Complete Fire Starter (Graded)

Yeva meets Pharan.

31st of Ashan 719

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Yeva
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Fire Starter (Graded)

31st Ashan 719


“I’m going to run to the human sector and have your status registered,” Azreal has been flying all over the city since they arrived yesterday and it was beginning to show. His head feathers, usually slicked back were sticking up in wild disarray and he set the sack of ingredients on the wooden table with uncharacteristic clumsiness. He was breathless, too, “Will you be okay while I’m gone?”

“I’ll be fine; you worry too much.”

“Someone has to,” he eyed the elementary Avrellian reader in her possession and paused to watch her wrist move across the page as she copied the text meticulously. Yeva was starting with the basic symbols of the language and he was impressed by how neatly she wrote them. Azrael almost thought to praise her until her mouth opened and she tried to replicate the sounds of spoken Lorien to match.

Azrael howled in amusement, his wings fluffing in his entertainment.

A rush of panic gripped her, “It’s not funny!”

“It is.”

Yeva’s cheeks reddened to cherries and she glued her eyes to the tome, unable to bring herself to look at his stupid grinning face, “I’m trying,” she spat stubbornly.

“Slaves aren’t supposed to know how to read,” he teased, “You’d be better off learning Dehasin-”

“I’m not your slave!” she snapped, stabbing the quill into the vial of ink with fire in her eyes, “I’ll learn what I want.”

Despite the jungle heat, the room turned icy and Azreal’s expression hardened. He took a deep breath and rapped his talons against the table. For a second, Yeva thought he would apologize, but he turned towards the exit instead. An apology? His pride wouldn’t allow it, “I’ll be back soon. You should prep dinner.”

Yeva would need to learn to curb her impulses, and soon. Had another Avriel been present and witnessed such disrespect, they would have demanded punishment and what would he be forced to do? The silver eyed male hadn’t meant to upset her, but her fuse was shorter than usual. Anyone across the world would be tense, he reasoned, jumping from the cave.

The two could talk when he came back.

She copied a few more symbols, embarrassed and fuming. She hadn’t thought her Lorien had been so bad, and yet he mocked her. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t speak the language and when she tried to practice again, the residual humiliation made it hard to form the words. Her lips were tight, locking up in an effort to protect her from further distress. Eventually, she gave up.

With a sigh, Yeva rose to her feet, reaching for the bag of food. Prep dinner. It was the least she could do for Azrael, rude humor or not. After all, her involvement here was just the indulgence of her own whims.

Yeva didn’t know how to cook, but she began pulling the items out one by one. An onion, a lemon, a jar of uncooked rice. There was parchment tied off with twine that she began to undo, gasping and dropping the half opened fish, it’ blacked eye and gaping mouth jiggling when it smacked back onto the table, “Ugh,” she grimaced, leaning forward to peel it away from the wood. An outline of oil lingered and she could practically smell the river. Very quickly she pulled the paper back over its face and went to wipe her hands off on a cloth hanging by the unlit fire pit.

Knives and spices hung from racks drilled into the wall, and she found a piece of flint and steel, beside it a box of tinder. Her bare feet a soft scuffle across the stone floor, she settled by the pit and rearranged a few logs, tucking a bit of the firestarter at the base. Sitting on her knees, Yeva (unsuccessfully) smacked the flint and steel together over and over, hoping for sparks. Frowning in determination, she didn’t look up when she heard someone land at the door.

“I’m sorry I got upset, I-” Yeva looked up and her voice caught. Brown eyes widening, a flash of fear danced across her expression and she struggled to keep her voice calm. The Avriel at the door was not Azrael. What was she supposed to say? He hadn’t told her this would happen. Not wanting to admit the other male wasn’t there, although it would become obvious within trills, Yeva blurted the first thing that came to her mind, “I don’t know how to start a fire.”

She rushed to her feet and took a nervous step backward, "A-are you here for dinner?"
Last edited by Yeva on Fri Aug 16, 2019 3:47 pm, edited 3 times in total. word count: 794
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Re: Fire Starter

N
o? That’s unfortunate.”

The words had come softly, amused, almost.

Unmoving, Pharan lingered on the sun-drenched threshold. A wisp of commotion at the cave entrance had drawn his attention as he wheeled overhead. It hadn’t been much—the faint flux of a breeze whispering pale against the indigo sky. He would have ignored it, hadn’t it been for the rumors of Azrael’s return.

He had expected to find someone.

He had not expected the someone to be a human girl.

