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The old man chuckles a little under his breath at the half-orc, as Lort's continued outlook on life and their ever changing situations bring a much needed escape from the weight of continued seriousness.
A moment later, Ibid looks to the inquisitor and can appreciate Fautus' chelish cunning, even if he has a hard time trusting a devil worshipper. "Those are keen observations indeed, Faustus..." After a further moment of pause, the old man adds another statement almost silently under his breath. "We may as well call you, Larazod," the old man provides an ironic, backhanded compliment to Faustus for his eagerness to undertake these trials and wonders if the inquisitor will understand his meaning.
"Nothing happens to Nun, until the newcomer arrives. Then the newcomer," Ibid pauses. "... a man, as Faustus so aptly pointed out..." the old man waits another moment before continuing. "And then... what?... shapes Nun into the oceans and world we know today. Shapes Nun into something of worth? Because it finishes with this..."
"Once you were still, and quite. Now you are transformed, and strong. Use my gifts wisely."
"I would say, the passage seems to be about not squandering the precious gifts we are given and making the most of our talents. The importance of transforming ourselves into something of true value to the world," Ibid finishes.
"Or, perhaps, we are just waiting for some unnamed man to dance across our peaks and make a man out of us..." the old man trails off, intentionally being sarcastic, but failing to voice his final thought aloud. ... because Nun isn't referred to as a man until the stranger has had his way...
He turns with a shiver and observes the remaining books on the various shelfs, keeping an eye out for anything which may be off help to him and his friends.
The door opens and Aeotsep returns. ”So sorry, so sorry, to have kept you all waiting, needed to set up and all. So how did you pass your time?” he says with a wry grin.
"Ahh, I cannot lie. Hehe. It was a set up. I knew, I knew you were smart and would read it. So what did you think? What nuggets of knowledge did your learn. So excited to hear."
After listening again to the interpretations, he nods solemnly. "Very interesting, very interesting. Unbinding the Fetters is no easy text. There are those that study it for lifetimes and never quite agree. Hmmm, let us move on, yes let us move on. You all did very well, mostly, but still mighty impressive."
Aeotsep leads the Pathfinders down the hall and opens a door. Inside the Pathfinder see several broad reed mats, racks holding wooden weapons, and a pile of small wooden boards.
”Big, strong Pathfinders you are.” he begins looking at Lort and Amaranti. ”Remember students that physical might is often mistaken for brute force. You must relearn that strength without control accomplishes little. Here, let me show you. Heheh, this will be so fun.” He nudges before grabbing a board.
To illustrate the point, Aeotsep takes a wooden board from the pile and outstretches his arm, holding the board in front of his face. He winks at Miro, then with a swift movement, he releases the plank and strikes it in mid-air, breaking the board into two symmetrical halves.
”Hahaha. See strength, but not brute force. Accurate strikes, but powerful blows. Can you do this? Can you strike hard, but also strike in the correct spot? Too high, the board will flip away, too low, well hehe you will see.” he giggles. ”Who is first?” he looks to the Pathfinders.
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"Larazod indeed. The tiefling that overcomes his foul birth to become something more... a force of Law. A proof that faith in the Dark Prince shall carry you forward. Excellent reference, Mr. Ibid. Oxley Abel. Your choice in Chelish operas is commendable.
"Perhaps our fine fellow there shall give equal entertainment?"
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Being challenged to the game, Amaranti cannot refuse. Acting after Lort, he does have certain pressure to show off. Like the half-orc before him, the Garundi picks up a board and studies it from each side in case there's a trick hidden into it.
To put up a show, Amaranti throws the board into air with a swing, but it escapes his reach, flying wildly towards Aeotsep almost hitting him square into head.
"Oops. Looked easier..." the embarrassed Garundi mutters, while a weird snorting noise escapes is heard from the Kaisharga's direction. However mysterious are the thoughts behind the eidolon's face, this time it looks exactly like one who trying to suppress a laughter, and not succeeding too well.
Aeotsep moves forward, and in a voice not heard by the Pathfinders before, "Lort, if I may?? Your elbow, it is too far from your body. Keep it close, that will make the trajectory of your swing straighter and more compact. Better." he nods before moving to wards the back of the room.
As the half-orc inhales, then releases, and swings, he connects a sollid blow shattering the board.
Aeotsep exclaims, "Well done, yes very well done. And that is how you do that."
Aeotsep gives more pointers to the remaining Pathfinders, some are able to head his advice, others are not so fortunate.
Looking at his fellow Garundi, he claps him on the shoulder. "It was a great effort, and in time I see you being able to accomplish this task. Never fear, there are more trails to come and I venture that you will do much better, yes much better."
