ForceUser
Explorer
Travis shifted his weight uncomfortably and looked down at the table.
“Yes, that’s him.”
The priest nodded and draped the sheet back over the body. He was a short man with wispy strands of iron-gray hair sticking out over his ears. Candlelight reflected on his bald pate. He wore rust-red robes over a black cotton knee-length shirt, and around his neck lay a wooden mask painted white, which bore an expression of serenity. Travis idly wondered if the face was meant to be male or female. Male, he decided. He was pretty sure Rao was male.
Not that it mattered, of course. The gods could be whatever they wanted. They probably transcended something as trivial as gender, if you really wanted to get down to it. Transgender gods. Hmmm. Travis imagined Hextor in a corset and had to stifle a giggle. It came out as a snort.
The priest looked at him as if he were trying to decide if Travis was truly as upset as he’d led the acolytes to believe. After all, he had come in from the street early that morning claiming to be a close friend of the dead man.
Understanding the cleric’s scrutiny for what it was, Travis decided he’d better put a little effort into the act. On cue, his eyes filled with unshed tears. He hunched over and wrapped his arms tightly about his chest. As a finishing touch, he sniffled, as if to ward off unwanted emotion.
The priest relaxed and smiled understandingly. That’s better, thought Travis. “Unfortunately, Pelor’s church does not extend this far into the north. If you wish, however, we can bury this man as is fitting a servant of the gods. There is a representative of that faith, a Reverend Falco, who has offered to perform this man’s last rites in accordance with the traditions of that order. If you wish.” The cleric, radiating compassion, waited patiently.
Travis appeared to struggle with ordering his thoughts, then appeared to nod reluctantly. “Okay,” he said, “Rakahn would want that.” In truth, he couldn’t care less what became of Rakahn’s remains. The archer-priest had been stubborn and brash, and he’d been shined for it.
Moderation. That was the key to survival. Find a middle ground and stick to it. Rakahn hadn’t understood that and, well, there you go. There’s always a bigger fish.
Travis choked out a thank-you and turned to leave. “Wait!” exclaimed the priest, “your friend’s possessions. Do you want them?” Inwardly grinning, he turned around slowly, as if he had not considered what to do with his companion’s worldly things. “Well,” he began hesitantly, “I hadn’t really considered that.” He appeared to consider it. In truth, Rakahn’s money was already spent. It’s not like he needed it where he was. Wherever that was.
“Why don’t you keep his things, oh, except for the bow. It’s magic. I did speak to Reverend Falco earlier; he suggested that it could be donated to the Church of Heironeous. You know, for the war effort.” Travis had wanted to sell it, but couldn’t think of a good way to convince the others to do so. They were all mourning the fool. Oh well.
The priest nodded approvingly. “Of course, that can be done, if you wish it.”
“I do.”
“Very well. Will the departed’s coin also be donated?” The question appeared innocuous enough, but Travis saw a gleam in the man’s eye. Ah ha. Yes. He’s human after all.
Travis lied smoothly. “I’m sorry, no. Rakahn made me swear that if ever he were to fall, his money would be returned to his brothers’ pig farm in Keoland.” He appeared regretful.
The priest nodded, “Of course,” and placed a small, heavy bag in Travis’s hands. He chuckled to himself at the sigh hidden in the cleric’s words. Pig farm. As if. Rakahn had been Flan. They were hunters.
Thanking the clergyman again, Travis left the ruddy cell, following an acolyte back down to the street. The dazzling sun of Furyondy was particularly obnoxious that day. He pulled his hood down low and stepped out into the flow of carts and people along the busy temple lane.
As he wove his way back out of the crowded temple district of Chendl, he regarded his performance. Psychically, he drawled, ”Pretty good for off the cuff, eh?”
”No,” came the sullen reply from his psicrystal, which sat in his coat pocket. Since it was a liar, he knew the opposite to be true.
”The sky is a brilliant shade of blue today.”
”The sky is gray.”
”That harlot is lovely.”
”She’s a hag.”
”I am concerned by my methods sometimes.”
”You are a wonderful person.”
”True,” he replied. Content, he patted his pocket and carried on about his day.
***
The following day Travis joined his companions to witness Reverend Falco perform Rakahn’s funeral ceremony. It occurred precisely at noon in a sunny atrium in the heart of Rao’s temple. Attending, in addition to the company, were several priests and acolytes of the Serene God, and even a paladin of Heironeous, presumably as a gesture of respect for the donation of the dead man’s magic bow. Never let it be said that the Heironeans did not observe protocol. The service was short and meaningful and left Travis with a vague sense of hope, which annoyed him. He hated being preached at.
