Ruedi will likely realise that Turold is used to talking to wild birds and other creatures of the wild as they perform their recon of the area.
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I can’t see the “Wand of Blunting” in the Ungulus lusting or on Cath’rinne’s character sheet. Can you post details/charges etc and I will update the posts.
Thank you
As Thom’s final words drift into the mist of the waterfall court, he holds his posture for a moment longer—still, steady, and open—the river’s roar folding in around the silence that follows. The spray catches the light, dancing like scattered gems across his clothes, but Thom does not shift his gaze or speak again.
When the pause has lingered just long enough, Thom lowers his head in a slow, deliberate bow, the gesture one of deep respect, not subservience. A bow given from one who knows Faerie’s weight and wisdom.
Without turning his back to the water or the King, Thom takes a single step back, then another, moving with measured steps. His expression remains soft and calm, his eyes flicking briefly toward the edge of the pool, as if acknowledging the ever-watchful presence of the otter-guardians.
Only when he has put a respectful distance between himself and the King of the Foam does he pause once more. He places a hand gently over his chest, then offers a final, small incline of his head—a gesture both of farewell and enduring goodwill.
Then, without a word, Thom withdraws from the river’s edge, his footsteps light upon the moss and stone, leaving space behind him—in word and presence—for the King to speak, should he wish.
The King of the White Foam has been polite and hospitable, but distanced. «Yes, I know Connissia, the Mentem Queen of Coniston Water. She is a friendly. Too stuffed up with the artifacts of the tall folk, maybe, but friendly.»
Thom realises that the King has little to do with anyone beyond his little river, which he protects. He listens politely to stories and news, but his interest is royal politeness and little else. He does not even have much contact with the faeries of the forest surrounding the river.
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Thom returns to the Oak Circle Manor just after sunset, the pale light of the sky slipping between the ancient oaks as he walks the familiar path from the riverbank. His audience with the King of the Foam still echoes in his thoughts—not cold, but distant, like a current that slides past your fingers no matter how gently you reach for it. Polite. Self-contained. Bound to his water and little else. Thom respects that.
By the time he steps into the manor, the air inside carries the scent of fresh oak, and he falls naturally into the rhythm of his days. Most afternoons and into the evening are spent in the quiet hum of his emerging laboratory—a space slowly taking shape as he fits shelves, places stone for future enchantments, and sketches out the arrangement of his equipment. There’s a growing energy in the room, not of spells yet cast, but of potential pressed into wood and air, waiting for the right moment to unfold. He hums to himself while he works, a tune half-remembered from the Day Queen’s court.
Several days a week, Thom makes time to walk the slope toward the riverbank, where the goatherds tend the flock and the nisse watch with their clever, sideways glances. He brings gifts—a bit of cheese here, a warm stone there—and checks on the goats with quiet affection. He makes sure the grogfolk have what they need, sometimes putting shoulder to the plow, sometimes simply listening. His laughter is a regular sound among them now, light and playful, helping to lift the burdens of long days. He asks questions constantly—about stone, about fences, about goats—as if everything they know is a story waiting to be told.
And when the sky is clear, and the wind rises over the trees, Thom slips away to the east in his vulture form, wings broad and silent, eyes sharp and nostrils tuned to the trace of magic. He circles high over marsh and meadow, letting the scent of the land pass over him. His spontaneous spell, Scent of Nearby Vis [InVi 5 The Scent of Nearby Vis Roll: 19/2 = 10 round up? Extend to Moon Duration], sharpens that instinct, twisting it into something more than natural—a glimmering aroma on the wind when power lies near. He is hunting now, not with talons, but with curiosity. With purpose.
There is magic out there, he can smell it. And he means to find it.
The wild animals are scared by the new arrivals, and it takes several days before Ruedi is able to chat one up. They are not overly concerned. The forest is big enough. The little farmstead has just become the least favoured spot for them, second to the hamlets of course. Oak Circle they always avoided. That eerie white lady, you know.
It is one of these mornings that Ruedi and Thom meet outside the goats' pen. The goats seem on edge, and Thom comes to think that he has not seen the nisse for a couple of days.
Thom’s boots press lightly into the damp grass as he crests the small slope above the pen, humming a tune about a clever hedgehog and a lost faerie crown. The goats are gathered tightly, their usual morning bleats oddly subdued, their heads flicking toward every movement of leaf or breeze. There’s a nervous energy in the air, and it settles oddly in Thom’s chest.
He slows, gaze sweeping over the pen, expecting to see a flash of movement—a braid of red wool darting behind a fence post, a tiny arm disappearing into the brush. But there's nothing.
"Where are the nisse?" he murmurs, blinking. It's not a question meant for anyone in particular—just the kind that rises when something feels off.
He moves closer to the pen, crouching near Bramble, the goat who’s usually first to demand attention. The old goat eyes him with unease, shifting his hooves, ears twitching. Thom lays a hand on his side, offering a soft hum of comfort, but Bramble doesn’t lean in the way he usually does.
