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The Scars Run Deep (Updated - 3/29/2004)
- Thread starter Ruined
- Start date
Ruined
Explorer
8th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V., continued
Gerad heard Tréan’s scream, and saw that she had disappeared from the port railing. He had just looked at her moments before. Without hesitation, he ran to the other side. There was no sign of Tréan, but there was a mass of water and spume not far from the ship.
“Overboard!” he cried out, and dove into the water.
Surielle turned and watched Gerad leap from the boat. Her jaw dropped, trying to quickly assess what had happened. She looked back to Volanduros, who was also staring towards the front of the ship. In the torch gleam, she saw another figure: scaly and serpentine. It rose from the side of the ship, impossibly tall, with a length of spear in its grasp.
“Volanduros. Look out!”
From her warning, the elf narrowly dodged as the creature lunged at him with its spear. He looked at his enemy with disgust and then leapt from the wheel down to the main deck, leaving Surielle standing there. As he went, he called out to Mikkal: “Pisceans!”
Tréan, always the practical one, knew she was lost. She had not worn all of her armor, as she was on a ship, but she wore enough to slow down any attempts to swim. She could make it under normal circumstances, but her leg was pierced clean through, and still she was being dragged down.
She looked down the length of chain and gasped out a bubble of air at the piscean before her. It was reeling in the chain, and she swore she could see its teeth revealed in a wicked smile.
Suddenly the water exploded beside her, and Gerad was there. He looked at the enemy below, then turned back to the harpoon and fountain of blood. He gripped one end of it and looked at Tréan. She nodded and grasped the other end. Together they snapped the shaft of the harpoon and pulled it free from her leg. Tréan thought she could almost hear the roar from the piscean below.
Back aboard the Whispering Dragon, Surielle followed her instincts and went against every warning uttered by sailors. She said a devotion to Denev and caused her flame scythe to appear in her hands. She could see the piscean before her, its mottled black scales reflected in the firelight. The captain could run, but she and Snowmelt would not falter so easily. The piscean lashed out with its spear in a wide arc, ripping her forearm. Surielle could feel a sting there, much like saltwater on a cut. She dearly hoped it was not poisoned, for the sake of her companions.
She stepped forward, close to the edge where the piscean waited, and slashed the scythe through the creature. The flames sizzled across its body, causing steam to rise from its cracking scales. The beast roared out in agony and drew back from her. Snowmelt moved up beside Surielle, growling in anticipation of the piscean’s return.
Tréan and Gerad surfaced, immediately turning to look at the ship. Gerad saw two pisceans extending from the water upon long, serpentine tails, and some hint of flames on the deck.
“We can’t out-swim this one,” he said as he spat water from his mouth. Tréan knew he meant to swim back down and fight the piscean alone. She placed a hand on his shoulder, cautioning him to wait for a moment.
“May you fight with the strength of Her sun.” A fiery radiance briefly played over his form, and then dissipated as the bull’s strength took effect. Gerad drew his sword from his belt, took a deep breath, and dove back under.
“You will not fight it alone, Gerad,” Tréan said, and began moving her hands in a different pattern. Wounded and fighting to stay afloat, Trean persevered and reached for the glorious touch of her deity.
The tide had turned for Surielle and Snowmelt as the piscean landed punishing blows with its huge spear. She cursed the narrow design of the ship, which gave her precious little room to maneuver. The piscean coiled forward, still extending its torso above the Whispering Dragon. As it neared for another assault, Volanduros appeared from nowhere, hacking into its side with a sword of his own.
“I could use some help!”
“So can Mikkal! He fights one alone!”
Surielle looked beyond Valanduros to see Mikkal, who was using the web-like rigging to avoid the strikes of yet another piscean. And Gerad and Tréan were nowhere to be seen.
Gerad chided himself as he swam forward with sword in hand. These creatures were deadly and far more adept at underwater combat than a simple infantry soldier. All he hoped for was to buy Tréan some time to return to the ship and then he could worry about himself. He spotted the piscean advancing quickly from deep below. He dove down to meet it, feeling ill-prepared to fight in this environment. They traded blows, each scoring a wound that trailed dark blood in the murky waters. The creature was cunning, as it tried to wrap its coils around Gerad to drown him. He kicked away with his newfound strength, and landed another blow with his sword. Gerad’s lungs were starting to burn as he fought.
