Mellia — Hl23
????, Fire Season, Season/Illusion Week
Context
1626 Fire Season/Illusion Week/Fireday/sometime after lunch, in Mellia’s room at the White Grape, Boldhome. [[[s01:session-44|Session 44]]]
Events
Berra has often run through the streets instead of walking, and gets into the White Grape sweaty, breathless, and smiling. This time she comes into the common room looking hot, impatient, and only slightly out of breath. She goes to get beer, and asks for water as well. When she has that, she pours it over her head, making a pool on the floor. “Mellia,” she says. Either she is asking Rondrik where the healer is, or she has seen the healer and is attracting her attention.
Rondrik replies, “I believe the healer is in her room. Shall I send up a bath?”
“How in hell should I know?” Berra looks surprised. “Ask her, I suppose.” She takes her beer and the stairs. At the top, finding the right room, she taps on the doorframe with the bottom of her foot, hobnailed sandals clattering.
Mellia calls, “Enter!”
Berra pushes her way in, her one working hand full of beer-cup. “Hello. I remembered what the High Sword said. Er, Sword Eril, I mean.”
Mellia perks up. She is sitting on her bed, stretching. “Come in, sit down and tell me all about it.” Mellia pats a section of bed.
“It’s just a really short message,” says Berra, but she does that, and offers Mellia her cup. “I just forgot the word he used. I don’t think I’ve ever used it.”
Mellia takes a sip and hands the cup back. “That’s our Eril. He must be on the mend.”
“He’s not dead, so that’s a start. I had left that message to late in the conversation – sorry. I said, ‘I was remiss, my Lord. Mellia sends her abject apologies. She is exhausted and cannot be here.'” Berra looks into the middle distance as she recalls. “He replied, ‘Please reassure her from me. High Priestess Beneva has been most diligent.’ It took me a while to remember that word, but I’m sure it’s right.”
Mellia smiles. “I am glad he’s not angry. I’m going to call on him anyway. I don’t think the High Healer has the time to check on my patients.”
Berra lounges back, stretching her legs and wriggling her feet. “I can walk you up there next time I go, if you like.”
“I would love that. Thank you. I think Varanis wants to discuss an idea with you, Berra.”
“Well, I go back on guard duty shortly. We can talk then, unless you think it’s urgent?” The Humakti balances on the edge of the bed, moving one foot to keep herself steady. Despite that, she still manages to sip her beer and not spill any.
“It’s not urgent,” says Mellia. “Varanis may be dictating letters to Xenofos right now.”
“Oh. I should do that. My sister would like to get a letter!” Enthusiasm shines briefly on Berra’s face, and then is replaced by an attempt at maturity.
“I’ll let you go first,” Mellia says with a smile. “I need to write to my mother, Silor Cracks-Rock and Venlar.”
“I want my sister to be fine. There’s a small chance that the ceremony to send Orlanth to Hell will call Humakt into me, and I might end up dead or something. That would be bad for her, so a letter is something to hold onto, too. But then I’m not sure what to write. Tell her to feed Haran well and that she is the heir to my hide, maybe. And the Humakti will burn me and send her the ashes if she can’t come.”
“You should tell her these things,” agrees Mellia. “Also, tell her you love her and miss home. I’m beginning to miss Blue Tree Tula.”
“Oh, she knows that already,” Berra says, happily confident.
“Should something happen to you,” Mella points out, “having that written down will mean the world to her.”
“Oh, right. I suppose it’s not like sending a messenger, where people can forget. She can always find someone to read it again.”
“Exactly.”
Berra nods, heaves a deep sigh and finishes her beer by holding it steady as she rocks backwards, a study in core strength, balance, and childish triumph when she manages. “I should probably go,” she says, wiping beer from her chin with her right hand.
Mellia sighs. “Probably. Go blessed, Berra.”
“Mhm. And you. Your choice of blessings.” Berra bounces to her feet to go do the next thing. “I hope your letters bear fruit!”
