Once they had returned to the docks and the warehouse, made introductions all around and found all of S’lann’s gear, some booty for their troubles and they found themselves making plans yet again.
“What!?” Adama nearly shouted as heard Elim’s idea.
“You prefer Skree’a’s method of transportation then?” Elim asked archly, knowing Adama did not.
“We have too many people now,” S’lann pointed out. “We’d need a wagon for Gareth and Kilmor can’t ride this guy forever, you know.”
“Nor will I for much longer,” Kilmor added with grim determination.
“Alright then!” Elim called out, “We don’t have much else choice.”
Why was he the only one cheerful about that decision?
Later…
“So what about them?” Kilmor asked, pointing down into the smelly hold where the slaves remained, cowering.
“We take them with us,” Adama said in *that* tone. Elim rolled his eyes, S’lann smiled and Squirrel frowned.
“You know taking them with us makes it harder to get away,” he said as he wiped blood from his knives. The guards hadn’t been particularly awake or perceptive and now they weren’t particularly alive or floating, even.
“We’re taking the barge,” Elim reminded him, “there’s plenty of room. And you said you knew how to ‘do’ this thing anyway.”
“Yah, yah,” Squirrel brushed that off easily, “I can sail a barge but I can’t do it all by myself. I need you guys ta’ be my hands.”
“’Kay,” S’lann agreed hesitantly and Elim just nodded while Kilmor, the most-human and authoritative of the lot, headed down into the hold to free and rouse the slaves.
It took a bit of work, far more than they had thought, to get the barge cast off and moving down the sluggish current of the river. They found the cook-pot and the ‘kitchen’, which consisted of a rather compact affair of chopping block, none-too-clean knives, some spoons and a bag of rice and oats. A crate of coal sat to one side and a cast of not-quite soured oil.
The slaves had been brought out and convinced that Elimw as neither going to eat them, nor was Gareth going to paste them, though they mostly cowered off to one side near Squirrel who resolutely ignored them.
Elim and S’lann, now that they had managed to get things sorted, used Squirrel to pass out the nearly a hundred pounds of jerked venison they had made, jumping back as the ex-slaves made like piranha on the strips of smoked meat.
“That’s not gonna feed ‘em all,” Squirrel told him. He pointed to the shallow bowls that were stacked to one side. “The river’s got fish but I’m not a good fisherman and not for all them,” he jerked his head back towards the slaves contemptuously.
Elim nodded and considered, cocking his head in thought, his luminescent eyes like two small moons on the darkened deck of the big boat. “I can take care of food but,” he scrunched his face, “they smell pretty bad.” He turned to his pack and pulled out several bars of the herbal soap they had raided from the warehouse and nodded to Gareth. “Can you help me with some things?”
“Of course,” the Warforged replied and stood, taking up the rope and tarpaulins they had managed to get, cordoning off two sections of the barge, on the outer sides. “Now to get them in there…”
“ALRIGHT!” Adama shouted as he stood in front of the cowering humans and half-elves. “I’ve HAD it! We’re not eating you, we’ve fed you and we’re taking your out of Thay! Up! Men that way, women that way, children of the appropriate sex with them.” The slaves cowered more, confused. “NOW!” Adama bellowed and they scrambled, falling over each other to do what he said, as he drew the sword that seemed to pulsate with angry white light.
Elim had started a fire in the curious affair that served as the cookpot, after cleaning it as much as seemed possible. Clean water swirled in it, with lye-soap and some herbs he had left over from his last forage for such things. Making a oddly antiseptic-smelling mess. He stood waiting, a huge wooden grain-paddle over his shoulder and a look of impatience.
Adama walked over between the covered areas and bellowed again. “Right! You will now find buckets of water and bars of soap in your enclosures. I’m going to assume you all know what that’s for. Get to it. Take off your clothes and pitch them over the tarp wall here in the center and as we get them clean, we’ll hang them to dry on the tarp. Anything that falls apart we’ll arrange something.” There was some frightened whispering in both enclosures and silence.
“NOW!”
Much scurrying and filthy clothing began to rain over the sides of the enclosed areas.
To the best of their ability, Elim and Slann gathered the clothing into ‘men’s’ and ‘women’s’ piles and started with the women’s first. They waited until they heard water and soap being used and after a few moments, their was a patter of laughter from the women’s side. Elim dug out a couple of bottles from those they’d raided from the merchant’s warehouse and slid them under the edges of the tarps. There was silence, then one of the women picked up and opened one of the bottles and sniffed it, making excited whispers as she figured out what was in it. The scent of lavender from their side, pine from the men’s side and the herbal scents from the boiling laundry pot made a nice accompaniment on the rather filthy barge.
