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NOW LIVE! Into the Woods--new character species, eerie monsters, and haunting villains to populate the woodlands of your D&D games.
Welcome to the Halmae (updated 2/27/07)
- Thread starter spyscribe
- Start date
spyscribe
First Post
Part the Thirtieth
In which: an alchemist stammers, Moira causes some to blush, and Thatch once again stares at his shoes.
Upon reaching Moira’s way-post, the party finds it is in as much a state of upset as the Temple of Justice was that morning. Lori, head of the local Water Walkers, has been in meetings since late the previous night, and Moira finds that several of her fellow Walkers have not been seen since approximately the time of the attack. “Of course,” she qualifies, “that’s not so unusual here as it would be among the Justicars.”
Having run out of ways to immediately pursue investigation into the mystery of the shadow beasts, the party decides to see if they can find anything out about the black powder that started the explosion. They suspect this might have been the “supplies” spoken of in the note they found with Jelliana’s cell.
“Jelliana?” Moira asks, “of the Handmaidens?”
Anvil fixes her with a trademark stare. “Do you know this woman?”
“A little bit. I used to work with her.”
“You used to be a Handmaiden?”
Moira nods without a trace of self-consciousness, adjusting a lute that hangs across her back. “I’ve been a little bit of everything in service to Alirria. I started as a Giver, tried being a Handmaiden, and now I’m a Water Walker.”
Thatch gulps and once again finds something fascinating to look at on the toe of his boot. He had been doing so much better with the whole “not staring” thing.
**********
“We are looking for the least reputable alchemist in Dar Pykos,” Anvil announces as the party walks in the front doors of the Alchemist’s Guild.
“Huh—Wha—?” the desk clerk seems somewhat flustered by this request. “I’m sure we wouldn’t have that information here— ” he begins.
“There is a substance,” Anvil continues undeterred, “a powder that can be ignited to explosive effect. Who knows the art of its manufacture?”
Behind him, Moira gives her new companions a questioning glance. Most of them shrug as though to say, “You get used to it.”
The clerk, however, is as of yet unaccustomed to outbursts of this nature. He finally manages to blurt out: “Who are you anyway?”
Anvil is brought up short for a fraction of a second, as though the answer should be self-evident. “We are the hand and might of Kettenek,” he finally replies.
The clerk stares at him.
Behind Anvil, someone coughs.
Anvil glances over his shoulder to find the vast majority of his companions looking almost as skeptical as the clerk. He turns back and amends his earlier statement. “Well, I am.”
Introductions out of the way, the clerk is quite cooperative, although his information is rather disappointing to the adventurers. The black power (fire powder in the vernacular) is both cheap and simple to fabricate. It can be safely transported over long distances as long as precautions are taken to keep it away from open flame, and it can be stored in a dry place indefinitely without harm to its efficacy.
“So,” says Thatch, “they could have gotten it from anywhere, been amassing it in small batches for months and there’s no way to trace it even if it hadn’t all been used up in the explosion.”
Reluctantly, the party has to agree with that assessment, and decides to abandon that avenue of investigation.
On the whole, it’s been a frustrating day for the adventurers. Their greatest accomplishment: chasing off a group of ten-year-olds throwing rocks.
Moira takes her leave and returns to her way-post. Reyu also departs, heading for the outskirts of the city to spend time with the local community of elves and “be among green things.” With no mission, and no collective obligations for the remainder of the evening, the adventurers each take their own ways through the city…
**********
Anvil’s way, naturally, leads back to the Temple of Justice.
There is a small writing desk in a corner of the catacombs of the Temple of Ketennek which is reserved -- by tradition -- for Anvil the Just. Although it stands in a particularly dark corner with an uncomfortably low ceiling, Anvil prefers it to all others because it connects, by way of an ancient arched doorway, to the most hallowed records of Ketennite justice, the primary sources upon which all modern rulings are based. While others content themselves to study the recent writings and cases, Anvil prefers the uninterpreted word of the Justicars of old.
It is very late at night, though there is no way to tell that down here. Anvil sits at the desk, preparing a scroll from the wisdom of a weighty tome scribed by Stronghold the Just in elder years. He works by candlelight, and the candle he started with has burned its way down to a tiny nub when Tenacious the Just appears behind him.
"Justicar Anvil," he says. “I thought I might find you down here.”
"Tenacious the Just," Anvil replies. He slips off his stool to stand before his superior.
