Marrius gazes at Rodergo with silently, his curled lip as eloquent as a thousand words. Barkhad chuckles, "Ya think I can get me a fan club if I hang aboot with you, priest?"
As the Eagle nudges in and begins to tie up, a magically amplified voice rings out. "AND HERE THEY ARE! FRESH FROM THEIR MOST RECENT ADVENTURES! THE BEST THING TO COME OUT OF THRANE SINCE TIRA MIRON, TOGETHER WITH HIS BRAVE COMPANIONS! BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE SHARN INQUISITIVE, THE ONLY NEWSSHEET YOU WILL EVER NEED, HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEERE'S RODDY!"
The crowd roars and several groups of teenage girls scream, burst into tears and hug each other, pressing against a rope barrier manned by several large, suited security types.
"AND TO WELCOME THEM, THE WORDSMITH OF WONDERS, THE MAN WITH THE PEN OF BOREDOM-SLAYING, THE EIGHTH MEMBER OF RODERGO'S REAVERS! IT'S CORNELIUS BRUMPTIOU BAAAAAANQUAAAAAAT!" A small figure, familiar though considerably better dressed than at the previous meeting, leaps out of the crowd and waves exuberantly back at them before dashing to where the gangway on to the ship is being set up.
A red carpet unrolls up the gangway from the dockside and finally unfurls on deck, where Marrius regards it with distaste.
Rod walks down the gangplank; sullenly looking back at all those he has apparently betrayed in his quest for.....uh......yeah.
He raises his left hand to the crowd, reservedly, in the same special sort of wave the English royals are counseled to give; whether it be to show a cultured reservation or to avoid painful shoulder injury from repeated action, that's what it is.
And he goes down to be devoured by the mob, body and soul if need be. Next to Cornelius, if it's possible to get to him.
Runzyl smiles and actually lets out a bit of a laugh as the crowd greets them. Casually, he turns to Lightbringer.
"Though the tales are exaggerated and, indeed, sometimes complete falsehoods, this is the very essence of what it means to have your deeds remembered. Not exactly the remembrance I was looking for, but these people are not Valenar. I do not expect them to act as my kin would."
He follows Rodergo off the gangplank and into the screaming throng.
A silent prayer.....to Sean Penn and Russell Crowe....
Banquat rushes up to Rodergo and seizes his hand, pumping it enthusiastically. He then turns and poses briefly so his sidekick Dabbers, who has also materialised on the dockside, can quickly size up a sketch of Rodergo and Banquat side-by-side. Then, turning back to Rodergo he yells above the baying mob, though his voice is still hard to make out, "Quite a turnout, hope you like it! There's a real buzz about you guys right now!" He grins manically.
As he shouts, a woman launches herself across the rope screaming incoherently, trying to clutch at Rodergo, before being dragged back by security. Banquat grabs Rodergo's arm and steers him up the red carpet towards a low podium. "The paper just want you to say a few words." The announcer, a hobgoblin with a barrel chest, steps out and hands Rodergo a strange baton with a fluffy fur cover on one end.
"Just speak into the furry end," he says. The crowd's roaring reaches fever pitch.
"Um..." Janosz looks despairingly at Rodergo and Runzyl as they approach the scrwaming throng. "Just remember that we [i]can't[I] talk about our most recent adventure. The Aerenal would skin us alive. Try to, um, pick a good cover story..."
He shoots Ezreal a worried glance. "This wo't urn out well, will it?"
Banquat rushes up to Rodergo and seizes his hand, pumping it enthusiastically. He then turns and poses briefly so his sidekick Dabbers, who has also materialised on the dockside, can quickly size up a sketch of Rodergo and Banquat side-by-side. Then, turning back to Rodergo he yells above the baying mob, though his voice is still hard to make out, "Quite a turnout, hope you like it! There's a real buzz about you guys right now!" He grins manically.
As he shouts, a woman launches herself across the rope screaming incoherently, trying to clutch at Rodergo, before being dragged back by security. Banquat grabs Rodergo's arm and steers him up the red carpet towards a low podium. "The paper just want you to say a few words." The announcer, a hobgoblin with a barrel chest, steps out and hands Rodergo a strange baton with a fluffy fur cover on one end.
"Just speak into the furry end," he says. The crowd's roaring reaches fever pitch.
"...uh, kzzzzzzzzweeeeeeeeeeeeeeezzzh.....hello...........thankyou, I guess......
I want to thank the Silver Flame....flame.....flame......for bringing us all home safe and sound....and, uh, kids.....stay in school. I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for a good education."
Rodergo's words can hardly be heard over the noise of the crowd. The announcer rolls his eyes at Banquat and then takes back the baton and begins to address the crowd again.
"YEAH! YOU HEAR THAT! YEEEAAAAAAAH! THAT'S RODERGO, EVERYONE! REAL HOLY!"
