Listening to the conversation, and having some of his own ideas on nobility and their place in the world, Akiros nevertheless stays silent. Waiting until all the others have first crossed the ford, he then takes a last look around, shakes his head slightly to himself once again at his complete lack of distance vision and crosses the ford as well. Only Kydal hears him murmur "Goddess, I have placed my Faith in Thee. Please do not let my shortcomings allow harm to befall my companions or any of those who have placed their trust in me to protect them."
"Jemini if you keep talking like that you're going to have the ears of every nobleman burn from New Stetven to Port Ice! What would your parents say to the injustices of entrenched nobility and the so-called rights of the privileged oathsworn afforded by their circumstances of birth eh?" He chuckles ruefully as they cross the ford, though he is paying close attention to Berrin and Nikolai's crossing. "Of course you speak to the virtues of a true meritocracy, such as what I have seen work in some aspects of Absalom...and is surprisingly well-known in the imperial Keleshite lands. Though even there, true distinction by merit and talent is often lost in the baser games of power-mongering, deal-making, bribery and downright nepotism."
Verik sighs in turn and then adds, "In the end, any system put into place must have oversight by stewards who are above the fray and incorruptible...and most assuredly they will themselves be subject to derision and accusation by the very men and women who seek to subvert and corrupt the system for their own ends. I believe it is still possible to achieve such an enlightened approach however."
Nikolai spits into the water as the party makes their way across. I'd like to meet an incorruptible person. he says. There's no such thing. Look at Brevoy. First hint a rightful king still lives, and it's assassins and spies and sham trials.
He looks northeast, as if he could see the nobility plotting and scheming. They want your lands, they don't want you to be free. They play at virtue, but that aire is the smoke their armies move under. Threaten a good king and he becomes a bad king. Fey should protect their land, but they play games and burn people out of their villages. There's no one incorruptable, banker. They can wear gold and crimson. They can quote holy verses. But in the end, if you threaten their crown, they'll cut off your head and claim it was to protect the children.
"Oh come now..." Verik starts up his retort towards Nikolai, the ensuing argument almost predictable. But he cuts himself off, involved in some internal struggle that is visible upon his face. When he speaks again, his voice is more measured with a tone of impassioned sincerity.
"Nikolai, I concede that perhaps you have every right to think that...the worst that men can do to each other, the powers of Woe and their machinations. I cannot deny that most men are fickle and prone to corruption and delusion...the higher the man the worse the fall eh?" He taps upon his breastplate. "It is understandable to think the worst of men, to despise and dismiss them, to not be made a fool of them by some hidden scheme or plot. It is hard to hope and trust and not think it is weakness...for you more so than most others with what you have endured. But the hope for a chance of true purity and selflessness allows your spirit to soar and see the true majesty of Weal, to cast off unseen chains and achieve the previously unthinkable."
Verik shrugs and adds with as much cheer as he can muster, "Besides Nikolai, I count myself in grand fortune to have met two incorruptible people in my lifetime...and one of them rides just behind you even now, having brought you back to fulfill your true purpose. Now if that is not a miracle given form, I renounce the usage of 'miracle' under any known definition!"
A miracle is when an innocent receives grace when all hope is lost. I'm no miracle, Verik. I serve a purpose. That purpose will doubtless claim my life, but while I live, I will see the dragon defeated, the sycophants of Brevoy stripped of privilege, and the mad games of the fey exposed for what they are.
The stag closes on the lakeshore in silence for a few seconds, his massive steed hoping to find purchase underfoot, for help with its great burden. He finally risks a look back to Jemini, making uncomfortable eye contact, but holding her gaze. Then he breaks open a thin smile.
As for you, your grace, you are guilty by association.
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Four months ago….
I don’t care what they say, snorts Klaigen, as he hefts his tankard for a deep draught. He wipes his beard free of brown droplets even as he continues in speech. I saw you fight them. One minute they look to put you to death, and the next minute you’re standing over me with that sword stuck in the dragon who took this.
Here, Klaigen Gladcoin raises his other arm, capped at the wrist by a bronze stump, his missing hand bitten off at the battle known as Dragonfall. He muses over it, a shadow passing over his demeanor before he drops his right arm. He lifts his left again to point a calloused finger at Nikolai. You paid your price. You died for your sins and the man that came back stood before dragons to save my bleeding arse. Anyone says otherwise hasn’t seen you swing that big sword in a while. It’s justice getting done when you kill now, Nikolai. I know it, our queen knows it. People in Brevoy are starting to hear about it. Seems to me the only people here don’t know about it are you and that banker friend of yours.
The former Staglord turns his head from the crowd to look Klaigen in the eyes. I don’t think he’d much care to be thought of as my friend, Klaigen. He thinks precious little of me. Many still do.
The one-handed soldier slams his bronze arm down on the table in frustration. Gods, man. He spoke to defend you at your trial. Who cares what he thought a handful of years ago? What were you telling me a month ago at this very table? Klaigen tries to drive his finger into the wooden table, but his lack of a right hand results in an awkward waving gesture, void of punctuation. He grimaces. Hells. Might never get used to that. Anyway…..where was I?
Nikolai is tired of being lectured. This isn’t why he is here this time. I think you were about to realize how drunk you are. I’ll come back tomorrow.
That you will, Stag. But you’re not leaving yet tonight. You haven’t said your piece. Klaigen lifts his tankard to drink, waving his stump to signal Nikolai to move on.
I asked you not to call me that, the barbarian thinks to himself. He sighs and lifts his voice. I was thinking about our talks. How you warned me about the gifts from Brevoy. I need to thank you.[b]
Klaigen lowers his mug, which rings hollow when it reaches the table. His face gets serious, almost as if he wills himself to be sober. Nikolai smirks. Maybe he’s not that drunk.
[b]It’s a hard lesson, Nikolai. They bring gifts, but who you take gifts from tells them whether to trust you or not. And the kind of gift they bring tells you what they think of you. It’s a brand of war all its own, this politicking and gift-giving. I know – I saw my father teach my brothers. One a shipwright, one a banker himself. As third son it was the sword for me. Nice inheritance, but no hand in it until my father died. You know – I took that money and the money your friends gave me after I lost my hand, and bought this place.
He looks at the bronze stump again. Nikolai realizes tonight Klaigen seems less surprised when he sees it than he used to. It makes the barbarian sad.