He took a step forward. Sunlight filtered past his shoulder and set the girl’s hair ablaze. It was the first good look he caught of her in the twilight his arrival had cast over the cave. For four, five trills, he studied the occupant he had stumbled over so unexpectedly. The flint and steel in her hands. Her clothes. The bare length of her neck. Her freckled features.

Her question startled him out of his observation. He looked from her towards the firewood sitting amidst the blackened stone of the hearth but made no reply.

Dinner. He considered the idea as he eased into the home.

Silhouettes emerged from the shadows as his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The familiar shape of a table, the surface dark and smooth from use. A set of chairs. The stone-carved hearth, larger than his own, and better maintained. A scatter of belongings, only some of which he had seen before.

“Where is Azrael?”, he asked, as he dragged two gloved fingers through the puddle on the table. He sniffed at his fingertips, wiped them off. He reached for the tome, sitting forgotten beside a pile of parchment. He didn’t ask for permission. Not for taking the book, nor for sitting down at the table in a rustle of feathers and plain, dark-blue linen.

Pharan wasn’t a tall man, not even compared to his own people, but with his wings half-opened behind him, he occupied more space in the small room than he rightfully should have.

“Look at the flintstone,” he said as he opened the book with gentle hand. “You want to find one of its sharper edges. When you strike with the steel, don't just hit the edge—drag the length of the metal along it, against the point. You want friction, not chip pieces of the stone.” The book closed with a quiet thud. “Maybe you need an attempt or two, to find the right angle.”

Pharan had spoken calmly in Common, the tell-tale Lorien accent lending a harsh edge to some words and a deceptive softness to others.
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Re: Fire Starter

31 Ashan 719


For a moment, the two just waited, watching the other. Yeva couldn’t tell what he was thinking and felt very much like she was under the scrutiny on par with a bird of prey. A hawk, or an owl. Maybe a falcon. Stepping further into the cave, the stranger didn’t offer an immediate response, or even an acknowledgement of her dinner invitation.

Where’s Azreal?

Losing the Avriel’s interest temporarily, he reached for the smear on the table and a stone dropped in Yeva’s chest. Her study materials were open for display, “Um,” she tried not to appear as anxious as she suddenly felt, but this whole interaction left her grasping at straws. This wasn’t Rharne, she didn’t know how to behave and she had been caught unaware. Should she lie? What would he do if he found out? Pharan wiped the fish oil off his glove and Yeva ran her thumb along the flint stone, “He flew to the city,” her voice was soft, careful in choosing its syllables, “I think he had some business to attend to.”

She didn’t want to give away all the details just because of a little nerves, nor should she. A slave didn’t go spouting off her master’s business… or did they? “He should be back soon.” The freckled woman didn’t know that for certain, but she doubted Azreal would stay away longer than necessary. He had been cautious, and for good reason. It hadn’t occurred to either of them someone would be making house calls. Who was this man?

With pale head feathers and the same thin lips and straight nose, her inexperience with the race nearly made her believe the two could be siblings. Maybe cousins? No, the patterns were wrong. This man was all soft cream colors and caramel browns, and Azreal was tall, trim with a few scars and wings edged with carbon black. They must have been co-workers…. Friends?

What did Azreal do?

There was so much of his life she didn’t know about.

“Look at the flint stone.”

Yeva suddenly realized she was staring in an attempt to make sense of it all, and followed the command without thinking. He turned a page of her book, offering more instruction. Was he helping her? Drag the length against the point. Friction. Not chips. She had to find the right angle.

The rise and fall of his accented voice faded and she re-positioned her grip on her tools, nodding in quiet surprise, “Thank you,” Yeva slowly lowered herself back to where she had been when he arrived, wishing she wasn’t so jumpy. The young woman had never been good at lying and now her entire presence felt like one big web now.

Her fingers fumbled with the steel, changing their grip on the metal and she felt for the edge he had referenced. Yeva's hand was deliberate and slow as she swiped them against one another, feeling the steady friction before increasing speed. She knew there would need to be more pressure, more heat to create even a spark, but she wanted to commit the right stroke to muscle memory, and she tried again, faster. She did this a few times, feeling her confidence grow and scooted forward so that she was hunched over the project. She swiped the stone, thrusting her forearm forward in one motion, no futile smacks. She did it again, and a sliver of a spark jumped from her fingers. She gasped, and turned towards the visitor with a grin split across her face, "It's working." There was no fire, and no evidence the claim was true, and yet she felt a rush of pride, paired with the familiar itch of curiosity. Any progress was still progress, and it wouldn't have been possible without his help, "What's your name? When Azreal eats tonight, I'll have to credit you."
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Re: Fire Starter

I
would hope that it works,” Pharan said without looking up. “You would have trouble preparing supper otherwise.”

