For several weeks, excitement has been building in Kenabres—Armasse is coming! Traditionally an opportunity for scholars and priests to come together to study the lessons of history from wars past, since Aroden’s death, this holy day has become more about training commoners in weaponry, choosing squires, and ordaining new priests. Over time, Armasse has grown to encompass jousting competitions, mock duels, battle reenactments, and other festival events. In Kenabres, the festival (which takes place on 16 Arodus) is eagerly anticipated, for it provides distractions from the horrors of being on the front line of the war. Smiles on faces normally marred by downcast eyes and furrowed brows do wonders for city morale in the weeks leading up to the event.
Blue eyes roving, circling, darting between knights riding warhorses, priests expounding upon the virtues of courage, strength, sacrifice, and common folk running, dancing, eating, drinking around him, the small Blue-scaled Kobold smiles at his newly found fortunes.
One would never realize that only a few easy miles away are hoards of hungry, diseased, poorly attired demons and worse. Humans are so weird.
The 3' tall draconian (dressed in Taldor fashion with a blue hooded cloak) continues further into this raucous town, following the crowds to the heart of the apparent festival....
He has been back in Kenabres for a couple of weeks. His foster parents - well, Sarnax's foster parents - were welcoming but full of questions.
"Have the visions increased? Tell us about them.
Have there been any physical changes? Let us see the birthmark. Yes, yes. See that? That line has moved. It means something. Look, here is our sketch from last year. See?
We heard tell of a Cyclops seer - in Qadira was it? - yes, a Cyclops seer may be able to divine the meaning. We can arrange passage..."
They are devout, and believe that something has happened to him beyond simple madness. But they want explanations, confirmation, proof, statements from a higher authority.
And he knows this - he is Aroden. Maybe not the Aroden that was, but the Aroden that is and the Aroden that will be.
So, to forestall the questions, he goes with a fib. A simple white lie that makes everything easier.
"You are making too much of it. I am just a man trying to follow his example. Pursuing greatness, blending spell and steel, battling the enemies of humanity and of Golarion - such as the demons of the Worldwound. The visions were given to me as inspiration. But I am Sarnax, the son you raised as your own."
It's a lie. He isn't Sarnax, not anymore. He is Aroden. And he isn't just a man, he's something more. Not a god, no. Not yet, anyway. And the visions of Aroden (Aroden Who Was) battling Deskari are what drew him back here.
Long-time residents of Kenabres know him. Sarnax, orphan of Riftwardens, raised in Kenabres and went mad in Absalom. Visitors here for Armasse think he might be a reenactor, someone dressed up to play a part in a historical lesson. "No, just a man trying to follow his example."
Aroden takes part in the longsword drills, and he is terrible, though there is a hint of some forgotten skill. Just a hint. Enough to persuade him to keep practicing.
Clanging fills the air at the training yard.
"There you go! Keep your grip firm but relaxed! Nice hit! Remember to keep your stance!" Tandyn shouts while quickly walking from trainee to trainee. "Great job everyone! Now place your blades back on the rack and feel free to take a flyer on your way out!"
As the guests exit Tandyn stretches a bit, fixes his hair, and straightens out his tabard over his scale mail. After a deep breath and a few quick jumps, he prepares himself for yet another round.
"Welcome! Are you all ready to learn some swordplay? Please take a sword from the rack and make your way to one of our unoccupied straw demons..."
The day of the festival begins much like any other - the light of the sun seems pale and sickly as it creeps over the horizon, as if even the celestial spheres fear to shine their light on the blighted lands below. In a small, dilapidated house in the Gate District, an emaciated young man rises with the sun, grimacing as his horns rebound off a battered crossbeam with a solid thud. As he makes a simple breakfast with the scraps of bread and cheese he can collect from around the barren kitchen, he glances contemplatively at a quarter of a sausage left over from the butcher's shop the previous week, considering whether or not to use it in the meal. Oh, might as well. Armasse comes only once a year, after all. Both his taloned hands are occupied cooking the meal, so his whiplike tail darts out at the remnant of the sausage, impaling it on the scorpion-like stinger at its end and bringing it over to his waiting hands. As he eats the (admittedly mediocre) meal, he pauses every so often to jot down notes in the journal open on the kitchen's shoddy, secondhand table, taking bites between sentences as he writes.
