Sajan politely eats as much as he can manage, making some attempts at small talk with the people. Surprisingly, his social clumsiness seems to be absent as he chats away happily with them. He enquires about their life here in such a dangerous place.
(Ki point spent, diplomacy to gather information)
Mohindis is silent for a time and some instinct tells you to keep quiet as well. Then he begins to speak.
There were once over 50 in my jama'at.
When Vardishal raised Nefeshti's banner we answered the call. What else could we do? We keep to the old ways and this land is ours to protect.
You can see the result. Centuries later and we are less than half that number. So many lost. My wife, my son ....
You humans. Your memories fade and dim as you advance in years. Even your elven friend will struggle to remember your faces after centuries. Ours do not. We always remember.
What happened? We are Bound not to speak of it. But Vardishal died and those of us left.... well we dwindled, even the Templars eventually. They say the only thing worse than winning a war is losing one.
That is why I do not wish to speak of it. Part I cannot. The rest just reminds me of what we have lost, what I have lost.
Several of the group seem to take a liking to the uncharacteristically loquacious monk and he is soon passing around a clay jug in a small circle with a few of the warriors who chat with him in common.
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"Mohandis, I understand why you do not wish to speak of the subject, but I do have one last thing I would like to show you if I may. As what I would like to show you resides in the tent with our weapons, I fully understand if you would like to have a few of your guards along with you."
Diplomacy:
"From what you have told me, I gather that you knew Vardishal. If I am right in that assumption you may recognize this blade." the inquisitor says, unsheathing Tempest and then laying the blade on the ground in a sign of non-agression. "Vardishal's earthly form may be gone, but he is not fully gone."
You all manage a few hours sleep before the evening. Not enough to fully recover from your fatigue but a welcome respite regardless.
Nuveril takes a healthy interest as the preparations for the meal begin, either because she's hungry or because she wants to be sure nothing is poisoned or drugged. She wanders among the tables as the dishes are brought out, managing to be nosy without actually getting in anyone's way. She wrinkles her nose at the strange, white-fleshed roots. "What are these?" she asks. "Some kind of fungus?"
She heartily approves of the size of the portions but is more suspicious of the amount of seasoning. In her tribe, at least, spices are valuable commodities for trade and are more often saved to be bartered with caravans than used for cooking. "Either they are wealthy and they honor us" she whispers to the others, "or they hope to cover the taste of the sleeping drug they hope we will succumb to. Perhaps both: They are wealthy because they are slavers or thieves." She is inclined to enjoy the fiery liquor as well, but after only a taste remembers that she is the guest of strangers whose ultimate intent is unknown and that she should keep her head clear despite their best efforts to relax her.
Zeldiel finds the attention confusing. While he is used to being stared at and pointed at by strangers, he is not used to their polite questions and apparent respect. He returns the bows he receives with fluid and graceful bows of his own, but occasionally his timing is off as he bows a little too early, or remembers a little too late. After answering the same question a few times, he tries asking questions to these strange people, making his own inquiries about their family and tribes, and how it is that they recognise elves in this distant and lonely land.
Mohandis accompanies you.
His eyes go wide at the sight of Tempest which he clearly recognises. He reaches out, as if to touch it, before withdrawing his hand.
Yes. I know this blade. I have seen it in battle. What do you mean, not gone?
He stares at you. You mean .... I'm not sure if I believe it.... but there is something... something in your eyes. And Tempest. It was forged for Vardishal alone. I do not think it could be fooled.
He thinks for the moment. He seems part convinced, part suspicious.
I would not make this ... this relevation to the others. Honestly, I am not sure how they will react. We honoured Vardishal and followed him, but he was never truly one of us. Many now regret our involvement in Nefeshti's battles.
I supposed our meeting was chance but now I am not so sure. If your goal is to convince us to fight again under the Templar banner then I fear you will be disappointed.
Some thought seems to agitate him. We will not be forced either.
The group tolerates Nuveril's investigations although they politely but firmly resist her access to the tent where the food is being prepared. The spices seem of a recognisable sort to her . She manages a few hesitant bites before the spices are added and the food is very bland.
Zeladiel finds the response to his questions polite if not particularly detailed. He gets answers but little further explanation. There are individual family groups within the jama'at. They all seem related to each other somehow. Oddly for a typical tribal society none seem to have come from outside the jama'at and references to other groups are very loose as if contact is rare. They're clearly local to the Barrier Mountains and seem to have a wealth of information about its geography and biology.
