Carnifex's Story Hour (Updated January 20th, "The Union")

[Carnifex]

Outside, in the rocky ravine, Wyshira had just uttered her question when in the valley below them, a wooded delve with a river running through it, a bright, azure blue light pulsed momentarily. The beholder swung a number of eyes round to peer down the gully they were in, apparently seeing movement at its bottom. "Something approaches," it growled interestedly.

There was a faint breeze on the air, but something more than the moving air made the skin of the two women prickle, almost as if in anticipation. Wyshira could feel a new presence nearby, something that she couldn't explain but she knew must be powerful, something divine. Melisande felt not this, but instead her blood seemed to tingle as if electricity were dancing down her limbs.

* * *

Slowly the paralysis crept from Sebastion and Kale, leaving them both cold and stiff but still alive...

With the ghouls dealt with, the party explored the rest of the irregular cave; no further undead lay in wait for them. There were no other viable routes off; a few constrictingly small tunnels leading away but nothing any of them could possibly manage to get through. A few pieces of debris and animal bones were lodged in some of the tunnels, from wher water running through the sloping cavern had washed them down.

Amongst the stalagmites at the back, Wolf had quickly set to with the enchanted dragonkin mace and smashed a few off, quicky yielding a fair amount of the mineral-laden stone spikes to carry back to the captor of their comrades.

The fiery serpent waited by where it had last attacked, watching Burl in a manner that could only be termed as expectantly.

The cave was to yield one last surprise. The small lit area they had seen upon entry turned out to be a small alcove in a rocky wall, a short candle flickering in the gloom. Strangely, the candle didn't appear to have burned down at all despite being lit, and had been placed high up enough on a ledge to be out of the way and sheltered from the moisture and damp of the rest of the room. Also in the alcove, clean and polished and neatly arranged, were three items.

The first was a pair of solid, reinforced soldiers boots, the kind of footwear designed to hold through for long marches and battlefield manoeuvers, except that upon close inspection it was inlaid in places with both pieces of smoothly polished dull gray stone and equally smooth stone of a dull blue-white hue. The stone didn't seem to impact particularly upon the weight of the boots though. On top of the boots was a highly polished and spotless silver helm. Above the open face was the head of a hawk pointing outwards, its wings swooping down on either side to frame the face of whoever might wear it. The rest of the helm was decorated with swirling wave patterns. And laid down in front of both of these was a small neck-chain upon which an amulet in the image of the holy emblem of Naskha, a golden dragons head within a circle, was attached.

The same holy symbol was crudely scratched into the stone walls behind the items.

Rising slowly, stiffly to his feet, Sebastion's embaressment at his fate was ameliorated only by watching Kale go through the same lethargic process. By the time he'd cleared the worst of the penetrating cold, he found himself staring up at the paraphernalia with a strange feeling.

It wasn't just that Naskha was associated with wizards and magic, though that didn't settle him at all, but rather that it seemed almost as though it were a shrine of some sort.

"I don't know," he muttered, quietly, trying to rub some heat back into his hands, "spoils of war is one thing, but this feels like grave-robbing... I'm leaving well enough alone."

Kale's senses came back to him slowly, but he wasted no time making his way awkwardly to his feet, and away from the foul undead corpses. "Thanks," he said to Wolf simply as he offered a hand up.

It was the first time he had fallen in battle. Well, not exactly the first... but the first where his fate would be sealed, were it not for the quick work of his companions. A slight mercy, he was able to watch Sebastion recover with the same awkwardness.

Of good fortune, the cave was now distinctly lit by the flames of the large fire serpent. Its sinuous flaming body looked in anticipation to Burl. Flickering shadows and permeating stench, and as though the scene couldn't be any more odd, the serpent seemed to know or recognize Burl. And it called him... bloodkin. The plot seemed to grow even thicker at the revelation.

But then, what does an animated campfire know? Kale mused, frustrated that the odd, somehow naive necromancer could have anything to do with the cultist slave-keppers they'd so recently dispatched to the next world.

Kale turned curiously to the flame creature, "Why do you talk to this man? You didn't for the blue woman two days ago..." Suspicions suggested an answer of their own. In a small cave with a wand-wielding fire-commanding necromancer with ties to Gilamesh... but Burl could be trusted, couldn't he?

But more curiousities abounded, and the team had little time to tarry. His javelin offered light for the moment, so Kale went about examining the crevices of the cave, poking about in the bones to see what manner of cratures used to live down in the cavern. He suspected goblins or kobolds, or some other species who'd scavenge from the beholder, before the undead beasts came up... or down... or whatever it is that the things do when they show up.

And then there was the alcove, shrine? "I'm leaving well enough alone" Sebsastion just said, and Kale looked over to see a collection of items. A rough symbol was scrawled on the wall beside the alcove, hardly the work of a man commemorating the fall of a Wave Hawk. Could this be the shrine for one of the fallen elite?

Beholder probably did him in, and some primative scav'ed the gear to worship it... Kale rationalized. "Hardly a fitting grave," he supposed, looking for reason to collect the gear. Maybe Ecurius would offer a reward. Maybe Kale could keep those spectacular boots. Surely they were enchanted. Enchanted boots meant for elite long-ranging soldiers. Was this the remains of a Wave Hawk's last stand?

It was all so interesting, and while Kale could do more than muster cultural respect for the dead, the notion of crossing regard for a falled warrior gave him pause. "Boot shrines in slimy muck-caves is hardly how to honor the fallen," he concluded at last. "Now there's something I can use," Kale reached as he looked unbelievingly... at the nevermelting candle in the sconce. His javelin magic had waned, and he was happy to have any sort of illumination at his command.