16 Arodus - Armasse
Another year, another festival. I've been given the day off from work, but as usual, I hadn't planned to go - those damned crusaders already run what's left of our country, so why give them a whole day to rub it in our faces?
This year, though, it's different. A friend of a friend down at the Market Square said that the Locksmiths' Guild is going to have a stall set up with a few demonstrations. Supposedly, they've got some sort of lock that's supposed to be 'unbreakable' for anyone less than a Guild journeyman - anyone who can prove them wrong gets an apprenticeship at the Guild.
'Unbreakable,' my foot. Supposedly, it's a three-cylinder model - three cylinders! I've picked more complex locks - Hell, I've made more complex locks! I'll go to the Armasse celebrations, get that apprenticeship, and make a better life for my family. If all goes well, tonight we'll eat that salted beef I've been saving - after all, I certainly think a celebration would be in order! I only hope Saba
Suddenly, a soft blow on the shoulder jolts the young man out of his reverie, accompanied by Hallit words in a rich baritone voice. «Still scribbling in that book of yours, my little brother?» He turns in his chair to glance up at his assailant, grinning as he responds in the same tongue. «I'll s-sting you - don't think I won't! M-morning, Huresk.» His grin widens. «B-besides, at least I c-can read, you b-beer-swilling illiterate!» The pained grimace on his brother's face lets him know that he's struck a nerve, and he sighs. «L-look, I'm s-sorry. I d-didn't-» The tall Kellid man waves a hand dismissively. «Never you mind about that, my brother. Look, this is the first Armasse you've actually agreed to go to in years - just go, enjoy the day, show Saba the sights, okay?»
The brothers' conversation is interrupted by a furtive scratching at the door, accompanied by pitiful whining. «T-that'll be that d-dog. I'll give him something s-special - seeing how it's A-armasse and all.» Taking the better part of the sausage that he had made for himself, Dorek's blade-like claws expertly slice off a large chunk of meat - walking to the shoddy wooden door and opening it, he kneels down to greet the small, scruffy-looking terrier waiting at the door, begging for scraps. «M-morning, Ranek. Y-you excited for Armasse, l-little buddy?» Dorek moves the sausage up and down, and the little dog's head moves to track it, his face the wide-eyed, focused mask of a dog who knows that someone has food and is not giving it to them. Dorek chuckles as the dog seems to nod in assent. «Yeah, m-me too, little buddy. Now - w-where's Saba? Go find S-saba!» He tosses the sausage to the dog, and it vanishes in a little gray blur of motion as the dog devours the meat, then rushes inside and clambers up the stairs to his adoptive daughter's cramped room. The young tiefling returns to his seat, not meeting his brother's disapproving gaze. «Dorek, you know our family doesn't have the money for you to keep feeding that mutt - not on the salary we make, at any rate.» Dorek sighs. «I k-know - but t-that's all going to change after today! I k-know they don't let d-demonspawn into the guild, but after t-today, they'll-»
A self-satisfied yipping announces the return of the terrier Ranek, a bleary-eyed young Garundi girl at his heels. «Papa? What's going on?» Scooping up Saba's plate in his talons, Dorek crosses the cramped room to his adoptive daughter in just a few strides, kneeling as he hands her the plate. «Why, today's A-armasse, Saba. It's going to be a g-great adventure!» The little girl looks up at him, pleading in her eyes. «And you're coming with me? You're not going away to that awful foundry, Papa?» Dorek laughs. «If all goes well, Saba, I'll n-never have to go to that horrible foundry e-ever again. Get your t-things - we don't want to miss the p-parade!»