Both Gerad and the piscean were surprised to see a glowing spear manifest in the waters with them. He knew this was Tréan’s working. The foolish woman had not left the combat when she could. The piscean struck him twice more, but Gerad knew that he now held the advantage. He pressed, digging in deep with the sword and scoring it across the pisceans torso. It shuddered and then pushed away, hurtling deep into the dark waters below, trailing a cloud of ichor.
Surielle, Snowmelt, and Valanduros proved too much for the advancing piscean. When it moved aggressively towards one, the remaining two would close in and strike true. Valanduros took the final blow, burying his sword deep into the creature’s neck. Surielle wasted no time when she saw its death and moved to assist Mikkal.
She feared she was too late as he dropped from the rigging, but Mikkal landed upon his feet. His breaches were slick with blood, but still he fought on against the marauding piscean. As it moved with intent toward him, Surielle dove forward, scarring the flames of her scythe across its face. The piscean roared at the druid and gouged her firmly with the spear.
Surielle’s head swam, and beyond the immediate conflict, she could hear Valanduros yelling to drop anchor. Who was he yelling at? She and Mikkal were busy, and everyone else was gone. The piscean reached forward, grasping her by her neck with a clammy hand. All of a sudden, Surielle’s senses returned to her, and she plunged the flaming scythe directly into its chest. Its body sizzled and jerked, but she would not let go with the weapon. Finally, the piscean released its grip from her and slid quietly back into the river waters.
“What of my friends?” she asked as Valanduros moved up beside her.
“I’m sorry. They went overboard in the fray.”
She nodded, tears forming in her eyes. She stepped over to the railing, searching for something to say to her friends, when she noticed movement in the waters below.
“They’re close by! They’re in the water, and they’re alive!”
She also noticed a few sinister forms behind the Whispering Dragon a ways off. More pisceans, no doubt.
In quick order, Mikkal helped to pull Tréan and Gerad from the Broadreach while Valanduros unfurled the sails. As soon as they were aboard, the anchor was pulled and the ship began sailing north yet again. The pisceans were left behind, and the party sailed ahead in quiet horror.
Gerad heard Tréan’s scream, and saw that she had disappeared from the port railing. He had just looked at her moments before. Without hesitation, he ran to the other side. There was no sign of Tréan, but there was a mass of water and spume not far from the ship.
“Overboard!” he cried out, and dove into the water.
Surielle turned and watched Gerad leap from the boat. Her jaw dropped, trying to quickly assess what had happened. She looked back to Volanduros, who was also staring towards the front of the ship. In the torch gleam, she saw another figure: scaly and serpentine. It rose from the side of the ship, impossibly tall, with a length of spear in its grasp.
“Volanduros. Look out!”
From her warning, the elf narrowly dodged as the creature lunged at him with its spear. He looked at his enemy with disgust and then leapt from the wheel down to the main deck, leaving Surielle standing there. As he went, he called out to Mikkal: “Pisceans!”
Tréan, always the practical one, knew she was lost. She had not worn all of her armor, as she was on a ship, but she wore enough to slow down any attempts to swim. She could make it under normal circumstances, but her leg was pierced clean through, and still she was being dragged down.
She looked down the length of chain and gasped out a bubble of air at the piscean before her. It was reeling in the chain, and she swore she could see its teeth revealed in a wicked smile.
Suddenly the water exploded beside her, and Gerad was there. He looked at the enemy below, then turned back to the harpoon and fountain of blood. He gripped one end of it and looked at Tréan. She nodded and grasped the other end. Together they snapped the shaft of the harpoon and pulled it free from her leg. Tréan thought she could almost hear the roar from the piscean below.
Back aboard the Whispering Dragon, Surielle followed her instincts and went against every warning uttered by sailors. She said a devotion to Denev and caused her flame scythe to appear in her hands. She could see the piscean before her, its mottled black scales reflected in the firelight. The captain could run, but she and Snowmelt would not falter so easily. The piscean lashed out with its spear in a wide arc, ripping her forearm. Surielle could feel a sting there, much like saltwater on a cut. She dearly hoped it was not poisoned, for the sake of her companions.
She stepped forward, close to the edge where the piscean waited, and slashed the scythe through the creature. The flames sizzled across its body, causing steam to rise from its cracking scales. The beast roared out in agony and drew back from her. Snowmelt moved up beside Surielle, growling in anticipation of the piscean’s return.
Tréan and Gerad surfaced, immediately turning to look at the ship. Gerad saw two pisceans extending from the water upon long, serpentine tails, and some hint of flames on the deck.
“We can’t out-swim this one,” he said as he spat water from his mouth. Tréan knew he meant to swim back down and fight the piscean alone. She placed a hand on his shoulder, cautioning him to wait for a moment.
