“The monetary value?” She puffs the front half of a truncated laugh; again, in a reasonably positive spirit. “Invaluable. There’s fifty miles between here and Northpoint tower; the full extent of where Theramore projects authority on land. There is no amount of money in the world that would cause me to cede it to someone else as their domain, even if the political ramifications of such an exchange were more easily navigable. But if you’re talking about the value I would place on that land or part thereof, as a way of asking what would cause me to set someone in delegated authority over a parcel of that land? That’s something I could only do for someone who had proven trustworthy personally, and not a political liability publicly. Does that answer your inquiry for now, Ms Mordis?” She leans forward a little as she asks this; a noticeable but gentle suggestion that the rearrangement of land title is neither out of the picture entirely, nor available to be effected in this conversation itself. The Lady Proudmore is Friendly to Marion; but would need to have Honored her more substantially for such plans to manifest.

Spoiler: Jakk’ari’s Pitstop
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You depart in good grace, and head off from the barracks towards the Tower district, and its eponymous magical hub. As you wander through the streets, you receive the same kinds of looks you’re used to in Theramore, at this point. Some outright shock to see a troll on a stroll, some too innocent to imagine a threat and simply curious, some educated enough to know you are not a denizen of the Echo Isles or Zul’Aman, but interested as to what relationship a sand troll might have to their city. Others, either because of an overflow of good nature or recognizing you as the novelty you are in the city, offer wary smiles. You’re used to all these reactions - but you are gratified to see that the proportions are changing. It used to be all veiled hostility of bewilderment. Then there was a little larger share of tolerant dismissal. Now there’s a non-trivial element of cautious benevolence. You had no expectation it would be fast or easy, but this is the result you’ve always wanted: incremental improvement, on a long, patient arc.

You stop by at the mage tower, and enter into the open door of the lower level which accepts all comers. Walled with bookcases around a central spiral staircase up to a second floor forty feet up, the room features just enough of the scattered accoutrements - wall mounted staves, sconceless magical torches, the occasional flickering mote of mana forced into manifestation and then popping out of it again - that you associate with such a building. There appears to be some manner of class in session. There are eight students of different ages, all elves and humans, sitting on chairs manifested from pinkish arcane constructum and receiving instruction on how to maintain those constructs by their tutors - a high elven woman, and an elderly male gnome with a hat as tall as his whole person. It’s one of the students who gives you their attention first - one of the elves, at the borderline of maturity for such a creature, with hair so bright red it almost becomes magenta, tied back in two tail nodding just behind her extravagant ears. She seems bored waiting for her instruction, and so rises from the vanishing chair to cross to you.

“Hey! Hey, you’re the troll who went with the wagons looking for the cadets. Does that mean you’re back?” And then, a flicker of worry crossing her features. “Does that mean everyone is back? Safe?”


Spoiler: Isaera’s House
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Your brother, mother, and sister take seats around the table and listen with appropriate rapture as you regale them. Your mother’s expression is usually vicarious worry, complete with flinching when you describe obvious threats like an orc village, and demons, and dragons. Your sister Aleeana by contrast dips back and forth between surface level jealousy, and vicarious thrill. The part where you bombarded the burning palisade for your allies to break out of the dragonfire inferno makes her smile with pride at you, just long enough for you to know that such pride is there, in her, before she simply enjoys the telling; and in doing so, perhaps misses the point of your telling it. Your brother Tarien listens with that same thoughtful, almost neutral look. With one hand he is arraying and stacking the coins absently while you lay down the dynamic details of the outing.

“Well. Your father would be so proud of you. He always had a softness for the sons of Thoradin, and the ancient bonds of men and elves. And it’s good to really flex your combat magic on live targets - though I’d wished it wasn’t so dangerous, so soon.” This from your mother, whose magic has never been particularly combative. Back in Silvermoon, she knew the boilerplate levels of battle magic expected of a talent of her level, but her profession was more spectacular: an anarcadian, something that could be crudely described to humans as a blend of prima ballerina and pyrotechnician, responsible for both astonishing physical performance and simultaneously projected illusory phantasmagorias of sensory wonder. Productions on that scale, naturally, have been out of demand since the fall of Silvermoon. Still, she knows enough about combat magic to not be speaking out her ear when she says such things.

“So what happens now? Back to sweat-rash cures for portly human sailors?” Aleeana asks, obviously angling for a negative response. Tarien remains quiet, internally focused; almost brooding.