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Miro laughs as he throws up the board, striking it accurately. The board just continues dropping, knocked back a few inches by the strike, and the halfling's knuckles are an ugly red color. "I dare say I should spend less time singing and more time exercising, if I am ever to do that appropriately."
The imposing Chelaxian Inquisitor, moves forward, and beguiling his size, neatly breaks the board in two. The affable halfling, while nimble, does not posses the strength to break the board.
"Well done both of you. You Pathfinder continue to impress me. Miro, a moment." Taking the halfling to the outside of the room, Aeotsep works with Miro, showing him how to pivot his hip to place more of his strength behind the motion.
"See, I knew you could do it, knew you could." Aeotsep grins broadly.
The old Investigator/Ranger flips the board up like he has been doing it his whole life, then barely smacks it and it falls unbroken to the ground at his feet.
Aeotsep places a hand on his shoulder, "If all could do this in one try, we would not have a village of farmers. Yes yes. You did well, much better than I on my first try."
Aeotsep then moves up to the Kelishite youth, splinters and bits of broken boards everywhere. "Oh my, oh my. You are a capable group. Full of learned scholars and strong combatants. Ready for what is next? Hmmm Hmmm? Ready to face what you cannot see?"
Stepping over the scattered remains of the Pathfinders attempts, Aeotsep puts away the rest of wooden boards. He makes his way over to the wooden rack and takes a quarterstaff and a blindfold from the wall down.
”Okay Pathfinders, more to come, more to come. Now I need you all to close your eyes and be silent. Miro, no peeking. Hehehe.”
As Aeotsep walks around the Pathfinders, he begins talking in a low voice. ”Pay attention to the sound of my footsteps. Do you hear the soft pitter patter? Inhale deeply. Do you smell the aroma of incense on my robes? You must understand that consciousness is achieved through all senses.” he pinches Ibid on the butt. ”hehehe, sorry. If you only rely on one of them, well you do not see the whole picture. Open your eyes.”
The Pathfinders open their eyes, and see Aeotsep holding a snake inches from Armanti’s face. ”Haha, this one does not fear snakes, this one who calls forth his companion from the beyond.” Turning to everyone, ” I need a volunteer. Someone who can demonstrate what they have learned.” The monk return the snake to a bag, and twirls his quarterstaff in one hand while holding out a blindfold.
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Cyrus steps forward before the word "volunteer" is fully out of the monk's mouth.
"I would see if I am worthy, if I have learned" he says, accepting the blindfold.
He closes his eyes under the blindfold, focusing his thoughts, his hearing, everything he can on the location of the monk
Sensing the blow coming, he hopes he has pinpointed the right direction, and is dodging the right way.
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"Cyrus, an admirable try, but perhaps a street orc might have better luck," Lort says in a tone that is not condescending, but perhaps a little too confident, "I used to smell danger in my sleep. Let us see if my senses are still as strong. Be warned old man, do not strike too hard, as I will be blocking your blow and not stepping away from it."
Lort dons the blindfold and puts his finger to his lips, telling his companions to be quiet.
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Faustus will stand in for his chance... cheating is not part of his make-up. Lying, that's another story, because accepting the lie is the fault of the listener, not the liar (Asmodean logic, here).
"Hmm... this is not one of the trials I have taken before. Usually they are more direct... and more painful."
Cyrus, thinking the monk is behind him, hops forward into the swing of the quarterstaff. The loud "CRACK" of wood meeting flesh makes the other Pathfinders cringe.
Undeterred, Lort, steps forward and ties the blindfold behind his head. Aeotsep waves his hand in front of the half-orc face, looking for signs of a reaction. Seeing none, he begins padding around Lort on the balls of his feet. he feints a few times before attacking from his left. Lort, sensing the wind shift, raises his arm in a counter move and Aeotsep pulls back as his staff gently connects with the half-orcs defense.
"Ohhh, good Lort. Good. Well done indeed."
Seeing the half-orc's success, and not wanting to be outdone by a child of the streets, Faustus strides boldly into the center. There he blindfolds himself and waits for the monk to begin. This time, Aeotsep treads warily. Feinting numerous times. Each time, the Inquisitor stands passive, never flinching. Finally in a bust of speed, the monk swings for Faustus's knee. Bring up his leg ever so slightly, the quarterstaff is truned away by the motion of the sweeping leg. Faustus takes off the blindfold and strides back into the semi-circle of waiting Pathfinder. Seriously, Aeotsep nods his head in silent acknowledgement of Faustus success.
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"Thank you for the compliments," Lort's smile is as broad as ever, "It seems a ruffian's life on the streets prepares one just as well as rigid training with poles up one's butt, eh, Faustus?"
