"In the earliest days, when the gods shaped the heavens and the earth, light flowed through the spheres into the world and all things were new. The gods made the genies, the first people, and were very pleased with themselves. The genies built a grand city of gold and gemstone and placed it at the convergence of the four elements, naming it Mudawwarah Al Jin. All was at peace. Until He came.
Rovagug, the Rough Beast, saw the creation of things, and at first he smiled, for he was newly risen as well. But then he gazed upon the land, and felt an itch to scratch the stones, to see what was inside a genie, one of the gods' first creations. His thousand feet must have claws of adamantine for a reason, and like a jackal with a bone, Rovagug tore and chewed and howled and spit, as if the earth were his to despoil.
The other gods looked on, and spoke the first divine anger. “How dare he destroy what we have made? Why does he kill and claw and break the shining harmonies of creation? We must stop him.”
The gods spoke to Rovagug of peace. He ignored them, and vomited forth the bones of a forgotten race.
The gods spoke to Rovagug of beauty and the harmony of new-made creatures. He ignored them, and tore open the sky with stones hurled from the heavens, setting fires across the world.
The gods tried to pull Rovagug away as he climbed towards Mudawwarah Al Jin. He turned and snapped at their hands. His teeth ripped the robes of Sarenrae, and shattered the shield of Abadar, and devoured the weak among the gods’ servants. The gods’ new rage made their former anger seem as nothing; they gathered their strength and fought Rovagug in a fury, and they were all cast down.
No fury can stand before wrath, and nothing can destroy destruction."
- The Song of Sulymon
The call had gone out. "By order of the Pactmasters, Almah Roveshki is to reclaim the village of Kelmarane, and is seeking Mercenaries to join her."
Though each of you possess different motivations for the journey, you find yourselves uncomfortably acquainted, a consequence of the week long journey through the scorched Katapeshi scrublands. You ride the camels of a man named Garavel. He is your employer and the majordomo of Almah, an ambitious merchant princess with ties across the Inner Sea region. The caravan has traveled steadily for days, with little sign of stopping for anything other than camp.
Cacti and low shrubs inundate the land around you, thriving in the relentless dry heat of the Katapeshi sun. In distance to the west, the Pale Mountain looms on the horizon. You know that somewhere at the foot of that great peak is your ultimate destination: the abandoned town of Kelmarane.
With a lantern jaw and short black hair, the dashing Garavel looks more like a swordsman than an accountant and business expert, although that is all the enigmatic man claims to be. He wears a scimitar at his belt, but most attempts to speak with him are quickly shut down with polite yet firm detachment. The man says what needs to be said on a subject and little more.
All this means, of course, is that you've all had opportunities to speak to the rest of your bizarre company as you see fit.
A tumbleweed rolls by as another unpleasantly hot breeze passes through the camp. Mital Purmar loosens her cloak to take advantage of even this meager respite from the baking sun as she gazes across the desert sands.
So this is what freedom is. What was I thinking, that it would be all rustic milk maids and cute old women chatting by the well? Too late to be going back now I suppose.
Mital returns her view to the crew assigned to this caravan, a slight smile touching her lips as she looks at each one of them.
Such a wonder of different people. I hope we can be great friends. Well, maybe not with that gnoll. Then again, with a bath and a little pink bow he'll look just like dear Preetish back home! This thought causes her smile to widen, but she remembers that smiling to herself without cause can make her look foolish, so she quickly covers it with a fake cough and bowed head.
This gives her a full view of the soiled garment she is wearing. Her good sari and jewelry stored in her backpack, she was left with nothing but her airy dancing costume and a borrowed cloak. The costume was not made to withstand several days of travel without being washed or changed. In fact Mital could not remember the last time she did not change and bathe every day. The desert left few opportunities for either. The only thing still pristine on her person was her great ruby headpiece, resting on her forehead. At least the gift of her father would never succumb to the sweat and filth of the desert.
Shaking her head at her foolish, romantic notions of freedom, she turns her attention to the Chelish woman who accompanied the caravan. She had little opportunity to meet foreigners in her master's harem, and this woman was so beautiful and dressed so interestingly. She had chatted slightly with everyone but had been too scared to strike up a real conversation. Maybe it was time to change that, if she was really going make these people her new friends.
Padding over to Priscilla, she smiles at the woman. "Mistress, I hope you do not mind my forwardness, but I love your hat. Is that the current style in you homeland?" she asks, hoping to start a conversation. Her Taldane is heavily but not impossibly obscured by a melodious Vudrani accent.
