#baronyofthesilverwolf

Gwen steps into the small receiving room, summoned by a note that a troll has come seeking her - not that unusual as one of the Knights of the Barony and expected to deal with minor day to day issues, but she was not expecting anyone, either.

The room that Marigold lead the visitor to is one of the cozier, smaller chambers. Elegant wooden chairs tucked neatly around a low table, a few folded blankets stacked in the corner, and the hearth thoughtfully stoked by the Steward, flames flickering warmly. In fact, warm enough that Gwen feels overheated even in her light indoor attire. The warmth of the room emphasizes the shiver of the troll seated there.

After a moment, Gwen thinks she recognizes him. He is one of the minor trolls from the nearby town, name of 'Bronn'. The sort of friendly face seen at market stalls or running errands, familiar enough to recall but never noteworthy. Now he sits small and hunched in the cozy room.

He is wrapped in a thick blanket, hunched over the cup, snuffling quietly as he lifts it to his lips. His cheeks and the tips of his ears are flushed, and he rocks slightly, as if trying to keep warm despite the room’s heat. Bronn starts to rise when Gwen enters, but is momentarily tangled in his cloak and blanket.

"Bronn? Please, don't get up. Are you sick?"

She moves towards him though keeps at least a few feet between them as she looks him over and kens him both. She's surprised someone is here to see her, but she values hospitality, it's in her House AND Marigold's training.

Bronn sits back in his chair gratefully, wrapping the blanket back around his shoulders.

“Please… don’t get too close. I don’t want you to get sick.” He lifts the steaming cup of tea to his lips, snuffling quietly, then lowers it again, hunched and careful. “I… I think I may have made a mistake.” he adds. A faint aura of glamour clings to the troll, and he has a slightly guarded, embarrassed air.

She kens him cautiously.

"What mistake is that?" She inquires.

As Gwen moves closer, she notices the faint pulse of glamour surrounding him, subtle but irregular, tinged with a greenish, sickly hue. It is not the smooth, coherent glamour of a healthy mortal or a normal illness.

As she focuses, tiny shapes begin to materialize within the aura. They are almost imperceptible at first: minute, half-formed snowflake-like motes, drifting loosely around Bronn’s shoulders and hands. Their wings are uneven and asymmetrical, branching in unique patterns that never quite mirror one another. They look almost like Nevers, if a bit smaller and more indistinct - clinging near him as they drift with no clear direction, brushing against his blanket and the edge of the table, leaving only the briefest traces of frost that vanish almost immediately.

He blows his nose on a sodden handkerchief, then lifts the cup again, sniffiling again. “I had this cold… and I thought I might try something to make it better.” He gestures weakly at his satchel. “I had a charm… I thought it might help. I didn’t mean for it to go wrong.”

"Oh Bronn," She says with concern, "It's more like chimerical parasites than a cold if I'm kenning you right. What charm? " She does move closer and frowns , not touching the little latch ons yet. More taking mental notes in case she has to relay what she's seen to others.

Bronn lifts the small item from his pocket and sets it on the table. It is no larger than a walnut, carved from pale wood and polished smooth. Its shape curls upward like a tiny sprout, with delicate grooves suggesting leaves or petals. The faint shimmer along the grooves is gone, the magic spent, leaving only the simple trinket behind.

“It’s Spring magic,” he says, voice rough and crackling, “was from a gardener I know, but… Spring is for healing, isn’t it?”

"Renewal," She nods "Clearly something went a wee bit wrong."

Bronn shifts slightly in his chair. “It feels like it got worse since I used the charm.” He looks down at the table, then around the room, and admits miserably, “And the spots I was seeing turned into these… things.”

Gwen can see the small, fluttering shapes drifting near him. Their wings are uneven and flickering, and on some, faint, irregular clusters of tiny spheres appear along the edges, pulsing briefly before vanishing. The shapes twist and shimmer like microscopic particles caught in motion, suggesting something embedded in their fragile forms. They brush lightly against his shoulders and hands, leaving only the briefest traces of frost, and the faint, greenish sickly hue pulses along with the flickers, almost like they are infected.

"i'm no expert at glamour , cantrips and treasures, but I can try talking to these things with a willow whisper?"

He rubs at his raw, red nose. "Anything you can think of to help. Sorry for bringing this to you... I didn't know who else to go to." Unsaid, she may realize that he is embarassed and hoping another troll might understand.

"My biggest concern on MY side is that I'm not qualified. I train dogs, I take hits. I annoy people by driving too slowly," Wryly trying a bit of self depreciation to cheer him, "But I can try , sure. Let me try a slow bunk here, build up my chances." She begins to rhyme like a saga, "And so came Bronn, laid low by the multitudes, a Gulliver among lilliputian afflictions wrought by what? he knew naught, but traveled far did he to a sister of the guardians, and she did call out to the Dreaming, asking voice be lent to the small ones to understand them better and perhaps how to remedy this struggle in a way where he'd not be further devastated. And Lo, with a whisper, they responded thus:"

If the cantrip worked, she asks her first question "How can we get you to depart from Bronn without harming him further?"

One tiny mote clings to Bronn, wings trembling with the sickly greenish glow. It shivers and cries out, “Stay, stay! Warm, ours!” brushing lightly against his blanket as it twists in restless arcs.

Another flutters outward toward Gwen, hesitant. “Go… you?” it squeaks, and as it brushes past her skin, a faint, feverish chill creeps along her arm for a moment.

