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Carnifex's Story Hour (Updated January 20th, "The Union")
- Thread starter Carnifex
- Start date
Carnifex
First Post
Angcuru said:3 things :
NUMBER 1!! - This thread deserves a bump.
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NUMBER 2!! - This story hour rules!
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NUMBER #!! - UPDATE!
Cheers mate
Unfortunately I actually can't update at the moment, as I can't even see my message board from these damned library computers. I will be able to update again when the webmaster upgrades my board format to a newer version that these computers can read, and which will happen after one of my players has copy/pasted lots of threads I need for the update and emailed them to me. Unfortunately she's just headed out for a few days of holiday, I think, so the wait continues...Trust me, as soon as I can, I will update!
Carnifex
First Post
Yes, we're updating once again! While Cazamir and his band of squabbling sages have arrived at a monastery deep in the mountains, preparing to move on after a rest there to the site of an ancient tower that they wish to study, Wolf's Company are in dire straits. More precisely, Wolf himself is, having been severely injured and poisoned by an ambush led by Red Talons out to get him, and the rest of the party are now having to carry him onwards as they head to the nearest place they might get aid, a nearby monastery...
Also, they have now been joined by Sir Angelo Dar 'Averask, a Knight Errant initiate of the Order of the Black Knights of Zhatan who helped repel the Red Talon ambush. Asked by Melisande, the young sorceress now intently interested in anything involving knightly orders, codes of honour, and other things that might apply to her newfound sense of Purpose (OOC: And her level in Paladin ), the Black Knight begins to tell of the history of Zhatan...
The 'Wolf pack,' as Burl had mentally tagged the group, gathered itself together and prepared to move out, the now concious but still immobile Wolf slung into the litter. They headed off once again, the Black Knight with Sebastion on one side and Melisande on the other, both having shown interest in hearing more of the man's Order.
* * *
"The Black Knights of Zhatan are, at the core, a religious order," Angelo began, the three riders keeping astride, horses plodding along. "Our origins lie with the dragon Zhatan, sainted warrior of Urazel."
The knight told them the tale of Zhatan, an exemplar for the warrior followers of Urazel. In the early years of Huron as a nation, when Urazel had united them, they were beset from many sides by dangers and enemies, especially from in the west, beyond what are now called the Cliffs of Zhatan, where the goblins and giants of the wasteland dwelt as they had continued to do up to the present day. Most threatening to the fledgeling nation was a great gathering of the wasteland dwellers, many thousands upon thousands; sages in later years speculated it was caused by pressures from the far west and the expansion of some empire there. This horde cascaded towards the cliffs, heading towards the central pass - where now the Tower of Zhatan stands guard. Zhatan was a red dragon, a servant of Urazel who had allied with the Huronese and aided them in battle.
Unlike many dragons who were arrogant or evil, Zhatan saw great things in the structure of Huron he observed being built, and thought with sadness of it being burned and destroyed to become nothing but dust. He held the pass alone against the horde, letting the garrison flee back to gather the armies that were camped on the Kiur plains.
It is recorded that in that battle Zhatan, the mighty red dragon, slew twenty seven thousand foes.
When his muscles and flesh gave out, blades and spears and spells tearing his scales and wings, he fought on even then, infused with the power of Urazel. When the armies arrived three days later he was still fighting, and the leaders of the horseman tribes saw the enemy flee, and the dragon finally collapse.
The cult of Zhatan had grown strong, and several hundred years ago the Black Knights were founded as an order of templars to help defend the Tower of Zhatan and the pilgrimage routes in the area. They grew, to their embarrassment, quite wealthy. The rich and poor alike made donations from piety and a wish to gain influence with the Church, and the Black Knights success in several battles against raiders brought them the favour of high-up ecclesiastics. Nonetheless the tough life of the Order - a life on which ones own safety was not a concern, but an afterthought to the safety of the Church, Huron and those who wished to live their lives in peace - meant that in numbers it did not grow. Then one of the grand masters many years ago took a chance and ploughed much of the wealth they had accrued but had little need for into the research of a single genius thaumineer-mechanic.
The result was Dragon Armour, large, powered suits of metal and weaponry capable of smashing enemy battlelines and crushing foes underfoot. With it, the Knights became one of the most feared and respected military forces on the battlefield anywhere. Angelo spoke of how once he had finished his time as a novice, he would be himself trained in the use of the sacred armour.
The Black Knights provided both an additional buttress to the control of the Commander of the Tower over the sprawling mass of Zhatan, as well as guarding and defending the eastern border of the nation; many Black Knights would become, over time, experts of the terrain east of the Cliffs as they aided expeditions into the wastelands. At the centre however, their ethos remained one of a knightly order.
A Black Knight was expected to be humble and helpful to those in need, and to uphold the good of society and faith. Keeping law and order in Zhatan formed part of the duties of any knight stationed in the Tower. Furthermore, a Black Knight remained free of the earthly things that could blind others, seeing the world with the clarity afforded with not being bound by greed or wealth or lands, not being driven by petty desires and employing farsightedness in planning. Black Knights were often praised for being expert tacticians. Unfortunately they still had to obey their religious superiors, and this sometimes led to disputes between the Grand Master and senior clergy.
* * *
The day was growing old; soon they would need to decide to either stop for the evening and rest, or to press on to the monastery even in the increasing gloom.
The lingering magic that Wyshira had cast over Wolf to hold back the poison finally ended.
* * *
Wolf, who had been idly watching the world go past him from the litter, suddenly gave a strangled cough, muscles twitching and spasming as the poison ate into his system once again.
"Oh no! Stop! Stop! Wyshira cried out, halting the progess of the party as it made its slow way along the mountain trail. Wolf's head and limbs began to jerk uncontrollably again, and his face became livid from the poison's renewed assault.
"It's the poison again!" she said, kneeling beside the mercenary and trying to keep him from flinging himself off the litter. It was the only thing she could do for him now, other than pray, which she also did - fervantly and whole-heartedly.
Lady! Don't let them win! He is a protector of the weak.... a good man. Don't let the Gilameshtes take him from us!"
Kale's heart sank at the sound he heard behind. He didn't want to look. Keeping his eyes on the lengthening shadows, the mercenary waited until they knew more.
* * *
Melisande rode along unusually pensive after Sir Angelo's story. A red dragon who sacrificed himself for some greater purpose--a tiefling who had gone against his demonically tainted nature to serve good--for Zhatan and Klavius, it had been an uphill struggle. For Melisande it should have been downhill, but it felt difficult. She'd been frightened by the Red Talons and their bandits in spite of all the resolve she'd worked up in the last few days, and though the fear had dissipated rapidly when they'd won the battle, it was not gone. She peered apprehensively over her shoulder at the prostrate Wolf.
Now that she had been filled in on his true condition the fear and doubt were coming back in force. That sinking feeling in her gut that the group was going to be stranded in the Sarokeans without his expertise and guidance reappeared from its first acute manifestation the moment he'd fallen from the saddle. She's been afraid for herself and the group them; now she was afraid for Wolf. He was moaning and sweating on the litter, his organs failing under the onslaught of poison. Poor Wolf! If only there was something she could do. There was no sorcery in the world that would help him, though. He was in the hands of healers and their gods alone.