Klaigen narrows his eyes as if he has a secret. I wonder if that’s why they call it “severance”, eh? He chuckles, but Nikolai does not. He’s used cruder humor to hide his pain most of his life.
You did well for yourself, Klaigen. You’re a good friend and you sell yourself out of mead and meat every night.
Ha!, laughs the former soldier. I sell every night, TO every knight! His grin widens, his humor affecting Nikolai’s spirits. He continues. I have done well for myself, Nikolai. That’s what you need to learn. Last year I was a soldier with a future, serving lords I believed in. It gets no better for a man of the sword. This year, I own a tavern. I have one good arm to fight with. My father taught us to profit, and my brother blessed the place, and I wager more men are paying more tithes to me than they are our blessed family god. I have done well.
Nikolai tightens his lip rather than look away from his gaze again. Eye contact is hard, but he’s learning. He trusts Klaigen. His friend speaks again. That’s what you have to learn Nikolai. I lost my arm months ago. You gave up your life longer ago than that. It’s time to live a new life. Find a purpose. Hells, find a good woman. But after I find one first.
Nikolai can only think of one good woman. He pushes the thought from his mind. I hear you, barkeep, but I sometimes need to hear it again. You’ll enjoy what I’ve come to ask you, then.
Klaigen looks up. His expression changes to curiosity instantly. Out with it, Nikolai! Before I call you ‘Stag’ again! His smile broadens, showing clean teeth.
I need a herald, Nikolai begins. He watches his friend. Such words sound so far above himself, he feels awkward letting them fall from his own lips. Two years ago, the Stag’s herald was little more than a gang of ruffians pushed onto an innocent farm family for want of shelter from his greatsword.
Klaigen, whose Brevic upbringing featured no small amount of culture, doesn’t blink. Nikolai feels comforted that the man doesn’t laugh out loud.
Nikolai conitinues. These gifts, these games. They are playing each other, not me. I am as nothing to them, except those who would profit if another player joined their mad tourney.
Right on that, Nikolai. They only know the Stag, and would rather have dead-all than to deal with him.
The heir of Rogarvia nods. The lot of them play at words and contracts daily. I know a sword, and I am beginning to know how to lead. Jemini teaches everywhere she goes.
Dragons’ balls, Stag. I thought you might get through the whole conversation without her name. I thought it was why you weren’t drinking.
Again, Nikolai looks away, but he recovers and resumes. They are better players. They have experience. In three lifetimes I could not out-think one of them.
Says you.
Nikolai ignores him. But I had a thought. What if common men knew more? Suppose the talk of taverns and taxpayers was about Dragonfall? Or about Jem- about Queen Lebeda’s prisoner? Or about the sword?
What about that sword? Your banker friend give it a name yet?
The big man shrugs. He refuses. Says I have to learn to give things a decent name and title, or I don’t deserve my place in history. I don’t much care, but-
He’s right. Name it.
Nikolai looks down, then back up. I had thought maybe Dragons’breath. It flames, like they do, but it also takes their last. Is that absurd?
Several seconds pass while Klaigen says nothing. Nikolai fears he has overreached, sounds a fool. But the soldier-turned-barkeep nods his head. It’s a good name. That name can cap a story better than this bronze thing-
Stop it. Tell me what you think about the herald.
Klaigen nods again, a deeper motion this time. I think it’s wise. You can’t change the opinion of the nobles – they think to use you until you get yourself assassinated. For all the good that gambit has gotten them. Having your story told to the common men and to young boys who dream of wielding a blade, that makes sense.
He stops. His eyes narrow again, only this time with accusation. You have someone in mind?
Nikolai pounces. It feels like he’s already won. It can only be you, my friend. You have family in New Stetven. You bridge the place between noble and common man. You are a gifted story-teller, and you have several stories of combat. Men respect you.
It’s clear immediately that Klaigen’s protest is half-hearted, as if only to test Nikolai. Bah! I have a business to run. I have retired here.
Hardly. I’ve been here a dozen times and have yet to see you work.
I work plenty before we open. Who would run the books and lift casks with me in Brevoy? Another test.
Nikolai smiles broadly, genuinely. He knows this game. He has thought ahead. He produces a small velvet bag, purple with yellow thread defining the emblem of House Garess. It clinks heavily when it sags on the table. An envoy from Grayhaven brought gifts. I am certain there are spies watching to see when and where I use the gold. If it is not used here, I don’t owe them and there’s nothing to report. If it’s used in New Stetven, no one will notice. Pay yourself for your trouble, and trust me to lift the barrels until you find a hale man your girls can trust.
Nikolai sits back. He has planned, he has brought out the gold, as the Abadarians say when they speak of a business decision. He has made a good case.
Klaigen looks at the silk bag in front of him, its drawcord barely too tight to see the gold within. He smiles. The Stag may yet be teachable. He turns his head to the tavern bar and shouts over the din. Shurla! That beast of a man you called your fiancé earlier? Have him meet me here tomorrow at sunrise.
Klaigen lifts his tankard again, only to be reminded that it’s empty.
And get the Stag and me some ale to seal a bargain!
The river fails to yield any more hydras attacking them as they cross at the ford, despite all the noise that Nikolai and Verik make as they argue their way across. Their bickering - slightly more friendly than before, thankfully - continues as the band from Sanctuary follows the south side of the river bank en route to their equine destination. The conversation turns to how they will deal with the centaurs, but it is all idle speculation absent firm negotiations with the half-man, half-horse creatures. The centaur tribes control much of the land to the south of Varnhold (and supposedly vast swaths of land in Iobaria, if Verik's research into Choral's homeland tells the truth). As the sun begins to set and the horses begin to slow, the group decamps and prepares for nightfall.
Elsir Tel'ran cannot shake the sense of deja vu as he enters the city of Sanctuary. For the past several months, the elven wizard has crossed much of Avistan, making time to stop at most of the Pathfinder Lodges along the way. He had been in the Sodden Lands during Neth of the previous year when he received word from the local Lodge that Willas Gunderson had been assigned to explore a cyclopean ruin in the frontier between the River Kingdoms and Brevoy. His friend and fellow Pathfinder agent had specifically requested his aid, a favor which was granted by the mysterious Decimvirate in Absalom. Elsir had boarded a ship in the Sodden Lands back to Absalom, braving the stormy wintry seas and a hostile examination at the Chelish blockade of the Arch of Aroden. After spending several weeks reading over the relevant research and the most recent volumes of the Pathfinder Chronicles, as well as completing his own reports to the Grand Lodge, he spent several months in transit. From the Andoran port of Souston, he rode north on a purchased steed through the Mountains of the Five Kings and then his ancestral homeland of Kyonin. The trip through the River Kingdoms was fraught with danger, as he had to fight off bandits several times as he traveled through the lands.
