GMThe sun dropped below the horizon in a sublime display of colour. The skies along the coast dimmed into the long, pleasant dusk that made summer's eves so memorable.
Out on the headland, mermaids surfaced and shimmied up onto the rocks. Finding the waters were clean again, the mermaids had returned, and were now curious about the late hustle and bustle in town.
Rather than sleep, Rosencliff had come alive. Where a magnificent feast had been excitedly thrown together on the strand, there were lamps and revelry. Long tables, short tables, round tables and all were laid out, before being themselves laid with food and drink. Sergeant Almador indulged with gusto and proud encouragement of his wife. He insisted that Weston sit with him, amongst his family, and everyone was soon well acquainted.
What a feast! Pots of steaming hot
sofrit pagès bore the rich aroma of a meat medley, lamb, chicken, and whatever sausages needed using. Stuffed aubergines on the side. For anyone with a lighter apetite, jars of mussels, pickled in wine, with olive oil, chunky vegetables, herbs and orange zest, with tough, crusty bread to dip and tear into. Even Farvi the Ferret sat on the table, being fed sausage meat like an emperor.
After that, trays of sweet
rubiols with every filling a delicious surprise.
The drink flowed, local wines, gins and liqueurs aplenty, and barrels of small beer for young and old. Captain Achelus stuck to mussels and bread, and smoking his pipe, looking vaguely unsettled whenever someone offered him a drink. Tindarien amazed the children by casting dancing lights across the strand, winking purplish lights that spiralled like dervishes and provoked alarm then laughter amongst the adults.
Irt's creamy white sheepdog, Wanshanks, was settled down under one of the tables, occasionally opening an eye or cocking an ear.
His master appeared with other townsfolk, bearing a menagerie of musical intruments. Many were old heirlooms brought to the town by mercenaries during the Shoreblade Revolt over half a century ago. From the northern and southern Empire, the self-taught owners played in their own self-taught way, lending the music a remarkably foreign flavour. The timbre was familiar, however, music made for one thing. Dancing.
Fast, slow, whirling, twirling, jigging, jumping, and clapping.
And so it was that Zoltan found himself caught on the dancefloor as the musicians abruptly stopped playing. Looking around, he would see Jex had settled onto a stool with his lute, the townsfolk watching with baited breath.
This had to be some plot?
The Baronessa had given Jex of Drakkenhall her patronage though and invited him to stay the summer. He was expected to earn his keep. And hadn't the Baronessa also commented over supper, two nights past, that Jex reminded her of the southern gypsy style?
The bard started playing, fingers and thumb a blur on the strings. Then paused.
Clack clack clack! Castanets.
Lady Morgen stepped from the shadows opposite Zoltan and the crowd were awed. She wore a white blouse with billowed sleeves, tied up under her ample bossom and baring her midriff. Her skirt was layered with ruffles, patterned in dark lusty colours, and with her hair lashed under a silk scarf she did not exactly look like a baroness or a lady.
She clicked her castanets and Jex's playing resumed, with timed rythmic surges in tempo, and the Baronessa, she danced. The zambra, forbidden dance of the southern gypsies -- undulating, mysterious, sensual -- growing like an obsession, a feverish dream.
She had promised Zoltan a dance and this one was for him....
Afterwards there was a stunned silence, then rapturous applause for both dancer and her accompanyment. Lady Morgen was not a conventional ruler but she was Rosencliff's, and unlike most nobles, she seemed to put the town's interests before her own.
D watched, possibly embroiled with his thoughts. What was the Baronessa to him? Was she one of his 'lost farthings'? What did that make him, one of four? And what then was his whole?
Behind him, on the beach, Seyja prepared.
Once the darkness of night had descended and the stars come out, the barbarian stood on the beach, mostly naked except for a coat of white grease and ash. She lit her oils pots and hefted the chain that linked them together.
It was a moonless night, a night of what some called an
assassin's moon. There was no more killing intended on that night, but there was one death yet to mark. The dragon's.
It was the turn of the northern gypsies and Seyja began the fire dance, a victory dance to scare away the souls of vanquished foes. The flames roaring and hissing through the night as the crowd watched, entranced. Standing on the rocks nearby, Nestaron sipped a cup of seafood broth and smirked. Recalling the fire bomb and how the party had gained the upper hand, if the Master of Winter's soul was circling around, Seyja's dance was rather like rubbing his face in it.
And why shouldn't she. The party had won at a cost, the half-elf's arm, his magic, and the quest had taken Heilbutt too. Did anyone doubt it was worth it?
Nestaron didn't. There were many fallen heroes, whose adventures might not be recounted amongst the legends of old, whose great deeds might be known only to their friends. That did not lessen their importance.
All things had an ending, though often we did not want them to. Lives. Feasts. Adventures.
So our moments, one to the next, were precious, and how we chose to spend them was a testimony to those we had lost. For the light that we brought to the world outlasted us, shone on those we left behind, whether or not they knew from whence it came.
But a word of caution; the same could be said of darkness we wrought.
***
Later, after the townsfolk had sought their beds, D, Jex, Nestaron and Seyja, Tindarien, Weston and Zoltan gathered at a table. Someone had found and unfurled a map of the Dragon Empire on its surface, pinning it with a tankard and dagger.
You looked each other in the eye, nodded, and raised your cups together.
[Go to HHE16: The Alabaster Apparition for an epilogue.] 