She reached up to clasp the gold pendant of Naskha at her throat and improvised a futile prayer, although she knew that if the combined efforts of Ishrak, Immar and Grumand were of no avail her own pleas to a god she knew little about wouldn't make a difference. Please help him. I don't know much about Wolf but I know he's a good man and if the Red Talons of Gilamesh think he's worth assassinating, isn't he worth saving?
"We have to go faster," she said, her voice tight with worry. "Maybe someone should ride ahead with him." Mel looked first at Sir Angelo, who had the best horse of the lot, and then at Kale, who for many reasons was the most deeply concerned with Wolf's fate.
"An excellent suggestion..." Ebri murmured, somewhat distractedly. "Let us go. While there is the possibility of another dose of the ashgar, it carries substantial risks. Speed would serve us better."
Even as the others talked, Wolf continued to twitch and spasm, venomous poison working through his veins, tearing into his nervous system and sending him into strangled coughing. His eyes staring out unseeingly, the veteran began to gasp desperately for air as his own muscles closed up round his throat, veins standing out against his skin.
With a death rattle, the last of his life ebbed from him and he slumped, suddenly relaxed once more; the Red Talon's poison had done its work at last, and killed Wolf Kieresane.
Also, they have now been joined by Sir Angelo Dar 'Averask, a Knight Errant initiate of the Order of the Black Knights of Zhatan who helped repel the Red Talon ambush. Asked by Melisande, the young sorceress now intently interested in anything involving knightly orders, codes of honour, and other things that might apply to her newfound sense of Purpose (OOC: And her level in Paladin
), the Black Knight begins to tell of the history of Zhatan...The 'Wolf pack,' as Burl had mentally tagged the group, gathered itself together and prepared to move out, the now concious but still immobile Wolf slung into the litter. They headed off once again, the Black Knight with Sebastion on one side and Melisande on the other, both having shown interest in hearing more of the man's Order.
* * *
"The Black Knights of Zhatan are, at the core, a religious order," Angelo began, the three riders keeping astride, horses plodding along. "Our origins lie with the dragon Zhatan, sainted warrior of Urazel."
The knight told them the tale of Zhatan, an exemplar for the warrior followers of Urazel. In the early years of Huron as a nation, when Urazel had united them, they were beset from many sides by dangers and enemies, especially from in the west, beyond what are now called the Cliffs of Zhatan, where the goblins and giants of the wasteland dwelt as they had continued to do up to the present day. Most threatening to the fledgeling nation was a great gathering of the wasteland dwellers, many thousands upon thousands; sages in later years speculated it was caused by pressures from the far west and the expansion of some empire there. This horde cascaded towards the cliffs, heading towards the central pass - where now the Tower of Zhatan stands guard. Zhatan was a red dragon, a servant of Urazel who had allied with the Huronese and aided them in battle.
Unlike many dragons who were arrogant or evil, Zhatan saw great things in the structure of Huron he observed being built, and thought with sadness of it being burned and destroyed to become nothing but dust. He held the pass alone against the horde, letting the garrison flee back to gather the armies that were camped on the Kiur plains.
It is recorded that in that battle Zhatan, the mighty red dragon, slew twenty seven thousand foes.
When his muscles and flesh gave out, blades and spears and spells tearing his scales and wings, he fought on even then, infused with the power of Urazel. When the armies arrived three days later he was still fighting, and the leaders of the horseman tribes saw the enemy flee, and the dragon finally collapse.
The cult of Zhatan had grown strong, and several hundred years ago the Black Knights were founded as an order of templars to help defend the Tower of Zhatan and the pilgrimage routes in the area. They grew, to their embarrassment, quite wealthy. The rich and poor alike made donations from piety and a wish to gain influence with the Church, and the Black Knights success in several battles against raiders brought them the favour of high-up ecclesiastics. Nonetheless the tough life of the Order - a life on which ones own safety was not a concern, but an afterthought to the safety of the Church, Huron and those who wished to live their lives in peace - meant that in numbers it did not grow. Then one of the grand masters many years ago took a chance and ploughed much of the wealth they had accrued but had little need for into the research of a single genius thaumineer-mechanic.
The result was Dragon Armour, large, powered suits of metal and weaponry capable of smashing enemy battlelines and crushing foes underfoot. With it, the Knights became one of the most feared and respected military forces on the battlefield anywhere. Angelo spoke of how once he had finished his time as a novice, he would be himself trained in the use of the sacred armour.
The Black Knights provided both an additional buttress to the control of the Commander of the Tower over the sprawling mass of Zhatan, as well as guarding and defending the eastern border of the nation; many Black Knights would become, over time, experts of the terrain east of the Cliffs as they aided expeditions into the wastelands. At the centre however, their ethos remained one of a knightly order.
A Black Knight was expected to be humble and helpful to those in need, and to uphold the good of society and faith. Keeping law and order in Zhatan formed part of the duties of any knight stationed in the Tower. Furthermore, a Black Knight remained free of the earthly things that could blind others, seeing the world with the clarity afforded with not being bound by greed or wealth or lands, not being driven by petty desires and employing farsightedness in planning. Black Knights were often praised for being expert tacticians. Unfortunately they still had to obey their religious superiors, and this sometimes led to disputes between the Grand Master and senior clergy.
* * *
The day was growing old; soon they would need to decide to either stop for the evening and rest, or to press on to the monastery even in the increasing gloom.
The lingering magic that Wyshira had cast over Wolf to hold back the poison finally ended.
* * *
Wolf, who had been idly watching the world go past him from the litter, suddenly gave a strangled cough, muscles twitching and spasming as the poison ate into his system once again.
"Oh no! Stop! Stop! Wyshira cried out, halting the progess of the party as it made its slow way along the mountain trail. Wolf's head and limbs began to jerk uncontrollably again, and his face became livid from the poison's renewed assault.
"It's the poison again!" she said, kneeling beside the mercenary and trying to keep him from flinging himself off the litter. It was the only thing she could do for him now, other than pray, which she also did - fervantly and whole-heartedly.
Lady! Don't let them win! He is a protector of the weak.... a good man. Don't let the Gilamesh
tes take him from us!" Kale's heart sank at the sound he heard behind. He didn't want to look. Keeping his eyes on the lengthening shadows, the mercenary waited until they knew more.
* * *
Melisande rode along unusually pensive after Sir Angelo's story. A red dragon who sacrificed himself for some greater purpose--a tiefling who had gone against his demonically tainted nature to serve good--for Zhatan and Klavius, it had been an uphill struggle. For Melisande it should have been downhill, but it felt difficult. She'd been frightened by the Red Talons and their bandits in spite of all the resolve she'd worked up in the last few days, and though the fear had dissipated rapidly when they'd won the battle, it was not gone. She peered apprehensively over her shoulder at the prostrate Wolf.
Now that she had been filled in on his true condition the fear and doubt were coming back in force. That sinking feeling in her gut that the group was going to be stranded in the Sarokeans without his expertise and guidance reappeared from its first acute manifestation the moment he'd fallen from the saddle. She's been afraid for herself and the group them; now she was afraid for Wolf. He was moaning and sweating on the litter, his organs failing under the onslaught of poison. Poor Wolf! If only there was something she could do. There was no sorcery in the world that would help him, though. He was in the hands of healers and their gods alone.
