{This section picks up from when Errik receives the ruby ring from Rog Thanders.}

The ring feels slightly heavy and faintly warm in Errik’s hand. The scents (and odors) of the nearby market stalls are strong and many, but he catches a sudden and powerful whiff of cinnamon and…something else. He can’t place it.

{This section picks up after Errik, Giselle, and Areon turn their prisoners over to the Princess’ men. It runs concurrently with Arrival At Sunspear, but from a different point of view.}

Errik tries to determine where the scent is coming from, stopping a moment to observe his surroundings more thoroughly {Awareness, 14, Success}. However, the scent fades almost as quickly as it had come, leaving him with only a heady memory before the more familiar smells of the street return. Thinking back on the memory, it seems to him that the scent came from an north-easterly direction.

Curious, and still absently toying with the ring he was given, he heads Northeast.

The smell seems to grow slightly stronger as Errik proceeds. He makes his way through the second circle, passing blacksmiths, merchants, and moneylenders, and the manses of various lesser nobles sworn directly to the crown.

Entering the first circle, he finds himself in a fish market, where the last of the day’s catch is being sold. Down the road he can see several taverns, firelight already shining through their windows into the gathering dusk. There is no sign of a gate, but the smell leads toward the taverns, and behind it, Errik can detect the scent of the river and the sea.

Errik takes a moment to stop and enjoy the sun glittering off the sea before reading the tavern signs. There are several on the road. Among the signs, Errik notices an anchor painted either yellow or gold, an over-sized bottle with the bottom broken off, what appears to be a man holding a leveled sword in one hand and an upraised mug in the other, and either an “X” or two crossed spears, the upper points of which are painted red.

Errik attempts to narrow down the source and nature of the smell, but it remains unfamiliar and elusive. It seems to lead down towards – and perhaps past – the row of taverns, toward the docks. As he looks down the street, considering his next move, Errik spots some motion behind him. {Awareness, 9, success} Areon and Giselle have been following him, he knows, though at a respectful distance. And now it looks as if someone has approached them, someone rather small and short – a young boy. Through the cries of the fishmongers and the hubbub of the market, Errik can hear words being exchanged, but he cannot quite make out what the boy is asking them.

Errik looks away from the row of taverns and heads towards the three, curious.

Errik approaches the three of them, looking curious, but holding his tongue for the moment.

“Pardon me, ma’am, I never did hear of maroon, before. It looks like red to me.” His head is ducked low in a sort of half-bow, and his voice seems quite obsequious. The boy then turns to Areon and continues.

“And are you Ser Areon Grael of House Corinthyen? The great swordsman and arms master?”

Areon will be caught off guard, but will try to pass it off. He wasn’t expecting to be recognized. “I am, young master. How is it you have heard of me all the way here in Sunspear?”

{Knowledge, free: The Mothers of Mercy is a charitable order run by the Faith of the Seven, consisting of barren women and old maids who devote their lives to the care of homeless and orphaned children. It is not terribly large or influential, but chapters can be found in most major cities, including Sunspear.}

The boy looks up at Areon brightly, and tears well up in his eyes. “My name is ”/campaigns/housecorinthyen/characters/daro" class=“wiki-content-link”>Daro, if it please you. My mother left a letter for me in the care of the Mothers of Mercy, should she ever pass away. She wrote all about how the two of you fell in love, but were forced apart by the evil Lord Lumpus, and how she always knew you would come back for us – and here you are, at last!" The boy hands the letter to Areon, and then lunges forward to give him an impulsive hug. “I’m so glad I found you, father!”

Areon will for the first time in a while look completely shocked. After he regains his composure, he pulls the boy off of him. “I’m sorry son, but there must be some mistake. What was your mother’s name?”

The boy, untimely yanked from Areon’s waist, looks up. “Mistake?” He says, confused. “It was Isador…mistake?”

Areon will rub the back of his head with his right hand. “I’m sorry Daro… but I don’t know what you’re talking about…” Realization will dawn, and he tries to surreptitiously check to see if his purse and other belongings are still there. {Awareness: Notice, 13, Success; Deception, 5, Failure} Everything is still there, but what he’s doing is clear to the boy and everyone else.

“I’m not trying to rob you, father! I’m your son!” The confusion on the boy’s face begins to twist into something else, and the volume of his voice draws sidelong glances from several passersby. “Why are you pretending like this?”

