Maire Virtanen takes [b]10 goods[/b], [b]2 kerns[/b], [b]2 gallocmen[/b] and [b]2 cow's[/b] worth of food for her expedition.
[hr][center][b]Bargains[/b][/center]
Maire left the clan hall in a foul mood despite Serhiem's decision and Fintan's recitation. Who would have thought the lecherous idiot had it in him? People would willingly reveal their innermost selves if they trusted you and believed you cared about them. Eliz, and even Ardghal at times, seemed more concerned with proving their boldness and savagery than getting to know their fellow clansmen. Eliz was a "dark child" and should never have been allowed on the Council in the first place, but Maire could usually countermand her more outrageous proposals. Whenever Ardghal supported the scarred raider's suggestions, however, it became harder for her to protect the clan from their machinations. Chief Serhiem was undoubtedly aware of all this, but he couldn't risk dividing the Council by ignoring Eliz's and Ardghal's advice. It was maddening. 

Gritting her teeth and ignoring the greetings of several clanswomen washing clothes in the river, Maire lumbered towards her modest shack, which squatted like a wooden toad amidst a grove of silverleaf trees. Many clansfolk believed the alchemist chose to live by these trees simply because they were beautiful. This thought finally brought a wry smile to the urlandi's round face and she chuckled. The sap of a mature silverleaf tree was highly toxic, almost as toxic as bane root, and it had no distinctive color or flavor. Maire's mother used to call it [i]dorca vaientaa[/i], which meant "dark killer" in the old urlandi tongue.

Having a supply of this venomous substance close at hand when there were people like Eliz Sala around was invaluable. Maire didn't need mystical abilities to know the spellcaster was displeased with the chief's decision concerning Fintan and Aifric. Something would have to be done, but the questions of when and how needed to be carefully considered. Maire wasn't foolish enough to publicly denounce someone who had the love of the clan's gallocmen. Not until she could do so from a position of unassailable superiority.

Deciding to reflect on these issues at another time, Maire approached her modest abode and her grin dwindled a little. Some of the clansmen called this shack "Maire's Mansion" because of the priceless treasures it contained. Outwardly, the alchemist laughed along with them when they said this, but her stomach always felt like it was full of burning pitch. This awful shack, much like Clan Aonghus' new clan hall, was nothing compared to her childhood home, the legendary Blue House. People from all over Urland had made pilgrimages to the building made of blue marble blocks in hopes of buying herbal remedies and potions to cure their ailments. Now, the daughter of Idunna Virtanen lived in a fucking hut. Sighing, Maire shoved open the sturdy redwood door and nearly collided with her thrall, Gwendolen Maddox.

The lean, red-haired maiden let out a shocked gasp and staggered backwards, grabbing hold of the intricately carved door frame to keep from falling. Gwendolen looked reproachfully at Maire and pointedly brushed some imaginary dirt off the front of her mistress' blue robes. Maire smirked, knowing most people wouldn't put up with a thrall glaring at them with such indignation. Gwen was special, though. She'd come into Maire's possession roughly seven years before High King Harlaus' decree banished Clan Aonghus from Urland. The girl used to belong to a clan whose name the alchemist could never remember. Clan Windwaker? Clan Windlover? Clan Pisstaker? It didn't matter. Her old clan had been ravaged by a series of raids, and Clan Aonghus just happened to launch the assault that sent the rest of their gallocmen to Camvor. After the looting and funerary rites were finished, only a quiet girl with hair the color of an open wound remained unclaimed by the victorious clan. Nobody wanted the burden of caring for a mute girl they didn't know. Instead of allowing one of her clan's gallocmen to kill the child, Maire had taken Gwen as her thrall. And she'd yet to receive a single word of thanks. Of course, Gwendolen almost never spoke, though the young woman's facial expressions and gestures were easy to understand. 

Whenever the red-haired thrall did things like wipe down the front of Maire's garments, she was usually indicating there were guests in the house. The alchemist rarely asked Gwen to do anything strenuous or demeaning. When visitors came to call, however, the women needed to maintain the facade of an influential, haughty Council member and her devoted servant.  