The Avriel had turned from the hide-bound tome towards her writing attempts, carefully sifting through the different sheets of parchment. One talon, peeking pale from the soft leather of his glove, traced the neatly rendered characters without touching them.

He had not commented on Azrael’s whereabouts. Maybe he found no fault with the idea of a master who kept his slave in the dark about his comings and goings. Maybe, he was just sure the cave’s owner would return before long. Or at least before he was leaving.

“Why tell him at all?”, Pharan asked as he put the writing down before him. “You could have all the praise for yourself. If you don’t tell him—I won’t.”

Again, his gaze came to rest on the parchment; the letters, meticulously painted on the sallow sheep-hide. They were small. Precise. Immaculate. They were also different from Azrael’s wild, rambunctious hand.

He had seen his friend’s writing once. It had been a short report, detailing the encounter between a foreign diplomat and a willful young Avriel only recently returned to Athart. The diplomat had claimed the youth had insulted him. The Avriel had claimed the same. Nothing had come of it, but Pharan had been tasked to put oil on troubled waters. It was how he had met Azrael. To get his version of the events has they had transpired; after he had read the man’s statement—or tried to, anyway.

Back then, he hadn’t understood his people’s script quite the way he did now.

Before his inner eye, Pharan could still see the writing. Dark ink on crumpled parchment, unruly brush strokes which veered left and right as they cascaded the sheet, like a mountain creek roiling over stone worn smooth by the currents.

Pharan pursed his lips. He looked from the writing towards the book still on the table. From the book towards the cave opening and from the opening to the girl still standing by the hearth. Sunlight reflected golden off the iron collar wound around her neck, lending additional softness to already soft features. He lifted his gaze to study her face again, her last question hanging between them.

“You can call me Pharan,” he said finally, as he shifted the stack of writing back to where he had found it. “At least when we are alone—or in Azrael’s company. You shouldn’t address me at all around others, unless it’s unavoidable. And then it should be Aide Elluin. Or Master Elluin.”

The reply had come with another moment’s delay, as if he had needed a trill or two, to decide whenever to answer her or not, before indulging her curiosity. Or maybe he had just come to some sort of conclusion. Once again, he looked at her, his dark bird eyes unmoving.

“You aren’t from around here”, Pharan said suddenly, without as much as a preamble. He leaned forward. “Where are you from?”
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Re: Fire Starter

31 Ashan, 719


Yeva wasn’t quite sure what to make of the man across from her, his willingness to keep a secret catching her off guard. 'I thought the Avriel liked praise, does he not?' She shook her head with a smile, “Oh, I couldn’t,” Turning back to the fire, she continued her efforts, the sound of striking steel pausing her next admittance, “Azrael would know, he always does.” This was said with a roll of her eyes - a sign of resolute friendship, not the level of fear or awe expected from property.

She paused for a moment, realizing her mistake but tried to brush past it with a smile, “I mean, he’s just…” her hands moved, seeking the explanation her mouth tripped over, “I’m not a very good liar; So, best to be honest.” Speaking of honesty, Pharan’s attention moved over the tome and around the room, making her fear he had begun putting the pieces together.

She averted her eyes, ‘Please don’t ask.’

Scraping the steel, a spark of angry orange erupted and kissed the fluff tinder. It looked like cattail with bits of chopped bark, something to learn another day, and it surprised her so thoroughly, she dropped to her hands, fanning the tiny ember. It glowed brighter and began to dim, the red headed woman leaning close to blow the infant flame to life, “C’mon,” she coaxed between breaths, cupping the fire and transporting it to the positioned logs with the same delicacy one would use to cradle an infant, “You’re okay,” she spoke as if it were a living thing, and to her, it might as well have been, “I’ve got you.”

Watching it lick and grow up the side of a log, she sat back and looked proud at the joint effort. Just when it seemed Yeva had forgotten her company, she twisted and returned the fire starter where she found it, wiping her hands off on her pants. The fire crackled and fell away from her warm skin, and she waltzed back towards the table, pulling a pot from a hook as she did so, “No, I’m from Rharne,” she announced, meeting his eye, “But I’m not much of a drinker.” 'Or a fighter.'