His last stop was through Pitax, a sad excuse for cosmopolitan mimicry that seemed to have delusions of grandeur. Their monarch, King Irovetti, spent vast sums of money creating statues throughout the city-state, and vaster sums still placing guards and soldiers everywhere. His visions as he traveled through Pitax were particularly vivid of the potential future that awaits the citizens of the king's paranoid madness. Fortunately, the King's regard for the Pathfinders kept him in good standing and he passed through the city with little issue beyond the pain of seeing such unfree peoples.
Upon entry into Sanctuary, Elsir knows to seek out Willas immediately. As a more senior Pathfinder agent, Willas can introduce him to the leadership of the burgeoning nation. From the letter that Willas sent, he is lodged in a few rooms in a villa built for visiting Brevic nobility. The city holds a few thousand people, but it should not take long at all to find compared to the modest frontier houses of the commoners.
Perception +Darkvision:
As the party prepares their camp Akiros too tends to his mount and readies his necessary sleeping equipment. To no one in particular he says aloud "I shall take the middle watch, for though distance sight is for now barred to me, I have found that the darkness now bears no barrier to my accused eyes."
Verik sets an iron pot down near the spot where they propose to make a fire, channeling some water into it for a boil later. His muscles aching from a full day out on horseback under armor, he sighs as he realizes Giles must have his barding, tack and saddle removed. A long evening yet until a hasty meal and some rest is deserved. Verik eyes the medium tent still rolled and stowed against his saddlebags, as he was too stubborn under Berrin and Nikolai's "advice" to leave it behind. Admittedly, he had Taisper's help the last time they used it, and was not going to ask the others for help with it now. He sighs again and looks up at the sky, half expecting for rainclouds to form over the camp at any moment.
Walking over to retrieve his bedroll and blanket from the saddlebags, movement catches his eye in the distance, something moving near a rocky outcropping that had passed earlier that still caught a glint of the fading sun. He squints for a long moment, then realizes what he sees, putting a protective hand on Giles' neck.
"Those wolves follow from a distance...scavengers looking for an opportunity perhaps? I have some salted pork in my pack, but I'm not inclined to feed them our rations." Verik gets a worried look at his steed. "Or our horses!" Giles snorts and stomps his hoof as if in agreement, though Verik knows it is impatience over not being unsaddled and fed yet.
You speak true, banker. The wolves are guided by something else. We should invite them for dinner.
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How does one explain the concept of time? Elsir Tel'ran, Pathfinder archivist and diviner mused to himself for the twentieth time since making port in Souston. To a human, the six month journey between the Sodden Lands and the budding kingdom of New Haven likely would have seemed to take forever. To one such as Elsir who was accustomed to observing the streams of time as a detached surveyor it has passed far more quickly.
The problem Elsir decided lay within the element of eternalism. To a detached observer, one might have seen Elsir moving in a linear fashion from the 18th of Neth towards the 25th of Gozran, slowing making progress towards the end goal of reaching Sanctuary. To an ontological observer however, one who truly understood the deeper workings of time and space and understood that all points in time are equally real, then they, like Elsir would have understood that from the moment Asmodeus sealed away Rovagug in the Pit of Gormuz, Elsir's path had been created.
The trick however is determining what stream of time held the most likely hood at the moment. Elsir decided grimacing at the recollection of his last expedition into the Mwagani Expanse. That had been an highly unpredicted future. Elsir thought, feeling a shiver roll through him in the blurry recollection.
Breaking away from his philosophical considerations, Elsir blinked as he rode through the streets of Sanctuary. Cocking his head to the side, the elf felt the northern breezes blow across his face. Studying the images that wavered before him the Elf frowned. To his left he watched as a yeoman carried a pig over his shoulders. In one likelihood it had been a clutch of ducks. In the second it had been a sheep and in the third it was a pig. The sheep had been the strongest image and yet the man carried a pig. Odd, did he choose this morning to slaughter the pig in place of the sheep or had something else become a determiner? No matter. Thought Elsir, blinking away the foretelling sight that haunted his dreams and waking moment.
Closing his eyes and following the streams and currents of fate and confluence pulling him along Elsir rode into Sanctuary. This was where he needed to be. The probabilities and foretelling’s had revealed that much. A flock of ravens, a shattering red gem, a man screaming in the dark, a creature of iron and feathers laying rampage to the country, a burst of briar roses that dripped inky blackness blotted out thread after thread of time... on and on it went, each image carefully teased from glittering facets of portents and likelihoods that converged here at this small, budding kingdom. It all started here. No that was incorrect. There are neither beginnings nor endings with time. The threads that Elsir were bound to had started eons ago... but nonetheless, there would an ending.
Taking a deep breath and calming himself, Elsir opened his eyes. In front of him was a modest but respectable villa of two stories, whitewashed but still showing the timber reinforcements of this frontier nation. Smiling to himself, the elf arcanist dismounted from his horse and tied it to a nearby hitching post like an actor repeating a set of motions. This like all things was a fixed event, though there was a multitude of possible outcomes even for something as likely as his meeting with Willas. In a way it was both reassuring and disheartening. If all possible outcomes already existed and each point was static moment, then Ashandra still lived, hale and strong. But the moment where his wife slipped into death was also static and unchanging. Each moment was happening simultaneously. And that was both joyous and tragic. And so too was the thought that each of Elsir's victories and defeats, successes and failures coexisted as well. Some likelihoods were more probably than others and yet, they all existed.
Do I dare the risk telling the others what I have seen? Do I tell them of time as being an intricately structured jewel of which the whole design is visible in every facet? No I cannot. If I tell them the future I have seen, of the deaths and loss, tragedies and betrayals, it could alter that which must come to pass. And that would be far, far worse... The gods themselves nearly destroyed the future when they brought back the dragon-scion. With him the thread of potential still gleams. Everything is preordained. Even my responses, and so I will do what I must... and what I have allready done.
