"Little friends," Taen heard Borovazk's voice from behind him, cutting over the din of the taproom, "Borovazk speak truth. Green Chapel is nice, quiet place…" The ranger paused. "Normally."
Taen turned around. Unlike the rest of the group's members, Borovazk had forgone any change of clothing. Once they had arrived at the inn, he had made straight for the back of the common area, content to sit by the bar and exchange news and swap outrageous stories, all the while consuming vast amounts of the bitter, frothy ale served by the barkeep. He returned with another Rashemi in tow, a wizened figure wearing a soiled leather apron.
"Then what happened to change the ambience, Borovazk?" she asked with a laugh as another table toppled beneath the frenzied wrestling match.
"Rumors," said the stranger standing next to their guide. He wore a frown that accentuated the deep wrinkles covering his face. "Rumors of midnight raids, slaughtered villages, and dark things creeping down from the High Country. The blood of Rashemen quickens at the thought of such events happening. The Iron Lord stirs in his citadel, whipping his warlords into a frenzy, and the whole land is abuzz with the possibility of war."
Taen listened and fought down a shudder at the old man's words. Unlike Borovazk, the stranger spoke common almost perfectly, without the heavy accent and tortured syntax that marred the ranger's speech. This made the man's statement somehow more menacing.
"I will say no more of this," he continued, "until you have spoken with the othlor."
Taen blanched as the stranger finished and noted that the others had similar reactions. If there truly were a traitor among the wychlaran, then it wouldn't do for too many people to know why they were around. The half-elf was about to stammer out a protest, denying the truth of the old man's words, but the wizened Rashemi held out his hand.
"Forgive me," the stranger said. "Here I am blathering on about things you probably want to keep secret and I haven't even introduced myself." He gave them all a rueful smile, revealing several cracked teeth. "My name is Selov, and this," he continued, extending his hand to take in the crowded common room, "is my establishment."
Taen relaxed at the stranger's introduction. Once they had agreed to follow Marissa on her journey, they discussed the best place to summon the othlor. It was Borovazk who prevailed upon them to travel to Urling to meet with a certain Selov who, the ranger had insisted, held great knowledge about the ways of the wychlaran.
"Be welcome among us, Selov," Marissa said, coming to her feet, "and thank you for your gracious hospitality."
Selov acknowledged the druid's words with a bow of his head.
"I would be far happier to extend such hospitality at a brighter time in my country's life," Selov said. "Still, a single candle in darkness is worth five in the daytime, or at least that is what my mother taught me." He looked around at the group, wincing once or twice at the sound of breaking glass. "Well, perhaps we can meet somewhere a little less… active," he said and waved his hand indicating that they should follow him. "I have a private room arranged for us. One of the benefits of ownership-or so I am told."
Selov maneuvered deftly in the crowded taproom, cutting in between the gaggle of patrons and warriors with the ease of long practice. Taen followed with Borovazk, Marissa, and Roberc close behind. They turned down a small corridor off to the side of the bar and soon found themselves ushered into a comfortable round room. It was cooler in there, a relief from the dank, sweltering atmosphere of the taproom. Several torches burned brightly along the earthen wall, and the embers of a small peat fire glowed invitingly from the room's hearth.
Taen was surprised to find a large table already set with fruit, cheese, and several pitchers of nut-brown ale. They sat down and ate companionably, telling stories of their journey and asking Selov questions about the Urlingwood. The half-elf studied the wizened innkeeper carefully as they ate.
When the four adventurers had originally decided to meet here at the Green Chapel, Borovazk had informed Taen that Selov was a great wizard-a vremyonni, one of the Old Ones. The half-elf knew very little about the mysterious ways of Rashemen's arcane culture. However, sitting in the quiet of the inn, Taen found it difficult to envision Selov as anything other than a kindly publican. With his wild, unkempt hair and soiled, ale-soaked clothing, the Rashemi would have fit the description of a thousand innkeepers in a thousand cities all across Faerun. Power calls to power, and Taen, not an unaccomplished practitioner of the arcane arts, felt nothing from the old man. If Selov was indeed a wizard, the Rashemi disguised it well. It was only when the man spoke of the Urlingwood or recounted a tale soaked in ancient history that something seemed to change about him. Then shadows would gather around his weathered face, and the age lines creasing his skin took on a deeper cast. Silver-gray eyes would cloud with old sorrow, while Selov's voice would shake and quaver, like a dying tree in the wind. He seemed to the half-elf like a man hollowed out by loss.
For all of that, he was a gracious host and answered questions patiently. Taen was surprised when more servers came in to clear plates from the table. Time had passed by quickly as they ate. When the servers had finished, leaving only several more pitchers of ale, the conversation died. Only the fire spoke in the silence, hissing and crackling in its ancient tongue.
The lull continued for several moments, until Marissa cleared her throat.
"Well, Selov," Marissa said, "Borovazk has told us that we should meet with you before speaking with the wychlaran, and you have told us much about the Urlingwood." She acknowledged his helpfulness with a broad smile. "However, I am thinking that there is more that you haven't said."
Taen watched the shadows gather in Selov's eyes once again then disappear as the Rashemi answered the druid's smile with one of his own. When he spoke, it was directly to Borovazk, and his words made the half-elf uneasy.
"I see that you have spoken the truth, my friend. She has the vydda, the witch eye. Such a gift is rare," he said, this time turning to Marissa. "It sees to the heart of things."
Selov pushed back his chair and stood, taking them all in with his gaze.
"Very well," Selov said. "There is, indeed, much that I haven't said. These are dark times, and I do not wish for the wrong ears to overhear. I trust my staff here at the inn implicitly, but a shadow grows over the heart of Rashemen, and what was once noble and hale withers beneath it."
"Once, long ago-longer than I can even remember, it seems-I studied and mastered the vyvadnya, becoming an Old One before my thirtieth year. It was rare that one so young would ascend to the brotherhood of the vremyonni, and I felt that honor deeply, treasuring it in my heart. I was determined to live up to my reputation, to surpass all of the other Old Ones in knowledge and mastery. Such a goal became a fever, burning in my veins both day and night."
Selov paused, taking a long draught from a mug of ale before continuing. "Driven by the goad of my pride, I worked on creating a powerful spell that would, I believed, permanently drain a wizard's ability to use magic. I had hoped to use it against the damnable Red Wizards. My brothers warned me that such a spell was too dangerous to fashion, that it bent and twisted the flow of magic in a way that made it too difficult to control.
"They were right, of course," Selov continued, "but I wouldn't listen. One night while testing the spell, I lost control of the mystical forces and they turned on me. When I awoke, I discovered that my spell chamber had been almost completely destroyed and worse, I could no longer use even the simplest of cantrips. I had stripped myself of the ability to use magic. Ashamed and devastated by what I had done to myself, I fled to Urling. It was the wychlaran who convinced me that I could still serve Rashemen, even without my former power, so I opened the Green Chapel to help anyone who comes to the Urlingwood in search of wisdom from the sisterhood."