Kale gathered the boots, helmet, and medallion, stowing the gear in the harness webbing on his back. There was the issue of concealing the gear from the beholder, but Kale would just have to cross that bridge when he came to it. Hefting some of the ore slabs, he queried the others. "We have the option of throwing ourselves on the mercy of the beholder, hoping he'll free us in return for the ore." he menitoned as he stepped quite carefully up the slimy incline. At the top he grounded his load for a moment to offer Burl a hand up. "Or perhaps Sebastion didn't make it out alive... you could be galloping for help while we... " the plan just didn't seem to come to completion. "Oh never mind. But there's no reason why we should all go walking back there. Sebastion, why don't you and I return the ore, collect our crew, and meet the rest at the horses?" And Kale had no desire that the others would mount a defense, should the beholder decide to attack.

Well, at least there's some new boots in it for me...

 

[Carnifex]

Well, here's a little boost up again for my SH. I'm honestly not sure exactly what to do with this for the time being - it didn't seem to have gotten a great deal of readership. The gap between now and my last update was mainly due to real-life stuff that just got in my way, and it'll be hard to get back into it.

 

[Carnifex]

Right. Well.

Probably the main reason I haven't updated this for freakin' ages is because my summer was rather dispiriting; my parents have been breaking up and I've sometimes gotten caught in the middle. Then there were some problems with the game itself, almost grinding to a halt, which kinda drained me of inspiration to continue with the SH.

However, hopefully I will be able to continue writing again now. The SH does prove rather useful as a record for myself as much for my players, meaning I can quickly flick through it and find references and information I might otherwise forget.

I have a question for those few who do indeed still harbour an interest in reading my SH.

Do you prefer the style of writing that is basically me directly taking and reorganising the actual game posts, or instead the style of me writing an account only based on the posts?

I may well, if I do get the energy back up to continue with the SH, begin by starting a new thread...

 

[Broccli_Head]

well, even though I subscribe to your story, I'm still hear on the boards to lend even more support.

 

[Carnifex]

well, even though I subscribe to your story, I'm still hear on the boards to lend even more support.

Cheers, mate Which reminds me, I really need to catch up on reading your story hours...

BTW, if you want to help me out on something that's coming up in the game, really soon (as in within the next few posts I make), go over to the creature catalog forum and help me concoct the creature I've got in the works over there...

 

[Carnifex]

The first proper new SH post in quite a while! Poor Mel and Wyshira, stuck above ground in the presence of the beholderkin while the others have all the fun of being chewed on by hungry ghouls




At first it seemed like an odd rebound of adrenaline and shock from her most recent misadventure, but soon Melisande realized there was something more to the buzzing in her veins than the normal--she was becoming an expert on trauma and recovery, and this sensation was new. Moreover it seemed associated with the flash of blue light from the valley, and the Beholder's reaction made her nervous. Even Pierre, uncharacteristically curious, poked one head from her pocket.

Clearly the Beholder was not expecting a visitor of any kind, although it sensed (as she did) that whatever made the flash was headed right for them. Perhaps it was the group, having already collected a supply of rocks and emerging from some back entrance--? Unlikely. Mel shrank back, tugging at Wyshira's sleeve urgently. She had already seen the Beholder when it was irritated.

"Whatever it is," she squeaked, "maybe we should get somewhere out of sight--" (and out of the line of fire) "--until it goes away."

"But, I want to see-" Wyshira protested as Melisande pulled at her arm. She glanced up at the beholderkin, and noticed that at least half of the creature's eyestalks remained focused on its pair of hostages. Then she looked back down the ravine, straining her eyes to see what it was that the monster said was approaching.

She could feel it, whatever it was: something divine. A messenger of a god, perhaps? How would the beholderkin react? Maybe Melisande was right to hide.

Wyshira allowed the sorceress to pull her back a few steps, but stopped short of getting too far away to see. "Let's watch from here," she whispered breathlessly. "I don't think it's something evil. It's..... " But she didn't finish her thought.

"...It's something powerful, I think," Mel finishes weakly for Wyshira. "I feel like I have ants all over." She shudders.

"I think we should move just a little--" she hints with a wide-eyed significant glance at the wary Beholder.

"Powerful. Yes," Wyshira agreed, still staring expectantly toward the bottom of the ravine. Then Mel's hints about moving away from the Beholderkin began to sink in.

"All right," she finally conceded. "But... slowly." She caught Melisande's eye with a meaningful look of her own, and mouthed the words: "We - don't want to - alarm - it."

 

[Carnifex]

Meanwhile, down in the cave...

Wolf seemed to be concentrating on acquiring the rocky minerals rather than the debate over the objects in the alcove, apparently unwilling to give his opinion on the matter, as Kale picked the items from the alcove up, the candle still burning unwaveringly and shedding no hot wax over his hand as he lifted it to add to the fitful illumination given by the flaming serpent.

The serpent itself was busy answering both Burl's and Kale's requests. "Bloodkin, the power holding me here rapidly wanes and I will return to the Flame soon, though I can be called again when the sun's orbit has circled once more." To Kale's question it answered, "I speak to this man because the talisman he holds, the rod, is attuned to ones of his blood lineage, and to them it unlocks its secrets." And with that the serpent suddenly went out, reducing down to a crumbling pile of ash.

Burl stopped dead in his tracks. Turning so quickly that he almost dropped the load of rocks he was carrying, Burl looked at the flame serpent, his mouth agape. However, before he could say anything, it crumbled into fine ash.