Adding that preamble felt like an impulse every time she introduced her hometown and the sound of rice replicated rain as it resonated in the metal container. She eyed it, trying to decide how much water to add. One part rice, two parts water. Even she knew that. Yeva stuck her finger in and watched it meet the first knuckle on her finger.

“Athart is the first outside city I’ve ever traveled to. It’s so pretty, I’ve never seen this much greenery... and the jungle!” Her eyes widened in excitement and she clutched the jar to her chest, hugging it against the white blouse, “There must be so much to see here.” Without thinking, she slipped into an empty chair and cupped her face while the other extended towards him, “Nice to meet you. My name’s-”

“YEVA!”

The young woman jerked so hard, her knee hit the underside of the table and a grimace twisted her face. The wind proclaimed Azrael’s arrival, followed by his shadow that prowled inside. Wings partially opened, his head ducked, but his eyes were flashing between the two. The space felt smaller with each step closer, “What do you think you’re doing?” He eyed her up and down, assessing any damage before snatching her chair back and practically dragging her from it. Her short legs struggled to keep up with his strides, and his eyes narrowed when he released her with a shove. The tall Avriel was acting mean, but there was a worried tension in his jaw, "You'll have to forgive her, Pharan. She forgets her place."

Yeva was left discarded to the side, clutched her knee with silent accusation. Azrael had never hit her, and the pain she felt wasn't his doing, but as friends, being the subject of his ire had left her gobsmacked. It reminded her of being reprimanded as a child, only she wasn't sure what she had done wrong. Azrael took her place and didn't give her another look as he took her place, "You look well," he added casually, frowning at the pot of rice as he settled into his seat. Yeva hovered awkwardly before collecting the ingredients and taking them over to the counter, "City's been treating you good?"

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Pharan
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Re: Fire Starter

F
or the first time since he had intruded on the cavern home, Pharan‘s lips twitched into an amused smile. For a trill only, he was tempted to tell her the truth—that few masters cared about the opinion of slaves no matter if it was scorn or compliment, whenever the slave was a slave in earnest or a pretender—but, in the end, he remained quiet. When he was honest, he just hadn’t expected her to follow through with her promise once he was gone.

“Azrael can be quite… observant,” Pharan said noncommittally, his eyes on the tome not half an arm’s reach to his side. “I have never been to Rharne—I heard it was built on the banks of a lake near Rynmere. That the lake feeds into a river, which in turn feeds into the distant sea. My sister mentioned it once.”

For a moment he seemed about to say more, but then the girl invited herself to his table. Pharan looked at her hand, then up and beyond her; alerted by a sudden shift in the atmosphere. An Avriel towered on the threshold, his lean form a dark eclipse against the radiant bloom of the afternoon sky. Azrael. Before Pharan could make a reply, the warrior was upon them. Brusquely, he ushered his brazen property behind himself, away from her chair and Pharan both.

The wooden table top bucked once beneath Pharan’s palms. It wasn’t quite enough to send the pot and other cooking utensils flying, but the Avriel didn’t look as if he would have made the effort to save the uncooked rice even if it had been the case. Before him, Azrael admonished the girl—Yeva—before turning towards him with an apologetic look and an excuse.

“You know me, I am a very… forgiving creature,” Pharan said, his eyes lingered on Yeva’s form as she held her knee; his expression impassionate. “I am not going to give a friend trouble for how their… slaves choose to behave.”

There it was. The momentary pause before asserting Yeva’s position in his friend’s household, the small smirk that played around Pharan’s lips as he did so, assuring the other man that, yes, he did know the human under his wing was more and less than he pretended—and that he was willing to let the topic slide. For now.

“You seem to be doing well for yourself. An own slave—who would have thought that just an arc ago.” Pharan searched for his friend’s eyes. “Maybe you will allow me to talk to her sometimes… it is not often we have quite so talkative young ladies in Athart. And I am curious as to what languages they speak in Rharne… and what they know about us.”

A moment, longer his eyes remained on Azrael, calm and deliberate, then the moment of idle conspiracy passed. Pharan leaned back in his chair, his expression softening into something that might pass for a smile.

“The city has been treating me well enough—in the few days since my return. I was in Yrithal for a time—business for the diplomats, and my sister. With the war in Nashaki she has trouble selling her silks and is looking for new markets.”

