Xandilif the Banshee sat in the darkest corner of the Prancing Pony she could find, a bottle of clear liquor in front of her and a single small glass. Through the walls of the Inn she could feel Finchley breathing raggedly, her heart beating fast as her avian namesake but steady even as her dreams raged, could feel the pulse of the brand forged by sorcery and soot into her skin. Just thinking of it, and the shame in Finchley's eye whenever she revealed it, made her blood boil again.
The elf drained the glass again, contemplating the smooth lip of the vessel, admiring the craft before pouring again. It had been nearly five hours since they had returned from the graveyard, she had begun drinking nearly as soon as Babygirl had fallen into her fevered sleep, helped along by the happy juice that crackpot doctor had given Addiela. A short discussion between allies, then, the bar awaited.
As she was alone, it didn’t take long for one local grandee, a merchant’s son with what appeared to be an eggplant shoved down his leggings, to offer to buy “the visitor from the land of the fair folk” a drink. Xandilif had smiled and replied, “Go away, or that produce, as well as the privates under ‘em, will be layin’ very public in the middle of the floor…”. No one else bothered after he had crept away.
As she poured again, she felt the ache grow deeper, darker. Twice in little more than a month she had had to call on SilverWand, for something beyond the norm, breaking her own rules. Twice she had felt the hands, clawing, pulling everything in like a mad hobbit at his breakfast table. Twice she had held the pull within herself, but one can’t fault the beast for being what it is. Eventually it will have its way…and a deal is a deal.
She remembered the gleam in the eyes of the others in the Thirsty Seer as the rush of SilverWand hit them that first time, the power, the glow…saw their eagerness. The Lions had looked much the same…at first. That changed soon enough.
Another shot down. She contemplated the slightly frosted sheen of the glass, then setting it down, she picked up the pen. She traced out careful, laborious characters, whispering each word as she formed it. When others of her kind were learning their sums and their letters and their cadences, Xandilif was running wild, or learning which arteries will kill you the fastest when severed. No time to go back now. Not for no how.
When she felt she had finished, she wrote the address and recipient across the back, Hrorr, Himbar, Gath Forthnir…then she read the letter back silently to herself…
Hrorr,
Hope you are not dead. I would come in person but business keeps me elsewhere, but I need favors.
Twenty years past, there was a slave revolt up near you. It ended like all revolts in Angmar end, but the leader might have been a female. She might be called The Slave Who Did Not Forget Her Name by those who call her anything…only trouble, everyone ELSE has forgotten her name. See what ya can find. She may have had a daughter. She might have been important. I want ta know why.
Also, looking for a Hillfolk Witch, born to the Trev Gallorg, maybe called Moyna. Would have been working as a stalking horse for the Guild of the Unsealed well before that, not sure when, or where exactly. She might have ended up in Eriador, the Unsealed might have lost track of her. She would have been a good hand with wards, and perception glamours. She’d have a lot of blood on her hands. I need all ya can get about her.
Also give me what ya can see on the Unsealed or the other Guilds, especially the Unexpected, looking down towards Bree with hungry little eyes. The back o' my neck is itching and I want ta know what to look out for.
I need all this soon. It is important. Can't say why. In return, I will owe ya whatever you or the Council want. Might be traveling your way soon, depends how things pan out. If not, ya know where ta reach me.
Banshee
Satisfied, she sealed it, setting it aside. Then she refilled the small shot glass and drained it.
Leaning back, she contemplated the rim of the glass, a smear of bright blood, slowly running down into the drops of liquor remaining. A glass filled with blood. She nodded to herself and wiped her mouth with a ready handkerchief.
“A deal is a deal” she whispered, and rose to send her letter on its way, and look for sleep. Tomorrow was likely to be worse than today.
As she passed, she tossed both the glass and the blood soaked cloth into the fire.