Thom’s gaze lifts, scanning the low stone wall, the knotted roots at the tree line, the hollow log where he once left an apple carved with a laughing face. Still nothing. No flash of mischievous eyes. No scent of honeyed bread or old moss and smoke.
"They don’t stay gone this long," he whispers, straightening slowly.
The edge of worry tugs at him now—not fear, not yet, but that pulling thread of something not right. He closes his eyes briefly, draws in a slow breath, then opens them again, this time not to the world as most see it, but to the world beneath it.
He calls upon his Second Sight [Roll 2, No botch confirmed], letting the edges blur and the spaces in between come forward—the shimmer at the edge of shadow, the flicker where the unseen brushes close to the skin of the world.
Thom turns slowly, scanning the glade, the pen, the treeline. Watching. Listening. Searching. For a glimmer. A ripple. A hidden trail.
"Let’s find where you’ve gone off to, my small friends," he murmurs. "And let’s hope it’s mischief, not trouble."
Thom spots Ruedi and calls to him. "Have you seen the Nisse?"
There is nothing to be seen at the minute. Ruedi has never seen the nisse, who generally wants to hide from human beings. It is only Thom he has gotten used to. It is morning and the sun shines.
The morning sun drapes golden threads over the glade, but the familiar warmth does little to ease the knot forming in Thom’s chest about where the Nisse might have gone.
The goats are still uneasy, their eyes flicking toward the treeline as if expecting something—or someone—to appear. Bramble lingers closer than usual, his sides rising and falling in shallow breaths as he chews, though his ears twitch at the slightest sound.
"Where is he?" Thom murmurs, crouching low beside the hollowed-out log where the Nisse often sat. His fingers trace the familiar grooves where the Nisse's nimble hands had etched playful spirals and tiny runes into the wood.
But no laughter greets him today. No mischievous glint of eyes peeking out from the moss. Just silence.
Thom’s expression softens, but his focus sharpens. He closes his eyes for a moment, drawing a slow breath, feeling the pulse of the glade around him. He first casts a spell [Eyes of the Raven MuCo L5, Fat Spont Roll: 27/2 = 13. Extend from Sun to Moon.] When he opens them again, it’s with Second Sight [Roll: 6] [Awareness Roll: 9. Add confidence Pt = 12] , that slantwise gaze that peers beyond what the world shows to most.
The veil shifts as he lets his vision drift between the seen and the unseen. Thom scans the glade, his eyes moving carefully over the familiar places where the nisse might hide—the hollow of the leaning pine, the moss-covered stones where they sometimes danced in the moonlight, the tangled roots near the old oak.
"Come on now…" he whispers, searching for traces—a shimmer, a flicker of movement, a lingering echo of faerie magic.
Thom barely takes a step toward the river when something catches his eye. A flicker of movement near the pile of timber stacked for future repairs—a trembling, almost imperceptible shift where there should be stillness.
His breath catches.
"Oh no…" he murmurs, his heart skipping as he moves slowly, carefully toward the pile. His steps are light, barely brushing the ground.
And then he sees it.
Tucked beneath the rough edges of the timber, a small figure quivers like a leaf in the wind. The nisse—one of his friends—huddled in the shadows, tiny hands clenched and body trembling with a fear Thom has never seen in them before.
"Oh… little one…" Thom’s voice drops to a soft whisper, barely louder than the rustle of leaves. His expression shifts instantly, concern shadowing the warmth that usually brightens his eyes.
He doesn’t move closer yet. He knows better. Startling a frightened faerie is as dangerous as startling a cornered fox.
"It’s alright," he murmurs, his tone gentle and reassuring, as if he’s soothing a skittish goat or calming a startled child.
Without taking his eyes off the trembling nisse, Thom slowly crouches, keeping a respectful distance. He lowers himself to the ground, making himself smaller, less imposing, his movements as fluid and calm as the breeze that stirs the grass.
"I was worried when I didn’t see you," he continues softly, a note of genuine care weaving through his words. "And Bramble’s been missing your stories, you know. He’s been sulking without someone to scold him properly."
A flicker of a smile tugs at Thom’s lips, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
With slow, practiced ease, Thom reaches into his satchel, unwrapping the piece of honeyed bread he had left earlier.
"Look," he says softly, holding the treat just far enough to be tempting, but not too close. "I saved something sweet for you… I thought you might like it."
He sets the bread gently on the moss nearby, letting the scent drift toward the nisse, but makes no move to close the distance yet.
"You’re safe now," Thom murmurs, his voice like a soft breeze, warm and reassuring. "But something’s frightened you. Will you tell me, little one?"
His cerulean eyes remain steady, filled with quiet patience and deep concern.
"Let’s figure this out together, hmm?" he adds, his tone carrying the same warmth and trust that has always been the foundation of his friendship with the nisse.
