Aithwen smiled as she left Rhyldan standing in her smallest cavern garden. He seemed quite easy to impress as she had lost count of how many times she had said or done something to shock the poor male. He had a rather expressive face for someone trying to hide whatever it was that had brought him to the north, and more besides. It was odd, really, how she found herself reading his face instead of the miniscule changes in heart rate she typically relied on. His heart was oddly quiet to her ears. There were many things that could cause the silence, of course. Lots of things: magic, armor, enchantments, training.

Parting the heavy hide curtains that kept the cold storage rooms separated from the rest of the system, she strode into the main cavern where foodstuffs for the long winter were kept. Blue white flames burned coldly in alcoves throughout the wide cave, stone shelves with large jars of glass and clay lined the walls and stood freely around mostly melted slabs of ice. The majority of the shelves were bare, freshly cleaned and not yet stocked for the upcoming winter. Aithwen had gone out intending to begin hunting small game for the shelves earlier but instead found Rhyldan caught in her snare.

Heading across the cave to one of the many sets of shelves, she picked up a small bundle of hide strips that were wrapped around heavy flasks containing what remained of the dried blood that she typically used in soups and tinctures. Peeling the protective layer away she thought there would likely be enough in one flask to make the black pancakes Rhyldan requested as well as a nice soup for breakfast.

It really was an odd request. Black pancakes were a staple of life in the northern countries, not unusual in themselves, but it was beyond unusual for an elven man from the south to be aware of the fare let alone request it. While in a way it made sense, especially if he was as undernourished as he hinted, but he would have to be well educated to even realize the consumption of blood could help replenish what he had lost. The air he gave off was more that of a rascal than a scholar, yet there was a feeling of sadness that reminded her of an old friend. Sadness that came from a great many years of hardships bordering on torture.

If I didn't know any better I would think Rhyldan is vampiric, but seeing as he was striding about happy as can be in summer sunlight that would be ridiculous. Even the most ancient and powerful vampires can't withstand the hours we spent traveling in the weaker northern sunlight without damage. Of course, there have been rumors of a new breed of vampire originating along the southern Sword Coast. Vampires have been seeking the power to walk in the sun ever since Lord Strahd discovered the weakness, afterall. Even if he had the power to travel under the sun, he never would've survived the trip without leaving a heavy trail of exsanguinated bodies in his wake and that would've been noticed. A dhampir, maybe? Perhaps that is why he's requested the blood in his meal and why I get a sense of their magic from him. That would make most sense, much more so than anything else I can think of. Or maybe I actually am getting bored with my life here and am projecting my need for a little excitement onto my guest and he is simply hungry for a taste of home. Perhaps I ought to actually consider heading to Icewind Dale and Grimskalle for a season or two like elder Baellon suggested. Sefa has been encouraging me to go, too. Now that I think of Sefa, Rhyldan doesn't seem like her. Perhaps it's a bloodline thing or something about how a Dhampir comes to be. Can it be possible that they are made? Sefa was born, I know that, but can they be made like spawn are? Some mishappening during the turning? I'll have to ask Sefa when she returns - or if Shadestriker's tantrum lasts more than a few days perhaps I can bring him through the tunnels to the keep and ask Lord Faeol what the possibilities are and if there are differences based on sire or parentage or spells as the root cause. I wonder if any of my books have anything…

Aithwen began winding her way back through the tunnels as she thought, grabbing a small container of last year's ale and plucking some fresh sweetleaves as she left the storeroom. Pausing a moment, seriously considering giving in to her curiosity and going to her library to search for information, she shook her head. She had a meal to make for her guest. Her master had taught her to respect the old ways of hospitality, after all - her guest's species really didn't matter at this point. If he was of vampiric origin and his tale of being on the run was even slightly true, he likely needed either a friend or a safe haven badly. Probably both. The least she could do is see him nourished to some resemblance of strength while under her roof. And maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to convince him to open up and let her help.

