Last night, a bright glow was seen in all of the Cathedral’s windows simultaneously. The last time that happened in recorded memory was just before when Iomedae stepped out of the Cathedral and into godhood. So in the early morning light, a crowd begins to build around the bottomless chasm, waiting to see what would happen. Waiting to see history made yet again as, maybe, a new god arose.
It wasn’t any big secret that Hazim Masoumi had entered the Cathedral to take the test, although after two weeks, most folks had simply given up on him. Now, perhaps, the champion of Rahadoum and Iomedae would emerge victorious. Hundreds were already gathering to worship him.
There are many possible reasons why the PCs might be there. They might be initiate clerics of other faiths, sent by their superiors to witness and report the birth of a new god. They might be on the City Watch, tasked with maintaining order and safety. They might be pickpockets and thieves there to prey on a distracted multitude. They might be sages from near or far, drawn by rumours of the ascension. Or they might be random citizens, satisfying their idle curiosity.
Whatever their reason, fate has drawn them close to each other, and to stand nearby to the oldest human any of them has ever seen. Sitting at his arthritic ease in a lowered sedan chair with the Eye of Aroden prominently displayed on its sides, he seems to be almost asleep as he waits patiently in the early dawn hours. Whispers in the crowd around him speak of Albar Tolion, the last human cleric of Aroden, the last living human to ever receive and cast a spell granted by the Dead God, with an equal mix of admiration and ridicule.
As the sun crests over the buildings to the east and the first ray of sunlight strikes the main doors of the Cathedral, the doors open, and a man walks out. He staggers, as if in a daze; his clothes are torn, his face smudged and smeared with blood, his linen head wrap askew and stained with red. The crowd is silent as the man circles the Cathedral to a point opposite the PCs, at the foot of the broken bridge of Aroden; they gasp as the man walks onto the remains of the bridge, and then out into the void. He stops a moment, as if unsure himself, but with each step he takes, stone appears beneath his feet. The man crosses the chasm and steps off the restored bridge onto the outer rim; the crowd backs away in fear and awe, as he raises his arms above his head and proclaims in a loud voice that booms across all of Absalom, “I am Masoumi!”
In that moment, as the sound of that voice reverberates across the crowd, nobody dares stir, until one small, elderly voice nearby cries out, “My god! I can feel you! My lord, Aroden!” and Tolion, who has not cast a divine spell in one hundred and five years, raises his hands and light blossoms in front of him. The light lasts a second before a stunned crowd and a stunned Masoumi, before it falters and fades, and Tolion cries out in anguish, clutching his chest.
A voice from far off proclaims, “Masoumi brings with him the restoration of the New Age!” and the mobs resurge around the new god, already forgetting the old. But Albar Tolion, his faced mixed with equal portions of age, grief, and hope, reaches out his hands towards you, with one final request on his lips.
For the first time in a week, Garim feels no sense of the malevolent entity that has haunted his every minute. Unfortunately, he has no clue what has caused this suppression, only that, for at least the moment, he is currently free. Something about the old man's face is compelling to him...
For once, however, it seems to work in her favour. With the mob's attentions once more on the newly-risen god at the chasm edge, she can see an easy path among (and between) the forest of legs towards the man slumped partially out of his sedan chair, dangerously close to falling to the cobbles. It's almost as if fate has made a way for her...
While Lanaux's eyes remain glued to Masoumi, Ofelio's gaze falls on the old man, slumped over in his sedan chair, dangerously close to falling to the cobbles. The old priest reaches out blindly, and his lips move in whispered speech...
Zuran stands aloof of the mob, though still amongst it, watching the new god. Masoumi represents everything strong and noble (such as there is) in the human race. Even though the man-god is clearly a little freaked out by the changes in himself, his every step brings more imperious confidence. By the end of his walk across the ruined Bridge of Aroden (ruined no longer), he is the clear master of all in the square.
But while Masoumi radiates imperious strength, the frail old man near his feet radiates a different kind of strength. While Zuran can't put his finger on it, it has its own attractions...