“Working late?” Tenacious asks, with a light smile.
“I am working,” Anvil responds. “Is it late?”
“Very,” Tenacious responds with a sigh. He seems weary. Preoccupied. "Tell me of your companions, Anvil," he says, abruptly.
"Surely you know the priests of this temple as thoroughly as--"
"No, no. Of those companions with whom you traveled to Dar Aego. Those with whom you saved many lives at the Mages' Academy of late."
"Ah," replies Anvil. He contemplates the question, unmoving. Finally, he speaks: "They are just, each in his or her own way."
"And are they skilled?"
"They are."
"Trustworthy?"
"Indeed."
With the next question, Tenacious's brow assumes the most serious of postures. "Anvil, if the best interests of the Caucus rested upon their shoulders -- if the best interests of the Temple of Justice itself rested upon them -- do you believe they could be relied on? Do you feel they could act in those interests?"
Anvil considers, but only briefly, before he answers. "As they are with me, and I with them."
Tenacious takes in Anvil’s words. Then he nods. "Good. Those interests -- of Ketennek, and of the Caucus – may well fall to you all. And soon."
Anvil’s curiosity gets the better of him. “In what manner?”
But Tenacious shakes his head. “I cannot talk about it yet. I will know more later. All I can say is that you should be ready.” Tenacious turns to leave. “Don’t work too late.”
"May Ketennek's Justice be upon you," intones Anvil.
"And you," Tenacious replies, and he disappears into the darkness.
Very well, then, Anvil thinks to himself, as he returns his attention to the wisdom of Stronghold the Just…
**********
Special thanks this week to Bad Monkey Jeff for writing up Anvil's scene with Tenacious!
In which: an alchemist stammers, Moira causes some to blush, and Thatch once again stares at his shoes.
Upon reaching Moira’s way-post, the party finds it is in as much a state of upset as the Temple of Justice was that morning. Lori, head of the local Water Walkers, has been in meetings since late the previous night, and Moira finds that several of her fellow Walkers have not been seen since approximately the time of the attack. “Of course,” she qualifies, “that’s not so unusual here as it would be among the Justicars.”
Having run out of ways to immediately pursue investigation into the mystery of the shadow beasts, the party decides to see if they can find anything out about the black powder that started the explosion. They suspect this might have been the “supplies” spoken of in the note they found with Jelliana’s cell.
“Jelliana?” Moira asks, “of the Handmaidens?”
Anvil fixes her with a trademark stare. “Do you know this woman?”
“A little bit. I used to work with her.”
“You used to be a Handmaiden?”
Moira nods without a trace of self-consciousness, adjusting a lute that hangs across her back. “I’ve been a little bit of everything in service to Alirria. I started as a Giver, tried being a Handmaiden, and now I’m a Water Walker.”
Thatch gulps and once again finds something fascinating to look at on the toe of his boot. He had been doing so much better with the whole “not staring” thing.
**********
“We are looking for the least reputable alchemist in Dar Pykos,” Anvil announces as the party walks in the front doors of the Alchemist’s Guild.
“Huh—Wha—?” the desk clerk seems somewhat flustered by this request. “I’m sure we wouldn’t have that information here— ” he begins.
“There is a substance,” Anvil continues undeterred, “a powder that can be ignited to explosive effect. Who knows the art of its manufacture?”
Behind him, Moira gives her new companions a questioning glance. Most of them shrug as though to say, “You get used to it.”
The clerk, however, is as of yet unaccustomed to outbursts of this nature. He finally manages to blurt out: “Who are you anyway?”
Anvil is brought up short for a fraction of a second, as though the answer should be self-evident. “We are the hand and might of Kettenek,” he finally replies.
The clerk stares at him.
Behind Anvil, someone coughs.
Anvil glances over his shoulder to find the vast majority of his companions looking almost as skeptical as the clerk. He turns back and amends his earlier statement. “Well, I am.”
Introductions out of the way, the clerk is quite cooperative, although his information is rather disappointing to the adventurers. The black power (fire powder in the vernacular) is both cheap and simple to fabricate. It can be safely transported over long distances as long as precautions are taken to keep it away from open flame, and it can be stored in a dry place indefinitely without harm to its efficacy.
“So,” says Thatch, “they could have gotten it from anywhere, been amassing it in small batches for months and there’s no way to trace it even if it hadn’t all been used up in the explosion.”
