[5E] The Kalarian Precipice - Chapter One

[97mg]

Otiroth & Metea:

Otiroth & Metea: The girl giggles and blushes a little at the Tiefling’s kind words.

“I’m Dira and I’m almost eight,” she states proudly before looking up to her father once more. “Can we?”

He considers the offer to walk with this oddly unique pair, and decides that little harm could come from it. They are clearly at a different end of Marix’s extremes, and today is a day for sharing.

“Indeed,” he says to Otiroth. “Most of our travel has been lonely and tiresome. If you’d like to walk with us a way you are most welcome.”

He introduces himself as Arrol with a small bow, a worker of earth at the northern reaches of Cillat. A quiet place of flat pastures and mountain rains. Not exactly scenic by any accounts, but perfect for the cultivation of hardy root-vegetables. An honest life.

As they walk, Dira’s eyes often drift to the tailed lady. An innocent kind of envy.

“We should ask if they’ve seen one,” Dira eventually suggests, though she does not wait for a father's approval. "So many legs, but leaves its skin behind. We don't leave the doors or windows open any more."

 

[97mg]

Carthum & Dain

Carthum & Dain: Quietly enjoying the gamey flavor of your snacks, it seems only Dain is able to multitask as this moment. Then again, the crowds are large and varied, so much to absorb as you admire the scene and patiently wait.

The running woman becomes a prominent feature in Dain’s view of things. A slender lass with a brown blouse and a dark skirt, darting between seated picnicking fast-breakers, nudging around other’s standing and staring at the tower, it is clear to you that she is nimble on foot, an excellent judge of distances, and also in a great hurry! Behind this grasshopper of a girl some morning-goers stand and point her way. Then one nearer you calls out, “that way!”

Within the chaotic stew of people another form cuts through the flock. Being tall he is much easier to spot, arms pumping as he tries to match her speed, probably frustratingly as she edges further and further away from his pursuit. Quite likely a guardsman. You catch a reflection of light off the hilt of a sheathed blade. A yellow belt around his waist confirms your suspicions. He is a servant of the councilors in one form or another.

<It looks like the woman will be at the edge of the audience shortly, probably by the time my next post comes around.>

 

[97mg]

Ether: Somewhere

Long shallow breaths.

Still, cept for the rise and fall of a chest and the slow beat of a heart.

Eyes fixed.

The kindred had chosen, and once complete the circle would break. A snake, gnawing the tip of its own tail, would end the self-destruction, look aside and view the weak as prey once more.

One simple act rehearsed a hundredfold, but in truth reality is never the same twice, and nor would this be quite as instructed…

To pass these final moments he reflected on an old song, a friend's favorite.

“To far depths their wisdom did go,
soiling the magnificent with density of lies.
Forward and retreat the darkness does flow,
and the few who know,
tear away the disguise.”

 

[Metea]

Metea: Exotic Wares

"Well, it is good to meet you, Dira. I am Metea- and my friend here is Otiroth," the tiefling replied.

It was shaping up to be a good day, and all thoughts of being late for another meeting were lost under the new distraction of making both herself and her sorcerer friend look good in front of these out-of-towners. City hospitality, right?

As they walked, weaving between excited crowds with their eyes fixed on the tower, Metea listened to Dira with the sincerity that such dire proclamations required. Perhaps she was humoring the girl a little, but less so than she had been Otiroth. "They sound horrible," Metea agreed. "They shed their skin- like a snake? A snake with legs?"

Maybe Dira's father had a more direct description?

She had been copying books recently, and while the words were something she usually let drift away, the illuminations by older clerics and scribes stuck with her a bit more. Some of them were of fantastical beasts, and those images played in the back of her head as she listened.

 

[Otiroth]

Otiroth: Exotic Wares

This was going well! At least, it seemed to be. "Those don't sound like any creatures I've heard of," Otiroth admitted, though he'd rack his memory. "But, they're going after people too? What do the guards say?"

Or, more importantly, what did the farmer think they were?

It was hard to keep completely casual, while they lingered so close to some decent information. Otiroth could not resist trying to press for a little more information. If nobody recognized what these beasts were... they could be magical in some way.

The idea that he'd stumbled upon something that 'only the Burning Rose' could fix was a pretty enticing idea... even if every new recruit to the Rose probably thought they had stumbled upon the same thing when they first started, too.

 

[daindarkspring]

Dain - The Grove

Dain's intense interest in the proclamations from the great tower was interrupted by the woman weaving through the crowd, and even more by the man who chased her. The armed man. The Guardsman. Glancing over at his half-orc lunch companion, Dain did not think he had noticed the chase that was underway. He couldn't entirely blame him: the goat jerky was fairly incredible.

Essithea...what happens here?

Standing up slowly, Dain slipped his pack from his shoulders and lay it down. His eyes were now firmly fixed on the woman about to emerge from the crowd. Honestly, he wasn't sure what he was going to do, but something inside of him burned with the desire to do 'something'. This desire almost felt like a memory, and that stirred him up even more. His body tensed with anticipation, and he was keenly aware of the weight of his sword that was currently sheathed and on his back for ease of walking.

"I believe we may have a situation, my friend." Dain spoke somewhat quietly, but with the current hush that was over the crowd, with only the occasional forced word from the tower to broach it, it was audible enough if one was paying any kind of attention. "Perhaps your goddess can direct you?"

 

[Carthum One-Tusk]

Carthum One-Tusk: The Grove

Metea was not coming. Again! He had forgiven her before, when she had missed his ordaining ceremony. Said she had had something very important to do. And he had believed her. But again? Carthum grumbled something under his breath, taking another bite of goat meat. He might not need the boost the dark wanderer implied, but he could use a bit of meaty comfort food to take his mind off of things.