Laya slips between and under the various legs in her way, almost knocking her hat off in the process, but catching it before it falls. She makes her way up to the elderly priest and takes his arm. "Now, now," she says. "The cobblestones wouldn't make a very comfortable place to lie down. Not to mention you'd probably get trampled by the mob here. Believe me, I know what that's like and you don't want to go through it."
Although she's not very strong, she tries to push him back into his seat and upright before he falls over. Hopefully, he's willing to make a bit of an effort himself.
Vaguely aware of the gravity of the occasion (Albrecht had the kindness of giving him a crash course on the risen godhood), but afraid of what it could mean, Ofelio spends most of the spectacle tensing his calves and biting his lower lip. He feels oppressed and irritated by the proximity of so many others, and has to close his eyes and meditate from time to time just to block out the sounds of what might as well have been a crazed flock of geese to his senses. However, hypervigilance spurs his wild eyes to revert back to Tolion after the crowd had taken in what it would.
Ofelio flares his nostrils for a moment, waiting to make sure he is seeing what he is truly seeing happening on the sidelines. His fingers are twitching as he glances at Lanaux, whose stately side profile and firmly-set jaw indicates that he is, indeed, glued to Masoumi's proof of ascension.
He doesn't validate his actions, even to himself. The tiefling merely tears away from his mentor's side, causing the older man's violet tabard to flutter in the breeze his ward leaves behind.
Despite having mismatched feet, he approaches Albar with no small amount of speed, converging with a like-minded halfling and attempts to prevent him from falling to the ground by taking gentle hold of Tolion's remaining outstretched arm. The paladin assists Laya in resituating the aged cleric.
Watching Albar Tolion fills Garim with a new sense of freedom from his recent torments. His heart is light, near to bursting with hope and peace. He laughs out, a sound of joyousness.
Seeing the old priest falter his exuberance is dampened only a little, and that at concern for the old man. In Master Beden's shop a week ago Garim's healing of the blacksmith was an unconscious act, welcome at the time, but unasked for. Understanding now something of the blessing that has been bestowed upon him, a counterpart to the curse he has borne, Garim reaches out his hand to touch the old priest. "Take of my strength father", Garim's voice is respectful of the priest of Aroden.
As you approach Tolion, you can see he's having a great deal of trouble breathing, and his face is a mask of pain. Garim's healing spell eases his breathing slightly, but does little to help his underlying condition
"Just relax now," Laya tells the elderly priest. She turns to the two other arrivals. "Thank you for your assistance. It's terribly crowded here. The mob would have ignored him." She peers out towards the new "god". "They have other things on their mind, it seems."
"My master would have stopped." Ofelio murmurs, taking the old man's pulse but surmising nothing from the results. His good intent, it seems, is not enough to surpass the blockages caused by his lackluster intelligence (or at least, this is how Ofelio perceives the issue). He frowns, and his expression of concern seems almost predatorial as he glances back to Laya and Garim. One of his eyes is much larger than the other, but the pupil and iris therein is still symmetrical with the other, which means the white of his right eye is distractingly large. His pupils are unnaturally contracted.
"I do not know what is wrong." he admits in a low rumble. His eyes fall back on Father Tolion.
Realizing a few others have gathered around the old priest as well Garim looks around. He takes half a step backwards upon seeing the tiefling before catching himself. A flicker of a shadow passes over his eyes, a reminder of the past week.
His gaze goes back to the priest, "I... I don't know how to help him." Garim moves behind the priest to gently lay him on his back, trying not to crowd him.
Tolion, propped up and tended by the three strangers, waves your hands away. He struggles to take in breath, and his face is pale.
"Do not fuss over me. It is my heart. I...I have often wondered why I have lived as long as I did...to feel his presence one more time. So brief, and now gone again."