She reached up to clasp the gold pendant of Naskha at her throat and improvised a futile prayer, although she knew that if the combined efforts of Ishrak, Immar and Grumand were of no avail her own pleas to a god she knew little about wouldn't make a difference. Please help him. I don't know much about Wolf but I know he's a good man and if the Red Talons of Gilamesh think he's worth assassinating, isn't he worth saving?
"We have to go faster," she said, her voice tight with worry. "Maybe someone should ride ahead with him." Mel looked first at Sir Angelo, who had the best horse of the lot, and then at Kale, who for many reasons was the most deeply concerned with Wolf's fate.
"An excellent suggestion..." Ebri murmured, somewhat distractedly. "Let us go. While there is the possibility of another dose of the ashgar, it carries substantial risks. Speed would serve us better."
Even as the others talked, Wolf continued to twitch and spasm, venomous poison working through his veins, tearing into his nervous system and sending him into strangled coughing. His eyes staring out unseeingly, the veteran began to gasp desperately for air as his own muscles closed up round his throat, veins standing out against his skin.
With a death rattle, the last of his life ebbed from him and he slumped, suddenly relaxed once more; the Red Talon's poison had done its work at last, and killed Wolf Kieresane.
Broccli_Head
Explorer
I think I cried when I first read this
...or was I peeling onions.
Well, now the characters are on their own. No more Wolf to save them. Can't wait to re-read the continuing events.
...or was I peeling onions.
Well, now the characters are on their own. No more Wolf to save them. Can't wait to re-read the continuing events.
Angcuru
First Post
Welll....damn. Stupid poison.
Man, is Kale going to be upset if he learns how Ebri is inadvertently involved in this.
I can only imagine how chaotic things are going to become without Wolf to lead the way.
I sure would like to get in on a game like this. Hopefully someday I'll find a group that actually roleplays, not just ROLLplays.
Stupid poison. Man, is Kale going to be upset if he learns how Ebri is inadvertently involved in this.
I can only imagine how chaotic things are going to become without Wolf to lead the way.
I sure would like to get in on a game like this.
Hopefully someday I'll find a group that actually roleplays, not just ROLLplays.
Carnifex
First Post
Another update from me Hopefully I'll be able to keep up a good rate of posting. Today's update, we see the aftermath of the death of Wolf, and the reactions by the different members of the band to the traumatic loss of their leader...
Wyshira knew in her heart what was coming, almost as soon as her spell wore off and she heard that first strangled cough; but when Wolf's throat finally closed and he gasped his last tortured breath, she could only stare in shocked disbelief as his life slipped away. "He's gone," she whispered numbly. How had it come to this?
She had failed, failed, failed.... She had not been skilled enough, had not been vigilant enough, had not been properly prepared to care for the crew. She had let their leader die.
Looking away from Wolf's frozen, pain-contorted visage, Wyshira lifted her tear-streaked face to gaze upwards at the darkening sky.
* * *
The last rattling breath, and the subsequent hushed halting stillness of her companions came to Ebri's ears, some hundred yards up the path, as she scouted for the most efficient route. The matter is decided, then-- she thought, noting at the same time a patch of pau'ti berry by its fragrant, jasmine-cinnamon like smell. Rather appropriately, the fruit was often used in preparations for the dead, to cover the smell of decay. A veil, another cover, to aid in the pretense-- to avoid the uncomfortable reality of death and loss. Ironically, such delusions never brought the comfort they sought; avoiding reality only kept the mind enslaved, asleep, wandering in its own illusions... And your mind is wandering, as well-- and this line of thought is neither efficient nor useful nor timely-- she brought herself up short, and made quickly for the others and the camp.
There was a very narrow window of time, now, for what happened in the next moments would determine the group dynamic for possibly months to come. The mercenary's death would cause a gaping hole in the group's leadership and decision making and direction-- How to direct things best, now? Her mind cast quickly through the host of options, as she flew down the path.
They will turn to Kale, now-- and he will feel himself both honor-bound and justified. The mantle of leadership will fall upon him by his connection to Wolf. That had both troublesome and useful implications. It would be best to acknowledge his leadership, and direct the course of events as subtly as possible... It was unlikely, in any event, that they would follow her, nor did she want it-- the scrutiny would hamper her severely.
So thinking, she came into the circle of light, garments fluttering with haste. "He is gone, then--" she observed, and let her body take on an appropriately subdued and respectful attitude, as she came to stand at his feet. "Immar bless your feet, Wolf Kieresane, and speed you upon the Road," she murmurred, loudly enough for all to hear, but as if she were praying privately. She then looked directly at Kale. "What would you have us do? Do you know aught of his wishes?"
* * *
It was Pierre, whom Melisande had asked to contribute a couple more pairs of eyes and ears to scouting ahead, who first noticed no one was following. Mel reined in her mare and looked back, vexed. Didn't they understand there wasn't time to discuss this?
But turning back toward the knot of somber people around Wolf she had time to realize what must have happened, and dismounted slowly. Her face had gone pale as a winter sky.
So far her adventures with her new friends had been just that: adventures. People had been hurt--including herself--and they had lost Sandslipper to some strange disease, but the whole thing just got a great deal more serious as far as Mel was concerned. Of course since they met Klavius a few days ago her attitude had already changed profoundly; Wolf's death was a sobering confirmation that quests (as opposed to adventures) were deadly serious things. The ranger had been on his own quest apparently, and here was its end: ignoble death by poison in the mountain wilderness on what Wolf probably considered a routine job for some Naserian noble.
Did a variation on this theme await every one of her companions?
She moved up to peer over Wyshira's shoulder. It felt very strange and final to see Wolf lying so still. Tears were welling up in her eyes, but a foolishly tenacious part of her did not want to accept this.
"There are priests who can raise the dead. I've heard so many stories about them. And don't they usually live in places like remote mountain monasteries? If we-- if we--" She heard herself sounding hysterical and covered her mouth to keep any further ranting on the inside. It sounded painful in the face of the real grief some of her companions were experiencing. Realizing this, Mel put a hand on Wyshira's shoulder, with one versatile phrase for many of the feelings of the moment.
"I'm sorry."
* * *
Bowing his head slightly as the death rattle started, Sebastion thought for a moment of what he had learnt from the experienced man. Side by side they'd stood and fought - not a thing you could go through and not learn a little something of each other.
Not far off, Burl, seemingly shocked into desperation by the death of Wolf, began frantically demanding that the healers do something, anything, to save the man. Hearing the recriminations start, Sebastion saw that perhaps some people needed reminding of how close they'd become over the last few days. Kale, of course, would be a slower, colder anger than Burl's, just as the Immarian's apparent indifference and flowery words would fuel it. What he'd really learned from Wolf, though, was that being a leader didn't mean telling everyone what to do, but in making them realise they could do it for themselves.
Bending down next to the corpse, he reached out to close the weather-worn eyes - surprised for a moment at how difficult that actually was - and pressed a coin into his left palm.
"Burl," he said, quietly, looking up, "you know that Wyshira would have done everything she could to save him, just as you or I would."
