“Lillia! Lillia!” called the basso voice from the street market crowd, a mixture of familiar greeting and relief to arrest her for but a moment. Reginald’s distinctive wide-brimmed, colorfully-plumed hat parted through the throng with moderate grace but distinctive purpose.
            “Thank the gods!” Reginald yielded at closing the distance. “I’ve a bit of a personal urgency; I was hoping I might find you here.” Reginald unslung a small knapsack from his shoulder and pulled forth from it a vibrant blue silk – sleeves and collar and ties. His hands manipulated the gossamer fabric until he could hold forth in emphasis the right sleeve, where a smooth cut slid along the outside of the upper arm. The cut was clean and darkened slightly about its edges and below. “Duel. Remarkable fellow. Gave as good as I got, and we dined the crowd as fast friends afterwards, but this… /this/ could darken my day. There’s few I’d trust to mend this or replace the sleeve to my tastes. /Tell me/ you have the time.”
            As Reginald looked up from his damaged garment, he blinked in a moment’s confusion. This woman was not Lillia.
            “Im sarra, saera,” her dialect emphasized the fact. Far enough removed from Tashalan as to be all but indecipherable to him. “Halpa khan for ah?” The woman’s own confused features were genuine enough.
            Reginald scoured her reflexively, but his heart knew true. The head scarf she wore was identical, well almost identical, to the one he had seen Lillia in a few moments earlier. Surely a quick jostle through the crowd couldn’t have distracted him that much. It was crowded this near the harbor market, but it wasn’t a throng.
            His eyes searched the surrounding area, but there was no sign of the seamstress he had encountered perchance only a few days ago, and dark clouds on the horizon echoed with an approaching storm, promising a brief and fervent market before the rains washed most of the commerce indoors.
            Reginald rocked back on his heels half a step. His hands holding the garment furled from exhibition to consternation as they lowered. Detail-oriented eyes narrowed and sought to affirm what he had instinctively presumed... but, no. He sighed a sigh that deflated his shoulders. Not only was one of his best shirts the casualty of a chance encounter, but now he'd just maligned this woman with his brashness.
            "I apologize," Reginald offered with a deferring bow of his head that brought the forward brim of his hat low and rustled the colorful feathers upon it. He set to return the shirt to the smallpack from which he'd withdrawn it.
            "You reminded me of a friend I'm seeking to visit, today; the scarf, your bearing... perhaps my hope filled in the rest. I meant no offense and am sorry to have troubled you, miss."
            Reginald paused for her acknowledgment and dismissal of the misunderstanding, prepared to continue his search with considerably more diligence.

            “Loupin, my dear, you have the better eye for these things than I,” Reginald was ready to admit. He carefully withdrew a single, intact sheet of vellum from the leather portfolio he’d set upon the table. Upon it were notations clearly of an arcane nature. Reginald had the experience to recognize spell formulae, but couldn’t validate the detail. “Something I’d been asked to find, as a favor. With due discretion, of course.”
            He held the vellum forth for Loupin to take and examine, should she so wish.
            “I believe it’s a minor transmutation; a cantrip, really. If there was a school of magic of ‘vanity,’ this might well be in it, but well, social niceties are a foundation of civilization. In moments, it can accomplish hours’ work; trims and sets the hair just so, gives the skin that just-so presentation, instills an alluring fragrance, even lifts and tucks. No more than several hours’ work could accomplish under skilled hands, but the outcome is as true and as durable.” Reginald set back in the chair, and snorted wryly, “I know you suspect it is for me, but it is not, and on that, I must rely upon your trust.” Reginald spread his hands disarmingly, at the mercy of her scrutiny.
            He gestured indicatively with an open palm towards the vellum, “Is that indeed what this is, or have I been misled?”
            Slouched over the dusty shop counter, Loupin was too busy propping her chin in her hands and being a lousy friend and employee to pick up his sheet for examination; but finally her bored late-afternoon gaze drifted wearily from the gnome's face to the small chicken-scratch writing in front of them, though only for long enough to disdain it.
