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Cormyr: The Smile of Chauntea
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<blockquote data-quote="MulhorandSage" data-source="post: 213303" data-attributes="member: 751"><p><strong>The Smile of Chauntea</strong></p><p><em>Part Two:</em> </p><p>16th day of Uktar, in the Year of the Standing Stone, 1372. </p><p></p><p>My sweet and evercaring sister Gevrael, </p><p></p><p>The news you bring me from court seems trivial, as do these new fashions of spells. Even your inexplicably petty malice toward your suitors (is there Drow in our bloodline, my dearest?) does little to hold my interest, for the affairs of the moment are all-consuming. Ulrick continues to drive toward a chasm on the charger of his ambition, and I am tangled in the reins.</p><p></p><p>But first let me speak a little of my companion, Aron who (though Cormyte born) seems more alien here than I. He is a fine oaf in combat, oak-limbed, tall and fair of face, the sort of man that <em>you</em> would happily bed, admire his form like a fine colt, and then discard as soon as you were done. His manner grates on me; not to the level where it is a mortal offense – however, his judgment is wanting in the extreme. </p><p></p><p>Consider this. Aron, the fine-featured Wyvernspur stableboy-knight of Cormyr, decided that the great task of securing our fortune and helping his fellow Cormytes in the midst of famine and ruin was too boring for him. Boring! What could this troll-head be thinking? He decided that the affairs of this place were too small for one of his stature, so he set out onto the streets of Wheloon and publically announced that he, Aron Wyvernspur, was now founding a grand order of knighthood. This delusion lasted but a few short minutes, until Aron made his offer to the first able-bodied soldier we met and was promptly reminded that to organize such an order without the patronage of the royal house of Cormyr was a crime punishable by death. This revelation cowed the lad. </p><p></p><p>I reminded the down-hearted Sir Aron of the proper ways of knighthood as I had always known them: find a squire, train him to knighthood, then repeat the process and slowly build a consort of vassals, so people would not suspect what you were doing until it had come to pass. But deliberation is a quality that is even in less abundance in Wheloon than food.</p><p></p><p>I suppose I should be thankful to young Wyvernspur for providing me with a comic diversion in such grim surroundings. Between the trials of our “Lord” Ulrick, the machinations of the Thayans and the Sembians and the insane laws of Cormyr that were never intended for times as grim as these… well, the body politic is an infected place that neither cleric nor god can heal.</p><p></p><p>So we gathered in the keep and were left to mull over the list of Wheloon’s problems, when two new ones were brought to our attention. </p><p></p><p>First, a series of murders has been occuring in the city. The victims had their throats slashed, and a paper with a skull set in the center of a dark sun was inserted into their throats. It appears Cyric, having been spanked by the gods, is attempting to solidify his hold on the realm of cutthroats. The magnificent dark sun has now been reduced to a back alley bloodletter. I could almost be less than happy about it.</p><p></p><p>The second revelation was brought to us by the council of merchants, who had a grave concern – there was a scarcity of coin. Wheloon had goods, but not the currency, to trade with the influx of Thayans and Sembians who would be importing food into the city once the Thayans had dealt with the dragon. The amount of coin we would need to replenish the city’s coffers was staggering – I believe the figure was three million pieces of gold. The coins had to be Cormyte; Sembian coins had no value here, and the minting of currency was – you guessed it – a crime punishable by death. The only way to get such an amount was to face the dragon, but we did not know the whereabouts of its hoard, whereas the Thayans who had promised to drive the dragon away undoubtedly knew where to find its treasure.</p><p></p><p>The solution that it occurred to Ulrick was the one the Sembians encouraged me to whisper in his ear – separate Wheloon from Cormyr, at least for the duration of the crisis. I urged him against this – surely if we waited, other events would occur beyond our current reckoning, and perhaps easier solutions would come. He said nothing, but I know his heart was against my counsel – which is as I planned. For now I have advised Ulrick against separation, so if I am captured by the Cormytes (and not slain on sight), I will be able to honestly tell an inquisitor that I urged Ulrick stay loyal, but Ulrick is almost certain to disregard my counsel, which shall make the Sembians happy (provided they do not disbelieve me when I’m forced to tell them that I gave Ulrick this advice because the paladin has a contrary nature).</p><p></p><p>To add a second level to the labyrinth, yet more problems presented themselves. First, there was the matter of the former guards of the citadel of Wheloon, who had fled the city and turned to banditry; they had burnt the keep of one of Wheloon’s vassals. Second, the beholder who blocked the way between Suzail and Wheloon was scrying on us, and casting some devil-magic that tormented him in his dreams with the image of a terrible eye. Third, we were visited by a Thayan lady, who claimed the right of hospitality and took refuge in our keep. She said her name was Elebeyth, and claimed that she knew Szass Tamm.