7th of Sarenith, 4711 AR
The fateful morning has finally arrived- the 7th of Sarenith. The day the Trials of Grallus will be seen to its conclusion, with one adventuring group earning the reward- a mission from the Grand Custodian himself. Each of your recently formed band of seven is a cut above the average warriors, adepts and aristocrats in the city and you each have your own talents you may be eager to test in the trials. You are keenly aware that other bands of talented individuals have made their way to Eleder for the trials though; you expect the competition to be fierce.
Your band absconds from Picklebeard's tavern and makes its way through the streets of Eleder. Propaganda praising Sargava as a glorious nation and saluting the government for its wise decisions over the past fifty years is everywhere, as well as signposts labelled in both Common and Polyglot directing people out of the city proper and into the staging area for the trials. Bards on city corners sing the tales of Baron Grallus and his leadership that saved Sargava from a fate of diabolism, and a wave of fierce patriotism appears to be gripping much of the city. The small military forces that are based in Eleder itself are out in force on the streets, both to maintain order and to helpfully direct travellers and citizens. Your aware that a government decreed public holiday for the Trials is in effect so no one is working in Eleder today- the streets are packed full of people, mostly heading towards the outskirts of the city to leave it via the east and head to the staging area for the Trials.
You find yourself moving inevitably towards the Trials too- its a good thing that it is your intended destination because it would be difficult to travel elsewhere against the push of the crowd. Stalls selling souvenirs and toys at five times their usual price are accessible as you move along, proving very popular with the travellers who have come from other lands to see the tournament. You have seen almost nothing of the area the government has been preparing to stage the trials in. It has been heavily patrolled by soldiers and despite stories of groups trying to get a sneak peek into the area you haven't heard of any that were successful. What is known is that construction workers, local hedge wizards, officials and even a few druids have been seen entering it every day for the past several weeks. You don't know whats in store for you but it seems the Grand Custodian is determined to make it a momentous event.
Eventually, the crowd thins a little as you leave the crowded streets and can filter out more comfortably as the plains of Sargavabegin to roll out before you, albeit with trampled footsteps leading in and out of the city. In the distance, you can see a massive, red and white tent, flanked on either side by a long wooden fence. The occasional makeshift guard tower is dotted along the fence with a single, crossbow armed soldier ready to shoot anyone who tries to enter unlawfully. You also see a couple of patrols moving along the length of it. The crowd seems to have bottlenecked at the tent entrance- no doubt spectators are paying for seats of various qualities at the desks just outside the entrance. Each of you has a small, silver token with the Arcane Mark of local wizard Ilraith emblazoned upon it. You were given this token when you passed the qualifying requirements for entering and signed up as competitors. It is an uncomfortable reminder of the death waiver you were asked to sign in order to compete, but it should also allow you much easier access to where you need to go once shown to a soldier.
Jakob considers the tiny spark of silver in his palm. I am looking at my death. None the less he walks forward with the crowd. His gear is all organized. He spent the early morning watching and listening to the birds respond to the coming dawn. He is as ready, and resigned.
Picklebeard glances at Jakob looking at his coin clenched in his hand and finds himself mimicing the man's actions and thoughts. He takes it in the proud dwarven manner he is accustomed to.
"Death. Bah." He spits on the ground to the side. "Not today, no sir."
He speaks up to Jakob, "Evar been ina tourneh before, boy? Not them fightin' rings ya see in tha streets, but somethin' like this? The people....The uncertainteh...." He pauses for a moment and takes a deep nasal inhale. "Tha fear?"
"That feelin' in your stomach...Thar ain't nothin' like it, boy."
Picklebeard glances at Jakob looking at his coin clenched in his hand and finds himself mimicing the man's actions and thoughts. He takes it in the proud dwarven manner he is accustomed to.
"Death. Bah." He spits on the ground to the side. "Not today, no sir."
He speaks up to Jakob, "Evar been ina tourneh before, boy? Not them fightin' rings ya see in tha streets, but somethin' like this? The people....The uncertainteh...." He pauses for a moment and takes a deep nasal inhale. "Tha fear?"
"That feelin' in your stomach...Thar ain't nothin' like it, boy."