“May you fight with the strength of Her sun.” A fiery radiance briefly played over his form, and then dissipated as the bull’s strength took effect. Gerad drew his sword from his belt, took a deep breath, and dove back under.
“You will not fight it alone, Gerad,” Tréan said, and began moving her hands in a different pattern. Wounded and fighting to stay afloat, Trean persevered and reached for the glorious touch of her deity.
The tide had turned for Surielle and Snowmelt as the piscean landed punishing blows with its huge spear. She cursed the narrow design of the ship, which gave her precious little room to maneuver. The piscean coiled forward, still extending its torso above the Whispering Dragon. As it neared for another assault, Volanduros appeared from nowhere, hacking into its side with a sword of his own.
“I could use some help!”
“So can Mikkal! He fights one alone!”
Surielle looked beyond Valanduros to see Mikkal, who was using the web-like rigging to avoid the strikes of yet another piscean. And Gerad and Tréan were nowhere to be seen.
Gerad chided himself as he swam forward with sword in hand. These creatures were deadly and far more adept at underwater combat than a simple infantry soldier. All he hoped for was to buy Tréan some time to return to the ship and then he could worry about himself. He spotted the piscean advancing quickly from deep below. He dove down to meet it, feeling ill-prepared to fight in this environment. They traded blows, each scoring a wound that trailed dark blood in the murky waters. The creature was cunning, as it tried to wrap its coils around Gerad to drown him. He kicked away with his newfound strength, and landed another blow with his sword. Gerad’s lungs were starting to burn as he fought.
Both Gerad and the piscean were surprised to see a glowing spear manifest in the waters with them. He knew this was Tréan’s working. The foolish woman had not left the combat when she could. The piscean struck him twice more, but Gerad knew that he now held the advantage. He pressed, digging in deep with the sword and scoring it across the pisceans torso. It shuddered and then pushed away, hurtling deep into the dark waters below, trailing a cloud of ichor.
Surielle, Snowmelt, and Valanduros proved too much for the advancing piscean. When it moved aggressively towards one, the remaining two would close in and strike true. Valanduros took the final blow, burying his sword deep into the creature’s neck. Surielle wasted no time when she saw its death and moved to assist Mikkal.
She feared she was too late as he dropped from the rigging, but Mikkal landed upon his feet. His breaches were slick with blood, but still he fought on against the marauding piscean. As it moved with intent toward him, Surielle dove forward, scarring the flames of her scythe across its face. The piscean roared at the druid and gouged her firmly with the spear.
Surielle’s head swam, and beyond the immediate conflict, she could hear Valanduros yelling to drop anchor. Who was he yelling at? She and Mikkal were busy, and everyone else was gone. The piscean reached forward, grasping her by her neck with a clammy hand. All of a sudden, Surielle’s senses returned to her, and she plunged the flaming scythe directly into its chest. Its body sizzled and jerked, but she would not let go with the weapon. Finally, the piscean released its grip from her and slid quietly back into the river waters.
“What of my friends?” she asked as Valanduros moved up beside her.
“I’m sorry. They went overboard in the fray.”
She nodded, tears forming in her eyes. She stepped over to the railing, searching for something to say to her friends, when she noticed movement in the waters below.
“They’re close by! They’re in the water, and they’re alive!”
She also noticed a few sinister forms behind the Whispering Dragon a ways off. More pisceans, no doubt.
In quick order, Mikkal helped to pull Tréan and Gerad from the Broadreach while Valanduros unfurled the sails. As soon as they were aboard, the anchor was pulled and the ship began sailing north yet again. The pisceans were left behind, and the party sailed ahead in quiet horror.
Last edited:
Ruined
Explorer
10th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V.
The Hunting Owl tavern boasted the best meals, liveliest entertainment, and softest beds in all of the Heteronomy of Virduk. Surielle hoped that the claims were false, or the entirety of the country would be a quite unpleasant place to stay.
She knew she was bitter. Now that they had achieved their goal and traveled north out of Zathiske, the task of finding an unknown wizard seemed beyond reach. None had heard of Kelkarrin, or any wizards of renown in these lands. She was sure they would have heard some fantastic rumors spread by the villagers, yet the locals had remained as quiet as the red-and-gold amulet suspended from her neck
After a brief shoring in the ports of Calas, the Whispering Dragon had journeyed to Three Moons as promised. It was a sad farewell to Valanduros and Mikkal, with Tréan taking it the hardest. Surielle hadn’t asked, but Tréan seemed to truly take comfort in the presence of other elves. There was some unspoken issue with her heritage, but it had never come up in conversation.