It was a shocking discovery, yet there was little anyone could do about it now. "It's not about you or anything you've done," Kale spoke quietly to the perplexed mage. "It's about family. There's something about your forebears. You didn't seen to think your father knew, or your mentor knew. But the assasins in Iril knew, the Toranites knew, and I suspect many others."

As far as Kale could figure, this was somehow the source of the entire realms' interest in the young mage. Walking in the back of the party, Kale felt as awkward as he looked, his arms a jumble of ore, balancing a candle in hand, with a lumpy cloak trailing behind. Odd as he looked, he could still move with a jarring smoothness- that he was off-balance was simply a trick of the eye.

If only his mind could assume such posture: in reflection, the young mercenary realized he hadn't been very centered ever since he'd met his new companions. There was much yet to learn. Wolf's common-sense veto to any trickery merely reinforced the point.

"Strange thing, but sometimes who we are, has nothing to do with who we are, if that makes any sense." The paralysis must still be effecting his brain. "People might kill you for being tied to Gilamesh, or catch you to tie you even closer. It's got nothing to do with you- it's family." Kale Amegrion frowned at that last, strange emotions somehow tied to the whole mess.

Wolf, an entire hefty stalagmite rested over one shoulder, struggled his way back up the sloping floor of the cave. "We might as well all go back out and up. It's the only way out, after all, and our best chance of making it out of this alive is by not angering the beholderkin. If it suspects we're trying to pull a fast one on it because we don't all go back up..." He left it hanging. "Besides, It'll take us all to get any decent amount of this ore up there. Come on everyone, grab at least a piece."

* * *

Melisande and Wyshira found their attempts to make a distance between themselves and the solar beholder difficult; edging away was excruciatingly slow when the damn thing could see in all directions at once, even with most of its attention focused at the figure moving up the ravine.

And it was a figure. Clad in gold and white silks which the faint breeze tugged at incessently, it held in one hand what looked like some sort of incredibly ornate shortspear, using it as an aid in walking up the rocky gully. But the most striking thing about it was the same as the most immediately noticed feature about Wyshira and Melisande, which was that it was blue.

At first it crossed their minds it might be a Cerulean One, but as it came closer it became apparent that the skin of this person was truly blue, not the illusion created by the intricate tattoos of one of the Naskharite sect. Cutting an impressive figure, somehow emanating authority, the blue-skinned man was completely bald, but for some odd reason a single small horn seemed to be protruding from his forehead, and while he had no eyebrows either it appeared that there were instead small patches of blue-green scale upon his brow in place of any hair there. As he came closer, both Melisande and Wyshria could feel the divine power that seemed to flow out of him.

Then the rest of the band reappeared from the caves. Spattered with ichor and blood, and damp with the caves moisture, Wolf dumped down the minerals he was carrying to stare at the oncoming figure. Ebri, as she exited from the gloom of the cave mouth, could now feel the divine presence as well, her skin prickling. Even the others could feel something on the air, a sense of awe.

Some thirty feet off, the figure stopped, but before he could speak the beholder rumbled out a demand. "Who are you that walks... so confidently into my territory? What do you want here? I can feel the... energy rolling off you..."

The figure smiled pleasantly. "I am Klavius, divine emissary of my Lord Naskha, and my business is not with you, Mychalarenus of the sandstone, but with these others. They have put a soul to rest which has long been tormented, and deserve my thanks, and so I am here. Now," he spoke directly to the band, "please, follow me, let us talk a while as you continue on your way, and..."

He was cut off by the beholder again, its voice like an avalanche of boulders. "They do not go anywhere until they have brought me the minerals they owe me for disturbing my meditations, emissary."

Wolf aimed a kick at the stalagmite he had dropped, indicating to the others to pile their loads of mineral in the same place. "All here, as much as we could carry in one trip, though you could have warned us there were bloody ghouls down there."

The emissary smiled at the beholder again as if he were chatting on a pleasant stroll about some matter of little import. "There you go, so they can leave now. After all, I'm sure you weren't thinking of trying to detain them any longer, were you?"~

The beholder snarled irritably. "Of course not, emissary. Go now then, be off..." and its massive, stony bulk floated through the air towards the minerals as the divine emissary signalled the others to follow him down the ravine.

* * *

"You killed a ghast in that cave," the emissary said nonchalantly as they made their way down the gully towards the wooded valley floor. "Once there was a brave Wave Hawk knight errant who travelled many lands, as the Wave Hawks alone of the Orders are wont to do,, and accomplished many deeds in the name of Naskha and of good. His name was Lazarus Thrazan, and he met his end at the hands of the Dread March when the Great Necromancer and his minions came over the Sarokeans in their noisome horde."

"He didn't waste his life. He slew one of the vampire lieutenants of the Great Necromancer, and in punishment for this the Dark One denied him the honour of death, instead turning him into one of the things he had fought against, a vile ghast. Worse, the Dark One assimilated him into one of its foulest experiments, the ghul-packs, bands of ghouls linked together by their malign energies. When the war was over and the Dread March scattered, the ghul-pack of Lazarus went into those caves, and laired there."

"In moments of clarity he would remember his old life, and keep his gear in good condition in a... shadow of his past. Until now he remained down there in his own personal damnation, lost from the annals. And now you have slain him and granted him final death at last, and what had happened came to light with the return of his soul to its rightful place. And I am here to thank you for freeing the soul of a brave man; and incidentally to extract you from the grip of that beholder should it have considered reneging on its deal..."

 

[Carnifex]

And here's the post of the little existential crisis Melisande was suffering when Klavius turned up and led them off from the beholderkin...



"An angel!"

