As when he'd left five years ago, Fyn's clothes were dusty from travel on the road between here and Riddleport. And the memories are back, too. Damn.
Pausing in front of the cathedral, his own holy symbol partially hidden beneath the folds of his black and yellow robe, Fyn couldn't help but scowl at the looming structure. You can't go home again... Though I wasn't expecting a homecoming, was I?
Forcing a smile at one of the priests, Fyn tipped his head in a slight bow then turned and began making his way to the Pixie's Kitten. As a priest of Calistria, he could likely get a bed there for the night... and perhaps some information. And if I have to work for it, that wouldn't be so bad, either. He sniffed. Well, as long as I can get a bath.
"Fyn!," Esmond's voice boomed through the crowd's bustle and brought Fyn's mind back to the present. His smile, once forced, now genuine as his old friend lifted him from the street in a characteristic bear hug.
"Esmond! Alright, alright!" Fyn laughed, or would have if he'd any air left in his lungs. "It's been too long. I'm...", Fyn stopped, a rueful but warm look on his face. "It's good to see you."
As Fyn listens to his friend, he keeps one eye on the barbarian, knowing better than most how even a small slight can escalate into violence.
Barbarian rises to his feet and brushes himself off. There's no sense in getting angry, at least rage angry, over a tiny slight. He brushes himself off and walks over to the pair, a literal wall of muscle and beef.
"AH-HEM." He clears his throat, to attract attention.
"BARBARIAN CERTAINLY UNDERSTAND WHAT AM LIKE TO GO SO LONG WITHOUT HUGGING FAVORITE..." He looks at the cleric of Calistria. "GUY." His arms fold, and his brow furrows.
"HOWEVER, IN FUTURE BARBARIAN CORDIALLY REQUEST LOOKING WHERE AM GOING. THAT AM WORKING OUT BETTER FOR EVERYONE."
Fyn let the words to the charm spell he'd been preparing slip away along with a sigh of relief. Thank you, My Lady.
"Ah, yes, I'm so sorry. Esmond, I fear you might have knocked this good warrior over in your enthusiasm." To Barbarian, "I beg your forgiveness. It's been five winters since I've seen my friend here. He's just happy to see me return...home." There is a brief pause before the last word. Damn it, Fyn, get it together.
Whatever the barbarian with the blue-painted face might have thought upon seeing the holy symbol, Fyn pretends not to notice. It wouldn't be the first time someone thought the faith was merely about the holy communion of flesh, and Fyn had been taught to let it remain so. It let Her faithful go about their more important business without the suspicion a black-hooded Norgorberite might attract.
Barbarian knows nothing of religions, even on a DC10 knowledge check level, so all he can tell is that Fyn likes two things: Dressing like some sort of emo bee and one specific symbol. People are weird, man.
He does squint, though.
"BEE-GUY NOT REQUIRING FORGIVENESS. OTHER PERSON AM ONE WHO AM BUMPING INTO BARBARIAN. THAT AM ALSO NOT REQUIRING FORGIVENESS. BARBARIAN ALREADY SAY BARBARIAN UNDERSTAND, THAT AM MEANING OF UNDERSTAND. GEEZ."
He turns his attention to the stalls.
"MORE IMPORTANTLY, WHERE AM BEST ALE AT? BARBARIAN INFORMED THERE AM REALLY GOOD DRINK AT FESTIVALS, COME ALL THIS WAY JUST TO TEST."
"Bee guy? I... oh, yes. Ha ha, yes, true. Thank you for understanding." Struck by the barbarian's...strident manner of speech, the look on Fyn's face is one either of wry bemusement or kindness. He hopes it appears as the latter. It's nice that he understands the common trade language, even if he speaks it so poorly. Goddess only knows where this poor fellow is from.
Aloud, he says, "As for drink, when I lived here the Hagfish was quite popular with some great drinking games. Not very clean, I suppose, and, now that I think about it, you got money if you were able to keep the ale down..." He stops to think, suddenly realizing this actually doesn't sound very appealing at all. "Uh, Esmond?"
"ACTUALLY, THAT AM SOUNDING PERFECT." Barbarian punches a fist into his open hand, grinning.
