#baronyofthesilverwolf

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Art bursts into Gwen's bedroom, nearly tripping over the edge of the rug in his enthusiasm, clutching the book tightly to his chest. His face is alight with excitement as he skids to a stop in front of the troll Knight - who hopefully is not in any start of disrobe.

"I've figured it out! Well, part of it, anyway!" he exclaims, holding up the book like a trophy. "This—this is incredible! The pages? They're not paper, or at least not ordinary paper. I think it’s made from corn silk, maybe some magical treatment... the texture, the way it catches the light—it’s like nothing I’ve seen before."

Gwen pulls her sheet up "Art, you need to knock and... wait what?"

He opens the book to a random page, jabbing at the intricate symbols and illustrations. "It’s full of stories, recipes, and anecdotes. I get why Marigold thought it was a cookbook—honestly, it reads like one of those online recipe... what-do-they-callums... blogs? Blogs! You know? The kind where you have to scroll through someone’s life story just to get.. to... uh... the ingredients list."

He turns a bit red and then spins around to give Gwen his back, blushing fiercely.

"Er. Uh. Um." He says, intelligently.

Gwen IS wearing something... it's just it's not much, a flimy little nighty not really meant for public wear

fortunately most of it is behind a sheet now

Art was not quiet, and may well have roused others. What TIME is it?

"It's two in the morning," She adds, "But...tell me, have you figured out how the book can help my mom? Can you translate any clues?"

Steps in the hallway, and then Bluebell pokes her head in the door, blinking sleepily. "There had BEST be a fire." She warns, then pauses, and beams at Gwen.

"Oh, you're wearing the nightgown I gave you! I KNEW you and Art would hit it off." A touch wickedly.

One of thee reasons she doesn't wear the nightgown where others see it is because on HER frame it is a bit tight and short. She gives Bluebell a look, "Anyone else want to storm in here? Seems to be the in thing to do"

Art’s ears turn a deeper red as he clutches the book tight to his chest, looking utterly mortified. From down the hall, Julius’s cranky voice carries.

“Come back to BED, bunny. You can tease Gladiola in the MORNING.”

Art groans softly. “...I’m not sure I’m surviving until morning,” he mutters under his breath, still refusing to turn around.

There's shuffling sounds and "It's okay, Art. I'm decent"

Bluebell giggles and pads softly back to her room.

Ivan, having smelled it was an ally, has gone back to sleep

Gwen mutters to Ivan "Gonna replace you with a yorkie, THEY make noise"

zzzz goes the big dog

Grumbly swearing, and a tousled (pink and purple) head sticks out from the door across the hall. "It's two th'fuck o'clock."

Chime-CHIME! Echoes Citrine.

Art blinks at her. "Do you even need to sleep? Thistle, does Citrine even need to sleep?"

Clearly Art has not slept, he is still dressed and clutching the Book.

Gwen is wearing a robe now, one big enough that a regular sized person could get lost in it

"Come on in, Thistle. Art found something if he'll tell me what it means?"

"Citrine sleeps. Little jagoff snores like an amish buggy."

Instead of proper PJs, Thistle apparently sleeps in an oversized White Stripes t-shirt and a pair of men's boxers.

She scrubs at her eyes. "You translate the book?"

"He did, but I'm not sure what that MEANS as far as getting the Wíȟaŋbla Owíŋža?"

Art turns back to Gwen, his shoulders hunched and his face still red. "I’m, uh... really sorry," he mumbles, the excitement in his voice slightly subdued. "But seriously, this book—it’s fascinating. Each subsequent re-casting of the cantrip gets trickier if done too quickly, or maybe I’m just tired... but!" He waves a hand as if brushing that away.

To Thistle, he shakes his head, and his tone is excited again, "Not all of it, not yet anyways. It’s like a code within a code!" he beams, holding the book open. "The glyphs are based on moon signs, and when you translate them, they’re phonetic into Lakota. But then you still have to understand Lakota to get the full meaning. It’s... kind of genius." Clearly impressed.

"I thought they were moons!"

"You were right!"

Yaaaawwwwnnnn. "Gwen, you speak Lakota?"

"I was able to decode some of it." He answers, though Thistle asked the Troll. "It just took extra castings. And here, look!" He shows the knight a page, illustrated.

'No.. I actually heard some phrases, been to some inter tribal gathers but not one of my two tribal backgrounds."

"What's the other one?" Art says, curious as always.

"Cherokee and Iroquois" she says "I didn't mention that? Huh. Yeah, guess I didn't, not the cherokee side."

She pauses "I did meet a Lakota woman, a story teller... it was before my chrysalis. She was great"

"Oh." And he turns a bit red again. "Gee, I'm sorry. I should have asked. Asking you if you could speak it... that's like asking a Frenchman to translate Gaelic. It was rude of me to assume."

To cover his embarrassment, the squire turns to a page that has an illustration that seems to shimmer faintly in the light. The delicate drawing depicts a figure kneeling before a spirit, radiating - lines? Light, or power, perhaps? Its form a blend of human and flower. The spirit wears a belt adorned with blossoms, their petals framed by woven strands of green and silver.

Thistle catches a glimpse - the page looks old, yet the ink, if it is ink, gleams as fresh as newly scribed. Around the figure's feet, small shoots and petals spiral outward.

"Huh." A squint.

"I wonder if I could contact her? Ask her to translate some stuff?"

"Well, sure, or I can try..." even as Art shows them both the drawing, he glances at the opposite page. The glyphs shimmer faintly as his eyes glow with glamour, his cantrip still in effect.

"'The spirit of the blooming moon spoke,'” he reads, in a hushed reverent tone: "'To take my gift, you must give in turn. What do you treasure that the earth may hold? The seed of your heart will sprout anew, only when freely sown.'"

"Oh" Gwen says, "That's fair. I just ...mmm" What to give that the Earth may hold?

"Makes sense. Sacrifice for healing?"

“The tale says the one who sought the belt offered something deeply precious—a token of their life’s joy, something irreplaceable. Only then did the spirit weave the moonflower belt, binding its magic with the sacrifice. It became a talisman of healing and renewal, its power gifted to those who could bear the cost of its creation.”

Art looks up, “It doesn’t say what was given, exactly, just that the belt can mend even the deepest wounds of body and spirit. But it warns... here... " He points, though it's just more symbols to the untrained eyes - "receiving such a gift comes with its own burden, one only the worthy can carry.”

He concludes, turning he page, "And when its purpose is fulfilled, the belt returns to the earth, to rest until it is sought again by one in need.”

"Do they define 'worthy'? I mean, if it requires one to be a warrior mom is out, but she's the most worthy person I know"

"It's not Thor's hammer, Eggsy."

"Maybe it's excallibur?"

Art pauses thoughtfully as he reviews the passage again. "I THINK it's saying that the cost is paid by the one who seeks the belt, not the one who wears it. But it's hard to tell, because in the tale, they were the same person."

"Oh" A nod "I hope to be worthy of whatever it is" She ponders what is precious, "What's irreplacable that I have?"

"Ow." Art winces, rubbing his temples as the glamour fades from his eyes.

"Idjit." Her hand reaches out to lightly touch Art's.

A sheepish grin, even as he catches her hand and squeezes it. "I cast the cantrip back-to-back—one to decode the glyphs to letters, and another to translate the Lakota into English, at the same time. It seemed more efficient... one on each eye, and I just had to hold the text mentally while..."

Another wince, the headache is almost VISIBLE.