07. The Fayre begins

Morning unfurled in slivers of soft light through Talon’s windows, casting the first wakeful stirrings across the group. Gwen awoke first, blinking into the golden haze of dawn. A sound drifted in from the street below—children’s voices, sweet and singsong. It was a nursery rhyme, familiar at first—until the melody twisted.   “She’ll get you, Gwen.”   The words sent a shiver down her spine, though she wasn’t sure why. Recognition clawed at the edges of her mind, but the pieces hadn’t fully clicked into place. She tried to explain fragments to the others as they roused, but she kept most of it to herself—at least for now.   Their morning soon dissolved into the lively chaos of the fayre. Laughter mingled with music, scents of roasted meats and sugared treats thick in the air. Lark spotted Maude at her coffee stall, the two slipping into a warm conversation, reminiscing between steaming cups. Meanwhile, Cre’s presence drew the attention of Merlin, the fortune teller’s assistant—a black Lupine whose infatuation was immediate, his gaze lingering too long, his words edged with intrigue.   Thranmire, restless and determined, set his sights on finding a blacksmith’s shop where he might earn some coin. Gwen and Cre trailed with him to the other market, where they found an assistant hurriedly shutting down the stall for the day. "Come back after the fayre," the worker advised, not unkindly. But Thranmire wasn’t having it. He pressed, insistent, his patience wearing thin.   The assistant’s demeanor cooled fast. A stony silence settled between them, and soon, Thranmire found himself outright ignored.   As they left, Gwen—still disguised as her grandmother—brushed past an elderly gentleman whose interest in her was unsettling. His gaze lingered too long, his expression too keen. She withdrew, stepping briskly away, only to catch sight of something that made her stop short—a cart bearing the sigil of Cressida’s apple orchard company. So she was here. Somewhere amidst the bustling crowds, Cressida had found her way to the fayre.   Elsewhere, Lark and Lia wandered into Lia’s favorite pub, a haven of dim lantern glow and aged wooden beams. They drank, unwound, and traded stories, their conversation interrupted only by the art upon the wall—a tree, gnarled and familiar, stirring something unspoken between them. Then, before their very eyes, the painting moved. Cas appeared within it, stepping past the frame as though it had simply been a doorway.   He wasted no time in explaining. The Daisy situation. The looming theft. The urgency of it all. And the offer—600 gold if they were the ones to rescue her, to stop the thieves from getting the map.   The Jolly Pixie welcomed them soon after, drinks warming their hands as they settled in. A Mining Dwed at a nearby table leaned in with low-spoken news—Grym had been seen on the Trigoat Trail. If they wanted to know more, he suggested they speak to the head of the guard—Thathu.   Lia, knowing the city well, took the lead. She guided them through the twisting streets to a favored perch of Thathu’s, and as they approached, he landed before them—a superhero’s descent, confident and deliberate.   Their exchange was brief, but weighted. Discussions of the troubles outside of town, the shifting dangers. Then Lia’s voice took on a different edge, a subtle but undeniable warning—she didn’t want Thathu telling her mother she was here.   The decision of their next move loomed. Deliberations stretched on, but in the end, consensus was reached—the Grym had to be dealt with first, then Daisy.   Thathu acknowledged their plan, promising transport to the southeastern stretch of Isalume. A boat, waiting for them by the following afternoon.   Later that night, just as rest found her, Lia’s stone lit up—a message from her mother.   She knew. Lia’s jaw tightened. Thathu had betrayed her trust.   Sleep came slow and unsettled, frustration a shadow beneath her closing eyes.