"BARBARIAN ABLE TO DRINK FOR FREE? THAT SOUND LIKE GRAND DEAL TO BARBARIAN. BARBARIAN GUESS AM GOING GO DO THAT THEN."
Fyn looks at the barbarian's muscle-clad body and enormous sword, considers the equally muscle-filled skull, and briefly wonders if it wouldn't be better to steer him to something with less potential to result in alcohol fueled violence, perhaps a romp at the Pixie's Kitten. Um, no. Not until I've met the madam, first... Besides, poor rube might not have a coin to his name.
"The Hagfish it is, it'll be perfect for you. Maybe they'll even introduce you to Nora," Fyn says with a beaming smile, remembering the tavern's foul namesake. "If you don't mind company, we'll show you the way. Come, Esmond, let's catch up. I need to find myself some lodging near the docks and make other...arrangements, but I want to hear all about the last five years. What became of the great unpleasantness? Was anything learned about...what happened?" Should I tell him I'm back in town because of the fire? To avenge pop-pop? No, he's too loyal. He'll want to help and only get in the way.
Fyn stops so suddenly he practically trips, let's out a whoop of joy and hugs his friend. "By Her grace, that's wonderful! Congratulations!" Stepping back but leaving a hand on his friend's shoulder, Fyn is beaming, the glow of his amber eyes bright and warm. "You'll be a great father. I got you into so much trouble when we were kids, you'll know everything there is to watch out for!" Fyn laughs and winks. "And marriage, too. You've a blessed life, Esmond. I'm glad for it. You'll have to introduce me to the lucky lady."
Patting his hirsute friend on the back as they resume the walk to the Hagfish, Fyn switches back to the "other topic".
"Pop-pop would be honored if you named a son after him, I'm certain. He always wished a little more of you would have rubbed off on me, I think. As for being on my feet, the church gives me what I need and in the faith I have found purpose. I'm sure pop-pop would have preferred that I follow him in the worship of Desna, but the Calistrian faith isn't just about fun and frolic." A dark expression flickers across Fyn's feature, his eyes turning dark, before he tries to cover it with a grin.
"But there is a lot fun, too! I'm afraid I'm just not the marrying type."
Lemnis steps to one side of the doorway, so as not to impede the other patrons from coming and going. He scans the room, looking for any sign of the proprietor or other noteworthy figures.
"What do you think, small friend?" he whispers to the little bird perched on his shoulder.
The speckled bird's head darts this way and that, taking in the room for itself.
"It looks like the kind of place that makes you fussy, but I bet I can find a few bugs or worms to nibble on! Let's give it a try."
Lemnis smiles at his familiar's ever-cheerful nature and makes his way toward the bar. Perhaps a more central position will draw the proprietor's attention. A simple cantrip would suffice for clearing the dust of travel, but what he really wanted was to soak in a bath. Perhaps just one drink as well...
Barbarian watches as the two hug, not having any idea where the Hagfish is on his own leaving him quite unable to do much other than watch. The faith talk is lost on him again, as gods and the like never really seemed to get through Barbarian's skull. He's always been the sort to be more focused on either breaking faces, or the eloquent and subtle beauty of designing bridges or walls or the like.
"MMM. BARBARIAN NOTES ANGER IN VOICE. BEE-GUY BEEN BURNED BY LADYFOLK? AM UNDERSTANDABLE. BARBARIAN NEVER UNDERSTAND LADYFOLK EITHER. THEY AM LIKE, 'BENCH PRESS US, BARBARIAN.' SO BARBARIAN DO. THEN AM GIGGLING AND WANDERING OFF, DECIDE TALK ABOUT PETTICOATS OR FROCKS OR SOMETHING. AM MAKING NO SENSE, BARBARIAN SAY."
For a moment, Fyn is unsure whether he's being mocked (a woman who hurt Fyn!? Inconceivable!), then chooses to accept the more innocent explanation...and lies. "Yes, indeed, the sting of a woman's scorn burns deep, doesn't it? Maddening creatures. Come, friend, let's get you to the Hagfish and find some ale to wet your pipes." Unless pressed, Fyn continues the rest of the walk to the tavern in relative silence, realizing he can't seem to conceal his feelings at the moment. He keeps a smile on his face and listens to his friend talk his new family, and assures the young blacksmith that should his services be in need, Fyn will seek him out.