Snorting and shaking her head, Maire said, "I know I was gone for some time, Gwen, but you needn't wait by the door for my return. Your devotion to me is truly humbling."

The thrall made a face, apparently not amused by her mistress' mockery, and gestured to the group of four men standing around the shack's fire pit. Each of them was wearing the hide jerkin, green tunic, and leather leggings of a master herdsman, and Maire's eyes lit up when she saw the gangly form of Alban "Longshanks" Brennus striding towards her. A devoted follower of Luigibad and the loving father of five beautiful daughters, Alban was a good man. More importantly, he was a good man that could be convinced to do almost anything if he believed it benefitted Clan Aonghus. The gaunt kern stretched out one paw-like hand to Maire, and she gripped his wrist tightly. 

"Yvene preserve me," Maire said, her voice brimming with warmth, as she let go of her friend's arm. "Your grip is like iron, Longshanks. How do you fare, hm? What brings you to my glorious mansion?"

Alban glanced back at one of his fellows, a plump herdsman with beady eyes the color of a fertile field. The man, whose name was Cathair Doyle unless Maire missed her guess, stroked his impressive blonde mustache and nodded once. Curious. Rubbing the back of his neck, Alban grinned sheepishly and said, "I am well, Maire, very well. And your grip hasn't weakened in the least since we were forced to leave Urland. As for the reason I'm here, well, we...that is, the kerns, need your help. It isn't a dire matter, nothing to bother Master Dunlad over, but I believe we could help the clan a great deal. Do you have time to sit and talk?"

"Of course I do! What sort of question is that?" Maire said, slapping Alban's arm and pointing towards the small thornwood table and five chairs set on the other side of the fire pit. "Have a seat, all of you, and Gwen will fetch us some wine. Perhaps the last of the goldenbough wine from Urland, my little [i]daor[/i]? I know we only have half a barrel left, but these thirsty kerns deserve every drop." Cathair licked his lips eagerly when he heard what they would be drinking, and Maire smiled. She hadn't been sure if Cathair was the one who loved goldenbough wine more than life itself, but now she was. It was astounding what you could learn about people by shutting your mouth and paying attention. 

Gwendolen bowed to her mistress and the kerns before disappearing into the cabin's back room, which contained a trapdoor leading down to Maire's cellar. As soon as the five clansfolk were seated around the table, Maire said, "So, Alban, what can I do for you and your companions, hm? I trust your herds are well?"

"Luigibad be praised, yes. The cows are adjusting well to their new home," the lean herdsman said as Gwen emerged from the cellar and began to distribute wooden cups full of goldenbough wine. Maire's cup was a silver chalice she'd gotten in a trade with one of Clan Stormcaller's craftsmen. All she'd given him in return was a few pouches of sirrac seeds. Considering how badly he'd been twitching and shaking, the man had probably been addicted to the energy-boosting properties of the mostly harmless seeds. His loss was Maire's delightful gain. "Erhem, there was a particular kind of grass that grew near our clan's old holdings, Maire. We called it stone king grass, because it only seemed to grow around a granite statue of High King Harlaus that someone erected near the northern steppes. Anyways, the cows loved it, and they seemed to put on more flesh by eating this grass over an extended period of time. I could swear there were days when the beasts appeared to grow before my very eyes! We were hoping you'd be able to help us find some stone king grass in the valley. You know more about plants than anyone besides old Domagoj, and I'd rather deal with someone I know. Someone who taught my daughters how to read. Someone I trust. What do you say, my friend?" 

The other three kerns, with the exception of Cathair who was far too busy slurping down his wine, leaned forward eagerly in their chairs.

Sweetgrass. What these men wanted was sweetgrass. The heavyset alchemist took a long sip from her cup, relishing the taste of the lukewarm, fruity wine. Goldenbough wine was one of the few wines that tasted better when it was served at room temperature. It became unpleasantly thick when it was served cold. Pursing her lips and running one sausage-like finger around the rim of her chalice, Maire said, "I see. Longshanks, you've known me since I was a child. Normally, I would suggest you speak to Dunlad about this, but I want to help you. If you are willing to bargain with me then I'd be more than happy to help you and your fellows find this stone king grass. The only question is what are you willing to give me if I aid you?"