When they speak of their last contact with elves they seem to talk in elven like time frames rather than human ones. They speak of a group of elves unknown to you, travellers to the mountains in the distant past. They seem to admire elven ties with the land and most of all their stewardship of the natural environment. The elven return to Golarian is referred to as a relatively recent event, like something a few generations ago.
Khalid and Mohandis have been absent a while still apparently in discussion.
One of the group gets to his feet. While physically he looks like the others something about him gives the impression of greater age. Perhaps it is the way he carries himself or the slight web of wrinkles around the eyes.
I am Jasali. It is our custom to exchange tales with our guests. True stories or fictions, it matters not for a tale, a good one, has a power all of its own. I will start. This tale was told to me by Shazathared, a princess of the Marid, a great story teller of the Inner Spheres.
He speaks in a smooth, sonerous voice, the others nodding along although they've clearly heard the tale before.
After Sarenrae laid Rovagug in his prison and Asmodeus locked it shut, many of the spawn of Rovagug yet remained in the world, and the Rough Beast’s many followers and cultists and servants carried on his work.
They built hidden fortresses to practice their vile rites, gathering what strength they could to seek the Black Key and unlock their lord’s prison. And they hoarded great treasures—for a broken chalice is still golden—and practiced magic that could shatter adamant and cast castles down into dust.
Every hand was turned against Rovagug’s minions, and his surviving servants grew clever. One such was Ulumanesh, the hidden priest of Rovagug.
Once a dwarven priest heard him preach of the glories of destruction and the wealth found in slaughter. The Hidden Priest saw the dwarf’s heart was greedy. “Sirrah Dwarf,” said the priest. “If you follow me you will find a great treasure.”
“I seek your temple, to tear it down.”
“Ah, Rovagug speaks to your wrath. My temple and my treasure are the same, a place worth mountains of gold to gladden your dwarven heart. Come and see it for yourself.”
The dwarf could not resist, and the longer he thought on it, the greater the treasure gleamed in his mind’s eye. At last the priest said,“Come with me below the mountain, where the treasure lies.”
And the dwarf did not hesitate, but followed past stalactites, and tunnels filled with searing heat, to a chamber whose walls gleamed with golden acid.
“Now dwarf, you know my treasure, for you stand in the maw and gaping belly of Rovagug’s servant, the great worm Narthrax. My treasure has teeth, and it will devour you.”
“But surely you will be devoured as well, priest!” shouted the dwarven priest. “You will die with me!”
“I die happily, taking a false god’s slave with me, and let destruction be your reward and mine.”
The group slap their hands on their legs in appreciation at the story. They look at you expectantly.
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I supposed our meeting was chance but now I am not so sure. If your goal is to convince us to fight again under the Templar banner then I fear you will be disappointed.
Some thought seems to agitate him. We will not be forced either.
"You misunderstand me, my friend. I have no desire to sway your people by words or force." the inquisitor pauses for a moment, "Though if you or your people wished to of your own free will, I would certainly not try to stop you."
"As for my statement of Vardishal not being fully gone, it ties to my reasons for this line of conversation. At a shrine not far from here certain visions filled my dreams, and at times my waking hours. Visions of Vardishal's time here on Golarion. These visions compelled me to search the shrine for Tempest. Since that time, Vardishal and I have been as one. What I had hoped to gain from our conversation is a better understanding of what has happened to me."
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Mohandis is again silent for some time, seemingly making his own assessment of your intentions.
As far as I know such a thing.. such a pairing ... is unprecedented. I cannot say how it came to pass and Vardishal's end forms part of my Binding. But I know something of his beginning.
Wish magic is potent, Khalid. Something I suspect you will end up discovering for yourself. The Templars were merely human once, mortals who caught Nefeshti's eye. They were made immortal through Nefeshti's wish magic, made into janni, for jinn do not die except in battle or through ennui. But the power of wish magic is not limitless or the jinn would rule all of creation. Their power, their immortality was dependant on their loyalty to Nefeshti.
Of them all Vardishal was the most loyal, although perhaps not the strongest. Certainly of the five at least, he had Nefeshti's favor. Perhaps that loyalty allowed the spirit of his human part to linger on centuries after his body fell to dust.
How that spirit melded with you I cannot say. The topic of the soul is not one of our strong points although I suspect one of your mortal clerics could banish the spirit if they were powerful enough.