Gah! Crappy rolls. Going to have to put a point in bluff, I see.
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"Auri my dear, you are true to your namesake, an ever shining light in my life. Won't you marry me yet?"
The wry smile on the woman's lips and the friendly cuff to the shoulder she gives him speak of a practiced routine. There are no teeth to his proposal and no malice in her rebuttal.
"My glumness is the glumness of an old man talking with a beautiful young lady. Another one of these fine brandies I believe may console me a little..."
As Auri weaves her way back to the bar Uli spots an elf enter the bar
curious, not many of those hoity snobs in these parts, could be fun, maybe he wa...
Uli is cut off mid thought as the stool slips from under him and he comes crashing down, banging his head on the table for good measure.
After a walk along one of Sandpoint's busier streets leading down the hill and towards the docks, dodging street vendors, townsfolk and visitors for the festival, the three arrive outside the Hagfish, the smell of ale, sweat and fish creating a fierce melange of odors. Esmond suddenly remembers he never told his wife where he would be and with her expecting....he and Fyn say hurried goodbyes, exchange another hug, and Fyn promises to check in with Esmond at his shop soon.
"Well, Master Barbarian, this is the Hagfish. I might as well poke my head in, too, for old time's sake." Mostly, Fyn wants to check-in with a bartender and make sure they know this "barbarian" is of the gentle and dim-witted sort, just a bit LOUD. He holds open the door as a host would for a guest, a twinge of affection for his hometown stirring again, it's warts and all.
The little bird’s head whips round at the noise of a patron sliding off his chair and hitting his head. "Did you hear that?"
"I could hardly have missed it. I’d best see if he’s alright.”
Lemnis works his way across the room, intercepting the waitress in passing. ”Miss, two coffees for me and the gentleman over here, please.”
He shakes the fallen man gently by the shoulder.
"Sir, are you okay? May I help you up?"
"BARBARIAN GIVE THANKS." He nods to Fyn, before taking a look around the bar. One man on the ground, another looking after him, with a tiny bird allowed inside.
Truly, he is among his people. Barbarian strides confidently to the bar and has a seat.
"BARBARIAN HEAR TALK OF BREW THAT BARBARIAN AM ABLE HAVE FOR FREE IF BARBARIAN AM ABLE DRINK ALL OF IT. BARBARIAN AM INCREDIBLY THIRSTY, AND FREE DRINK AM SOUNDING MIGHTYFINE. BARBARIAN CORDIALLY REQUEST MAKE SO, WITH HASTE. OR EXPEDITIOUS RETREAT. BARBARIAN NOT MIND PARTICULARS."
Fyn takes a deep breath of the (relatively) fresh air in the street, then enters behind Barbarian. Though intending to head straight to the bar and preemptively smooth over any problems the barbarian's rough ways might create, he immediately notices the passed out drunkard and the elf moving to assist the poor lout. Yeah...this is definitely the Hagfish. I should have just kept going to the Pixie's Kitten. Less vomit, better drink, fewer clothes.
Rather than turning on his heels and heading straight to the local brothel, the better part of his nature wins out and he steps up behind the elf, lending assistance in lifting the drunken sot off the floor while doing a quick inventory of his condition. While offering to help with Uli, Fyn says to Lemnis:
If his quick inspection reveals the man has merely passed out from alcohol with a minor bump to the head, Fyn is as willing to render aid as he is to leave. If it's more serious than that, Fyn will likely insist (politely) on helping.
My name is Lemnis. I am pleased to make your acquaintance. Are you a local?"
Fyn does his best to gently guide Uli's body to a booth or, failing that, a chair and table. He readies a threat to curse anyone with leprosy of the crotch should they fail to make room, but it fortunately proves unnecessary.
Fyn's Elven is fluent but, for those who could make the distinction, it clearly carries the accent and dialect of city dwelling elves from this region of Golarion.
With Uli at least initially secured against any further (immediate) self-injury, Fyn pauses to more closely examine Lemnis...and fails to notice even the most obvious indicia of his profession. The coffee arrives shortly and Fyn settles in to wait for the inebriated human to wake up while simultaneously trying to keep an eye on the barbarian. This is not how I saw this day going. Mistress, guide me, for I am too blind to see how this helps me do your bidding.