</p><p></p><p>Sweet Azuth, what next? One of the Manshoon upon our heads?</p><p></p><p>Kord, our sweet ranger, had had enough. He had not shed blood in two days, and thus was practically shaking from a fit of despite. He ventured out toward Monksblade, where our network of gates lay, and once again encountered a squad of knights who claimed to be paladins of Chauntea, in service of one called the Harvestmaster. Upon his return, I ventured to the local priestess of Chauntea, who claimed that she knew not of such an order at Monksblade.</p><p></p><p>Kord returned to the area, with Aron and I in tow, leaving Ulrick to mind our affairs in Wheloon. In one of the villages near Monksblade, we heard a tale of families disappearing from farmsteads, and we decided to investigate. Kord found signs that the bodies had been dragged from the farmhouse in the direction of Monksblade. We followed the trail.</p><p></p><p>As we approached Monksblade in the early morning, we were waylaid by the paladins of Chauntea, who came upon us in a column twenty strong, led by a mail-clad captain who bore a great staff and informed us that we had to turn back, in thr name of the Harvestmaster of Monksblade. But Kord and Aron, being men of contrary moods, were not receptive to his demand, and we quarreled. In the end, I spake soothing words to ease the situation, then inquired as to the history of this paladinly order. The captain stammered, as if caught by surprise, then attacked us.</p><p></p><p>It came as only a minor surprise. I let fly a barrage of missiles, while Kord invoked the power of some minor nature spirit, and the fields became a tanglenest of grappling vines. It was a spell that nearly killed the company once before (entangling one’s fellows is not wise when the half-orc raiders you are fighting are armed with bows and you have nought but sword and shield), but this time, the tactic worked splendidly. I levitated above the field and brought thunder and lightning down upon our foes. Aron fared less well; the lad became so tightly wrapped with vines that he could not advance against the Captain, and so he could not quench his bloodthirst. Fortunately, the enemy troops fared no better. The soldiers, who turned out to be skeletons clad in plate mail that obscured their body, quickly crumpled. And after taking bow shots and my best spells, the enemy Captain disintegrated into a pile of snow and perished.</p><p></p><p>Yes my dear, he was a simulacrum. I have heard tell of such children of frost, but it is remarkable – and quite frightening, given the power required to create such a thing – to meet one in the icy flesh.</p><p></p><p>I garnished the simulacrum’s staff, and we retreated back to Wheloon. A raven flying overhead, attempted to guide more skeletons to our position, but I shot it with a ball of flame from the wand that the Thayans had gifted me, and the creature toppled from the sky. Aron charged over to it and stabbed it repeatedly with his longspear. We then returned to Wheloon in a parody of triumph. The real enemy had been scratched just badly enough to strengthen his resolve to crush us. Sometimes it is better to leave an enemy alone than it is to bloody him.</p><p></p><p>To our surprise, no one had tried to kill Ulrick in our absence. The Lady Elbeyth examined the simulacrum’s staff and determined it was an object of necromancy. And thus we suddenly suddenly why the Harvestmaster of Monksblade had chosen that name.</p><p></p><p>Ulrick seems more determined than ever to declare his independence; he acts more like a lord by the day. I do not know what frightens me more; that he shall bring down the retribution of the Steel Regent on our heads, or that the crown of Comyr has become so weak that Ulrick might actually succeed in his designs, which does not bode well for the fate of the larger realm.</p><p></p><p>Contemplate this thought, sister. The beholder that controls the land between is a terrifying creature of great magical puissance. It is indeed a barrier to us. But one such horror should not be sufficient to stay the forces of a place as powerful as Suzail if the Cormytes are in a determined mood. Am I not correct?</p><p></p><p>Unless the beholder is harbinger of a greater menace with designs on this place, or the reason that Cormyr stays its hand is because Ulrick is in secret league with them?</p><p></p><p>One cannot sleep with both eyes open, but these times seem to call for it. </p><p></p><p>So, with a beholder to the west, a dragon and a necromancer to the east, raiders and trolls on our doorstep, cutthroats and Thayans in our midst, and the inevitable wrath of Cormyr gathering on the horizon, we have discovered that our virtue and compassion have become a more unyielding trap than can be found in any dungeon. I know not how this endeavor will end, but I would offer you this counsel: should you ever come across a wager at court that concerns our survival, <em>bet against it</em>.</p><p></p><p>As ever, I wish you prosperity and happiness sister, even though your dour brother is (as ever) more fatalistic than the walls of Kelemvor.