”I…I saw a vision. All humanity bound in slavery for all time. It must not come to pass. Aroden…this is all wrong. It wasn’t supposed to be this way…he wasn’t supposed to…supposed to…there is an ancient evil, in there…” he trails off a moment, pointing towards the Cathedral. ”It seeks to bind us all. It must be stopped. I saw…I saw…a key. The first step. You must redeem the inheritor’s cloak. Take this!” He presses his holy symbol, the Eye of Aroden wrought from mithral, into Garim's hands. ”I know not why, but you will need it. Redeem the cloak from the evil that holds it, or all…” With a final rattle, the breath leaves Albar Tolion for the last time.
"Well, that doesn't sound all that difficult!" Laya says, clapping her hands together. "We just need to..." She trails off as her eyes fall on the place the old man was pointing to.
She turns back to him. "Do you mind pointing again? For a moment, it seemed like... Oh." It's at that moment that she clues in that the old man has died. "Poor soul."
Garim's hands tremble as he receives the holy symbol of Aroden. Why give this to me? His former jubilation now mixed with sorrow for this man he did not know. His voice is subdued and puzzled, "What... did he mean by that? Redeem the inheritor's cloak?"
No longer pulled by whatever unseen will drew him to Albar he looks around at the crowds, really taking them in in full for the first time. His eyes widening in wonder when his gaze falls upon Masoumi. Very deliberately he slips the holy symbol into one of his pouches, his eyes not straying from the scene before him. Is he a new god then?
Ofelio doesn't look away from Tolion during the entire ordeal. He adopts the posture of a student looking at a teacher naturally, but his eyes darken as the final breath escapes the elderly priest. There's a flash of something therein that an expert eye might regard as slight jealousy. The man obtained peace, and if Aroden spoke to him, perhaps he'd gone home, after all.
And had granted purpose to others.
"I fear I don't know the proper words, either, sir, but I doubt you need my help to find rest."
The tiefling uses his thick fingers to close the man's eyes before turning to the others.
"Seemed like what?" the tiefling asks Laya, certain that she understand more than he. His right lower eyelid twitches involuntarily, but he likely hasn't noticed.
To Garim, Ofelio shrugs.
"Well, one wears a cloak on their back, so... maybe we just need to put it on a sacred back? But if it needs redeeming, maybe it's on a back where it doesn't belong... Hey, what are you looking at? Masoumi? Is he wearing a cloak?"
Masoumi doesn't seem to be wearing a cloak.
Unfortunately, neither of those knowledge checks are sufficient to bring any useful information to mind.
"Seemed like what?" the tiefling asks Laya, certain that she understand more than he. His right lower eyelid twitches involuntarily, but he likely hasn't noticed.
Laya is still looking sadly at the now-deceased priest and seems startled by Ofelio's words to her. "What? Seemed? Seemed what? Oh! Yes, right!" She looks back out towards the cathedral. "It seemed like he was pointing at the Starstone Cathedral, as if the evil he spoke of is in there and that we needed to go in after it. I wanted clarification because, well, it's the Starstone Cathedral, and I don't know about you, but I don't think I'm quite up to that task. Oh my!"
She spins around in a near panic. "We haven't been introduced! My name's Laya." She holds out her small hand.
Laya has heard of an inheritor's cloak, though it would probably be more accurate to say she's heard of The Inheritor's Cloak. Legend holds that when Iomedae, still mortal, was crossing the chasm to enter the Cathedral, she tossed her cloak into the void and it became a solid pathway on which she crossed. When she ascended, the cloak was left behind, and became an important and sacred relic to the early Iomedaean church.
Seeing the old priest struggling, he makes his through the mob intending to aid him. Seeing a few others reach him first he stops a few feet behind him.
Speaking for the first time, as if talking to himself, "Is this the God I have seen while I slept. What a glorious time. His light is as bright as the sun. Masoumi! Thy power overwhelms. How is it we are worthy to see this and not be stricken dead immediately."
As Tolion speaks, Zuran seems to not digest his suggestion that this is a evil event. Being star struck with wonder and amazement in Masoumi.