::Wisp’s of eldritch fey mist, purple and green with dancing motes of dazzling light curled around the ground. Haunting laughter echoed through the clouds of iridescent fog while too long limbs and fleeting images of cavorting silhouettes raced through the forest underbrush. Elsir stood in circle as death hovered just outside of the vision. A gust of wind, a crack of light, and the forest turns to the streets of Sanctuary, now carefully cobbled. The mist seeps below into the cracks between the cobblestones, A city built upon the magic of the first world.::
Wracked by body convulsing shiver, Elsir nearly wretches from his gorge rising. Taking a carefully step away from his mounts hitching post and along the dirt street, Elsir nodded. The ethereal mist was already here. It had been here long before humans came to the place and one day it would return. Yes, this is where I need to be. Elsir resolutely understood. Walking into the villa, Elsir knew he would find Willas within.
Kydal Perception:
As Kydal suddenly nickers lowly, his head and ears turning back the way they had come, Akiros feels the reason for his equine companion's concern a moment before Verik speaks of it. "Wolves", Akiros breathes quietly virtually in unison with the Banker.
Trying up Kydal's reins for the moment, so as not to get in the way should the stallion need to fight on his own, Akiros was not much worried for his mount, knowing the armored, well trained and unusually intelligent warhorse had little to be concerned about from wolves, or normal wolves at least. In fact, the feeling Akiros was receiving from his destrier at the moment was one much closer to eager anticipation than fear. However, not nearly all the mounts in their party were as formidable as Kydal.
Loosening his sword, handle still on the hilt, ronin-oracle moves back the way they had come, eyes scanning the growing gloom for any sign of the wolves trying to encircle them. "Yes" he replies to Nikolai "Far better for the rest of you that we deal with them now as opposed to some time deep in the night. How far away are they at present?" he is forced to add, still unable to see the wolves himself.
Verik squints in the distance. "Mmm...probably just over a furrow's length but short of two. Too far for my crossbow that's certain."
He turns to the others. "If we charge them now at this distance, won't they just run and skulk away from us? But what deception would you use to draw them closer? I can provide us with light easily enough, but I have little in my bestowed power for guile or trickery."
This is good ground. I say we scout the shor and camp. Kill them when they come close. If we move ahead, we watch for signs of ambush and turn tge tabels. Either way.
They make camp for the night, setting up along the bank of the river to keep the wolves from being able to flank them. (Hydras, on the other hand, are a constant worry of Berrin's.) They set up a rotating watch to keep an eye on the wolves, but the pack remains too far away to threaten them. Nikolai spots them once or twice, though Verik doesn't and remains somehow paranoid that they are somehow trying to cause him to be paranoid. Jemini sits quietly in meditation during her watch, trying to delve more deeply in the future to give her some guidance.
By the time the morning dawn breaks, they gather over their campfire for some freshly caught fish from the stream. It seems that many fish swim down the river from Lake Silverstep, giving them ample supply to catch and cook. Verik glares at Nikolai as he has little success and the former bandit - used to living off the land - catches more than enough for the group (and likely enough for the rest of the day). Jemini wades a few feet into the river and places her hand out, letting a particularly large fish jump straight into her waiting grasp. Berrin quickly catches and cleans fish while Akiros simply sits serenely - despite his ample skill and ability for hunting and fishing from his time in Nikolai's employ. Jemini flashes Verik a smile when he supplies some pepper from his seemingly limitless bag of provisions, as he silently smirks at Nikolai. 'Supply that off the land!' he thinks to himself.
Willas Gunderson sits at a table inside a fairly modest room in the villa, writing furiously to record his copious notes. He has a few books opened on the table as he cross-references the historical records (Ioseph Walker's Lost Empires of the Inner Sea and Reddaf al-Thaleri's Collected Catalog of Antiquity, it looks) with his own more casual scribblings. He speaks quietly to himself as he writes. Elsir simply stands at the threshold of his room for several minutes while Willas fails to notice him. Elsir waits in the knowledge that he cannot rush time and that Willas will notice him when the time is right.
Forty-five minutes later, Willas stretches in his chair, twisting his back to crack his spine. As he turns, he spots Elsir and leaps entirely out of his chair. "Elsir! You're here! How long have you been there? I could have used your help earlier today, as you helped al-Thaleri research this! I'm glad that you could make it, as I have discovered a wealth of information that you will find most interesting!" He stands and envelops the wizard in a hug borne of many years of friendship.
|
|
Taking a step back and clapping Willas on the shoulders, Elsir gave a small mysterious smile towards Willas. I suppose I have been here all along, my friend. Elsir began and then trailed off. But I am here now, that is what is important. Chuckling to himself, Elsir slowly made his way towards the table piled with books and notes. Besides, you seem to have done quite well by yourself. Elsir noted, glancing at the Willas’s notations and underlines on al-Thaleri’s Collected Catalog of Antiquity.
”The athos had four duties in performing the rite. First he would examine the human for any external blemishes prior to sacrificing it. Second he would examine the entrails of the human for abnormalities. If there was an excessive amount of blood or the athos dropped any of the entrails on the ground this was considered a very bad omen of impending disaster. Third the entrails were burned in a sacrificial fire which the athos would examine for heat and the movement of the flames. Fourth the athos would examine the meat and drinks offered during the sacrifice.
Athos were often the rulers of their cities they served as the high priest of Prathos, but even if a city had a separate ruler extispicy gave the athos a great amount of authority. No ruler would embark on any major task, from war to changes in policy, if the sacrifice were to bode ill of the action.”
I never agreed with Reddaf on that last part. Elsir murmured to himself. The findings indicated they became entrapped in their hubris. The foretelling that they were mastered, they choose to ignore, believing in their own might. There is a lesson to be learned there. Placing the notes back on the table, Elsir nods to Willas. Fortune had smiled on his former student and Elsir was happy for it. Drawing back a chair and sitting lightly next to the desk, Elsir gestured to the notes. You have been busy. Elsir began, flipping the page over and scanning the table with a detached eye. Very, very busy… Elsir trailed off, giving the floor to Willas and smiling encouraging. So why don’t you tell me what you discovered.
Waiting for Willas to begin, Elsir folded his hands into his lap and watched the man carefully. In truth I already suspect that I know why I am here. The closer one comes to the most probably future the clearer the path towards that future became, sort of a temporal inertia. Still, Willas was excited and there was nothing to be lost by allowing him to tell me about Candlemere Island. It was always possible I have missed something in my visions that Willas had not. Such things are not unheard of and it is one of the most compelling reasons to simply allow time to play out instead of attempting to manipulate it for either weal or woe. Besides, it was the polite thing to do.
