Meeting the Bird Council
24. January 2020
Alderheart was just as majestic as the druids back home had described. The great tree stretched upwards, its branches opened to the heavens. All manner of Birdfolk and Humblefolk could be seen from the dark creeping roots, on platforms and rope bridges through the branches, all the way up to the top of the canopy. It was truly a sight to behold.
Eliza took us to her dusty old shop, and we gratefully accepted her offer of shelter after the long journey. While we prepared to rest, Eliza seemed reinvigorated now we had finally arrived and busied herself unboxing goods and preparing displays.
In the morning, we found ourselves not on an empty shop floor, but in Eliza’s Emporium: ready for business.
“Good morning, potential customers!” Eliza greeted us cheerfully. “I think it’s time you got to peruse my full collection.”
She led us to a series of glass display cases and showed us some of the rarer items of her collection. There were two grand tomes which looked like spellbooks. One of them was bound with leaves and the clasp was a small vine which moved a little of its own accord. It reminded me of the book my father had used to jot down the spells Nature had shown him through his communions with the Great Rhythm.
“How much for the nature spells?”
“Excellent choice.” Eliza grinned. “A thousand gold pieces should cover it.”
“Didn’t we get a discount?” asked Olive.
“That’s with the discount.”
“Have you got anything a little more affordable?” I asked.
“Of course, valued customer,” said Eliza and guided us to a glittering stand of jewellery. “How about a Ring of Featherfall?”
It was a polished silver band with a series of feathers engraved upon it. Crispin reached out to try it on.
“I suppose it would help,” I said, “given how often he falls over.”
“A good investment, then,” agreed Eliza knowingly. “And it’s a bargain at five hundred gold pieces.”
“Ah.”
We made no purchases, ate breakfast, and headed straight for the Council.
We soon arrived in the canopy which housed all the important functions of Alderheart. There were the council chambers with a long queue of petitioners waiting patiently to be heard. Nearby was also the headquarters of the esteemed Perch Guard.
The area was decorated with all the flags and banners of the important settlements of the Wood. It warmed my heart to see Meadowfen’s colours flying freely in the breeze.
Crispin took our letter of introduction to two of the Perch Guard who were on duty at the council chambers, and we were swiftly admitted. Looking at the length of the queue, we were indeed fortunate that Walden Crane had written it else we could have been waiting for days.
Even so, we waited for what seemed like an eternity before, finally, the double doors swung open and we were escorted in before the council.
A wise-looking Gallus raised a talon in greeting.
“You now stand in the presence of the Birdfolk Council. Make your petition.”
All around us we could see the esteemed members of the council, perching on branches and scribbling notes, presumably as they judged us based on their first impressions.
Crispin looked like he was about to open his mouth so I opened one wing to block him and nudged Olive forward with the other. For delicate diplomatic speeches like this I had grown to trust more in the silver tongue of our Bard rather than the loose cannon of our Cleric.
“Meadowfen,” said Olive in a ringing voice. “It calls for aid.”
I heard a Birdfolk council member cough quietly. I was worried, for a moment, that Olive didn’t have anything else to say, but after a long pause she continued.
“Mayor Ardwyn sent us.”
At that, there was a hubbub as the council members conferred. It seemed like some of them knew Ardwyn personally. I hoped that would be enough to sway them.
“We have heard your petition and we will try and prioritise it. But, many towns need aid, and the Perch Guard is already stretched thin dealing with the refugee crisis and the Bandit Coalition. We will reconvene tomorrow with our decision.”
It was not everything we had hoped for, but Olive was wise enough to politely thank the council for their time and take our leave with our dignity and reputation intact.
We confirmed the council’s story that the Perch Guard was stretched thin by engaging some of the Birdfolk on duty at their headquarters. They told stories of increased patrols, refugees arriving in Alderheart, and the growing threat of the Bandit Coalition.
Now we were in the heart of the Humblewood, and in possession of a little free-time, I decided to try a trick my father had taught me and ask the plants themselves for help.
I sat down on a branch further from the bustle of the main thoroughfare and attuned my mind to the Great Rhythm.
“Where have you heard spoken the name Babson?” I asked. It took a moment, but soon I felt the answering chorus of the nearby leaves whispering back to me.
“Hey. I’m a plant. I don’t have ears.”
It turned out that the plants of Alderheart were just as unhelpful as the ones where I grew up. Maybe they just liked my father more.
After my unsuccessful communion with nature, we descended back down through passages of the great tree. We left behind the richness of the canopy, passing first through the boughs, then the branches, and of course the lively trunk market.
Eventually we arrived at the roots, the slums of the city, where Humblefolk slunk through shabby tunnels and the poor found themselves living on whatever scraps the city above could provide.
“The Roots,” said Crispin warmly. “It hasn’t changed a bit.”
It smelled like refuse. I wasn’t impressed.
“I used to work at a soup kitchen here,” Crispin continued. “I wonder if it’s still around.”
It didn’t take long for him to find his way back there. Indeed, the place was still in use and Crispin genially invited us all inside Alexander’s Soup Kitchen. There we found the bottom of the food chain. Humblefolk huddled together like small groups of dishevelled babushkas.
Crispin rekindled his relationship with another Mapach, Alvina, who was still volunteering at the kitchen. We were able to find out a bit about the Bandit Coalition, namely the name of its leader, a Cervan, Benna Seridan. There were also rumours of an important Vulpin captain called Fray Merridan.
“Fray,” I wondered aloud. “Wasn’t that the bandit who robbed Eliza?”
I turned to Olive for confirmation but she was no longer beside us.
I spotted her on the other side of the room, tuning her lute. Olive had seen the opportunity to bring some joy into this desolate place and played a song she called “The Babson Bop” to try and smoke out the elusive bandit. I counted at least sixteen people were bobbing their heads in time with the bouncing beat.
Inspired by Olive’s song, we headed out to find someone to purchase the odds and ends we had plundered from the bandits on the road.
“I know just the place,” said Crispin. “We can visit my old tailor!”
We trekked deeper still into the gloomy depths of the roots, squeezing through slimy and mossy gaps until we arrived at a shack with the sign: Deadstu’s Fine Taylors.
Inside the shop we were assaulted by the smell of damp, mouldy and musty furnishings, and beaded curtains. All around us were displays of out-dated suits and shag carpets.
Crispin called out, “Deadstu, is that you?”
A pair of wet footsteps approached, heralding the arrival of an old frog who walked with a cane.
“Aaaaaah, Crispin. I see you’re still wearing my finest work.”
I tried not to stand too close to Deadstu. Everything nearby him seemed to become wet and slimy.
Crispin handled negotiations and I emptied my pack of the items to sell in turn.
Deadstu seemed particularly interested in a black metals-studded collar that had previously graced a Mapach bandit’s neck.
“It, err, goes round your neck,” I explained.
“Ohoho.” Deadstu rubbed his hands together. “Oh no it doesn’t, my boy.”
We left with our money, even more disgusted with ourselves than when we arrived.