<span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;">Maggarie "Maggs" Forest (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/1/1c/Maggs_-_Maggarie_Forest_%281st_Ranger%29.pdf)</span><div class="floatright">   (https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/2/20/Halfdrow_portrait.jpg)</div><br/>L1 Ranger, Favored Classes: Ranger, Archaeologist Bard (aka Lucky Rogue)<br/>Appearance and Personality: Taller and more slender than most humans, Maggs is lovely but at first abrasive, sensitive, insecure, unpredictable, and slow to trust others.  Her white hair and subtly pointed usually kept in plaits and tucked along her subtly-pointed ears under her hood, but she has found that traveling outside of larger, diverse cities is a rude awakening to the distrust and prejudices of the world at large.<br/><br/>History: Unknown to Maggs, she was raised by her birth-uncle after her shamed, unmarried, very human mother surrendered her for adoption and protection after her adventuring father, a converted surface drow, was slain in reprisal for his decades of service fighting against the slavers of Cheliax in an ages-old bood-feud.  Her uncle kept the nature of their blood relations from her in fear that she might seek vengeance some day.  Still, she seemed destined for trouble and survived in the shady underbelly of the city and the corrupted aspects of the city by the skin of her teeth to become part of a successful, but unambitious, gang of cargo thieves.<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/BrmlkBz.jpg)  </div>Eight years have passed since that night.  The spring rains were drumming on Lake Encarthan like a million diving faeries, pelting the leaves so heavy and fast that the noise was a long, ceaseless whisper.  Torches sheltered under ramshackle eaves and old iron and tin lanterns shed the only light, their pallid glows flickering with the breeze, the tinkling of stray raindrops against metal, canvas tarps, or broad-brimmed hats here and there yielding music into the night where the city thrived in its ramshackle bloom amid the canopy along the mouth of the river.<br/><br/>The man was led by a youth with a thin, patchy beard who talked with a languid continental accent and colorful diction, advising him of where to stay, who cooked the best meals, where to find the best games and books and the like.  Every building was an imitation of the last crooked hovel, some taller, some wider, some with shingles hung out depicting faded-colored sigils of some obscure origin, some misspelled services or professions.  The rain enhanced the smell of Tamran-- earthy and fithly, tobacco smoke and a high water table, fresh bread and old charnel.<br/><br/>"I thank you, lad," Lorrimor's deep voice resonated from under his dripping hood, muted by the pouring rain, "but the tour can wait, please.  I wish to see the girl."<br/><br/>The young man turned, rain cascading from his felt tricorn as he tipped his head to pour it off in a runnel.  "Right sir-- not givin' you the run-around, I swear it.  'sright ahead," and he pointed, "'s the girl's uncle's 'ouse.  We says uncle but was just he 'dopted her.  She came outta the east some'ere, jus' a babe, was lef' here," the boy explained, trudging the crushed shell path up to the doorway.  "What they say, anyway.  We was schooled togeth'a, but she looks much younger'n me.  Guess it's the elf blood."  Under the eaves of the thatched roof, the young man shakes off some rain from his oiled-leather poncho and knocks gently at the door where mismatched, colored glass-- salvaged from the river, perhaps-- has been set into the door to provide a colorful myriad of light from within.<br/><br/>The door is answered, and they are led within, but an old woman reeking of whiskey.  "You're the Professor, ey?" she queries, gesturing for Lorrimor to enter.  "Thanks Declan, wait outside if you don't mind," she says as she closes the door in the young man's face as he peers curiously around the corner, catching only a glimpse of the room beyond.  "Your letter came just in time, we was about to burn the thing," the lady adds as the door closes.  "Poor girl.  We don't know how she survived it," she says, and gestures to the pegs by the fireplace where several other cloaks, hats, and such hang to dry by the dry warmth.  "She's suffered a lot in her day.  Broke her breastbone one year falling out of a tree.  Bit by a timber rattler two years ago, nearly lost 'er then. But this--" the woman doesn't move further before fetching a bottle from her apron and taking a nip, offering it to the Professor, who declines with a wave of his hand.<br/><br/>Shrugging, the woman puts the bottle away.  "Well enough.  The doctor says he's heard of you, and that's good enough, then.  Your reputation, he says, means you've seen worse.  I don't know how she survived, like I says, but between his care and a potion or somesuch, apparently she'll recover completely."<br/><br/>Apparently done with the conversation, Lorrimor nods impatiently, producing a pair of spectacles from within his doublet.  "I appreciate that, madame.  My concern is purely scholarly... to prevent such things in the future.  Now, if we may..?"  That spurs the tipsy nursemaid from her reverie, and she leads him to the kitchen, where a makeshift operation has taken place recently.<br/><br/>In one corner, bloodstained sheets still wait in woven basket, as well as what look like the remnants of a girl's-- or boy's-- cotton and leather garments.  Stretched on the table, where a couple of chairs have been hastily nailed to the floor to prevent her accidentally rolling away, stretches a young woman-- perhaps twelve years old?  No-- Lorrimor corrects himself-- she would be older.  Half-elves mature slower than humans.  She is asleep, curled on her side and wrapped in a quilted blanket, sweating with fever, her breathing fast.  Her pale-blonde hair-- no,<i>white,</i>, it seems--  sticks to her forehead and neck, her large eyes closed and clenched tight as if to keep out the lamplight that creeps around the room.  The subtle points of her ears are not an unusual sight here in the river lands, but there are cities where her dusky skin and the elvish features would draw hostile notice.  Very hostile.<br/><br/>"She's much improved," a tired voice offers without impetus, and an aproned man with fine, sandy hair rises, a worn book still in one hand, to meet the Professor.  "Per your request, we saved the evidence.  Based on her improvement, I would guess that she will be able to answer your questions tomorrow."<br/><br/>Lorrimor fails to respond at first, his attention focused on the girl.  How..?  How could a fragile thing like this survive an attack from an abomination?  With a look for the doctor's assistance, he unwraps the blanket from the girl's hip and abdomen, and sees the fresh wound-- there, though healing is assisted, no doubt, from some concoction of elementary magical power, the wounds of both the surgery and the attack are clearly visible.  Stretching from under her ribs to the top of her hips on either side of her gray-hued abdomen, a gaping ridge of teeth-marks, like the puckering barbs of a bramble, have penetrated the pale skin and pulled, no doubt drawing the skin taut, paralyzing the girl with pain.  And then, just above her navel, a round puncture was made-- like some giant mosquito penetrating her belly with a blunted instrument, pushing aside organs to make a cavity inside, suitable for...<br/><br/>"An ovipositor," Lorrimor says, giving an uncharacteristic shiver.  "They said this girl was attacked by a<i>tree</i>, you said.  A living tree--"<br/><br/>"The youths with her clarified that it was actually a<i>stump</i>, sir," the doctor answers.  "Perhaps the girl will give more clarity when she awakens, but-- yes, your assessment is correct.  This thing was some sort of living creature, and clearly its attack was intended to debilitate her, not kill her outright, while it placed a... spore, of sorts... into her body."<br/><br/>"And you removed it," Lorrimor says with a nod, gently testing the healing stitches laterally and vertically across the round wound.  "You would have had to open her like a gutted doe."<br/><br/>The doctor doesn't answer, despite his lack of preference for the imagery.<br/><br/>"How a doctor of your skill ended up in this corner of the world, I will not inquire.  But I will express my admiration for your talents, doctor.  This would have confounded most clerics and ended in a messy death in many hospitals."  He covered the girl again, touching her ashen cheek once.  "What courage you Nirmathans possess."