Morning turns to noon with the rise of the sun overhead. It is still early enough in the year and far enough north that cool air swirls around them, but not so cold that they must wear bundled clothing to ward off the chill. The rulers of Newhaven ride eastward along the southern bank of the Gudrin River, which moves deceptively quickly. From this vantage point, it looks like a lazy river of slow-moving water. Having forded the icy water, they know that it is far swifter than it seems, and that a poor footing might result in being suddenly swept a hundred yards downriver. The southern bank of the river is a grassy plain, but the northern side is fairly heavily wooded. The river widens as they ride, considerably more so than the width at the ford. As the river turns south, they follow along. The terrain becomes more hilly than the flatlands, though the hills remain green with grass. It is a reminder of the powerful and beautiful nature of the Stolen Lands as the plains stretch to the horizon along the river from their vantage point of the hills. Nature's bounty - despite the efforts of civilization - remain in full force in the riverlands.
As they wind over the hills, their canine trackers follow them. They avoid taking a few easier routes directly alongside the river banks so as to not give the wolves an opportunity to ambush them. In the late afternoon, they nearly have made it out of the hills back onto the plains. From the Narthropple's map that Zander annotated for them, it is a straight trip - just about a full day's ride - to Lake Silverstep's southern tip, and then only half a day more to their destination. While Verik and Jemini consult this map, Nikolai gazes out into the distance to the south. His sharp eyes spot several more wolves, more than they had seen the night before, creeping along the small boulders and knolls towards them. He silently taps Berrin and points to the wolves. The pair look around after quietly telling the others, spotting a total of at least eight to ten wolves creeping towards them from all directions except the river. It won't be an ambush, but there is little choice but to prepare unless the wolves pull back. As they come closer, one of them stands out as significantly taller than the rest, with a cloak of fur darker than night - the alpha male of the pack, most likely.
Willas excitedly returns to his table and pulls out his notes. Both he and Elsir know this is a formality, for once Willas sets something to paper he recalls it with eerie accuracy. Some more jealous Pathfinders have rumored that Gunderson has equipped himself in magical treasure that grants him this recall, but Elsir knows that his friend simply has an excellent memory. (Most would also note that he has little common sense, but that has never been a prerequisite for joining the Pathfinders. In fact, considering the danger of the work, it tends to be a hindrance.) ”As you know, prior to Earthfall, vast empires stretched the whole of this continent. Some were those of the Azlanti, the Thassilonians, and the others were those of the cyclopes. Today’s cyclopes are a mere devolved shadow of their former power, mindless brutes a thousand generations inbred.” As he knows that Elsir is well aware of the past “glories” of the empires of the cyclopes, his preamble is there simply for a sense of completion.
”You are most familiar with the Empire of Ghol-Gan, which stretched over what is now the Shackles, the Sodden Lands, the Eye of Abendego, and much of the Mwangi Expanse. Your research, if I have followed it correctly, indicates that you may have discovered the true site of Xanthuun, the temple of the god-king Ammelon - or at least a possible entry point, if the antecalamitan writings are true and Xanthuun stretched underground for a thousand miles. You may be less familiar with Koloran, which was to be found deep in Iobaria to the east of us and a hundred miles to our west. Like many other civilizations at Earthfall, it fell and shattered. That was almost the extent of the knowledge of the Pathfinder Society until we received word of this small frontier nation, in which we now stand. Its high priest, a man named Verik Jarrow, a priest of Abadar by trade, was involved in a trek to a small tower on an island in Candlemere Lake, whose shores are just outside this city. He discovered that the tower's origins were cyclopean in nature, and that runes in the tower explained its origin and purpose. I have been cross-referencing what he transcribed and have found nothing to contradict - but precious little to confirm, as well - what he discovered. The tower was once called Hask-Ukrakana, last ruled by a king of Koloran called Vordekai who survived Earthfall. This Vordekai was a necromancer of some power, enslaving the centaurs of the realm and going to war with the dwarves of Tar Taargadth. It seems that the dwarves defeated his armies, though I'll note that it says nothing about his fate. Oh! Before I forget! Did you bring the tomes I requisitioned from Absalom, the ones on Tar Taargadth? I promised the Banker that I would procure a copy for him."
Wordlessly, calmly, Nikolai guides his horse to the water's edge and dismounts. He grabs his longbow and a half-empty quiver and turns to advance toward the wolves. Though they will come from many angles, he clearly intends to move the melee a distance form the horses so as not to lose them.
Adjusting the great blade on his back, Nikolai finds his footing, eyeing the big black wolf and the beasts on either side of him. He draws an arrow, raises his bow for distance, and waits. As the wolves close, he releases his first arrow, then another. Small movements of the bow account for changes in the wolves' direction and distance. After two arrows launched at each side wolf, Nikolai takes a few steps forward and draws his greatsword. Flames gout from the steel as he holds it aloft and looks for the alpha's eyes.
What guides you? he shouts to the pack just before the close, the crease in his brow deepening as bloodlust takes him. What possesses you to waste your pack by throwing it at mine?
Nikolai readies for the black wolf's charge, his grip firm in the right hand and loose in the left.
Right wolf, Longbow attack at -4 for damage.
Second Attack at -4 for damage.
Left wolf, Longbow Attack at -2 for damage.
Second attack at -2 for damage.
Third round, ready action to Power Attack the first wolf that charges me. for damage.
Okay...Nikolai's scene ain't going out like that. Spending a Hero point for a reroll. You better frigging charge me now.
Reroll held action: for 32 damage.
Initiative #1:
Initiative #2:
Guiding Kydal to the forefront of the party's position, Akiros also draws his bow, but remains mounted, as he and Kydal had long perfected the art of fighting in union. Aiming in the same direction as he sees Nikolai do, the vision-clouded oracle calmly prepares to lose at the first wolf that comes within his sight. Once the arrow is released he drops the bow and draws his broadsword, Kydal blowing and stepping in eager anticipation of battle.
MW Comp Longbow:
Damage:
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Nodding at Willas’s words, Elsir digs into a small leather satchel at his side and withdraws an object wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. Smiling wryly at the half-elf Elsir gives a gentle tug at the strings and unwraps the carefully packaged books. Running a delicate finger across the leather bindings and gold embossed title, Elsir almost sighed to himself. There were few things in the world as precious as knowledge and even after over sixty years of working as an archivist, Elsir had never lost his sense of appreciation in a well written and researched tome.