Transfixed by the otherworldly (yet somehow profoundly familiar) beauty of the divine emissary that climbed the slope toward her, Melisande forgot all about the Beholder, Wyshira and their imprisonment. She stopped in mid-slink (for as difficult as it was to slink away in terrain like this, with a dozen eyes on you, she had indeed been trying) and stood frozen in wonder while the bright-robed entity approached in a flutter of reflected sunlight. Down to her very fingertips she was abuzz with wild energy. An immense bubble of pent emotion was rising to the surface: years upon tender years of hurt and exclusion finally released by the discovery of rightness and belonging; her deep blue blood was resonating as if a chord of harmony had been struck by the being's presence--a chord of kinship. She feared she might shatter like a crystal glass.

All of which had the effect of making her desperately shy. Even as her friends emerged from the cave (which would have surprised her a good deal had she been paying attention) she could do nothing but stare in dumb wonder at Klavius. She could think of nothing at all to say, and even if she had tried to speak words would have come out in a torrent of laughing sobs, like the gushing of a young bride reunited with a soldier husband she never thought she'd see again. Utterly ignoring the Beholder and everything else, she floated along down the gully drinking in Klavius' musical voice, her eyes wide as blue saucers. She hardly felt the rocks beneath her feet.

Yet Klavius paid her no special attention. She felt like a dog must feel whose master has forgotten to pat her on the head upon his return. Absurdly, she wanted to tug on his sleeve and inform him that she was blue. This had to mean something!

Perhaps--perhaps she was unworthy. There lingered no doubt in her heart now that she was, as she had suspected, an aasimar but what she had done with her life so far might not live up to the expectations of her divine kin. She had engineered a two-headed toad all by herself. She tried to walk to Naseria, but without all kinds of help (from shadow-demons, mute druids, pig-headed mercenaries et al.) she never would have made it. She'd burned a chapel of Gilamesh! Didn't that count for something? As Klavius finished explaining about the Wave Hawk errant and his personal damnation, Mel was only half listening, busy tallying the good deeds and chicken-brained errors of her short life, and coming up in the red.

She hung back in shamed silence, that temporarily dispelled loneliness coming back in painful waves.

I have a gift, but also a burden. Time to stop dragging it along like a club foot. Time to stop worrying about survival and start worrying about valour.

Maybe we'll meet again someday, Klavius, she thought, unwilling to address him aloud, and hopefully on more equal terms.

 

[Carnifex]

The tale of Lazarus Thrazan was incredible. And you thought you'd fit his boots... Kale thought as they walked. Faithful to purpose and strong in battle, Thrazan was a name Kale wouldn't be disappointed to see honored. Lines and legacies, maybe four hundred years after the fact, the truth will be known for the man's family. Maybe there was justice in the world... just really slow, and dependant, absurdly, on misfits like Kale and the Merry Band.

At the horses, the team tended their mounts and Kale shifted his cloak to exchange a gleaming helmet, fine medallion, and two fine boots from person to saddlebag. Before long, everyone was ready. Stepping down the valley path, the mercenary footman preferred to lead his horse, rather than ride. Wolf nor Cord nor anyone else seemed too concerned about hiking with no patrol or pointman, which seemed perfectly reasonable, what with an angel in thier midst. Walking along the road, talking informally with divinity, though, the mercenary was still a bit ill at ease. What would an angel think of bloodkin? For lack of anywhere else to be, the mercenary put himself between Klavius and Burl.

Settling in to the walk, Sebastion listened quietly to the Emissary's words, smiling gently at the idea of being a Knight Errant. It was a shame they put such a stock in magic, or he might have felt the inclination to follow such a path, but... well... was there any 'need' for the magic? Presumably there must be some Order of Knights somewhere that didn't rely on such trickery?

Something, though, did catch his attention.

"The Wave Knight's preserved equipment... Kale brought that out to bury it properly... perhaps you know the proper rites and rituals?"

"Or something like that," Kale interjected, voicing his disagreement with Sebastion's plan. He was a bit astonished at Sebastion's idea of resolution for the dead man's gear. Hawk Helmets and Medallions can be sold or donated to houses or museums- legends written, favors curried, histories told of a man the mercenary would have been priviledged to know. Besides, the items were badges of office that any of them could hardly use. The boots, on the other hand...

"Those boots will still fit a soldier's feet," he tried to say with confidence, but his look gave him away, his eyes glancing at Klavius, at Wolf for signs of disagreement. But YOU are still sheepish as a tenderfoot, I see, he admonished himself, though in time he could reason that it could all be expected, within the tingle of devine glory dancing across his road-dusted flesh.

The emissary carried on walking confidently as they reached the bottom of the ravine where its rocky floor descended into woodland. He gave a pleasant chuckle at the words of Sebastion and then Kale. "Perhaps I should explain more of the Wave Hawks. They are somewhat unique amongst the Elemental Orders in their role and way of life. The stalwart Iron Hawks watch vigilantly over the eastern passes. The Wind Hawks ride the rolling plains of the north and watch for dangers from the Kurgen lands. The brave Flame Hawks of Corvus keep our southern lands safe from the menaces of the Carthagians."

"The Wind Hawks are travellers. They journey far and wide, exploring the world as best they can. They seek out evil and destroy it where they find it, or rally the cause of civilisation against it. Their organisation is far more loose than the other Orders, and most spend much of their time as Errants - the teaching of Water places much upon the concept of self-reliance. The name of adventurer often accompanies the passage of a Wave Hawk. They are very much, well, individuals."