Giselle will motion to Errik that he should come aside with her while this exchange is happening, and explain to him the quick glance shared between her and the boy a moment ago, and tell him her there is something familiar about the boy, and that they should be very wary right now.

“Look closely, my lord,” she will whisper, “do you recognize the boy? Or get a feeling that something here is amiss?”

Errik frowns, looking the boy over. “I don’t believe I’ve seen him before. Try to get a look at the letter he gave Areon. Maybe its contents will shed some light on this mess.” His frown deepens. “Do you recognize the boy?”

“I could swear it’s the boy I saw retrieving arrows from targets in the practice yard at Liberty Hall, my Lord,” Giselle says quietly. “But how could that be? I thought perhaps my mind was playing tricks on me, and wanted to confer with you on the matter, as I remember you spending some time on the grounds of the practice fields there as well.”

{Errik, Cunning, 17, Success x2: The boy used to help in the yard at Liberty Hall, fetching arrows, helping men in and out of armor, and whatever else was asked of him. He was almost certainly the son of one of the serving women. However, Errik has not visited House Thracyen in somewhere between a month and a year (your choice, Michael), so something could have changed in the meantime.}

Errik blinks, staring at the boy once more. “You’re right. He is from Liberty Hall at that. The brat of some smallfolk woman, I thought.”

“Something is afoul here, my Lord,” says Giselle. “The boy did not travel with us, obviously, and yet….” She thinks for a moment, perturbed.

“And he’s weaving some tale about Areon being his father? I like this not at all.”

“Well, father?” The boy goes on, his voice rough with some mixture of anger and sadness. “Will you leave me in the street, then, like mother has?” A few women passing by give Areon dirty looks, and immediately set to talking among themselves in sharp voices.

Areon is obviously getting impatient at this point, as something is not right about this situation. “Well boy, perhaps we had better head to the Mother’s of Mercy to sort this all out.”

“You’re giving me back to them?” The boy sputters, clearly not believing his ears. “But…but…you can’t!”

“Don’t jump to conclusions boy, I’m sure there is an explanation for this confusion. I merely want to have a chat with them, that’s all…” He looks over the boy to his companions, with a look of exasperation on his face.

Errik nods at Giselle. “Let’s hope this is no more than an unfortunate misunderstanding. For my part, I have business in the city. Perhaps it would be wise for you to see to this matter. The last thing our house needs is the stain of more rumors.”

“I will go along and see how this plays out, my lord,” says Giselle, nodding back. “I do wish your business could wait, though. There is too much going on right now to make it worth separating completely unless absolutely necessary.”

Errik looks towards the nearby row of taverns. “Unfortunately, it cannot wait. I’ll meet you at the Mother’s of Mercy once my business is concluded. Leave word for me there if this trouble takes you elsewhere.”

“It will be done, my lord. But please don’t delay, as we will hopefully not take long to resolve this obvious falsehood, and should not leave ourselves available individually to those who might wish us ill…as it is becoming more clear that there are,” Giselle gives a quick bow (more of a nod though, really) and heads off to join Areon and the boy and make their way to the Mothers of Mercy.

The business with Areon put to rest for the moment, Errik sets off again, following the strange scent that so intrigues him. There are several taverns, but Errik finds himself paying more attention to the street carts that crowd the street. He makes his way down, undisturbed by the common foot traffic around him. People hawk all manner of things around him, their voices calling wares and prices in an almost melodic rise and fall. Sticky sweetbreads, spiced meats, jewels for a pretty lady, fine silk, cheap cloth, wine from the Free Cities…on and on and on.

Errik eyes each cart in turn, but nothing catches his attention. Whatever he’s looking for, its not here, not in these carts. He rounds a corner, following the scent, and finds himself standing before the Greenblood Gate, which opens onto the great, slow-rolling river of Dorne. A bonfire burns, lighting up the evening, and House Martell guardsmen watch people come and go in its light. Some seem suspicious, while others are merely bored, but none of them spare him a second glance.

Curious, Errik heads closer to the bonfire, drawn to its glow.

The flames leap and crackle hypnotically as Errik stares deeply into them. The moment is broken when he becomes aware of a hand on his shoulder. He turns to find a man in a red robe standing behind him, short and gaunt with a hooked, and looking like nothing so much as a red rooster.

“Pardon me, my son, but we are about to begin our night prayers. Would you care to join us?” The red priest says. Behind him, and off to the sides, Errik sees perhaps a dozen people surrounding the bonfire. Men, women, and children, mostly poor, or else taking pains not to appear too well off.