And so Thom waits—soft, steady, unhurried—as the breeze carries the scent of honey and bread toward the trembling figure.
Ruedi watches Thom's actions with a measure of interest, and amusement. He has no idea what kind of creature this Nisse is, but he's seen some strange creatures since his life became entangled with these Magi, and he didn't regret it.
He kept a small distance, but was ready to act if Thom needed him or if someone or something tried to interrupt.
«B-bad p-place. We should go home to the farm. This forest belongs to lady Glastic,» says the Nisse, still shivering, and afraid to come out from between the logs. «Lucky they didn's s-st-teal Bramble in the night.»
The Nisse's clothes are soaking wet, even more than you would expect from hiding in the moisty grass between the logs, and his teeth are chattering. He looks miserable as he pleads, «let's take the goats and return to the other farm. Happy there.»
Thom’s heart twists at the sight of the poor nisse, soaked through, shivering like a reed in the wind, his tiny body wracked with fear.
"Oh, little one…" Thom’s voice is soft as the morning breeze, barely carrying above the rustle of leaves.
Careful not to startle him, Thom reaches for the cloth he keeps tucked at his side—a soft, warm square of wool. He kneels low again, placing it gently by the nisse.
"We won’t go anywhere just yet," he murmurs, his tone gentle but firm enough to offer reassurance. "Bramble’s safe, I promise. And I won’t let anything happen to you or the others."
His gaze softens, but there’s a spark of resolve behind his eyes.
"But I do need to know more," he continues, his voice lowering just enough to coax the truth from the frightened creature. "Tell me… who is Lady Glastic? What do you know of her?"
As the nisse hesitates, still trembling, Thom lets his expression shift to one of quiet determination.
"If this forest belongs to her, then I should go speak with her," he says softly. "It’s better to meet her on good terms than to wait for trouble to come knocking, don’t you think?"
Ruedi listens to Thom's words, unsure of what he can do to help, besides keeping watch. But on second thought, despite the painful memories, he does try to remember whether the nymph that trapped him was called Lady Glastic, or maybe mentioned her.
[OOC = Rolled a 10 on Faerie Lore]
«Theh - teh - the - eh - Glastic has no good terms,» asserts the nisse. «They want the forest to themself. We are intruders. You, me, the missus and the husband. They will come and take the goats away. One by one. And then the chicken, and the sheep. And the cows.»
To Thom, this sounds nothing like a nymph that held Ruedi captive for a year, but it is a faerie lore 6+ or 9+ to know more.
(EDIT) at 6+, this sounds like some dark forest faerie, sometimes known as the faun. They are nothing like nymphs, like the one who abducted Ruedi, or other sexual predators. They generally have little interest in people, although they are known to murder and abduct. They represent the secrecy of the forest and what you/they can get away with out of sight from the nearest village.
At 9+, the Glastig is a Scottish term for certain faun-like faeries. The Glastig may take different roles, even act as household faeries, but this one apparently is more of a proprietor.
Ruedi feels a shiver down his spine "These are dark faeries out to kill if they can get away with it. I feel like we'll need to confront them."
Thom watches the little nisse tremble under the timber, his heart twisting like ivy around a branch. The creature's words come in hiccupping fear: “One by one… the goats, the chickens, the cows!” It would almost be comical, if not for the wide, tear-bright eyes and the soaking-wet tunic clinging to a body that still hasn't stopped shaking.
"Oh, dearheart," Thom says gently, crouching again. "That's no good at all. If they’re going to start stealing goats, they'll find they’ve picked the wrong herd. Bramble bites, you know." He offers the last bit with a wink, but his voice is soft, coaxing.
He tucks the edge of the cloth more securely around the nisse’s shoulders and sets the honeyed bread a little closer.
"Now you stay tucked and warm, alright? If anyone’s going to parley with a forest-haunting fae queen with a taste for livestock, it might as well be me. I've been through worse. I once got lost in a regio inhabited by argumentative hedgehogs, and they didn't even offer me tea."
He rises, brushing his hands on his tunic, his blue eyes dancing not with mockery, but with purpose.
"Lady Glastic, is it? Mysterious, moody, a touch murderous? Sounds like the forest wants to keep its secrets. But I do like a good mystery."
Thom takes one last look at the nisse, his expression turning earnest for just a beat.
"I won’t let her take Bramble. Or any of you. You have my word."
He turns toward the path down to the river, where the constant hush and roar of Cauldron Falls call like a familiar tune. The otters might have heard something. Or smelled something. Or stolen something and left it near something important. Either way, they were often far more helpful than they let on.
As he heads off, he mutters cheerfully under his breath, "A forest queen, a trail gone cold, and a goat in mortal peril… sounds like the start of a fine adventure, doesn’t it?"
The six-fingered magus chuckles and calls out:
"Come on Ruedi, let's see what my friends at the Falls have to say!"
Ruedi followed "It might be easier to try and find the tracks, so we can find these fae faster"