The Battle of the Dale, as people in Sleetmouth were calling it, was perhaps the largest single battle in the isolated region’s history, even as small as it was. As such, it was the source of much gossip and talk over the next month, as tales of glory and heroic deeds were told across the Nine Towns. Some of the stories were even true, though most of them were, to put it charitably, exaggerated. The story of the Barbarians bringing a White Dragon to the fray was, of course, wholly fictional.

Though I did not neglect my promise to the wizard to tell him stories about my old world, I spent most of that time (five days in seven) at the shrine, with Emeline, getting an education on the inner workings of Auril’s church here in the world. Well, at least just telling me the basics. Essentially, Auril was pretty laid back when it came to rules and restrictions. There were a few rituals we had to perform, like the Embracing for new members. Most of those revolved around things like slaying a creature with cold during the winter. Oh, and during the winter I was supposed to find someone, and get them to pray to the Frostmaiden until a piece of ice I placed on their skin melted. Nothing crazy, honestly.

There were two sides to the church’s actions. One side built up displays of the Lady’s power, conjuring ice storms on important days of the year, and reminding people of the hardship winter could impose on a land. The other side helped provide shelter and safe passage through wintry lands, in return for tithes and prayers. One side emphasized the Frostmaiden’s power, and the other encouraged people to worship her.

This duality is clearly the reason that Lord Emberlash was able to strain his oaths without breaking them, allowing his sister to maintain the Shrine inside the city walls. And Sleetmouth, apparently, was not the only city with righteous leaders who allowed a shrine to the Lady of Winter inside their walls. Such sights were not uncommon in the northlands, where the ravages of winter were well known to the locals. Many, perhaps most, might offer prayers in hopes of appeasing the goddess, rather than honoring her, but few, save those sworn to a god in particular, balked at offering a prayer to the Frostmaiden before venturing out into the frozen wilds.

In that respect, her worship was much like that of the Goddess of the Seas, Umberlee. She, like the Frostmaiden, was known to be cruel and capricious, in her time, but was less fair than Auril was. However, disrespecting either goddess before venturing into their domain was a sure way to find yourself facing trouble like you may not believe, unless you were particularly protected by another deity.

Melinda’s Perform Check (Week 1): 1d20+13 = 32

W1 Earnings: 3d6 = 9gp x 7 days = 63 gp

Melinda’s Perform Check (Week 2): 1d20+13 = 28

W2 Earnings: 1d6 = 6gp x 7 days = 42 gp

Melinda’s Perform Check (Week 3): 1d20+13 = 21

W3 Earnings: 3d10 = 20sp x 7 days = 140 sp

Melinda’s Perform Check (Week 4): 1d20+13 = 27

W4 Earnings: 1d6 = 6gp x 7 days = 42 gp

Expenses:

Inn – 56 gp

Meals – 14 gp

At any rate, as I was learning about my new role as a priestess, I had taken to earning a bit of extra coin by dancing as entertainment in the largest inn’s common room. Some of it I spent, simply keeping my living expenses in place, but I didn’t know what I was going to face when I went south. I simply figured that more gold was better than none. I did, however, send some of that gold I made back into the town, as I paid for my room and meals, enjoying a stay at the better inn in town, and the best meals available in this place.

Sure, I could have eaten rations for free, but why bother when I could afford to enjoy myself a little? After all, the best thing that can be said about most rations, even the magical ones my item provided for me, are that they don’t taste horrible (except, perhaps, horribly bland), and they keep you on your feet when you’ve run out of other supplies. I had better food available, and I made more with the dancing than I spent, so I called that a win.

Performing with song and dance only added to my local renown. The surviving militia who had fought alongside me spread the story of our fight on the ridge, just like all the others who fought that day. And, just like all the others who fought that day, their telling of the battle got grander the more drinks they had, or the prettier the wench they were trying to steal away from one of the other valiant heroes of the day.

To say I was popular was an understatement. Thankfully, most people didn’t try and hassle me for the same things they were after the barmaids for. Instead, I was something akin to a mascot for the battle, it seemed. That I was exotic and had the body of a young girl just made them more keen on lending a ‘helping hand’, or a ‘sympathetic ear’. And it was not just the adults! More than once, I was accosted by a group of kids from Sleetmouth, who wanted to hear my version of the tale, or what it was like living with the savages, or what being twice-born did, or… Well, more than once I had to fly off to avoid the questions.

So, when the first trading caravan from the south was sighted a little over a month after the battle, I was pleased as could be. I had promised Lord Emberlash that I’d leave with the caravan, but even if I hadn’t, I’d be keen for their arrival, if only to have something to distract the town’s gossips. I could already see the beginnings of some kind of local legend forming from the battle, and the events around it, and I had no desire to play along with that. The sooner the caravan left, the better.

Charles Masters was the leader of the caravan. He was fifty years old, and had seen more than a few sights in his years that would shock those souls who were tied to a single place. Accompanying him, as he had for the last decade, was his son, Tyrell. Tyrell, at almost thirty winters, wasn’t a big, strong type, like the men of the Tribes. He wasn’t even on the level of those who lived in the Nine Towns! No, he was of a softer sort. Not fat, since no traveling merchant could have the kind of sedentary lifestyle that would allow them to gain a suitable bulk, but it was clear to all that physical exertion was not on his list of favorite things to do. He was, in the end, just a merchant, who relied on guards to protect himself and his shipments from attackers.