Reluctantly, the party has to agree with that assessment, and decides to abandon that avenue of investigation.
On the whole, it’s been a frustrating day for the adventurers. Their greatest accomplishment: chasing off a group of ten-year-olds throwing rocks.
Moira takes her leave and returns to her way-post. Reyu also departs, heading for the outskirts of the city to spend time with the local community of elves and “be among green things.” With no mission, and no collective obligations for the remainder of the evening, the adventurers each take their own ways through the city…
**********
Anvil’s way, naturally, leads back to the Temple of Justice.
There is a small writing desk in a corner of the catacombs of the Temple of Ketennek which is reserved -- by tradition -- for Anvil the Just. Although it stands in a particularly dark corner with an uncomfortably low ceiling, Anvil prefers it to all others because it connects, by way of an ancient arched doorway, to the most hallowed records of Ketennite justice, the primary sources upon which all modern rulings are based. While others content themselves to study the recent writings and cases, Anvil prefers the uninterpreted word of the Justicars of old.
It is very late at night, though there is no way to tell that down here. Anvil sits at the desk, preparing a scroll from the wisdom of a weighty tome scribed by Stronghold the Just in elder years. He works by candlelight, and the candle he started with has burned its way down to a tiny nub when Tenacious the Just appears behind him.
"Justicar Anvil," he says. “I thought I might find you down here.”
"Tenacious the Just," Anvil replies. He slips off his stool to stand before his superior.
“Working late?” Tenacious asks, with a light smile.
“I am working,” Anvil responds. “Is it late?”
“Very,” Tenacious responds with a sigh. He seems weary. Preoccupied. "Tell me of your companions, Anvil," he says, abruptly.
"Surely you know the priests of this temple as thoroughly as--"
"No, no. Of those companions with whom you traveled to Dar Aego. Those with whom you saved many lives at the Mages' Academy of late."
"Ah," replies Anvil. He contemplates the question, unmoving. Finally, he speaks: "They are just, each in his or her own way."
"And are they skilled?"
"They are."
"Trustworthy?"
"Indeed."
With the next question, Tenacious's brow assumes the most serious of postures. "Anvil, if the best interests of the Caucus rested upon their shoulders -- if the best interests of the Temple of Justice itself rested upon them -- do you believe they could be relied on? Do you feel they could act in those interests?"
Anvil considers, but only briefly, before he answers. "As they are with me, and I with them."
Tenacious takes in Anvil’s words. Then he nods. "Good. Those interests -- of Ketennek, and of the Caucus – may well fall to you all. And soon."
Anvil’s curiosity gets the better of him. “In what manner?”
But Tenacious shakes his head. “I cannot talk about it yet. I will know more later. All I can say is that you should be ready.” Tenacious turns to leave. “Don’t work too late.”
"May Ketennek's Justice be upon you," intones Anvil.
"And you," Tenacious replies, and he disappears into the darkness.
Very well, then, Anvil thinks to himself, as he returns his attention to the wisdom of Stronghold the Just…
**********
Special thanks this week to Bad Monkey Jeff for writing up Anvil's scene with Tenacious!
Last edited:
Aaaaaaand... I'm caught back up!
Honestly, I can't believe it's been so long since I frequented this story hour. The writing has remained most excellent, and the talent for making low-level adventures and personalities extremely entertaining is very impressive.
Thanks a ton for sharing it with us, and I look forward to the next update!
Honestly, I can't believe it's been so long since I frequented this story hour. The writing has remained most excellent, and the talent for making low-level adventures and personalities extremely entertaining is very impressive.
Thanks a ton for sharing it with us, and I look forward to the next update!
spyscribe
First Post
Thank you kindly Talix, but who are you calling "low level?" I'll have you know the Mages' Academy fire brought the party up to third.
Just you wait. Reyu and Anvil gettin' down with the second level spells, Euro able to deliver touch spells for Lira... you know, if she knew any touch spells...
*shrug* What can I say, when you only level twice a year, you appreciate it.
Look for a short update sometime this evening.
P.S. Welcome back!
Just you wait. Reyu and Anvil gettin' down with the second level spells, Euro able to deliver touch spells for Lira... you know, if she knew any touch spells...
*shrug* What can I say, when you only level twice a year, you appreciate it.
Look for a short update sometime this evening.