            "A cantrip wouldn't lift and tuck anything permanently, Reg," the half-elf muttered absently. "Not in a way anybody'd want, anyhow. I keep telling you -- don't buy scrolls off one-eyed teamsters in dark alleys. You'll probably blow some old trout's face off with that thing. I'd probably blow my face off, just trying to read it..."
            Either that or she was late on her rent again, and wanted a piece of whatever he was being offered to find it. Sometimes with Loupin you couldn't tell.
            Reginald smiled with one corner of his mouth, accepting Loupin's slight and play without rising retort or indignation, and didn't elaborate upon his explanation of the spell's intended mechanisms. Her disinterest, he surmised, was half her general outlook, and half probing for more information from him. He elected to speak to the latter.
            Reginald turned his head back over his shoulder to check the shop; he'd heard no one else approach, but protecting the value of the proposition warranted some discretion.
            "I've a good friend who's preparing to make a splash at Midsummer, this year. Obtaining this," Reg gestured to the vellum again, "took the better part of two months' inquiries and arrangements. Very few dark alleys were involved." His smile reached his eyes at the thought of any dark alleys involved whatsoever, but he stopped short of a chuckle at her tease, and continued, "I believe my source is reputable, but I wish to be certain. One only has a first opportunity to do right by a favor; some final diligence is warranted."
            "You of course have my pledge that I'd personally carry you to aid, should it blow your face off, dear Loupin," Reginald promised, "but we both know your trade and your interests have their practical side. What can I offer, for a few minutes of your talented confirmation of this spell's true content?"
            Loupin thought it over.
            "You need me to read it first because there's some chance it could be more valuable than the spell you were looking for," she said, closing her heavy-lidded eyes. She always got sleepy at this time of day. There were rarely customers when the heat really kicked in, so not much to do, besides all that dusting and cleaning and stuff her boss was always harping on about. "And you suspect that your buyer might try to trick you into accepting less than it's worth, or less than the cost of two months worth of searching. And you don't trust whoever you got it from, which means it was some spectacularly random weirdo you met at midnight at a crossroads. So what'd it cost you? Less than the family cow, I hope." One eye cracked open to regard him; she had queer elf-eyes, colored like honey.
            "Not at all; this is a simple matter of reputation," Reginald sat back. "If I present this as the answer being sought, and it is not, well... I dislike being wrong, and confidently wrong all the more. The friend I am gathering this for owes me no payment for it, and as they are a friend, would not be duplicitous. I attend better company than that, all present included."
            "As to the source? The vessel, I trust, for the same reasons -- the original source, who might be two or more parties removed? That, I cannot validate. As you are aware, the more steps the request must travel, the more the intent could be lost, the more the result bears confirmation. My costs incurred so far? Nominal, but not insignificant -- a scroll inscribed with a single cantrip, as this is, bears only ten to fifteen pieces of gold, depending upon one's affiliation with the author, and their motivations."
            Reginald sighed. "I think you misjudge me, and my methods, and my concerns. If I've offended you in some way, I apologize, but I gather perusing this scroll to confirm its content and means is not something you are willing to do."
            He was not kidding around, Loupin observed, and could not see that she was, more or less. Perhaps this was very important to him, although it was too much to guess why. The wrong cantrip wasn't much to damage anybody's reputation, especially if it was a gift; but that was just a professional observation. Was it something about the person to whom he was giving it? She knew Reginald could hardly cross a street without entering into a duel, or swearing eternal friendship to somebody -- or both, morelike. His was still a romantic soul. She envied that quality in him, sometimes; life had left her self-protective to a degree that often chagrined even her.
            Then again, cursed scrolls were definitely a thing.
            Loupin grimaced a bit, opened both eyes and reluctantly caught up the sheet in one thin brown hand. If it were very important to him, she should not mess around about it, she supposed.
            "It's not like you to get hoodwinked," she allowed, studying the top lines, "but if a friend of mine picked up the wrong goods, hopefully I wouldn't bust his chops over it -- not for real, anyway. You shouldn't have to feel ashamed about stuff like that. Just an opinion."
