The Scars Run Deep (Updated - 3/29/2004)

[Ruined]

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V.

The first day of summer in Ghelspad is celebrated in some cities as Divinities’ Day. Quelsk, the southmost harbor city of Zathiske, is renowned for this festival, attracting travelers from across the Calastian Hegemony and beyond. Primarily a festival commemorating the actions of the gods Chardun and Corean, the festival typically has representatives of all faiths present. The merchants of Quelsk thrive in the week surrounding Divinities’ Day, while most other residents take this time to relax from their normal duties.

Silas had no intentions to relax on this holy day. The city’s gates would open to allow in all types of visitors, including thieves, cutthroats, and assassins – all suitable prey for Silas. The early morning found him and an associate named Lorehn inside the city magistrate’s office. Arrayed before them on a table were numerous papers detailing names, descriptions, and an occasional sketch of known criminals and miscreants.

“Here’s the one I wanted to show you. Nedrick Fourfingers,” Lorehn said, pointing a finger at one piece of parchment. Silas scanned the paper. Fourfingers was wanted in the cities of Calas and Sussephra for thievery and suspected murder. There was no sketch, but it had a base description of the man. Most notable was that he had the small finger removed from each hand.

“He’s one of the ones you like.” Lorehn leveled his gaze at Silas. It was unspoken, but Silas knew the meaning. Fourfingers was most likely a member of the Cult of the Ancients. Lorehn was Silas’ contact within the Scaled, and occasionally he would point out bounties that matched Silas’ criteria. Silas studied the information about Fourfingers before moving on to other papers. He passed a few that he had read before, until he came to one concerning treason. Lorehn, noting the bounty in Silas’ hands, leaned over to whisper near Silas’ ear.

“Oh right. That one’s not for you. Consider him protected.” Silas nodded, curious as to why this one was being watched by the Scaled. Soldiers didn’t usually fall in their ranks. He read the name again, committing it to memory. Gerad Caedmon.

“Don’t you two every take a day off?” the Magistrate asked. “By Chardun’s chains, it’s Divinities Day.” Silas looked at the aging human and grinned.

“Today? It’s our busiest time of year, old man.”

 

[Ruined]

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

Tréan smiled at the small groups of children as they began to gather near their tent. It was not even an hour past dawn and the city was filling with passerby, all eager to begin their celebrations. Tréan had been awake for many hours, working by torchlight with Helena to get things prepared for the coming day. Watching many of the other priests and merchants about, the early-morning rise seemed traditional.

As she worked in the back of the large blue and white tent, Tréan watched Helena tending to a young woman presenting an injured arm. Healing was one of the main sphere of Madriel’s power, and Helena had cautioned that many would come seeking succor from them. Helena was making good use of poultices and herbs to effect healing this morning. Both women had the capability to heal with magic, but those abilities only stretched so far. Miracles of faith should be saved for the truly needy.

“Pardon me, miss,” called an accented voice from the side of the tent. Tréan spun to find a man bedecked in luxurious clothing. Silken red pantaloons and a vest embroidered with spun gold made him clearly stand out from the crowd. Curled mustachios framed a mouth bearing an unflappable smile. His eyes seemed to twinkle at Tréan.

“I am the Prospero, servant of Hedrada. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, miss…”

“Tréan.” She extended her hand to him, which he savored with a kiss. “We were told you would be here.”

“Yes, I have heard of your visit in Sussephra. Ah, Helena.”

Helena walked up to meet with the Prospero, and he was every bit as flirtatious with her as he had been with Tréan. Surprisingly enough, he was a likeable fellow. Tréan had met others that tended to size her up when talking, and their presence generally unnerved her. The Prospero was possessed of true charisma. It served him well as representative of Hedrada’s influence over wealth and success. The Prospero and Helena spoke like old acquaintances, catching up on past times.

“Alas, miladies, I must attend to my duties as a priest. The Satrap should be speaking at noon, and I must be ready. I do want you to know that should you need anything while in Quelsk, merely come to me. This is my ‘summer home’, so to speak.” With a disarming grin, he smiled and moved off to other pursuits. Tréan turned and regarded Helena with an incredulous look.

“I know, he seems like a fop. And to a degree, he is.” She smiled. “Honestly, you’d be hard-pressed to find a better ally.”

“He mentioned our visit to Sussephra,” Tréan said under her breath.

“That’s no surprise. He helped to arrange it.”