P.S. Welcome back!
spyscribe
First Post
Moira lies on her bunk, idly strumming her lute. It’s good to be back in her home city. In the year since she joined the Water-Walkers, she’s seen much of the world. But, as much as she loves the travel, the way posts on the road never seem as comfortable as they do in Dar Pykos.
There is a knock at the door. “Mm-hmm,” Moira says, by way of invitation.
The door opens. It is Lori, the Post Mistress. She seems flustered. “Moira, you, ah, you have a visitor.”
“Okay,” Moira says.
Lori steps back from the door, and a woman enters. She is middle-aged, dressed in long green robes and a tall green hat. Moira gasps at the sight of her, and quickly jumps up from her bunk. It is the Benedictus—the head of the Church of Alirria in Dar Pykos.
“Y-your Eminence,” Moira stammers. “I-I didn’t expect--”
“It’s all right, child,” the Priestess answers serenely. “I’d be surprised if you had.”
Moira smiles, relaxing slightly. “If I may ask, to what do I owe this honor?”
The Benedictus glances around the room, taking in Moira’s well-worn pack, her lute, her travel cloak. “I wished to meet you,” she says. “I’ve been in a great many meetings in the past day, and your name has come to my attention on several different occasions.”
Moira swallows. Given her past, there are any number of people who could have dropped her name. And, given her sharp tongue, there are any number of things they might have said about her.
“I understand you were raised by the Givers of Life,” the Benedictus continues.
“Yes, that’s true. My parents left me with them when I was a child. Their farm was failing, and they didn’t think I’d last the winter…. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway. I don’t really remember.”
“I see. And then, when you came of age, you came to the city, and spent time as one of our Lady’s Handmaidens?”
“I did.”
“Why the Handmaidens?”
“Well… I was curious. It was better than being on my own, and the Handmaidens are less, well, stodgy than the Givers. They were very pleasurable years.”
“But you left the Handmaidens, and now you travel the Lady’s many wonders as a Water-Walker.”
“I’ve never been very good at staying in one place.”
“Apparently not. You have traveled much.”
“I’ve only been with the Water-walkers for a year or so--” Moira begins to explain, but the Benedictus gently interrupts her.
“I do not mean physically, child. I mean spiritually. You have explored so many of the ways of our Lady. You have seen her in her many faces, more than most of your sistren ever will. Even those far older and more experienced than you.”
Moira isn’t sure how to answer that. “I suppose I have.”
The Benedictus focuses her deep green eyes on Moira. “I am curious why. Is it because you seek to know her? Or merely because you have a short attention span?”
Moira struggles to answer. It is a question she’s never been fully able to answer herself. “I guess…” she begins, “I guess I’m just waiting until I find some place that I truly feel I belong. I’ve never experienced that moment when I know that what I’m doing is what I was meant to do. I suppose I’m still looking for that.”
“Yet you have only chosen to explore the ways of our Lady,” the Benedictus responds. “There are many other paths one might tread. Why have you never sought them?”
This question is easy. “Your Eminence,” Moira says, “for as long as I can remember, I’ve had no mother but the Goddess. Hers are the only footsteps I would follow in.”
The Benedictus considers that for a moment, then she smiles. “A fine answer, child. Thank you.”
The High Priestess turns to leave. But, on the threshold of the door, she stops. “Oh, one more question. I understand you were at the Mages’ Academy this morning, helping with relief efforts. Why did you go?”
Moira blinks, surprised the Benedictus would even need to ask. “They were people in need,” she says simply.
The Benedictus nods. “May our Lady’s sweet water nourish you, child,” she says. And she leaves.
Moira closes the door and sits back on her bunk. She picks up her lute, idly strumming it. “Now what,” she wonders, “was that about?”
There is a knock at the door. “Mm-hmm,” Moira says, by way of invitation.
The door opens. It is Lori, the Post Mistress. She seems flustered. “Moira, you, ah, you have a visitor.”
“Okay,” Moira says.
Lori steps back from the door, and a woman enters. She is middle-aged, dressed in long green robes and a tall green hat. Moira gasps at the sight of her, and quickly jumps up from her bunk. It is the Benedictus—the head of the Church of Alirria in Dar Pykos.
“Y-your Eminence,” Moira stammers. “I-I didn’t expect--”
“It’s all right, child,” the Priestess answers serenely. “I’d be surprised if you had.”