</p><p></p><p>Your brother,</p><p><em>Ascarin Nevermoon</em></p><p></p><p>PS Do not abuse all the suitors in Saerloon, or you shall need to resort to magic to win anyone’s affections, and that is something I would strongly advise against. For Azuth's sake, find someone you can be kind toward. A.N.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="MulhorandSage, post: 213303, member: 751"] [b]The Smile of Chauntea[/b] [I]Part Two:[/I] 16th day of Uktar, in the Year of the Standing Stone, 1372. My sweet and evercaring sister Gevrael, The news you bring me from court seems trivial, as do these new fashions of spells. Even your inexplicably petty malice toward your suitors (is there Drow in our bloodline, my dearest?) does little to hold my interest, for the affairs of the moment are all-consuming. Ulrick continues to drive toward a chasm on the charger of his ambition, and I am tangled in the reins. But first let me speak a little of my companion, Aron who (though Cormyte born) seems more alien here than I. He is a fine oaf in combat, oak-limbed, tall and fair of face, the sort of man that [I]you[/I] would happily bed, admire his form like a fine colt, and then discard as soon as you were done. His manner grates on me; not to the level where it is a mortal offense – however, his judgment is wanting in the extreme. Consider this. Aron, the fine-featured Wyvernspur stableboy-knight of Cormyr, decided that the great task of securing our fortune and helping his fellow Cormytes in the midst of famine and ruin was too boring for him. Boring! What could this troll-head be thinking? He decided that the affairs of this place were too small for one of his stature, so he set out onto the streets of Wheloon and publically announced that he, Aron Wyvernspur, was now founding a grand order of knighthood. This delusion lasted but a few short minutes, until Aron made his offer to the first able-bodied soldier we met and was promptly reminded that to organize such an order without the patronage of the royal house of Cormyr was a crime punishable by death. This revelation cowed the lad. I reminded the down-hearted Sir Aron of the proper ways of knighthood as I had always known them: find a squire, train him to knighthood, then repeat the process and slowly build a consort of vassals, so people would not suspect what you were doing until it had come to pass. But deliberation is a quality that is even in less abundance in Wheloon than food. I suppose I should be thankful to young Wyvernspur for providing me with a comic diversion in such grim surroundings. Between the trials of our “Lord” Ulrick, the machinations of the Thayans and the Sembians and the insane laws of Cormyr that were never intended for times as grim as these… well, the body politic is an infected place that neither cleric nor god can heal. So we gathered in the keep and were left to mull over the list of Wheloon’s problems, when two new ones were brought to our attention. First, a series of murders has been occuring in the city. The victims had their throats slashed, and a paper with a skull set in the center of a dark sun was inserted into their throats. It appears Cyric, having been spanked by the gods, is attempting to solidify his hold on the realm of cutthroats. The magnificent dark sun has now been reduced to a back alley bloodletter. I could almost be less than happy about it. The second revelation was brought to us by the council of merchants, who had a grave concern – there was a scarcity of coin. Wheloon had goods, but not the currency, to trade with the influx of Thayans and Sembians who would be importing food into the city once the Thayans had dealt with the dragon. The amount of coin we would need to replenish the city’s coffers was staggering – I believe the figure was three million pieces of gold. The coins had to be Cormyte; Sembian coins had no value here, and the minting of currency was – you guessed it – a crime punishable by death. The only way to get such an amount was to face the dragon, but we did not know the whereabouts of its hoard, whereas the Thayans who had promised to drive the dragon away undoubtedly knew where to find its treasure. The solution that it occurred to Ulrick was the one the Sembians encouraged me to whisper in his ear – separate Wheloon from Cormyr, at least for the duration of the crisis. I urged him against this – surely if we waited, other events would occur beyond our current reckoning, and perhaps easier solutions would come. He said nothing, but I know his heart was against my counsel – which is as I planned. For now I have advised Ulrick against separation, so if I am captured by the Cormytes (and not slain on sight), I will be able to honestly tell an inquisitor that I urged Ulrick stay loyal, but Ulrick is almost certain to disregard my counsel, which shall make the Sembians happy (provided they do not disbelieve me when I’m forced to tell them that I gave Ulrick this advice because the paladin has a contrary nature). To add a second level to the labyrinth, yet more problems presented themselves. First, there was the matter of the former guards of the citadel of Wheloon, who had fled the city and turned to banditry; they had burnt the keep of one of Wheloon’s vassals. Second, the beholder who blocked the way between Suzail and Wheloon was scrying on us, and casting some devil-magic that tormented him in his dreams with the image of a terrible eye. Third, we were visited by a