Continuing D&D Deliciousness
...and especially after the war, cases like this aren't rare in the way that they don't exist, but in the way that you never hear about it. I haven't been back to Cyre since the Day of Mourning, and I have no plans on returning unless I have to. No point in looking over memories that die but don't decay, right? But, because of this, I've only heard stories of the effects. Noted, it's normally things like they're missing limbs or they have glowing eyes or their dead. But, I assume that losing a name may certainly be given to that.
"You've got my attention, sister. Please, by all means."
She nods slightly, just enough to shake up that long honey hair of her's. "I am Oril l'Yelur. No, that is what I am called. I live with a man, who wishes me to believe that I am his niece. Like yourself, I am from Cyre, he says."
I chew on my bottom lip, fingering over the small orange and grey octagon at my side like it was her story in my mind. "Where were you, Lady l'Yelur, on the Day of Mourning." Any true Cyrean knows this. Lost memory or no, you damn well better.
"Making." She says this delicately. She knows full well what's implied, and full well how outrageous it is.
Scratching of wood and stone echoes against the floor as I stand, holding the octagon in my palm. I've laid down the large Hearth years ago. This is my holy symbol now. Convenient, subtle, and easy to hide. "This is an interesting case, indeed. But, to get to the bottom, you start from the top, correct? I just need you to relax for a moment, real calm and easy like." My hand grasps around the token and I close my eyes. Under my breath, I mutter a few words to the Lady and wave my hands. I always feel especially daft casting spells like this. Gotta do what you've gotta do, I suppose. My eyes open slowly and just around her form, wisps like heat rise from the noblewoman. "Again, where were you?"
She's not stupid. She knows exactly what I did, and the confidence swells in her chest. A chance for a believer. "Making." The aura doesn't even twitch. She's telling the truth. She was at the source of it all.
"M'lady, losing your name seems the last of your worries." Maybe it's just an excuse not to go in there, but in the end, it's the Host's honest. When you're at the middle of a cataclysm that ends a country and a century-long war, a bit of amnesia almost seems unfair. "You've been to..."
She doesn't let me finish. "Jorasco? Of course. Medani, their investigative magics were no help."
Of course she goes to the Houses first. Who's to blame her. "The Church?" A shot in the dark.
"Who do you think sent me?"
I turn my head to hide the swearing. Bantel, you little gnome rat. "A Gnome priest of the same Goddess, I assume?" She nods. Yes, it's Brother Bantel. You help a person out of trouble a few dozen times and he thinks it's a good idea to spread around the word. At least it's work, but he probably promised a discount. "Look, lady," it's not about respect, this time, "I'm not an adventurer, I'm not some sorta heavenly Voice of the Host, I'm a guy who sits around and spends the little coin in his purse on smoke-leaf and cheap Dwarven Firewater. I know some people always looking to put their life on the line for platinum, but I've seen enough death to know I don't like it." I replace the Holy Symbol with another roll and mutter the same incantation to light it. As soon as I get a good burn, I walk around the desk and start to jot down names on a scrap of parchment. I try to avoid eye-contact. A pretty thing like her has no place in my office. The clanking thud of wrapped metal is enough to make me look up, however.
"And this should be enough to kill you quick, Brother Taliak." She's not going to beg. She isn't near tears. She's just plain pissed. The anger tints her high cheeks perfectly. And the small mountain of platinum pieces makes her all the more beautiful. I resign myself to my seat and pull my notepad from my desk. No magic, like those show-offs dealing with kidnappings at the top of Menthis Plateau. No, I do this old-fashioned. My tongue taps the end of my quill, I perch the roll in the corner of my mouth and nod for her to begin.