As for Tempest, I assumed it had been lost or retrieved by one of the other Templars. Kardswann and Vardishal were always close, perhaps it was he. Nefeshti had each of the Templars weapons forged specifically for its wielder. As I understand it, Tempest had a sentience all of its own as well as holding a series of powerful enchantments designed to exploit the weaknesses of Nefeshti's enemies.
Nuveril gets to her feet. "There once was a town by a river. It was well-guarded against enemies from without, but within the people lived in peace and bore no weapons against each other. They were as one family, no one questioning the heart of his neighbor.
"The town was under the protection of a shaman. He swore allegiance to a god of truth and healing, and he tended the sick and delivered infants. No one questioned him, and no one bore weapons against him; for all trusted that their shaman held the well-being of their community and the edicts of his god above all else in his heart.
"One day, however, an evil spirit came to the shaman in the guise of his god. It whispered blasphemies and fogged his mind, making him its agent and its slave, and it set about turning the whole town under its dominion. And still no one questioned the shaman or bore weapons against him, even as he turned neighbor against neighbor for the delight of his new master.
"The town fell into two camps, those who followed the shaman into slavery to the evil spirit and those who resisted, and those who resisted were slaughtered because they did not bear weapons against their neighbors. The god to whom the shaman had sworn allegiance did nothing to oppose him, and at last an army from without marched against the shaman and the evil spirit. The shaman and what remained of the townspeople were struck down in the very temple of the god of truth and healing, and blood and bone and rotten flesh became the offering and the incense before the altar. And so fell the town that guarded against enemies from without but did not seek to guard itself against enemies in its very midst."
She sits down again, folding her legs beneath her.
Nuveril is not much of a story teller but everyone seems to enjoy her tale, slapping their legs in approval. A happy ending does not appear to be a particular requirement here.
Khalid and Mohindis return part way through. The camp leader nods to the halfling, A good story on the risks of blind faith Nuveril. If I may I will go next. An appropriate tale for our surroundings.
Rovagug had sent ten thousand children crawling through the fire and the crushing dark, all seeking an escape for their father from the prison that held him. And nearly ten thousand of them had died in fire and agony. Only one, a creature called Xotani the Firebleeder, was true to its sire.
The Firebleeder’s claws were sharper than those of an earth demon and its breath fouler than that of pure mephitic death from the core of the world. It slithered through the earth like a colossal worm, uncrushable and always hungry. It devoured miles of stone before it, and dropped dust and slag metal in its wake.
And so the creature continued until one day, chewing through gentle sandstone, the Firebleeder found something new: a deliciously glowing bit of lichen in a wet, airy tunnel. It was delicious, a brief spark of sap and living juices against a palate raised on hard stone and dry dust. Ever hungry, the Firebleeder followed the tunnel upward and upward again. Finally it broke through to the surface, under a blinding noonday sun, where it roared and clawed out its own eyes from the pain.
The Firebleeder bled magma from its eye sockets and cursed its father’s name, he who had made it, he who had imbued with the urge to dig ever upward. The surface was a place of delicious pain, and so the Firebleeder dragged its bulk just below the surface, scorching everything above it. The flaming demonworm set fire to the forest. It set fire to the city at the edge of the forest. It ravaged the land, incinerating entire cities in an echo of its father’s destructive rage. And so the world began to burn anew.
Smoke and ash and cinders flew from the forests charred by the Firebleeder, fires that scorched soil into dust. Vast deserts grew from lush forest in mere days. The smoke turned noon to twilight. The people fled their lands, becoming nomads who would never again dare to settle, and the streets of the realm’s greatest cities emptied in fear of the inevitable fire.
Heroes rose to the challenge and set forth to conquer the fire wyrm, but their banners burned away and their swords and spears were reduced to slag. After countless armies fell to the beast’s wrath, a hundred arcanists and masters of ancient magical bloodlines swore an oath as the Legion of Wands and set forth to test their magic against the nightmare.
Battle mages, geniebinders, sand mages of Isirion, archmages of Nex, and dozens of other arcanists from all corners of the continent met to face the horror that threatened to spread its flames across their lands.
The Firebleeder’s first blast cut their numbers in half, sweeping the weakest away. But this bought the others time to bring their magic to the fore; freezing storms, hails of icy spears, rains of hissing water, and thunderous lightning transfixed the wyrm as bolts of force broke upon it in a furious storm.