He spread his fingers in an irritated gesture. “As much as I would have liked to say I only dropped by to see how you were doing… I am afraid I have a small favor to ask of you. A few days ago, there was an incident between two men near the harbor—a quarrel. I am unsure why we are looking into it, as both were human, but it is the second time this arc our attention was drawn to a similar incident. I feel like someone is calling in favors, but who I couldn't tell. Either way, Ryvern asked me to investigate the particulars of what transpired. I heard someone in the Overwatch saw what happened, but, maybe since it only pertained humans, didn’t report. I hoped you might be able to ask around if one of your colleagues heard something.”
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Yeva
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Re: Fire Starter

31 Ashan, 719


Azrael saw the smirk, meeting the diplomat’s eye with a steady look worthy of a poker tournament, “She’s a smart girl, but not smart enough to keep her mouth shut,” he slid easily into the second seat and pushed aside the ingredients with the back of his hand, “Nonetheless, your patience is appreciated.” The larger Avriel was not a diplomat, but he knew enough about social formality to survive, “Perhaps I should lend her to another owner, one with a bit more time to discipline when I leave for patrol.”

‘Patrol?’

She stared at the counter, measuring out the rice and setting it in wooden bowl. From her memory, she recalled her mother always boiling the water first, and she grabbed a canteen and filled the pot. Carrying it over to the fire, she set hunt it from the hook and threw in a dash of salt, “Although,” Azreal continued, “If you’ve suddenly developed an interest in Rharnian culture - don’t bother. It’s a rather dull, predictable trash heap.”

Yeva hated being talked about as if she wasn’t in the room, staring at a chip in the cave floor until her knee stopped hurting and she went to grab the packaged fish along with the rest of the bag. How could he say such things? Now on a cutting board, the red headed girl fumbled with the chef’s knife, a mild sickness in her stomach when she brought it down on the fish head, and whimpered when it jumped from the counter and onto the floor. Scrambling to collect it, she had to hold her breath to touch it

’Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew.’

While she struggled, Pharan - or Master Elluin - admitted to coming for a reason, but she made a point not to stop and stare. It wasn’t her business, but it was difficult not to listen.

“Ryvern actually cares?” ‘Who’s Ryvern?’ Azreal sounded smug, and when she glanced over, he was shrugging his shoulders, “I’m sure I can ask around. Will you be stopping by again, or shall I be the one making house calls?’

He waited for a response and nodded. Sitting forward, he spotted the learning materials, and snapped his fingers, “Clear this table, and tell Master Elluin what nonsense the foreigners speak where you come from.”

’Me?’ She noticed Azreal looking back with a cold expression and she rushed to wet a rag, “Um, let’s see…” Yeva wiped at her hands and then tenderly peeled the books out of Pharan’s reach, tucking the papers beneath it and began to scrub at the wood, “Common in the city, however regionally, the speech can vary: Pailtic, Ku’aric,” her hand slowed while she recalled, “Ominowa is less known, and then there’s Vucostic Sign and Yjik.”

She glanced at Pharan, he had wanted to know, after all, but realized her mistake. It was Azreal she should look to for approval and so her eyes moved, “Is there... anything else I can help with?”

“Hm, depends,” Azreal ran a hand over silver head feathers, his slave clearly smarter than most. It could be a point to brag upon, or one seen as a dangerous liability depending on the observer, “Has your curiosity been sated, Pharan?”
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Re: Fire Starter

P
haran spread his fingers. “If I was easily offended I was in the wrong field of work,” he said with a soft snort. Reclining in his chair, he studied Azrael’s impassionate face. Whatever the other man thought at this moment eluded Pharan, but he sensed they had come to an agreement. It was one reason why he liked the overguard—for a soldier, he could be starkly diplomatic.

Especially with the right incentives.

“There is no place quite like Athart,” Pharan said and straightened. “Even the Ivorian Empire, with its grand armies, bends a knee to an immortal and what creativity they possess goes into the creation of new ships and new weapons and armor. If they dabble in any art that didn’t serve a practical purpose I saw none of it during my visit.”

He looked down on his hands. “Nashaki has a sense for art and similar business interests, but their worship of Chamadarst has not stopped the enemies coming to their lands—they need us for that.”

Pharan paused. “I do want to know, in what regard Rharne is different from other cities I have seen.”

The moment of silence that followed was broken as something wet tumbling onto the cavern floor. Pharan looked down. His eyes found the fish head just as it stopped an arm’s length before his feet; his attention drawn to the sudden motion more by instinct than out of a desire to gloat at her clumsiness. He pulled back is boot and looked back to Azrael.

“If Ryvern cared, he would look into the matter himself. And if the matter was important they would have asked one of the younger diplomats. There are enough eager to carve out a name for themselves.” Pharan shook his head. “Ryvern either doesn’t believe it important, or he feels it is beneath him. I couldn’t tell which. But it is my problem now.”

