When she woke, it was also dark, but not like a nightly sky. She shook her head trying to get rid of the drowsiness, but that lead to her seeing more stars – again not like in the nightly sky. It smelled of cabbages. When the pain subsided a bit, she was able to make out a small window far above her, and shelves filled with supplies, bottles of ale and all sorts of farming equipment. It was the Waclaw's storeroom at the back of their house. She wanted to curse, but she had also realized she had been gagged and tied up. She rolled up to her knees, trying to ignore the throbbing headache. From the lack of weight on her back, she knew that her swords were not in their scabbards. Her dagger was not on her belt, even the tiny hidden one was missing from her boot. She tugged and tore at her ties, but they were no layman's work. It was pointless. She looked around her. None of the equipment that was neatly stored in the shelves had blades, tips or anything else that seemed useful in her situation. She recalled the man at the tavern who had spoken of dull tools that would be waiting for Floris…. Oh Floris, oh poor Roos! What might have happened to them, while she had failed so painfully soon after promising to help!
If she couldn't free herself from her ties, maybe there was a way out to get help. She tried to aim an Aard Sign at the door, but she could not form the proper gesture. Elora hobbled closer to the door, looking for anything that might give her an idea of how to open it. A rusty nail protruded from the lower part of the door's frame. She moved closer, holding her cheek against the frame and tried to catch the nail in the cloth that was bound tightly over her mouth. At first, the nail scratched her left cheek several times, but then it seemed to work. She leaned in and slowly straightened herself as far as she could, tearing at the gag, pulling it a bit further down her cheek as well as beginning to rip a whole in it. After a while, the effort was rewarded with a grating noise and the cloth dropped to the dirt floor.
Elora would later point out that a Witcher screaming for help was perhaps a novelty great enough to be rewarded with a bard's song, if she could not have one for her bravery, heroic deeds and perhaps a few conquests strewn in between. In that situation, however, such thoughts had no place. She called for help and screamed Ladva's name at the top of her lungs. Goran was deaf on both ears, so she skipped that attempt.
The exertion made her feel dizzy and sick. She threw up on the floor. It smelled horribly as was to be expected of puke consisting of fish soup and ale, but there also was a certain pungent and strangely familiar smell that caught her attention. It smelled of kikimora toxin, an ingredient used for all kinds of poisons, including sleeping poisons. It must have been mixed in their drink, making her fall asleep when she began her meditation. When her metabolism quickly began breaking down the chemical agent thus starting her recovery, they must have resorted to the good old thwack to the head.
While still kneeling, she felt her braid was hanging down the side of her face. It must have loosened at some point of her mistreatment. She scanned the floor and indeed found two of the pins she had so very unskillfully used earlier for her hairdo. She managed to ignore the dizziness and get onto her feet, turned around and started fiddling with the lock, soon continuing her calls for help.
About the same time that the door sprung open, she heard Ladva call her name. "A knife, quickly. My hands and feet are tied. I was poisoned. Probably Roos and Floris as well. And knocked out. And… I failed them. But I am glad they didn't go after you."
Ladva gestured her to calm down and hurried back to the house, with Elora hobbling after her as fast as she could. Inside, Goran cut loose the ties of the Witcher, who stretched and rubbed her aching ankles. Ladva had taken a cloth, rinsed it in a bucket of water by the fireplace and wiped off the blood of Elora's scalp and face. Elora tried to protest, but the elder woman insisted that one did not get into more trouble before treating the wounds one already had.
Elora looked at Goran and tried to speak distinctly so the man could read her lips. "I need my stuff. They've taken what I had with me, but I still have a dagger and my potions in my room."
Goran quickly returned. Elora rummaged through her backpack, found flasks of a weak Raffard's Decoction and Cat's Eye, both of which she emptied in one big gulp. She hastily applied some healing salve on her cheek to hinder the rust from creating a nasty scar out of a few little scratches.
"Thank you. I owe you." Elora had jumped to her feet and made for the door.