“I am lost as to our next course,” Tréan said. “I’m concerned for Helena, and I don’t know where we should turn from here.” Surielle nodded to show that she felt the same.
Gerad returned from the bar with an odd look on his face. Surielle stiffened; she had heard the horror stories of the previous bar fight from Tréan. She hoped that he wasn’t about to start another.
“Ladies, do you see that young gentleman by the bar?”
Both women looked. A thin young man dressed in ill-fitting pantaloons and a gaudy vest watched them from the bar. Surielle recognized him as the bard who was performing when they first entered the Hunting Owl. He was quite bad at his craft, reading his long-winded poems that didn’t follow any rhyming form she could recognize. *
“Yes, the bard.” Surielle said, glumly looking in the bottom of her cup for more mead.
“Right,” Gerad continued. “His name is Barrett. It’s hard to believe, but he claims to know a tale about Kelkarrin.”
Both of the women straightened immediately.
“Are you sure? He wasn’t lying to get a coin?” Gerad shrugged, unwilling to put faith in the man’s words. Quickly they offered him to come sit with them at their table. Barrett was quite nervous and fidgety, as much from the attractive women as he was from the threat of a paid performance.
“You said you had heard a tale of Kelkarrin?”
“Yes. Something old I had heard my father recite when I was a child. I don’t usually perform it, as I’m trying to achieve a different…” Gerad motioned him on, apparently having heard the lengthy story before. Barrett blushed, and then spoke again.
“It takes place in Oakdale, a smaller village over to the east just outside of the Hornsaw. I tried to perform it there, but those who listened told me it was a tall tale, that they’ve never heard of a Kelkarrin.”
“We would love to hear your tale,” Surielle said, consciously batting her eyelashes and leaning in close to him. The effect was instantaneous. Barrett nervously nodded and looked around the room. He cleared his throat and began to recite the tale of old.
The Grand Mage Kelkarrin
We start with a tale of Oakdale,
Far too close to danger’s maw,
The village had its share of troubles,
It lay south of the deadly Hornsaw.
A town of humans and halflings,
From Three Moons and Calas’ dell,
And one citzen of note,
the mage Kelkarrin as well,
The council was proud of their patron,
A distinguished magister true,
Yet his time was spent in his tower,
And not at the parties they threw,
Few saw him leave the tower,
His home seemed more of a cage,
The townsfolk simply nodded to themselves,
Who can fathom the ways of a mage?
The evils of the Blood Monsoon
Poisoned the waters of poor Oakdale
And the Council turned to Kelkarrin,
In hopes that magic would prevail,
Kelkarrin would not aid the village,
For it was not the path he would choose,
The Council was not pleased by this,
But there was little that they could do,
Oakdale survived the monsoon,
After numbers were lost to the drought.
The city now started to prosper,
Until the Wasting Sickness came about.
Once again they sought Kelkarrin,
Still a recluse, aloof and alone,
Yet no assistance would he offer,
And Oakdale was left to its own,
Years passed and Oakdale lived on,
Through several of winter’s first thaw,
Until a messenger came bearing wounds
And news from the deadly Hornsaw
The gorgons were massing their borders,
Unitaurs and goblins behind,
Sure to destroy all of Oakdale,
The halflings and all of their kind,
Some thought to turn to Kelkarrin,
But the Council said not to waste breath.
The past had taught them their lesson,
He would not save them from death.
The militia stood ready and firm,
As titanspawn approached by the hour,
And all hope was lost for Oakdale,
Until one man emerged from his tower,
“I would not assist you before,
When you could prevail on your own,
Yet this threat is beyond your power,
And I will not let them destroy our home.”
With that he called down great fires,
And lightning and rains that burned,
He sundered the ground before him,
And quickly the tide was turned.
Kelkarrin was grim and silent,
As the magnificent slaughter was done,
Oakdale praised their protector,
But on the next day Kelkarrin was gone,
His tower disappeared overnight,
And not a soul could follow his trail,
No one knows what happened to Kelkarrin,
But he never returned to Oakdale.
The group sat stunned by his performance. While Barrett was unsure of himself in the earlier poems, this tale was recited with growing conviction and strength. Indeed, when his tale was done, the entire bar was silent, having been drawn in by his words.
Surielle let go of a breath she had been holding and smiled. It still seemed a needle in a haystack the size of Ghelspad, but she had the growing sense that they were nearing their destination, guided by the hands of fate.