After the body was sanctified it was cremated, and the observers retired to an inner chamber laden with refreshments while the priest of the sun god collected the remains. The conversation was subdued; those present who knew Rakahn had not known him well, and the truth was that nobody knew where his family lived or how to contact them. That sort of put a damper on things. After a respectful amount of time the knight of Heironeous courteously excused himself. Most of the priests did as well, claiming duties they must attend to. A couple of the acolytes stayed, more for the food than anything else.
As usual it was Dera the sorceress, ever prim and proper, who asked him, “So, Travis, did you donate Rakahn’s things to the church?”
Irritated but refusing to show it, he smiled and said, “Yes. That knight came to say thanks for the bow.”
“I see.”
“Great!” Ignoring her, he turned to Garlok, the dwarf, and struck up a conversation about Rakahn’s fighting prowess. Garlok regaled him with the story of Rakahn’s part in Dera’s rescue some months ago from slavers, as if Travis hadn’t been there. No, wait. He had been Valentine back then. Or was it Gerome? Whatever.
The new guy, Erak something-or-other, scratched his mithril breastplate and laughed nervously at whatever prim thing Dera had just said. He had insisted on wearing it to the funeral. In fact, he wore it everywhere. Even to bed. Travis appreciated the man’s taste in armor but his personal habits were, well, strange at best. He didn’t sleep well and kept jumping at shadows. There was something off about Erak, but Travis was no judge of people; he spent too much time in character to analyze others. At least the man was good with a blade.
Mordecai, the druid from the Vesve, stood apart from the others and appeared deep in thought. No doubt wondering how he’d ended up in Chendl and taking work with a merchant lord who was decidedly working toward the cause of Good (with a capital “G.”) That probably went against some of his secret druid vows of noninterference. To his credit, though, Mordecai knew when to act and when to abstain. He was patient and cautious, and carefully weighed each situation before deciding where he stood. Travis admired that. Too bad he talked to trees.
Hearing footsteps coming from down the hall, Travis turned to notice that Dera had allowed her familiar, an owl named Tiki, to get into the punch. He was about to say something when Reverend Falco walked into the room carrying a small clay urn. Conversation stopped as everyone looked at the priest.
He smiled in a friendly sort of way and said, “Whom should I give this to?” Everyone looked at each other. Nobody said anything. Garlok decided that this would be a good time to dig for gold in the back of his trousers.
“Ah,” said the priest.
“Well…” someone began.
He held up a hand. “It’s okay, I’ve adventured before. You didn’t know him very well.”
“Not really,” said Mordecai.
“He was a brave warrior!” exclaimed Garlok, apparently satisfied with his pants. He stretched theatrically so he could sniff his hand without being obvious.
“I could ask Cardinal Tilmec if we could inter him here, in the catacombs.”
Dera wrinkled her nose in distaste. Travis said, “Sure, that sounds good.” The reverend nodded and turned to leave.
“Um, reverend?” Dera ventured. Seemingly without guile, she fluttered her eyelids and adopted a beseeching poise. She was a comely young woman, with radiant golden tresses that shimmered in waves down her back. To Travis’s knowledge, despite the fact that she had been betrothed three or four times, she was still a maiden. Right now she affected that popular maiden persona, the Damsel in Distress. Subtle, he thought wryly.
Reverend Falco met her eyes, lingered a bit too long, reddened, and said, “Call me Jon. What can I do for you?”
“Well, Jon, we were wondering…” she began. She wrung her hands together, glanced at the others, then back to the priest. “We have need for one who can heal. Our employer wishes us to travel to some far-off place for him. He says it’s necessary, but very dangerous. Do you suppose…perhaps you could come with us?” She finished brightly, upbeat like a schoolgirl, and Travis groaned to himself at the naivete.
“Well,” said the priest, “I don’t know. There’s the matter of Rakahn’s killers, and truthfully, I am on a quest of my own.”
“I see,” Dera replied, sounding crestfallen. She sighed loudly, and parts of her jiggled exquisitely when she did so. She wore white and beige silks, which clung in the right places about her lovely form.
The reverend reddened further and addressed the wall behind her head. “There’s no harm in speaking to your employer, I suppose. Perhaps it would be worth my while.”
Travis raised an eyebrow. Some men can’t say no to a pretty face, he decided.
They gave him the merchant’s name and address in the city and the priest agreed to meet them for dinner that evening.
”That went better than I expected,” Travis mused.
”He’ll betray you all,” declared the psicrystal.