Errik glances at the bonfire again before answering. “Prayer? To whom?”

The man smiles toothily. In the daylight it might have been a cheerier thing, but in the flickering light of the bonfire, it makes his face appear almost predatory. He gestures to the flames.

“To the Lord of Light, my son. To the Heart of Fire, the God of Flame and Shadow.” He looks at Errik, watching for any sign that Errik knows what he is talking about. After a moment, he continues. “Red R’hllor. The one true god.”

“There are seven gods, and all are true.” Errik glances around nervously, wary of being seen with a group of blasphemers. He breathes deep, to confirm the smoke is indeed the scent he was following. The smell of the fire is harsh and woody, and nearly overwhelms everything else – but that unfamiliar scent of not-quite-cinnamon continues to taunt Errik. It’s close, now, and much stronger, but the bonfire does not seem to be the source.

“My apologies, my lord, I meant no offense.” The red priest gestures disarmingly with one hand. “You are welcome to stay or go as you please.”

The priest backs off, leaving Errik standing alone by the fire, and begins to lead his worshipers in a chant.

“Lead us from the darkness, O my Lord. Fill our hearts with fire, so we may walk your shining path,” the red priest chants. “R’hllor, your are the light in our eyes, the fire in our hearts, the heat in our loins. Yours is the sun that warms our days, yours the stars that guard us in the dark of night.”

“Lord of Light, defend us. The night is dark and full of terrors. Lord of Light, protect us.” The worshipers respond.

“R’hllor who gave us breath, we thank you. R’hllor who gave us day, we thank you.”

“We thank you for the sun that warms us. We thank you for the stars that watch us. We thank you for our hearths and for our torches, that keep the savage dark at bay.”

The prayers go on for some time in a similar manner. Errik watches for several moments before moving on after the scent he’s been following.

He walks out through the Greenblood Gate and begins to stroll down the docks. There are dozens – perhaps hundreds – of ships crowding the broad, slow river, and from nearly as many ports of call.

At last, the scent seems to stop. As Errik walks along a pier, he finds himself brought to a halt before a lean Braavosi Merchantman. As he looks at the ship, a mustachioed merchant strolls down the gangplank. He seems surprised to see Errik.

“Ah, good master, you have caught me unawares! I forget how late you Dornishmen do business! How may this humble merchant be of service?”

Errik gives the man a polite smile. “What kind of wares do you sell, sir?

“”/campaigns/housecorinthyen/characters/maiyo-vierro-1" class=“wiki-content-link”>Maiyo Vierro is my name, my dear lord. It is lord, yes?" The Braavosi bows low, sweeping his bright satin cloak back and out in a practiced flourish. “I bring all the finest spices in the nine Free Cities to sate the finest palates in Westeros – my crew and I have sailed up and down the coasts of Essos, from hidden Braavos all the way to bright Volantis, and over the last year we have called at the great ports of the Seven Kingdoms. We are known in frozen White Harbor, in Gulltown, and on Dragonstone. We have spiced the dishes of the Dragon Lords in King’s Landing, who are known for their exotic tastes.”

Maiyo Vierro speaks with the practiced polish of a professional showman. He continues, and it seems likely that if Errik does not cut him off, he may go on at even greater length.

“Would you tell me the truth, my dear lord, of a question? I have heard that even the Targaryens cannot stomach the dragon peppers that Dornishmen feed their children for a snack.” {Read Target: Awareness, 11, Fail}

Errik waves a hand dismissively, although his grin is an obviously pleased one. “The Targaryens are more blood than fire, despite what they want the Kingdoms to believe. Without their monsters, their reign will be short one, Seven willing. A true Dornishman could go toe to toe with any of their brood at fire-eating, and best them easily, I think.”

“Well said, my dear lord, just so!” The man’s mouth curves up into an even wider smile. “Now, salt you can buy by the pound anywhere, and pepper, and many other spices. But I can offer you sharp cinnamon and cassia, fragrant ginger, earthy turmeric, and other exotic flavors. What catches your fancy, my dear lord? Perhaps a spiced scent pouch to grace a fair lady? Or something to add a bit of boldness to your daily meals? Tell Maiyo what you desire, for he lives to serve.”

“I’m looking for something special, but I’m not sure what…” He shrugs apologetically. “Perhaps you understand. I’d like to see all you have to offer; if you could let me aboard your ship perhaps I could find what I’m looking for.”

The spice merchant peers at Errik thoughtfully for a moment, his brow furrowed. Then his smile broadens again.