Wyshira stepped closer to Klavius in order to hear more about the Wave Hawks, pulling a strangely reluctant Melisande along behind her. Of all the Elemental Orders of Naseria, she was, of course, most interested in the Order of Water. Although she had been impressed by the feather-cloaked Air Hawks she'd seen in Tarravus, she had been hoping that one day she'd come across a Wave Hawk in her travels. She listened with undisguised curiosity to the emissary's words as he described them: travelers and explorers... adventurers, in fact. And above all, destroyers of evil in every land.

Klavius continued. "Most veteran Hawks of the Order of Water have objects of arcane nature, pieces they have acquired during their travels and struggles. They put such objects to use in their fight against the foes of Naskha. Such things are to be used, not to be buried away or locked up in shrines to be stared at. The Wave Hawks are nothing if not practical."

"Lazarus of the noble house of Thrazan would, I would imagine, be happier to see his wargear put to use by worthy souls than to see it fester beneath the soil. The boots are indeed those of a warrior, a soldier. Now ask yourselves this - who amongst you considers yourself a worthy soldier to wear the boots of a Wave Hawk?"

Mel stared at her feet. She was trembling with emotion. As if he knew what she was thinking, Klavius' question burned her like a reproach--or a challenge.

The boots of a holy knight! Who could claim them? Who would dare? Wyshira was a priestess and she suggested Kale, and she probably knew what she was talking about even though Mel thought Kale didn't strike her as the holy avenger sort. At any rate she felt herself in no position to begrudge them of anyone; and besides, she did not covet the boots themselves so much as the worthiness to wear them.

"I'm not," she murmured, still looking at her feet in shame. I'm no soldier of Naskha.

"Not yet."

For the briefest of moments Sebastion thought of himself donning the boots, draping the medallion about his neck and slipping the helm over his own unruly hair. Springing atop his horse, he charged off through a village, blades flashing right and left as he clove through a hobgoblin horde before pulling up as a the bolts of magic began to fall about him...

That was the falling point. The ideals of the Wave Hawks - the little that Klavius had passed on thus far - seemed laudable, but the methods. There was something out there for Sebastion, he knew it. The pistols tucked into his belt hinted at it - something... more natural than magic, and yet different as well.

Either way, it was not the boots that made the knight, nor the knight that made the cause: and lack of neither could prevent him trying to live up to the ideal.

Nevertheless, he felt a slight disgruntlement when Melisande didn't proffer his name - for a polite declination, obviously - in response to Wyshira's instant suggestion of Kale, but he found himself echoing her words as she spoke the answer quietly.

"Not yet."

"Kale is worthy," Wyshira spoke up. She doubted that the mercenary would say so himself, but she knew that the boots were just the sort of thing that Kale would covet.

"Pffffff!" Kale exhaled flippantly, before realizing that the priestess was serious. For a while he said nothing, looking to Wyshira with a questioning eye. The mercenary appreciated her extraodinary voice of support, misplaced though it might be.

In the dusty footsteps that followed, humility, honesty, even... hope was the prevailing response from his companions. Kale didn't consider himself 'worthy', though his reasons were more fundamental than calculated. Surrounded by the most peculiar jumble of powers and fates, worthiness seemed to have as little bearing as any other kind of sense that railed to exert order on the whole mess.

The mercenary watched the ridgeline, cared for his steps, and made eyes to see they wouldn't walk cow-dumb into ambush. Angels notwithstanding, simple common sense and an open eye had saved more lives than 'heroics'.

Hmm, common sense and a quick blade, Sebastion might very well make a good soldier, he realized as an aside, putting the pieces together. His humility was a peculiar thought, a better side, though, than the sense of entitlement that struck on the other face of that same tin coin, that token called 'self value'.

"Deserve's got nothing to do with it," Kale tried to explain his thoughts. He felt a bit helpless to Klavius, to Wolf and the rest. If there they required 'worthiness,' what was Kale to say?

"Gods!" Kale skipped a beat at that, wondering if it meant anything to take deities' names in vain before an angel... "If we asked Sir Wave Hawk Thrazen himself, he'd likely say he never felt 'worthy,' leastways not until he got cut down in battle.

"If it's all the same, I think I'll avoid worthiness as long as possible," he concluded, though that wouldn't keep him from wearing those boots. A great share in the treasure, those would be. Something more about them, too.

Kale was a bit self-conscious that his nearly cynical attitude would chip away at Melisande's adventure of a lifetime. No, of course, the woman hadn't noticed. Just look at her, I didn't know a person could google like that, he thought without disdain, mildly glad that his wet-blanket attitude wasn't catching.

His conclusion seemed clear enough, yet vaguely, the mercenary could imagine a resplendant Knight emerging round the bend... "You're wearing my boots..." You think he'd mind? Frustrated, Kale grimmaced. It seemed the angel was toying with them, or at least playing the role of the wise bloody guru who knew much more than he said. Just tell me the meaning of life, already...

"It's funny you should ask. I mean, fate is more your business than mine. You know better than we- I wonder what you could say for us: rangers, monks, priestesses... a death mage," he said it flat out, what did the being really think of that one? Surely he knew. Kale's stomach tensed. "and a... distant cousin of yours, perhaps?" Confronted with a direct portal to the gods, Kale figured if he wasn't to be immediately smitten, he may as well ask some dying questions to the Folks in the Know. The mercenary was immensely curious, but did not get his hopes up regarding what kind of answer he would recieve. Ah, yes, grasshopper, you must seek the answer in the wind, the stars... He was thankful of the being's intervention, respectful of the power, but he still was suspicious, maybe just a bit resentful over great power that could do so much more.