Lort helps clean up the boards, and casts mending on them (if the monk doesn't mind), "No sense wasting good materials. Now, where to next? I'm beginning to enjoy these challenges."
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The old man blushes after being pinched on the butt, and while the others try to test their skills at this new trial, he stands away, alone and in silence, staring off a thousand yards through the wall. When at last Ibid is roused to try also, he steps forward without meeting anyone's gaze. Again following Miro's lead, Ibid closes his eyes, equally fearful of being groped as being struck by the man's stick.
Miro and Ibid respectively attempt to thwart the old monks blows to no avail.
”My that was fun, fun, fun. Did I hurt you too bad? Here is a rag to stop the bleeding and some cold stones to help the bruising. Hehe.” The monk uncovers a wooden bucket full of stones, glistening with condensation and small pile of clean linen rags.
Lastly, Amaranti strides forward. The monk begins stalking him, periodically glancing at the serpentine form curled in the corner to see if the summoner is receiving magical assistance.
Finally, the monk strikes out from behind.
Just in time, Amaranti whirls around and strikes the quaterstaff.
"Ohhh, well done, well done indeed. I feared that this challenge would prove too much for you all, but no, but no. You have comported yourselves admirably."
”Much to do still. Follow me.” Aeotsep exits from the same door they entered through.
As they head out, they come to another winding trail down to the village. As they descend into the village, they take another path leading west. This trek through the Down Valley attracts the attention of curious bystanders under the assumption that Aeotsep is about to test a group of aspirants. Several dozen people take a brief break from their work to observe the upcoming trial. After a few minutes of travel, the Pathfinders can hear the steady hum of water crashing. As they round a bend, a moderately sized waterfall appears to the west of the village. A trail ascends 40 feet to a mountain ledge, where a series of wooden posts overlooks the waterfall’s plunge pool.
Aeotsep hops atop one of the posts. ”Ready are you. Can you stand still in the midst of chaos? Can you tune out the power of nature? How hard is it to just be still? Hehe. We will see, yes we will see.” He gestures for the Pathfinders to do the same.
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"Oh, do I get to go first this time!?" Miro bounds forth eagerly, only stopping to strip out of his armor before hopping on one of the posts and holding his arms out to act as balancing rods. "Hmmmm...this seems like it might be boring..." The halfling sighs, settling in for a long wait to prove...well...whatever it was they were proving.
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Cyrus takes a deep breath, determined not to fail this test. Failure now would invalidate his rise from the ashes of a torn and broken childhood. The hauntings of the vile people in his life who blamed him for the misfortunes that surrounded him, things that were out of his control. The death of his father that he still struggled to deal with, and the sacrifice that he made, according to Ibid's story, would be null and void.
Even the sapphire sage would click his tongue in dissapointment. No, he would not fail.
On the streets in his childhood, failure meant, at best, a harsh beating, be it from the gangs that ran certain areas or a street vendor who caught you with your hand in his goods. At worst, Failure meant losing a hand, or disappearing, never to be seen again. Cyrus learned as a young boy to deal with these critical moments, to dig deep into an inner reserve of strength he couldn't explain, other than sheer will to survive. He knew he would need this strength now.
As the water beats down on him, he closes his eyes, focusing his core, balancing, not just on the slippery stone, but the precipice of a judgement of his existence. The roar of the waterfall is tuned out, he hears nothing but his own thoughts.
Look at this dad! Look what I can do! See how far I can jump? I'm the best acrobat ever, and I'm only 8! I kno. Cuz you said so. Think I could be in the circus one day? I bet I could do all those things better than any of those performers...
The halfling and Kelishite youth spring onto their platforms. The Halfling, endures the grueling test with his ever present smile on his face, lasting the whole 60 minutes. The Kelishite, while his legs are shaking from cramps, manages to hop around the tiny pillar, almost falling a handful of times. Using his inner strength, he also manages the entire 60 minutes.
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Not wishing to be outdone, Lort also agrees to this trial. He takes off his armor, explaining, "Balancing over a raging river is one thing. Doing so in heavy armor is pure foolishness. Do not think less of me for stripping off. I know your friend Menkha did not favor me taking it off for a running race - I don't know too many official footraces where knights are required to run armored."
Lort steps out a little less confidently than usual. Balance and lightness on his feet was never the half-orc's strong point.
5 consecutive d20 rolls?!?!?![/b] Have the game designers gone mad? Hoping the DCs are appropriately low for this ridiculousness.
Lort takes his place on the pillar. He almost instantly begins to grumble and complain. He wobbles, he shifts, he hops. Almost like clockwork, he windmills his arms to remain upright every 5 minutes but each time, amazingly he remains atop the pillar. The half-orc makes it for the entire 60 minutes.