Carefully handing over the leather bound volume, Elsir blinked softly as he also took in his friends words. Yes, yes… the books were waiting for me when I passed through Daggermark. Elsir says quietly. You never told me by the way that you knew. Venture-Captain Bosk… he spoke quite highly of you before he handed me this package. Eyes stopping abruptly, Elsir holds up a brown leather tome inlayed with dwarven runes. Dor-Klaggends History of Tar Taargadth? This is no common treatise. Frowning, Elsir ones one eye in carefully examination along the age worn leather. I suppose it’s a small price to pay in order to examine this ”Hask-Ukrakana” but I hope this Verik Jarrow appreciates the trust placed in him by the society by providing this tome. Handing over the book carefully, Elsir looks back up as if rewinding the conversation. I am distracted, forgive me Willas. The Cyclops empires… Yes, when your message reached me I had just finished giving the Decemvirate an accounting to my expedition to the Expanse. During my exploration of the ruins within the Drowning Stone complex within the expanse I found a much larger city located below it that showed several indications of cylopedian ancestry. I will admit that It is as you said. I am more familiar with the Ghol-Gan Empire than the Koloran Empire, but one cannot study one without touching upon the other. The Koloran’s split away from the Ghol-Gan’s at some point, though a specific date remains frustratingly absent. One could say that Ghol-Gan and Koloran are the Cyclopedian version of Azlant and Thassilon .
Giving a small smile, Elsir gestures to the arrayed books.Unfortunally, history is rather sparse concerning both empires and If we are lucky the most we will be able to find is a confirmation that this Vordekai existed. However… Elsir trails off looking up at Willas with a gleam in his eye. If I was to look at the tower in person I might be able to tell you more. I have several rubbings with me from my find in the expanse and I can am passingly fluent in Cyclops, Ancient Ghol-Gan and Giant. Between the three I should be able to extrapolate any unfamiliar runes.
Swiveling his head to see their attackers set upon them, Verik lets out a terse shout to channel his nerves, and then prays for a Blessing from Abadar to aid his companions in the coming battle. He dismounts as best he can from Giles to get his legs on sturdy ground underneath him. With another incantation to the Master of the First Vault, he prays for the strength of an inevitable construct to suffuse his muscles of flesh, readying his shield for the onslaught. As the wolves close the distance, Verik prays for the aid of the Master's chosen weapon to assist in battle, that being the golden dancing crossbow that he has manifested in times past.
1st prep action: Cast Bless for all allies in 50', dismount horse
2nd prep action: Cast Bulls Strength for self, ready shield
3rd prep action: Cast Spiritual Weapon on nearby wolf from side opposite Nikolai and Akiros, draw warhammer
Also..I didn't check my dice and the greatsword damage is only 28 when it charges.
Jemini dismounts, rather not trusting her mare in the thick of combat. "I'm not really that experienced in this, but, isn't it strange for a pack of wolves to attack a group like us? There should be plenty of easy game in these parts."
The wolf pack comes at them quickly and from all directions. As Nikolai launches arrows at the oncoming group of wolves and their likely pack leader, the two other groups approach from opposite directions. Like Iomedae's famous pincer maneuver at the Battle of Gallowspire a thousand years ago, the wolves hope to envelop them from all sides and remove all chance of escape. Nikolai strikes the wolves with two of his arrows, next to the alpha male. The pack leader's size becomes quickly apparent, as it stands larger than any of their horses and towers over its pack. From the opposite side, a canny-looking wolf approaches slowly with two others beside it; this wolf's eyes glow a pale red as it sizes them up during its approach. It slows its pace just as Verik's summoned crossbow fires, making the bolt miss by a few feet. A third group, also of three wolves, approaches from opposite the river.
The massive pack leader is a black-furred blur as it bounds past its lesser followers to meet them in battle first. It charges the awaiting Nikolai, clearly marking him as the group's leader because he is (by far) the largest amongst them. Akiros fires an arrow at it from the top of Kydal, driving an arrow into its thick hide but barely seeming to slow it down. With a shout in Common, just as if said by any man, the wolf calls to its packmates. "This land is mine, Howl of the North Wind! Tear them apart! Show them no mercy!" His voice is deep and jagged, like a nightmare come to life. He charges forward and collides with Nikolai, taking a savage blow from the massive warrior that leaves a slab of bloody muscle gushing blood onto the grassy ground. His powerful jaw clamps down on his left shoulder, spilling Nikolai's blood with his sharp, rending fangs. Strong as Nikolai is, Howl of the North Wind brings him to the ground with a surge of incredible strength.
The Staglord lands on his shoulders from the warg's vicious throw. His greatsword still in hand, he rolls right to avoid another savage bite, stabbing out with the sword from his back.
The wounded beast slavers over him, as heedless of the pain as its barbarian adversary. Nikolai swings again, this time for the warg's legs.
As the flaming blade passes near, its shadow nicks at the warg. It looks as though for a second another blade passes close behind it. Nikolai registers the foreign presence but his instincts tell him to ignore it.
The wolf's hot breath drips down upon Nikolai as he tries to hit it with his flaming blade. None of his desperate strikes hit the massive beast, but a black smoking wound appears on Howl's hide.
With a surge of strength, Nikolai thrusts upwards with his flaming sword deep into the chest of the raging beast. The wolf howls with pain as Nikolai twists the burning blade. Smoke and blood pour out of the badly injured wolf's torso, as it brings its terrible maw downwards on Nikolai's face.
Verik’s gauntleted hand grips his warhammer tightly as the worgs surround and press in all around them, their violent intentions all too clear to the orderly cleric. A splash of blood and grunt of pain alerts Verik to Nikolai as he goes down before the great black beast that leads the attack, though the flaming blade to his hide speaks of a hideous gaping wound that few could hope to survive. With Nikolai down before this “Howl of the North Wind” and the beast showing a grasp of human language, Verik does not hesitate to act to aid the Scion of Rogarvia at a distance. ”HALT your act before your betters you vile black cur!”
Even so, Verik realizes that the worg-leader does not fall to his lawful compulsion, yet he cannot hope to turn the tables in Nikolai's favor further if he is to defend his side of the onslaught. Turning then to the red-eyed beast on his side of the camp, he sees with satisfaction that the Master’s invention whirls and clicks back a new bolt in precise harmony to fire at it, scoring a thudding impact that bruises muscle and bone.