But then, there was always the ageless adage, "Ours is not to reason why..." Coming to his senses, the mercenary cast his eyes back to the valley about. Philosophy, it seemed, was good only for stumbling into ambush.

"Were you a Wave Hawk at one time, Emissary?" Wyshira went on, asking a slightly less impertinent question than the one which was foremost in her mind: What exactly ARE you anyway, Emissary?

The emissary shook his head at Wyshira's question. "No, young priestes, I was never a Wave Hawk. I was deep into the study of sorcery when first the Elemental Orders were founded by the teachings of Illamar. I sympathise with the ways of the Wave Hawks though; like them I am often a traveller."

He seemed to have heard the quiet words of Melisande and Sebastion, smiling sadly in a quiet way as he continued to walk confidently down the track. At Kale's direct questions, he chuckled. "Fate, my business? How amusing... and I assume by distant cousin, you mean the young lady with the blue skin there." He focused his attention on Melisande, a gentle smile on his face. "No, she is not a relative of mine. She's an aasimar, whereas I... I am more of a proof that even with the bad blood of ancestors in you, you can still achieve something. The technical term for my heritage is tiefling, but that doesn't define who I am. Others had the kindness to look past the suspicions tied to my blood and gave me the chance to be the person I am now. What you are and who you are, can often be two different things."

He strolled on for a few moments in reflective silence, then Wolf spoke up. "Thank you for your timely intervention there, ," he spoke in a wary but respectful tone. "I'm sorry if there's some title we should address you by, but if there is I don't know what it is." At that the divine emissary chuckled. "It's not every day we meet your kind. What do you plan to do with us now?"

"Let you go on your way. I have no need to detain you from your own businesses. As I said, it was considered that thanking you for freeing Lazarus's soul was earned, and besides... I wanted to get a look at you all."

"Get a look at us all?"

"Yes; even a wandering messenger of Naskha has his curiosities and interests. Now, if you don't mind, I shall make my own way, for I think we are far enough from the beholderkin for you to be able to progress on your way safely from here."

And with that, he was gone. He did not disappear in a flash of smoke or a pulse of light, he merely carried on walking forwards but somehow sliding out of vision no matter how hard one tried to keep looking at him, till all that was left as a trace of his passage was a cheerful whistling that quickly diminished into nothing.

Wolf sighed. "I'll take it as a bad sign that some divine emissary is 'taking an interest' in us."

 

[Carnifex]

The fire crackled merrily in the darkness, illuminating the faces of the band clustered around it. They'd made a fair distance during the rest of the day and now were camped in the wilderness of the mountains, in a sheltered spot by a brook that meandered down a steep, wooded valley. Wolf doled out some soup from a pot over the fire.

"It's been an interesting day. Burl," Wolf said through chewing on mouthfuls of the chunky soup, "did you understand what that fire snake thing was talking about?"

All Burl could do was recount what the serpent had said and ask, “Can any of you shed any ideas on this. The only suggestion I have is to call it forth again and ask it what it meant. By the way,” Burl reached over to his pouch bringing out the wand, handing it to Mel, “Here is your wand back. Thank you. I don’t want to know what would have happened to us if the Fire Serpent hadn’t been there to help us.”


So here was another mystery surrounding Burl, and once again, he didn't seem to know what it was all about. Wyshira pondered the words of the Fire Snake, as Burl had described them. "Your 'blood lineage'..... Burl, Ak'mun'tep mentioned your 'bloodkin' to me also, but I knew that he meant something more than just family."

Wyshira looked at Kale. Did he know something about any of this? What did the term 'bloodkin' really mean?

"Wait. Ebri, that talking skull-thing you have - Would it be able to tell us what the Fire Snake was talking about?" Wyshira had seen the mimir only that one time back at the bookseller's shop in Tarravus. It seemed to 'know' things, and gave useful advice. She hadn't quite believed Ebri's claim that it was a recording device for her travelogue, and now that she was thinking about it, she was quite anxious to see it again.

Of course," Ebri said, reaching into her pack. By now, the question of suspicion of her fellow travellers was fairly moot, seeing as how they were had a reasonable chance not to survive this encounter. "We may as well take the opportunity to learn something; learning is never wasted."


She handed the silver skull over with a smile.

Wyshira accepted the mimir with more than a little apprehension, now that she saw it again. It felt cold and lifeless in her hands, which seemed strange to the priestess since she remembered quite cleary from before that it possessed a lively personality. For just a moment, she suspected that Ebri had handed over an odd-shaped lump of metal by mistake.

Then she saw the hollowed out eye sockets and the grinning silver mouth. No, indeed it is the mimir.

"I'd like some information on the term 'bloodkin', if you please," Wyshira wasn't exactly sure how to address the thing. She held it out in front of her at arm's length and waited for it to do something.

"Bloodkin? It sounds to me like someone in your family was associated with the Flame Guild or something," Melisande said, declining to take the rod back with a wave of her hand. "The mimir did say something about this being the sort of artifact the Flame Guild would very much covet. But if you summoned the Serpent once today, you won't get it to come back until the same time tomorr--

"Oh, my! Did you have trouble in the caverns?"

In her self-absorption since the appearance of Klavius, Mel had seen but not registered her friends' ragged post-battle state. Of course Klavius had mentioned a ghast and his entourage but-- She felt Pierre give her a mental elbow, as if he noticed before she did (which he had, in fact).

But no sooner had she received her explanation (and the assurance that everyone was in one piece) than she slipped back into her silent pondering....

"What you are and who you are, can often be two different things."