            The writing was a bit plentiful for a cantrip, but in a relatively prosaic configuration, its script neither too dense nor too abstract for her. The hand responsible for it could have used a few calligraphy lessons. Loupin could not begrudge anybody that, for her own handwriting was embarrassingly clumsy, as every wizard in town had pointed out who was forced to decipher her regular transcriptions of Orimander's requests.
            "This isn't one I recognize by sight," she admitted after a moment, frowning at. "Not in full. You paid less than twenty? I can see there is something here about skin... and hair. That looks familiar, but it gets more complicated about halfway through. There's no preamble. Can you hand me that great big book over there? The one on astronomy?"
            "Thank you, Loupin," Reginald expressed, with clear relief. He climbed down and ambled over to retrieve the indicated book and bring it back to Loupin.
            She grunted a bit as she took it, and not from the weight. "Don't thank me yet. I can't always pull this off without help from the boss. When did this hero of yours need it by? Midsummer, you said?"
            The bulky book, stained and much-used, fell open heavily on the counter. Loupin flipped through it deliberately, moving backwards towards the front, as though she more or less knew what pages she was looking for.
            "Because if I can copy this spell," she mentioned casually, her sleepy gaze roving through a lengthy chapter composed exclusively of what appeared to be minutely-detailed star charts, "we could do a lot more than give it away for free, or whatever. Of course I'd probably need to keep it overnight."
            She did not quite explicitly suggest that this might be a better way to reward her than handing over a coin or two. Loupin may not have been much of a shop-girl, or even much of an appraiser of cantrips, but she'd collected three dozen of them over the past couple of years and had reached a stage where each new addition whetted her appetite for more. It was that typical addiction-in-the-making one sees in those beginning to find their feet in the wizarding trade. She could not have said what it was she might become addicted to -- was it power? An end to insecurity? An end to scientific ignorance merely? -- or even what this cantrip in particular could do for her quality of life; but then, rationalizations were always easier to come by than eldritch powers.
            Maybe it wasn't fair of Loupin to suggest that sort of thing, though. Reginald had evidently gone to some trouble, and maybe this friend of his had the same idea, in which case she could not expect him to divide his loyalties. She would not push it; but perhaps some part of her -- that part maybe which had always placed more stock in the spirit world than in the ugly and disappointing material one -- intuited that hers and Reginald's fate were bound up in a way neither of them yet could see, and that they should offer each other more help than his friend ever would. Either that, or she was too greedy for magic to completely resist floating the idea. Not even Loupin had any inkling of what depths she was capable, at least where hoarding magic was concerned.
            Reginald's grin became a little more sure, a little more insightful, at Loupin's roused interest and direct terms.
            "The spell itself is needed within a week's time... well, for it to be of the merit I intend. In that same course, I /suppose/ I could be persuaded to leave it in your care long enough to duplicate," and the way Reginald conceded, he alluded he'd intended to offer that as a reasonable measure of gratitude for her assistance. "Persuaded, that is, if you'll agree to keep it in your exclusive confidence for the next, say, six months, with said stipulation voided should it become common knowledge by some cause completely separate, of course."
            The gnome smiled and winked. "The gift is for nothing nefarious, nothing that'd abrade your sensibilities, but its uncommon nature is itself intrinsic to the value of the gift and its utility, you see. If all comes to pass as hope and diligence might warrant, well, then perhaps I'll be able to point out a few things about town to you in the near future that stemmed from this. Not that I'd hazard such currents would draw your true interest, my dear, not as much as the direct beauty of well-crafted formulae and patterns magick." Reginald gestured again to the page in front of her.
            "What say you, my dear?" asked Reginald with the same brightness one might suggest an adventuresome seagoing foray.
            Loupin, in order to resist laughing, managed something between a snort and a grunt.
            "I think I ought to leave the saying to you," she said, rubbing studiously at her nose to mask a smile. "You're better at it. All right. Just give me a couple of days with it, and then come by. Maybe by then I'll be astonishing the town with the indirect beauty of my suddenly dewy and perfumed skin... if I still have a face, of course."