It took quite awhile before it was done and both Elim and S’lann were soaked and scented before they were done but the now ex-slaves were happier and more comfortable. People wore cleaner garments, some of them still in good condition. Sores, infections and small wounds had been treated, a few teas and ill-draughts had been brewed and consumed and Gareth had healed one case of a ‘social disease’ one of the women had gotten when she’d been captured.
Needless to say, the slaves didn’t cower near as much.
“Sir?” the oldest of those present had crept forward and bowed to Elim. “Please, may I know your names so I may give prayers of thanks for you?”
Elim looked rather shocked, jaw fallen open and eyes wide as he stared at the woman. She looked unsure but didn’t back down despite the interesting dentistry inside the hole in Elim’s face.
“I am S’lannaneth,” S’lann introduced himself. “This one is Elim of Nar and this is Kilmor,” he indicated the seeming-human, “but he’s not himself lately.”
Kilmor chuckled at that but the look he gave S;lann promised playful retribution later.
“Gareth Silvergilt is our paladin-friend here,” he gestured to the Warforged, “Squirrel is the Rogue that made much of this possible.” He clapped the young human on the shoulder, who had the grace to beam and nod to the old woman.
“What of the other one?” she asked, using her chin to point to Adama as he sat with his back to them, polishing his armor and weapons.
“That is Adama,” S’lann said loudly, getting ear-flick from the Human-cursed-Ibixian, “of Cormyr.”
Without another word the old woman pushed past them and strode right over to Adama, rounding on him. “What right do you have to claim yourself of Cormyr?” she demanded. “There are no creatures such of you there. Name yourself, brigand.”
Her gaze was imperious, her manner was haughty and her speech was far above the station of ‘slave’.
Rising to his feet, a few inches taller than her only he realized with a start, he said softly, “I am Adama Crann, Squire of the Third Host, under a curse and sold into slavery to the Thayans until we,” he gestured to the others, “escaped.”
“A-Adama Crann?” she seemed confused and staggered back a half-step. “How is that possible? We had been told you were slain…”
Silently he reached to his pack and withdrew the cleaned and mended tabard, holding it up for her to see. She reached out and ran her fingers over the badges, authentic she knew, and the runic names woven into them of Adama and his lineage.
“’Swear!” she told him, “Swear on your sword, swear as a Squire, swear on the blood fo the Queen and I will believe you!”
Adama looked at her tiredly and seemed about to decline but she commanded it this time, her voice roiling with magickal power *Swear*
Silently he withdrew his sword, turning the side so that she could bear witness to the dragon rampant set into the blade in purple sapphire and then, it happened.
With a chiming ring, as if struck on the anvil it had been forged, the sword flared with white radiance and spoke as the runes appeared along the blade in purple script, Elven characters slithering along the blood-channel.
“I who am Dragon’s Claw, Blade of the Rightful Scion, Judge ye not for the Truth shall Ring.”
“Dragon’s Tears!” she swore and dropped to her knees instantly, her head bowed and her arms spread. “Scion, my life is yours!”
Adama who stood there blinking from the light of the sword, which was fading, was completely dumbfounded by what had just occurred. S’lann and Elim appeared, Kilmor and Gareth quickly in tow.
“Heros are often chosen Adama,” Gareth murmured to him, reminding him of their discussion about Paladins, “whether they like it or not.”
Adama gave him a rather sour and pained look and Elim grinned hugely. “I’m SO glad I’m not the only one with a talking weapon.
Adama gave him a hateful glare and turned back to the woman kneeling before him. “Umm, Lady, please get up. I- I’m not sure…” and then he paused, realizing he DID know what was going on. The hilt of the sword now bore two crests, symbols of specific deities he knew, one on each side of the crosspiece and forming a triune of sorts. One was of Tyr and one was of Lathander, with the Dragon Rampant over them. He understood that something very powerful had chosen him to do something and he’d accepted, on some level, because he was the only one who could. He met all the factors that were needed.
She looked up, cheeks wet from the tears that were shed, “’You are the Scion. At last, a Scion has been risen! There is hope then!” She clasped her hands together at her breast.