This went over and around in Mel's mind as she sat cross-legged by the fire that night. She had been unusually quiet all day, seeming sullen perhaps to some but in fact preoccupied. Who and what may often be different things, but should they be? Wouldn't you be more at peace if they were the same, if the striving of one's nature pulled in the same direction as one's personal inclinations?

She'd felt it before, the rage against evil. In the Manipulation Lab that day in a snit she had upset a whole workbench of organ-beakers and rushed out, never to return; in the kobolds' cavern when their vile shaman had loosed the fire-serpent on her and her new friends; against the scorpion-assassins and the adorers of Gilamesh. It was not, she felt, only the physical reaction of an aasimar's endocrine system to the stimulus of devilry. Her heart and mind as well as her body had acted together to revile what was wrong. What she was and who she was were not two different things.

It almost seemed that with these words Klavius had been testing her--giving her a ready excuse to back out of what her heart had then been deciding. But she would not be so easily dissuaded. Every particle of her, material and immaterial, agreed on this one thing. Any other ambitions she had entertained (including becoming Lady Ecurius, sorceress-scholar-adventuress-matron) evaporated like the unsubstantial clouds they were in the flame of this new purpose. To combat evil in the name of Naskha, blue god of sorcery! This voyage was an adventure no longer--it was a quest!

* * *

Pierre did not like this turn of things one bit. If he could have rolled his bulbous eyes he might have--all four of them. Is there a god of toads one prays to save bipeds from their folly? Things were bad enough. He had been learning to enjoy cities, with their multitude of grubs and roaches, and the dirty protectiveness that resembled mud in myriad ways. More noisy, but otherwise comfortable. Out here in the wild She let him roam when they rested but he found only the slim, rangy bugs of the wild, unfattened by metropolitan luxury. He didn't like the wandering around and he certainly didn't like the fighting. (There had been intriguing smells coming from that cavern, but Pierre's dull mind had absorbed enough of the following conversation to understand that some sort of blade-filled unpleasantness had taken place down there, so he regretted little. But if that creature that held them prisoner had been a little smaller... It looked very fat and juicy... Not worth the trouble, though, he gathered from Her attitude towards it.)

Now She was on some strange train of thought Pierre could not follow if he wanted to, but the upshot he felt clearly enough in his batracian guts: She was on the warpath. Against what, or why, was not clear. (Pierre might understand some fisticuffs with another toad for a mate, but that did not seem to be the issue here.) He could only lope around the campsite hoping for fallen moths and hoping yet more fervently that this would pass, as many things did She got into Her head. But then She looked up, her eyes feverish, and he knew She was going to do something. He stopped to stare in fear.

* * *

"Sebastion," Mel said, suddenly emerging from her uncharacteristic silence. "Will you teach me how to use a sword?"

* * *

"What you are and who you are, can often be two different things." For something that sounded as though it were supposed to be cryptic, that seemed pretty obvious to Sebastion.

Who you were was up to you, but what you were was the sum of everyone else's opinion. You could call yourself Sebastion as much as you liked, but if everyone in the town decided you were 'Seb', then 'Seb' you'd be.

Despite the slight worry that the Emmissary's comments aroused, Sebastion was more glad to have seen Melisande get out safely after his disastrous attempt at deception than anything. On the back of that, he kept his mouth shut and merely tended to the horses as they travelled.

When the evening came, and he found himself cleaning his weapons absently, staring at the pistols with an intent gaze, wondering just what it was about them that caught his attention. They weren't magical, but they seemed it; they weren't arcane, but he nonetheless understood not a whit about how they did what they did.

"Sebastion," Mel said, suddenly emerging from her uncharacteristic silence. "Will you teach me how to use a sword?"

For a moment, as he came out of his contemplations, he wondered if it might have been the punchline to a joke, or the finish of a conversation that lent her words a different meaning, but the expression on her face told him it wasn't.

"A sword? Can you... I mean... don't you take oaths or something? I'm not saying I won't, I will, but... Can you?"

Of every possible response she might have anticipated from Sebastion, this was not one. Mel was silent a moment as she tried to figure out what he was talking about. "Can you?" What was that supposed to mean? "Oaths?" Sure, she'd pledged allegiance to Carthagia every single day of her childhood, hand over heart, and said all the prayers to Toran by rote, and there wasn't one oath out of those she hadn't broken. Not that oaths weren't a bad idea... In fact, that was something to think on--she might have to make up her own for the future... one she did not intend to break, no matter what.

She stood up and brushed the dust off her dress to buy time. Whichever way she looked at it, the question didn't make sense. Did he mean was she allowed to use a sword, by virtue of being a sorceress, or being blue, or being a Manipulator--or being a woman? Did he mean she seemed too weak and chicken-brained not to cut herself? She wasn't sure she wanted to know. She opted for a vague answer. "Of course I can. I have hands, don't I? Could anyone lend me one just to practice with?"

She intended to get started right away. The sooner the better. The next time she came down this ravine maybe she'd righteously hack off a few evil eyestalks. Or maybe not the next time--even a blade-master like Wolf seemed leery of the Beholder--but someday. Naskha willing.

Beaming with satisfaction, she moved to a safe distance from the others and beckoned with hardly suppressed excitement to Sebastion to pass her a blade.

Sebastion turned to comment, to say something about hands, but held himself in check.

How was I supposed to know? he asked himself, thinking back to the old tales he'd heard of wicked wizards as a boy, and how they couldn't wear armour because it interfered with their magic. Why shouldn't swords be any different? You don't see many wizards walking round hacking away with a blade... except for those Knights, of... is that why she's doing this?

Rising slowly from where he sat, he packed away the remaining pieces of his cleaning kit carefully before standing to walk over to where she waited leaving his swords on the floor.