"Good luck, girl," Ladva called after her, "We will pray to Melitele for you and the Van der Heydens."
Elora headed to the blacksmith's house for the third time that day, but the first time running as fast as she could. It was still dark, but the Cat's Eye potion greatly improved her vision. No one was to be seen; the only noise came from animals tending to their nightly business. There were tracks of a carriage and several horses leading away from the house, through the fields and towards the forest. The front door was ajar. Elora entered and quickly searched the front room, then the pantry (which smelled of cabbages), then Roos' room and finally Floris'. The blacksmith lay sprawled across the double bed, his arm hanging limply down at the side. He had begun to undress before collapsing.
"Floris," Elora croaked and cleared her throat. "Floris! Oh no!" She knelt by his side, feeling for his pulse. It was feeble and his breathing was an unsteady, quiet rasp. She dropped her backpack and fished out a little vial with a shimmering golden substance in it. Elora hoped earnestly that Floris could deal with the side effects of the Golden Oriole. She sat on the bed, propped his head up on a pillow in her lap, uncorked the vial with her teeth. While pouring its contents into his mouth very slowly, bit by bit, she adjured him to fight the poison. She tossed away the empty vial, when Floris' hands and feet twitched. Slowly at first, but she expected him to begin thrashing and kicking soon, so Elora grabbed his hands from behind and pressed them firmly to his chest, which felt incredibly soft in comparison to his rough blacksmith's hands.
While Floris squirmed in her grip, Elora found herself involuntarily drawing in the smell of his hair that tickled her face – and liking it – when she felt something metal touch her hand, an amulet on a delicate silver chain around his neck. It was an Elven locket, and there was no doubt whose picture was in it.
Floris rasp breathing began to turn into coarse utterances in the Old Tongue, Elora's grasp of which was fragmentary at best. "Shhhh. It's me, Eléanor, you're safe. You're recovering from poison."
Floris' spasms slowly subsided to a slight tremble. "I…." he said before starting to cough up something that smelled similar to what Elora had thrown up in far greater quantity a short while ago. "Thank you." He took a few deep breaths. "I think… I can get up now, if you would let me."
"Oh… of course," Elora mumbled apologetically and instantly let go of his wrists and wriggled out from under the pillow and his upper body. For a moment, she stood by the bed awkwardly, before reaching out to lend Floris a hand. Floris took it and pulled himself up, while his pants, loosened from his fits, fell down. Elora quickly looked away, blushing. She was relatively sure that Floris could not see her blush, but was uncertain whether he realized just how well she could see in the dark under her potion's effect.
Elora dismissed the thought. While staring at the wall, Floris got dressed. She took a deep breath. "Roos is gone. I think I know what direction they have taken her, though not when exactly or how far they have gotten yet. Do you have a carriage? And a finished sword at your forge? They've taken mine."
Floris answered affirmatively, and they headed towards the front door. "Wait," Floris felt for something on a trunk in a corner. He lit a candle and opened the trunk. Elora could make out a neatly folded gown and an elegant hat in the trunk. She looked away quickly, having no intention to pry.
Floris grabbed something wrapped up in thick velvet and began to untie the cordon. "I can't think of a sword more befitting the occasion than the one that belonged to Roos' mother," Floris explained as he affectionately uncoiled a smallsword with elaborate carvings in its cross-guard, and a gem encased in its pommel. "It is also one of the best blades I ever made." He walked towards the Witcher and carefully placed the sword in her hands.
Elora shifted uncomfortably. "It is a masterpiece," she said after weighing the blade, hoping to elude the topic of Floris' dead wife altogether.
The blacksmith smiled at the praise – either having heard about how picky Witchers were about their weapons, or recalling the conversation of the previous day – and continued packing a few things, including his own blade, an equally ornate, but slightly heavier sword.
Outside, Floris wordlessly went to get the horses, while Elora loaded their things and supplies onto the carriage. Dawn was breaking. Elora wondered what the coming day had in store for them.