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Message: <blockquote data-quote="hewligan" data-source="post: 4444318" data-attributes="member: 19688">It had been shortly after dinner, and Danth had returned to his room to have a hot bath that had been prepared for him at considerable cost (a silver piece, for a bath!) In fact, when he had been told what it would cost to prepare the hot water for him, he almost changed his mind, but then he remembered just how much money he probably had now. The treasure, the coin they had received in payment, the gold they would no doubt be able to raise from the items they had recovered ... he wasn't sure how much it would come to, but it must be over 100 gold. That was a small fortune.He would probably donate it to the church.It was then that he recalled the original message he had received at the swallowtail festival. The message demanding his immediate return to Magnimar. That had been ... his mind tried to count back ... over a week ago now. Damn!But still, he had paid for his bath, and he would have that, and enjoy his night of drinking and dancing and laughing, and then, in the morning, he would make his farewells and head back south to the city state that he called home.It was not to be. He had been changing into a clean set of clothes when the knock came on the door. "One moment!" he had called out, and hurried with his dressing. When he had answered the door, a town guard was waiting for him."Sheriff Hemlock sent me. A messenger has arrived for you from Magnimar. I am to lead you to him without delay!"And so his night of revelry had been stolen from him. He hadn't even got the chance to say farewell.---The message had not been good. In fact, it had changed his life. "Father Dretharius is dead."---The return journey was a blur. A fast ride through the night. A change of horses at a halfway tavern, and then another long ride. His body ached. Every part of it ached, until even the pain became just another wash of colour to augment the tiredness that commanded his body.Father Dretharius was dead.How could it be? He was only fifty, healthy, and well loved. The messenger knew nothing else. Just a hired rider paid good gold to make the trip in record time. He pulled some strings to get the change of horses, seemed to know every waypoint along the route, but was not the most social of characters. He only got to sleep once, at a tiny inn with a single communal room. He couldn't have cared, the rolled cloak pillow did the job beautifully, and he fell into the deepest sleep. He dreamed of Nualia, only he saw her as she may have looked before her demonic infection. She was barely more than a child.And then he had been awakened from his sleep. A new horse awaited, and another long leg of the journey.---Magnimar was a bustle of noise by the time Danth arrived. Mid day, only a day and a half after leaving Sandpoint. The city was alive, and the trade taking place along the avenues was brisk. The Varisian travelers were here in numbers, partaking in commerce to prepare for the heavy rains of autumn.He dismounted and led his exhausted horse to the small complex of Sarenrae beneath the Irespan bridge.It was a mixed complex, in truth three ancient, decrepit town houses, a small walled yard, and a small wooden tower that seemed to lean more perilously each year. The church was not strong in Magnimar, and there were only five clerical staff based here. The true role of the church of Sarenrae in Magnimar was to help displaced children. Two of the townhouses acted as small orphanages, one for boys, one for girls. Danth knew every nook and cranny of them - he had spent twelve of his first fifteen years growing up within them.Even then the church has been led by Father Dretharius. He had taken a bequest from the church and moved to Magnimar to build a presence for the church of Sarenrae. Instead he had found himself moved by the poverty of the people who dwelled beneath the shadow of the ancient Irespan bridge, and had set up the orphanages. Danth had been one of the first children taken in. His first memory was of the orphanage.---That first day in Magnimar was a blur. They had summoned him a week before. They had tried to wait, but in the end they had offered his remains up to Sarenrae, burning him as was the custom. The clerical staff, old and young, hung around Danth with reverence and nervousness.He had been murdered. Murders were not uncommon, but most were petty fights or criminal gangs taking out their turf wars on one another. This had been different. He had been carved apart, his face removed, strange runes cut into his flesh. Why? Why would someone do this to him?The complex felt strangely empty without him. Sure, the lively mass of children still ran from class to class, played pebble-dash on the lawn, and played tricks on one another, but there was an absence.Danth had taken it stoically. He had spent almost two days letting the news sink in on his ride back. Sure, the facts of the murder shocked him, but what was clear was that people needed him to be strong.It didn't take long to find out why.---Father Dretharius had made it clear to his other clerics that Danth would take over the leadership of the order in Magnimar if, when, he was to pass on. In fact, he had made it clear to the others that sending Danth to represent the church at the Swallowtail festival in Sandpoint was part of this. He had spotted something in the youth, a strength of character, but also something else, some favour that the goddess has laid upon him. And more. They spoke of dreams he had had. Dreams he had shared only with Song Master Moralin. The old cleric had claimed that Sarenrae had spoken with him, told him that the church would grow in the north. Not just in Magnimar, but across the northern lands, and that Danth was part of this flourishing.And so Danth inherited the small church complex and orphanage of Sarenrae in Magnimar.Father Danth, he became. Father Danth, Favoured of Sarenrae, Servant of the People of Magnimar. His clerics and teachers and lay people served him well. He found that the role just clicked. There was much to be done. People had been panicked by the horrific killing, and it took some time to calm the small number of worshipers who came to speak through him on holy day.In time his congregation grew. People took to his sermons. They connected with his as he mirrored their own lives. He was one of them, an orphan who pulled himself up and found the hand of Sarenrae to guide him. He taught them that she was a god that wanted people to act, to change, to do what they knew they had to do to make their lives right. And his congregation grew.---Six months passed. Winter fell upon the city and a wicked flu struck the residents of the desperately poor Irespan district. It saddened Danth to watch the orphanage grow. Eight children in one season. A tragedy!He did not forget his friends, or his exploits. News of his heroism reached Magnimar with the caravans, each time growing with the telling. He became a bit of a local legend. Once of twice the older kids had asked to see his scimitar, had asked if the woman had really become a demon. Did she breath fire? Did she fly? Is it true the Sinspawn's had heads that opened up to reveal rows after rows of teeth. He would just laugh, and offer some platitude that heroism was measurable in small acts.When a Magi sent an acolyte from the high college to collect his favoured weapon to enchant, from order of the city leaders as reward for his bravery, he had refused at first, and then pragmatism overcame him, and he gave up his weapon. He wondered if he would ever wield a weapon in anger again.---And then one cold morning in late March, just as the snow laden routes north were opening up to trade again, he heard the news. Another murder, this one in Sandpoint, and the same carving of the flesh.He knew he had to travel north again. He had actually allowed himself to forget about the horrific method of Father Dretharius' murder. He had been so busy, so preoccupied, that he had let himself push it deep. Suddenly it was all that consumed him. The news of the murder, sent to him, and him alone, by a scout direct from Mayor Deverin, was not common knowledge. And worse ... the note said that it was not the first. Not even the first in Sandpoint.And so for the first time in six months he picked up his armour, his weapons, and his pack, and prepared himself for travel. He would uncover the murderer of his mentor, his ... the man that had been like his father!He left the orphanage in the hands of his clerics, the numbers now swollen to six, and took the trade route north.</blockquote>

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