<br/><br/>Smiling faintly, he turns to the doctor once more, his look of respect giving way to the determined professionalism.  "Now.  The egg, if I may inquire."  He takes out his coin purse... one of many, of course, but the one that he currently carries.  "Your work here could use a sponsor, no doubt, and I wish to learn all that I can of this creature... knowledge which I will gladly share with you and your people to prevent such horrors, if I can."<br/><br/>The girl's eyes fluttered open at the piercingly-bright lantern light as the cool air of the blanket's lifting gave way once more to the cocoon of warmth enveloping her, and she stared up at the men beside her table, wondering if they were bartering over her soul or if, perhaps, this stranger was paying for her funeral.<br/><br/>**<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/99bQwVZ.jpg)  </div>Two months ago.  The wind-driven waves lapped at the hull of the rocking ship where the yellow and red-pained mask of the god-king was painted in gaudy, repetitive pattern, declaring the ownership of the trader vessel to any who dared set eyes upon her.  Over this rocking hull where the anchor-chains were tethered to the docks, Declan, Hammill, and Mags climbed the sopping, dripping ropes, their own forms like black rats gliding up despite the lack of grip on the thick, knotted ropes that were soaked with fresh water and slimy with algae.  Further up the dock, a watchman for the ship was shouting at their distraction-- Burlor-- a young man who 'volunteered' to walk all the inkeeper's gambling terriers at once, and the half-dozen pint-sized beasts were predictably entangled by their leashes and barking with the fierce cacauphony of murder, mayhem, hell, and damnation while the Razmiran dock-guards cursed at and challenged him.<br/><br/>Declan reached the deck of the Red Vetter first, and almost tumbled where Mags had shot out the lanterns from the opposite dock, the spilled oil mixing with the rain to make the deck slippery as glass.<i>"Watch iiit,"</i>Mags hissed, reaching the deck beside him just as Hammill began rigging a cargo float out of netting and rope.  "To the hold before they come lookin'."<br/><br/><i>The keys to successful ship-robbery on the Encarthan are as follows:</i>the tavernmaster had explained,<i>planning, silence, and moderation.  Stealing a ship-- or a ship's worth of cargo-- is simply not fuckin' possible.  This ain't the Shackles, and it's not bloody war-time.  Sure, I think I could do it SOME day... maybe catch one out in open water, get aboard 'er, steal 'er blind and sink the bugger, but I'm not <b>really</b> interested in starting a war or bein' 'anged as a for-real fuckin' pirate, am I?  No, for now, the bugger's moored in our 'arbor, so we're stealin' a bit from 'er to make it worthwhile and they won't even know it's gone 'til they do their inventory.  Then, they might even blame their own crew, think someone skimmed to get a night on the town, eh?  So they won't raise much of a fuss.  And... come on, it's bloody Razmiran.  They need to be robbed.  And we have people need to eat.</i><br/><br/>A creaking cabin door signaled that they weren't alone, as footfalls ascended plank stairs from the cargo hold.<br/><br/><i>Also... don't get caught.</i><br/><br/>The iron-faced mask of a soldier's helm-- completely impractical in the situation, but completely typical of the Razmiri army-- is momentarily illuminated in the pale moon-glow through the clouds as he turns the corner and begins his stolid pacing of the deck.  Maggs, Declan, and Hammill shoot each other accusatory glances, for clearly this is a<i>third</i>watchman when there were only supposed to be<i>two</i>, and the terriers are still barking annoyingly at the end of the dock, but that ruse can only last so long.<br/><br/>Maggs moves forward to flank the deck door, watching the back of the soldier as he paces his way to the distance in the reluctant rain, seemingly gleefully put-upon in his stoic, pious suffering.  Maggs waves Declan on, and with a singularly angry glare at the prospect, Declan musters the guts and creeps for the stairs, descending them with the silence of a cat on the hunt into the dimly-lit storage area below.  