* the Bard was actually doing verse in his new experimental form – something very close to iambic pentameter. Not a crowd favorite at the time.
The Hunting Owl tavern boasted the best meals, liveliest entertainment, and softest beds in all of the Heteronomy of Virduk. Surielle hoped that the claims were false, or the entirety of the country would be a quite unpleasant place to stay.
She knew she was bitter. Now that they had achieved their goal and traveled north out of Zathiske, the task of finding an unknown wizard seemed beyond reach. None had heard of Kelkarrin, or any wizards of renown in these lands. She was sure they would have heard some fantastic rumors spread by the villagers, yet the locals had remained as quiet as the red-and-gold amulet suspended from her neck
After a brief shoring in the ports of Calas, the Whispering Dragon had journeyed to Three Moons as promised. It was a sad farewell to Valanduros and Mikkal, with Tréan taking it the hardest. Surielle hadn’t asked, but Tréan seemed to truly take comfort in the presence of other elves. There was some unspoken issue with her heritage, but it had never come up in conversation.
“I am lost as to our next course,” Tréan said. “I’m concerned for Helena, and I don’t know where we should turn from here.” Surielle nodded to show that she felt the same.
Gerad returned from the bar with an odd look on his face. Surielle stiffened; she had heard the horror stories of the previous bar fight from Tréan. She hoped that he wasn’t about to start another.
“Ladies, do you see that young gentleman by the bar?”
Both women looked. A thin young man dressed in ill-fitting pantaloons and a gaudy vest watched them from the bar. Surielle recognized him as the bard who was performing when they first entered the Hunting Owl. He was quite bad at his craft, reading his long-winded poems that didn’t follow any rhyming form she could recognize. *
“Yes, the bard.” Surielle said, glumly looking in the bottom of her cup for more mead.
“Right,” Gerad continued. “His name is Barrett. It’s hard to believe, but he claims to know a tale about Kelkarrin.”
Both of the women straightened immediately.
“Are you sure? He wasn’t lying to get a coin?” Gerad shrugged, unwilling to put faith in the man’s words. Quickly they offered him to come sit with them at their table. Barrett was quite nervous and fidgety, as much from the attractive women as he was from the threat of a paid performance.
“You said you had heard a tale of Kelkarrin?”
“Yes. Something old I had heard my father recite when I was a child. I don’t usually perform it, as I’m trying to achieve a different…” Gerad motioned him on, apparently having heard the lengthy story before. Barrett blushed, and then spoke again.
“It takes place in Oakdale, a smaller village over to the east just outside of the Hornsaw. I tried to perform it there, but those who listened told me it was a tall tale, that they’ve never heard of a Kelkarrin.”
“We would love to hear your tale,” Surielle said, consciously batting her eyelashes and leaning in close to him. The effect was instantaneous. Barrett nervously nodded and looked around the room. He cleared his throat and began to recite the tale of old.
The Grand Mage Kelkarrin
We start with a tale of Oakdale,
Far too close to danger’s maw,
The village had its share of troubles,
It lay south of the deadly Hornsaw.
A town of humans and halflings,
From Three Moons and Calas’ dell,
And one citzen of note,
the mage Kelkarrin as well,
Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.
The council was proud of their patron,
A distinguished magister true,
Yet his time was spent in his tower,
And not at the parties they threw,
Few saw him leave the tower,
His home seemed more of a cage,
The townsfolk simply nodded to themselves,
Who can fathom the ways of a mage?
The Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.
The evils of the Blood Monsoon
Poisoned the waters of poor Oakdale
And the Council turned to Kelkarrin,
In hopes that magic would prevail,
Kelkarrin would not aid the village,
For it was not the path he would choose,
The Council was not pleased by this,
But there was little that they could do,
Aloof Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.
Oakdale survived the monsoon,
After numbers were lost to the drought.
The city now started to prosper,
Until the Wasting Sickness came about.
Once again they sought Kelkarrin,
Still a recluse, aloof and alone,
Yet no assistance would he offer,
And Oakdale was left to its own,
Selfish Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.
Years passed and Oakdale lived on,
Through several of winter’s first thaw,
Until a messenger came bearing wounds
And news from the deadly Hornsaw
The gorgons were massing their borders,
Unitaurs and goblins behind,
Sure to destroy all of Oakdale,
The halflings and all of their kind,
Some thought to turn to Kelkarrin,
But the Council said not to waste breath.
The past had taught them their lesson,
He would not save them from death.