The three members of the Devaimai-Windstep family slowly make their way through the cramped streets of Kenabres, Saba pulling her father through the crowds in her excitement to see the festival, exclaiming in Taldane as she takes in the sights. "Papa! Papa! Look at all the knights! Do you think we'll see Lady Tirabade?" Behind her, Dorek answers in the same tongue, his blade-like talons locked firmly around the handle of his tool kit as he rushes through the streets after Saba. "I'm sure she's very busy, Saba - I don't think she'll have time to be at a festival like this." Next to the little girl, Ranek barks excitedly and darts to and fro, unsure of what is going on but aware that he likes it very much.
At the festival itself, Dorek glances around the plaza for a minute before his one remaining eye lights on the Locksmiths' Guild stall. "H-huresk, could you go show Saba the j-jousting event for a bit? I'm g-going to try my hand at that l-lock." Approaching the Guild display hesitantly, he ducks his sharp-featured head at the Guild representative's suspicious glare, holding up his locksmiths' tools as proof of his purpose. The gray-skinned tiefling kneels in front of the display lock, his picks probing its inner workings for a few minutes as sweat beads on his forehead, but eventually, it opens with a click, and Dorek exhales a sigh of relief.
His heart still pumping with the exhilaration of winning the Locksmith's Challenge, Dorek hurries back to his brother and daughter at the jousting tournament, clutching his hard-won scroll of apprenticeship in one taloned hand as he carries his tool kit in the other. He spends most of the rest of the festival watching the jousts and mock combats with his daughter, beaming an unnaturally wide grin as he watches the gathered crusaders in their mock fights. Like many of those present, he takes part in the longsword drills, but he fails miserably - while he seems quite comfortable with a blade, such as the overlong dagger he wears at his hip, the unwieldy length of the longsword seems to stymie him, and the lanky tiefling misses blow after blow, eventually putting the sword back on the weapons rack and leaving the practice field in frustration.
”You stop too soon, child. Strike through your target.” The impossibly deep but melodious voice rumbled over the training yard in the misty lamplight. Cecily nodded, digging in her back heel before lashing out again. The sandbag rocked with a resounding thump and the young woman confidently met the eyes of her master. The immense silver dragon gave her a small nod.
”Better. One hundred more then you may go ready yourself for the celebration.” Terendelev looked to the first glimmer of dawn on the horizon then inclined her head toward her student. ”Enjoy the parade, the celebrations, but seek me this evening. We have something important to discuss.”
”Yes, master. And enjoy your part as well!” Cecily called out in farewell As the dragon took wing to more pressing matters. The tiefling continued her drills, punching until her knuckles were sore and working up a healthy sheen of sweat in the cool pre-dawn chill. She hummed a happy tune to herself as she returned to the barracks once her assigned drills were done, cleaned herself up, and began to dress for the day. Terendelev's instructions made her giddy. She had been taking special lessons for years now as she carried out her duties within the crusade, and it was high time that she began a formal apprenticeship. There were numerous highly capable crusaders she could learn from, but she hoped against hope that Terendelev would be taking her on herself, and if the dragon wanted to meet her after the ceremonies, well, that was a great sign! And if today was going to be such a special day, her usual uniform just wouldn't do. She had commissioned an elaborate dress for Armasse in the hopes that the festivities would mark her own day of ascension, resplendent in white, red, and gold and festooned with tasteful ribbon and lace. Lamenting that the barracks did not afford her a staff to help her dress like she had grown up with, she cinched up the dress herself with her tail then tucked the tail back up under her skirts. To complete the ensemble, she pulled on white silk gloves over her claws and styled her hair up and over her horns, leaving only the tips of the side horns sticking out (although they might be mistaken for a headpiece) but her slightly-pointed ears free and fixed the styling in placed with a caul. There. She looked almost human again.
By the time she was ready, the troops in tge unit she was attached to were ready to go as well. She formed up with them and they headed out into the morning air and out to the parade ground.