“What-“ and that was all he managed to get out. He had meant to say “what do you mean by that” but never got the chance, for he was somewhere else.
“What!?” Adama nearly shouted as heard Elim’s idea.
“You prefer Skree’a’s method of transportation then?” Elim asked archly, knowing Adama did not.
“We have too many people now,” S’lann pointed out. “We’d need a wagon for Gareth and Kilmor can’t ride this guy forever, you know.”
“Nor will I for much longer,” Kilmor added with grim determination.
“Alright then!” Elim called out, “We don’t have much else choice.”
Why was he the only one cheerful about that decision?
Later…
“So what about them?” Kilmor asked, pointing down into the smelly hold where the slaves remained, cowering.
“We take them with us,” Adama said in *that* tone. Elim rolled his eyes, S’lann smiled and Squirrel frowned.
“You know taking them with us makes it harder to get away,” he said as he wiped blood from his knives. The guards hadn’t been particularly awake or perceptive and now they weren’t particularly alive or floating, even.
“We’re taking the barge,” Elim reminded him, “there’s plenty of room. And you said you knew how to ‘do’ this thing anyway.”
“Yah, yah,” Squirrel brushed that off easily, “I can sail a barge but I can’t do it all by myself. I need you guys ta’ be my hands.”
“’Kay,” S’lann agreed hesitantly and Elim just nodded while Kilmor, the most-human and authoritative of the lot, headed down into the hold to free and rouse the slaves.
It took a bit of work, far more than they had thought, to get the barge cast off and moving down the sluggish current of the river. They found the cook-pot and the ‘kitchen’, which consisted of a rather compact affair of chopping block, none-too-clean knives, some spoons and a bag of rice and oats. A crate of coal sat to one side and a cast of not-quite soured oil.
The slaves had been brought out and convinced that Elimw as neither going to eat them, nor was Gareth going to paste them, though they mostly cowered off to one side near Squirrel who resolutely ignored them.
Elim and S’lann, now that they had managed to get things sorted, used Squirrel to pass out the nearly a hundred pounds of jerked venison they had made, jumping back as the ex-slaves made like piranha on the strips of smoked meat.
“That’s not gonna feed ‘em all,” Squirrel told him. He pointed to the shallow bowls that were stacked to one side. “The river’s got fish but I’m not a good fisherman and not for all them,” he jerked his head back towards the slaves contemptuously.
Elim nodded and considered, cocking his head in thought, his luminescent eyes like two small moons on the darkened deck of the big boat. “I can take care of food but,” he scrunched his face, “they smell pretty bad.” He turned to his pack and pulled out several bars of the herbal soap they had raided from the warehouse and nodded to Gareth. “Can you help me with some things?”
“Of course,” the Warforged replied and stood, taking up the rope and tarpaulins they had managed to get, cordoning off two sections of the barge, on the outer sides. “Now to get them in there…”
“ALRIGHT!” Adama shouted as he stood in front of the cowering humans and half-elves. “I’ve HAD it! We’re not eating you, we’ve fed you and we’re taking your out of Thay! Up! Men that way, women that way, children of the appropriate sex with them.” The slaves cowered more, confused. “NOW!” Adama bellowed and they scrambled, falling over each other to do what he said, as he drew the sword that seemed to pulsate with angry white light.
Elim had started a fire in the curious affair that served as the cookpot, after cleaning it as much as seemed possible. Clean water swirled in it, with lye-soap and some herbs he had left over from his last forage for such things. Making a oddly antiseptic-smelling mess. He stood waiting, a huge wooden grain-paddle over his shoulder and a look of impatience.
Adama walked over between the covered areas and bellowed again. “Right! You will now find buckets of water and bars of soap in your enclosures. I’m going to assume you all know what that’s for. Get to it. Take off your clothes and pitch them over the tarp wall here in the center and as we get them clean, we’ll hang them to dry on the tarp. Anything that falls apart we’ll arrange something.” There was some frightened whispering in both enclosures and silence.
“NOW!”
Much scurrying and filthy clothing began to rain over the sides of the enclosed areas.
To the best of their ability, Elim and Slann gathered the clothing into ‘men’s’ and ‘women’s’ piles and started with the women’s first. They waited until they heard water and soap being used and after a few moments, their was a patter of laughter from the women’s side. Elim dug out a couple of bottles from those they’d raided from the merchant’s warehouse and slid them under the edges of the tarps. There was silence, then one of the women picked up and opened one of the bottles and sniffed it, making excited whispers as she figured out what was in it. The scent of lavender from their side, pine from the men’s side and the herbal scents from the boiling laundry pot made a nice accompaniment on the rather filthy barge.