"Alright, I'm sorry I took an interest... here, we'll start with feet. Put your feet about shoulder width apart, like this, and take a half step straight back with... are you right or left handed?" he began.

Burl sat close to the fire listening to the banter between Mel and Sebastian over her learning to use a sword.

“Well, Sebastian doesn’t ever have to worry about me wanting to learn that disgusting trade, does he Spike”

When Melisande jumped up demanding that she be given a sword, Burl’s hand started to move to a three foot stick lying near the fire. But, as a couple of squeals came from Spike, Burl’s hand stopped.

“Yes, quite right Spike. She’d probably have used it on me.” Burl content to watch how this played out leaned back, his hand resting on Spike’s head rather than the stick.

"Right. Will someone please give me a sword!"

Melisande had a sense of the fragility of the moment: Sebastion had agreed to help her, and seemed sincere in spite of his surprise; but the first trip in momentum could easily shatter his patience. She was going to be good and not argue (even though she didn't see what smiting had to do with foot placement), but she was not going to do this empty-handed like a child play-acting.

"Probably better to start with a sword that only has one blade," she said, pointing at the weaponry he'd left by the fire and thinking this sounded extremely reasonable.

Sebastion smiled gently, remembering his first adventure with a blade - thankfully wooden. His father had begun to teach him in just this fashion, and he had thought he knew it all. Late in the afternoon, as his father shoed horses at the front of the stable, he snuck into the loft with the broken handle off one of the old hayforks, and began to merrily swing the thing to and fro...

It was surprising how easy it was to suddenly loose the flight of the end, and he had curled up into his own little private ball of hurt and pain for several minutes before his father had coming looking for him. He'd said nothing, merely given that look, and Sebastion took the lessons a lot more seriously after that.

"I... I don't know much about magic, right, but I'm guessing you don't start off learning it by throwing lightning about on the first day? You start off with exercises to build certain skills, then put them together, right?

Well this is the same. I can only teach you the way I learnt, which is the way my father taught me, and it worked for us?

You see, everything you do, striking, blocking or parrying, the power for it comes from the big muscles in the back of the legs. So it stands to reason that, if you want to be able to do it properly, you have to have your feet planted solidly, and in the right place."

Adopting the position once more, arms hanging loosely by his side, he gestured for her to copy, hoping she wasn't about to make a scene with the others watching on.

He's making fun of me. I'm sure of it. He'll let me stand here like this for a while until those "big muscles" in the backs of my legs start giving in and by that time everyone in the camp will be laughing their heads off.

Still Melisande squared her shoulders and did as Sebastion said, but not without a hole-drilling gaze right at him.

No, come to think of it, that's something Kale would do. This is Sebastion. He'll have me sweating through serious, traditional swordsmen's exercises and the first time I fall on my backside he'll call me chicken-brained and feed me to a Beholder.

For some reason this thought amused her. Her dagger-shooting regard softened at the edges as she repressed the urge to laugh.

Better buckle down. This is going to require even more courage, patience and humility than I thought--just to learn how to use the sword! As a matter of fact, she liked the sound of that thought even as she formed it. Courage, patience and humility! Not half bad. Better jot those down for my oath. And you're not exactly swimming in any of those either, Pierre, so keep the snide remarks to yourself.

* * *

Meanwhile, in response to Wyshira's request, the mimir rattled out more of the recordings it held...

A strong male voice. "Though I curse the bloodkin with every breath my body takes, and my rage against him and his brethren carries me on over this desolate wasteland; though my sould and will are consumed by this, my only purpose left, to hunt down and kill the vile man; yet still I have seen something I feel I cannot let pass, and since I have this... mimir as it calls itself, I shall use it. I could swear I saw, this last night as I stumbled across barren lands, dark shapes walking the hills, men of shadows that were not men at all, that stalked the land. I saw them move with purpose and with strength, a strength I cannot hope to have as I wearily walk this land, and a purpose too. I could sense that. These forms of shadow had a purpose."

"What worried me was that their purpose took them in the same direction I was going. The direction of Garkulzak, the City of Red Stone."

"When I looked again, they were gone, though I swear I did see them. And then I remembered the old tales Kamizak used to tell me. He used to say that the Men of Shadow never really died out. They just hid away in the shadows themselves."

* * *

The same voice again, weary and of ragged breath. "I am dead, then. Puncture wounds to my lungs and arm, blood loss will kill me soon, but I slew the bloodkin for what he did. The man fell to a well-placed arrow, but how could I hope to kill a bloodkin in Garkulzak, the City of the Dragon? The very bastion of the power of that monster Tasslik who calls himself the Son of Gilamesh, who rules through his bloodkin. But that was never my intention, to survive, not at all. Just to kill Samuel, traitor of the Huronese settlement of Gar Gadrak whose treachery caused such loss of life. He is dead now, and I will be dead soon, and this strange skull will be in the hands of the Gilamees."

"And I can find peace with Urazel in death now."

* * *

A deep male human voice. "It seems that there is some sort of communication being passed back and forth between the noble called Ecurius Tarravus and someone in Zhatan. What's interesting is that this is going on covertly. I will notify the Bloodkin as soon as possible."

* * *

With that, it fell silent again.

Burl listened carefully to what the mimir had to say about bloodkin and what he heard didn’t make him too happy. It seemed that the one referred to as bloodkin was hunted. Also, the reference to Tarravus meant that possibly they were now working for the bloodkin’s enemy. If indeed he was a bloodkin or just related to one, then there might be a problem brewing. As if we didn’t already have enough problems.