Moira smiles, relaxing slightly. “If I may ask, to what do I owe this honor?”
The Benedictus glances around the room, taking in Moira’s well-worn pack, her lute, her travel cloak. “I wished to meet you,” she says. “I’ve been in a great many meetings in the past day, and your name has come to my attention on several different occasions.”
Moira swallows. Given her past, there are any number of people who could have dropped her name. And, given her sharp tongue, there are any number of things they might have said about her.
“I understand you were raised by the Givers of Life,” the Benedictus continues.
“Yes, that’s true. My parents left me with them when I was a child. Their farm was failing, and they didn’t think I’d last the winter…. That’s what I’ve been told, anyway. I don’t really remember.”
“I see. And then, when you came of age, you came to the city, and spent time as one of our Lady’s Handmaidens?”
“I did.”
“Why the Handmaidens?”
“Well… I was curious. It was better than being on my own, and the Handmaidens are less, well, stodgy than the Givers. They were very pleasurable years.”
“But you left the Handmaidens, and now you travel the Lady’s many wonders as a Water-Walker.”
“I’ve never been very good at staying in one place.”
“Apparently not. You have traveled much.”
“I’ve only been with the Water-walkers for a year or so--” Moira begins to explain, but the Benedictus gently interrupts her.
“I do not mean physically, child. I mean spiritually. You have explored so many of the ways of our Lady. You have seen her in her many faces, more than most of your sistren ever will. Even those far older and more experienced than you.”
Moira isn’t sure how to answer that. “I suppose I have.”
The Benedictus focuses her deep green eyes on Moira. “I am curious why. Is it because you seek to know her? Or merely because you have a short attention span?”
Moira struggles to answer. It is a question she’s never been fully able to answer herself. “I guess…” she begins, “I guess I’m just waiting until I find some place that I truly feel I belong. I’ve never experienced that moment when I know that what I’m doing is what I was meant to do. I suppose I’m still looking for that.”
“Yet you have only chosen to explore the ways of our Lady,” the Benedictus responds. “There are many other paths one might tread. Why have you never sought them?”
This question is easy. “Your Eminence,” Moira says, “for as long as I can remember, I’ve had no mother but the Goddess. Hers are the only footsteps I would follow in.”
The Benedictus considers that for a moment, then she smiles. “A fine answer, child. Thank you.”
The High Priestess turns to leave. But, on the threshold of the door, she stops. “Oh, one more question. I understand you were at the Mages’ Academy this morning, helping with relief efforts. Why did you go?”
Moira blinks, surprised the Benedictus would even need to ask. “They were people in need,” she says simply.
The Benedictus nods. “May our Lady’s sweet water nourish you, child,” she says. And she leaves.
Moira closes the door and sits back on her bunk. She picks up her lute, idly strumming it. “Now what,” she wonders, “was that about?”
Somebody's about to get promoted! (or some other reward/additional trust, but you know what I mean)
Wow, only leveling twice a year. That's a pretty big contrast to the campaign I'm in, where we are constantly faced with the question of "if people gain power this quickly, why isn't every third peasent we meet at least 10th level?"
(or some other reward/additional trust, but you know what I mean)Wow, only leveling twice a year. That's a pretty big contrast to the campaign I'm in, where we are constantly faced with the question of "if people gain power this quickly, why isn't every third peasent we meet at least 10th level?"
spyscribe
First Post
When the party adjourns for the evening, Lira finds herself with little to do. Aside from her traveling companions she has no friends in the city, no local family, and no business that demands her attention.
For lack of anything better to do as much as anything else, she returns to the academy where she and Euro help with the clean-up efforts. Eventually though, the gathering dusk reminds her that these are not the days for a spell-caster to be on the streets alone after dark.
Upon arriving at Mrs. Blackburn’s, she finds a note waiting for her:
Lira carefully refolds the paper to cover the sudden tremor in her hands. She checks the window. If she hurries, she should be able to reach the Questor's chapterhouse by nightfall.
When she arrives, Lira is slightly surprised to be ushered, not to Devon’s office, but into his private parlor.
Lira takes a chair opposite him at his bidding, still unsure why she has been summoned, and waits for him to speak.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “So Lira, I hear you have had quite a challenge these last days.”
Lira nods, and relates to him what she can of her own experiences at the academy. She notices that although he is clearly trying to put on a good face, he is more subdued than usual.