 

[jenna3]

Woohoo! Good job, tRO. I suppose Surrielle and I can back off the butt-kicking now....

TTFN--Jenna
aka Tréan

 

[Ruined]

Another couple of updates today:

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

Surielle knew it was the first day of summer without need of the fancy Ledean calendars. She and Brianna had noted the horseshoe of Destrios taking position in the sky the night before, marking the coming of Chardot and summer. The last day of the month was known as Denday to the populace at large, a single day to revere Denev. Surielle thought it sad that others did not carry the Mother in their hearts every day as she did.

The grove was in much better condition than when the druids had first found it. It still required work, but they had uprooted smaller trees that were beyond care and healed the flora that they could save. They had performed exhausting rituals to cleanse the taint left behind by the titanic cultists.

Sadly, Maximillian had not returned from the spot where he and the fatling sank into the ground. Neither had the fatling, for that matter. Both druidesses accepted his sacrifice with resignation. He had done what was best for the land and for them, and they would not question the outcome.

“We’re going to need more seeds and some tools to complete our tasks here,” Brianna said.

“Are you sure I must be the one to go?” Surielle asked, knowing the answer. She had little desire to venture into the city of Quelsk, especially when it was thick with people.

“Yes, Surielle, please. I will try to cleanse the ponds while you are gone, and then we can work on the larger tasks at hand.” She smiled, and it proved infectious to Surielle. Surielle turned to Snowmelt, who was rolling in the grasses nearby.

“I suppose you won’t do well in the city either?” The wolf looked at her quizically, then resumed her playful activities. Surielle laughed to herself and prepared to venture into the urban environment.

 

[Ruined]

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

“As you all know, this is Divinities Day: one of the largest celebrations held in our fair city of Quelsk. And the watch will be out in force, trying to maintain order in our streets.” Marus paused to allow the obligatory jokes to pass among the room. None of the Cresting Waves bore any love for the guardsmen of Quelsk. Some would say that the two were enemies.

“There will be visitors from across the country, even from as far as Vesh. These are people who could become our allies, as long as we don’t make asses of ourselves.” Once again, a pause to let the words sink in. “We seek to free our country from the Calastian Hegemony, but as I’ve said before, we must have our wits about us.”

“There are other factions who think violence is the sole way to achieve this. They will look to make moves during this festival, hoping to catch the Calastian dogs unaware. If you think you will have trouble restraining such urges, I suggest you leave now and find them. If anyone has any questions, bring them to me. Otherwise, enjoy the festival.”

Gerad smiled after listening to the speech. It was good to see someone who held respect amongst his men. It took Gerad back to days serving under Dmitri, the closest thing he knew to a father. Those days were long gone, and were he to meet Dmitri now, it would likely be as enemies.

Two years ago, Gerad had awakened in a smoke-filed hut, tired and wracked with pain. The charduni Warstone’s blow had bit deep, but had failed to kill him. He soon learned that a few of the villagers had hid and seen his stand against the Inquisitor. Once the army had moved on, they had healed him as best they could. Considered dead and a traitor, Gerad had found his way to the country of Zathiske, where resentment boiled against the Calastian soldiers that occupied their cities. Gerad did a great amount of soul-searching before committing himself to the cause of the Cresting Waves. The men around him were good friends, but he doubted they would ever be brothers like Barrikk and Pazzi. Sighing deeply, Gerad stepped upon the walkway to talk with Marus.

“So, Gerad. What are your plans for the festival?” Marus asked as he approached.

“I haven’t thought of anything,” he answered truthfully. “Practice. Maybe find work as a bodyguard for someone.” Gerad felt uncomfortable. While he had easily meshed in with the Cresting Waves, teaching the men formations and proper tactics, he had never pursued a social life.

“You should get out some and enjoy yourself. They have holidays like this so that hard laborers like yourself can relax.” Marus gauged Gerad’s silence, looking for something in his eyes. After a moment, he lowered his voice and spoke again.

“Should you desire a task of great import, I can arrange it.”

“I will not be attending the celebrations past today. I must journey north, but the journey need not be alone. If you wish…” Marus’ words were cut off as one of the men near the front of the warehouse cried out.

“Dragons!”

He did not refer to the creatures of myth; instead these were the Calastian soldiers that patrolled the Zathiskan territories. Gerad could see a number of men flooding into the building, each wearing black cloaks with the prominent dragon displayed. As they moved into the warehouse, one of the guards yelled out, “Kill all of these rebel scum!”