Hopefully they will choose not to pick up on the fact I didn't include Ebri in that declaration...
"He was a mercenary. He chose a life that placed him in harm's way, and accepted that death was a possibility. That's the life we've chosen, now. Let's try to live it like he did - well."
"Sir Knight - do you know of anywhere we might camp for the night near here? I don't believe any of us will feel up to travelling."
* * *
Burl had lashed out. Lashed out with angry words at his closest companion in the band, Wyshira. Now as his grief was subsiding, he stood and walked to the priestess. Putting his arm around her shoulder, Burl quietly spoke to her.
“Please forgive me for accusing you of letting Wolf die. It was only my grief that caused me to react to his death as I did. I know for a fact that you would give your life for Wolf to be standing here with us. You did all that was possible under the circumstances. All that is left for us is to continue on living each day in the hope that we will somehow be able to enact revenge upon those responsible for this.
Wolf, you and Kale rescued me, possibly saved my life. I owe the three of you everything. I cannot rest until they are made to pay for this.”
* * *
Kale's face slid as he looked to where Sebastion and the Black Knight sat mounted. He could still hear the frantic sputterings of waning life. In a short moment, one slow, fading breath later, it was all over. Death reflected in the eyes of those who saw- the young mercenary didn't need to look.
Taking a slow, deep breath, it felt like he was breathing cotton. Waves of emotion washed over him, only over, as he parted the despair before him. Turning slowly to where Wolf lay, he looked on to a scene that hardly seemed to touch him. Something in Kale's eyes had changed, and as his companions commented around him, the mercenary simply observed the scene as an assigned professional.
Burl vowed revenge, Sebastion offered transition and leadership, even Ebri offered a blessing. Wyshira and Melisande sank, but all Kale could see was a crew in need of a good camp for the night. He felt a storm, rumbling somewhere out of view, but it was just the more reason to get the crew situated and safe. There was work to be done.
Deliberately, he walked to where Wolf lie, still and sleeping for the first time. Tiny details cemented in his mind- the still curl in his hair, the creeps of bloodstains fading in inches from vibrant red to a cold and crusty brown. The mercenary's chest lay still, while his strong, caloused hands set relaxed and empty at his sides. Kale set his jaw. The details weren't important. His friend, their leader was gone, and the crew would have to get along without.
"What would you have us do? Do you know aught of his wishes?"
"Nothing changes." Kale said out of place. "We make our way to our objective, after we visit the monastary to secure arrangements for Wolf. But now, we camp here for the night, and make way in the morning." Somehow, it was all very easy. The death of Kale's mentor simply brought about a cause and effect. There was no longer any rush, so why hurry? Besides, there was no reason to risk the horses to a bad step in the dark. Driving on would have been good to keep the company busy rather than dwell on their loss, but camping for the night was the practical decision.
Carefully, Kale resecured his mentor for travel. Caring for someone's own body was an important responsibility, so he was sure to be gentle, while that raging storm seemed to crash overhead.
Cord, the dwarven Grumandic monk, bowed his head and spoke a quiet, eloquent prayer to Grumand on behalf of the soul of Wolf Kieresane, the man who lay before them in death. Angelo watched, leaning on the haft of his axe, slightly back from the rest - he had not known this man, though he felt sad that a warrior who had obviously made an enemy of the Red Talons had died, and he felt it only right to let the others be close to the body to pay last respects. At Sebastion's question he could not give a good answer since he had not needed to camp in this area before; though he could understand why they might not have the energy to go on to the monastery now. Then Kale seemed to have made the decision to camp pretty much where they were for the night.
Night grew thick and oppressive over them, a small huddled band of travellers around a fire, the body of a companion lying there nearby and each with their head full of thoughts, some very different to others.
---
Watches were set, Wolf's pot sat boiling over the fire, and the camp was secured for the evening. Burl sat a ways off studying him tome by candlelight. Creeping shadows moved across his face as Kale approached, crouching for a moment. "You know of easing the journey to the afterlife?" the mercenary asked, not sure what he believed himself. But Burl was the authority on death, and given the encounter with the ghoul-pack just a day ago, Kale thought it fitting to do whatever he could to insure wolf's rest. "I should like you to do what you can, when we get to the monastary... Wolf's body should pass through rigor during the night," Kale mentioned the added convenience.
Stepping over to his cloak, Kale prepared for the evening. Tomorrow would be an unpredictable day. He and his companions would have to be ready, the mercenary concluded, just before he determined that he should get his sleep while he can. Deliberately, he shut his eyes and was soon asleep.
Hopefully I'll be able to keep up a good rate of posting. Today's update, we see the aftermath of the death of Wolf, and the reactions by the different members of the band to the traumatic loss of their leader...Wyshira knew in her heart what was coming, almost as soon as her spell wore off and she heard that first strangled cough; but when Wolf's throat finally closed and he gasped his last tortured breath, she could only stare in shocked disbelief as his life slipped away. "He's gone," she whispered numbly. How had it come to this?
She had failed, failed, failed.... She had not been skilled enough, had not been vigilant enough, had not been properly prepared to care for the crew. She had let their leader die.
Looking away from Wolf's frozen, pain-contorted visage, Wyshira lifted her tear-streaked face to gaze upwards at the darkening sky.
* * *
The last rattling breath, and the subsequent hushed halting stillness of her companions came to Ebri's ears, some hundred yards up the path, as she scouted for the most efficient route. The matter is decided, then-- she thought, noting at the same time a patch of pau'ti berry by its fragrant, jasmine-cinnamon like smell. Rather appropriately, the fruit was often used in preparations for the dead, to cover the smell of decay. A veil, another cover, to aid in the pretense-- to avoid the uncomfortable reality of death and loss. Ironically, such delusions never brought the comfort they sought; avoiding reality only kept the mind enslaved, asleep, wandering in its own illusions... And your mind is wandering, as well-- and this line of thought is neither efficient nor useful nor timely-- she brought herself up short, and made quickly for the others and the camp.
There was a very narrow window of time, now, for what happened in the next moments would determine the group dynamic for possibly months to come. The mercenary's death would cause a gaping hole in the group's leadership and decision making and direction-- How to direct things best, now? Her mind cast quickly through the host of options, as she flew down the path.
They will turn to Kale, now-- and he will feel himself both honor-bound and justified. The mantle of leadership will fall upon him by his connection to Wolf. That had both troublesome and useful implications. It would be best to acknowledge his leadership, and direct the course of events as subtly as possible... It was unlikely, in any event, that they would follow her, nor did she want it-- the scrutiny would hamper her severely.
So thinking, she came into the circle of light, garments fluttering with haste. "He is gone, then--" she observed, and let her body take on an appropriately subdued and respectful attitude, as she came to stand at his feet. "Immar bless your feet, Wolf Kieresane, and speed you upon the Road," she murmurred, loudly enough for all to hear, but as if she were praying privately. She then looked directly at Kale. "What would you have us do? Do you know aught of his wishes?"
* * *
It was Pierre, whom Melisande had asked to contribute a couple more pairs of eyes and ears to scouting ahead, who first noticed no one was following. Mel reined in her mare and looked back, vexed. Didn't they understand there wasn't time to discuss this?
