Let’s go ahead and drop a snippet, as I work toward this month’s promised ready-or-not update.
Rampion the jongler comes to Irduin
With the manor guard and Alastors all guarding the roads against potential assassins, it’s an unusually poor moment for an unknown jongler to arrive in Irduin. You’re in the Chesnery courtyard when the traveling singer is brought in, hands bound behind his back, to be interrogated by Captain Korren.
By the time he emerges from the inn’s back room, word has spread; half the villagers have left their usual winter work, milling about to see the stranger. Though he’s still being closely escorted by Alastors, the lean, unkempt-looking jongler breaks into a toothy grin. “Behold, an audience!” He sweeps into a florid bow. "My name is Rampion–and once our protectors are duly assured that I am in no wise an enemy of the House, I shall have some news and songs and tales to share.
“The Chevalier of Briguert; fresh prodigies of Theurgy on the Eastern front; monstrous Abhumans and conniving Erretsins and savage Halassurqs. Perhaps even a tale of the Great-Eel Maniode, Terror of Darle! Bring yourselves back here at dusk to know all!”
In the Chesnery kitchens, you catch Korren explaining somewhat dubiously to Maurs: “Says he’s moving through the backcountry, off the main highways. He’s just come from the hill country of Couvis–and he could describe the villages I’ve seen there, so it might be true. On his way to the Hethe.”
“An honest jongler might choose that path,” Maurs observes. “Expecting more generosity from the places that get fewer visitors.”
“He might. He’s sure to find fewer Alastors. And once in the Hethe, likely to find rebels.” Korren tugs pensively at his beard. “Have your folk keep an eye on him tonight, will you?” His eyes flickering to you, he @{(ird_sus < ird_sus_med) adds, “That includes you, ${alias}. Tell me if you see or hear aught that’s suspicious.”|falls silent and strides off.}
Having been questioned by the lady kuria at the manor, Rampion returns to the Chesnery caskroom in the mid-afternoon. He regards the place with the relaxed, dispassionate expression of a man who’s performed in a thousand such @{intronat inns; you think you recognize something of Carles in that look|inns}. At last his gaze lands on you.
*if sralibi = 5
“Ah, good${woman} ${ird_name}, is it? I hear you’re my hearth-fellow and competition here.”
*fake_choice
#“Hardly competition for a real jongler, kurios.”
Rampion waves away your modesty.
#“I recite and sing, but I reckon there’s an audience here for us both.”
“In so small a place?” Rampion raises an eyebrow.
#“I don’t know.” I offer him him a smile. “Are you good enough to be competition for me?”
Rampion laughs sharply.
“Let’s hear what you can do. Do you know ‘The Ill-Wrought Harp’?”
@{bre You glance at Breden, who shakes ${xhis} head; neither of you has ever|You’ve never} heard of the song. “That one hadn’t worked its way to the Rim by the time @{bre we|I} left, kurios.”
There’s more than a hint of smugness in the quirk of his lips. “Never mind. Best not to confuse folk with something that just hasn’t reached them yet. ‘To Shayard in the Spring,’ then!”
No one could deny that the man’s an extraordinary performer, rich-voiced and expressive, and when he draws a lyre from his carrysack, you’re unsurprised to find him just as fluent an instrumentalist. @{(cha > 2) But you keep up with him in pace and passion, drawing a fierce smile out of him by the end. “Competition indeed!”|You’re no match for him, but acquit yourself well enough to get an approving, “In a few years’ time, you’ll be competition indeed.”}
*if cha > 1
There’s the faintest tinge of something in the jongler’s voice…some double meaning you don’t understand. You keep your own face free of anything more than a bland smile, and after exchanging a few more words, he heads off to find the Innkeeps.
That evening, Rampion’s charm draws more than deafening applause out of the crowd of Irduines. Between songs, he’s immersing himself in the gossip of the village, drawing stories from yeoman and merchant and @{(alaala > 1) Alastor|helot} alike. You keep one ear on him, with increasing unease as the night rolls on. The conversation shifts whenever you come close enough to hear–deftly redirected by the beaming minstrel–but you catch enough fragments to recognize the pattern.
He’s finding out about you.
*if not(alone)
You and your @{(cerl_here and gam) friends|friend}; but mostly you.
*fake_choice
#$!{oath}. It’s all I can do not to start running now.
#Panic turns quickly to rage, with me. @{(violence > 2) If no one else were here, I’d|I’m seized by the urge to} snap the man’s neck.
#My mind races through all the possible explanations–none of them good, most of them nightmarishly bad.
But you don’t show it. You laugh, and pretend to drink more than you truly are, and
*if bre
meet Breden’s eyes for just long enough to confirm that ${xhe}'s noticed it, too. The two of you
*if alone
exchange the briefest of words with Captain Korren. Then you
head back to your stable loft well after midnight.
*if not(alone) and not(bre)
It would be unwise to warn @{cerl_here Cerlota|} @{(cerl_here and gam) and|} @{gam ${gamgee}|} aloud, in this thin-walled space. You do it with @{((me_lit = 0) or kal) signs|a quickly scratched note}, instead. Then you lie down, skin acreep with fear, and try to keep your breathing low and even.
Hours pass with only the groans and rustles of the Chesnery Oak reaching your ears. With no chance of sleep, you keep your eyes squeezed shut, wielding all your attention to overhear the squeak of a floorboard or a footfall on the stair. But when the odd sound finally comes, it’s a faint scrape overhead, between you and the window. Your eyes snap open.
There’s a silhouette hovering at roof level, above the poplar-slat divider that separates your bedspace from the next. For a moment you think you must have fallen asleep despite everything, because the man’s movements are unreal: smooth, weightless, reaching out limb by limb to crawl spiderlike along the ceiling.
Then he cranes his neck around to look at you, and there’s enough moonlight for you to see more than just a shadow. Compared to your memories of the evening, he’s barely recognizable: head and face shaved egg-smooth, dressed in tight black shirt and leggings with no entangling folds or loops of cloth, and nothing that even hints of a smile in his mouth or eyes. But it’s clearly Rampion–and he can clearly see that you’re awake, and watching him.
It follows from convincing either Bernete or Eyon that there’s a Kryptast in Irduin.