Magma spewed from the Firebleeder’s wounds, each injury gushing like the eruption of a furious volcano, but the wizards stood strong. Infuriated and confused, the fire wyrm summoned a blast of flame to melt the mountains and boil the seas. Yet as the abomination readied to unleash its final wrath, the wizards spoke as one, shouting a single word of arcane might that silenced all for a thousand miles, ringing off the clouds.
And breaking the silence, a great cracking sounded as the Firebleeder’s volcanic blood cooled to stone and the beast crashed to earth.
The Firebleeder fell, impaling itself upon a mountain made white by the bones of the heroes that died that day, its hide shattering to cinders. A hundred lights glowed over its corpse by night, and of the Legion of Wands, only a dozen survived to rejoice in their victory and mourn their comrades.
Yet some say, at dawn, the corpse twitched and stirred. Deep in the heart of the mountain an ember remained in the Firebleeder’s breast.
This time there is a solemnity to the group's clapping. Mohandis holds up his hand. The night draws late and I fear our guests are tired. Perhaps one more story from them before we find our beds?
The discomfort is plain to see on Linah's face as Nuveril starts her tale. She's heard this story before and does not need to hear it again. Midway through Linah escuses herself and leaves the fire and walks to the edge of the camp, to stare up at the sky and be alone with her thoughts.
May I masterrr Mohandis?
Grall clears his throat and tells a story purposely talking without his usual Gnollish accent....
There was once a creature born to darkness. Its soul was black...it knew nothing of peace...of love...of kindness. It knew pain...it knew suffering...but most of all it knew about the suffering it could do to others.
It saw that the suffering of others could bring it relief from its own pain. But one day the suffering it had brought to others came to an end, the creatures that it had hurt turned on it, stopped it, made it pay for what it had wrought.
There came a time of great suffering, for longer than the creature could know...what seemed like an eternity. But just when no end seemed in sight the creature saw a small light. So small that it appeared as a candle, off in the distance. Fearful that it would burn him...sear its very dark soul...it did not approach the light.
Then there came a whisper...words from the light. Over time the words spoke to the creature, told him that the pain could go away. The only thing that it would take was faith. The creature resisted the voice for a long time, but eventually the lure of the voice was too much.
It slowly made its way to the light, more fearful of it than it had ever been of the pain or the suffering. When the creature got close the light blinded it, the heat of the light seared away its hatred, made it forget why its soul was so black and the one thing that it remembered was what the voice had told it...faith. Faith replaced the darkness and the light was let in.
Gone was the creature of darkness, and born anew was a creature of light. Driven by faith and hope it wanted to dispel the darkness that is saw all around. Never again could the darkness gain control of its soul, the light leading its way.
Grall looks down, as if unsure why he decided to tell this story...
Again Grall is not a natural story teller but his evident passion, if not his delivery, seems to impress the majority of the group. While their remain a few scowling faces most give him a rousing applause and there is much internal discussion of his tale.
The festivities break up with most heading for their beds.
You return to your own tent having a chance to compare notes.
You get a fair bit of useful and semi-useful information from your discussions. The tribe is clearly local to the hills and mountains of the Barrier Peaks region and they don't seem to have much more than passing interest in the lands beyond. They seem to have a fairly easy balance between wariness of the danger of the region and a relaxed confidence that comes from knowing them extremely well. Your group is a clear anomoly, part of the reason they were very careful with you initially.
They seem extremely proud and close knit, although the familial relationships are a bit hard to work out within the time available. You get the impression they have a particular destination in mind for their travels but equally aren't volunteering where that may be. They have an idle curiosity about what you are about but don't seem particularly concerned it will conflict with their own purposes.
When everyone returns to the tent, Zeladiel speaks quietly to his companions.
"I apologise if you're tired, but I have a story too. Actually, it's something I should have told everyone before we left. There never seemed a good time to tell everyone. I realise now there never will be a 'good' time."
"As most of you have probably worked out from Linah's outburst before we left, my last visit to Katapesh brought unpleasant news. I did not wish to trouble you all with it, but I would rather not have you now believe I am hiding something." Zeladiel glances accusingly at Linah before continuing.
"When I was a child, my parents sought to make a fortune trading from the Elven lands to Katapesh. Predictably, most of the caravan was wiped out by gnolls just short of our destination." He is about to add something but stops and his shoulders sag. He takes a breath, straightens, and continues his story.