But turning back toward the knot of somber people around Wolf she had time to realize what must have happened, and dismounted slowly. Her face had gone pale as a winter sky.
So far her adventures with her new friends had been just that: adventures. People had been hurt--including herself--and they had lost Sandslipper to some strange disease, but the whole thing just got a great deal more serious as far as Mel was concerned. Of course since they met Klavius a few days ago her attitude had already changed profoundly; Wolf's death was a sobering confirmation that quests (as opposed to adventures) were deadly serious things. The ranger had been on his own quest apparently, and here was its end: ignoble death by poison in the mountain wilderness on what Wolf probably considered a routine job for some Naserian noble.
Did a variation on this theme await every one of her companions?
She moved up to peer over Wyshira's shoulder. It felt very strange and final to see Wolf lying so still. Tears were welling up in her eyes, but a foolishly tenacious part of her did not want to accept this.
"There are priests who can raise the dead. I've heard so many stories about them. And don't they usually live in places like remote mountain monasteries? If we-- if we--" She heard herself sounding hysterical and covered her mouth to keep any further ranting on the inside. It sounded painful in the face of the real grief some of her companions were experiencing. Realizing this, Mel put a hand on Wyshira's shoulder, with one versatile phrase for many of the feelings of the moment.
"I'm sorry."
* * *
Bowing his head slightly as the death rattle started, Sebastion thought for a moment of what he had learnt from the experienced man. Side by side they'd stood and fought - not a thing you could go through and not learn a little something of each other.
Not far off, Burl, seemingly shocked into desperation by the death of Wolf, began frantically demanding that the healers do something, anything, to save the man. Hearing the recriminations start, Sebastion saw that perhaps some people needed reminding of how close they'd become over the last few days. Kale, of course, would be a slower, colder anger than Burl's, just as the Immarian's apparent indifference and flowery words would fuel it. What he'd really learned from Wolf, though, was that being a leader didn't mean telling everyone what to do, but in making them realise they could do it for themselves.
Bending down next to the corpse, he reached out to close the weather-worn eyes - surprised for a moment at how difficult that actually was - and pressed a coin into his left palm.
"Burl," he said, quietly, looking up, "you know that Wyshira would have done everything she could to save him, just as you or I would."
Hopefully they will choose not to pick up on the fact I didn't include Ebri in that declaration...
"He was a mercenary. He chose a life that placed him in harm's way, and accepted that death was a possibility. That's the life we've chosen, now. Let's try to live it like he did - well."
"Sir Knight - do you know of anywhere we might camp for the night near here? I don't believe any of us will feel up to travelling."
* * *
Burl had lashed out. Lashed out with angry words at his closest companion in the band, Wyshira. Now as his grief was subsiding, he stood and walked to the priestess. Putting his arm around her shoulder, Burl quietly spoke to her.
“Please forgive me for accusing you of letting Wolf die. It was only my grief that caused me to react to his death as I did. I know for a fact that you would give your life for Wolf to be standing here with us. You did all that was possible under the circumstances. All that is left for us is to continue on living each day in the hope that we will somehow be able to enact revenge upon those responsible for this.
Wolf, you and Kale rescued me, possibly saved my life. I owe the three of you everything. I cannot rest until they are made to pay for this.”
* * *
Kale's face slid as he looked to where Sebastion and the Black Knight sat mounted. He could still hear the frantic sputterings of waning life. In a short moment, one slow, fading breath later, it was all over. Death reflected in the eyes of those who saw- the young mercenary didn't need to look.
Taking a slow, deep breath, it felt like he was breathing cotton. Waves of emotion washed over him, only over, as he parted the despair before him. Turning slowly to where Wolf lay, he looked on to a scene that hardly seemed to touch him. Something in Kale's eyes had changed, and as his companions commented around him, the mercenary simply observed the scene as an assigned professional.
Burl vowed revenge, Sebastion offered transition and leadership, even Ebri offered a blessing. Wyshira and Melisande sank, but all Kale could see was a crew in need of a good camp for the night. He felt a storm, rumbling somewhere out of view, but it was just the more reason to get the crew situated and safe. There was work to be done.
Deliberately, he walked to where Wolf lie, still and sleeping for the first time. Tiny details cemented in his mind- the still curl in his hair, the creeps of bloodstains fading in inches from vibrant red to a cold and crusty brown. The mercenary's chest lay still, while his strong, caloused hands set relaxed and empty at his sides. Kale set his jaw. The details weren't important. His friend, their leader was gone, and the crew would have to get along without.
"What would you have us do? Do you know aught of his wishes?"
"Nothing changes." Kale said out of place. "We make our way to our objective, after we visit the monastary to secure arrangements for Wolf. But now, we camp here for the night, and make way in the morning." Somehow, it was all very easy. The death of Kale's mentor simply brought about a cause and effect. There was no longer any rush, so why hurry? Besides, there was no reason to risk the horses to a bad step in the dark. Driving on would have been good to keep the company busy rather than dwell on their loss, but camping for the night was the practical decision.
Carefully, Kale resecured his mentor for travel. Caring for someone's own body was an important responsibility, so he was sure to be gentle, while that raging storm seemed to crash overhead.
Cord, the dwarven Grumandic monk, bowed his head and spoke a quiet, eloquent prayer to Grumand on behalf of the soul of Wolf Kieresane, the man who lay before them in death. Angelo watched, leaning on the haft of his axe, slightly back from the rest - he had not known this man, though he felt sad that a warrior who had obviously made an enemy of the Red Talons had died, and he felt it only right to let the others be close to the body to pay last respects. At Sebastion's question he could not give a good answer since he had not needed to camp in this area before; though he could understand why they might not have the energy to go on to the monastery now. Then Kale seemed to have made the decision to camp pretty much where they were for the night.
Night grew thick and oppressive over them, a small huddled band of travellers around a fire, the body of a companion lying there nearby and each with their head full of thoughts, some very different to others.
---
Watches were set, Wolf's pot sat boiling over the fire, and the camp was secured for the evening. Burl sat a ways off studying him tome by candlelight. Creeping shadows moved across his face as Kale approached, crouching for a moment. "You know of easing the journey to the afterlife?" the mercenary asked, not sure what he believed himself. But Burl was the authority on death, and given the encounter with the ghoul-pack just a day ago, Kale thought it fitting to do whatever he could to insure wolf's rest. "I should like you to do what you can, when we get to the monastary... Wolf's body should pass through rigor during the night," Kale mentioned the added convenience.
Stepping over to his cloak, Kale prepared for the evening. Tomorrow would be an unpredictable day. He and his companions would have to be ready, the mercenary concluded, just before he determined that he should get his sleep while he can. Deliberately, he shut his eyes and was soon asleep.
Angcuru
First Post
Hmm. I expected more mourning, and less "Oh, my. He died... Tea anyone?" type of attitude.
But then again it has most likely not sunk in yet.
Hmm... that leaves Burl, Sebastian, Melisande, Ebri, Kale, Wyshira, and Cord. Seven companions. And with the up and coming addition of Cazamir, that makes Eight. Eventually mister gnolly forest-ranger-type will show up, maybe not as a party member persay (i foresee a bit of tension with the addition of a beast-man) but makes it nine companions. You shall be the Fellowship of the... *insert thingy*.