Cathair abruptly slammed his empty cup down and said, "I knew it! I knew it, by Luigibad's beard, I knew it! We shouldn't have come to this...this decadent place. Woman, you should be grateful that you can use your gods given talents to help your clan! Are the thanks of your kith and kin truly so worthless to you?"

Alban winced at the stout man's outburst and ran a hand through his scraggly beard, his eyes flicking nervously from Cathair to Maire. Offending a member of the Council tended to have unpleasant results. Offending Maire Virtanen tended to have worse than unpleasant results. The alchemist calmly took another drink from her silver cup and wondered what it must feel like to be so self-righteous. It seemed so tedious. 

"I will pardon your outburst this once, good Cathair, because I know you speak from your heart. Allow me to do the same," Maire said as she set her empty chalice down with a firm [i]thud[/i]. "I cannot eat gratitude, herdsman. It will not keep me warm during the Moon Season. So, no, the gratitude of the clan is not enough for me. Instead, I will agree to assist you in exchange for...three pounds from every cow you slaughter. Say Chief Serhiem orders you to butcher five cows for a feast. You will give me fifteen pounds of meat, which I will preserve in my larder with spices and alchemical methods beyond your ken. I am not a wasteful woman as you can see." Maire patted her sizable belly and arched one slender brow, waiting for the men to respond.

Alban inclined his head respectfully and said, "Give us a moment to confer, councilwoman." He scooted his chair over so he could join his brother kerns, and they began to whisper frantically, occasionally shooting excited or disgusted glances at Maire. The heavyset urlandi woman wasn't concerned. Cathair was obviously the sole dissident. The other three were already dreaming about how fat their herds would get. They'd be heroes. Such dedication to the clan was heartwarming to witness. And it would undoubtedly lead to Maire having plenty of meat during the lean times. Meat that could be given to those in need, and the people who benefited from the alchemist's charity would then owe her a favor. The Pearl Haired Goddess would be pleased by this. A bargain is a bargain no matter what form it takes.

Gwen walked over to her mistress' side, her face a blank mask of nonchalance, as the kerns finally stopped chattering and looked at Maire. Cathair was visibly upset. Alban, on the other hand, smiled toothily and said, "We agree to your terms, Maire. We will give you three pounds of meat from every cow we slaughter once you've shown us where the stone king grass grows. How soon can our expedition leave? We've decided that both Cathair and I will join you. We should also ask a few gallocmen to come with us for protection. Is that acceptable?"

Maire clapped her hands in delight and said, "Of course it is! And do not fear, my friend, I have a feeling we shall find your grass within the borders of our clan's new territory. As soon as I have found our warriors and gathered the necessary materials, I believe we can leave. It shouldn't take more than three or four days." Turning to her thrall, the bloated urlandi smiled and said, "In the meantime, you can watch the house, Gwen. I expect to find a fire and a mug of spiced wine waiting for me when I return."
[hr]
Four days later, Maire, Alban, Cathair and two gallocmen set off down the dirt road leading to the northeastern reaches of Clan Aonghus' territory. Maire waved farewell to the small crowd of clansmen that had gathered to see the group off. The dark-haired alchemist was riding in a small ox-drawn wagon, which contained all the essential supplies for the journey, and she couldn't stop smiling. A little diplomacy never hurt anyone, but a little adventure could only increase her reputation as a woman of the people. And the love of the clansfolk would aid her immensely if the situation with Eliz worsened. 

When one of the younger clan members running alongside the wagon asked where she was going, Maire laughed and said, "Fear not, little one, I shall return and, hopefully, I will bring back something that will ensure nobody goes hungry for a long time." The child was so surprised he stopped in his tracks and let out a delighted whoop. The wagon crested a rise and one of the expedition's gallocmen, a monster of a man named Uric Myrost, put a clay horn to his lips and blew a single note. A final goodbye and a promise to return with new hope for Clan Aonghus.