            “Your reputation precedes you,” Reginald greeted with a raised salute of his mug. “At least one of your drinks shall be by my coin tonight, good sir.” The gnome caught the eye of one of the serving maids of the establishment and conferred through a short series of gestures that Talib was to be served a drink on Reginald’s favor. “You can only be Talib by feature and name, can you not? I have an ear for an inspiring tale, and the word I hear spread of what you did for those men; taking the helm in the storm of battle, turning the tide as it were, sailing home whom you could; you must’ve have the offers of many captains to join notable crews since. Winds and currents carry us all, sir.”
            “Reginald Brushcutter, if you’ll grant me the honor.” The venue had other distractions, surely, though; Reginald would not presume to monopolize. “Enjoy your evening as you will, good Talib, but if at some point in the festivities you fancy a moment’s respite from the press, I extend an open invitation to share words.” Reginald’s smile widened a bit and his eyes looked this way and that, at the people about, and he leaned in a bit closer to acknowledge with higher praise, “As much as the story may share, by honor and reputation, I gather you are gifted with navigating words and presence as the stars and the sea. On opposite sides of any such given table, we might be worthy adversaries, but I’d much more prefer to form the foundations of a friendship.”
            Reginald raised his mug once more and drank from it.
            " My family has enough enemies in this part of Toril," came the reply from a voice as deep as the ocean's trenches, and yet mirthful like the laugh of a fey, " So I welcome the chance to not add another to that list. Honor is earned, not granted by a sailor, Mister Brushcutter, but you've my attention and my gratitude for the drink."
            Talib raised the fresh glass of palm wine to his new patron and drinking companion before gulping a whale's breath from the beverage and leaving it significantly empty once more.
            " Brushcutter, Brushcutter, where have I heard that name before," the sailor mumbled, rubbing a hand against his beard before snapping his fingers in recognition, " Aha! You wouldn't happen to be of the Brushcutters, then? Adventurers who put the books of that Geddarm fellow to shame, from what I've heard!"
            He certainly looked the part, Talib figured - as dapper and garish as a Gnome could be, so how could this one not be a Brushcutter just by appearances alone? If he was who he said he was, Talib sensed that this could prove profitable, and though he had indeed received several words from captains, as Reginald had posited, not all of them were as fair-weather as the Gnome implied.
            "We're all but restless achievers, with a penchant for sharing experiences," Reginald demurred, of Talib's recognition of Reginald's lineage. "Your comparison to Mister Geddarm's Guides is the first I've heard; but perhaps apt if we grant his heart is truly in each moment, and his published works incidental. Be that the case, may he have earned all our greater respect, true?"
            " I hadn't realized Tashluta had a celebrity in its midst, and he chooses to spend his time chatting with an unemployed sailor? I'd swear, that story of those Whalers grows larger by the day if it's brought me to this. What, then, may a humble son (of dozens it seems) of Keltar do for you, Mister Brushcutter?"
            "Bah; the achievements of my family far eclipse my own, but the spirit of adventure... that runs deep in kin and blood and people, and what better seas and lands to drink of that spirit, true? My motivations lie plain, good Talib; fortune finds me here tonight, and smiles in the rare opportunity to meet a man at the center of such a story of note, and salute in person the heart behind it."
            "If it is a boon you offer, sir, I humbly ask two -- my friends call me, 'Reginald,' as I welcome you to do, and once I can do so with no slight to your schedule or associates, I'd hear the story of that battle at sea in your own words. By your leave, of course."
            " Well then, friend Reginald, you've my leave now. No ship calls me home, nor have I finally given in to a steady life on stone, much as my family may hope that I am the first to cave."
            Talib chuckled into his cup, finishing off the remaining wine before turning to face the Gnome who was so eager to hear a tale that Talib, rightly, had almost no desire to tell. Yet, there was something about the Brushcutter, something about that amiable charm that made the sailor wonder that if anyone were to listen to what really happened ...
            Well. He had been wrong about people before. But he had also been remarkably right about them too.