I would so love to get in on this game.
But then again it has most likely not sunk in yet.
Hmm... that leaves Burl, Sebastian, Melisande, Ebri, Kale, Wyshira, and Cord. Seven companions. And with the up and coming addition of Cazamir, that makes Eight. Eventually mister gnolly forest-ranger-type will show up, maybe not as a party member persay (i foresee a bit of tension with the addition of a beast-man) but makes it nine companions. You shall be the Fellowship of the... *insert thingy*
.I would so love to get in on this game.
Carnifex
First Post
Angcuru said:Hmm. I expected more mourning, and less "Oh, my. He died... Tea anyone?" type of attitude.
But then again it has most likely not sunk in yet.
Hmm... that leaves Burl, Sebastian, Melisande, Ebri, Kale, Wyshira, and Cord. Seven companions. And with the up and coming addition of Cazamir, that makes Eight. Eventually mister gnolly forest-ranger-type will show up, maybe not as a party member persay (i foresee a bit of tension with the addition of a beast-man) but makes it nine companions. You shall be the Fellowship of the... *insert thingy*
I would so love to get in on this game.
It does take a little time for the death of Wolf to fully percolate through their conciousnesses
Of course, not everyone there necessarily has reason to be sad at his death...And later on, it ain't just a fellowship of 9. With all the NPC's bundled in, there's a point coming up where the party numbers literally dozens
Only for a short while though, because then the SPOILERS SPOILER, and their SPOILERS SPOILERS... well, it just ain't pretty.
I seem to have an auto-spoiler lock on the keyboard
Carnifex
First Post
With the next day came fresh travel, fresh movement across the rugged, jagged Sarokeans that had so far claimed one victim within their confines from the band.
Sebastion rode stiffly and gritty eyed, suffering from the lack of sleep. With Kale, Wyshira and Cord making their vigil for Wolf, he'd taken it upon himself to keep watch. Or at least, that had been his excuse.
In truth, he found himself troubled by Wolf's passing - it posed questions that he wasn't sure he could understand, let alone answer as yet. By the first touch of morning he'd realised he'd started along a path, and Wolf was the other end of it. More than anyone else, he thought, he was following in Wolf's footsteps - Kale might argue that, should he say it aloud, but that was a different question - and he'd just seen where it could end. Knowing it, and seeing it, he was learning, were two very, very different things.
With time, they reached the monastery that they had been told of by the Black Knight.
A walled compound of stone buildings above stepped tiers of farmland in the valley side, the view down a breath-taking one for anyone who felt of a light enough mind to see its beauty, the monastery welcomed them in. A monk at the gate challenged them, then he saw Angelo and recognised the knight; and then he saw Cord as the dwarf introduced himself as a fellow monk of Grumand, and briefly related what had befallen them to the guard. And then he saw the body of Wolf, and nodded sombrely, waving them in and directing them over to the cloisters.
* * *
"I will ask the priest to come over as quickly as possible, Wise One," the monk said deferentially to Cord. "Please, try to make yourselves comfortable, the priest will see to your needs."
The cloisters contained a strange and varied mixture of other travellers who had come this way. A band of old men, clustered around books and scrolls, interestedly chattering amongst themselves, were in one corner, with a lean Naserian man who had the look of a frontiersman watching over them with cool disinterest. Another man, Huronese in appearance in baggy travellers clothes who moved with confident grace, was also approaching that group from the main building of the compound.
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.
From the look of it, Burl seemed to think that the wagon looked a bit like the engine that had propelled them earlier in his travels tended by Ungor Ferechan, the gnome metallo-thaumaturge and engineer.
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 the party would usually associate 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; one of his arms ended in a metal-and-piston replacement, the point where flesh met metal looking livid and painful.
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.
* * *
As Cazamir sauntered back over to his little group, he saw newcomers had arrived at the cloisters. Most imposing was a black-armoured man who led a sizeable warhorse, both rider and mount sporting large amounts of full plate. He was Huronese, and from stories and tales Cazamir recognised the style of armour. A Novice of the sacred Black Knights of Zhatan, the holy warriors whose elite wore the fabled Dragon Armour, machinery-boosted to become walking war machines. Another Huronese man was there too, more lightly armoured and with what looked like a double-sword or somesuch exotic weapon across his saddle. Then another two men, one lightly armed and armoured like the Huronese man, while the other wore mostly black, somehow slightly sinister. A dwarf too, who he suddenly realised with a shock was blind, his eyes clouded over - yet the earth-kin spoke quietly to the Grumandic monks around him as if he could see perfectly, and tthey showed him deference and great respect in their answers. Then a short, dark-skinned woman of some Drakkath ethnicity, but it was the other two women who caught his eye, who really stood out. Both blue but in different ways, one pale and tinged with blues and greens, and clad in the robes of an acolyte of Ishrak, while the other was stridently blue and wore no heavy armour or weapons but rather the gear of an arcanist of some sort. The band drew many looks and glances, especially the blue-hue women.
And there was a dead man too.
* * *
The party paused there in the cloisters, bearing the interested gazes of its other inhabitants. Before long a brown-robed priest was there, an old man with a drawn face. He looked on concernedly. "Greetings, sir Dar'Averask, and greetings to you all too. Please, sit yourselves in the cloisters. What aid can our monastery give you?"
Meanwhile the sages had by now spotted the party, staring in unashamed interest at the blue women - interest of the scholarly kind, that was. As the priest talked to the party, Cazamir saw two of his wayward charges approach them. Wyshira and Melisande saw the two old men approach, their garb and gear that of a travelling man but one of knowledge too, books and paper and ink - and spell components. Wizards too, then.
"Excuse me," one introduced himself politely. "I am Matthias Silester; we are a band of Drakkath scholars travelling to an archaeological site in these mountains. I am sorry for your companion, if that is who the fallen man is, and the sight of yourselves so obviously embattled recently means that I am pressed to enquire, what troubles have you met in the mountains? Though we have guards, we would prefer to avoid danger as best we can, for we are not ourselves warriors. And... I hope you do not think me rude of asking, but as a scholar, I find myself bound to ask you as to the source of the incredible hue of your skins?" he asked inquisitively.
I'm in no mood for this, thought Mel, scarcely hiding her irritation at the two curious wizards. It was a gut reflex at remarks about her skin color, conditioned by years of the petty malice of Carthagian children; and compounding this was a nascent and really unfounded sense of superiority she got from the Naserian sorcerocracy over those who relied on books to develop their arcane skills. Besides, she felt awful. She'd done more crying than sleeping since they camped, grieving more the fact that she hadn't known Wolf well enough to grieve him, and feeling sorry for those who really did grieve him, especially Kale. She wished he'd break down. It was horrible.
A brief temptation to lie to the wizards just to make them go away flashed through her mind--("Accident with a Change Self spell; it's only temporary")--but she found that the mere idea of prevaricating repulsed her more than the wizards did.
"I'm an aasimar. But I don't want to talk about it just at the moment." She gave a morose glance at Wolf's bier by way of explanation.
What I really want is a bath and some time alone. No, what I really want is a bath and some company. But gods, not wizards. Especially not wizards who were peering at her like they just discovered a new species of planar coleopteran.