Rhyldan was impressed. Again. How many times was it now that this odd woman had taken his head for a spin in the last few hours? First, there was the way she dressed and presented herself - far more fashionable than other druids, flattering and freeing her form instead of hiding it behind shapeless rough cloth. Then that fight - she was vicious, cold, animalistic. Ripping out throats with her teeth and shattering bodies with ice, not even bothering with the sword at her hip or the bow on her back. And the brutal way she had killed that lead kobold then turned around and referred to its dragon master as nothing more than a petulant child. Her power was impressive. And terrifying. Far more so than her youthful looks hinted at her holding. She appeared far too young to be capable of harnessing so much magical power. And that was another thing - her control and ability with that magic. The grove itself and her home were further testaments to her skill - both magical and mundane. He had never seen so many different kinds of plants existing in so many growth stages in one location all at once as the flora around her home; and then there was the sheer space within the small cabin - even before she revealed the caverns behind the little structure. He had heard of spells that expanded the space of a thing well beyond the physical appearance, like bags of holding and wizard towers, but he never would've figured spells of that sort to be something a druid could or would cast. Of course, he never would've thought a druid would spend so much effort on having an actual home, comfortably furnished and all, instead of a simple hut or tent or cave. But the biggest surprise of all was her attitude toward him - it certainly was not as expected. Feisty, resistant to his charms, icily serious but full of a playfulness that surprised and intrigued him. She seemed so contradictory: warm and cold, soft and hard, beautiful and terrifying, all at once.

What is that, eight, nine times she's caught me by surprise? Rhyldan shook his head slowly as he strode carefully across what Aithwen referred to as 'the bathing chamber'. Chamber my soddin' pale arse. This place is a bleeding palace! Nicer'n any bathhouse I've ever seen. He counted five pools within the large cavern. Two were shallow, large paw prints marring the mud at their edges, likely favored by her wolves. Two more appeared waist deep, their water cloudy and undulating as the little waterfall she mentioned fed the connected twin pools from the stone wall. The final pool was set back from the others and appeared to be more lake than pool. The water was a clear, tide pool green fading into a deep cerulean color the deeper the water became, a pale glow suffusing the expanse. There were perfectly formed stone ledges at seemingly random intervals within the still water. Probably pulled up from the earth itself. Wouldn't be surprised if the bird made this entire little place herself. Seems more'n capable.

Stopping near the woven cabinet Aithwen had mentioned, he raised the cleverly hinged lid to reveal what looked like a wide, flat basket like item that was likely designed to float on the water surface with separated spaces intended to hold various bathing supplies. Beneath the basket thing were the assortment of soaps and oils she had mentioned, each resting in glass or ceramic vials and lidded dishes. There were also soft cloths, sea sponges, some rough tan plant bits he had no idea the purpose of, and small knives he assumed were for removing unwanted body hair. That, or they were for fruit.

Another curiosity, he thought. Either she favors snacking while bathing, or has a thing about body hair. For herself or a lover, I wonder? He reached in and picked up one of the little knives and running his thumb along the edge he felt the cool metal slide easily into his skin. Nice and sharp. Licking away the small bead of blood he set the knife on the basket and reached for a bottle of pinkish-purple oil. Surprisingly, it had a little label on the bottom. The tight Elven script stated the oil was a blend of lavender and rose. Setting the flowery mix down he grabbed a green bottle. Its label stated mint and some other something he couldn't pronounce. Removing the stopper he was overwhelmed by the sharp scent within. Yikes - that clears the senses. Rather smell like the flowers… Replacing the bottle he carefully shuffled through the other vials until he found one that looked clear, lifting it he read the little label on the underside. 'Petrichor. Odd word. Wonder what that means? Unstopping the bottle carefully he brought it to his nose. The scent within reminded him of the way the earth smelled after a good rain. Petrichor, eh? Smells like rain to me. 'Spose that'll do. Placing the oil in the basket he grabbed a bit of tan soap and one of the sponges before closing the cabinet and beginning to remove his travel stained clothing.

Grimacing as he was forced to peel bits of his clothing off, he realized just how horrid a state he had gotten himself into. No wonder the bird suggested a bath - 'm right disgusting I am. Leaving the sweat and dust stiffened clothes in an unceremonious pile, he picked up the basket and strode over to the waterfall fed pools. The heat radiating from the water felt wonderful and his cool skin tingled in response to the heat as he cautiously walked into the spring. The cloudy water smoothly slid up his pale legs as he winced at the temperature and slowly moved to the deeper part of the pool toward the small cascade flowing out of the stone. Carefully releasing the basket to float on the water surface, Rhyldan closed his eyes and shifted to allow the warm waterfall to pour over his head and down his torso. Leaning his head forward he opened his eyes to see the cloudy water flowing in a dingy gray over his chest and down his stomach. Scowling with disgust at himself he flung the water from his now damp hair and reached for the bit of soap he had placed in the little basket. Attacking his skin with vigor, he scrubbed until the pale flesh began to redden with the abuse. Dunking and repeating the action again and again until he finally felt clean and his skin had turned an alarming shade of red, he then began tending to his hair. He had always found it a pain to deal with, pale as it was. He took after his long-dead moon elf mother in coloring, even before…

Submerging himself again he silently scolded himself as he remained beneath the cloudy water's surface. No use dwelling on things long past. He learned that lesson the hard way. All that mattered now was surviving, surviving and escaping.