And yet, he was well known in the Nine Towns as being a charmer who enjoyed a good deal of success with his seduction. There were more than a few muttered tales of men looking to lock up their wives and daughters, to keep them out of his clutches, and of women who had been deceived on one of his previous visits. There were stories of the time that he somehow convinced two bitter rivals who had been sniping at each other since childhood into bed with him, at the same time, leading to some very awkward conversations the next morning. And it was taken as fact that his ‘type’ was only limited to ‘female’ and ‘breathing’, and even the second one was questionable, if the story of him and the lady vampire he told one night at the inn was true.

I will be the first to admit that my thoughts on men were… ‘complicated’, to put it mildly. My old life had been ruined by a man who believed that being big and strong gave him the power to do what he wished. But in my new life, I was surrounded by hulking brutes of masculinity that were the opposite, and worked for one another, for the tribe. The business at Indsamling had dredged up old memories, but I’d spent twelve years in the best therapy I could have had. Twelve years which had not erased what happened (I don’t think anything will ever manage that), but had… let me move past it.

The fact that my body was starting to change only added to the complications, naturally. It wasn’t just the hormones and body changes, though. But going through puberty a second time, with knowledge of what was happening, was a strange experience. It was like being on a roller coaster you’ve ridden before. You know the drops and turns are coming, but that doesn’t stop them, or keep them from whipping you about. All you can do is hold on, and know that, if anything, you’re less likely to do something foolish this time around. Probably.

As the most exotic-looking person in the city, I was already used to getting a good deal of attention whenever I went out on my business, but especially when I danced to bring in extra coin. The merchants and their guards had not seen me dance before. They had heard a few stories of the battle, of course, and had been told about me, but I guess seeing is believing. What I had not counted on was their reaction when I danced.

The men of Sleetmouth, they looked at me as an entertainer. Mostly. The third week after the battle, I had been forced to put on a show, highlighting my martial abilities, as one man (well, a boy, really) had drunk more ale than was good for him, and attempted to do more than simply admire my dancing. I explained that it wasn’t going to happen in the form of introducing my knee to his groin, something that he and his friends objected to, quite strenuously. I did take pains not to kill them, leaving all five boys outside the tavern’s door for the guards to collect. There were no others who thought of me as just someone they could simply ‘take’. I had some offers, but none who went past the line of ‘no’.

The men from the south, however, had not seen the fight, or the battle. All they saw was a little slip of a girl, exotic and beautiful, dancing in a tavern for coin. Despite originally coming from a modern world, with modern sensibilities, I understood that the culture in this world was more like medieval times, where a girl became a woman when she got her first period, and there was no taboo against the act. I had come to accept this as simply part of being in a new world, a more extreme example of the culture in, say, Ukraine being far different from that of Denver.

Of course, most of the men were warned off by those who had seen me fight, but there were always those who had more balls than brains, and Tyrell Masters was one of those. The caravan master’s son took one look at me as I began dancing, and, apparently, his brains shut down because of lack of blood flow, allowing him to think only with his junk.

That is the only excuse I can think of for what he tried to do next. In between one performance and the next, he came up to me with two pints of ale. Not even bothering to ask if he could buy me a drink, but simply buying one and trying to persuade me to take it. Knowledge of my old life made me a bit paranoid, so I activated my ability to detect magic, to see if I could detect any potions added to the drink. What I saw, however, was the glow of a spell surrounding him. I didn’t have the knowledge of spellcraft needed to figure out more than that, but I didn’t need it. That the man had a spell on him, when people thought he was just a playboy, was enough for me to be concerned.

“No, thank you. I do not take drinks from strangers.”

Tyrell smiled at me, “Oh, but you don’t need to think of me as a stranger. I heard from the men that you’d be heading south with our caravan when we leave. I’m sure we’ll know each other quite well by the time we get to the time we get back to civilization.”

Tyrell’s (modified) Bluff check: 1d20+46 = 50

Melinda’s (modified) Sense Motive check: 1d20+26 = 36

I frowned. That… was so stupid that it almost made sense. Yeah, they were going to be seeing a lot of each other on the road, right? And there wasn’t really a problem with just having a drink, right?

Hesitantly, I accepted the drink. I was flustered, and maybe spoke a little louder than I intended to. “Fine. But you need to tell me what that spell you’re using is. I haven’t seen an aura like that before.”

Aveis, the old rascal, had been sitting not far from the stage, since I would often tell stories of the Tribes to the audience between dances, or sometimes just offer him another story of my original world, and was apparently close enough to hear this comment. I saw a flash of magic from his direction, as one of the wizard’s items lit up to my sight. The next moment, Aveis cast a spell which shattered the aura covering Tyrell.

Tyrell had been trying to regain my attention after Aveis’s magic had distracted me, no doubt so he could tell me just why he had some kind of magic covering him. When the wizard’s spell shredded the magic, however, the merchant’s son staggered slightly, before he turned and locked his angry eyes on Aveis. In a harsh whisper, he said, “Stay out of this, old man.”

Aveis laughed, and made no attempt to lower his voice, actually projecting so that the entire common room could hear him. “Oh, really? I think you’ll have less to worry from me, and more from this girl, and the others who you’ve dallied with, when they hear that you’re using the Glibness spell to make your lies and honeyed words sweeter, and escape most spells to detect falsehoods. But then, none of them knew you were a bard, did they? Just a simple commoner, that’s what you tell people, isn’t it?”

My eyes were not the only ones that turned towards the merchant’s son with a far different kind of fire than he had been hoping to see. I don’t know what would have happened to the man if things had been left to sort themselves out on their own. At least one knife glinted in the firelight. Fortunately, a guardsman who had been enjoying the atmosphere after getting off shift stepped up and clapped his hand on the man’s shoulder in that firm, ‘you’re coming with me’ way. “I think we’ll be speaking to the Lord about this. He does not take kindly to people bewitching others in his town.”