"If you'll excuse me...." She realized suddenly what she did want more than anything, and with a hasty nod to the wizards she fled quickly over to where Sebastion Cornell stood with his horse.
"Er, Sebastion," she began timidly, aware how swollen and blue her eyes and nose must look, "would it bother you very much to give me a sword lesson today, when we have time?"
After a quick glance over her shoulder in hopes the wizards hadn't followed, she looked at Sebastion imploringly and added, "It would make me feel better."
Sebastion, for a moment, wondered if she were trying to say something else within the words, staring into her beguiling eyes for a moment, but there was nothing else obviously there. "Of course... a meal and a wash, and I will be ready when you are." he assured her, wondering where he'd heard the word 'beguiling'...
"Thank you... thank you!" Mel murmured, turning away to hide the flush of deep blue in her cheeks. If Sebastion Cornell knew how much she enjoyed their little sword lessons he would be scandalized, she was sure.
But the relief that he had accepted buoyed her courage. Indeed she'd feared a brief moment he would refuse, when he looked at her quizzically as if trying to understand why sword lessons were so important to her at a time like this. Now when the attempt to hide her blushing brought the wizards back into her line of sight she felt she could deal with them, holding the comforting thought that within a couple of hours she would have her lesson.
How cathartic it would be to feel the burn of straining muscle up the backs of her legs and across her shoulders, and how soothing to be doing something positive in the face of evil, particularly right now. And how nice, she thought, biting her lip in shame as she walked back to provide Wyshira some moral support, to feel one of Sebastion's hands splayed against the small of her back and the other gripping her wrist, even in such a cool--even martial--rapport. Of course he would be scandalized, mortified, possibly even "grossed out", as the Carthagian children used to put it, if he knew how much she was beginning to like him, in spite of his ascerbic temper and militaristic ambitions. She liked his deep-set, thoughtful eyes, and the sound of his words for Wolf turned over and over comfortingly in her mind. That's the life we've chosen, now. Let's try to live it like he did - well.
On the other hand, she knew it was just like her nitwitted self to foster secret affections for the one member of the group who didn't care if he hurt her feelings. Well, if she was one day to overcome her common-sense handicap, she would have to take the painful consequences in stride and learn from her errors. Or maybe that was just making up excuses....
At any rate, with a lesson in view, the cold pit of grief and fear in her gut grew tolerable, as became the scarcely polite, analytical stares of the pair of wizards. She drew up side-by-side with Wyshira, intent on making up for her rudeness and on showing some solidarity with the water genasi who had chosen to face a Solar Beholder just to keep Mel company.
First, though, she bent down and let Pierre (who was dry and beginning to chafe) out of her pocket. You can go to the fountain, but stay away from those machine-people, she instructed.
* * *
A few months ago, Wyshira wouldn't have given the scholars an opportunity to gawk at her; she would have entered the monastery hooded and cloaked to avoid notice. Somewhere along the line, she had stopped being concerned with keeping a low profile. She didn't mind the stares so much anymore either.
But she was annoyed by the questions, especially under the circumstances. She heaved a little sigh of impatience, although her manner remained polite and dignified. She didn't blame Melisande for running off at the first opportunity.
"I'm a water genasi," she explained. If they expected her to elaborate, they were going to be disappointed. She bowed her head slightly in their general direction, hoping they'd take that as a signal to go bother someone else. She went back to busily scanning her surroundings.
Where is that priest? She wanted to report their encounter with the Red Talons, and make arrangements for Wolf as soon as possible. She thought it might be possible that someone here had known him, and could even get word to his family.
The scholars evidently were undaunted by her brusque response and inattention to their other questions. But Mel had returned, and she seemed to be satisfying their curiosity by giving them a run-down of the crew's adventures in the Sarokeans so far. Wyshira saw the old men's eyes grow wide at mention of the Solar Beholderkin. That would give them something to think about! She caught Mel's eye, and smiled her thanks for taking over the conversation.
"Forgive me if I seemed rude," Melisande begged the wizard, straightening as Pierre sprang off in awkward eagerness. "We have indeed seen some troubles in the mountains, as you put it. It was a miracle we escaped the Solar Beholder down the ravine, but it was the bandits and Gilamees who got us in the end. Fortunately, the bandits paid for our blood many times over and they're unlikely to attack anyone else this season as long as you have guards to make them think twice.
"So, what kind of archeological site are you headed for?"
Oh no, why did I ask? I'm just sure he's going to say something about the Elder Gods or the Great Prophet....
Sebastion rode stiffly and gritty eyed, suffering from the lack of sleep. With Kale, Wyshira and Cord making their vigil for Wolf, he'd taken it upon himself to keep watch. Or at least, that had been his excuse.
In truth, he found himself troubled by Wolf's passing - it posed questions that he wasn't sure he could understand, let alone answer as yet. By the first touch of morning he'd realised he'd started along a path, and Wolf was the other end of it. More than anyone else, he thought, he was following in Wolf's footsteps - Kale might argue that, should he say it aloud, but that was a different question - and he'd just seen where it could end. Knowing it, and seeing it, he was learning, were two very, very different things.
With time, they reached the monastery that they had been told of by the Black Knight.
A walled compound of stone buildings above stepped tiers of farmland in the valley side, the view down a breath-taking one for anyone who felt of a light enough mind to see its beauty, the monastery welcomed them in. A monk at the gate challenged them, then he saw Angelo and recognised the knight; and then he saw Cord as the dwarf introduced himself as a fellow monk of Grumand, and briefly related what had befallen them to the guard. And then he saw the body of Wolf, and nodded sombrely, waving them in and directing them over to the cloisters.
* * *
"I will ask the priest to come over as quickly as possible, Wise One," the monk said deferentially to Cord. "Please, try to make yourselves comfortable, the priest will see to your needs."
The cloisters contained a strange and varied mixture of other travellers who had come this way. A band of old men, clustered around books and scrolls, interestedly chattering amongst themselves, were in one corner, with a lean Naserian man who had the look of a frontiersman watching over them with cool disinterest. Another man, Huronese in appearance in baggy travellers clothes who moved with confident grace, was also approaching that group from the main building of the compound.
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.
From the look of it, Burl seemed to think that the wagon looked a bit like the engine that had propelled them earlier in his travels tended by Ungor Ferechan, the gnome metallo-thaumaturge and engineer.
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 the party would usually associate 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; one of his arms ended in a metal-and-piston replacement, the point where flesh met metal looking livid and painful.
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.
* * *
As Cazamir sauntered back over to his little group, he saw newcomers had arrived at the cloisters. Most imposing was a black-armoured man who led a sizeable warhorse, both rider and mount sporting large amounts of full plate. He was Huronese, and from stories and tales Cazamir recognised the style of armour. A Novice of the sacred Black Knights of Zhatan, the holy warriors whose elite wore the fabled Dragon Armour, machinery-boosted to become walking war machines. Another Huronese man was there too, more lightly armoured and with what looked like a double-sword or somesuch exotic weapon across his saddle. Then another two men, one lightly armed and armoured like the Huronese man, while the other wore mostly black, somehow slightly sinister. A dwarf too, who he suddenly realised with a shock was blind, his eyes clouded over - yet the earth-kin spoke quietly to the Grumandic monks around him as if he could see perfectly, and tthey showed him deference and great respect in their answers. Then a short, dark-skinned woman of some Drakkath ethnicity, but it was the other two women who caught his eye, who really stood out. Both blue but in different ways, one pale and tinged with blues and greens, and clad in the robes of an acolyte of Ishrak, while the other was stridently blue and wore no heavy armour or weapons but rather the gear of an arcanist of some sort. The band drew many looks and glances, especially the blue-hue women.