Of course, Dain alerted him a moment later. Carthum set his jaw. "Suru speaks that we should defend the weak and the innocent," he replied.

The guards were generally righteous, or so he had been taught, but Carthum had experienced some trouble with them before. And he'd heard rumors, about their training grounds and the violence they encouraged there. This guard might have a true reason to be chasing this woman- with a sword. Or she could have cast a cantrip and been flagged for death because of it.

"Come- it would not suit us to stand idle. I will talk to the guard- you, the woman?" Carthum suggested.

He wouldn't really wait for a response from Dain, for even Carthum realized his plan was probably a foolish one, and had little chance of working. Still, it was the festival. Anything short of murder could perhaps walk as a learning experience.

"Brave knight!" Carthum closed on the guard he had spotted, ignoring most everyone else. He, of course, had not drawn his mace- no, he simply looked to see if he could cut the guard off before he got out of the crowd. "Suru's Light has spoken of this day! Pray, accept his anointment!"

Carthum had just been taught how to do those last week! It was mostly just an oily thumbprint, but the prayers were obviously genuine. And everyone could use the prayers of Suru!

 

[97mg]

Otiroth & Metea

Otiroth & Metea: Arrol and his daughter clearly appreciate the showing of interest and lending of ears. Odd to them perhaps, that a farmer from distant lands might have something to tell.

Dira had started this, and her father could have shut it down, but the choice was made not to. What harm could come? Perhaps something or someone in this town had an answer, or explanation to save their livelihood.

The horn of the tower was deadly silent. Names aren't created, they arrive of their own will. Was it four years ago that people had waited some hours for the call? Much like a babe, there was no way to know when the name would finally join it's place on the world.

Wandering at a relaxed pace towards the tower’s grounds, Arrol spoke further. Words chosen carefully in the presence of his child.

“Our farm is a small one, a flat plot where yams and kollock roots enjoy ample soil and few, if any pests. Around us, neighbors tend to hardy vegetables or graze stock for wools, furs and meats.”

“There are struggles sometimes, with the odd carnivorous beast descending from the hills, or wild dogs as one might expect. Never caused me worry. Only rabbits seem to share a liking for my pasture.”

He squeezes Dira’s hand and smiles to her apologetically. A sore point?

“Some months back my friends complained of finding stock dead. Dry and still as if baked in the sun. But no great wounds, no tears to flesh, just small umm, holes sometimes. It was weeks before a shed skin was found, and then more and more. A long layer of flesh with more legs than man can count, well a yam-man can anyway. Some folks say they’ve seen them at night, wandering across their land, but I haven’t yet. Patty’s mother, a friend of Dira’s did visit not so long ago, and their troubles dare I say, sounded serious.”

The sun is creeping well above the horizon now, golden light brewing behind the shade of the ominous tower. To the north though, the sky isn’t it's usual airy sea of wondrous blue. It almost seems like painted tones of pink and yellow.

“Look at the sky father,” Dira asks pointing back the direction they’ve come.

“One thing is sure,” Arrol continues, “there is more to see on this Isle than a farming man might ever know.”

 

[97mg]

Carthum & Dain

Carthum & Dain: As Carthum parts ways with his friend, the last piece of jerky going down as he rushes off, the colors in the sky begin to take on tones quite unfamiliar. It's almost as if pastel waves of silken salmon and wheat hues have been marbled across the sky.

But this is not a time to stand about!

The half-orc makes good use of the wider gaps between audience members at this far edge, and approaches the hurrying guard. He doesn’t slow at your appearance or kind offers.

“Not now, Priest! Catch that defiler!” His voice is loud and direct.

He gestures towards the woman who has just broken free of the crowd and is aiming a little away from your secret stump, towards a road still scattered with late arrivals, not so far from Dain.

Indeed, she glances at the ranger immediately after hitting ground that isn’t shared by blankets and onlookers buttocks. Having not a guardsman’s rope around your waist, Dain, she looks to the roads ahead instead.

<Carthum: The guard has shown no interest in stopping his pursuit. It is likely that you can match his speed if you wish to follow him, as he is about to try and barrel right past you. We can roll initiative if you want to try something else?>

<Dain: If you strike off at an angle away from the crowd, there is a chance you can intercept the woman if you wish.>

 

[97mg]

Pesserl: Pink Skies

The old councilor snapped awake with a jolt, a dizzying closeup view of the tower’s upper wall blurring and spinning in his eyes. He was tipped on his side, rolled in a ball like a defensive hedgehog.

Clearly time had passed, but he didn’t know how much, nor did he particularly care.

Sitting upright, Pess wished he could rub that aching shoulder. Sometimes the other arm felt like it was there, other times it certainly wasn’t. There was to be no relief for what cold stone had done in those brief moments asleep.

Staggering and knees creaking, with one hand on the stone for balance, he arose and risked closing his eyes. This is how it was to be done, they’d instructed.

Carefully he rotated on the spot, and walked forwards in a blind search for the balcony wall. A boot-toe bumped it after a few steps.

A wheezy breath, an attempt to open his mind, and he opened both eyes and soul to the world.

Pesserl gasped.

This wasn’t some minor detail or intricate symbol of the year to be.

This was… terrifying.

Almost at once he found himself on his knees, one hand groping for the horn’s lips. Dread washed over the poor messenger like a tide of silt. He knew then, what must be said. This certainly, wasn’t going to be a year of “fruit”.

Then to make things worse, a shiver rumbled down his spine. Something else was wrong. Something else was here...