"The handful of survivors did not include my parents and I was raised by some humans in Katapesh until they died of age." Zeladiel does not use the word 'old' and either doesn't notice or doesn't care.
"By then I had learned some magic and apprenticed to Master Rayhan, until I left to make my own destiny. However, my former master recalled me last year to help Almah and..." Zeladiel pauses, then half smiles at Linah. "I am glad he did."
"But," Zeladiel frowns again. "On my last trip to Katapesh, a letter had been left for me by someone claiming to be Urd of the Sunset ship. It claims my father had some contract with him or her, which now falls upon me to deliver. Urd wants a Rough Seed by the end of the next month, the month of Rova, or there will be consequences. I know little else. I was a child when my father was a trader and I knew nothing of his affairs or what he owed or was owed. I don't know what happened to my parents share of the caravan, or their belongings. Except..." Zeladiel rubs a smudge from his bow absent-mindedly.
"I have not seen this contract or heard of this Urd, but if it exists I suppose I must fulfil it. Perhaps there may be a way out of it. Perhaps there is something in it for me, though I am not fool enough to believe that without proof. At the very least, at the end of Rova I shall have to return to Katapesh in the hope of hearing something of my parents, be it for good or ill."
They are remarkably homogeneous bunch in terms of appearance, all over six feet tall (Mohandis the tallest by a few inches at six feet four or so), all muscular, physically attractive and with the same blue eyes.
The light from the fire flickers in the distance as Linah stands at the edge of camp looking up at the star filled sky. Her legs had felt heavy for most of the day, every since the dragonne attack, and now her head was starting to feel the same. Nuveril's story had placed an old burden on her shoulder, weighting down her whole body and mind, but that was not what was troubling her. The worst part was that she was beginning to give up. The barbarian's words where getting harder and harder to shrug off and lately they had begun to tear. If she would give up on the halfling, be pushed enough to loose faith, then what kind of priestess was she?
Linah falls to her knees in the sand and stays there for minutes, staring out into the darkness. "I do not know what to do. I am not strong enough for this. Please watch over her sister, please make sure that she is safe", Linah whispers to the night. She gets back to her feet, wipes a tear from her eye and wanders back to the campfire.
Back at the tent she looks at Nuveril worried by her reaction as Zeladiel begins his story, but she is surprised to see that she is the first to interject. "You are not going to fullfill that contract!", Linah tells the wizard sharply. "The rough seed must not come into the wrong hands, and before the month is over we are going to Katapesh to make sure that does not happen."
They are remarkably homogeneous bunch in terms of appearance, all over six feet tall (Mohandis the tallest by a few inches at six feet four or so), all muscular, physically attractive and with the same blue eyes.
If either Khalid or Zeladiel expects the information they're imparting to excite Nuveril, they are disappointed. The talk of Templars and Rough Seeds passes over her head like an arrow shot at a human behind her. She waits impassively for someone to explain what all this has to do with her and their mission.
"Good night, Linah. I shall find out more before I make any snap decisions."
Zeladiel, you arrre ourrr frrriend we will stand with you. Together we will have to see what these crrreaturrres rrreally want.
They will find it difficult to take something that is not theirrrs by rrright.
Grall rolls over hoping to get a long deserved sleep...
"Good night, Linah. I shall find out more before I make any snap decisions."
1d20+11
Funny how I can think its so obvious but then I'm on the other side of the screen. Janni. Thats enough for basic outsider traits, fly, invisibility, change size, telepathy. They can create there own food and water.
Mohandis seems like some kind of noble version. You'd suspect he has some additional spell-like abilities but identification not quite good enough to specify.
Some more interested in the relevations of the evening than others, you rest. .
Having sat most of this afternoon's watch your one of the first to fall into a deep sleep. Sajan wakens you for your next just before dawn.
Weapons at your side you gaze across the camp and try not to shiver. The moon is just a tiny sliver of light and there is little to see even with your enhanced eyesight.
An approaching shadow manifests out of the darkness surrounding a distant blob of tents. As it comes closer you can see it is the camp's leader.
He walks up to you easily navigating his way over the broken ground in the gloom. A word, Nuveril?
She greets him with respect, touching her head, then her chest, and settles herself near the entrance of the tent in position for an audience as she did when Dashki approached her, her legs folded beneath her and both hands, palm up, on her knees. "Speak."