A third hovers nearby, tilting its fragile wings, looking almost pensive. A tiny, snuffling sneeze escapes it, a faint, echoing mimic of Bronn’s own cough. Its wings flicker weakly, the sickly green pulse soft but constant.

The rest of the motes hover in small clusters around Bronn, restless and shimmering, their half-formed wings twitching in irregular patterns, clearly linked by the same strange, infected pulse.

Gwen frowns realizing what one is asking, A switch to her. Sacrifice is no stranger to her kith but it seems like the problem would remain just with her. I'm tougher than he is. But not sure how much my amazing stamina would help She ponders then whispers her second question, "Why did you form in the first place?"

A chorus of tiny, shivering voices rises in response, each syllable halting and echoing faintly. “Magic… magic!” squeaks one, wings fluttering unevenly.

“Good… strong… make… grow!” whispers another, twisting in arcs above Bronn’s shoulders.

“Grow… grow!” shivers a third, tilting its half-formed wings, the sickly green pulse flickering weakly along their edges.

Bronn groans in realization, putting his head in his hands.

Gwen ponders some possible solutions, then whispers her last question "Do you exist only to feed and grow and spread?"

A shiver of tiny voices rises from the motes, uneven and trembling, as their wings flutter with the sickly greenish glow. “Magic… says… grow!” squeaks one, twisting in short arcs above Bronn’s shoulders. A pulse, and it splits into two smaller motes, each a little different from the first, and they both squeak, "Grow!"

One "half" whispers, hesitating between words: “Why… exist? Why…?” Its wings twitch erratically, a faint flicker pulsing along their edges.

The other new mote, it's tiny form hovering unsteadily, wings quivering: “Just… are… just… are… now... want to ... be!”

Their motions are restless but not violent, drifting in half-formed arcs around Bronn, brushing lightly against his blanket and hands. The sickly green pulse throbs weakly, and they seem uneasy for a moment until the cantrip fades, and they resume their clingy flights around Bronn. He coughs feebly into the crook of an arm.

"Bron, you got a condition," She says.

"Perhaps I need to just withstand it." He rubs his sore nose, wincing stoicly. "It can't last that long, can it?" A tinge of worry.

As she continues her contemplation, Bronn sneezes, and a couple of the motes shoot outwards, circling around before slowly drifting back to him. They miss her, but only by a little bit.

"Well, options that come to mind is 1) We try to get you on a trod and see if they can exist without you enough so they leave. 2) Have you forget yourself in a safe place and see if they leave and then we reglamour you... and 3, my BIG suggestion? We get a friend of mine who is MUCH smarter than me to help you. She's an expert on Nevers and while these are not never, she once made a device that sucked them up and contained them. She might have something that does the same for your unwelcome guests."

She backs up a bit.

Little tinges of greenish "pixie dust" is starting to coat the teacup and blanket Bronn holds.

He rubs his nose, "I would worry that they might spread to other pockets of the dreaming if we feed them more glamour than they're getting from me." Bronn snuffles a bit. "I... might be able to starve them out." He looks unhappy at the idea of forgetting himself, understandably. "But if you think your friend can help, I... well, I came to you, so it's your call."

"Maybe I should wait somewhere else. I can go to the barn, or a shed, or something. Last thing I want is to make anyone else sick." He suggests, even as he pulls the blanket around his shoulders.

"I'm worried about the horses and dogs," She admits "Actually, we have a small mundane house we used for an emmisary once. That might be less glamour ous AND at the same time not so banal that you suffer?"

Recalling the house used when there is a surplus of guests.

"Also, Thistle tends to draw chimera to her so I think I'll ask her if she wants to take the risk before I introduce you to her."

"I could wait there, certainly." He stands, carefully folding up the blanket and getting out a fresh handkerchief. "I am ill, but I do not need nursing care." His brows say that even sick, he is still TROLL. STRONG. STOIC.

"I'll set you up, let's keep at least 6 foot distance from you and any kithain or kinain. I'll spread warning. Treat you like a Covid patient and.. " Her eyes widen "Oh yes, I forgot, the Baroness made masks for Covid times. I'll ask about those! they might help!"

"I would prefer not to make a fuss if possible." He defers, clearly still embarassed - about being ill and weak, or about his mistake, or possibly both. No one wants to be known as a plaguebringer!

"You are not," She puts her foot down, "You came to me for help. I am providing it. The baron and baroness take their duties as sovereigns VERY seriously and would insist I help you self quarantine as we sought a solution. This is not a fuss, this is duty."

He bows. "Then I obey, Dame."

"Thank you," She says grateful he understands, "LEt me warn the others to avoid that house for a bit and make arrangements. For now, stay here and I'll be back in an hour or less. That mask might do the trick or at least lesson your trouble."

He tries on the mask, and the little motes get annoyed and flock to his limbs and midsection, but stubbornly still cling to the troll. Gwen does see that when she wears one, however, it seems to help ward them away from her.

With that in mind, she nods "Okay, not driving them off you but makes it safer for me to interact. That means it will help Thistle too I hope. " Over the next hour she informs some of the household of precautions and the 'borrowing' of the house. Which might be a bit inconvenient for a certain Kinain Maid and her son but nothing that a space here on the short term won't hurt.

Soon he is well ensconced and as comfortable as possible in the guesthouse.

Gwen keeps the mask on, makes sure all have the news and then... heads to consult Thistle. That's her friend and 'go to ' Nocker when brains and creative problem solving is needed!