He looked up. “I can come here again—or you drop by the Temple of Glories after your shift. They moved Ryvern’s office further back a while ago. It is easy to make out now—it’s one of the few chambers with a balcony that trusts out beyond the pillar’s base, just beneath the northernmost tower.” Pharan rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I got a small room to the left. It’s… hard to miss.”

Room was too liberal a description for the niche that held little more than a desktop and two shelves, but it was more than he had before. And even that he had only because Ryvern had decided he could do without it.

Pharan looked from Azrael to Yeva when the young woman was ordered over to tell him about the common tongues of Rharne. As it turned out, more than he had expected. Few he had even as much as heard about. Briefly, he considered asking her which of those she spoke, but after a look at the other man, he merely inclined his head.

“It has. Thanks,” he said and rose. “Let me know when you heard from your colleagues—or there is something you need.”
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Re: Fire Starter

31 Ashan 719


"Your problem, my problem." Azrael grinned, ignoring Yeva who rushed to clean the floor and scurry back to isolation and away from Pharan's shoes. He had been a helpful guest, but there was always the nagging worry of sudden attack. By the way Azrael warned her of the Avriel, she would have expected one of them to (quite literally) kick her when she was down, "If I hear anything, I'll try to stop by after a shift. No need wasting good wind if I'm already flying that way."

'Wasting good wind.'

What a funny expression, Yeva thought, cutting away some fins with painful slowness. She wasn't quite sure what she was supposed to do, but she could slice away all the inedible bits, right? But... What about the bones on the inside? Yeva frowned and turned the fish over, ignoring the blood on her fingers. She was a medic, and she put her hand along the body, cutting through the middle and feeling the blade slither along. It was... not a clean job, and she grimaced when he peeked at her handiwork.

'Note to self - learn how to make a clean cut before I ever participate in a surgery.'

There was mention of a Temple of Glories, a place she had never heard of. It was where Pharan lived, or worked? It must have been in the Avriel district when he mentioned something about an office, and she hadn't realized how painful it was not to ask question until she wasn't allowed to. Hoping to derive just a bit more information regarding the city and its culture, Master Elluin rose to leave and she flushed with disappointment. Azrael taught her enough, but it was different than interacting with new faces, she hadn't felt so detached from the world around her.

"Thank you for coming," Was that okay to say? The young woman wasn't sure, "And for teaching me."

"Yeva."

Azrael's expression darkened and she had to go back to her task to stop huffing in annoyance. Since when was being polite a sin? She listened to the water boil and the fire crackle, turning away, when Pharan took to the skies. It took trills - when the guest was out of sight, Azrael began to nag.
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Renown: 666
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Re: Fire Starter

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This was a very good collaboration, and I look forward to seeing more of you two playing off of each other.

The way you describe everything down to such an exquisite detail is really impressive, Pharan. I could just read about Pharan's impression of his own Avrielic script for an entire thread. I can't find fault with anything here, and your writing is top notch. Your interplay with Yeva and descriptiveness flowed and really made this thread shine.

Same for you, Yeva. I really enjoy the way you two play off of each other. Yeva is so sweet yet oddly neurotic, but who could blame her with the way Azrael plays mind-games with her. Of course, that's all for the sake of keeping up appearances. You make such great use of that npc, it really brings out an interesting side to Yeva. She's a real delight to see her interact with other pcs and npcs.

Points

15/15 these points may not be used for magic.

Knowledge

Yeva Knowledge:
Writing: Copy Symbols with Care
Linguistics: Avrielic Script: How to Write Avrellian Script
Linguistics: Lorien: Struggling with a Thick Accent
Linguistics: Lorien: Practice Speaking with Natives
Linguistics: Common Languages of Central Idalos
Discipline: Repress Your Embarrassment
Fieldcraft: How to Use Flint & Steel
Fieldcraft: How to Breathe a Fire to Life
Research: Find a Patient Teacher
Teaching: Don't Withhold Information

Pharan Knowledge:
Teaching: Explaining a mechanical process
Teaching: Explaining the reason behind why something is done a certain way
Detection: Taking note of someone’s slave collar
Investigation: When a slave doesn’t act like a slave
Investigation: Drawing conclusions from a string of evidence
Investigation: Each person’s handwriting is different
Deception: Leaving others to guess what you know
Deception: Keeping observations to oneself
Linguistics: Languages spoken in Rharne

Loot

Dinner is served.

Wealth

n/a

Renown

n/a
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