The crowd barely pause for breath, seemingly oblivious to anything Rodergo might say. Banquat shouts, "I've got some transport out the back to get us away! Follow me!" A security guard, a squat, blank-faced shifter, unhooks a section of rope to reveal a clear route through the crowd, lined on either side by a horde of Rod-fans, to an alley.
“Let us see where this takes us,” suggests Lightbringer, his eyes on Banquat, mask-like face expressionless as usual.
"I.....I guess...." I'll go along for now. This is all my fault.
“Perhaps there is a lesson here Flamebearer, in the dangers of drink, and strying from the path of absolute truth,” preaches Lightbringer. “However, as friend Runzyl says, having our good deeds known is not in itself a bad thing. We should see how we can use this to our advantage, and not force the pendulum to swing too far in the other direction.”
A voice calls out from the crowd. "Hey, Torcholder, you wanna sign this for my kid?" A rough-looking, dark haired human man with a small boy by his side is holding out a box. "C'mon, you're his favorite. Sign it for the kid." On the box can be seen the words "Torcholder Action Figure".
"That's... Ah... What does this 'action figure' look like?"
"Action figures.....of us......" Rod's eyes glaze over.
"Action figures.....of us......" Rod's eyes glaze over.
Musing to herself, Gil says, "Gee, wonder what mine looks like..."
Just when things couldn’t get worse.
Rolund’s face becomes even grimmer upon seeing the spectacle on the landing site. It takes a considerable amount of willpower not to grab the cleric and throw him overboard before docking but the moment passes before he can give in to the temptation.
He’s adjusts his bone armor a last second, and as they start to disembark, he makes sure that the crowd takes notice.
During the event, Rolund remains silent with his helmet down to mask his face and follows the group once it is time to leave. He hesitates when the annoying writer offers them a ride but Rolund will take it if it will get him away from the crowds. Even now his aberrant mark throbs to be unleashed.
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Lightbringer turns, looks down at the boy, then kneels down in a crouch, to bring his eyes almost level with the childs.
“Hello,” he says to the boy, moderating his usual rumbling tone to a gentler pitch. “What is your name child? How old are you? My name is Lightbringer – the reporter at the Sharn Inquisitive keeps getting it wrong, isn’t that funny? I can write both names – Lightbringer and Torcholder – on your box, if one of these good people will lend me a quill and ink.”
"Tomas," says the boy, eyes wide in awe. "I'm eight." The man hands over a stylus for Lightbringer to sign with.
Meanwhile, Rolund exudes a positive aura of menace. Sweeping down the gangplank, his skull visor closed and his cloak sweeping behind him, he cuts a striking dash even in his fury. The teenagers holding the "WE'RE DOOMED" placard watch open-mouthed as he sweeps past contemptuously. One of them promptly faints while another screams at the sky, "HE'S SOOOO COOOOOOL!"
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Meanwhile, Rolund exudes a positive aura of menace. Sweeping down the gangplank, his skull visor closed and his cloak sweeping behind him, he cuts a striking dash even in his fury. The teenagers holding the "WE'RE DOOMED" placard watch open-mouthed as he sweeps past contemptuously. One of them promptly faints while another screams at the sky, "HE'S SOOOO COOOOOOL!"
Lightbringer writes in large and careful text, “To Tomas. Always try to do good. May the Flame be with you. From, Lightbringer (sometimes known as Torcholder).”
Since the newssheet's description for Matilda is, shall we say, ample and Cassandra's slim form is the visage currently worn by Gil, she will hang back and follow the others off the gangplank -- perhaps appearing to be a new recruit or a member of the crew. She's not terribly keen on the attention, either (a well-known spy is not likely to be a long-lived spy) but she will play along, smiling and clapping and generally encouraging the crowd to applaud the "official" members of the party.
Dashing between the outstretched arms, the party make it through to the alley. It runs between two towers before opening into a square which is mercifully clear of admirers. A long, low skycoach sits with a driver dressed in an impeccably neat chauffeurs uniform.
"I got us a stretch," says Banquat with a giggle, "It seemed appropriate."
The inside of the coach is softly lit with a everbright lantern and plush leather bench seats line the inside. A bar stacked with bottles of various types of expensive booze sits in the middle.
Banquat taps on the glass screen separating the driver from the passenger section and the skycoach smoothly lifts off. The gnome grabs a bottle from an ice bucket and some glasses and asks, "Wine, anyone?"
Runzyl, still armed and armored and probably looking quite haggard and distressed from so many weeks abroad, looks profoundly confused and at a loss for words. "I... uh... just water would be good. Thank you."
He adjusts his gear to make himself more comfortable in the vehicle's cabin, discarding his backpack to one side of his seat.