“It is a wise man who wishes to see what he is purchasing for himself – only a fool judges on words alone.” Maiyo Vierro nods sagely. “Come,” he says. “Come, come, let us look and see what a a young lord desires.” He gestures for Errik to follow him onto the ship, then turns and walks up. As he steps onto the deck, he begins shouting something in what is presumably Braavosi. Another man responds, and Maiyo lets out an exasperated groan.

“My dear lord,” he says, turning back to Errik. “I fear that the hold is somewhat in disarray, as my men are in the midst of re-balancing the ship after the day’s unloading. It would not do to sail with an unbalanced hold, oh no, oh no. Are you in some urgency, or might tomorrow work as well for you, dear lord?”

“I think it unlikely I’ll be able to return tomorrow; there’s still a great deal of preparation that needs done before the young prince’s tourney.”

The spice merchant sighs and spreads his hands wide, palms turned up to the sky. He mutters something in Braavosi, and then says, “So be it, my dear lord, if you will forgive the mess.”

He leads Errik onto the ship and down into the hold, where, indeed, sailors are hard at work rearranging crates, barrels, and sacks. The air is heavy and dense with all manner of smells, and Errik can’t help sneezing on his way down the ladder.

“It takes many weeks to adjust to the scents,” Maiyo Vierro says. “Come, come now, look, smell, taste, touch, do what you will.”

As Errik picks his way carefully through the hold, his nose leads to him to a tiny wooden box, no larger than a small jewelry case, tucked into a corner of the hold. The smell is definitely coming from the box, but when he tries to open it, Errik finds it locked. Meanwhile, he can hear Maiyo haranguing his men in Braavosi in the background, and everyone else in the hold seems quite focused on their work.

Frowning, Erik turns to the braavosi captain. “What is in here?” He points to the box.

Maiyo hurries over, then gives Errik a discerning look.

“My dear lord has expensive taste,” he says in a low voice. “That box contains the leaves of the Black Trees of the Undying. It comes from the far reaches of Essos, as I understand, from ancient Qarth on the Jade Sea, though I came by it in Lys, on my journey here to Sunspear. It is said that, brewed properly, it can give a man strange visions.” The Braavosi merchant smiles. “I have never tried it, so this one cannot speak to the truth of that.”

Errik examines the box, as if the container might give him some clue as to the value of its contents. The box is a simple and plain affair, but well made. The wood is dark and heavy, and the top and bottom seem to have been carved of a piece with each other. The seam is so tight that it is somewhat difficult to see.

“How much, Captain?” The merchant purses his lips, eyeing Errik assessingly.

“Well,” he says, “It is already sold to another buyer. Only the final payment waits before it is delivered. If all is well, this box shall be gone tomorrow. However, a small sample will not be missed. Perhaps…4 of Dorne’s golden suns for a single leaf? This is a once in a life time opportunity, my dear lord.”

{Maiyo Vierro: Persuasion, 14, Target is Amiable, 1 Composure Damage}

Errik shakes his head. “Four suns is a high sum for a pretty leaf, especially one that you can’t promise has any true use. I understand you have prior obligations, however, so two suns should be adequate for your trouble,” he says.

{Persuasion: Convince, 21, Success x3}

Maiyo makes a face, as if swallowing something distasteful and sniffs in reproach, meeting Errik’s calm gaze uncertainly. Then he smiles again and chuckles.

“If Maiyo did not know better, my dear lord, he would say you have some Braavosi blood. Two suns it is. We will make the transaction in my cabin – the men do not need to know the secret of the box, nor its value. Come.” He gestures, and leads Errik to the main ship’s cabin, back up on the deck. There, he reveals the box’s secret – it is a puzzle box, with hidden seams so tight they cannot be observed. He twists and turns pieces of the box before it finally clicks open to reveal a small central compartment. A dozen or two leaves are stored within, and the Braavosi merchant counts out three, and places them into another small box – this one is a simple hinged container, though, with a metal clasp.

“Enough for a single draught,” he assures Errik. He then produces a slip of paper from beneath the leaves in the box – instructions for brewing – and copies it out slowly and meticulously, mouthing the letters as he writes. The process is neither short nor simple, but should not be too challenging, especially with a Maester’s help.

The transaction finished, he thanks Errik obsequiously, and sees him off the ship. His final whispered words are, “It may be wise, for both our sakes, if no word of this dealing were to spread beyond this night. Be safe, my dear lord.”