"Let us speak the common tongue. I would not wish to insult this fine host town. I do appreciate your kindness of speaking to me in my own language."
Lemnis pulls a mug of coffee to himself and passes the other to Fyn.
"You might as well enjoy this with me. We can order another for him when he comes to. What can you tell me of Sandpoint? I understand there is a festival approaching and you are doubtless more familiar with it than I. Also, what of yourself? I am a traveling scholar, seeking Thassalonian lore. I'm a wizard by training. I find the historic systems of magic quite fascinating."
Fyn smiles gratefully for the coffee. "Again, very kind of you." He takes a strong drink from the cup, ignoring any bitterness of the brew, truly thankful just for the ritual. "As for Sandpoint, I, uh..." What do I think of "Sandpoint"? Once it was home. Now? And how much to tell this stranger?
He takes another sip of coffee to collect his thoughts, then says, "Truthfully, I left five years ago to learn the ways of the Savored Sting. Today, I'm a very junior priest in the faith of Calistria. I'm afraid what I know of home may be somewhat...out of date. The people are good and kindly, the merchants fair, the brew can be better...and worse...than is found here. They prefer the faith of Desna, thus the festival, but are open to others. My father saw to... six shrines at the old church, actually. I'd expect they've the same number at this Cathedral they've built. The folk who live here mostly stick to what they know. Not much appetite to solve the greater mysteries or...well."
His voice trails off briefly before he finishes, "As I said, Sandpoint isn't without crime. When I lived here, the constabulary was incapable of solving the more serious crimes. Thus my..." He cuts himself off, uncomfortable with something, then takes another sip of the coffee and shifts the conversation.
"Ah, I'm prattling on so rudely. Thassilonian, you say? That's ancient cultures or something, correct? What is there of it left to be found here? Sandpoint's been settled for decades."
At the mention of Thassilonian lore one eye flicks open. With a flick of his legs the man...
...bounces to his feet.
"Thassilonian you say?! Hmm? Bless Cayden's everfilling tankard, I am Professor Uli Sabanero finest Thassilonian scholar within a thousand miles and... I don't have a drink. What can I help you with sirs? You have done well in seeking me out."
The man does seemm to sober up at the mention of Thassilon, his passion shining through.
Lemnis sits back, surprised by Uli's sudden animation.
"I was just about to share some of my knowledge of Thassilon with my new friend, Fyn here. I may find myself humbled in your presence however! I am Lemnis, a travelling scholar and general collector of lore.
"Sorry, I have to interrupt here or he'll be going on all night. Hi! I'm Speckle. That's his name for me, not mine. I'm a Thrush and, to be honest, I've taught him more about speaking to people than he's taught me. Now, quiet down Lemnis and let the others have a few words, okay?"
The little bird settles back down on Lemnis' shoulder and winks at the others.
Lemnis flushes at the rebuke.
"Quite right, I do tend to go on once my favorite topic has been raised. Please, Uli, tell us more of yourself and your studies."
Fyn seems somewhat taken aback by Uli's sudden animation. "Professor?" "Scholar?" Dear Mistress, he's moonstruck as well as homeless. He briefly looks over his shoulder and under his seat for a wasp or other insect prepared to sting him, signs of the Goddess's displeasure. Nothing.
And, the wizard seems to take this at face value. Maybe I'll just intercept any drink headed this way. I'm just parched. Surely, that's it. This isn't my problem any longer. He's a Caydenite. This is their lot. He looks for the waitress...and then the talking thrush appears.
Fyn's nigh-angelic features take on an utterly bewildered expression. "Um... hi! Uh, Speckle. I'm, uh... um... Fyn."
He looks at the drunkard, the thrush, the drunkard, the wizard... and shakes his head. I swear, my Mistress, I'll toss whoever -- whatever -- you demand of me this evening. Just let this all start making sense soon. And then he looks back at "Professor" Uri, the eminent "scholar" (of the tankard), and waits for elucidation.
"what a marvelous creature, truly magnificent!"
Uli's eyes keep drifting back to the bar, as if looking for a long lost friend
"Yes, well it seems you have the gist of it, you may find the detail I can provide interesting, but I wouldn't wish to overwhelm you."