Sneering and clanking his warhammer against his key-emblazoned heavy shield, Verik shouts at Red-Eyes. ”Farmsteads will be built here over your cracked bones before the snows fall – COME AT ME THEN!”
Jemini times her actions to catch the attention of all foes. Her sword held high shines in holy light in response to her words: "Iomedae! Strike fear into the unholy! Smite the vile and wicked! End those who menace us this day!"
Berrin beckons Valnyr onward with a click of his teeth and pressing down on the stirrups. In times past, his strong-willed steed might buck or resist him, but not anymore. They move as one, wading into an oncoming swarm of snapping jaws and malicious growls. Berrin's massive greatsword, once swung at him and his friends, now tears through fur, bone, and blood. Valnyr's strong hooves and teeth rain down upon the pack as well. In just a few seconds, two of the pack members lay upon the ground dying as Berrin cuts through one completely to slash the other. The remaining worg looks fearfully at the horse and rider as its two brethren writhe on the ground.
Akiros's blade cuts through the lesser worgs like they were made of water, spraying their blood onto their leader. He can see them as clear as day even through his clouded vision. It is as if the Inheritor parted a veil in front of his eyes to show him which enemies to cut down. In times past, he may have sent his blade through the spine of the largest one - but with his Lady's guidance, he cuts through the pack instead. The worg pack leader is not his to finish, a feeling inside him as revelatory as any sermon. Kydal's powerful limbs slam down on the members of the pack, like extensions of his own body.
The red-eyed Worg, pierced by Verik's golden crossbow, snaps at the two next to him. "This is the battle chosen by the pack leader! Do not join him!" He looks at Verik - not with hate or malice, like the others - and mutters a word in a flowing language that sounds bizarre from the mouth of a worg. A wind comes over the battlefield, blowing the grass lightly towards him. A visible line of translucent wind emerges from Verik's mouth and enters his muzzle. The cleric clutches at his throat, a feeling of terror and horror invading his soul as he gasps for a lungful of air that simply will not come.
The one remaining worg darts forward and snaps at Valnyr's back leg. Berrin tries to move out of the way with the reins, but the wolf is too fast and too desperate. At the last moment, it looks up in fear at Jemini's blazing sword and tries too hard to snap at Valnyr's leg. The horse deftly moves around the sharp teeth and keeps a solid footing, preventing the wolf from dragging down both rider and mount.
The two worgs with Red Eyes seem to listen to him - though it is unclear if it is because of his words or because of fear at how easily their ambush turned into a massacre of their own pack.
With apparently little thought for how little time he has left, the pack leader of the worgs tears at Nikolai. In his mind, if he kills Nikolai he will gain control of Nikolai's pack. Trying to tear out his throat is the one way to survive, even as Nikolai's flaming sword pierce through his massive body. Nikolai gets a hand up to grab onto Howl's massive teeth before he can tear open the throat of the last scion of Rogarvia. The huge worg's fangs pierce all the way through his hand even as Nikolai keeps himself alive long enough to finish the deadly battle.
Nikolai bleeds from the wounds inflicted by the giant wolf, but he gives go quarter. He swings his giant, burning blade from the ground...
...and cuts it cleanly in two. The warg's eyes go dark as its hips fall to the left, splattering bowels and blood on the ground away from the barbarian.
The Staglord wastes no time, standing and flinging the wolf's immense head - still clinging to his forearm by its teeth - to the ground.
Give me your pack by right! Screams the barbarian, covers in gore, showing the bones of his own arms as the sword raises high in the air. Lower your tails lest I takes pelts from every one of you!
Jemini moves to Nikolai, and lays her hand on his shoulder. Her hand feels warm to the touch, almost hot, and for a moment several forms of the hulking man appear - mingling as ghosts would - from a fallen man rent by the North Wind, to a man with almost no wounds. It takes a moment, then another, then finally the ghosts disappear leaving only the man with few wounds where previously a bloodied one stood.
Choking and gasping for air, Verik's bulging eyes look anxiously at the golden crossbow as it whirls and clicks mechanically, unerringly loads another golden bolt in place and then fires at Red Eyes, striking him in the haunch even as he tries to dodge it. From somewhere behind him, Verik hears a sickening crunch and sizzle from Nikolai's blade, followed by words to claim the pack by right of combat.
Perhaps it is that the black warg leader is dead, or perhaps it is a rising sense of panic that Verik cannot draw breath, let alone utter a prayer or battle cry to Abadar before he would strike out with his warhammer at the beast. Instead of attacking, Verik swings his warhammer in several hasty crossing motions to keep Red Eyes focused on him and help to ward off any attack upon his non-shield side.
Red Eyes snaps an order to the rest of the fallen pack as Nikolai tears through Howl of the North Wind. His words are delivered through gritted teeth as Verik's crossbow bolts pierce his sides. "Halt! The pack master has fallen! The victor demands the pack by right of victory." He beckons the others to him with a paw, including the badly injured worg by Berrin. Red Eyes and the others are clearly on the defensive, waiting for the Founders to try to finish them off.
Still choking and gasping for breath, the red-faced cleric pauses only slightly to turn his teared up face back towards Jemini or Nikolai, looking for a response or directive. Meanwhile, the little golden crossbow happily whirls near Red Eyes as a fourth golden bolt appears on the flight groove and starts its familiar click-click-click to slowly but steadily pull back the string, tension on the cross-limb clearly evident.
Willas nods excitedly at Elsir's idea as he takes the book from him. "I would send us to the tower immediately if I could, but I promised Verik Jarrow that I would await his assent to explore it. I wished to wait for you before exploring, but Verik and several of the Founders - what they call the ruling nobility here, it seems, though they have a fairly egalitarian standpoint compared to most of the nearby monarchies and dictatorships - traveled to the west a few days ago. I suppose they'll return in a few weeks time at most. It's more than long enough for us to finish all the preliminary research in transcript form."