"There has never been a tourney like this before. At least not here. A competition to win the right to undertake a dangerous mission for the government. It seems odd. I expect as with all things in Sargava there are reasons with in reasons at work here. Still, we shall see what we will see."
"I heard rumors that there will be a joust involved. I hope they are false as I know I will not pass that test."
Ansha Saeralyan found something strangely comforting about the press of bodies about her, and this combined with the occasional brief flirtation with a nearby member of the crowd was enough to keep her mind off of the potential gravity of their situation.
"Can anyone even see how far we have to go in this line? Or maybe a soldier who can direct us to where we're supposed to be going? That was what we were supposed to be looking for, right? A soldier?" she says.
Like the other two of his newfound companions, the human and the dwarf, Kieran has the small silver token in hand. The half-elf, however, seems to pay it little mind as he almost absentmindedly makes the wizard-marked coin dance between the fingers of his left hand, listening to the dwarf's remark with a faint smile on his face.
"Fear, friend dwarf? Why not excitement? And the reward being a mission promises even more adventure, even more thrills," he remarks, his tone betraying no trepidation. If anything, he sounds almost anxious for the whole thing to begin. "I do admit, however, of knowing absolutely nothing of jousting."
As he walks, he takes care to stay perhaps a little closer to Ansha, the elven mage he has known the most, the two of them having shared some history together. His posture as he moves is relaxed, his right hand held behind his back, as if he is taking a stroll. And perhaps that is how he sees it more or less, though one might notice the dagger sheathed not too far from his reach.
N'bellocq squeezes his coin so hard, Ilraith's mark is embedded in his palm. His other hand hold holds his freedom papers safe in their scroll tube. He does not trust these crowds that abound in Eleder, and is not willing to risk his shot at a future on a pickpocket's questing fingers.
He follows his group quietly, allowing them to part the crowd. His large hat shields his eyes from the sun, yet his eyes busy dart about trying to take it all in. His nerves cannot take too much more. He is eager to get this competition started, where he can be away from the crowds.
"Calm yourself, cousin," Tebati urges N'bellocq with a small smile as she notices how tightly his knuckles are squeezed around the silver token. Her main reaction to the city's uproar has been bemusement. It seems odd to her, all these people getting so excited about watching people compete for the prize of going into more danger. As for herself, she feels herself a center of calm in the crowd, a small boat bobbing in the elusive eye of the hurricane. Ever since the small group had sat in the shuttered tavern around the copy of the proclamation and her fingers counting back the notches carved into her staff-of-days had discovered that the trials had been announced on the day of her birth, she knew that Shimye-Magalla's hand was on her for good or for ill in this competition. The colonials' calendar might not be her own, but the goddess of water and storm had brought the two worlds together on that day.
"Well o' course I don' mean tourney, boy! I meant.. oh nevermind. Yer old enuff that I could be yer dad, ya know! Ye donno nuthin' aboot fear and what its like. 'tis all excitement fer you. Like the pretty boy Kieran behind us."
He turns to talk to Kieran.
"Ye think its only fear in me gut, fairy-boy? Good one! Yer dad couldn't even find a good enough lady of his own race! Do me a favor an' wipe tha' smile off yer pretty boy face and try growin' a beard. Hell I betcha Verithrex here could grow a beard faster than you can fairy-boy!"
Verithrex sticks his tongue out at Kieran as well like a child might.
Picklebeard composes for Ansha next to Kieran- "No uhfense mi'lady."
The salt-smelling dwarf lets out a big chuckle. He smacks Kieran's back in a very friendly manner.
"Nuttin' but confidence you are, boy. I like that in a fighter. If the gods had any mercy that woulda been an axe in yer hand and theydda made you a dwarf! And we both'll be piss poor at joustin' to boot!"
Qhude strode along silently, bringing up the rear of their group. He had garbed for war before they left the tavern and cut an intimidating figure as he walked. His spirits lifted momentarily when they cleared the city outskirts, before the looming tent brought his mind back to task. He unconsciously clenched and unclenched his right fist.
He scans the crowd looking for a guard that they might consult for directions.
N'bellocq visibly eases at Tabati's words. He sheepishly turns his hand over and opens his fist carefully. There sat his coin and the negative impression. He chuckles quietly in a self-conscious manner and shows her his palm, [b]"Well cousin, at least now if I lose the coin, they will still have to let me in." He closes his fist again, just not so tightly this time.