There are certainly enough people in the crowd who share Zuran's sense of awe and euphoria. As Zuran watches, the new god begins to rise into the air.
Suddenly, a bright glow washes over you in a wave. Looking up, you see Masoumi, the newly-ascended god, rising into the air on a shaft of sunlight. As he reaches a height of a hundred feet, he cups his hands together, seeming simultaneously to both offer a supplication and receive a gift. ”A gift to you all!” he proclaims. Fire fills his cupped hands, and he tosses the flames into the air. As the fire grows and falls, he vanishes, along with the shaft of light. Hundreds scream in terror as the fire expands to the size of the Ascendant Court and settles on all the people, though the screams cut off as the fire is without heat and does not burn.
Near to you, a young human boy, in imitation of the new god, cups his hands together, joking with his pals, until fire appear in his hands. Those around him cup their hands together and create heatless flames as well, and soon, the whole of the Ascendant Court is a glow with flames held high in salute to Hazim Masoumi
Looking around, however, you notice several elves, dwarves, and halflings, many with cupped hands, but no flames appear. Several of them glance about, and decide a quick exit is in order.
Zuran, cups his own hands.
Has this new God accepted me? Am I worthy of his gift?
With anxious anticipation, he waits to see if he can conjure flame based on faith alone.
No flame appears in Zuran's hands.
Seeing Laya holding out her hand Garim takes it with more presence of mind than his reaction to Ofelio. His grip is firm as he shakes her hand. "My name is Garim."
As the flames fall from the sky Garim involuntarily flinches, the recent memories of Master Beden being burned from the metal hot from the forge appearing in his minds eye.
Imitating the crowds around him he slowly cups his hands together.
Garim quickly pulls his hands apart again and stuffs them into his pockets.
Garim frowns. Not in annoyance or frustration, but in thought.
"A pleasure to meet you, Garim," Laya responds. She, too, is then distracted by Masoumi's flight and the falling fire. As the people around start creating their own palm-fires, she stares at her own palms, but does not attempt to cup her hands together.
"Interesting," she mutters. "I really must learn palm reading sometime. I should write that down." Paying no further attention whatsoever to the crowd of palm-fires, she opens up her scrip, rummages through it, pulls out a piece of parchment and a piece of chalk and scribbles a note to herself. Then she replace the parchment and chalk in the scrip.
"Now then," she says. "There was something important... Oh yes! Introductions! And a cloak. Something about a cloak. Right. Iomedae's cloak. The Inheritor's Cloak. Very powerful and sacred relic that. She walked on it once, or something like that. But yes, introductions. If destiny says we must work together--really don't know who put destiny in charge, but there you go--if destiny says we must work together, then we should know who we all are. Oh and see to it that this poor fellow gets a decent burial." She turns to the two who have not yet introduced themselves and holds out her hand.
"I'm Ofelio." the tiefling adds as an afterthought, after eyeing the proffered halfling hand dubiously, as if he couldn't tell it is for him to shake or not. Prior encounters had ended in recoiling embarrassed for all involved. Garim's taking it signaled that, like he suspected, it is not.
He does, however, cup his hand out of curiosity, though he is doubtful that the deity would grant him such power as a semi-human, and looks over to see if he can see his mentor through the crowd doing the same. If he is not, Ofelio stops abruptly and appears ashamed of himself.
"I serve the Risen Rose as a paladin, but I still mostly take on the jobs of a squire, but... I will admit that I could use a good quest. I will need to speak with my master, and the priest's words were those of a long-dead god. It seems like a sin to refuse."
Garim's cupped hands do indeed produce a heartless flame. Ofelio's do as well, though his flame flickers more weakly.
Looking at his mentor, Ofelio sees him produce his own flame, stare at it for a moment, then shake his hands out. His face looks grim, like there's a foul taste in his mouth.
"Your master?" Laya responds. "Oh yes, yes, of course. This is certainly an unusual situation. I don't normally just accept quests handed out by strange old men who then die on me--okay, truth be told that's never happened before, but you take my point. But this is certainly not a normal situation. New god and all. Funny business, that."