Uli continues on without pausing for breath
"My specific area of expertise is more one of present artifactory studies and the extraction of the same from their native environs. Though I have a comprehensive knowledge of the religious and arcane I find it to be a terse, mundane and unrewarding mistress best suited to those without my flare. Indeed my sejourne here is merely a hiatus in the ongoing escapades of Uli Sabanero I am simply waiting for certain pieces to find their places, schemes to pay out, then I will be on my way. You are truly fortuitus to have found me so easily. I am quite the adventurous type you know."
Uli sits up straighter, ineffectually dusting down his nightshirt
Fyn listens to this with a dubious but patient expression on his face. "Mmm hmm. It's a fascinating tale, professor, though I'm glad for the amusement. What did you call it, "artefactory extraction" sounds like a dolled up phrase for grave robbing." He sighs, actually somewhat relieved, knowing he can leave the man here. Sad. He's clearly very bright. What a waste. Aila might have liked him sober. Always said the smart ones made for better pillow talk. She never did know how to properly use a pillow.
"Makes no matter, all an amusing yarn that I'm sure gets you many drinks. But judging by your recent merger with the floor, I'm thinking it's time we switch you to a nice, strong cup of coffee. In the meantime, are you feeling well enough? Ringing in your ears? Trouble keeping your eyes open? Delusions of grandeur?" Fyn casts a glance at Barbarian to make sure a slaughter hasn't broken out and tries to catch the attention of a serving wench for some coffee.
Lemnis smiles at Fyn's dubious diatribe. He doesn't take Uli at his word either, he seems more like treasure hunter than a professor, but there is little harm in letting someone talk in a pub. Besides, he had known other professors who did their best work with a bottle in hand.
More to the point, even a treasure hunter may know something of the artifacts they seek, and this strangely animated man might have valuable information that Lemnis could use in his own explorations. Knowledge has value, whatever its source.
Uli squints suspiciously at the priest.
"you seem condescending, Mr Bumblebee, of my current state amongst other things. I wouldn't have thought that one of your faith would be so down on the exploration of ones vices. I am in rude health thank you for your concern. What brings you to my little city anyway gentlemen?"
While the Professor is talking Auri arrives at the table with a strong black 'coffee'. Uli thanks her graciously with a conspicuous wink.
"Oh, you misunderstand me, sir. I'm not judging your vice, merely dubious of the veracity of your tale. You'll forgive me if the surroundings and the condition in which we found you leads me to an incorrect conclusion. You, uh, seem a bit underdressed for an accomplished professor." He glances at Lemnis with the slightest of shrugs, then inspects Uli one more time.
The glance at Barbarian shows that he's just having his drink.
He glances back, as he has several times during this conversation, and only now decides to involve himself again.
"BARBARIAN AM HERE BECAUSE FESTIVAL. AM MANY MIGHTYFINE THINGS TO BE HAD AT FESTIVAL, FROM DRINKS TO TEST OF BARBARIAN ABILITY FOR SMASHING. BARBARIAN NOT LIKELY LOSE CONTEST OF SMASH. AM SORT OF HOW BARBARIAN ROLL, WHICH AM MORE OR LESS JUST STATE OF BEING." He raises his glass, and has a long swig.
"AM PART OF BEING BARBARIAN. SMASHING AM JUST THING THAT HAPPEN SOMETIMES." He seems proud of himself, at least.
Lemnis raises his coffee mug toward the barbarian with a smile before taking a sip.
"I have also come for the festival. The freedom of the wild cannot be matched, but it is refreshing to enjoy the occasional civilized merriment. And, of course, some needful things are best obtained from skilled craftsman. One in my profession does benefit from skilled bookbinders, for example. I also enjoy a good smashing," he adds, loud enough for Barbarian to hear, "though preferably at some distance."
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"'The veracity of my tale'?! You call me a liar sir?! A professor of my standing?! I have never?! Underdressed indeed! Well we shall see about that!"
With this outburst out of his system Uli hops up to stand on the table and whips his shirt off, tossing it at Fyn. Then he makes his way over to the bar jumping from table to table, knocking over a few drinks in the process. Reaching the bar he collects a small coin purse from Auri and strides from the bar without a look back... all the while wearing nothing but his pride.