It took quite awhile before it was done and both Elim and S’lann were soaked and scented before they were done but the now ex-slaves were happier and more comfortable. People wore cleaner garments, some of them still in good condition. Sores, infections and small wounds had been treated, a few teas and ill-draughts had been brewed and consumed and Gareth had healed one case of a ‘social disease’ one of the women had gotten when she’d been captured.
Needless to say, the slaves didn’t cower near as much.
“Sir?” the oldest of those present had crept forward and bowed to Elim. “Please, may I know your names so I may give prayers of thanks for you?”
Elim looked rather shocked, jaw fallen open and eyes wide as he stared at the woman. She looked unsure but didn’t back down despite the interesting dentistry inside the hole in Elim’s face.
“I am S’lannaneth,” S’lann introduced himself. “This one is Elim of Nar and this is Kilmor,” he indicated the seeming-human, “but he’s not himself lately.”
Kilmor chuckled at that but the look he gave S;lann promised playful retribution later.
“Gareth Silvergilt is our paladin-friend here,” he gestured to the Warforged, “Squirrel is the Rogue that made much of this possible.” He clapped the young human on the shoulder, who had the grace to beam and nod to the old woman.
“What of the other one?” she asked, using her chin to point to Adama as he sat with his back to them, polishing his armor and weapons.
“That is Adama,” S’lann said loudly, getting ear-flick from the Human-cursed-Ibixian, “of Cormyr.”
Without another word the old woman pushed past them and strode right over to Adama, rounding on him. “What right do you have to claim yourself of Cormyr?” she demanded. “There are no creatures such of you there. Name yourself, brigand.”
Her gaze was imperious, her manner was haughty and her speech was far above the station of ‘slave’.
Rising to his feet, a few inches taller than her only he realized with a start, he said softly, “I am Adama Crann, Squire of the Third Host, under a curse and sold into slavery to the Thayans until we,” he gestured to the others, “escaped.”
“A-Adama Crann?” she seemed confused and staggered back a half-step. “How is that possible? We had been told you were slain…”
Silently he reached to his pack and withdrew the cleaned and mended tabard, holding it up for her to see. She reached out and ran her fingers over the badges, authentic she knew, and the runic names woven into them of Adama and his lineage.
“’Swear!” she told him, “Swear on your sword, swear as a Squire, swear on the blood fo the Queen and I will believe you!”
Adama looked at her tiredly and seemed about to decline but she commanded it this time, her voice roiling with magickal power *Swear*
Silently he withdrew his sword, turning the side so that she could bear witness to the dragon rampant set into the blade in purple sapphire and then, it happened.
With a chiming ring, as if struck on the anvil it had been forged, the sword flared with white radiance and spoke as the runes appeared along the blade in purple script, Elven characters slithering along the blood-channel.
“I who am Dragon’s Claw, Blade of the Rightful Scion, Judge ye not for the Truth shall Ring.”
“Dragon’s Tears!” she swore and dropped to her knees instantly, her head bowed and her arms spread. “Scion, my life is yours!”
Adama who stood there blinking from the light of the sword, which was fading, was completely dumbfounded by what had just occurred. S’lann and Elim appeared, Kilmor and Gareth quickly in tow.
“Heros are often chosen Adama,” Gareth murmured to him, reminding him of their discussion about Paladins, “whether they like it or not.”
Adama gave him a rather sour and pained look and Elim grinned hugely. “I’m SO glad I’m not the only one with a talking weapon.
Adama gave him a hateful glare and turned back to the woman kneeling before him. “Umm, Lady, please get up. I- I’m not sure…” and then he paused, realizing he DID know what was going on. The hilt of the sword now bore two crests, symbols of specific deities he knew, one on each side of the crosspiece and forming a triune of sorts. One was of Tyr and one was of Lathander, with the Dragon Rampant over them. He understood that something very powerful had chosen him to do something and he’d accepted, on some level, because he was the only one who could. He met all the factors that were needed.
She looked up, cheeks wet from the tears that were shed, “’You are the Scion. At last, a Scion has been risen! There is hope then!” She clasped her hands together at her breast.
“What-“ and that was all he managed to get out. He had meant to say “what do you mean by that” but never got the chance, for he was somewhere else.