She looks over to the crowd of people gawking over the flame-filled hands. "One does wonder why they flock so quickly to this god's service. I mean, he could turn out to be the next Rovagug for all we know." She turns back to look at the priest of Aroden. "Yet here we are, flocking to the aid of a dead priest we've never met before--well, I haven't. Suppose I'm just assuming about the rest of you." She shrugs. "Oh well."
Garim's eyebrows furrow, taken aback by Laya's attitude towards the dead priest. His voice is subdued, "He wasn't dead when we tried to help him. But no, I've never met him before."
Hearing Ofelio speak, "Your a paladin?", Garim doesn't disbelieve the tiefling but the information surprises him and he has a hard time hiding it. "We should take him back to his... church." Garim motions for Ofelio and Zuran to help him lift the old priest to carry him away from this place and the crowds.
"Laya, where is the inheritor's cloak now?"
”Excuse me…pardon me! Oh, my. Sorry! Make way for the blessed of the Inheritor! Oh, Albar! No…”
A young woman arrives through the crowds with several armoured men behind her. She ignores the PCs for the moment, kneeling next to Tolion, taking his hand in hers, and brushing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes. She wears shining full plate, the symbol of a beautiful sword with a sunburst as a hilt emblazoned across her chest, and on the large shield slung on her back. She seems too slight of frame to bear the weight of so much metal, but she looks practiced in its wear. A longsword rests in its sheathe on her hip. The men with her are similarly attired, though where she looks gentle, and smells of musty books, the men have the look of trained and dedicated warriors.
”I saw him from across the courtyard…such a miraculous thing…” the young woman starts, before looking up at the PCs. ”I am Valla Timonae. Are…were you friends of Albar’s?”
Laya's eyes widen and she spins around to address the newcomer. "Oh my! Hello! So good to meet you! I've heard so much about you. Not from Albar, I'm afraid. I never met the poor man until today. I'm Laya, this is Garim, that's Ofelio, and the other one is...Hmmm...He hasn't given his name yet. Oh well."
The tiefling quirks his head at Laya's odd pattern of speech, casting an odd shadow.
"It's not really something we have a choice in, though, right? Humanity as slaves doesn't sound welcoming."
He looks to Masoumi once again, still pensive about the fact he'd taken part in the dubious ritual of putting his hands together. Time could change that if Masoumi proved just. However, watching him stand betrays that he's likely always twitchy and ill-at-ease.
"People like power. Good power, bad power, new power. Power to close the holes in their hearts. Shelyn already shared hers with me, blessed goddess, I had no right to-hrrm."
Ofelio responds to Garim's surprise in much the same way as he had to his backstep earlier. Namely, as if it is the most natural thing in the world. There is a reason fiends and their kin are feared.
"Agreed, Garim." he answers almost monotonously, but he never does quite get to aiding due to Valla's appearance, which leaves him nearly speechless for a moment. She is truly beautiful.
"It is as she says, Lady Timonae." the paladin responds, bowing low and remaining with his fixed firmly on the cobbles. The initial view was all he needed, and now he could avert his eyes. Larger armed men like those accompanying the gentle Iomedaen didn't often care for his eyes to linger. "Though we are sorry for his loss. There was nothing we could do."
Valla visibly stiffens when Laya mentions that she had heard about her. Then she forces herself to relax her shoulders. "Don't always believe everything you hear..." she half mutters. You aren't sure if you were supposed to hear that or not.
Valla Timonae reaches out from her crouch and gently squeezes one of Ofelio's hands. Her eyes glisten with unshed moisture. "I am certain you did all you could for him. He was a very old man...a great man, but very old." She pauses to clear her throat. "Some would say a foolish man, holding to his faith for so long once it was clear that Aroden is dead. So many of his clergy switched their allegiances to the Inheritor, and our church and goddess welcomed them with open arms like distant cousins returning home, but Albar...Albar would not relent. Never judging, never condemning, but never yielding, either." She pauses to clear her throat again.
