Bladesinger - Keith Francis Strohm [40]
"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