Carnifex
First Post
The collection of sages came to an agreement as they muttered acceptance of Joahn's proposal. Two days travel to the Grumandic monastery and then a single day to the tower itself; at least it meant that the journey would be over soon. They were surprisingly fit considering their age but this didn't stop them from complaining of aches and pains.
A hail came from over the next rocky rise, a figure silhouetted there. Jarvis, the other hireling of the sagely band, stood there waving at the party, indicating he had found a clear path down.
* * *
Jarvis was their tracker and pathfinder, a man of Naserian origin clad in travellers leathers and sporting a few discreet blades about his person. He could fight in a pinch, but the main reason he was there was to actually get them to the tower with the minimum of mishaps in the first place. Cazamir was there to deal with it if mishaps did occur anyway.
A fairly reserved individual, Jarvis generally kept quiet and to himself except when he needed to inform them of the terrain ahead and where to go. Other than that, the pathfinder generally let the sages well alone, as Cazamir did. He didn't seem to care much for scientific discussions.
* * *
The Sarokeans might have been a dangerous place but their rugged natural beauty could not be denied. The Grumandic monastery was placed high up a valleyside, the cluster of sandstone and granite structures looking down over the huge valley that fell away below, a stream splashing its way down bare, slicked rock nearby.
The monk, tracker and handful of sages made their way up the gravelly path to the monastery gates; the compound had a strong wall around it, and a single strongly built monk clad in gray-hued cloth watched carefully over the entrance, a woven basket by his side holding javelins. The watchful man stepped quickly out to meet the approaching party; a few moments talking with Johan and he seemed convinced that they were of no threat to the monastery.
"Please, enter our home and find yourself somewhere to rest." He gestured across the valley to where the sun would soon dip beneath the mountains. "Soon night comes, and we would offer you a place to stay and a meal. Travellers are welcome here, as long as you make no trouble for us." With that, they were admitted.
* * *
Within the compound, Cazamir could see that the buildings were not simply crude and simple constructions; he was not a student of architecture but much loving care and skillfulness had been put to use in constructing the temple and surrounding structures. The pillars which supported the overhanging front of the main temple looked like they were covered in tiny inscriptions and engravings, most likely of some religious significance, and carefully cultured gardens dotted the interior of the compound walls. Some were practical, clearly for food, and others seemed more aesthetic than anything else.
The lodgings they were given for the evening were not interior rooms; instead they were led by another of the grey-clad acolytes to a courtyard where two wings of a building met at 90 degrees, providing shaded cloisters and an open, sandy-floored area where a number of what Cazamir could only assume were other travellers were already set down.
Dominating the area was what looked like some sort of wagon. High-sided with armour plates and protruding various tubes and pipes from some sort of central machine, perhaps an engine, it's furnace seemed quiet for now; at the front two men were releasing the pair of large carthorses that must have pulled the contraption. Several other people, including women and children, sat on and around the wagon chatting idly. They were all clad quite strangely, in a mixture of clothes and equipment that included all sorts of metal trinkets and objects. Most of the adults wore goggles strapped onto their heads, currently pushed back onto their foreheads, and had various tools on their belts.
At the back of the wagon, two grey-robed acolytes tended to an injured member of the wagon party, another of the wagoneers hovering worriedly nearby. This man wore more tools and metal than the others, as well as carrying the paraphernalia that Cazamir had usually associated with those of the wizardly profession. Most surprising was the man's left eye; a wounded gouge where the jelly organ had been replaced with what looked like a bronze globe instead, though it seemed as active and used as his other, real eye. The injured man was laid out on a wooden table; though Cazamir could not see him clearly with the people in the way he looked to be unconcious.
Under the cloisters a few others sat or lounged; a small armed band that looked like mercenaries or hired swords consisting of two dwarves and three men, cleaning and polishing chainmail, axes and swords as they talked amongst themselves. Further down a lone man who oiled and maintained his crossbow and a brace of pistols, clad in tough travellers clothing and a heavy cloak.
The sages quickly moved to take a spot under the cloisters, unpacking some of their equipment. Some looked about with idle curiosity, others set to writing in their notebooks.
Cazamir bowed to the sages as they made their preparations. “I will be nearby, should you gentlemen need my assistance.”
Freed from the graybeards for the moment, Cazamir wandered the courtyard, soaking up the various sights. He eyed the assortment of armed travellers, wondering if they posed any threat to the sages. He didn’t truly respect the sages, but he would not shirk his duty and let harm come to them.
Cazamir wandered past the wagon and stopped to watch the acolytes as they tended to the wounded man. He wanted to learn more about the monastery from these men, but this was not the time. The man with the odd gear and eye replacement hovered near by, catching Cazamir’s attention. He asked the man a question, watching his reaction.