"He always had a place at the Seventh Church in life, and now he shall have one in death. We came today together. I really shouldn't have left him. I...the legend says that when Iomedae emerged from the Cathedral and ascended, Cayden Cailean appeared briefly to his followers at the foot of his bridge, and I thought...well...teach me to put too much stock in the inebriated ramblings of CC's clergy." A look of horror crosses her face. "Oh my, that was insensitive of me. Please, if any of you are followers of the Accidental God, accept my apologies. In no way would I wish to give you the impression that I value his followers' commitment to the cause of good any less than my own. Anyway, I went to Iomedae's bridge, on the off chance that I might catch a glimpse of her Ladyship, and Albar insisted he remain here. I don't think he expected to see Aroden, but he always likes to come to this bridge. But then again, maybe he did. Did he say anything to you, after he cast his spell? He did cast his own light spell before Masoumi started handing out divine magic like a cheap party favour, didn't he?"
Garim reaches into his pocket and pulls out the Eye of Aroden, looking more closely at it, "His faith was not foolish." he says to no one in particular then looks squarely at Valla, "Nor did he believe Aroden is dead. Just before he collapsed, he called out to Aroden - as though he could see him, or feel his presence." Garim chews on his lower lip, clutching the Eye of Aroden tightly, surprised at the conviction in his own voice. "He also charged us to redeem the inheritor's cloak, but I don't understand what he meant by that." Garim waits to see Valla's reaction before saying anything more.
At Garim's words, Valla's face drains of all colour, and for a moment, it looks like she might plant herself in an undignified heap on the cobbles. One if her companions reaches out a hand to steady her, though he looks to be suffering from shock just as much as she.
"He said what? No! Don't repeat that here. Did anybody else hear him say this?"
"Please. Will you come with us back to the Seventh Church? Help us give Albar a proper procession, and then you can speak with Genedair the Faithful, the head of the Church of Iomedae." The request is politely phrased enough, but you're not sure how the Iomedaens would react if you refused. From the look on her face, you don't think Valla knows, either.
Ofelio remains with his face downcast for a while longer, much like a very-well-trained dog, though he does appreciate Valla's consolation (which only validated his initial assessment: inner beauty is a large portion of what loveliness entails). He is also relieved that there is a place for Albar to return to. He should have wondered earlier, but he had simply assumed that the cleric belonged to one.
"He did cast a light spell, yes."
---
It is at the point that Valla makes her request that the tiefling acquits himself of the bowing. He does not allow his eyes to rest in any one place long, however.
[b]"I will go, my lady, but please, let me speak with Sir Lanaux, first."
Or he may assume there's an entirely different reason for my leaving with a bunch of armed Iomedaen knights.
Valla glances over at Lanaux and nods.
"Of course. I know I have no right to ask this of you, and I am sure Sir Lanaux is a completely trustworthy and honourable man, but please, say nothing of the cloak."
"He did cast a spell, that's true," Laya says thoughtfully. "A bit of an unusual thing for a priest of a dead god to do. Quite miraculous in fact. And then he called me over. Even though we had never met before, he called directly to me, it seemed. And the others too, unless I'm mistaken. Then he spoke of the cloak. And of evil. He said we need to redeem it from the evil that holds it. Not everyday words said to strangers, I'm sure you'll agree."
Valla looks nervously about. "Please. Not here. Accompany me back to the Church, where there are fewer ears to hear."
Speaking to the group for the first time. "Evil can be a matter of perspective. If this new God has this cloak. I felt no Evil from him."
Shifting his weight, Zuran speaking to the small group. Forgive my manners for not introducing myself. I am Zuran Hillstrider. I will be happy to accompany all of you in search for this cloak."
Garim raises an eyebrow at Zuran's words. "Just because we are unable to see things as they really are, leaving us to view the world in shades of gray, does not mean good or evil is subjective."
"Please, lead on Valla."
"Well met, Master Hillstrider." Ofelio greets in passing.