And there was a dead man too.
* * *
The party paused there in the cloisters, bearing the interested gazes of its other inhabitants. Before long a brown-robed priest was there, an old man with a drawn face. He looked on concernedly. "Greetings, sir Dar'Averask, and greetings to you all too. Please, sit yourselves in the cloisters. What aid can our monastery give you?"
Meanwhile the sages had by now spotted the party, staring in unashamed interest at the blue women - interest of the scholarly kind, that was. As the priest talked to the party, Cazamir saw two of his wayward charges approach them. Wyshira and Melisande saw the two old men approach, their garb and gear that of a travelling man but one of knowledge too, books and paper and ink - and spell components. Wizards too, then.
"Excuse me," one introduced himself politely. "I am Matthias Silester; we are a band of Drakkath scholars travelling to an archaeological site in these mountains. I am sorry for your companion, if that is who the fallen man is, and the sight of yourselves so obviously embattled recently means that I am pressed to enquire, what troubles have you met in the mountains? Though we have guards, we would prefer to avoid danger as best we can, for we are not ourselves warriors. And... I hope you do not think me rude of asking, but as a scholar, I find myself bound to ask you as to the source of the incredible hue of your skins?" he asked inquisitively.
I'm in no mood for this, thought Mel, scarcely hiding her irritation at the two curious wizards. It was a gut reflex at remarks about her skin color, conditioned by years of the petty malice of Carthagian children; and compounding this was a nascent and really unfounded sense of superiority she got from the Naserian sorcerocracy over those who relied on books to develop their arcane skills. Besides, she felt awful. She'd done more crying than sleeping since they camped, grieving more the fact that she hadn't known Wolf well enough to grieve him, and feeling sorry for those who really did grieve him, especially Kale. She wished he'd break down. It was horrible.
A brief temptation to lie to the wizards just to make them go away flashed through her mind--("Accident with a Change Self spell; it's only temporary")--but she found that the mere idea of prevaricating repulsed her more than the wizards did.
"I'm an aasimar. But I don't want to talk about it just at the moment." She gave a morose glance at Wolf's bier by way of explanation.
What I really want is a bath and some time alone. No, what I really want is a bath and some company. But gods, not wizards. Especially not wizards who were peering at her like they just discovered a new species of planar coleopteran.
"If you'll excuse me...." She realized suddenly what she did want more than anything, and with a hasty nod to the wizards she fled quickly over to where Sebastion Cornell stood with his horse.
"Er, Sebastion," she began timidly, aware how swollen and blue her eyes and nose must look, "would it bother you very much to give me a sword lesson today, when we have time?"
After a quick glance over her shoulder in hopes the wizards hadn't followed, she looked at Sebastion imploringly and added, "It would make me feel better."
Sebastion, for a moment, wondered if she were trying to say something else within the words, staring into her beguiling eyes for a moment, but there was nothing else obviously there. "Of course... a meal and a wash, and I will be ready when you are." he assured her, wondering where he'd heard the word 'beguiling'...
"Thank you... thank you!" Mel murmured, turning away to hide the flush of deep blue in her cheeks. If Sebastion Cornell knew how much she enjoyed their little sword lessons he would be scandalized, she was sure.
But the relief that he had accepted buoyed her courage. Indeed she'd feared a brief moment he would refuse, when he looked at her quizzically as if trying to understand why sword lessons were so important to her at a time like this. Now when the attempt to hide her blushing brought the wizards back into her line of sight she felt she could deal with them, holding the comforting thought that within a couple of hours she would have her lesson.
How cathartic it would be to feel the burn of straining muscle up the backs of her legs and across her shoulders, and how soothing to be doing something positive in the face of evil, particularly right now. And how nice, she thought, biting her lip in shame as she walked back to provide Wyshira some moral support, to feel one of Sebastion's hands splayed against the small of her back and the other gripping her wrist, even in such a cool--even martial--rapport. Of course he would be scandalized, mortified, possibly even "grossed out", as the Carthagian children used to put it, if he knew how much she was beginning to like him, in spite of his ascerbic temper and militaristic ambitions. She liked his deep-set, thoughtful eyes, and the sound of his words for Wolf turned over and over comfortingly in her mind. That's the life we've chosen, now. Let's try to live it like he did - well.
On the other hand, she knew it was just like her nitwitted self to foster secret affections for the one member of the group who didn't care if he hurt her feelings. Well, if she was one day to overcome her common-sense handicap, she would have to take the painful consequences in stride and learn from her errors. Or maybe that was just making up excuses....
At any rate, with a lesson in view, the cold pit of grief and fear in her gut grew tolerable, as became the scarcely polite, analytical stares of the pair of wizards. She drew up side-by-side with Wyshira, intent on making up for her rudeness and on showing some solidarity with the water genasi who had chosen to face a Solar Beholder just to keep Mel company.
First, though, she bent down and let Pierre (who was dry and beginning to chafe) out of her pocket. You can go to the fountain, but stay away from those machine-people, she instructed.
* * *
A few months ago, Wyshira wouldn't have given the scholars an opportunity to gawk at her; she would have entered the monastery hooded and cloaked to avoid notice. Somewhere along the line, she had stopped being concerned with keeping a low profile. She didn't mind the stares so much anymore either.
But she was annoyed by the questions, especially under the circumstances. She heaved a little sigh of impatience, although her manner remained polite and dignified. She didn't blame Melisande for running off at the first opportunity.
"I'm a water genasi," she explained. If they expected her to elaborate, they were going to be disappointed. She bowed her head slightly in their general direction, hoping they'd take that as a signal to go bother someone else. She went back to busily scanning her surroundings.
Where is that priest? She wanted to report their encounter with the Red Talons, and make arrangements for Wolf as soon as possible. She thought it might be possible that someone here had known him, and could even get word to his family.
The scholars evidently were undaunted by her brusque response and inattention to their other questions. But Mel had returned, and she seemed to be satisfying their curiosity by giving them a run-down of the crew's adventures in the Sarokeans so far. Wyshira saw the old men's eyes grow wide at mention of the Solar Beholderkin. That would give them something to think about! She caught Mel's eye, and smiled her thanks for taking over the conversation.
"Forgive me if I seemed rude," Melisande begged the wizard, straightening as Pierre sprang off in awkward eagerness. "We have indeed seen some troubles in the mountains, as you put it. It was a miracle we escaped the Solar Beholder down the ravine, but it was the bandits and Gilame
es who got us in the end. Fortunately, the bandits paid for our blood many times over and they're unlikely to attack anyone else this season as long as you have guards to make them think twice. "So, what kind of archeological site are you headed for?"
Oh no, why did I ask? I'm just sure he's going to say something about the Elder Gods or the Great Prophet....
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