Maggs watches the guard pace, shadowing him from forty feet away, and when he starts his walk onto the pier, drawing his blade to deal with these annoying dogs once and for all-- that's the signal.<br/><br/>Maggs opens the door and whistles down two notes-- signaling 'move forward.'  Declan carries up a crate of some kind of glass bottles, so heavy that Maggs buckles under the weight, and she has to crouch to turn the corner and carry them to Hammill, who helps her load them up.  The three of them chain six boxes of cargo-- water-tight crates or water-resistent items only, hand-chosen for their worth by Declan's keen eye-- and lower the cargo float smoothly to the water.  As the best swimmer, Hammill has tethered it to his ankle and slips over the dock to swim for the other shore.  Maggs and Declan follow, swimming like otters to make as little noise as possible.  The dogs and their "master" have been run off under threat of skewering, and are raising a ruckus in another realm of the port city where they are met with clanging pans and curses until Burlor returns them to the River's Mouth Inn, yapping and giddy with the mayhem of the night.  Maggs pauses only to retrieve her arrow, snapping it quietly and tossing it into the water to wash away with the tides, and they slip away to the silvery surface of the lake.<br/><br/>They are joined, an hour later, by three still-wet youths, shivering from the rain under their dark cloaks, leading an oxcart of boxes that the tavernmaster has been expecting.<br/><br/>*<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/9/95/Halfdrow_full.jpg)  </div>"Another piece of the roast, Declan?" offers the tavernmaster, forking over a piece of simmering, fatty meat to the young man who raises his hand in protest.<br/><br/>The young man wiped his blonde beard and answered.  "By the gods, old man, I eat like this ever' night, I'll float 'way with the cargo next time," and they all of them laugh heartily, the three rogues, the youth, the tavernmaster, the waiting-girls.  One of the waiting-girls has liked Declan for years but he keeps looking at Maggs.<br/><br/>"Speakin' of float 'way, I nearly did--" says Hammill, grinning over at the others, "what was in that one crate... air potions?  Boats?  Balloons?  Bottled djinni farts?"  The laughter rises again, and a tavern-girl ruffles his red hair.  "Djinni farts get a good price nowadays, I take it?"<br/><br/>Wiping a giddy tear, the tavernmaster still holds the fresh-sliced beef on a knife-point at the table.  "Ooo, oooh, lords above.  Oh.  And how about you lass," he addresses Maggs, who is leaning back casually on the bench, catching only the occasional glance of jealously from the dark-haired tavern girl who has her eye on Declan.<br/><br/>Maggarie smirks back, her pale blue eyes giving a glimmer like a cat in the tavern's welcoming gloom, and waves it away with one long-fingered hand.  "You're too kind, sir," she says softly, then raises her cup once more and tries not to lock eyes across the man with Declan, whose gaze lingers on her more and more these days, and especially nights.<br/><br/>The man, jolly with drink and success, presses on.  "I know you're half-elf and all, but you can do with a<i>little</i>more meat on your bones--" jokingly, he reaches as if to tickle her ribs.<br/><br/>The tavernmaster's jaunty gesture is invasive, but teasingly so, and he does not actually touch her.  Still, in a moment, Maggs has produced a dagger from her sleeve, whipped it underhand, and pressed the point under the man's ribs.  "NO-" she hisses feverishly, the fury so vivid in her bright eyes that her pupils shrink to pinpoints, and the whites of her eyes are visible all the way around.  Her white eyebrows knit together and twitch, her teeth grind audibly.  Her whole body-- slender with a half-elf's grace and beauty-- is coiled to kill or be killed.<br/><br/>Silence settles like a heavy drape over the mirth at the table for a few long seconds, and the tavernmaster doesn't twitch, except at his eyes-- bloodshot under his sweaty brow, they glance from party to party, looking for some aid or signal that all will be well, before his thick lips form some semblance of apology.  "I...I--I-- was-- was-- only f-foolin' about with ye--" the meat still wiggles on his blade, which might as well be a spoon in his trembling fingers.<br/><br/>The girl swallows, her gaze softening, her eyes shining.  "Oh, oh gods, I'm sorry."  She immediately drops the dagger onto the tabletop, feeling the eyes of the others on her.  The reflexive protectiveness of her reaction was beyond reason.<br/><br/>"Bligh, sir, the scar-- y'know... what happ'n'd" offers Hammill, and Maggs, her cup still in her unarmed hand, sets the clay vessel down numbly.  The eyes of the others make her burn with shame, and a faint blush of fury and embarrassment darkens her grayish-beige cheeks.  She feels like their gazes are the beams of spotlighting lenses deep in a cave, turned curiously onto a strange specimen just before it withers and dies. "I'm so sorry I'm sorry."  She tries to cover her face with her hand and be casual, and then simply rises and heads for the door, Declan's hand missing her arm by only an inch.<br/><br/>She is the only one still dressed from the job, still wet from the swim, and she gives no thought to the persistent drizzle that pours from the sky.  The others changed behind dressing screens inside, her stealing a surreptitious peek or two around at the lads with secretive, hopefully unnoticed glances.  But she would never risk someone seeing the marks.  Even the memory of the scars on her belly leave her nauseous with fear and self-loathing.<br/><br/><i>It was a seed.  It was a spore.  It was alive and it was going to eat you from inside.</i>She remembers the Professor's words, the calm stillness of him, as she walks into the rain without her cloak.<br/><br/><i>Your doctor removed it... but, it's still alive.</i><br/><br/>She tries not to remember, tries to think of anything to keep her mind from remembering that vision.  From seeing it all over again.<br/><br/><i>I have to see it.</i><br/><br/>"Maggs!"<br/><br/>She freezes.  She turns, and water drips from her mass of white hair, puddling and running down the sides of her fine nose and sculpted jaw.  The city is still sprawling about, but she's been walking for a while.<br/><br/>It's the dark-haired tavern girl, bundled in a man's oilcloth rain-cloak.  Maggs has watched her, envied her, admired her, noted Declan's eyes on her.  Maggs doesn't even know her name.<br/><br/>"Hey Maggs... wait.  Here."  She hands her a bundle.  It's her own still-damp cloak, and a pouch heavy with coin.  "He says he's sorry, the old man.  He knew what happened to you, but forgot.  Y'know, 'bout the scar and all.  We don't always remember, even us locals.<br/><br/>"They say to come back."  She swallows, hoists the hood of her own now-wet cloak.  "Declan wanted t'come but I sent him back, said it was a job for a woman."  The girl seems to hem and haw, as if waiting for her to respond, but it's clear she hopes the answer is no.  "He fancies you, o'course. Y're pretty, y'just don't dress... or really act... like a proper girl." Grinning, she gives over one more bundle.  "An 'ere, this letter... came through the tavern for you.  I... shoulda give it to ya' earlier.  But... if you come back tomorra', instead of tonight, they'll understand.  And... um... I'll owe ya' one.  I... think I could make Declan happy, see?"<br/><br/>The young rogue stares back for a while before giving a little nod, trying not to imagine Declan and the tavern-girl tangled up naked together.  She looks over the folded paper bundle in her hands, addressed 'to Maggarie Forest'.  "Thanks," she says softly.  "You'd be good to him.  Tell them I'm fine."  She sniffs once, then meets the tavern girl's eyes and smiles.  "And tell 'im I fancy lasses," she says, turning her back and beginning to walk away.<br/><br/>The tavern girl laughs once, holding the hood back from her face to keep the rain from dripping down her neck.  "But he won't believe that--"<br/><br/>Maggs straightens her back, shrugs, and turns around, planting a heavy-mouthed, hot kiss onto the tavern girl's mouth, working her jaw fiercely before drawing away with a smack.  "Will he believe that, then?"  She says, turning away to head off into the rainy night.<br/><br/>Splashing through the puddles of Tamran, she makes her way home to pack, somehow sensing that she won't be staying here much longer.  The letter seems heavy in her hands, as if it has some great weight within beyond mere paper and words.  The coin from her job will last her for a journey, perhaps.  She must soon learn where.