Without hesitation, Gerad leapt from the walkway and snared a spear from a barrel where they were kept. He quickly advanced to assist a fellow who was barely holding a Dragon’s sword from his face. With the man occupied, it took little for Gerad to plunge the spear deep into his breast. The guardsman gurgled and died, but more move to take his place as Gerad wrested the spear from the fallen man’s armor.

“Everyone scatter! We should not fight here and now!” Marus’ words barely reached over the clang of sharpened steel.

As Gerad parries the blows from a guardsman, he is aware of the violence in the periphery around him. The Cresting Waves are not trained for prolonged conflict as a whole. Against equal numbers of Black Dragons, Gerad knew they would not last. He was thankful to see Marus leading a small number of the Cresting Waves out via the back entrance.

The guard facing Gerad scored a blow, slashing his sword along Gerad’s leg through his armored skirt. Grunting from the pain, Gerad spun the spear and cracked the blunt end against the Guardsman’s face. The guard took a step back to reconsider, but Gerad quickly followed up, driving his spear into the man’s throat.

“Waves, to me! Form a wedge!”

Gerad was relieved to see that some of his training went to good use as a number of his fellows moved to stand beside him in formation. He bellowed out a command to charge, and they plowed forward into the unprepared ranks of armored soldiers. One or two of the men fell to blows from the Black Dragons, but the majority of men escaped from the abattoir behind them with Gerad in the lead. There were only a few more guardsmen outside, but Gerad knew that more could be arriving within moments.

“Scatter! We will fight another day, Waves!”

Many of the men did as they were told, moving off into side streets and alleyways. After taking down another armored guardsman, Gerad headed down the street to the back of the warehouse. There were more bodies of fallen friends and guards alike. He quickly scanned the corpses, but none were Marus. A blood smear on a nearby wall caught his eye, and he moved to follow it. Near an intersection to a main street, he found Marus on hands and knees, blood seeping from his side. Gerad quickly knelt beside the man.

“Marus, we must get you to safety.”

It took Marus a few moments to realize it was Gerad come to save him. “I am wounded …need priest.” After a fit of rough coughs, he continued. “Go to main square… find a healer.”

Gerad took a few moments to lift Marus and move him to a smaller alleyway. He positioned a few abandoned crates to cover him from casual sight. As he prepared to leave, Marus called his name once more. He extended a bloodied hand to give Gerad a golden disc roughly the size of his hand. The disc bore the markings of the city and a few symbols he was unfamiliar with.

“Use this, should they need convincing…”

“I will return for you, Marus.” Gerad said, saluting with his fist above his heart. And then he moved off in search of a healer.

 

[Ruined]

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

Tréan noted the dark-clothed woman speaking with Helena at the front of the tent. The women were amicable in their conversation, bearing smiles and speaking in pleasant tones, but underneath there was tension. She could feel it from Helena, and it seemed to be mirrored in the other woman. Setting down the ewer in her hands, Tréan tried to remain inconspicuous as she neared the two women.

As she moved closer, she deduced why the women might be ill at ease. The unknown woman was cooling herself with a black fan that bore a silver circle – the symbol of Belsameth. The Slayer. The Goddess of Death and Darkness. And Madriel’s twin sister. There was an unspoken rivalry between the two religious orders that approached but never quite erupted into violence.

Helena noticed Tréan’s approach, and turned to introduce the woman before them.

“Ah Tréan, this is Tessa, one of the visiting priestesses of Belsameth.”

The woman turned and smiled at Tréan, extending her hand in greeting.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, young lady.

Tessa was years older than Helena, but still retained a dark beauty. The woman’s gaze lingered, making Tréan distinctly uncomfortable. After a moment, she smiled and resumed conversation with Helena.

“They say that Satrap Olem will make his public appearance near noon today.” Tessa motioned to a decorated building with a large balcony overlooking the market square. The Satrap was the provincial governor of Zathiske, ruling on behalf of Virduk, King of Calastia. His address would commence the major festivities of the day, and would be witnessed by all who could fill the square.

Helena and Tessa spoke for a while longer, allowing Tréan to escape and work with those who wished to pay homage to Madriel. Every so often, she could feel the Belsameth priestess’ eyes upon her, but their gazes never met again. Within an hour, the two women had resumed their work tending to the masses.

“Excuse me, ladies,” called a steady voice. They both looked up to see a strong, clean-shaven man. His hair was cut close in the Ankilan style. Were it not for the lack of uniform, Tréan would have guessed him a soldier.