He is not sure where or what he would be doing had not Shimye-Magalla guided him to Tebati. She has a confidence in the world that he can only guess at. And when he is with her, he can allow most of his insecurities to flow away too. It is just some need a little nudging.
Ansha winces at Picklebeard's jab at Kieran's half-human ancestry, unsure how the half-elf would take the remark. She offers the dwarf a smile, her tone placating as she says, "I don't think I would blame Kieran's father for having good taste in women...."
"Good taste? Bah! He was charmed! E'rryone knows elves have a penchant fer enchantments."
"I wouldn't bet on it though. Half me mind just thinks he was a drunken fool!"
Picklebeard snorts and laughs.
"Maybe the pretty boy can help you out an' spot down a soldier for us. Spottin' humans ain't one of me specialties. Verithrex 'ould be of no use either."
"Cool your tongue dwarf, no point starting a fight amongst us when we're doubtless going to have call enough to spill blood soon." Qhude turns the silver coin over in his hand as he comtemplates it.
Ansha's smile turns into a bit of a smirk. "Just remember what you said, Picklebeard. Next thing you know, there will be dwelfs running around with your beard and pointed ears."
It doesn't sound like a threat, the way she says it...
"Oh my...," the half-elf quips, feigning a look of shock, "Now that would truly be a sight worth seeing! Though the smell would probably be a bit too salty still, despite the dilution..."
He turns to Picklebeard momentarily. "As for my mother charming my father, I would not have put it past her, though it was probably through conventional means rather than magic. I am also willing to bet that her initial goal was to pick his pocket, not his breeches, despite how it turned out." The wink accompanying the words shows that his spirits have not dimmed in the slightest.
"So, a soldier then to ever so kindly point us to the right direction?" Kieran muses in a softer voice as he too scans the crowd and his surroundings.
"Ha! Hey now- no regular dwarf can smell salty like me! ma salty smell is a clan-secret me-boy! Salt-mines will do that to ye if yer family was at it as long as us Blackhammers!" Picklebeard acknowledges Kieran's quip very well. Bashing friends is what dwarves do best (besides drinking, fighting, story-telling, and being simply awesome). It is a sign of camaraderie. "Aye. A soldier be what the elf-miss thinks will get us into the ring."
He'd never admit it, but is happy Anasha is with us and at least is taking it all on good stride, too.
Unlike Qhude.
"Fightin' you say?" He looks around confused but his tone turns bitter and full of dwarven sarcasm. "Harharhar! Yer sure aboot that? Maybe you should spend more time around us dwarfs if you think that's how a dwarf starts fights! If ye wanna know how a dwarf starts a fight I should tell ya a story of me great-grand mum! She knew how to pick'em. And win too!"
"Dwelfs..... that'd be the day!"
Qhude almost responded before biting his tongue at the last moment. Among the Bas'o, such words would often lead to feud. Casting aspersions upon one's parentage were seen as a grave affront. Instead he merely set his jaw and turned his scowling attention back to the crowd.
None of you (except perhaps Picklebeard) have any difficulty spotting soldiers on the edges of the crowd, attempting to keep order. As you banter you notice several festival stands in close proximity to you and the tent entrance- a makeshift bar selling alcohol at exorbitant prices that appears to be in the throes of a drinking contest, a wizened Harrower telling fortunes and even a makeshift 'Slay the Devil'- a mallet and bell game where the bell is an crude imitation of Asmodeus- people are lining up to prove their strength, slam the mallet onto the stand and drive the weighted spike under the devil's chin to strike the bell inside. Nearby, men who failed to ring the bell are attempting to recover their masculinity in a tug of war.
Qhude strides up to a soldier and shows the silver token "We are here to compete, where should we report?"
dotting...
Qhude strides up to a soldier and shows the silver token "We are here to compete, where should we report?"
The soldier looks at the token carefully, comparing it to an image on a piece of parchment he produces from his pocket. Nodding in satisfaction, he replies-
Very well- be sure you are ready to accompany me now though. Once I take you to your teams tent, you will only be permitted to leave under escort and to specific trials; you will not be allowed free reign. If you wish to enjoy the stalls and festivities, now is your last chance. We don't need you for an hour or so.