Can't let my guard down. I may be out in the middle o' nowhere, but that may not mean much. I wonder if the druidess would be willing to help? Plenty of things a druid could likely do to outsmart the evil bitch. Though, most o' her kind despise anything even a bit undead. Unnatural or what have you. This druid seems a right smart bird, though. And tough. Could be useful, or deadly, depending on how she feels about vampires. Perhaps she could be persuaded to see things my way. She hasn't killed me yet despite her obvious suspicion, so that's a plus. But how do I go about propositioning the bird without making her bloody gutted? Damn sure she'd take my head without remorse if I go about it wrong. Don' wanna end up dead for good…

Slowly breaking the surface, Rhyldan's red eyes were completely unguarded for once. Sadness, despair and hopelessness wrestled with the uncaring facade he normally wore. His life as a vampire's spawn had been a hellish nightmare. His mistress, his maker, was a terror. Unpredictable and constantly angry at the living world she took all her frustrations out on her spawn. Unlike the many female spawn his mistress created as servants and companions, he and his only 'brother' were kept in the dark about anything beyond their mistress' anger and failed ambitions. Their sole purpose was to lure in pretty victims - male and female - and return with them to their manor for her and their 'sisters' to feed on or turn as that night's whims dictated. Often both males were beaten within an inch of their unlife and left to starve in the dungeons whenever she was even the littlest bit displeased, bored, annoyed or angry - which was nearly every night for the last two hundred and forty-three years since the bitch snatched away his future and his life after gaining her independence from her own bastard of a sire.

Running his hands over his face, he felt the barest hint of the sad excuse of a beard that grew in from time to time. While Elves rarely grew beards, they were capable of it, though it took a long time to accomplish. Being made a vampire slowed the growth process even further for Rhyldan, making shaving a task he didn't have to worry about often. While shaving what hair had grown in wasn't a dire task he had to complete, he knew it could be a long while before he could have another chance like this to get rid of the rough hairs and he absolutely hated the feeling of them once he became aware of their presence on his face. Finding the floating basket tapping its way along the edge of the pool, he took a seat on the stone edge and began the process of carefully drawing the sharp little blade along the skin of his throat and face, using the tips of his fingers to guide each stroke since he was unable to cast a reflection on any surface and follow his progress.

Rubbing the back of his hand over his cheek, chin and neck to check for missed hairs, he replaced the little knife in the floating basket and unstoppered the little bottle of oil he had grabbed earlier. Letting a few drops drip into his palm, he began the process of rubbing the drops through his hair and over his skin as he exited the cloudy water to stride toward the larger pool.

Unlike the smaller twin pools that had a flat rim around their waters, the large pool moved from stone to water without impediment. Rhyldan looked over the water with curiosity. It was a lovely pool, big enough for a swim or a good soak. Whatever a person would be in the mood for. Placing each foot carefully on the wet stone, he entered the hot water. Also unlike the other pools this one was hot, but oddly gave off little steam. Just another thing in the druid's home for him to file away and ponder some other time. Taking an unnecessary breath, he dove forward and swam beneath the water's surface to one of the larger outcroppings in the center of the pool.

The water was blissfully hot. If he had been alive it would be practically uncomfortable, instead it warmed his chilled flesh quite pleasantly. Rhyldan couldn't remember feeling so warm since before that unfortunate summer night all those years ago. Back when he was alive he had loved summer nights and all things warm. In fact, he would spend half the day and nearly all night of the warm season with his friends roaming the ever changing streets of Scornubel. Scornubel was an interesting city: "The City of Caravans". Brightly colored canvas trains, roaming tribes and trade barges made the city anew nearly every day. Very few structures were permanent in Scornubel, only large trading costers or organizations having to do with the running of the city actually had buildings along the wide streets. Even long-time residents didn't have homes that were permanent. The grand city hall was his favorite, all tall pillars and sweeping lines of pale stone. The wide Trade Way leading to the grand hall was nearly as wonderful, in its constantly shifting way. Every tenday, if not every day, the merchant lane completely changed how it looked and what goods were available for purchase.