“What happened to your friend, good sir?”
A hail came from over the next rocky rise, a figure silhouetted there. Jarvis, the other hireling of the sagely band, stood there waving at the party, indicating he had found a clear path down.
* * *
Jarvis was their tracker and pathfinder, a man of Naserian origin clad in travellers leathers and sporting a few discreet blades about his person. He could fight in a pinch, but the main reason he was there was to actually get them to the tower with the minimum of mishaps in the first place. Cazamir was there to deal with it if mishaps did occur anyway.
A fairly reserved individual, Jarvis generally kept quiet and to himself except when he needed to inform them of the terrain ahead and where to go. Other than that, the pathfinder generally let the sages well alone, as Cazamir did. He didn't seem to care much for scientific discussions.
* * *
The Sarokeans might have been a dangerous place but their rugged natural beauty could not be denied. The Grumandic monastery was placed high up a valleyside, the cluster of sandstone and granite structures looking down over the huge valley that fell away below, a stream splashing its way down bare, slicked rock nearby.
The monk, tracker and handful of sages made their way up the gravelly path to the monastery gates; the compound had a strong wall around it, and a single strongly built monk clad in gray-hued cloth watched carefully over the entrance, a woven basket by his side holding javelins. The watchful man stepped quickly out to meet the approaching party; a few moments talking with Johan and he seemed convinced that they were of no threat to the monastery.
"Please, enter our home and find yourself somewhere to rest." He gestured across the valley to where the sun would soon dip beneath the mountains. "Soon night comes, and we would offer you a place to stay and a meal. Travellers are welcome here, as long as you make no trouble for us." With that, they were admitted.
* * *
Within the compound, Cazamir could see that the buildings were not simply crude and simple constructions; he was not a student of architecture but much loving care and skillfulness had been put to use in constructing the temple and surrounding structures. The pillars which supported the overhanging front of the main temple looked like they were covered in tiny inscriptions and engravings, most likely of some religious significance, and carefully cultured gardens dotted the interior of the compound walls. Some were practical, clearly for food, and others seemed more aesthetic than anything else.
The lodgings they were given for the evening were not interior rooms; instead they were led by another of the grey-clad acolytes to a courtyard where two wings of a building met at 90 degrees, providing shaded cloisters and an open, sandy-floored area where a number of what Cazamir could only assume were other travellers were already set down.
Dominating the area was what looked like some sort of wagon. High-sided with armour plates and protruding various tubes and pipes from some sort of central machine, perhaps an engine, it's furnace seemed quiet for now; at the front two men were releasing the pair of large carthorses that must have pulled the contraption. Several other people, including women and children, sat on and around the wagon chatting idly. They were all clad quite strangely, in a mixture of clothes and equipment that included all sorts of metal trinkets and objects. Most of the adults wore goggles strapped onto their heads, currently pushed back onto their foreheads, and had various tools on their belts.
At the back of the wagon, two grey-robed acolytes tended to an injured member of the wagon party, another of the wagoneers hovering worriedly nearby. This man wore more tools and metal than the others, as well as carrying the paraphernalia that Cazamir had usually associated with those of the wizardly profession. Most surprising was the man's left eye; a wounded gouge where the jelly organ had been replaced with what looked like a bronze globe instead, though it seemed as active and used as his other, real eye. The injured man was laid out on a wooden table; though Cazamir could not see him clearly with the people in the way he looked to be unconcious.
Under the cloisters a few others sat or lounged; a small armed band that looked like mercenaries or hired swords consisting of two dwarves and three men, cleaning and polishing chainmail, axes and swords as they talked amongst themselves. Further down a lone man who oiled and maintained his crossbow and a brace of pistols, clad in tough travellers clothing and a heavy cloak.
The sages quickly moved to take a spot under the cloisters, unpacking some of their equipment. Some looked about with idle curiosity, others set to writing in their notebooks.
Cazamir bowed to the sages as they made their preparations. “I will be nearby, should you gentlemen need my assistance.”
Freed from the graybeards for the moment, Cazamir wandered the courtyard, soaking up the various sights. He eyed the assortment of armed travellers, wondering if they posed any threat to the sages. He didn’t truly respect the sages, but he would not shirk his duty and let harm come to them.
Cazamir wandered past the wagon and stopped to watch the acolytes as they tended to the wounded man. He wanted to learn more about the monastery from these men, but this was not the time. The man with the odd gear and eye replacement hovered near by, catching Cazamir’s attention. He asked the man a question, watching his reaction.
“What happened to your friend, good sir?”