The militia stood ready and firm,
As titanspawn approached by the hour,
And all hope was lost for Oakdale,
Until one man emerged from his tower,
“I would not assist you before,
When you could prevail on your own,
Yet this threat is beyond your power,
And I will not let them destroy our home.”
With that he called down great fires,
And lightning and rains that burned,
He sundered the ground before him,
And quickly the tide was turned.
Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale remembers thee.
Kelkarrin was grim and silent,
As the magnificent slaughter was done,
Oakdale praised their protector,
But on the next day Kelkarrin was gone,
His tower disappeared overnight,
And not a soul could follow his trail,
No one knows what happened to Kelkarrin,
But he never returned to Oakdale.
Grand Mage Kelkarrin, Oakdale has forgotten thee.
The group sat stunned by his performance. While Barrett was unsure of himself in the earlier poems, this tale was recited with growing conviction and strength. Indeed, when his tale was done, the entire bar was silent, having been drawn in by his words.
Surielle let go of a breath she had been holding and smiled. It still seemed a needle in a haystack the size of Ghelspad, but she had the growing sense that they were nearing their destination, guided by the hands of fate.
* the Bard was actually doing verse in his new experimental form – something very close to iambic pentameter. Not a crowd favorite at the time.
Ruined
Explorer
11th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V.
“So you’ll be leaving us this day?”
Tréan looked up at Madame Sonja, the aging priestess of Madriel. The woman had been kind enough to allow the three companions to stay in her house for the night. She had plenty of room, as her children had moved on and she herself was a widow. In turn, they had helped as they could with chores around the house.
“Yes, ma’am.” Tréan was packing the satchel she had acquired in Quelsk. It was a symbol of her flight from her former life, and one she would gladly rid herself of.
“A shame,” Sonja said thoughtfully. “I was enjoying the company.”
Tréan felt the same way. It was comforting to be in a calm town like this, with people she felt she could trust. But who knew how far behind the various soldiers, assassins and bounty hunters were? Surielle, Gerad and she had arranged to travel to Oakdale with petitioners that had come to the church in Three Moons. Sonja had told them that some of the faithful would travel every week to worship at this particular temple. A temple should probably be established in Oakdale, but Sonja joked that it kept her spirits lively to see so many parishioners.
“I would not want to pry, Tréan, but you seem troubled. How long has it been since you’ve spoken with another priestess?”
“A good while.” Tréan said, and slowly sat upon the bed.
Her willpower and resolve shattered that easily. She told Sonja everything from the assassination of the Satrap to their flight along the Broadreach River. Tréan stressed that she and her friends had no part in the murder of the Satrap, no matter what rumors rose from the South. It was a relief to confide in Sonja. Trean knew the healing power of the Alcunari, a different yet effective kind of confession employed by the church of Madriel.
Sonja was silent for a minute, absorbing Tréan’s words.
“At times, I wish my calling was simpler, such as what you have here,” Tréan said.
“Simpler?” Sonja chuckled. “Think of where Three Moons lies, child. This is one of the closest villages to Glivid-Autel.”
Tréan sat back. The name of the renegade city of necromancers was reviled among the Order of the Morning Sky. Stories always emerged of victims stolen from within the Hornsaw Forest and taken for eternal servitude in that foul city. Among the people of Ghelspad, many thought the horrors to be tales meant to scare children, but those who served Madriel knew the truth. Glivid-Autel was an abomination.
“I must watch everything that transpires in this countryside and report it to my superiors. It is not nearly as simple as you would believe.”
“I meant no offense…”
Sonja’s hand was quick to move and comfort Tréan.
“Of course not dear, and none was taken. I just want you to know that your burden may seem too heavy at times, but the calling is just. No matter how much it pains you at the time. We serve the people, and they must rely on us.
“Thank you,” Tréan said. She thought for a moment, then turned to question Sonja. “How did you know that I held so many secrets? I know I’m no accomplished liar, but I can ill afford to appear so obvious to others…”
Sonja smiled. “Your friend Surielle told me. She was worried for your conscience.”
“So you’ll be leaving us this day?”
Tréan looked up at Madame Sonja, the aging priestess of Madriel. The woman had been kind enough to allow the three companions to stay in her house for the night. She had plenty of room, as her children had moved on and she herself was a widow. In turn, they had helped as they could with chores around the house.
“Yes, ma’am.” Tréan was packing the satchel she had acquired in Quelsk. It was a symbol of her flight from her former life, and one she would gladly rid herself of.