His parents were members of one of the large costers that had permanent buildings and housing complexes for employees with families. His elder sister worked along with their father as liaison to the merchant's council that served as a branch of their city's government, so their life was quite a nice one, or at least what he remembered of it was. There were many details he had forgotten since becoming a vampire, things he made himself forget lest his sire use them to cause even more pain in his unlife.

He had been a typical son of a rich merchant - irresponsible, foolish, foppish, overconfident. He had inherited his mother's moon elf coloring: silvery hair and bold emerald eyes which made his 'exotic' looks quite popular to whomever he addressed his attentions to. He had a preference for dark hair and dark eyes, as well as spending his father's money, which managed to get him into plenty of trouble. Then one night, after yet another ridiculous bar brawl with some pretty coal-eyed thing's actual partner, he met her: the beautiful, flaxen haired bitch who offered him eternal youth and beauty. Of course, she failed to mention the bit where he would be her eternal slave and nightly accomplice to murder bit of the deal.

Choosing to indulge in the impulse to wallow over his long ago mistake, Rhyldan submerged himself to his neck on the rocky outcropping. He wasn't sure how much time he spent alternating between rehashing his foolish decisions and running through ways to convince the druidess he meant no harm in order to find a way to help him or hide him or something.

Eventually deciding he had wasted enough time avoiding his present issues and overindulging in the warmth, Rhyldan swam leisurely back to the shore and strode out of the water toward his discarded pile of clothes. Wrinkling his nose at the filthy pile, he dried himself quickly and decided to wrap the thick towel around his waist instead of redressing. Not like the chill would cause him discomfort, afterall. Picking up his filthy clothes he began walking back through the stone corridors toward the main cabin, following the druidess' pleasant scent instead of her directions. When he had been truly alive, he had adored all kinds of fruits, especially the chilled apples she smelled so deliciously of.

I wonder if she tastes like apples, too. Rhyldan stopped abruptly at the thought. Oh bloody hells. Not good. His free hand rubbed at his red eyes. I can't afford to lose control of myself here, no matter how delicious she smells. Shit.

Taking a few bracing breaths, Rhyldan rubbed at the back of his neck as he walked the last few yards to the door that separated the caverns from the public space. Pulling at the mullion he stepped into the large room and smiled at the sight that greeted him. Aithwen was singing an unusual tune softly as she stood by her cookstove, hands moving and hips swaying as she worked; the fire elemental cat was perched on her shoulder, a wolf pup at her side silently begged for scraps while a pair of white foxes with turquoise eyes and tails nipped at each other as they wrestled across the floor. It was quite the heartwarming scene. Or it would be, if his heart could be warmed.

"Enjoy your bath? Food will be ready in just a moment if you'd like to have a seat." Aithwen looked over her shoulder with a smile that turned quickly into a snort of laughter as she took in the damp elf doing his best to give a saucy seductive look in a wet towel and holding a pile of filthy clothes. "Gods, I forgot to get you clean clothes!" Shaking her head she wiped her hands and turned to face Rhyldan. "Drop your clothes there, I'll see them cleaned. There should be something that'll fit you decently enough in the wardrobe."

"Oh, shall I leave the towel here too, pet?" Rhyldan winked suggestively at the female as he dropped the pile of clothing and slowly reached for the tucked corner of the towel.

The druid laughed heartily and turned her attention back to the stove. "If you really want to walk across the room stark naked, that's your choice. Not my fault if something freezes!" A freezing breath of wind suddenly swept through the room and Rhyldan knew she was responsible for it.

"Right cheeky bint." Rhyldan chuckled and walked across the room with the towel still secure around his waist. She was right, walking starkers across the room would've been quite harsh to certain parts of his anatomy that he'd very much like to remain not frozen.

Aithwen heard the elf rummaging through the wardrobe, the sound of shifting cloth making it to her ears along with the little sounds her animal companions made. Flipping the final pancakes over she magically snuffed the fire and pulled out the heavy metal pan she had placed inside the stove to keep warm while she cooked. Using magic to guard the skin of her hands she grasped the hot metal and carried it to the wooden table in the corner. Going back to the stovetop she put the final things needed for their meal on a platter and headed back to take her seat.