He waits expectantly for your reply.
Touching his rope wrapped hand to his heart then his head "Thank you I'll check with the Induna" before moving back to the group and addressing Jakob "Once we go in we can't come back out, but they don't need us for an hour." before waiting for instruction.
Picklebeard's eyes widen at the sight of a drinking contest. "A drinkin' contest? An' no one invited " He pushes his way through the crowd to get to pounding back ales as fast as possible.
The crowd seems to part at the sight of the scrambling dwarf, until one does not move. Picklebeard collides with N'bellocq's large frame blocking his way.
This fool will not cost me this chance! Moments earlier, N'bellocq danced through the crowd, finding seams in the flow of the crowd to easily outdistance the struggling dwarf awash in the sea of bodies.
"A beer in celebration will taste more the sweeter. If you drink now, your good money will only get a fat python drunk."
N'bellocq stands there neither smiling nor scowling, but the deadened face of someone reciting facts.
Touching his rope wrapped hand to his heart then his head "Thank you I'll check with the Induna" before moving back to the group and addressing Jakob "Once we go in we can't come back out, but they don't need us for an hour." before waiting for instruction.
"Thank you Qhude. How about we split us and see what we can find out about the other teams?"
"Picklebeard, do you think getting drunk is the best preperation for facing an unknown challenge?"
Picklebeard stops for a moment at this patronization.. not sure if they are being serious. Realizing their seriousness he flies into anger.
DO YE ALL KNOW NUTTIN' ABOOT HOW DWARVES WORK? ALCOHOL RUNS THROUGH ME VEINS!" He points to his muscular, hairy arms as if to show his veins. "DO YINS KNOW WHATS WORSE THAN A DRUNK DWARF ON THE BATTLEFIELD???? HUHH??
" BEIN' DRUNK IS THE ONLY WAY TO FACE AN UNKNOWN CHALLENEGE WHEN YOU'RE A DWARF."
"Now get outta me way an' lemme have a few drinks or I'll show you me drunk fat python as I shove it down both yer throats."
He tries to push past N'bellocq.
"I wouldn't mind working the crowd a bit...." Ansha says, her emerald eyes wandering the wash of bodies around the group. She flashes a smile at a nearby man.
N'bellocq leans over.
In a quiet, and perhaps reasoning tone, "You. live. in. a. tavern." N'bellocq lets that sink in. He straightens up and steps back into the crowd to go back and join the others.
Picklebeard says nothing but fiercely stares down the man.
yer g%%&~~m right I do you disgusting beardless ogrish sonuvab!~%+!
Picklebeard makes his approach to the drinking contest...his mind racing with insults at poor N'bellocq.
What kinda danged fool stands between a dwarf and his ale? Like stickin' yer hand between an anvil and a hammar! Ha! danged fool prolly never even seen a hammer or anvil. Damn jungle boys never know respect.
Kieran does not even attempt to suppress a chuckle at the scene unfolding before him before proceeding to move closer to the two that seem the dourest in his eyes, Qhude and N'bellocq. Putting an arm around each of the two men's shoulders, he leans in, "You know, although I am not exactly fond of ale-guzzling competitions -mainly because when one guzzles most of the ale in question ends up out of one's mouth rather than in- you have to appreciate the simple pleasure involved in enjoying a cup of fine wine, yes? Or maybe even more than just one cup?"
A wide smile appears on the half-elf's face. "Perhaps I could interest you in one or two while we enjoy the spectacle that Master 'Beard is sure to make of himself? No?"
Despite what is surely a bit of fun banter with his two companions, at least as far as he is concerned, Kieran takes care to keep an eye on Ansha, at least for as long as he has her in his line of sight, just in case her flirting ways have her bite more than she can chew, so to speak.
"I wouldn't mind working the crowd a bit...." Ansha says, her emerald eyes wandering the wash of bodies around the group. She flashes a smile at a nearby man.
** spoiler omitted **
The man smiles kindly as your enchantment easily overwhelms his resistance.
Of course dearheart- I heard from my mate at the docks that one of the teams is a group of ex-pirates trying their luck on land!
The man recovers his senses, looking a little confused.
Erm. Hmph. Good day ma'am, best to ask the officials for further information.
Ansha disappears into the crowd, weaving in and out of it and apparently making inquiries.
Most people are only interested in the festival stands, but you hear a few rumours. You hear that an all-Mwangi team from Kalabuto is competing in the hopes of using the victory as a political catalyst to earn greater respect and integration for their people. You also hear that a hardened group of bounty hunters have also entered the tourney, and an adventuring company from faraway Absalom is also competing. Finally, you hear rumours that the winners will have to face General Morvius himself in battle.
Picklebeard makes his approach to the drinking contest...his mind racing with insults at poor N'bellocq.
You approach the drinking contest and the stall serving drinks. Several men are in the contest, mostly of colonial descent but a couple of well muscled and fierce looking Mwangi are also participating. An audible groan rumbles through two of the smaller colonials, and one of them audibly grumbles-
No one said nothing 'bout no Dwarf participating... Thats like, cheating ain't it?
The largest, barrel chested and hulkingly tall colonial in the group overhears this comment and snorts in derision.
I'll wager five silver hes no better at holding his drink than the rest of you old women and children he says, flexing and staring right at Picklebeard as he makes his challenge.
"Challenge accepted ya nit'witted basterd! Huzzah!" Picklebeard calls out boastfully. "Its a derned shame I have to take yer money and then beat ya in the tourney too."
"See dem jungle boys knew what they're up against. Drinkin' against a Blackhammer! Ha! Last chance to back down yerself... err what's yer name?"
Standing clear of the irate dwarf Jakob watches him walk to the drinking hut. He looks again at the token in his hand and shakes his head.
"Well come on, let us see what the merchants offer to those about to die." Jakob says to Qhude, N'belloq, Tebati and Kieran.
Tebati lays a hand on N'bellocq's arm as they watch the dwarf continue on his way. "Many sailors drink as well, when the anticipation of danger is in their hearts, as though the liquor can make them forget that their death may be awaiting them. When the moment of testing comes, few fail their struggle due to a numbed mind; danger in truth rather than in theory has a sobering effect." She shrugs with a half-smile. "Besides, we have dwarves in Nantambu. Warning one of them against drinking is like warning a Bonuwat against a dangerous current: more a challenge than a dissuasion." She looks around at the crowd. "This is a small city to feed such a great press around us. You, cousin, do you prefer to watch the diversions or withdraw to a place of fewer distractions?" She gestures toward the soldier who had offered a tent.
"Challenge accepted ya nit'witted basterd! Huzzah!" Picklebeard calls out boastfully. "Its a derned shame I have to take yer money and then beat ya in the tourney too."
"See dem jungle boys knew what they're up against. Drinkin' against a Blackhammer! Ha! Last chance to back down yerself... err what's yer name?"
The big man grimaces and scowls down at Picklebeard.
My name is Cotoio- and we've got a headstart on you already, short ass. Your three ales behind; but we'll let you catch up before we resume, eh? The big man moves over to the stall, purchases and slams three tankards onto a table before Picklebeard, paying in silver coin. He sneers, continuing to belittle the Dwarf. Don't worry, i'll take the extra three silver pieces you owe me from yer unconcious, fallen body once we're done here. I won't take more, these boys'll make sure of it.
The obvious looks of confusion and the way Cotoio avoided meeting Picklebeard's eyes as he spoke of him being three beers behind makes it pretty obvious that they aren't nearly as far ahead as they claim. Cotoio is clearly trying to get himself a headstart against the Dwarf.
Standing clear of the irate dwarf Jakob watches him walk to the drinking hut. He looks again at the token in his hand and shakes his head.
"Well come on, let us see what the merchants offer to those about to die." Jakob says to Qhude, N'belloq, Tebati and Kieran.
The locals have crafted toys and keepsakes and are selling them for several times their worth. You notice a recurring theme throughout the items- the naval war between Cheliax and Sargava. Toy devils, pirate ships and Sargavan soldiers are particularily prevalent.
Picklebeard spots the man's obvious ploy and laughs.
"Good thing ye bought three beers, lad cuz in fact that is precisely how far ye are behind ME! I've been drinkin' since I woke up! Six back by now I reckon' "
"Go on! Drink up now, lad! We be makin' this a fair fight."
** spoiler omitted **
The locals have crafted toys and keepsakes and are selling them for several times their worth. You notice a recurring theme throughout the items- the naval war between Cheliax and Sargava. Toy devils, pirate ships and Sargavan soldiers are particularily prevalent.
Jakob, with or without the others in tow weaves in and out of the pre-contest fairground. A question here a bit of evesdropping there and he begins to form a picture of the coming trial.....
Again N'bellocq is visibly calmed by Tebati's touch. In an initial tone of irritation that winds down to a resigned voice, "Can they not see these are but distractions? They all lack focus on the prize as they flit after the Wisps. Everything we need is here in my bow and your connection to Shimye-Magalla. Drink and gossip..bah! They fail to look inside for their strength. Yes...Let us put all of this behind us."
He will gratefully allow Tebati to lead him away from the crowds. He risks one last look over his shoulder toward the drinking event and mutters, "I am not dragging that short lump of stink across any finish line."
To Kieran: "Another time half-elf. You play wet-nurse to the dwarf, I need to ensure that the Induna comes to no harm" and with that follows Jakob into the crowd.
Qhude is obviously not pleased to be surrounded by people, but stays a couple of steps behind Jakob eyes scanning the crowd warily. Though he makes a point of avoiding eye contact with any Bas'o that might be among them.
Tebati is as unperturbed by the behavior of the others as N'bellocq is agitated. "It is their way," she shrugs. "No doubt it makes sense in their own land. But this is not their land, no matter how they try to tame it." She turns an unimpressed eye on the imported and adapted Chelish architecture that makes up the Eleder skyline. "Their ways are not as ours. They believe that the world around them and their fates are separate things, unconnected, as if the smallest leaf that falls into the river is not eventually carried into the sea." She turns to look at Qhude, her cool eyes both question and invitation to join them, but he has already followed off after the one he names Leader. Shaking her head, she leads N'bellocq to the soldier to show their silver tokens and escape the crowd.
"Tsk...," is pretty much the sum of Kieran's reaction to the two Mwangi men leaving him, along with a shrug of his shoulders. Instead of following his own advice about wine, however, the half-elf, after a moment's thought, opts to keep an eye on Ansha. He tails her from a bit of distance so as not to interfere with her information-gathering, but not so far that it would make it improssible for him to lend a helping hand if need be, all the while offering a smile or a friendly 'How do you do?' to this person or that, even a wink or two if the person happens to be a pretty enough girl.
Once the elven maiden is finished with her task, he joins her in making their way to the tent the soldier directed them towards earlier. "So, fair Ansha, have you found out anything? I am sure you did not socialize with those people just to make new friends."
He adds with a sigh, "I do hope you have some interesting gossip to share, because I think I sacrificed quite a bit of fun involving wine and dwarven antics to make sure you stayed safe."
Jakob, with or without the others in tow weaves in and out of the pre-contest fairground. A question here a bit of evesdropping there and he begins to form a picture of the coming trial.....
Jakob, with or without the others in tow weaves in and out of the pre-contest fairground. A question here a bit of evesdropping there and he begins to form a picture of the coming trial.....
Jakob weaves in and out of conversations he seems at home talking with merchants, natives, and colonials alike. He just seems to fit in, a social ghost.
Picklebeard spots the man's obvious ploy and laughs.
"Good thing ye bought three beers, lad cuz in fact that is precisely how far ye are behind ME! I've been drinkin' since I woke up! Six back by now I reckon' "
"Go on! Drink up now, lad! We be makin' this a fair fight."
The big man starts to look a little uncomfortable.
Well, I don't think I can be held accountable for the drinking you did before the contest... Bah, just grab a pint everyone and lets see who can handle the most! DRINK!
You hear that a band of smugglers from Crown's End are among the competitors and you also hear tell of a plan by the Freeman's Brotherhood to raid the trials in order to make a desmonstration. An all-female contingent of exotic elven dancers from Kyonin is also rumoured to be competing.
"Well I don't think I should be held accountable fer yer own drinkin' without me neither! Drink we shall."
"To me victory!" Picklebeard grabs a pint and proceeds to stomp his competition. (Hopefully!)