Travis grinned and patted his pocket.
“Yes, that’s him.”
The priest nodded and draped the sheet back over the body. He was a short man with wispy strands of iron-gray hair sticking out over his ears. Candlelight reflected on his bald pate. He wore rust-red robes over a black cotton knee-length shirt, and around his neck lay a wooden mask painted white, which bore an expression of serenity. Travis idly wondered if the face was meant to be male or female. Male, he decided. He was pretty sure Rao was male.
Not that it mattered, of course. The gods could be whatever they wanted. They probably transcended something as trivial as gender, if you really wanted to get down to it. Transgender gods. Hmmm. Travis imagined Hextor in a corset and had to stifle a giggle. It came out as a snort.
The priest looked at him as if he were trying to decide if Travis was truly as upset as he’d led the acolytes to believe. After all, he had come in from the street early that morning claiming to be a close friend of the dead man.
Understanding the cleric’s scrutiny for what it was, Travis decided he’d better put a little effort into the act. On cue, his eyes filled with unshed tears. He hunched over and wrapped his arms tightly about his chest. As a finishing touch, he sniffled, as if to ward off unwanted emotion.
The priest relaxed and smiled understandingly. That’s better, thought Travis. “Unfortunately, Pelor’s church does not extend this far into the north. If you wish, however, we can bury this man as is fitting a servant of the gods. There is a representative of that faith, a Reverend Falco, who has offered to perform this man’s last rites in accordance with the traditions of that order. If you wish.” The cleric, radiating compassion, waited patiently.
Travis appeared to struggle with ordering his thoughts, then appeared to nod reluctantly. “Okay,” he said, “Rakahn would want that.” In truth, he couldn’t care less what became of Rakahn’s remains. The archer-priest had been stubborn and brash, and he’d been shined for it.
Moderation. That was the key to survival. Find a middle ground and stick to it. Rakahn hadn’t understood that and, well, there you go. There’s always a bigger fish.
Travis choked out a thank-you and turned to leave. “Wait!” exclaimed the priest, “your friend’s possessions. Do you want them?” Inwardly grinning, he turned around slowly, as if he had not considered what to do with his companion’s worldly things. “Well,” he began hesitantly, “I hadn’t really considered that.” He appeared to consider it. In truth, Rakahn’s money was already spent. It’s not like he needed it where he was. Wherever that was.
“Why don’t you keep his things, oh, except for the bow. It’s magic. I did speak to Reverend Falco earlier; he suggested that it could be donated to the Church of Heironeous. You know, for the war effort.” Travis had wanted to sell it, but couldn’t think of a good way to convince the others to do so. They were all mourning the fool. Oh well.
The priest nodded approvingly. “Of course, that can be done, if you wish it.”
“I do.”
“Very well. Will the departed’s coin also be donated?” The question appeared innocuous enough, but Travis saw a gleam in the man’s eye. Ah ha. Yes. He’s human after all.
Travis lied smoothly. “I’m sorry, no. Rakahn made me swear that if ever he were to fall, his money would be returned to his brothers’ pig farm in Keoland.” He appeared regretful.
The priest nodded, “Of course,” and placed a small, heavy bag in Travis’s hands. He chuckled to himself at the sigh hidden in the cleric’s words. Pig farm. As if. Rakahn had been Flan. They were hunters.
Thanking the clergyman again, Travis left the ruddy cell, following an acolyte back down to the street. The dazzling sun of Furyondy was particularly obnoxious that day. He pulled his hood down low and stepped out into the flow of carts and people along the busy temple lane.
As he wove his way back out of the crowded temple district of Chendl, he regarded his performance. Psychically, he drawled, ”Pretty good for off the cuff, eh?”
”No,” came the sullen reply from his psicrystal, which sat in his coat pocket. Since it was a liar, he knew the opposite to be true.
”The sky is a brilliant shade of blue today.”
”The sky is gray.”
”That harlot is lovely.”
”She’s a hag.”
”I am concerned by my methods sometimes.”
”You are a wonderful person.”
”True,” he replied. Content, he patted his pocket and carried on about his day.
***
The following day Travis joined his companions to witness Reverend Falco perform Rakahn’s funeral ceremony. It occurred precisely at noon in a sunny atrium in the heart of Rao’s temple. Attending, in addition to the company, were several priests and acolytes of the Serene God, and even a paladin of Heironeous, presumably as a gesture of respect for the donation of the dead man’s magic bow. Never let it be said that the Heironeans did not observe protocol. The service was short and meaningful and left Travis with a vague sense of hope, which annoyed him. He hated being preached at.