"I think I should be able to get to the temple on my own, if you wish to start without me. I won't talk about the cloak with my master, either, as Lady Timonae has asked, but for now I must leave you."
His gaze lingers on the dead priest of Aroden for a second, but not more.
With that, Ofelio makes his way over to his mentor, dodging the crowd to the best of his ability. He regards the older man with respect, and waits to make sure he is not interrupting (a revery or anything else) before making his presence known.
"Sir Lanaux, may I have a moment of your time?"
"Good, Ofelio. There you are. For a moment, I was worried you'd run off to join in the revelry."
He nods with distaste towards a group of young men, dancing about, playing with their magical flames.
"What do you need, son? If you're wanting to leave, I couldn't agree more. We came, we saw, and now we need to get back and report to the elders."
Valla nods appreciatively towards Garim and Zuran at their cooperation, though her eyes are already following Ofelio as he returns to his master.
As she remains in her crouch, she subconsciously begins flexing her hands, mirroring the cupping motion of those around her, though she produces no flames. Her lips also start to move.
"A pleasure to meet you too, Mister Hillstrider," Laya says.
She waits for Valla to finish her hand-flexing, then says. "It would be my pleasure to accompany you back to the temple of Iomedae. There is definitely a lot to talk about."
Valla gives a start as she comes out of her reverie. She smiles gratefully at Laya. "Perhaps Ofelio will not be long. We can wait a few minutes for him so he does not have to follow behind us."
"I could not celebrate while Albar Tolion died, Sir Lanaux..." the younger paladin shakes his head, though his gaze downwards towards his hands indicates that he, too, had tried the motion.
"However, I fear I will not be returning with you this evening. Though I cannot now tell you why, I have just been... recruited, it seems, into something larger than myself. I am not sure what all it may entail, however, I must leave sooner as opposed to later. Perhaps I shall see you later tonight, or tomorrow morning?"
Sir Lanaux glances over at the Iomedaens and Albar Tolion. "The Last Arodenite has died? That is sad news, indeed."
"Caught up in something bigger than yourself? I dare say, son, that you will find that most things in this world are bigger than us in some fashion or another. I trust that you will be careful. You are ready to choose your own path is this world. Whatever you feel you can tell me when I see you next, I will accept, and you will always be welcome at my table."
Sir Lanaux grasps him in a warrior's handshake, holding it firm an extra moment.
"Be warned. Something about today's events is wrong. Gods do not typically grant divine magic to everybody who reveres them, let alone squares full of people."
Ofelio looks at his mentor through something of a frown, at first. Using that idiom assumes a level of self-importance that doesn't exist. Sir Lanaux was right about that, of course.
And I suppose that I'm a late enough bloomer, as is.
While it likely isn't the last time he will see his father figure, the tiefling memorizes the moment. It seems to have some significance, after all, and he had expected less confidence from Sir Lanaux, though that would just be the insecurity talking... and the common sense. The urges weren't gone, after all. All it would take is a small lapse of control, and he'd rip his talbard off and set the plaza ablaze for his discomfort with the crowd for all the ugliness sleeping in his heart. Was he worthy of this trust? Of Lanaux, of his mother, or Shelyn herself? Of course, these thoughts did no one any good, and there truly was work to be done. Ofelio was a speck, but there was beauty and other lives to protect-the one in front of him included.
"Thank you, sir, for everything." the words come out with more enthusiasm than the tiefling is expecting. "I will try to honor your teachings."
The handshake drives home that he's actually leaving, however, and prompts him to pay close attention to Lanaux's words.
"It certainly doesn't sit well with me, either... Though I did not know just how rare this sort of thing is."
The tiefling pulls away, aware that he has taken precious time away from the endevour already.
"Stay well." he says simply, though there seems to be a subtle request therein. With that, the paladin makes his way back towards the others, surprised that they had waited.
"That's finished." he reports, head bowed once again rather than looking anyone in the eyes. "I am ready to follow."
