She didn’t remember much after that.
***
Disclaimer: No priests of Asklepios were seriously offended during the creation of this chapter. Thistlepouch's modesty, however, suffered a little.