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Faustus is surprised by the wisdom of Lort, and follows suit, removing his armor for the test. He stands upon the post, wearing his red trimmed, black Inquisitor's robes and iron mask. Even though he realizes that this trial is far more suited to the more nimble members of this group, he stoically approaches it, and expects to succeed.
Of course, it is clear he gets wet, not even lasting as long as the old man.
Aeotsep, balanced like a stork upon a rock, observes the Pathfinders. He notices Lort and Faustus remove their armor, and silently nods in approval.
As the old man climbs atop the pillar, he shifts uncomfortably. Looking at his young friends impressive display of balance, he tries to mimic the agile ninja's stance. This proves successful before his mind wanders and after 40 minutes he slips and falls into the water below.
Faustus climbs atop the pillar, uttering prayers to the lord of lies to show these unworthy men what a true believer can do. Unaccustomed to doing nothing, after 20 minutes it is too much for him to bear and he plunges into the frigid waters beneath.
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Lort steps forwards and helps Faustus out, "Never mind, friend. I'm sure you'll be able to beat me soundly on the next challenge. Balancing isn't my strong point either - it took more than a little luck to maintain my posture there."
Once Amaranti has had his go, Lort asks the comrades who didn't succeed to gather around. "So, you didn't pass the monk's challenge... but there is no need for you to go around with a bruised body as well as a bruised ego. Let Kurgess heal your ailments as a reward for taking part in the wondrous pursuit of competition!"
Lort pulls out his silver holy symbol, appropriately it is styled around a muscular flexing arm, and utters a quick prayer. A glowing light infuses his being and spreads out to those nearby.
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'Friend? An Inquisitor of the Dark Prince can afford no such thing. However, I have been trained to be... cordial... regardless of what my preference would be.'
"Yes, that was not one that those of us that rely on steel over stealth to protect us would expect. You did well... I am sure the Strong Man is proud of you, Lort. Thank you for the 'favor', though I would have been fine waiting for time to have healed the inconsequential impairment."
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"No problems, and I'm sure you'll repay the 'favor' later with some skilled work of your own!" laughs Lort, blissfuly unaware of any hidden meanings his words may hold.
"So, do you think I'll need armor for the next challenge or not?" Lort turns his attention to the Garundi monk, "I'm just wondering whether to don it or put it in my backpack for now. Is it to be combat, or more tests of how nimble we are? With all this water around, a pleasant swim perhaps?"
The large Garundi quickly slips and falls, not even making the first 20 minutes. The other Pathfinders can hear him swearing softly underneath his breath.
Dripping wet, a huge smile on his face, Aeotsep gathers the Pathfinder. ”Again, you prowess only amplifies the growing admiration we are developing for your Society. Well done, well done. Almost done now, so give it your all.”
At this point Lort heals all their temporary wounds.
Answering Lort's questions, "Choices, choices. Your armor will be both a blessing and a curse in the challenges to come. Your choice my friend, your choice."
As Aeotsep leads the PCs back into the monastery and to a hidden trail, he tells them a story of Tar Kuata’s past. Again the Pathfinders note that his tone, and way of speaking has changed.
“Many years after I began to teach students in these mountains, Narmek Tar Kuata challenged the air spirits for mastery of the winds. They attempted to tear him from the peak, but he struck the mountain and caused a great pillar of stone to rise high into the sky. Acknowledging Narmek Tar Kuata’s superiority, the air spirits granted him the respect he had earned, and have served the monastery ever since. The spire, as we call it, still stands as a reminder of our alliance with these spirits, and our founder’s remains reside in a reliquary at its top.”
Aeotsep steps out from the covered path and into daylight, where a impossibly tall stone pillar rises from the mountainside. “Climbing to the top symbolizes the metaphysical ascent that Narmek Tar Kuata realized. This climb is your next trial.”
Turning to Cyrus and Amaranti, ”For us, climbing the spire is much like walking the same path that led Narmek Tar Kuata to enlightenment, and sometimes one of the monastery’s students—including one in recent memory—attains a level of mastery and wisdom that could have rivaled the founder’s.”
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Lort elects to keep his armor in his backpack this time, "Not much use for climbing, this heavy stuff. Good at stopping a spear to the gut... but best to have it stowed for such an ascent. Slow and steady wins the race they say, let's see if that is true."
Unhurriedly, Lort places two hands on the rock face. Gradually, he feels his position to make sure his handholds are strong enough to hold him and then places his feet one at a time on the spire and does the same. He keeps the standard three points of contact at all times. A few times he has to go back down and skirt around a little before he can make progress, but his strength and natural instincts guide him to do a passable job.