Rhyldan rolled the sleeves of the overly large, annoyingly orange tunic to a length he could work with. "Did this belong to a giant or something, luv? It's massive. And the color…" He shivered dramatically, teasing and playing up disgust to the smiling woman across the room.

"He was hardly a giant. That is one of the shirts left by a half-orc friend long ago. He liked… colors." Her grin morphed into something sly, "Suits you." Rhyldan gave her a scathing look as he approached the table.

"Very funny darlin'. This color can't be doin' much for my skin tone." He grimaced and pulled out the second chair at the table. "What've you all made here then? More'n just the blood cakes I see."

Aithwen's grin didn't falter as she began to speak. "You said you hadn't eaten properly in quite a while, so I decided to make a little more than just your request. Besides, it is about time for my own evening meal anyway. Birds, stone." A finger swirled to take in the room before she pointed to the metal pan. "There's blood sausages, potatoes and carrots. A bit of liver lightly fried with some summer greens nearest to you. There's also apple wine and some ale as well as tea. Help yourself to whatever you'd like. What we don't eat, they will" Settling back in her chair Aithwen lifted a pale glass of wine to her lips as excited yips from the wolf pup and fox pair answered her words.

Rhyldan lifted an eyebrow and looked between the druidess and her scattered animal companions, the foxes setting up attentive vigil nearest her place at the table. "Quite a spread here. No need to have to go through such trouble for me, pet. The cakes would do me good enough."

She set her glass down and leaned back forward, her chin resting on folded hands. "Perhaps, but doubtful. I get the sense there is something more you have not told me about why you haven't eaten properly while traveling. And it wasn't any trouble." The druid shrugged with a little smile. "If you decide to hang around the northern part of the world you'll discover that hospitality is a big deal to the people here. A part of life, really. I was taught to honor that idea very early in my life, far west of here, and depending on where you are the lengths to which one goes to provide hospitality to a guest differs. In countries like Heartsvale, and most other northern communities, there are plenty of times where people are completely isolated from each other for tendays or months. So Northerners rely on their neighbors and the rare passerby to survive the harsh conditions. There are actually a few laws about providing and respecting hospitality here in Heartsvale beyond the passed on traditions of each little village. Besides, I enjoy cooking." Aithwen picked up her fork and stabbed a potato, popping it into her mouth.

Rhyldan chuckled. "Understood, pet. Ta." He reached forward and moved a little of each dish onto the plate she had set out for him. He wasn't sure how well any of it would truly sustain him, but he had to try something. The lingering scent of blood in the air from her cooking was almost enough to drive him into a frenzy. At this point he was willing to try anything to curb the thirst in his throat and ache in his fangs.

Taking a tentative bite of the sausage, Rhyldan's eyes nearly rolled back in his head at the taste. Despite most beliefs, vampires could easily eat typical food, it just didn't taste the same to them nor did it give the same nourishment. It was all rather bland, much like eating dried and puffed rice grains. So when the flavor of the perfectly spiced, blood soaked meat exploded over his tongue he was in awe. The spices were simple - salt, sage, fennel, dried garlic and a hint of something hot and spicy danced and blended perfectly with the taste of the bloody meat. He couldn't believe it. His thirst even quieted just a tiny bit as he swallowed and refilled his fork.

Aithwen watched as a look of pleasure rolled over the male elf's face, her smile widening behind her glass of wine. "Good?"

"By the gods, yes." Rhyldan groaned and brought more of the sausage to his mouth.

"Good." Aithwen took a sip of the pleasant apple wine and set it down to continue eating herself.

As they ate, Rhyldan's focus narrowed to the blood-filled foods on his plate, while Aithwen watched and observed. She noticed his eyes grow a little more vibrantly red, his skin become less sallow and the points of his canine teeth seemed to elongate just a little into proper fangs. She had purposefully made foods heavy with blood, foods shunned by most she knew, to gain herself more clues about the truth of the elf across from her. The intense focus he was giving to the bloody meat, completely ignoring her perfectly made vegetables, pushed her assumption of vampiric tendencies firmly into a confirmation in her mind. Aithwen continued to pick away at one of the blood cakes as Rhyldan finally began to slow, the central plate nearly devoid of all meat.