“Yes, child?” Helena asked.

“I have a friend who is gravely wounded.” He paused, looking for the right words. “I believe he is dying. I seek your help.”

Tréan glanced around, but the man was alone. She did note that his forearm had the stain of blood upon it.

“Is he here?” she asked.

“No, but he is within the city.”

The two women shared a look of concern before Helena responded.

“If you bring him to us…”

“Please,” he interrupted. “I should not move him, and I fear that his time is short. If this will help…,” he said, rummaging through his belt pouch. Tréan guessed he would hand them coins to sway them, but was surprised when he brought forth a golden disc bearing regal symbols. Helena held it and examined it for a moment before turning back to Tréan.

“Tréan, I will watch over things here. Please go with this man and see what can be done.”

Tréan studied the man, wondering what messy situation he had come from. She could not decide what to make of him, but she could tell that he was sincerely concerned about his friend. There was not the time nor need for her armor, but she did retrieve her spear. If this man was leading her into danger, she would at least be partially prepared.

***

A few stalls over from the blue-and-white tent of the Madriel-worshippers, Silas watched the events with interest. He had been making a donation to the Hedradan faith when he spotted a man who bore a striking resemblance to one of the bounties. Getting a better look, he knew it was the one that Lorehn had said was protected: Gerad Caedmon.

Silas pretended to sift through items at a silk vendor while watching Gerad with keen eyes. The crowd noise prevented him from hearing anything, but he did note the golden seal that Gerad presented and the change in the priestesses’ demeanor. When he left with one of the females, Silas decided to follow. He may not turn this one in for profit, but he was interested in why he was being protected.

With practiced ease, Silas moved through the crowds after his quarry.

***

Surielle kept to herself as she moved through the unkempt streets of Quelsk. Instincts had taken her away from the crowded walkways and into less sanitary back streets. This helped to remind her why she stayed away from cities: the smells were horrific and there was such a lack of flora. How could people willingly choose to live like this?

A wooden crate fell into the walkway ten paces ahead of her, startling her out of her thoughts. Sounds of wet coughing emanated from the alley. Surielle took a few steps until she could see the source of the coughs – a man slumped over on his side. Without hesitation, Surielle knelt to the man’s side. He had a large seeping wound to his side, and Surielle could visibly see his organs within. He would not live long without her help.

“North…” the fallen man began. ”Must get North.” Surielle attempted to quiet the man, and cast cure moderate wounds. His wounds began to knit together and she could see a flicker of life return to his eyes. His bloody hand grasped the folds of her shirt with surprising strength.

“I have to get North. I…” he stopped to grunt, as if suddenly experiencing the pain of his existing wounds. Once his eyes opened, he seemed to take in Surielle’s appearance for the first time. “You. You could take it.”

Surielle wasn’t sure she wanted to get any more involved with this man. She started to rise, but he reached out and clasped his hand around her red and gold amulet. He changed the pitch of his voice, speaking in a language Surielle could not place. It quickly dawned upon her – magic.

She felt transfixed as he rattled on in the foreign tongue. On he droned, and not once did his words seem to falter. Finally, he finished into a fit of coughing, releasing his grip on her Sisterhood amulet. She involuntarily took a few steps back from this strange man.

“Go North. Find Kelkarrin, the mage.”

“Who? I don’t…”

The crack of a crossbow sounded behind Surielle, and she watched with horror as a bolt buried deep into the wounded man’s chest. She cried out and spun to face a group of men clad in the black armor of the Calastian Hegemony. One younger man stood at the forefront of the group, his head free of the plumed helms worn by his fellow soldiers. In his hands rested an empty crossbow.

“Leave no witnesses. Make sure Marus dies. And kill the wench as well.”

 

[Ruined]

1st of Chardot, ‘Divinities Day’ yr. 150 A.V., continued

Surielle responded quicker to the lead guardsman’s command than his subordinates did, and within moments she was wielding a flame scythe in her hands.* She held two of the men at bay, waving the flaming weapon before her. One of the bolder guards rushed her, but earned only a scorching blow to his hand and forearm. As Surielle fought to protect the wounded man, two more figures entered the alley.

Tréan and Gerad moved into view of this confrontation. Gerad spotted Marus’ body on the ground, and immediately rushed to fight against the Dragons. Marus was the closest thing to a mentor he had now, and he would be damned if he’d let these guards slaughter him.