Although his words are relaxed, Mohandis seems a bit wary, looking you up and down before commencing, his voice just loud enough to carry across the distance between you.
I mean no disrespect but if I had seen what you were carrying I would have been less inclined to allow you into our camp. I find myself wondering why you would do such a thing: beligerance, ignorance?
Not the hammer. That. He points at your amulet.
By the four elements! I do not know whether it works on my people, we are of this plane, but I confess to no desire to find out. Displaying it for any jinn is a challenge, do you not see that?
He looks like he is trying to work out whether you are telling the truth (sensing your motives as it were) but his conclusion isn't gelling with something else he knows.
It is a jinn seal. And a potent one, I can feel that from here. I do not see how you cannot know what it is. Such magic is personal, it cannot simply be passed from person to person.
Yet despite your race you are no jinn binder, that is evident. There is a mystery here but I do not wish to try and unravel it. I simply want it away from my people.
Be at peace Nuveril. He turns to leave.
Her lips tightening into a grim line, she waits for morning.
Mohandis starts to walk away.
The idea of dropping or leaving it is equally uncomfortable
Perhaps in response to your silent request or perhaps coincidence, Mohandis stops and turns to face you, although your faces are each shrouded in darkness from the other.
This time you hear his voice in your head, not a harsh intrusion like your previous experiences, it seems a little sad.
I am no magi Nuveril but I do not see how you could wear such a thing without either wizard or jinn blood in your veins. I am sorry.
He turns and does not stop again.
Morning comes and you awake refreshed.
Mohindis' people begin to pack up their camp with a casual efficiency that speaks of long practise. They clearly intend to move on themselves today.
Nuveril seems more disgruntled than usual in the morning. She took the last watch before dawn, and something seems to have happened to make her more gruff and snappish than normal as the party prepares for another day of travel. Linah in particular notes a similarity to her mood after discovering the records in Kelmarane having to do with her family. She does her best to avoid Mohandis and his band and seems eager to be on the road.
Morning sees Linah's physical distress gone, but one look at Nuveril tells her that her spiritual woes will linger still. She decides that nothing good can come out of asking the halfing what has her upset, so the cleric tries to let it go. Once they are ready to depart Linah knows that customs require them to offer a gift to their host.
"I wish to thank you for taking us in and giving us food and shelter during the night. Your generosity and hospitality have been warming and most welcomed in these harsh mountains. I doubt that i will be able to repay your kindness but i would still like to try. Are you able to make use of divine magic?", Linah asks Mohandis and presents him with two scrolls of lesser restoration.
Later during the continued journey through the mountains, Linah's decision to let the change in Nuveril's mood pass starts to eat away at the clerics conscience, so much so that she eventually approaches the barbarian. Nuveril might continue to display distrust in her religion but if there is anything Linah can do, she can't ignore it, no matter how small.
"I noted that you kept your distance from our hosts this morning. Did something transpire during the night that has you upset?", Linah asks Nuveril in a gentle voice.
Sajan waves goodbye happily to his many new friends, promising to visit them again next time he is on patrol for Kelmarane. The giant is blissfully ignorant of their nature and all the other undertones of the visit. He notes Nuveril's mood, but seeing Linah talking to her he decides to leave her be.
"I noted that you kept your distance from our hosts this morning. Did something transpire during the night that has you upset?", Linah asks Nuveril in a gentle voice.
"Nothing," Nuveril snaps. "Slander and lies." Then she seems to reconsider. "The elf might know what they were talking about," she says grudgingly, moving nearer Zeladiel. "Elf, what is a ... a 'jinn binder?'"
Zeladiel looks up, startled from his distant thoughts, then resumes his cool demeanour.
"Nuveril. In your tribe, was it a sign of honour or disrespect to avoid using someone's name?"
Zeladiel looks up, startled from his distant thoughts, then resumes his cool demeanour.
"Nuveril. In your tribe, was it a sign of honour or disrespect to avoid using someone's name?"
She blushes angrily. "To use the name of someone not in our tribe ... it is a sign of intimacy ... of 'trust,' you would say."
Zeladiel can't help but smile.
"Very well, Nuveril. I consider you part of my tribe after you faced the likes of Kardswann and Xulthos with me and each time proved yourself both fierce and brave."