            " You ask for a story of a battle. Of dashing heroics and bold deeds! Of adventure and songs of heroism!" Talib waved his empty cup about, mimicking the cuts and parries of a corsair and their trusty blade, adding a flourish to his diamond-studded tone.
            And yet, in but a moment more, the bravado peeled away and what was left in its place was simply a sailor, salted and worn by the sun - not some peerless privateer that Tashluta described him as.
            " Sadly, the sea does not appreciate bold deeds and heroism. Talos and Umberlee war between themselves and we are merely at the mercy of their misfortune whenever we set sail. All I did was take the wheel of a doomed ship and make sure that only half of us would die that day, rather than all."
            He looked over at Reginald, dark eyes studying the Gnome. He sighed, and relented.
            " But that's not going to satisfy your curiosity either, nor is it the entire truth."
            Talib signaled for another wine, taking only a smaller sip of it when it arrived. Enough to whet the tongue and creativity.
            " We came upon a Whaler, floundering in storm. Not only did they have the elements to contend with, but a Crimson Fleet raider apparently though that rain and wind were as good an environment to pillage as any. At first we were only trying to help the whaler run - We were too few to fight off those monsters and the whaler, well - a brave Tashlutan with a spear is still only a brave Tashlutan with a spear. Hardly a match for the brigands of the Crimson Fleet."
            He supped from his palm wine again, his voice clear that he had more anger for the pirates than he had pity for the simple fishermen - every Tashlutan knew how dangerous it was to go whaling, after all, but harpooning sea creatures was not the same as battling corsairs.
            " Eventually we realized we'd be overtaken no matter what. The Captain turns wheel around, all swords drawn, everyone prepared to board and be boarded to buy that whaler time to run. Oar crashed against oar, splinters throwing men to the decks, and then they were upon us - insentient, unfeeling, they cut down my friends as though they were annoying flies. The helmsman tries to pull us away, we try to cut the ropes that bound us to their fell vessel, but an Orc amongst them throws a spear and the helmsman crumples. We're a lost ship, friend Reginald, bound for either the Hells or slavery, and the former of those options I'd wager would be the kinder."
            Talib shook his head, the memory flooding back. Palm wine loosened his thoughts and lips perhaps more than he felt comfortable with before, but now the dam had burst and the words came pouring out.
            " Then there's this freak gale. A wind so fierce that she pulls us free. I rush to the wheel to make sure we don't collide and damn ourselves to a watery grave, and half the jacks are screaming at me to set for home and abandon this maelstrom. But I saw that Whaler, and that Crimson raider was not going to give up such a fat prize so easily. Their Captain must've though we were dead in the water, because their oars come out again and they set after the fishermen. They'd already butchered our own and now they were setting to do that to those who could barely defend themselves from the storm, let alone pirates. I couldn't ... I wouldn't let that happen, no. No."
            A deep breath was all Talib needed to finish his long-winded tale.
            " So I rode that wind of Shaundukal right back around, rode it until our prow smashed into her port, splintering her and lodging our nose into her gaping wound. Umberlee made to claim us all at that point, through the worst sounds you'd ever heard. I don't know if you've ever turned ear towards the death knells of a ship, friend Reginald, but it is the most atrocious aural assault of all - the spine snapping, the timbers creaking and then shattering as if bone under pressure. Canvas flaps like thunder and rips as if clawed by a hellbeast, wind screaming through her wounds louder than the cries of drowning men. It's horrible."
            He looked into the clear drink of his cup.
            " It's horrible."
            Talib downed his wine, brushing his mouth off on his sleeve. A sense of sobriety returned to the man - his eyes lost a sheen of cloudiness upon them, and he nodded to himself to conclude this story, for both Reginald and himself.
            " The Whaler survived. Plucked me and several dozen others out of the sea. Carrier us home and then told all of Tashluta how I had saved them. How I had broken my Captain's ship and drowned her men to save them, and for that they call me a Hero. And I cannot say that they are wrong, but I cannot say that they are right, either."
            Reginald's expression was somber, and attentive, and contemplative, all from moments after Talib's framing of his tale. The gnome's hands rested folded upon the table, his own drink momentarily forgotten, as the story unfolded. Gone was the flamboyance, replaced with the steady gaze of compassion and respect.