Tréan advanced cautiously, shocked by the scene before her. She knew very little about this man, Gerad, who brought her here. She could see his wounded friend on the other side of the fray, but the way was completely blocked by what appeared to be city guardsmen. What kind of men must Gerad and his friend be if the city guards were after them? Then again, city guards sometimes had their own code of right and wrong. Confused and reluctant to attack those who had not yet shown any intent to harm her, Tréan offered up a prayer for guidance to the Redeemer.

Three of the guards moved to meet Gerad, drawing swords against his spear. Their approach was clumsy, and one paid the final price as Gerad ran him through. The remaining two drew blood from Gerad, but the wounds were shallow.

The guard lieutenant, whose name was Blake, surveyed the scene before him and decided to back away. His men weren’t faring well against the spearmen at one end, and the female helping Marus had just set one of his men aflame with her conjured scythe. The leader of the Cresting Waves was dead, which was satisfying in itself.

Blake backed down the alleyway, unaware of the elf that waited near the edge of the battle. Silas knew of Blake, and had once received rough treatment at the hands of his men. He saw opportunity and took his shot. Luck sided with Blake, as the unseen arrow clattered off the stone wall near his head. The guardsman whirled, taking a moment to spot his attacker. As Silas drew another arrow, Blake whipped a dagger from his hand that buried into Silas’ thigh. Blake continued to back away from the archer, wary of his shots.

Silas connected once, sending the arrow clean through the man’s calf. The lieutenant limped out of sight around a corner as the last shot clattered against a shop wall. Silas considered pursuing the guardsman, but decided instead to help Gerad. If he was protected, assisting him may earn him favor from the Scaled.

Tréan watched the fight spread out before her, feeling the pressure of making a decision. The female with the flaming scythe was holding her own, but the guards weren’t trying to subdue her - they were trying to kill her. Tréan could at least prevent that.

Tréan lowered her spear and moved near Gerad’s position. One of the guards stabbed towards Gerad’s chest, but Tréan caught his chain sleeve with the spear. He tried to shake the spear loose, but had his sword knocked from his hands for the effort. Tréan had no desire to kill these guardsmen. At least if they were unarmed perhaps they would not have to die.

Another crossbow fired, the bolt coming close to Surielle’s head. It would not be long before the crossbow found its mark. She maneuvered to keep the sword-wielding guard from her, stepping to the man with the crossbow. She ran her scythe across the archer, and the flames engulfed his crossbow and quiver. The man ran from her, desperately trying to strip off the burning items.

Gerad noted the healer’s skill with a spear. She skillfully disarmed one of the guards, making him an easy target. Gerad moved in and finished him off with a quick plunge of his spear. Tréan continued to disarm the opponents with Gerad coming up behind to finish them off. The bloodshed was certainly not what Tréan had in mind, but this was no time to argue ethics; there were lives on the line.

Between the three of them (and what appeared to be arrows coming out of a side alley), the battlefield was finally shrinking. As Tréan and Gerad continued to advance, Surielle took another slice off the flaming guard in front of her and watched him fall. This left only one more threat from the guards: a man with a burned hand pointing a cross bow directly at her. As Surielle prepared her flaming scythe for one last slash, a grey fletched arrow came out of the alley and buried itself deep in the man’s neck.

As the crossbowman fell, an elf stepped out of the side-alley to join the three battle-weary strangers. “North,” the group heard a whispered, rattling moan from the fallen man. Surielle and Tréan both knelt over Marus and tried to assess his condition. With a nod of recognition for each other’s skills, a look passed between them as they both realized it was too late.

The healers passed on the disappointing news. As the disparate group started to introduce themselves, Silas spoke up, “One of them got away. We should get away from here before he brings reinforcements.” Realizing the wisdom behind his words, the group hurried off, leaving the bodies behind. Gerad paused, making a silent promise to his fallen commander.

You will be avenged, Marus.

* Surielle’s version of Flame Blade is a flaming scythe, taught by the Sisterhood of the Scythe.

 

[Ruined]

This proved more difficult to write, as I'm not used to switching viewpoints so frequently within a chapter. Thanks to Jenna3 for editing and writing the above scene.

 

[jenna3]

It was my pleasure, Ruined. Ask anytime. In many of my other games we encourage our players to write up summaries from their character's point of view. That can be an immense help when trying to post the story.

TTFN--Jenna

 

[megamania]

neat idea having players write a short "memory" of each day to be given in/referenced.

Story is good also