"Now I have not heard the term 'jinn binder' before, but I assume it refers to a wizard of great power who can summon elemental creatures from across the worlds of the great beyond. Our hosts themselves were Janni, creatures related to jinn that are even now still tied to the plane of earth and stone from whence they decended. Magic is a part of them, like gold is a part of the pactmasters and a weapon is part of a warrior. But that magic also has power over them that can be exploited by those with the knowledge and inclination to do so."
You say your farewells to the Janni.
Mohandis accepts Linah's gift after the customary series of refusals. You get the impression the janni can't use the scrolls themselves but see them as valuable for trading.
Mohandis sees you off, giving you a very basic idea of the terrain for the next few miles.
This morning I asked the elemental spirits for guidance in relation to our meeting. They seem to think it is likely we will do so again. I will pray that if so it will be as friends. He looks at Nuveril for some reason.
Until that day, ma'assalama.
For the next week you struggle through the difficult terrain. Each day you go higher, the terrain gets more rugged and the temperatures lower. While tolerable during the day, it becomes no longer possible to sleep outside the hut without magical protection or a veritable heap of blankets. The cold seeps into your bones, dirt sinks into your skin.
Progress is often frustrating with frequent back tracks to avoid a blocked trail. On several occasions you encounter further monsters, on day 2 a hunting griffin looking for an easy meal retreats after you put a few missiles into it. On day 4 you deal with a pair of trolls, Zeladiel's fire magic incinerating the bodies to ashes. On day 6 you hurry through the territory of what you gague to be a large flock of harpies, not waiting to see if they are accomodating as Undrella.
Pale Mountain is almost always visible showing you your way. Day by day it gets closer.
And so by the seventh day after you meeting with the Janni, the eleventh day of your journey, you find yourself warily approaching your destination. From the south as Kadisa recommended. At this height there is very little vegetation, low prickly bushes and sparse patches of tough grass are about all that break up the rocky ground. You cover your metal armour and Linah's shield with rags to avoid a tell-tale glint of metal from giving away your position to any watchers.
Grall in the lead, your working your way through a narrow canyon a few miles to the south east of the mountain. You've found evidence of gnoll tracks but your trio of trackers concluded they are several weeks old at least.
About sixty feet ahead a single figure steps out from behind a large chunk of rock.
Clearly human, he's not a handsome man, with thinning brown hair and a too long angular face marked with a long ugly scar on the right side from eye to top lip. Very tall, perhaps six and a half feet, he's also very thin. But he looks well dressed for the terrain, several thick, although dirty, furs over battered studded leather armor and boots that go nearly to the knee. A weathered longbow, quiver and what looks like a scimitar scabbard in a weather proof covering are strapped to his back while a number of long knives hang off his belt on the front.
If he has an animal companion there's no sign of it.
He looks you up and down, a grumpy expression on his face. He speaks, keeping his voice low.
Took you long enough. Follow. And try and not make so much noise. There are more gnolls than I care to think about close.
Not waiting for a reply, he turns to go.
Grall sizes the man up, looking over his gear. He seems to be a traveller of rough terrain...he looks around more alert than normal in case it is a trap.
If he sees nothing out of the ordinary he signal for the rest to follow and moves up behind the man, matching his pace quite easily.
Wherrre arrre we going? We have been told little about the arrrea or what we might face herrre otherrr than lots of Gnolls. he whispers as they move on.
From where you are at least he looks as described. He looks equipped for a scout rather than travel with a single waterskin and no backpack, presumably he has supplies at some camp elsewhere.
Extending your senses you don't see anything in the surroundings out of the ordinary. If theres a trap or ambush it is not here.
Evidently not sensing anything of concern, Grall approaches the man. He doesn't seem particularly keen on having a chat although he seems to approve of Grall keeping his voice quiet. If he is discomforted by Grall's race he shows no sign of it.
I've been watching the gnolls and their temple. It's easier to show you than tell you.
Underrrstood.
he nods for the rest of them to follow.
You're unsure how much of your explanation of a jinn binder goes straight over Nuveril's head, but she seems to understand the basic concept. "Then ... a jinn binder is like a slaver of jinn, forcing them to give up their own volition and serve him. And a jinn seal ... is like the brand or the whip that enforces their enslavement? Then I understand." She looks subdued. "They were right to be offended, although I acted in ignorance. If ever we meet again, I owe Mohandis' people an apology." Unwilling to remove her amulet entirely, she nevertheless tucks it beneath her clothing so that it is not immediately visible.