Thayan lady, who claimed the right of hospitality and took refuge in our keep. She said her name was Elebeyth, and claimed that she knew Szass Tamm. Sweet Azuth, what next? One of the Manshoon upon our heads? Kord, our sweet ranger, had had enough. He had not shed blood in two days, and thus was practically shaking from a fit of despite. He ventured out toward Monksblade, where our network of gates lay, and once again encountered a squad of knights who claimed to be paladins of Chauntea, in service of one called the Harvestmaster. Upon his return, I ventured to the local priestess of Chauntea, who claimed that she knew not of such an order at Monksblade. Kord returned to the area, with Aron and I in tow, leaving Ulrick to mind our affairs in Wheloon. In one of the villages near Monksblade, we heard a tale of families disappearing from farmsteads, and we decided to investigate. Kord found signs that the bodies had been dragged from the farmhouse in the direction of Monksblade. We followed the trail. As we approached Monksblade in the early morning, we were waylaid by the paladins of Chauntea, who came upon us in a column twenty strong, led by a mail-clad captain who bore a great staff and informed us that we had to turn back, in thr name of the Harvestmaster of Monksblade. But Kord and Aron, being men of contrary moods, were not receptive to his demand, and we quarreled. In the end, I spake soothing words to ease the situation, then inquired as to the history of this paladinly order. The captain stammered, as if caught by surprise, then attacked us. It came as only a minor surprise. I let fly a barrage of missiles, while Kord invoked the power of some minor nature spirit, and the fields became a tanglenest of grappling vines. It was a spell that nearly killed the company once before (entangling one’s fellows is not wise when the half-orc raiders you are fighting are armed with bows and you have nought but sword and shield), but this time, the tactic worked splendidly. I levitated above the field and brought thunder and lightning down upon our foes. Aron fared less well; the lad became so tightly wrapped with vines that he could not advance against the Captain, and so he could not quench his bloodthirst. Fortunately, the enemy troops fared no better. The soldiers, who turned out to be skeletons clad in plate mail that obscured their body, quickly crumpled. And after taking bow shots and my best spells, the enemy Captain disintegrated into a pile of snow and perished. Yes my dear, he was a simulacrum. I have heard tell of such children of frost, but it is remarkable – and quite frightening, given the power required to create such a thing – to meet one in the icy flesh. I garnished the simulacrum’s staff, and we retreated back to Wheloon. A raven flying overhead, attempted to guide more skeletons to our position, but I shot it with a ball of flame from the wand that the Thayans had gifted me, and the creature toppled from the sky. Aron charged over to it and stabbed it repeatedly with his longspear. We then returned to Wheloon in a parody of triumph. The real enemy had been scratched just badly enough to strengthen his resolve to crush us. Sometimes it is better to leave an enemy alone than it is to bloody him. To our surprise, no one had tried to kill Ulrick in our absence. The Lady Elbeyth examined the simulacrum’s staff and determined it was an object of necromancy. And thus we suddenly suddenly why the Harvestmaster of Monksblade had chosen that name. Ulrick seems more determined than ever to declare his independence; he acts more like a lord by the day. I do not know what frightens me more; that he shall bring down the retribution of the Steel Regent on our heads, or that the crown of Comyr has become so weak that Ulrick might actually succeed in his designs, which does not bode well for the fate of the larger realm. Contemplate this thought, sister. The beholder that controls the land between is a terrifying creature of great magical puissance. It is indeed a barrier to us. But one such horror should not be sufficient to stay the forces of a place as powerful as Suzail if the Cormytes are in a determined mood. Am I not correct? Unless the beholder is harbinger of a greater menace with designs on this place, or the reason that Cormyr stays its hand is because Ulrick is in secret league with them? One cannot sleep with both eyes open, but these times seem to call for it. So, with a beholder to the west, a dragon and a necromancer to the east, raiders and trolls on our doorstep, cutthroats and Thayans in our midst, and the inevitable wrath of Cormyr gathering on the horizon, we have discovered that our virtue and compassion have become a more unyielding trap than can be found in any dungeon. I know not how this endeavor will end, but I would offer you this counsel: should you ever come across a wager at court that concerns our survival, [i]bet against it[/i]. As ever, I wish you prosperity and happiness sister, even though your dour brother is (as ever) more fatalistic than the walls of Kelemvor. Your brother, [I]Ascarin Nevermoon[/I] PS Do not abuse all the suitors in Saerloon, or you shall need to resort to magic to win anyone’s affections, and that is something I would strongly advise against. For Azuth's sake, find someone you can be kind toward. A.N. [/QUOTE]
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