Fyn slowly picks the soiled nightshirt off his face, trying to touch it as little as possible before dropping it on the floor. His head slowly swivels to watch the "professor" galavant across the bar in the buff, and remembers where he was heading before this...distraction. "No good deed...," he murmurs under his breath. Well, at least I know he's not physically ill. But the only thing he's studied for some time is the bottom of a tankard. More of a jester than a professor.
He stands up, releasing his grip of a morningstar he hadn't realized he was holding -- He's an oaf and a drunkard. Let it go. It's not personal -- and nods with a chagrined smile at Lemnis, Speckle and Barbarian. "It would seem the esteemed 'scholar' is in fine health. Master Lemnis, Speckle, sir," he directs the last to Barbarian, still unclear as to what the man's name is, "If you'll excuse me, I have an extra layer of stink to wash off in addition to a need for lodging. I hope you all enjoy the festival."
Having said farewell, Fyn turns (one boot grinding the nightshirt into the floor) and walks out of the Hagfish. Now...for a bath. And walks off down the street towards the Pixie's Kitten, Sandpoint's own little house of debauchery.
At this relatively early hour of the day, business is slow at the Kitten but a bouncer is still manning the door. Fyn approaches with a smile, holy symbol displayed over his chest, and is shown in to see the madam. In exchange for a bath plus room and board, he offers to give the Sacrament of the Unquenchable Fire to one of the madam's clients. After some haggling, they agree on two clients but someone will see to cleaning and oiling Fyn's leathers. (Business is slow at the moment, so there are already too many idle hands.)
The bath takes miles off Fyn's body, brightening his mood as he washes away the smell of week's worth of sweat and dust baked in the late summer heat. His first supplicant claims to be a noblewoman from Magnimar, recently widowed, in town for the festival. Fyn smiles but doesn't believe a word of it. He remembers her from when he lived in Sandpoint. A merchant's wife, modestly successful...the jewels probably fake. It doesn't matter.
There is no ritual of the confessional in the Calistrian faith. If one seeks to unburden ones conscience, you pray to Iomedae. Calistrian sacraments from the Book of Joy are meant to bring one closer to the truest and purest of emotions, lust, and to experience a spark of divinity in the gods' gift of life. Honesty is irrelevant.
When finished, the madam tells him there are no more clients needing his services at the moment, so he is free for the time being. He asks if there are any courtesans in need of healing or medical aid, but the madam assures him they are all in fine health, though she appreciates the gesture.
So, mind and body refreshed, the priest of the Savored Sting inquires about what became of the late unpleasantness, particularly the burning of the old church. Though he doesn't say so explicitly, the madam knows he refers to the deaths of his father and sister. No, nothing. So tragic. The news is frustrating. In a place like this, lips are loose and a madam's ears are sharp. The priest smiles anyway.
Leaving his backpack and cloak but strapping on his weapons and leather armor (with a tip and a kiss for the girl who cleaned it), Fyn steps back onto the streets of Sandpoint.
Perhaps I should visit pop-pop. But there will be the fuss and bustle about that damnable "cathedral"... hardly peaceful.
Unsure of his next step, Fyn puts his path in the hands of Calistria and begins to wander the streets of his old home.
As for Barbarian...
He waves 'later' to Fyn, and goes back to his drink.
"NOW THEN, FELLOW FOLLOWER OF WAYS OF SMASH. LET US DISCUSS FINER POINTS OF SMASH. THERE AM SOME ACOUSTICS THAT AM ONLY ABLE BE PROPERLY APPRECIATED UP CLOSE AND PERSONAL. AM MIGHTYFINE CRACKING NOISE, FOR INSTANCE, WHEN LANCE GO THROUGH SINEW OF TREE..."
"Absolutely correct!" Lemnis smiles at the barbarian's joyful attitude towards destruction. "I'm sure the tree has the best idea of all that the cracking noise entails, but I doubt that it is happy with the perspective. I'm sure the other trees appreciate their viewpoints much better than the tree who is being smashed. If we were to ask a druid what they think, I'm sure they would say they much prefer their distance from said smashing. Perhaps we can smash things together sometime, and compare our viewpoints afterward."