At last, Lira’s tale comes to a close, and she asks what’s on his mind. Devon seems uncomfortable, falls silent for a few moments, but finally speaks. “Lira, you do realize that whatever my feelings on arcane magic, they do not extend to those like yourself.”
Lira freezes. I didn’t know for sure that you knew I was a sorcerer she thinks. Aloud she says, “That’s good to hear” and means it.
“You cannot help what you are, or what you have become,” Devon continues. “Ehkt has given you a challenge, a great challenge. I do not envy you.”
“I don’t envy myself some days.”
A pause.
“Lira, are you ready for another great challenge?”
“What sort of challenge?”
“I would tell you if I could,” he finally says after a long pause. “I do not know what is coming. I cannot tell you what you may be called upon to do. But you may be called to act and the outcome of Ehkt’s very mission on earth may depend on you. When that time comes, you may not have the church, or anyone. You will be alone.”
Don’t you see, she thinks, I’ve always been alone. She says as much, then amends, “except for my present companions of course.”
“Yes, of course.” Devon nods. “But they all have their own reasons, their own agendas. This will fall to you. If you are not—”
Lira breaks in, gaze steady, voice quietly resolved. “What can I do?”
Devon holds her eyes a long moment. At last, he gives the barest nod. “A good answer,” he says, almost to himself. “A very good answer… For the moment, nothing is required, but I will be in touch.”
He glances at the window. It is now full dark. “Would you like to stay at the chapterhouse tonight? I can arrange to have a place made up for you.”
Lira, with much on her mind, gratefully accepts. As she crawls into the bed which has been prepared for her, her thoughts whirl. Relief that Devon does not hold her talents against her, that she need not lie to him or maintain careful omission. Despite everything, the lifting of that load, as well as a curious sense that she has just taken the first step on a great journey, soon carries her into a deep and dreamless sleep, Euro curled beside her on her pillow.
So great is her joy at finding this small corner of acceptance in a chaotic world that she entirely forgot to ask Devon what is perhaps the most important question of all.
“Why me?”
For lack of anything better to do as much as anything else, she returns to the academy where she and Euro help with the clean-up efforts. Eventually though, the gathering dusk reminds her that these are not the days for a spell-caster to be on the streets alone after dark.
Upon arriving at Mrs. Blackburn’s, she finds a note waiting for her:
Lira carefully refolds the paper to cover the sudden tremor in her hands. She checks the window. If she hurries, she should be able to reach the Questor's chapterhouse by nightfall.
When she arrives, Lira is slightly surprised to be ushered, not to Devon’s office, but into his private parlor.
Lira takes a chair opposite him at his bidding, still unsure why she has been summoned, and waits for him to speak.
Finally, he breaks the silence. “So Lira, I hear you have had quite a challenge these last days.”
Lira nods, and relates to him what she can of her own experiences at the academy. She notices that although he is clearly trying to put on a good face, he is more subdued than usual.
At last, Lira’s tale comes to a close, and she asks what’s on his mind. Devon seems uncomfortable, falls silent for a few moments, but finally speaks. “Lira, you do realize that whatever my feelings on arcane magic, they do not extend to those like yourself.”
Lira freezes. I didn’t know for sure that you knew I was a sorcerer she thinks. Aloud she says, “That’s good to hear” and means it.
“You cannot help what you are, or what you have become,” Devon continues. “Ehkt has given you a challenge, a great challenge. I do not envy you.”
“I don’t envy myself some days.”
A pause.
“Lira, are you ready for another great challenge?”
“What sort of challenge?”
“I would tell you if I could,” he finally says after a long pause. “I do not know what is coming. I cannot tell you what you may be called upon to do. But you may be called to act and the outcome of Ehkt’s very mission on earth may depend on you. When that time comes, you may not have the church, or anyone. You will be alone.”
Don’t you see, she thinks, I’ve always been alone. She says as much, then amends, “except for my present companions of course.”
“Yes, of course.” Devon nods. “But they all have their own reasons, their own agendas. This will fall to you. If you are not—”
Lira breaks in, gaze steady, voice quietly resolved. “What can I do?”
Devon holds her eyes a long moment. At last, he gives the barest nod. “A good answer,” he says, almost to himself. “A very good answer… For the moment, nothing is required, but I will be in touch.”
He glances at the window. It is now full dark. “Would you like to stay at the chapterhouse tonight? I can arrange to have a place made up for you.”