Valla nods as Ofelio returns. She motions to her entourage to pick up Albar's sedan chair, and she heads to the front to lead the sombre procession, her mood in stark contrast to the celebratory cheering and cavorting in the Ascendant Court.
It's a short distance to the Seventh Church, a stately cathedral of white stone. Above the main doors on the east side, a large, stained-glass window depicting the holy symbol of Iomedae blazens in the early-morning light. Two acolytes stand ceremonial guard on either side. They salute Valla and smile towards the sedan chair, but those smiles quickly turn to frowns as they soon realize that all is not well with Albar Tolion. Wordlessly, they move to open the doors wide for you, and shut them in silence behind you.
Inside the cathedral, 11 tapestries line the walls. Displayed in prominance is the seventh, depicting Iomedae's seventh miraculous act. The light she summoned from the Starstone Cathedral in the tapestry looked not unlike not unlike the light that heralded Masoumi's ascension. Valla's followers take the sedan chair to a place of honour in front of the central altar and reverently set it down. Valla grabs a random acolyte and sends him off at a run with a whispered message.
"Please, follow me," she says to the four of you, and leads you towards a side door and into the back hallways and offices of the Seventh Church.
Down a short corridor, she leads you into a smallish room dominated by a central banquet table and chairs, and she motions for you to sit. As you get settled, an acolyte arrives with a tray of cheese and fruit, and a pitcher of wine, to which you are invited to help yourselves.
After a few minutes, during which Valla says very little on her own accord, though will politely respond if addressed, the doors open again, admitting two acolytes assisting an elderly gentleman in a bishop's robes. They lead him to the chair at the head of the table and help him sit; one of them pours him some wine.
Genedair the Faithful appears to be a kindly old man, his hair long, but thin and stringy. Though his body looks frail, his eyes are still sharp, and seem to pierce right through you. Once he is settled, he greets you all.
"Good morning, and welcome. I am Genedair. I understand that many remarkable things happened this morning. Valla, your message seemed quite urgent. Hazim succeeded, then? He is a god, now?"
Valla nods, though not with Genedair's level of enthusiasm, as her mind is clearly not on the new god.
Garim follows the woman into the cathedral, marveling at the majestic tapestries hanging inside.
Unsure whether he should bow, or kneel, or... something else, he gives an awkward half bow to Genedair.
The silence is strained for a moment as he waits for someone else to speak before he speaks out himself, "Yes. He ascended into the heavens. But as he did so Albar Tolion passed from this life. We... he has been brought here for a proper burial." Garim looks around him, again expecting that others might speak, then looks to Valla for confirmation to continue.
"Before Albar passed from this life though he charged us with... to, uh, redeem the inheritor's cloak." Garim is a bit hesitant as a speaks and the last almost comes out as a mumble. Valla's reaction is still clear in his mind and he expects a similar reaction from Genedair. "That failure to do so would bring about a great evil."
Valla certainly doesn't stop him from continuing; indeed, she seems a little distant.
Genedair's breath hisses at mention of the cloak. "Albar knew of the cloak's location? We sat through many a glass of sherry and many a hand of cards and he never mentioned such knowledge to me."
He tries to glean information from the tapestries, painfully aware of his own ignorance in religious matters that aren't common knowledge, but history and dogma lessons without actions were hard to sit through. Even now, he is distracted by the task ahead.
Ofelio bows as Genedair enters, and sits quietly as Garim begins the explanation, but feels compelled to speak during the older cleric's almost venomous reaction.
"He saw Aroden, sir. Aroden gave him a spell... It's possible Aroden was the one who knew about the cloak."
"Aroden is dead, my son. He ca--" Genedair cuts off at a loaded look from Valla.
"He-? Interesting. So poor old Albar, after all these years. Good for him!" Genedair smiles, evidently quite pleased with something. "With all he went through in his life, if anyone deserves the last laugh, it's him. Please, friends, tell me everything that my friend Albar said to you. Even the smallest word could prove significant, if Aroden really is returning."