            "You don't need my comments upon it. You're right, by hear tell -- I can but imagine the moments, vivid as you make them," he spoke at last. "I thank you for the truth of it, and recognize the mark the experience has left on you. History'll remember the story as told by the whaler crew longevity, for its their kin and families whose gratitude you've earned."
            Reginald's thoughts turned inward again; the thumb on his right hand fingered the band of his signet ring on the reverse of his right middle finger. "'Spectemur Agendo,'" he spoke with equal parts reverence and pride. "'Let us be seen by our actions.'"
            "Talib, for what you've done, and for seeing fit to retell it unabridged... you have a favor you need, you let me know, and give me the opportunity to repay some of the fortune you've bestowed on those families."
            The sailor nodded to the scholar and traveler, noting that the Gnome did nothing to say that he was wrong. He just ... listened. Listened and accepted Talib's story sans embellishment and rumor. Despite Reginald's flamboyant appearance, Talib had to admit that there appeared to be more to the foreigner than his initial dress and mannerisms would suggest.
            " It is unwise to trade a favor for little more than a story," the taller man observed dryly, before breaking into a smile, " But it is not the worst deal I've ever heard of."
            " Perhaps you would instead see fit to regale me with a tale of a Brushcutter in reply, hm? What brings you to such a hot land?"
            It was Talib's turn to wave over a waitress, asking for fresh water instead of wine, and food - with an offer to Reginald if he were feeling peckish as well - for the sailor felt a measure of comfort that he had not in some days.
            " Is it our clear seas? The ruins that lay in the wilderness beyond Talshuta? Or perhaps you've merely heard tales of the beauty of our people? I know which I've set sail for," he grinned.
            "Simple love and fascination," Reginald confided in reply, nodding at the direct truth of it. "It'd be disingenuous of me to suggest we Brushcutters don't carry a certain cause of our own, of exploring the unknown for the mere sake of the adventure of it, or of experiencing the best and brightest each horizon might have to offer, or of putting forth our boots and backs in our travels where there's a good cause or even just a task needing done. True, we're much more vested to the north, but -- my word -- the north has not the depth and breadth of breathing life that the jungles hold, of histories you could pass by unknowingly, yards through the greenery from your present path. To say nothing of the seas, from calm days to the brilliant storms that wrack the skies in displays one is most fortunate to observe from shore and shelter."
            "What lands could permit the great cats to thrive, and stalk, and nearly own? These lands, I had to see, after I first saw the grace and quiet power of a jaguar. You may already know, good Talib, of the animal trade here in Talshuta, both in trophies and in live specimens. It was one such live creature that, in the hands of a skilled trainer and proprietor, traveled north. Once barely more than a cub, Setoa has since traveled with me, and it is wanting to understand and experience more of Setoa's native climes that I have traveled here. Fortunate I am, indeed, at finding that a grown, semi-domesticated jaguar doesn't raise quite the alarm in urban environments as he's more wont to do in the north. Twice fortunate I am, that Setoa abides a loose collar and tabard to make clear he is not fresh-stalking from the periphery, but is in my care and responsibility."
            "You might look about, and wonder where you've missed a jaguar, but bear it no mind; Setoa prefers to lounge most of the day while in the close quarters of ship or city, and so is not near at hand."
            Reginald drew from his drink. He lifted a boot from the chair rung and held it momentarily aloft before lowering his leg and heel back to rest. "I'd be pleased to say any press or mar upon these boots are from deep within the jungles outside our fair present city, here, but the truth of it is I've spent my time here thus far absorbing the culture and play. One might say I'm half-waiting, half-searching for an item to catch my focused interest deeper within the greenery. I've little doubt that such an occasion is sure to occur soon, from without or from within. If there is one thing I've gathered so far, it's that the jungle is unforgiving to those that attempt to traverse it without respecting it, and while that does nothing but entice, it also encourages establishing a certain purposefulness of destination. To horizons and opportunities, my friend."