Lira, with much on her mind, gratefully accepts. As she crawls into the bed which has been prepared for her, her thoughts whirl. Relief that Devon does not hold her talents against her, that she need not lie to him or maintain careful omission. Despite everything, the lifting of that load, as well as a curious sense that she has just taken the first step on a great journey, soon carries her into a deep and dreamless sleep, Euro curled beside her on her pillow.
So great is her joy at finding this small corner of acceptance in a chaotic world that she entirely forgot to ask Devon what is perhaps the most important question of all.
“Why me?”
So, each of the temples is choosing a champion of kick-butt-ness? 
KidCthulhu
First Post
Talix said:
Fajitas studied at the PirateCat & Sagiro Institute for Really Slow Levelling. Keeps the players hungry. And when some of your players are new to the system, it helps them master one set of powers before you hit them with new ones.
spyscribe
First Post
Thatch is soundly asleep, dreaming of home. His parents, his brother, his farm, perhaps most of all his Uncle, the great adventurer who fought in the Wars and whose sword Thatch himself now bears.
But suddenly, something is wrong. He feels it subconsciously, a sense of intrusion. He snaps awake, and suddenly finds a dark figure leaning over him. He gasps and sits up. The figure gasps as well and jumps back.
It is Tessa, Mrs. Blackburn’s daughter. And she looks mortified.
“Um.” Thatch says, trying to blink sleep from his eyes. “Um. What are you…?”
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Tessa says, red-faced.
“Um... no problem?” Thatch says weakly. Did I forget to latch the door last night, he wonders to himself.
“I just… I wanted to talk to you… maybe get to know you a little better,” Tessa says, taking a small step towards him. “This is the only time I could really talk to you, so I thought… is that okay?”
“Um. Um. Um.” Thatch stammers, trying to figure out what else he can say. “Um. Okay,” he finally manages, quite sure there was a better answer, but really not sure what it was.
Tentatively, Tessa sits down on the edge of the bed. Thatch quickly adjusts the bedding to make sure it provides him with adequate coverage. He’s fairly certain that there could be a more awkward situation than this, but for the life of him he can’t imagine what it might be. Well, I suppose Mrs. Blackburn could walk in on us, he thinks. Yes. Yes, that would do it.
“So… how long have you been in the city?” Tessa asks.
“A little over a month,” Thatch says.
“A-are you married?” Tessa asks quickly.
“Um. No,” he says. Or I suppose this situation could get more awkward, he thinks.
“Oh.” A pause. “Seeing anyone?”
“Um, no. No, not really.”
A pause. “Do you have any children?”
Oh, dear gods. “Um, no, none that I-- No. No, I don’t.”
“Do-do you want to?”
“Buh-? Wha-? Huh?”
“You know. I mean, someday?”
I could be in the Temple of Justice right now, Thatch thinks. Anvil’s asked if I want to be an acolyte at least a hundred times. Why oh why oh why didn’t I take him up on it? “Um. I guess,” he mutters.
There is quite the awkward lull in the conversation. Finally, Tessa tries a new tack. “So, how did you get involved at the Mages’ Academy?” she asks.
“Me? Well, um, I guess they needed help and, um, some people I know asked me if I wanted to help, and, um, so… I helped.”
“Are they really as powerful as people say they are? The wizards there?”
Thatch shrugs. “I guess. It varies. Some more than others.”
Tessa nods. “Who is it?” she asks.
Thatch blinks. “Who is wha--?” he begins, but he doesn’t get any farther, as Tessa suddenly leans forward and kisses him right on the mouth.
“Um?” Thatch barely manages, as Tessa breaks off the kiss.
“I’m sorry,” Tessa says. “I should go. You… you can go back to sleep.”
“Um, okay,” Thatch says, thinking that’s a perfectly good idea.
“You won’t tell anyone I was here? My mother, she would…”
“Don’t worry,” Thatch says.
Quietly, Tessa opens the door and slips out. Thatch, suddenly aware of how incredibly tired he is, lies back down. But a thought crosses his sleepy mind. He pushes himself up, stumbles across the room, and latches the door from the inside. Then, for good measure, he places his chair under the handle, barricading it shut.
That should take care of it, he thinks, yawning. He topples back into bed and falls asleep, and he stays that way the rest of the night.