Rolund lifts the visor of his helm and reveals a furious face promising violence fixed upon the gnome. “No wine. You will answer. Now that we have you here all by yourself, explain why there was a parade on our arrival, how you learned about this,” Rolund pulls out the crumpled newssheet he kept, “and what’s it going to take to stop reporting this nonsense?”
Banquat gulps. "I, er, look... I'm just responding to market demand. A lot of people wanted to say 'Hi' so we put word round. I don't see anything wrong with that. It helps keep up your profiles, and that can only be to the good. See, I've got a series of offers here..." He pulls out a file and begins shuffling the papers. "There's a new restaurant opening on Skyway, they'd like you guys to be there on the opening night - for a fee, obviously. And the action figures are flying off the shelves. And there's... Oh wait, that's that Selkatari chick, don't know what she wants, probably a stalker or something." Banquat laughs, a bit nervous under Rolund's glare. "You should see some of the letters we get from the women. There's some weird women out there. You should see the ones we get for you!" he finishes, nodding towards Lightbringer.
"You should see some of the letters we get from the women. There's some weird women out there. You should see the one we get for you!" he finishes, nodding towards Lightbringer.
At the mention of women, Runzyl's demeanor darkens slightly and he shifts uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding eye contact.
“You still haven’t answered my other two questions. How are you learning about our missions and what’s it going to take to put a stop to all of this?”
"Selkatari, you said? Hand that over."
Banquat quails. "It's just journalism. Ask around, get some contacts, keep your eyes open.
"Here, she's been sending letters asking where you are. I just ignored them. She even turned up at the Inquisitor offices but I wasn't there."
The letter is plain, written is a rough piece of folded brown paper.
I would be most grateful if you could contact me at the meeting hall where we previously met. A mutual friend has receovered and I wish to give you the good news in person.
Selkatari
"Oh yeah, and at the offices we got some giant package in a crate for you, from some admirer. A Mr Verdigris, or something. You can pick it up when we get there."
“First the kalashtar, then the crate. Let us go meet your friends, Xativa.”
“It is good that people know we are doing good,” Lightbringer speaks to the gnome as they sit in the sky-limo. “But not all that you write is the truth. I do not know how much of that is due to Rodergo’s muddled recollections,” he turns to look a the priest silently for a moment, “and how much is due to editorial embellishment, but what you write must be the truth. Including my name,” The warforged adds.
“Further, while what is written must be the truth, not all of our comings and goings can be reported. Much of what we do is dangerous, and to publicise it could place us and others in danger. I must ask for your discretion in reporting our whereabouts and current or near recent doings.” Lightbringer speaks kindly but firmly.
"Don't recognize the Verdigris name....the kalashtar....uh, she wasn't my friend. Not any of ours really...this will be interesting."
"Er, ok, let's go to see the kalashtar. Where are they? I need to tell the driver."
Will do...
“With no offence intended to our small friend,” says Lightbringer, looking over the gnome’s head, “is it wise to speak to the Selkatari when and where other ears can hear?”
"Selkatari isn't a bad sort. I'm excited 'bout her letter." Janosz turns to the driver. "Drop us off a couple of blocks away. The kalashtar are an aescetic bunch. I'm sure the luxury vehicle will disturb their finely tund sensibilities."
“With no offence intended to our small friend,” says Lightbringer, looking over the gnome’s head, “is it wise to speak to the Selkatari when and where other ears can hear?”
“Oh, I’m pretty sure our meeting will be unnewsworthy to report, right, Banquat?” Rolund leans menacingly towards the gnome writer to drive home his point.
"Um, yes, of course - no need to bother the readers."
As the sky coach travels, Lightbringer casts his mind back to before the trouble at the Grey House and the trip on the Crimson Eagle.
“Banquat, when first we met I made clear that any stories of our adventures that Rodergo or others in our group told you must be accurately reported, and warned you of the threat of legal action if this were not the case. You assured me, in the presence of witnesses, that any story you wrote about us would be subject to our review for accuracy prior to publication. That has not happened. What is your excuse?”
"Well, I tried to find you but you were away, off on your adventures. Anyway, the stories are accurate in their essense, all I have done is make them a bit more, well, readable. After all, strict accuracy would require me to write up all of your bodily functions - well, I know you don't have them, but the other do - and since I will be leaving them out I might as well leave out some other, less interesting, bits as well. And any changes I make is to render the story simpler, more streamlined, to aid the comprehension of the readers. So I maybe alter a few characters, but only in the interests of clarity.
"In any case, you never did actually sign the contracts with the Inquisitive, so at the moment we have full editorial control. I would be hesitant to alter the formula now that it appears so successful. A lot of the appeal is the heroic nature of the stories, er, I mean chronicles of your deeds. I don't think the public really want the narrative muddied by moral complexity, religious doctrine and the like.
"So, I didn't know about the kalashtar - where do they fit in?"