He gestures to his desk, where a meticulous vellum sits pressed flat. "I've begun the first draft, of course, and I'd love for you to peruse it and give me your notes. A co-author credit is yours, it goes without saying. Such a treatise will go a long way towards increasing your cachet with the Society, I think. There are many of those who disagreed with your assignment as a field agent, saying that a librarian would not do well in the field. After the incident at Grazh'tolar - not your fault, I know - many of them felt vindicated. As your friend, I wish to see them wronged as fools by your success. What's more, this is more than an opportunity for our personal advancement - it is an opportunity for the Society itself. As you are well aware, the nearest Lodge is in Daggermark - the Dryblade House. While the nobility of Brevoy is likely unwilling to allow the Society much traction within their borders, Newhaven is close enough to allow excursions and seems stable enough to allow for the first real examination of the so-called Stolen Lands in hundreds of years. Did you know that there are rumors of a strong fey presence in the nearby lands? With Iobaria to the east and Numeria to the west, the topics of study are nearly endless!"
Gunderson stops for a moment, gaining his breath and beaming a smile in excitement. "Let's build a Lodge here. I'm sure that Banker Jarrow would accede to it. As for the Society, I'm certain they will be pleased to find a fully-operational Lodge here in a few years instead of going through the interminable procedures and requests that would stymie our quest for knowledge by a decade. You know the saying - ask forgiveness, not permission."
The Stag's steps thud heavily as Nikolai advances.His sword lowers, still ready, arms still bleeding, the warg's vitae boiling on the the blade and hilt of dragonsbreath.
I claim you. You will submit or you will die. Who challenges me for your pack? Nikoai spits blood onto the ground before them and readies his blade. The last one to kneel will die.
The hand on Nikolai's shoulder grasps somewhat more firmly now, Jemini's face a mask of support for Nikolai's claim , "Claim all you will, but a pack of worgs will not call Sanctuary home. These aren't merely beasts, these are cunning and evil creatures with minds both as sharp as mens' and as fickle as beasts'."
Jemini's touch threatens to soften Nikolai's demeanor. He catches his shoulders before they relax. His chest still heaves and a spur of bone still deforms his wrist. He does not turn his head when he speaks.
They will not enter your lands. They are my pack and they will roam and hunt where I choose.
With the other three wolves looking onward to Red Eyes, the worg bows low in front of Nikolai and lets out a high-pitched whine of surrender. The others mimic him, each trying desperately not to be last for fear that Nikolai's words were true. The wounded one, however, is a touch slower than the others because of his injuries at Valnyr's hoof. "We recognize your claim to the pack. You slew Howl of the North Wind in single combat, and thus established your own claim of dominance. I am called Red Eyes, and I was his adviser - though he rarely took my advice, including this foolhardy alliance with the troll king. With his death, I swear on my pelt that this alliance is broken and that what remains of his pack is yours. Back at our cave, a dozen common wolves - pups and b@+@#es included - and four more noble wolves remain. By the customs of the pack, you - and you alone - have the rise and fall of the full moon to lay claim to the pack in full, giving all males who desire it the chance to make their own claim, lest the claim over the pack to be forfeit." It is surprising that the worg is as articulate as he is, especially compared to the only verbalization of rage and anger that Howl of the North Wind seemed capable of.
You will be my counselor among wolves, Red Eyes. By your custom, I must present myself to the others in case some dare to challenge me? And after this moot, it is agreed I am your alpha and you will oppose this troll king with me, yes?
Nikolai twists his lip with fury...the pain of his injuries begins to set in as his blade grows heavy. The bloodlust still has him, but it begins to fade.
And what of this dog? he indicates the wounded one - the last to surrender. How will custom see me if I spare him? As merciful and wise? Or as weak? Advise me so I decide where this blade goes next.
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Silently blinking in a rare moment of surprise, Elsir remained still, letting the idea take hold within him and turning his mind to the issue. Nodding slowly, Elsir closes his, crystalking the idea within him.
Inside of himself he imagined a blackness. He could hear the birds chirping outside of the rustic nobleman's villa. Finches likely. The ambient light made the darkness imperfect. Taking a deep breath and expelling it out through his lungs, Elsir attempted to slip into a brief form of meditation. Keeping his eyes closed, Elsir felt the tug and pull of possibilities and likelihoods. Willas, the gods bless him was prone to idea of wildness. It was one of things that had made him so successful as a Pathfinder. Where Elsir was cool. calm and reserved, Willas was bold, and bordering on recklessness at times. This was a perfect example of such mania.
Biting on the inside of his lip to steady himself Elsir took another calming breath and raised his hands out in front of him as if weighing the possibilities. The Decemvirate would not appreciate this show of independence. The had enough problems at the moment dealing with the Lantern and Shadow lodges, so two affiliated and marginally respected accredited members forming their own Lodge would be a minor issue. But... it went against tradition. A find of some magnitude usually had to be recorded before they would give a blessing. And, as much as Elsir hated to admit it, Willas was right. He was not in the best of standings ever since his expedition to the Expanse.
Still, the idea held a level of temptation within the well traveled elf. Feeling the motes of possibility drawn to him, Elsir crystallized the likelihoods and odds within his minds eye. There was potential in this outcome. Great potential, but it also carried with it the possibility for becoming an outcast and a disgrace. But.. Elsir had seen the visions and he knew what lay at this heart of this kingdom. It would be an unprecedented find. The Society would benefit in an immeasurable way from the recovered knowledge. Was the time right? Elsir was sure that a lodge would be built here.. eventually. Perhaps it was a flight of fancy but Elsir smiled, seeing the possibilities unfold. He would have tower of limestone and granite attached to it, and students from around the River Kingdoms would come to know of the Lodge as both a beacon of knowledge and of education. It was a worthy enterprise.
Opening his eyes, Elsir nodded to Willas. It is a good suggestion. You understand that we will be seen as presumptuous at first, yes? They will call us foolish children for not seeking approval. Eventually however I believe they will acknowledge our keen foresight. We will have taken the steps to insure that when we unlock the secrets of this land, and we will, I assure you. That we will have already established the foothold for the Society in the region.
Nodding once more, Elsir took a decisive breath. I agree. Now is the time. Any longer and we will have lost the initiative. And I think the simplest way to start is with a name. It needs to capture the spirit of this city and this region. There is the Heidmarch Manor in Magnimar, Nexus House in Quantium and the Dryblade House in Daggermark. Hrm... Elsir pauses, in thought. The country is known as New Haven and the city as Sanctuary. Both are allusions to safety or refuge. Sanctuary also carries with it religious overtones. The Lodge should compliment both the ideals of the city and the nation. It could help if it also tied into the philosophy of the River Kingdoms. Perhaps... The Harborage Lodge? A harbor is a place of safety and refuge for ships. It alludes to the rivers of this nation and a it is also a haven. Yes, what do you think Willas?