##
The next morning, Thatch dresses. It takes him somewhat longer than usual, as his mind is completely preoccupied with thoughts of how he’s going to manage breakfast with Tessa present. He resolves that it will probably be easiest if he just doesn’t look at her, and, so determined, he goes to the door to leave his room.
Which is when he notices that the chair he propped under the door handle isn’t there anymore. It’s against the wall, where it normally is.
**********
(And you thought you were going to meet a Sedellan, didn't you? Special thanks to Fajitas for writing up this scene and Moira's. These were all one-on-ones, so obviously, the only one I was around for was Lira's.)
But suddenly, something is wrong. He feels it subconsciously, a sense of intrusion. He snaps awake, and suddenly finds a dark figure leaning over him. He gasps and sits up. The figure gasps as well and jumps back.
It is Tessa, Mrs. Blackburn’s daughter. And she looks mortified.
“Um.” Thatch says, trying to blink sleep from his eyes. “Um. What are you…?”
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Tessa says, red-faced.
“Um... no problem?” Thatch says weakly. Did I forget to latch the door last night, he wonders to himself.
“I just… I wanted to talk to you… maybe get to know you a little better,” Tessa says, taking a small step towards him. “This is the only time I could really talk to you, so I thought… is that okay?”
“Um. Um. Um.” Thatch stammers, trying to figure out what else he can say. “Um. Okay,” he finally manages, quite sure there was a better answer, but really not sure what it was.
Tentatively, Tessa sits down on the edge of the bed. Thatch quickly adjusts the bedding to make sure it provides him with adequate coverage. He’s fairly certain that there could be a more awkward situation than this, but for the life of him he can’t imagine what it might be. Well, I suppose Mrs. Blackburn could walk in on us, he thinks. Yes. Yes, that would do it.
“So… how long have you been in the city?” Tessa asks.
“A little over a month,” Thatch says.
“A-are you married?” Tessa asks quickly.
“Um. No,” he says. Or I suppose this situation could get more awkward, he thinks.
“Oh.” A pause. “Seeing anyone?”
“Um, no. No, not really.”
A pause. “Do you have any children?”
Oh, dear gods. “Um, no, none that I-- No. No, I don’t.”
“Do-do you want to?”
“Buh-? Wha-? Huh?”
“You know. I mean, someday?”
I could be in the Temple of Justice right now, Thatch thinks. Anvil’s asked if I want to be an acolyte at least a hundred times. Why oh why oh why didn’t I take him up on it? “Um. I guess,” he mutters.
There is quite the awkward lull in the conversation. Finally, Tessa tries a new tack. “So, how did you get involved at the Mages’ Academy?” she asks.
“Me? Well, um, I guess they needed help and, um, some people I know asked me if I wanted to help, and, um, so… I helped.”
“Are they really as powerful as people say they are? The wizards there?”
Thatch shrugs. “I guess. It varies. Some more than others.”
Tessa nods. “Who is it?” she asks.
Thatch blinks. “Who is wha--?” he begins, but he doesn’t get any farther, as Tessa suddenly leans forward and kisses him right on the mouth.
“Um?” Thatch barely manages, as Tessa breaks off the kiss.
“I’m sorry,” Tessa says. “I should go. You… you can go back to sleep.”
“Um, okay,” Thatch says, thinking that’s a perfectly good idea.
“You won’t tell anyone I was here? My mother, she would…”
“Don’t worry,” Thatch says.
Quietly, Tessa opens the door and slips out. Thatch, suddenly aware of how incredibly tired he is, lies back down. But a thought crosses his sleepy mind. He pushes himself up, stumbles across the room, and latches the door from the inside. Then, for good measure, he places his chair under the handle, barricading it shut.
That should take care of it, he thinks, yawning. He topples back into bed and falls asleep, and he stays that way the rest of the night.
##
The next morning, Thatch dresses. It takes him somewhat longer than usual, as his mind is completely preoccupied with thoughts of how he’s going to manage breakfast with Tessa present. He resolves that it will probably be easiest if he just doesn’t look at her, and, so determined, he goes to the door to leave his room.
Which is when he notices that the chair he propped under the door handle isn’t there anymore. It’s against the wall, where it normally is.
**********
(And you thought you were going to meet a Sedellan, didn't you?
Special thanks to Fajitas for writing up this scene and Moira's. These were all one-on-ones, so obviously, the only one I was around for was Lira's.)Similar Threads