“A shame,” Sonja said thoughtfully. “I was enjoying the company.”
Tréan felt the same way. It was comforting to be in a calm town like this, with people she felt she could trust. But who knew how far behind the various soldiers, assassins and bounty hunters were? Surielle, Gerad and she had arranged to travel to Oakdale with petitioners that had come to the church in Three Moons. Sonja had told them that some of the faithful would travel every week to worship at this particular temple. A temple should probably be established in Oakdale, but Sonja joked that it kept her spirits lively to see so many parishioners.
“I would not want to pry, Tréan, but you seem troubled. How long has it been since you’ve spoken with another priestess?”
“A good while.” Tréan said, and slowly sat upon the bed.
Her willpower and resolve shattered that easily. She told Sonja everything from the assassination of the Satrap to their flight along the Broadreach River. Tréan stressed that she and her friends had no part in the murder of the Satrap, no matter what rumors rose from the South. It was a relief to confide in Sonja. Trean knew the healing power of the Alcunari, a different yet effective kind of confession employed by the church of Madriel.
Sonja was silent for a minute, absorbing Tréan’s words.
“At times, I wish my calling was simpler, such as what you have here,” Tréan said.
“Simpler?” Sonja chuckled. “Think of where Three Moons lies, child. This is one of the closest villages to Glivid-Autel.”
Tréan sat back. The name of the renegade city of necromancers was reviled among the Order of the Morning Sky. Stories always emerged of victims stolen from within the Hornsaw Forest and taken for eternal servitude in that foul city. Among the people of Ghelspad, many thought the horrors to be tales meant to scare children, but those who served Madriel knew the truth. Glivid-Autel was an abomination.
“I must watch everything that transpires in this countryside and report it to my superiors. It is not nearly as simple as you would believe.”
“I meant no offense…”
Sonja’s hand was quick to move and comfort Tréan.
“Of course not dear, and none was taken. I just want you to know that your burden may seem too heavy at times, but the calling is just. No matter how much it pains you at the time. We serve the people, and they must rely on us.
“Thank you,” Tréan said. She thought for a moment, then turned to question Sonja. “How did you know that I held so many secrets? I know I’m no accomplished liar, but I can ill afford to appear so obvious to others…”
Sonja smiled. “Your friend Surielle told me. She was worried for your conscience.”
Ruined
Explorer
Ruined
Explorer
12th of Chardot, yr. 150 A.V.
Rising above a countryside of cultivated vineyards was the quiet hamlet of Oakdale. An occasional tree broke the horizon, but most of the terrain had been converted to arable land. Numerous villagers worked through the rows of plants in search of succulent grapes for the day’s haul.
Gerad sighed to himself as they neared Oakdale. They were following a forgotten tale in search of a man who was last seen sixty years ago. Normally, he would never have followed such a fool’s errand, but he would honor the dying request of his friend Marus. Men worthy of respect were hard to come by in Gerad’s current lifestyle – he would not forget one easily.
They broke from the group of parishioners, wishing them well as they ventured into the city. Up the road, the first building they neared was a large stable. A manure-stained man rested against the outer wall, studying the group as they approached. His face seemed to droop when he saw that they had no horses to stable.
“Greetings to ya,” the man said as he stood, wiping his hands on his grimy breeches.
“Greetings, sir. Where could we find a good inn for the night?” Tréan asked.
The man sucked air through his teeth and wrinkled his nose, apparently deep in thought. His eyes played across the three humans and the wolf, sizing them up.
“Well, ya could try the Hilltop Inn. It’s dead center of the town. Good enough folk there. Ya folks staying for a while?”
“We might be,” said Gerad.
“That should do ya. Name’s Tobus Blackwater.”
“Good to meet you,” Gerad said, reluctantly extending his hand to the man. Gerad was careful not to reveal their names; there had been many conversations about maintaining secrecy on the remainder of their quest. The last thing he needed was another lecture from Tréan.
“If’n ya need horses or anything, just come find me.”
Again he punctuated his sentences with that sucking sound. Gerad wondered if the women found Blackwater as distasteful as he did.
“We’ll be sure to do that,” Gerad said. And then they were on their way.
Following Blackwater’s directions, the group ventured into the heart of Oakdale to the Hilltop Inn and found it to be a comfortable respite from the summer heat. The proprietors, Erich and Artur Thimbledown, were halfling brothers who served up wonderful foodstuffs while constantly bickering with one another. The meals were plentiful, and the ale flowed freely. As Gerad feared, however, no one seemed to know of a mage named Kelkarrin. He felt fortunate that the brothers remembered Barrett, the young bard that had told them the tale.