After the body was sanctified it was cremated, and the observers retired to an inner chamber laden with refreshments while the priest of the sun god collected the remains. The conversation was subdued; those present who knew Rakahn had not known him well, and the truth was that nobody knew where his family lived or how to contact them. That sort of put a damper on things. After a respectful amount of time the knight of Heironeous courteously excused himself. Most of the priests did as well, claiming duties they must attend to. A couple of the acolytes stayed, more for the food than anything else.
As usual it was Dera the sorceress, ever prim and proper, who asked him, “So, Travis, did you donate Rakahn’s things to the church?”
Irritated but refusing to show it, he smiled and said, “Yes. That knight came to say thanks for the bow.”
“I see.”
“Great!” Ignoring her, he turned to Garlok, the dwarf, and struck up a conversation about Rakahn’s fighting prowess. Garlok regaled him with the story of Rakahn’s part in Dera’s rescue some months ago from slavers, as if Travis hadn’t been there. No, wait. He had been Valentine back then. Or was it Gerome? Whatever.
The new guy, Erak something-or-other, scratched his mithril breastplate and laughed nervously at whatever prim thing Dera had just said. He had insisted on wearing it to the funeral. In fact, he wore it everywhere. Even to bed. Travis appreciated the man’s taste in armor but his personal habits were, well, strange at best. He didn’t sleep well and kept jumping at shadows. There was something off about Erak, but Travis was no judge of people; he spent too much time in character to analyze others. At least the man was good with a blade.
Mordecai, the druid from the Vesve, stood apart from the others and appeared deep in thought. No doubt wondering how he’d ended up in Chendl and taking work with a merchant lord who was decidedly working toward the cause of Good (with a capital “G.”) That probably went against some of his secret druid vows of noninterference. To his credit, though, Mordecai knew when to act and when to abstain. He was patient and cautious, and carefully weighed each situation before deciding where he stood. Travis admired that. Too bad he talked to trees.
Hearing footsteps coming from down the hall, Travis turned to notice that Dera had allowed her familiar, an owl named Tiki, to get into the punch. He was about to say something when Reverend Falco walked into the room carrying a small clay urn. Conversation stopped as everyone looked at the priest.
He smiled in a friendly sort of way and said, “Whom should I give this to?” Everyone looked at each other. Nobody said anything. Garlok decided that this would be a good time to dig for gold in the back of his trousers.
“Ah,” said the priest.
“Well…” someone began.
He held up a hand. “It’s okay, I’ve adventured before. You didn’t know him very well.”
“Not really,” said Mordecai.
“He was a brave warrior!” exclaimed Garlok, apparently satisfied with his pants. He stretched theatrically so he could sniff his hand without being obvious.
“I could ask Cardinal Tilmec if we could inter him here, in the catacombs.”
Dera wrinkled her nose in distaste. Travis said, “Sure, that sounds good.” The reverend nodded and turned to leave.
“Um, reverend?” Dera ventured. Seemingly without guile, she fluttered her eyelids and adopted a beseeching poise. She was a comely young woman, with radiant golden tresses that shimmered in waves down her back. To Travis’s knowledge, despite the fact that she had been betrothed three or four times, she was still a maiden. Right now she affected that popular maiden persona, the Damsel in Distress. Subtle, he thought wryly.
Reverend Falco met her eyes, lingered a bit too long, reddened, and said, “Call me Jon. What can I do for you?”
“Well, Jon, we were wondering…” she began. She wrung her hands together, glanced at the others, then back to the priest. “We have need for one who can heal. Our employer wishes us to travel to some far-off place for him. He says it’s necessary, but very dangerous. Do you suppose…perhaps you could come with us?” She finished brightly, upbeat like a schoolgirl, and Travis groaned to himself at the naivete.
“Well,” said the priest, “I don’t know. There’s the matter of Rakahn’s killers, and truthfully, I am on a quest of my own.”
“I see,” Dera replied, sounding crestfallen. She sighed loudly, and parts of her jiggled exquisitely when she did so. She wore white and beige silks, which clung in the right places about her lovely form.
The reverend reddened further and addressed the wall behind her head. “There’s no harm in speaking to your employer, I suppose. Perhaps it would be worth my while.”
Travis raised an eyebrow. Some men can’t say no to a pretty face, he decided.
They gave him the merchant’s name and address in the city and the priest agreed to meet them for dinner that evening.
”That went better than I expected,” Travis mused.
”He’ll betray you all,” declared the psicrystal.
Travis grinned and patted his pocket.
Last edited:
