The profound and serious interaction between Red Eyes and Nikolai is slightly but noticeably distracted by a hacking Verik, who hastily waved off his summoned crossbow towards the sky a second before it was about to fire on Red Eyes in the midst of his surrender of the pack. As Nikolai demands response from Red Eyes over the fate of the wounded wolf, he cannot help but hear Verik in the distance, finally sucking in air but hacking loudly as if in poor imitation of some overly large house cat with a hairball. It does not help that he bangs on his breastplate with his mailed fist in a futile attempt to get his lungs fully working again.
Red Eyes takes a long look at the wounded worg, who is trying his best to bury his nose in the grass. Red Eyes lopes up closely to the lupine creature. At this distance, the Founders can see that Red Eyes is somewhat older, with streaks of gray across his muzzle and face. His eyes are nearly solid red - something that would normally come off quite malevolent, but seems less so in his aged face. "Broken Fang is a treacherous cur who will hold a grudge for the loss of face. He will try to turn the pack against you if allowed to live, pointing to your mercy as an unnatural weakness."
As Nikolai deals with the consequences of Red Eyes' advice, he walks slowly towards Verik. "My apologies for stealing the air from your lungs, priest. I draw my strength from nature. Howl relied on the strength of his body, which seems to have failed him. I know where true power lies, and I see that you do as well."
Willas rubs his chin with a maniacal glint in his eye. "We would need at least one volume of the Pathfinder Chronicles and a library of local texts. I'm certain that Banker Jarrow would be more than pleased to help, though I hear he's a stickler for rules. It might be hard to get our hands on a Chronicle volume. The Decimvirate does a good job of maintaining control of the Chronicles, and I'm sure that they'd be even less thrilled if we got one on the black market. I think our best bet is getting published, as any Pathfinder whose exploits make the annual Chronicle gets a copy as a reward. Reason number two to explore and make note of the cyclopean ruins."
He gets lost in thought for a brief moment, then snaps to. "Oh, the name! Harborage Lodge? How about Harborage House? I'm a sucker for alliteration. We could set it up directly on the water. Construction is cheap right now with all the timber from the forests and the influx of labor. We could easily buy a lot for a few hundred gold, though it may have to be a little distance from the castle as I hear that they have plotted some of the shoreline for docks and piers. We could go out today, take a look at some potential sites." As he speaks, he begins to close up books and pull on a jacket. "Have you got your divination equipment? You could even check for auspices and auguries."
The Stag advances on the wounded beast without hesitation, his veins still bulging and blood caking along his shoulder and arms. The odor of charged flesh hangs in the air where dragonsbreath passes.
He looks at the other wolves. See that you do not interfere. Turning to the bleeding worg, Nikolai growls through heavy breaths.
This is my pack. Mercy is what I say it is. Let all know that a reputation for treachery ends like this. He swings once, severing the worg's head at the back of its skull.
The barbarian slings the blade into the ground, the blood boiling and flames gouting like a torch. He turns to face both human and worg.
We have seen combat. We have things to discuss. We camp here.
Nikolai pulls a hunting knife from its sheath and immediately begins to take the pelt of the fallen worgs. As he does so, he looks up at the wolves, meeting their eyes so they know he is watching.
Your alpha tried to get you killed, yet you live. Let go of your anger and shame. Hunt, and bring back game. If you are not here by nightfall, you'll join Broken Fang on my back.
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With one final terrible wracking hack and spit, Verik finally regains the full use of his lungs and voice, just as Red Eyes approaches him. Instinctively he grips the warhammer tight in his left hand as his teary eyes blink and try to focus on the creature, his ringing ears picking up the undeniable fact that the beast is speaking nearly perfect Common to him...and does so with the wisdom and bearing that many humans fail to possess.
"I seriously doubt you and I would agree on the true power of nature, Red Eyes, but if you refer to the power of divinity..." Am I seriously talking the merits of divinity and philosophy with a wolf? Worg? Wolf-worg? This is really happening? "...you know there is a wild man in the swamps between the lakes west of here that would probably agree with you perfectly." Talking. With a wolf. Right now. I'm talking with him. Verik clears his strained throat and sheathes his warhammer back to his belt. "But prayer over blade...or fang in this case...I know what you mean. And I do not take your power against me personally," finishes Verik with somewhat awkwardly.
Dragons with an army attacking us, a king of trolls holding court and seeking an alliance with horse-men, cyclops ruins of over ten millennia, a kobold as valet and others serving as scouts...why should I continue to be surprised by the Stolen Lands? I wonder what Taisper and Zander will say about this turn of events... Verik's momentary thoughts are disrupted by the sizzling schink of the execution of the one called Broken Fang by Nikolai and Dragonsbreath.
"Forgetful of me, just a moment." Verik puts his left hand to his breastplate and feels the key symbol underneath, channeling the healing light of Abadar across their camp, healing wounds of both man and wolf alike, though it twists and warps away from the headless forms of Howl of the North Wind and Broken Fang.
"How do you come by the Common tongue of men so well, Red Eyes? And why is it that you seem...well there is a familiarity about this that makes me think we have..." Verik trails off as the sudden nagging feeling in his mind makes him look across the camp for a moment, towards Nikolai where he has just rendered judgment. Towards the black form of Howl of the North Wind, the large pack leader now vanquished. Towards Nikolai, calling out his commands to the rest of the pack. Nikolai. Howl of the North Wind. The Stag Lord. Akiros atop his horse, looking on with a hint of disapproval at Nikolai but not saying anything openly... OF COURSE!
Of course. The roles and events eerily repeated. Akiros as the honorable lieutenant to the Stag Lord, just as Red Eyes was to Howl of the North Wind. Both cruel and brutal warriors killed in battle. Both lieutenants with considerably more honor and conscience...and divinity...conceding to the victors, and granted a second chance to serve. An incredible stroke of chance coincidence? Or a pattern repeating itself here in these darkly strange lands? The similarities were just too striking to Verik, who has to purse his lips tight and almost lets out an involuntary chuckle, shaking his head in near disbelief.
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Attempting to remain peacefully detached, Elsir can't help but feel a tug of enthusiasm and excitement at Willas words. Patting the satchel at his side Elsir nods approvingly. I never go anywhere unprepared. Elsir intones, his words more a statement of fact then conjecture. As to the name.. "Harborage House" Elsir paused, letting the words roll through his mouth. To name something was special. Most learned men knew that their was a magic to names. While not inherently magical in nature, a name, a tone could carry with it implications and deeper meanings. And as student of the arcane and chronomancy, Elsir knew that names.. true names had power.
Yes. Elsir quietly said, feeling the name "Harborage House" echo through the walls. It is fitting. It should be built along the river as well, so that the name is both metaphorical and physical in nature. Standing up and glancing to the books, Elsir frowned. Do you still keep that bookshelf tapestry handy Willas? We should put the tomes away before we depart. Some of them are quite rare.
Gathering the few things he came in with, Elsir stood and watched as his young friend gathered up his books and notes. A small smile rose to his face and Elsir took a short calming breath inward before released it through his nose. The expanse had been hard. His naysayers might have been right. The expanse was no place for a archivist to go on his first expedition. The exploration had nearly killed him. But here and now, in this moment, that time was gone and set aside. Frowning he corrected himself, it was no gone. Well, not really. Regardless, in this, temporal liner moment now he was in a frontier town, next to his former student and for that, if nothing else, Elsir was grateful. The smile now fully evident on his face, Elsir nodded once more to Willas. I'm ready if you are. Elsir said, gesturing to the door with a wave of his hand.
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"So has the 'packmaster' decided on camping here then?" Verik calls out irritably to the rest of the group as Nikolai sends the other wolves off to hunt. With a hand on his draft steed Giles to reassure him, he pointedly looks past Nikolai to Jemini, Berrin and Akiros, his eyebrows raised.
"Jemini, you're in favor of this? Or do I need to augury for an answer, as I left my Harrow deck back in the castle." He looks to Berrin and Akiros then, his tone getting more impatient by the word. "Berrin? Akiros? Yes? No? Wolf got your tongue?"
The impulse to punch Verik in the chest until his armor is dented as a permanent reminder almost throws Nikolai back into rage. Truth told, he is worn from the battle and the wounds in his shoulder and arms did not close fully when his comanions brought their magic to aid him.
He chooses patience, relictantly.
Red Eyes, Favored Fang of Nikolai Rogarvia, tell the priest how your pack views dissembling.
He continues carving the hide from Broken Fang, making short work of the beast. And tell him what happens if I don't claim your pack.
The two other worgs dart off at Nikolai's command, heading to find game in the hills that run along the banks of the river. Two intelligent, wily wolves ought to be able to find, track, and entrap a suitable animal in a short time. Red Eyes, who remains at Nikolai's behest, answers his question by speaking to Verik. "High wolves were blessed by Gozreh with intelligence and cunning. Deception is possible, as with any creature of free mind and will, but it is growled upon in the pack. If members of the pack are at odds with one another, it should be spoken upon and dealt with. Once this occurs, it is done and none speak of it again." He paces slowly as he speaks, "Had he not laid claim to the pack, Howl's last command would hold sway until a new pack leader arose at the moot of the next moon. I, for one, bound by this, would have fallen back and harried you with all the power channeled through me. The grass would snatch at the feet of your steeds, the water would run wild, storms and squalls would slow your every move. I presume that you seek to find the troll king, which is why his envoy demanded that Howl slow you down in the first place, and that this setback would prove difficult to overcome."
Willas slips on a chain shirt, pulling around his waist a belt with a short blade held in an attached scabbard. The half-elf explains his wearing of the gear as Elsir looks on. "It's still a frontier town. The guards do a good job, so it's much safer than the slums of Absalom - but best to be cautious with this sort of thing. You ready?" He leads the way, locking the door behind them as they exit onto the street. They walk out of the enclave and into the town proper, with the roughshod dirt roads lined with people, carts, and animals who are all busy being productive. Elsir notes that the population - almost exclusively human, though no one seems to give them much of a second look for their elven heritage - buzzes with work as they try to eke out their living. For a brief moment, one of his visions overlays his sight: stone buildings instead of wood that tower over the city, with paved streets and more people than anyone could track. The brief vision of the possible future of Sanctuary fades, only to be replaced by another: the ghostly remnants of a burned outpost, with wind sweeping away the ashes. Elsir snaps to and notices that Willas has been speaking the whole time and has gotten a good distance in front of him.
The pair of Pathfinders make their way to the edge of the Tuskwater Lake, which glitters in the sunlight in front of them. A number of tiny fishing boats dot the horizon, likely small entrepreneurs rather than any concerted effort to feed the city. Castle Sanctuary sits about three quarters of a mile away, looming over the land like a protective spirit. Small waves lap up on the shores of the stony beach that they stand upon. The shoreline is dotted with a few short, makeshift piers to allow boats a place to tie themselves down. Willas holds his hands up to the sides and slowly turns around. "Harborage House. Right here. What do you think?"
"I see..." says Verik after a moment of weighing Red Eyes' response. Regardless of his own pride, he concedes that such an effort by Red Eyes - if he had escaped the attack - would have probably had some measure of effect upon their steeds if not themselves, and made a planned approach into the centaur lands extremely difficult. Perhaps an extended delay out here would still prove faster than the alternatives.
"Your presumption, high wolf Red Eyes, has merit but is not fully accurate in our case. Let us suppose we were on the hunt for the troll "envoy" who led your former leader to hasty ruin. Could we expect to find the troll trailing about behind or ahead of us? Surely this Troll King himself is not out here personally, heading towards where the sun rises?"
Red Eyes, the priest enjoys disagreement. Nikolai says without looking away from his kill. He wants to know where we can find the Troll King, and forgets that we are not here for the Troll King.
Flipping the knife end over end, Nikolai shuffles on his haunches to the dead leader, sizing up the torso and the separate hind quarters. Broken Fang's body lay mostly skinless next to him.
This rise and fall of moon you speak of. Do you mean I claim the rest tonight? Or before the month? I would have you keep these lands safe and report on intruders while I tend to other matters. In exchange for loyalty to your alpha, I will allow you to hunt and fowl or four-legged game you wish.
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Standing on the shores of the Tuskwater Lake, Elsir crossed his arms contently. The sun was shining and there were several fishermen on the lake. The bank was made of good clay, and while no expert at ecology, Elsir knew enough to tell that the general location seemed free of any drastic movements.
Nodding in agreement to Willas, Elir knelt at the edge of the shore and ran his hands through the gravel and silt beach. The water here was an icy blue, likely attributed to glacial run off from somewhere in the north, or a deep aquifer that supplied the lake. Taking in the sight of the city, with its roughhewn timbers and the castle located on the hill to east, Elsir breathed in the rich and clean northern air. Perhaps in part due to the recently cut lumber, or more likely due to the richness of the vegetation, the air had a palpable scent of evergreen and ice. It was as if the winter was still here, deep within the ground, waiting to return.
It is a good site. Elsir began, pointing towards the lake. We can build on the shore and then add a dock later on.
:: The Harborage House lay along the shore line. It was paved with field stone and whitewashed with exposed wooden beams; the lodge carried an air of dignity while maintaining its northern heritage. Attached to the back of the main building was a large four story tower that was also whitewashed. It had ivy growing long its walls and the roof was capped with a wood peak. And then fog rose from the streets and the vision was gone. A gust of wind rolled in and Elsir could see himself standing before the wrecked ruins of the same structure. The timber had rotten in places where it had not been burnt and the field stone was cracked. The symbol of the open road that had been carved upon the double entrance doors had been marred with a splash of dried blood and an ominous silence hovered in the distance. Crows clung to the wreckage of the tower. Everything was quiet and still. The city had been abandoned to the wilderness::
Frowning to himself, Elsir picked up some of the gravel and let it fall through his fingers like sand through an hourglass. Never looking up from the falling pebbles and the ripples they made as they fell into the water, Elsir spoke softly. I know you're familiar with my field of study, Willas, but did I ever tell you what it means to truly be a diviner? No? Frowning deeper, Elsir watched as the ripples from the stones expanded outward from the lakes edge, each ring colliding with one another, breaking continuities and creating expanding concentric circles. To divination, one must learn how to examine probabilities. Before Aroden it was said that true divinations occurred. Now... now things are not so assured. Glancing at the stones in his hand, Elsir looked up and Willas and then plucked a single stone from the group and held it between his thumb and forefinger as if he was demonstrating a point.
Take this stone for example. Let us say that it is a probability. As it is cast into the ocean of time. At that Elsir flicked the stone towards Tuskwater lake with his thumb causing it to splash and creating ripple in the placid water. The probability has just occurred. But what is important as a diviner is to focus on the ripples and not the event itself. How will they intersect? Will some ripples have shorter continuity because of other, unforeseen events? It is assured. And this is but one possibility. Now consider this. Elsir trails off before glancing at the handful of pebbles remaining in his hand before throwing them all into the lake at once causing splashes, ripples and even a small wave to come into existence, albeit briefly. Before I showed you one possibility, and now there were how many? Fifty? A hundred? Shrugging his shoulders Elsir looked down to his feet, where the wave he had created rolled in and lapped up to the edge of his boots. Every second of every day there are a thousand possibilities. The strongest, they are like stone, the weakest are like ash in the wind. As a diviner I see the possibilities. And yet, I cannot tell you what I have seen. If I did, then it might alter something else in the future. Something irreparable... Divination is the at the same time the most enlightening and the most frustrating of any school of magic.
Jemini consolidates Nikolai's words, while she lays another bit of healing into him . "The Troll King is not our goal right now - perhaps you could say our foremost effort right now is to explore these lands in an attempt to discover who and what lies in these wilds. We've only heard rumors and seen traces of what powers roam here and beyond; our actions will be determined by what we find."
"It would be beneficial for all our sakes if we could be certain that one is not marching down the valley to happen upon our camp by morning is all," mutters Verik. He then pointedly looks at Giles and pats his forehead while releasing the bit from his mouth, producing an apple from a nearby saddle bag.
In a overly sarcastic tone, Verik begins talking to his horse instead of to the others directly, nodding his head up and down in mock understanding. "Come come Giles, I know that trusting to tripwires of string and rocks is a fine idea to keep us well informed of what lies around us. What's that you say? You think the trolls may already be approaching us now? No no, no that's preposterous my equine friend, for after all they aren't our concern right now, remember? Yes, that's right! Simple!"
The Stag finishes skinning the larger portion of the slain alpha, still not looking up. Verik, if you are afraid of being attacked, go back home. Whether we treat with trolls or centaurs or worgs, your litany of concerns will not make us safer. Red Eyes will tell us of our foes over a meal. Your holy power is known, and I am grateful for it. But your mouth has no stopper, and if there were no packs of trolls on us before, there likely will be come morning if you refuse to stop complaining between now and then.
Nikolai sits back into his haunches, visibly fatigued and irritated. He looks at Red Eyes with his jaw set. We tolerate critics when they mean well. I assume you prefer to be heard instead of threatened. So it is with the banker. We'll talk about the troll king. First, do worgs honor their fallen? Do you eat them? What does the pack expect?
Surprisingly, Verik makes no response after Nikolai's last - one can almost see the wheels turning in the cleric's mind for a suitable retort, but seems trapped by Nikolai's logic on the futility of complaining. Whether it is that or a recognition that arguing with the new 'packmaster' in front of Red Eyes and the others is not a prudent course of action, Verik stays tight-lipped and grudgingly relents. Instead, he begins to work on unsaddling Giles and retrieving goods for camp from his saddlebags.
Red Eyes patiently watches as Verik and Nikolai bicker. Sharp, canny eyes run from one to another, as well as over the others. He speaks when spoken to, polite as any advisor. "High wolves are the nobility of our kind, blessed with intellect and civility. While our lesser brethren may do eat a fallen member of the pack in desperation during a long winter, high wolves are no more likely to eat the flesh of high wolves than humans are to eat human flesh. I have spent scarce little time around humans, but I believe that we share a common taboo around eating our own kind. As for the disposition of the dead, we favor interring the bodies in rock cairns."
The worg pauses for a moment, then looks at the others. "Do the members of your own pack have names of their own, or should I simply refer to them as Priest and Warrior?"
Willas listens thoughtfully to Elsir's explanation of divination magic. When Elsir is done, he takes a larger stone and throws it forward into the lake. The rock makes an even larger splash and ripple, overtaking Elsir's demonstration. "So, the future remains in flux. Good news, I say. Our actions can change the future, for good or ill, but we aren't merely following a script left many eons ago. Divination leaves me with hope, for this very reason. I wonder, did you perform any before Aroden died? The years are kind to elves, surely you were alive during that troubling time."
Willas barrels on, unobstructed by the need to hear Elsir's response. "Magic, for me, comes from the spirit. I am not a true wizard, nor do I have the blood of dragons running through my veins. My magical talents are minor - an illusion here and there, some conjured lights, superior senses, and the like. They come unheeded by study, as I need them in my expeditions, though there have certainly been a number of times where some newfound arcane talent may have made a significant difference in outcome. Either way, magic is a tool for me to use to better my knowledge and that if the whole Society and the world. There is so much to see, and learn, and do, that one cannot hold back from running headlong into the future."
Before anyone responds, Nikolai answers. We will introduce the noble wolves and the humans when we sup. For now, we have camp to set up. We have to build a fire to eat. We will exchange greetings and discuss this moon moot.
Despite the nature of their expedition, Jemini's stern expression melts bit by bit over the course of the next hour. Once she reflexively moves her hand to her mouth to hide the curling lips and suppress a giggle. What oh what will Verik do when a wolf outranks him on account of nobility?
After grooming down and unpacking Giles, Verik lays out his bedroll, blanket and other items he needs in meticulous and predictable order, then goes about building up a space for a campfire in the center of their camp, placing an iron pot atop the prepared space. Next, he begins to cut up a few choice vegetables and mint plants he has wrapped in a linen cloth, in preparation for some sort of stew. By now he would normally have his own plate armor off and set in a carefully arranged pile near his bedroll, but for now he keeps in on, and his warhammer still on his belt. Nearby, the light crossbow is set and loaded with a bolt, leaned against his packs pointing upwards.
As he channels some fresh water into the iron pot for the stew, he glances upwards over at Jemini, who seems to be enjoying a fine joke without him. A scowl clearly evident upon his face, he looks from Jemini to Nikolai and back again, looking for any signs of a joke made at his expense. With Berrin and Akiros still brooding and mostly silent, Verik looks briefly back to Jemini and then goes back to his dinner preparations...
She looks mad, Nikolai thinks as Jemini unpacks her horse. He watches her for a second, waiting for brief eye contact to tell him where her thoughts are. Though Nikolai has no gift for empathy, he's seen his share of angry or grieving women. She looks.....mad.
Nikolai looks around. Berrin is unpacking wordlessly. Akiros needs say nothing for Nikolai to know his thoughts. Though his former lieutenant doubtless understands why Nikolai siezed the pack, his regained principles kept him from cautioning Verik or endorsing the Stag's authority.
But it isn't the soldiers Nikolai is interested in just now. Nor contrary Verik, nor even the giant Red Eyes, scanning the horizon for his pack's return. Right now, Nikolai was only concerned with his friend and savior.
She looks mad.
The Stag steps between their horses. When she lifts her eyes, he co siders making an excuse and letting her approach him. But Red Eyes might be listening.
We'll see what the worgs can offer us,[\b] he begins in a low voice. [b]If I claim these lands for my home, and the worgs keep watch, your lands will be guarded from this direction. Also, Red Eyes seems to mislike this Troll King. If it suits him for us to oppose him, he will make a cunning ally. If he helps display strength to the centaurs, the better. I don't want to be divided on this, but I would know your mind before we hold moot.
Jemini keeps calm, her voice even and low as she replies to Nikolai. There is a certain nuance and inflection in her words that ensure that he more so than others understand her thoughts on the matter should they be overheard : "Sarenrae teaches that all beings, except Rovagug and his spawn, may be redeemed - even that all such creatures are worthy of redemption if they choose to embrace it. Her fire only consumes those who would place themselves beyond redemption - and then the fire burns swiftly and without recoil."
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Nodding more to himself then Willas, Elsir observed the splash overtaking the ripples. Yes, in way the future is in flux, however there are some moment, moments like that rock for example that are so.. powerful, that they can wipe out everything around it. It overtakes all other possibilities. To change a singularly like that would be the equivalent of an ant shifting the path of a boulder. But.. Elsir pauses in thought considering his next words carefully. It IS possible. If there is anything thing I have learned during my studies, it is that the future can be manipulated. It takes a strong sense of your place in the world, but more importantly it requires you to set events in motion from the very beginning. If you consider that stone for a moment, what if a small breeze had suddenly appeared as you threw it? The stone would still have created its splash, but the location would have been different. The singularity would have happened, but how it happened and where it happened at would have been different.
Eyes clouded, Elsir ruminated briefly on the situation at hand. Willas deserved to know the truth of the situation, but he could not divulge too much, or do so too soon. Rubbing his chin, Elsir waved his hands as if to encompass the small frontier city he stood in. My friend, I have seen things of a terrible and ominous nature. Things I CANNOT speak of. But there is a reason why I am here. It was not fate that led me to you. There was need for me to be present. I.. I have seen a very strong singularity.. and.. if I do nothing, then it will come to pass. I am sure of it. Turning away from the lake, Elsir sighed. And I am scared of what I have seen...
Reaching into his pouch Elsir withdrew a beautifully carved nalwood pipe and dedicated packed it with a small pouch of tobacco. Tell me, my friend. Has there been any mention of a sword? It would have been large, perhaps a bastard sword or a greatsword. It's pommel would have been in the shape of two snarling wolf heads made of silver or platinum. The wolf heads would have been inlaid with a black forked tongues made of onyx or obsidian.
Jemini opens her spiritual eye towards Red Eyes, desiring knowledge of the nature and inclination of the "high wolf." Expecting to see the tinge of evil - after all, worgs are known for cruelty and cunning malice - she is somewhat surprised to see no sign of it in the creature. Sarenrae's tenets preach redemption - tenets she wholeheartedly embraces, even now with Nikolai and Akiros - even for those born with evil in their hearts. This is the first time in her life that she has seen such a creature, usually thought to have a heart as black as any demon's, not light up like a flame from Hell.
He looks back at her impassively, seemingly aware of her intent. "You must be a cleric of your god as well. I trust that you have peered into the contents of my heart? Allow me an explanation: to commit an evil act, one must have malice in their heart and ill intent. I follow Gozreh, and thus follow the laws of nature. When I pull down prey, I do so to eat and not out of malice. When I assist my pack, I do so because it is the natural order to follow the pack. Howl of the North Wind was cruel, malicious, spiteful, but he led the pack. I advised him against these feelings, but they were too strong and too powerful for my simple words or example to remove. He was my pack leader, but I do not mourn his death. In time, his alliance would bring us to ruin."
While he gives this explanation, the other worgs bring back game. They drag it - slowly and awkwardly, as most would eat it on the spot - towards Verik's campfire where it can be cooked. Red Eyes explains that they would have herded it close before finishing it off. As it comes into view, they see that it is a stag with magnificent horns. Blood oozes from the wounds on its legs where the worgs brought it to the ground and from its neck where the worgs finished it off.
Red Eyes speaks again to Nikolai. "You asked about the troll king, yes? I will tell you that which I know. Before the previous winter, our pack was approached by what appeared to be a floating, glowing human skull. The skull spoke to Howl and told him that it represented a king building an empire to the south. The skull promised power, might, and enough land free of the one predator we truly fear: humans. I advised against it, but he did not listen and agreed to meet with this king. He came, not long after, with several others. He was a troll, of green flesh and ravenous appetite. He called himself Hargulka, and said that he was bringing together all the creatures opposed to the encroachment of the human empires upon 'our' land. Those who accompanied him were champions of disparate races, all of whom you would consider 'monstrous.' A minotaur brute, a hag witch, and a two-headed troll who towered above the rest were his companions, though the two-headed troll was the one whose counsel he trusted. Howl agreed to join this coalition. For the winter, it was quiet and I believed - hoped, even - that Hargulka's folly was gone from the pack's future. Weeks ago, however, we received another visit from the skull. It instructed us that we must hunt any human who passes south of the Gudrin River, for Hargulka was bringing in the centaurs to the east into our fold." He hangs his head down low, speaking quietly so that only the others can hear him. "I sent word to a fellow druid who I have studied nature with. I could not act against the pack, but this information, once given, was his to do with as he wished. And here we are."
Willas shrugs at Elsir's question. "Tucked between Brevoy and Mivon? Everybody has swords here. A clutch of dragons attacked last year, so most of the civilian population has at least minimal training as a militia to avoid another panicked massacre. Some private citizens have set up stations with spears throughout the city, enough for a quick mobilization if necessary. You'd think the streets would run red with blood or that folks would steal them, but neither's happened so far. Anyway, swords. I know that Berrin Myrdal, the general of the nation's armies and a newly-minted nobleman, has a massive sword he took when they slew the Stag Lord. Speaking of the Stag Lord, he has one too. His is a long story, which I have gathered in a side journal in my spare time. It is a story better told over ale, especially this country's specialty ale imported from Olegsgrav. Do you drink dwarven ale? No matter. I'll have it, at least. I've got a cask back at my residence. We can go back there after you've completed the auguries. Do you need anything from me to compoets the divination? I must say, I have been looking forward to seeing it in person. Can you extend the vision to me as well, or must you simply descibe it?"
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Elsir quietly listened to his friends words. He would need to seek out this nation’s general Berrin Myrdal as well as the Stag Lord. He would need to look upon their swords. It was possible that one of them might hold the blade in their keeping, and Elsir had sensed from his vision that the blade had not finished its part of the story.
Placing two fingers to his forehead, Elsir quietly concentrated. For the briefest of moments, Elsir let go of his concerns for the world, his worries for what was right and what was wrong and the inner turmoil still buried deep for his lost group of friends. Finally as if reaching a decision, Elsir nodded.. once.
Willas my friend, I am not like a priest. I do not study tea residue at the bottom of a cup or slaughter a lamb to read its entrails. What I do is something.. different . I am not able my friend to reach out to the gods and be gifted with knowledge. Instead I see probabilities. They come to me in flashes and pictures. Chuckling lightly Elsir shrugs. I don't know if you have ever been to Alkenstar, but they are starting to develop a machine that can capture an image in blacks and greys without using magic. They call the images daguerreotype photos.Reaching into the brown leather satchel Elsir carries at his side he unbuckles a side pocket and reverently withdraws a silver bowl. My family was seer's he began, running one finger along the edge of the bowl. I crafted this bowl myself on my El'ma'sath's day. Then I spent the next year polishing it, turning the concave of the bowl into a mirror sheen. Holding it up so that Willas might see it, Elsir however does not let it go. The year I spent with it each day, slowly polishing my image into the bowl allows it to act as a focus for my "resonance" with I make eye contact with my reflected image. Looking up at Willas, Elsir gestures with his other hand to the bowl. You asked me earlier if I had performed any Divinations before Aroden died. I was 78 years old when he died. Nothing more than a teenager by my people’s standards, But this bowl and the first vision I ever received was given before Aroden died.
::Red hair swirling in the wind, all around Elsir. An open road and ten black thrones. The red hair turns to grey as Elsir runs through a labyrinth where the walls were made of books. Elsir reaches the end of the maze only to find him standing upon a hill, while laying a handful of white lilies on a gravestone. The name Ashandra is carved into the granite.::
Coughing into his hand, Elsir closes his eyes and looked away. It was a true vision. And.. and that is why I still believe my visions continue to function despite Aroden's death. They are not perfect, but I am able to tell how likely they are to coming to pass. As an image will appear between myself and my reflection they vary in translucence on how probably an outcome is. For example something that is ghostly and indistinct is therefore very unlikely to occur while something that is clear and sharp is far more probable.
Gazing out over the lake, Elsir crossed his fingers as if giving a lecture. We already spoke once before of singularities, as I compared it to your rock. A singularity is a future event so strong that it is almost assured of happening. But there are also events that can affect the possible outcome of my viewing that I call detractors and impactors. Anything that adjusts a outcome towards the desired result is a impactor and anything that moves it away from the desired outcome is a detractor. During some of my foretellings, if the location and time are right I am able to focused on a particular image in front of me and then I can attempt to "pan back" from the image and try to locate what are the nearest impactors and detractors, giving him a sense of how something might change.
Placing a small rug front of him, Elsir sat cross legged on the shore and placed the finely crafted silver bowl in his lap, while gesturing for Willas to sit across from him. Willas, what I am going to attempt to do now is call upon a vision. This is different than the probabilities I see around me all of time. Each vision is different and the actual experience will last for only a heartbeat or two. However the vision itself may last for a much longer time. It could feel like minutes, days or even a year. I will attempt to bring you with me into the vision, but you speak of nothing you have seen except to me after it is over. Do you swear it?
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As the battle quickly comes to an end, and a surprising turn of events ensues, Akiros calms Kydal and watches closely the unfolding of the drama before him. Face grim, despite the many thoughts whirling through his mind, he remains silent, his opinions and ideas about all that transpires known to none, save perhaps Nikolai. His sword remains unsheathed and tightly gripped in his mailed first, yet it lays flat across his saddle.
As Nikolai and Red Eyes continue to converse, the battle oracle trains his keen sense of what truly lies within the heart of another upon the the unusual worg.
It is not until the other worgs return from the hunt and the others begin setting up camp that the former general finally sheaths his sword. Yet he does not yet dismount. 'And so, the former Stag Lord is now the Wolf Lord as well and we are now allied with worgs, it appears? Will the wonders of this land never cease? Will you, Nikolai Rogarvia, never cease to surprise? Yet, if his power over them holds true, and this Red Eyes is the type of being he appears to be, what invaluable allies they will indeed make. Regardless though, it will be some time before they fully gain my trust. At least one if us must remain vigilant for treachery. If one that is to be me, then so be it.' His course decided for the moment, Akiros nods silently to himself, and continues to remain mounted.
It is not until the others have fully finished their tasks of caring for their own mounts and setting up camp that the ex-ronin finally lets his guard down a little bit and begins his own process of caring for Kydal and setting up his camp for the night. Not bothered by the darkness, he continues to listen and keep a sharp eye on their new four-legged allies. When it is time for him to speak, he shall do so.
Willas pauses briefly with a hint of trepidation, then nods his assent. "I swear it." Uncharacteristically somber, he sits in front of Elsir and crosses his legs in an attempt to mimic his position. He settles himself and looks up with a waiting look in his eye. Fear and uncertainty flash across his face, but his hunger for knowledge and innate curiosity show themselves plainly on his countenance as well.
Dawn breaks on the traveling party after a night of uneasy sleep. The trio of worgs standing guard gave few - except Nikolai - any certainty of safety. When the sun appears in the east and none of them awoke to a throat ripped open by hot fangs, some small amount of trust is built. In the evening, they enjoyed the fallen stag that the worgs brought back for sustenance, cooked for the humans and raw for the beasts. With morning's arrival, they begin to pack up and prepare themselves for another day's trek towards Lake Silverstep. With the worgs following behind them (not stalking, this time), they set out towards their destination on horseback.
They follow the Gundrin River as the day progresses, riding along the south bank towards its source. The hilly terrain gives way to grassy plains. The rolling hills continue to the south, rising to a beautiful vista of natural bounty. The grassy flatlands along the river banks are as easy to walk on as almost any roadway, spurring them on with alacrity. They stop for food and drink as the spring sun shines overhead. A quick meal of freshly-caught fish (with a few thrown to the worgs for good measure) cooked with Verik's spices puts them in good strength and good spirits for the rest of the day.
They continue on, riding along the riverbanks. They push the horses slightly, but the loyal animals seem happy to oblige. As the sun begins to set behind them, the shores of Lake Silverstep appear in front of them. Even from a distance of a few miles, the clear water shimmers in the afternoon light. As they grow closer, they spot a small fishing village - hardly more than a few small homes and boat moors - along the shoreline. The rest of the shoreline consists of idyllic swaths of cattails, reeds, and lilies, giving the shore a feeling of peace and grace. They can make camp along the river, along the lake, or head to the village looking for hospitality.
The Stag, now alpha of a savage pack of wolves and worgs, nods at Red Eyes' testimony. He looks up at the stars for a second, before he says his piece.
Red Eyes, I declare you Favored Fang of your pack. I will claim the rest at moot before the full moon waxes again, but for now, I will tell you of my desires for this land, and for our pack.]/b]
He pauses here, looking left and right. [b]I was once known in this region as the Stag Lord. Like your departed Howl of the North Wind, I ravaged and ruled by strength alone. Like him, here he looks at Akiros, whose blank stare still makes him uncomfortable, I ignored wiser council and left behind better principles.
He lets that statement hang in the air for a moment, determined to punctuate the transition from past to present. But I was given another chance to right the wrongs I brought with me. I was slain and raised again. Justice found me and claimed me for its own. And now I forsake the barbarism of my old life in order to protect those weaker than myself.
Even now, we march to make alliance with the centaurs courted by this troll king. And when the troll king is robbed of allies, we will take the fight to him, him who should know not to threaten the humans who threw back an assault of dragons. Him who should know about my flaming blade.
Together in this company with me is no small amount of great council and human nobility. I am joined by Jemini Lebeda, my old companion Akiros, the banker and priest Verik, and our friend Berryn.
Nikolai gestures to each in turn, then adds, Of special note is Queen Jemini, Sovereign of Sanctuary and hero of Newhaven. She is my friend and savior, and I owe her my life. Whatever my conquests, whatever my rights from now until I die, she is credited with my victories and blameless in my indignity. My friends and advisors are important to me, but threatening or insulting her carries a penalty of violence. You will see that the pack is aware of this cardinal sin?
After letting the introductions set it, Nikolai finishes. The conduct of our pact will be more to your liking. I will not seek to change how leadership works in the pack. Anyone can challenge me when they wish to place their throat on the line. However, our wolves will hunt and guard this land, from lake to hill to wood. We will not harry the defenseless, not bend our knee to those who will. If our pack will not keep to this mandate, we are back where we began today, and I will be sorry to slay those who prefer slaughter over honor. But if my will is acceptable to you, then you will have freedom and authority. You will serve me, but bow to no one.
The big man fingers the cooked elk meat, looking for a tender morsel. I have claimed your pack and made my desires known. In the morning, you will tell me about centaurs, trolls, and whether my claim has your support.
Verik looks on at the late afternoon sun from atop his steed, his traveling mood much improved after the midday meal. Good weather and good ground to travel on has brightened his countenance considerably.
It has given him time to reflect on the events over the past days and the news that Red Eyes has shared to them all about the Troll King. Out of propriety and perhaps a lingering discomfort on how to entreat with an intelligent Gozran-worshipping noble wolf, he has not sought to ask any more questions regarding the agreements sought by the Troll King. One thing's certain and that is this Hargulka is doing more on the ambassadorial front than we are. Pains me to admit that. Enslaving the Sootscale kobold tribe and forging alliances, first with those lizardmen and now this worg-wolf pack, with the centaurs not far behind. Clever...wait wasn't there the pack that Jabber said...
"I just remembered that bit that Jabber told us about before we went to speak to the Gozran and then Candlemere." He taps his metal helm a few times as if to bat something loose. "I forgot about that until now, what with the events on the island and those storms. Anyway, Jabber mentioned "Howl" by name and his pack, didn't he? That and all the talk about "talk-light-balloons" with "skull-bones", corpse candles as Berrin thought they were. Remember that Berrin? You sorted that bit out fairly straight as I recall."
As they come upon the lake and the serene fishing village in the late afternoon sun, Verik comes to a halt to take in the vista. "Well now, we may all disagree on many things between us, but I think we can agree on the fact that's quite an impressive view ahead of us." Verik squints and peers more intently at the village. "Certainly too far out on this side of the lake to be part of Varnhold territory, correct? It would be good to see if they have anything to trade, supplies and information alike." He looks back at the rest of them, and then to their four-legged allies behind them. "Well, maybe not all of us. Perhaps two of us should venture in for a bit and meet up later with the rest camped a mile or so on near the lake?"
"That would mean to venture in, which for the unacquainted amongst you I would mean to say that one would move towards the village, with the intention to make contact. Obviously speaking that is," finishes Verik sarcastically.
Tapping his fingers along the saddle and looking both back and to either side of him, he then gives off an irritable huffing sound. "Before the sunset. Yes? No?" He dons his helm and taps it firmly on his head. "Very well, make camp where you wish and I shall find you presently, for I intend to go in and examine this little speck of civilization and see what they are about. Come Giles!"
With that, Verik spurs his steed forward at a brisk walk towards the village by the lake.
Nikolai sets up camp and remains with the worgs .
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Jemini is almost taken aback at Nikolai's speech to Red Eyes. If I hadn't been around him for the last months, would I have recognized this man except for his size? He's matured... grown almost regal, its hard to fathom now how much of this is nature, and how much is nurture. Irori's hand surely is on him.
She gets up after Nikolai finishes, and presents herself to Red Eyes next to Nikolai - positioning herself not in front or behind, but next to him, to indicate that she considers Nikolai a valued equal. "I must admit it was shallow of me to presume little more than base motives to you and your kind. Allow me to apologize for this." She bows her head a moment, then proceeds, "What Nikolai has explained regarding our motives is true - but it still isn't all: while our presence here and his words offer our immediate and intermediate goals, I feel it is important that potential allies know our ambitions and dangers. Ultimately, we are working here against an uncertain future - we believe that Choral, the Conqueror himself, is ultimately our adversary. To rise and become a bulwark that can save the whole of the Inner Sea against his second coming it our purpose."
Berrin rides his horse forward to catch up with Verik. "Verik, hold up. I'll go with you." As they leave Jemini, Nikolai, and Akiros behind by the river, they ride towards the small village by the lake. Berrin is quiet for a few moments as they ride, as he has been for a while. With a bit of uncharacteristic hesitation, he clears his throat. "Verik, I know I've been introspective the last couple days." As Verik looks back at him, he responds to something on the cleric's face. "What? I know words like 'introspective.' Even use 'em! Back in my wild and swinging bachelor mercenary days, you'd be surprised how much a barmaid would be impressed with big words and big..." He grins as Verik looks disapprovingly.
"Anyway, I've been thinking while we rode. Hargulka's pulling together an army, right? Even if we can convince the centaurs to come to our side, Newhaven needs an army. And an army needs a full-time general, at least while we're recruiting and training. Once we get back to Sanctuary, I can't go on these rangings with you guys anymore - as much as I enjoy getting out of the city and actually getting to use my sword in real action." His voice dips to a quiet tone as he looks down. "After everything that happened with Esmerelda... Aylene and I want to start a family, and we want to start quickly. I can't be out on adventures if I want to be a proper father, like mine wasn't. Don't tell Jemini or the others, not yet. But unless the army's got to go marching, this might be our last adventure together for a while."
As Verik and Berrin ride towards some hospitality, the others stay to set up a camp. The trio of worgs settles in at Red Eyes' instruction, as hunting wolves may not be welcome near the presence of the fishing village. It would be a poor welcome if the townspeople were to be returning and spotted the wolves during a hunt.
Once settled, Red Eyes continues to share his knowledge as requested by Nikolai. "Many of the high wolves will chafe at the instruction, as they go against their nature. They can and will follow your will, as I follow Gozreh's. The rest of the pack will fall in line. I will speak to them, keep them in line in your absence, but you must come during the next full moon to call the pack to moot. You will be expected to meet any challengers that wish to lay claim to the pack. By tradition, you will fight with fangs and claws, or magic if capable, under the light of the new moon. Should there be more than one challenger, they must defeat one another until only one remains, and that one will face you. None die at the moon moot, but dominance must be established - either through surrender or unconsciousness. Once you have solidified your claim to rule, your will is absolute in the pack."
The description of the moon moot over, he continues. "I know little of the centaurs, and little of the trolls beyond what I have mentioned here. I know that centaurs have little love for my kind, and I recommend leaving us at camp lest you offend them. The pelt of Howl would likely impress them, though I find it rather unseemly." He looks at Jemini, keeping mind to show her respect. "I do not know who Choral the Conquerer is, and cannot advise anything about him."
Verik watches his friend as they ride towards the village, the late afternoon sun's reflection reacting brilliantly across the lake, with a slight breeze adding to the sparkling shine of the water. For once Verik remains quiet as Berrin speaks his private thoughts to him - only once does he open his mouth to make a retort but decides better against it. He nods once to Berrin after he finishes to show that he heard and understood, but takes a few moments to think about it before he answers.
"Seemingly you have put a great deal of thought into this Berrin," he says after a time. "Perhaps none of us need to be out here eh? Except Nikolai who will not be told otherwise and Zander who knows the land better than the rest of us. What is a Banker doing out here in the hinterlands...with plate and hammer no less!" He chuckles and shrugs his shoulders. "I don't know what's proper anymore Berrin, not out here in this part of the world. Just when I think I have a sense of it, we go off chasing horsemen and befriend talking wolves. Up is down and left is right. After Jemini came back to us, after I..." nearly died from that bastard and his black blade in the shack no no NO STOP!. Verik clears his throat in pretense of being thirsty. "Well what I mean is after I saw what I saw in the Battle of the Dragon's Head, I can't disagree with you about the army. You have my blessing and my silence on the matter...ahh and the family part too," adds Verik awkwardly with a slight flush of his cheeks.
It doesn't help that Berrin starts laughing at him, which sets him to scowl at his big hulkish friend once again. "General of Newhaven eh? Bah! Just do me some small measure of courtesy and limit your 'exuberance' of starting a family to a modicum of measured modesty would you? Between you and Aylene fighting or...frolicking from your bed chambers in that week after the wedding, I couldn't do any decent research in the castle's library without a damnable Silence incantation!"
The dragon who settled and tamed these lands, conquering the humans and...burning them for sport. Nikolai's face grows long as he spins a stick of dry wood in his hand, building a fire without magical assistance.
The troll-king offers an alliance against human incursion, but he is a feint in a longer conflict, one which promises war for everyone. I am no stranger to war, and I am not afraid of it. But the coming conflicts are not about wresting land from humans, or defending your ways against your neighbors. They are to spill the blood of everyone on the whim of mad creatures who think to play games with us all. Even as one player moves the worgs across the table, so another moves the trolls. The task of our pack, and of my friends, will be to upset the game. It is the only way for us, and the centaurs, and the humans, even the trolls to be free.
Nikolai gains a bit of smoke and a few precious embers before the leaves catch fire. He deposits them among a pile of dried wood, surrounded by large stones. Once he is satisfied that his fire will burn, he picks up Dragonsbreath, its incessant flaming blade burning a bright orange.
This Troll King, however, is not on my list of friends to make. He is a brutal thug, which means I know his mind. I am building and army, Red Eyes, and I may seek a crown. Not for my own glory, but because when I take up arms against the Dragon and even those who use him, I will have strength in my blade and at my back.
He brandishes the blade, leveling it and letting the smokeless flames play across it. As he stares into the flame and speaks of war, his skin reddens a bit. Dragonsbreath grows a dim red, as if the steel were being heated from within. The flames begin to turn yellow-green, sometimes blue.
To build an army, I must forge peace with some and make an example of others. Do not mistake my ends, Red Eyes. I do not fancy myself a human lord, nor do I crave silk sheets and gilded crowns. As lord of our pack, I will spare the innocent to make friends, or to leave soft rabble out of my army. I will court strong allies that have little love for one another. I will wear Howl's pelt for the centaurs, and leave it in my pack at moot. We will be strong, but wise. We will live free, but we will play at the games our enemies think us unprepared for.
Nikolai tightens his lips and the hardness of battle is in his eyes. For a second, the leaping flames and the sounds of the night almost seem to mimic the fires and cries of war. He thrusts the great blade into the pile of wood, slowly smoking under the heat of the kindling.
The wood pops and sizzles instantly under the heat of dragonsbreath. In seconds, the flames burn bright and hot.
[b]The fire I must set will take too long to catch. I must stick this blade into something that will burn. Thus ends Hargulka, the Troll King.
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Elsir closed his eyes gathering his focus, drawing the motes of possibility and probability towards his present self. He had hear it described by other far-seers as a gathering of self, or the feeding of emotions and thought into a visualized flame, burning everything way until only a cold, rational clarity remained. Vandsom’s “Mirror’s of a Darkened World” had theorize that the technique was different for each far-seer. Elsir could believe that. Magic was created as much about personal belief as it was by training. One had to believe that something was possible in order for it to be so. Emotion played into it a great deal as well, anger and rage could empower evocations, lust or envy enchantments, focus and determination, divinations.
Keeping his eyes closed, Elsir felt the motes of aethic possibility coalescing around him, spinning and whirling with untouched potential. The hopes of a child, the first smile of a new mother and the determination of the land, all of it was present here. Even Willas’s dreams and desires powered this. Feeling the energy building within him, like a swelling wave, Elsir breathed heavily through his nose and gave an involuntary shutter. It was like trying to hold back a mountain. I.. am.. ready.. Elsir gasped while struggling to maintain his focus. There was so much power and possibility here, and it was as if something was trying to keep him stuck in the present.
Wrapping himself deeper in his cocoon of gossamer energy, Elsir drew the motes . The Power filled him breath of life, wind to uproot oaks, summer wind sweetened with flowers, the foul wafting from the dead fish in the Tuskwater. Floating in emptiness he fixed his destination before him and reached through the motes, drawing deeply at the ethereal hurricane that surrounded him. He had to carry them, it [/i]had[/i] to work. Shuttering and shaking, Elsir concentrated and focused, deeper than he had ever before, he pulled at the motes, pulled them into him until he was sure he would burst. Pulled more. More.
Opening his eyes he looked down into his hand, into the silvery bowl that sat before him, simple and unadorned. He dazed into his own reflection.
Something is happening, Willas said. Something…
The world flickered and seemed to wink out of existence.
The stone blocks of the cyclopedian city of Ghazh’tolar rose up around the Pathfinder expedition and mist hung low about Elsir’s feet. Venture-Captain Jeggare stood before a stone alter embossed with scenes of human sacrifices. The cavern was enormous and lit by the guttering torches that wained and swayed in an unfelt breeze. There, that’s it. Jeggare exclaimed, pointing to a hidden latch, Try that. Nodding at the hidden release Nicoleta Mashrava knelt down and teased the latch loose. Like a sudden intake of breath the mist that lay low within the cavern sucked inwards towards the sealed vault. The torches winked out and crimson light streamed from around the seals of the massive door. The earth began to shake and rumble, causing ancient dust to stream from the cavernous ceiling. A shadowy silhouette backlit with crimson light stood at the entrance to the vault. Realizing in horror their mistake, Elsir back peddled. It had not been a vault. It had been a prison.
Statues began to fall from their perches above and blocks the size of horses slewed from the walls with ear deafening crashes. Run! Kargath shouted as the dwarf threw himself out of the way from a stone statue encrusted with the leering visage demonic faced Cyclops.
Nico! Elsir screamed. Clawing his wand from its sheath, Elsir threw himself over a fallen stone to help her and screamed again as a stalagmite fell from the ceiling impaling him through his back. Blood bubbling up through his mouth, Elsir watched as the figure emerged from the vault.
Elsir struggled to hold his true destination in his mind, dimly aware of Willas crying out in sympathetic pain. … is not… Willas gasped. The Aether flooded within him.
Galt was chaos. The Red Revolution had begun in earnest years earlier, but with each cycle, the persecutions and revolts have become more and more bloody. Riots had broken out in the streets by fanatics led the Revolutionary Council to rule the newly-independent nation of Galt. Little did they understand the beast they had created. Within five years the first Revolutionary Council had been overthrown by another set of bloodthirsty revolutionaries who wanted change. And so began the cycle of bloodshed and revolution after revolution that had lead to Galt's decline into a nation inhabited by mobs of paranoid, revolutionary fanatics.
We are leaving Snapped Venture-Captain Valespar as she gazed from the iron-reinforced window at the massive crowd in the square outside who was led by a trio of Gray Gardeners. Carrying pitchforks and torches, the mass of squalid humanity chanted below, calling for the death of the Pathfinders.
The door to the lodge rattled and shook as a group of men hammered it over and over with a makeshift ram. Its too late.. Willas whispered, gazing down at the imposing guillotine arrayed in the square below. I told you we should have left weeks ago.
With a final crash the door to the lodge was thrown open and the irate mob streamed into the Pathfinders sanctuary. Looting and pillaging the villagers descended on the lodge inhabitants. Wailing and screaming the servants were taken first, clasped with rough hands and rusted manacles. Then they came for the Valespar and Gunderson. Dragged kicking and screaming into the square there was nothing that Willas could do. Punched and kicked, beaten with clubs, Pathfinder Gunderson was forced down into the blood whetted neck groove and the declie was forced down, locking him into place. With a grim smile the Grey Gardener thew the release handle forward, causing the mouton to rise as the blade fell with a keening shriek.
Willas felt a hand gripping his hair as he was lifted up and with sickening horror realized that he could see for the briefest of instants his decapitated body laying supine below him.
Elsir struggled to keep his concentration as it quivered under the hammer of blows from the past, present and future rushing through him. To hold one single mote of possibility as thousands of them darted along the surface of his skin whirling around him tighter and tighter.
… Willas screamed.
The power of so many possibilities was overwhelming.
Elsir was an elven warrior, proud and strong. He was a farmer tending his land. He was a beggar on the streets of Abaslom, He was a king. He was a scholar, fighter, sailor, mason. He was born, lived and died among his people. He killed himself following the death of Ashandra. He died mad from his visions, he died of sickness, accident, age. He was executed for his beliefs by Queen Jemini and multitudes cheered his death. He ran from his sight and drank himself to sleep every night to keep the visions from returning; he lived and died never knowing the truths of the world. Sometimes he never traveled to Abaslom, in others he went but never met Ashandra. Sometimes he never ventured into the Expanse and continued to live the life of an archivist. In others Ashandra plunged a dagger into his eyes to block out his visions and Elsier thanked her as blood and sera ran down his face. He loved other women, married other women. Nicoleta, the fair haired and beautiful follower of Desna whom he had spent years with unsuccessfully exploring the Mwangi Expanse, and other women he had never seen before he lived those lives. A hundred lives. More. So many that he could not count them. And at the end of every live, as he lay dying, as he drew his final breath he knew that he had not followed his true path.
Flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker flicker.
The motes had vanished, seemingly exhausted as the two had experienced each mote one at a time. Elsir fell with a thud that knocked the breath out of him if he had not already been half numb. He felt the damp beach under his cheek, and his hands. It was cold.
Elsir was aware of Willas, struggling from his back to hands and knees. He heard the Pathfinder vomit roughly, and raised his head. Willas was scrubbing the back of his hand across his mouth and he had a wild look in his eye and his rapier lay have drawn in its sheath. Elsir wept uncontrollably, the tears streaming down his face. His visions, the things that he had seen before had never been so strong, so wild.
What… Willas stopped to swallow, bleakly looking around at the decrepit ruins of the Harborage House and the abandoned streets of Sanctuary, now enormous beyond. Everything was strangely faded, as if slightly out of focus. The streets seemed to slide towards Elsir when he looked straight at them making his head spin. Pushing himself upward, Willas tried to take everything in. What happened?
Gazing up at the stars, Elsir felt vertigo begin to set in again. Taking a deep breath, Elsir breathed out slowly, carefully drawing his eyes up to the heavens above. Noting the exact position of the stars and furiously calculating their movement Elsir breathed outward nodding to himself. There was a surge of probabilities here. More than I have ever seen or heard of before, it is evident now that Sanctuary lies at a convergence of fate and time. Its establishment must has altered the fates of the entire region in more ways than anyone is aware. Glancing again at the stars, Elsir felt the queasiness return, but managed to block it out. We have moved forward in time by at least ten to twenty years. And.. Elsir trailed off considering the strength of the world around them. This possible future is more likely than not to occur. Offering a hand to Willas, Elsir pulled his companion onto his feet. We should explore the area. It’s possible that from the ruins we can divine what event caused the city to be abandoned.
Berrin smiles at Verik's prudishness. "Well, we need an army, and I've got to start somewhere!" He laughs aloud, mostly to himself, as they continue to ride. Berrin's body language looks more confident, happier even. The decision must have been weighing heavily on his shoulders. They ride the rest of the way to the small village in quiet silence.
Silence is not what they expect to greet them when they arrive at the fishing village. At this time of the late afternoon, a few of the children should be playing between the houses while the adults did housework, returned from a day of fishing, and prepared for the evening meal. Instead, all that Verik and Berrin see is a quiet, deserted set of houses. There are five in total, all very modest and constructed of wood and reed. A small pier juts slightly into Lake Silverstep, with a tied-up boat floating aimlessly on the soft waves.
Berrin reaches for his blade, clearly on edge with the unexpected and eerie quiet, but decides against it. The pair on horseback look around for some clue as to what occurred. There are no signs of violence or bloodshed, but also no signs that the villagers packed up their belongings - toys, stools, and tools are still strewn about - and deserted the town. All they can hear is the steady, soft ripples from the water lapping on the shore.
Finally, Berrin looks at Verik and asks, "Where is everybody?"
Verik knew something was wrong even before Berrin's hand strayed to the greatsword upon his back, his own left hand straying down towards the warhammer at his belt, his eyes moving to and fro for some signs of movement. But there was none, other than the lapping of water by the dock's edge and the listless bobbing of the boat. Taking a cue from Berrin's actions in the moments before possible violence, the Banker does as the General does and does not draw his weapon yet.
"I do not know," replies Verik in a low voice. He studies the abandoned scene for several more moments, but realizes he is of little use in that regard atop Giles. "Cogs...up is down, Berrin. A serene village is anything but peaceful. Sometimes I hate this..." Verik halts his own sentence with an irritated shake of his head. Instead, he tries to work out a plan, to do something that his cousin might do. Or have him do. Decoy? A steel-shelled decoy?
Verik slides to his left and dismounts Giles, then moves as hastily as he can to retrieve his heavy key-symbol shield. He then hands Berrin the reins. "Let me see what is afoot. Maybe someone is too hurt, or too scared to move. If so, I will try and draw them out, but if ambushed I will draw their ire so you can act boldly." He swallows weakly and then readies his shield, his left hand resting but not drawing his weapon as he moves forward. After moving in twenty paces, he pats his breastplate and puts out his hand in a friendly gesture, shouting loudly.
"HELLO! I AM A CLERIC...OF ABADAR! DO NOT BE AFRAID OF HE WHO WOULD BLESS YOUR WORK HERE! IF YOU ARE INJURED...OR SICK...I CAN TREAT YOUR AFFLICTIONS! HELLO?"
As he walks a good thirty or forty paces to the other end of the open space by the dwellings, he starts to look at the ground, the toys that were left behind by children, hoping he could discern footprints of those that may have left them behind in haste. Tasiper could do it of course. So could Zander. Verik furiously tried to recall how they were able to focus on the faintest of disturbances and paint a picture of action in their minds, like some scribbed lines of charcoal upon a canvas that would emerge into a landscape in the eye of a skilled artist. Unfortunately, Verik was no artist.
Long, languid moments pass in total silence, interrupted only by the creaks of armor from Verik and Berrin. With no reaction, Berrin dismounts and joins Verik in the village. "I got a bad feeling about this. Let's take a look around. Shout if you see anything." Something about the still scene seems lurid and wrong, giving both the horses a shaky instinct to flee. Berrin slowly opens a door to one of the houses, which makes a loud scraping noise on wooden hinges. With a final look to the cleric, Berrin steps inside to investigate the house.
It takes a few minutes for Elsir and Willas to acclimate to their surroundings. The haziness fades after a time, leaving them to gaze about. It is a dark and moonless night, but the starlight is enough for elven eyes to see fairly clearly. Elsir notes that this is different than any vision he has ever experienced; for all intents and purposes, he is physically in the time and place rather than observing it. Never before has he interacted with a vision to this extent.
They walk through the deserted streets. The city of Sanctuary was far from this when they left, yet so much more than its current appearance. They can see a few glowing lights and lamps in some of the houses and buildings, but they are heavily shuttered. The city is not truly abandoned, though it holds far less than it could. Still, no one but them walks the streets in the night, and a foreboding menace permeates the whole city. Gone is the hustle and bustle of the Sanctuary that they left. In that town, people would be out even at this hour - whether for business, a romantic liaison, or simply for a walk. In Absalom or any other city, the wealthy would likely be out at this hour of night, or the working class would be working the graveyard shift. Here, there is nothing and no one.
Castle Sanctuary looms over the city on its low hill. In the time, it seems to have been built up to a genuine castle, rather than the fort it is during the present. A full series of walls, twenty or more feet high, surround the main structure, which juts into the air with a terrible menace. Figures in the distance flying in patrol around the castle's perimeter, coming to and from the highest point of the castle. They are too far to distinctly make out, but they don't fly like the griffon and hippogriff patrols sometimes common in cities like Korvosa.
The pair of Pathfinder agents don't speak to each other as they walk, as the silence is so thick that it may break open a cacophony if either speaks. Even with their keen senses, neither hears the voice coming from behind them. "You two! It's past curfew! What are you doing out?" Startled, the turn to see a guardsman walking up to them. He wears a black tunic over a breastplate, emblazoned with the image of a dragon in red over the field of black. His hand remains perilously close to a longsword on his belt. "Present your brands!"
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Slowly raising his hands in a submissive gesture, Elsir shifts his body towards Willas ever so slightly as if in a different gesture. My apologies guardsman, Elsir begins while gesturing to himself and Willas. My teacher and I are traveling historians from the Yauntis Library based out of the Wise Quarter within Absalom that recently arrived to document the epic history of this land. I cannot claim citizenship and have no brand. I'm afraid that I did not see any checkpoints as such when we arrived and I assumed that we could register our presence at first light. Bah! Elsir shrugs gesturing to Willas. Master, perhaps you could explain better then I? Shrugging Elsir turns to the guard. I'm afraid that words fail me. I am far better with a quill and paper then I am with words.
Keeping the differential gesture, Elsir carefully studied the mans shield, searching for any indications or patterns that he might recognize and play off of. This had just become complicated.
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Elsir can see that the symbology is a variation on the crest of Brevoy. When Choral the Conquerer united Issia and Rostland, he used a two-headed red dragon on a field of yellow as the symbol of House Rogarvia, which became the banner for the whole of the united nation of Brevoy. This has different coloration, but is quite similar.
Willas looks over at Elsir and tries his best to come up with a plausible story. "My associate is right. The last collected history refers to this place as Sanctuary, in the land of Newhaven. The library seems out of date, so we were sent to update the description. Could you tell me what the name of this place is now, so that I might formally inscribe it?"
The guardsman pulls his sword out completely. "You know that this is Dragonhall, of the empire of Brevoy. You also know full well that foreigners are not allowed in these lands by decree of the king, that the curfew begins at nightfall, and that the punishment is death." He calls out loudly in Draconic, "Fraxxanka tellaxian opporkaxis!" He approaches them with blade drawn, taking a tentative slash at Willas to test his defenses. Willas pulls out his own blade, warding off the attack - but clearly the guard is simply biding for time rather than aggressively going after them, awaiting whoever he called out to.
Suddenly, a pair of arrows fly out from a window in one of the abandoned buildings. They can't see who is firing it from the three-story wooden structure, but the arrows are quick and accurate. The first goes through the man's neck, while the other through the weak spot of his armor on the side where the breastplate fastens. The guard falls to the ground, panting on one knee and gurgling something despite the arrow in his neck. A man appears in the doorway of the building and calls out to them. "Come with me if you want to live!"
As Elsir and Willas approach, Elsir notices the man's face. He is a young man with auburn hair, handsome but serious. The diviner could swear that he has seen him in his visions, but can't determine when or how. As they get closer, he sees some differences - a slightly different nose, a stronger chin, greener eyes. The man must be a relative of whoever was in his vision, perhaps a son or a brother. "Come on," he beckons to them. "We've got to go unless you all want a dozen drakka on our asses."
A young woman comes down the stairs with a bow in hand. She looks hardly more than a teenager, though human ages are difficult sometimes for Elsir to determine. Blonde and lithe, she notches another arrow and points it at them. "Let's see their marks. Show me your arm. Do it now!"
The man, who is a few years older than her, quiets her down. "Relax, Alaina. The Dragon Lord isn't smart enough to send out decoys." He grabs Willas's arm first, pulling up his right sleeve to the shoulder. He pulls up Elsir's likewise, showing her that neither of them have any marks or brands. "Satisfied? Come on. Unless you've learned to fly in the last few minutes, we're at a disadvantage." He leads them down the street, a longsword in one hand and a shorter blade in the other as a beating sound and a screech echo through the empty streets. They arrive at a quiet, dark avenue a few blocks away, while the beating sound grows stronger and the screeches come faster. He pulls up a stone door from the ground, straining himself as he drags the heavy slab up. "Down! Let's go! Quick about it!" As they all enter, he slams it shut above them and drops into the dry, empty sewer.
They move quickly and quietly, using a light from an ioun stone that the man pulls from his pocket. He keeps it hidden for long stretches, forcing them to count paces at each intersection. He calls out the number of paces quietly before they move, only using the light to check that they are in the correct place. After well over a mile, he stops and presses his hand against a wall. He pushes hard, causing a hidden door to creak open. He beckons them all in, then closes it behind him. The room behind the door is small and empty, barely ten feet wide and somewhat crowded for all four of them. He looks at them with a raised eyebrow. "We wait here until morning. Welcome to the safe house. How do you get two Unmarkeds," emphasizing the word's proper nature, "In this day and age? I haven't seen an Unmarked who isn't in the Resistance for at least four years. You two got names? I'm Maegar, and this is Alaina."
Verik nods to Berrin as his friend enters the house, suppressing another motion to swallow or clear his suddenly dry throat with a cough. Within a moment Verik is alone in the open space between the houses. Well not fully alone, as Valnyr stomps his hoof and snorts while Giles swishes his tail with his ears flat, both looking at him. Verik readies his shield and selects the house nearest to shore to enter, left hand resting on his warhammer to be ready with either prayer or weapon.
"Good bet it's not tatzylwryms at least," mutters Verik wryly to himself. He gives momentary thought to the safety of the horses if he enters the other house, but decides that while Giles is no warhorse, Valnyr would adequately fend off most attackers until Berrin and he could get back outside. Giles won't bolt if Valnyr holds...I swear Berrin's steed is itching for a fight sometimes, and he held his ground at Dragonshead after all, so unless it's a dragon diving from the sky...bloody stool of a strutting harpy now WHY DID I JUST THINK THAT? IDIOT!
Verik jerks his head up to gaze at the skies, looking frantically from lake to plains. Nothing. He searches a second time with his eyes in the late sun. Nope. No dragons. Taking a deep breath and steadying himself, he sets his jaw determinedly and marches towards the door of the house nearest the shore, working the latch and pushing inside.