“Bah!” Artur Thimbledown said. “I remember that boy. He was the worst minstrel we ever heard.”
“Couldn’t even rhyme,” Erich chimed in from down the bar. Artur frowned at his brother’s interruption.
“The one good tale he could tell was full of lies and untruths about our beloved town.”
“So the parts about the wizard – ” Gerad started.
“Hogwash and claptrap, I tell you. Yes, Oakdale has weathered raids from the Hornsaw and the like, but we never had no wizard to come help us.”
“Didn’t need one, either!” said Erich.
“Shut your hole and get back to the stoves!” Artur yelled.
Gerad politely stepped back from the bar, allowing the brothers to continue their argument. He returned to the table and informed Surielle and Tréan of the news. Even the antics of the Thimbledown brothers couldn’t lift their spirits now. They eventually decided that more could be learned after a good night’s rest.
As the group retired to their cozy rooms upstairs, an unobtrusive patron slid down from a barstool and made his way into the night.
Rising above a countryside of cultivated vineyards was the quiet hamlet of Oakdale. An occasional tree broke the horizon, but most of the terrain had been converted to arable land. Numerous villagers worked through the rows of plants in search of succulent grapes for the day’s haul.
Gerad sighed to himself as they neared Oakdale. They were following a forgotten tale in search of a man who was last seen sixty years ago. Normally, he would never have followed such a fool’s errand, but he would honor the dying request of his friend Marus. Men worthy of respect were hard to come by in Gerad’s current lifestyle – he would not forget one easily.
They broke from the group of parishioners, wishing them well as they ventured into the city. Up the road, the first building they neared was a large stable. A manure-stained man rested against the outer wall, studying the group as they approached. His face seemed to droop when he saw that they had no horses to stable.
“Greetings to ya,” the man said as he stood, wiping his hands on his grimy breeches.
“Greetings, sir. Where could we find a good inn for the night?” Tréan asked.
The man sucked air through his teeth and wrinkled his nose, apparently deep in thought. His eyes played across the three humans and the wolf, sizing them up.
“Well, ya could try the Hilltop Inn. It’s dead center of the town. Good enough folk there. Ya folks staying for a while?”
“We might be,” said Gerad.
“That should do ya. Name’s Tobus Blackwater.”
“Good to meet you,” Gerad said, reluctantly extending his hand to the man. Gerad was careful not to reveal their names; there had been many conversations about maintaining secrecy on the remainder of their quest. The last thing he needed was another lecture from Tréan.
“If’n ya need horses or anything, just come find me.”
Again he punctuated his sentences with that sucking sound. Gerad wondered if the women found Blackwater as distasteful as he did.
“We’ll be sure to do that,” Gerad said. And then they were on their way.
Following Blackwater’s directions, the group ventured into the heart of Oakdale to the Hilltop Inn and found it to be a comfortable respite from the summer heat. The proprietors, Erich and Artur Thimbledown, were halfling brothers who served up wonderful foodstuffs while constantly bickering with one another. The meals were plentiful, and the ale flowed freely. As Gerad feared, however, no one seemed to know of a mage named Kelkarrin. He felt fortunate that the brothers remembered Barrett, the young bard that had told them the tale.
“Bah!” Artur Thimbledown said. “I remember that boy. He was the worst minstrel we ever heard.”
“Couldn’t even rhyme,” Erich chimed in from down the bar. Artur frowned at his brother’s interruption.
“The one good tale he could tell was full of lies and untruths about our beloved town.”
“So the parts about the wizard – ” Gerad started.
“Hogwash and claptrap, I tell you. Yes, Oakdale has weathered raids from the Hornsaw and the like, but we never had no wizard to come help us.”
“Didn’t need one, either!” said Erich.
“Shut your hole and get back to the stoves!” Artur yelled.
Gerad politely stepped back from the bar, allowing the brothers to continue their argument. He returned to the table and informed Surielle and Tréan of the news. Even the antics of the Thimbledown brothers couldn’t lift their spirits now. They eventually decided that more could be learned after a good night’s rest.
As the group retired to their cozy rooms upstairs, an unobtrusive patron slid down from a barstool and made his way into the night.
Ruined
Explorer
Carnifex said:Wow! I didn't know the people of the Scarred Lands had already discovered tarmac!
Heh, yeah. Well, I love some of the pics on Nat'l Geo. So what if they're a bit more modern? It's not like I have people lining up to draw pics for my games or anything.
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