Riding comfortably in the camel saddle, Panting like a dog, due to the heat Gnasher doses. Occasional waking enough to use his riding crop to shoe flies out of his face, as he goes in and out of sleep. That human named Garavel, he wants to restore some town or other, he promised me I could kill the gnolls who killed my tribe… well my tribe when I was a pup… the caravan of Bahram Ibn Parumartish became my tribe, I guess this is my tribe now… I wonder is Garavel the tribe leader, or is it this woman Almah? Strange how humans pick leaders, with gnolls it’s the strongest or the best fighter. With humans Bahram said it was the smartest or the richest sometimes the most popular, How does one figure that out? It still makes no sense, but if I can kill the followers of Rovagug and the traitor Carrion King I would follow a bearded dwarf wearing a harem girls dancing bells.
When the caravan stopped that first night, Gnasher handed his camel over to one of the caravan boys, not even removing his own saddle. Taking the time to remove his armor he rolls around in the sand to clean himself off, then draping himself in a blanket he finds a comfortable spot in the shade to sleep. Waking at dusk he dons his makeshift armor and gathers his weapons. After eating whatever is left in the cooking pot he finds the offal from the beast that the hunters butchered and eats that also. After eating the remains of the beasts killed, He announces ”Gnasher take first and second watch, determine among selves who else will watch, and by Lamashtu don’t let Gnasher catch guards asleep!” He then lopes off into the darkness to keep a perimeter around the camp. As the first night passes he occasionally returns to the camp to see if everyone guarding is awake. A couple of hours before dawn he returns to the camp, removing his armor and going back to sleep.
As the caravan first assembles to depart for Kelmarane, a handsome young man speaks quietly with Garavel and then works his way down the line of camels taking the time to introduce himself to each and every person individually. He has the tanned skin and curly brown hair of most humans in this region but his yellow eyes look almost golden in the sun and there is an otherworldly grace to every move he makes. Making use of the few languages he knows, he does his best to speak to each person in their native tongue. "Peace be on you," he repeats over and over in Kellish and Osiriani, and occasionally Taldane, "I am Zagathoth , but you may call me Gath; I look forward to traveling with you."
When he arrives at Mital's camel he looks up into her eyes and then stands in awkward silence for a moment. Looking away with a somewhat sheepish grin he says, "મારા લેડી માફી , હું ક્ષણભરમાં તમારી સુંદરતા દ્વારા મૂક ગઇ હતી. તમને શાંતિ પર હોય છે. હું તમારી સાથે મુસાફરી કરવા માટે આગળ જુઓ." He begins to walk away, shaking his head, then turns and calls back, "I'm Gath, by the way."
After he finishes greeting everybody he helps load the water and other supplies onto the pack animals and then climbs aboard the camel he is to ride.
***
As the sun sets the first night, he listens to Gnasher's comments about guard duty and frowns when Lamashtu is invoked.
I hope that Almah and Garavel know what they're doing... this gnoll speaks our languages and has adopted some of our culture, but if he still reveres the Beastmother we shall have to keep a very close eye on him...
"I'll take the final watch... I like to be up to worship at the sunrise."
He rises early that morning to sit watch through the dark hours of the predawn. As the sun begins to rise he neatly sets aside his studded leather tunic and flowing white robes and, with his scimitar in hand, dances naked in the spreading light of dawn. His form is very pleasing to the eye (for those who appreciate well shaped men), and the dance he performs is joyous and slightly sensual.
When he finishes he puts his clothes back on and helps with the preparations for breakfast. Throughout the day he helps in whatever ways he can and struggles to be subtle about watching Mital as she moves through the camp.
This pattern repeats everyday throughout their journey. Gath is very nearly always smiling and seems to quickly become friends with many of the hired hands. He is quick to listen to any who wish to speak with him and there are often one or two people beside him even when it means riding their camels up next to his.
A few days later Gnasher rose early, seeing Gath doing his morning kata. what is he thinking? Gnasher dressing at his usual leisurely pace finally walks over to where the young Keleshite is dancing. Leaning on his heavy flail he waits for the dervish to finish. As Gath returns to the camp Gnasher nods to him and comments in his gruff gravely voice. "Zagathoth called Gath, Gnasher remembers Gath's first greeting, very few greet Gnasher, most afraid. Gnasher and Gath share caravan, share task, share goals, share tribe." looking the handsome young man in the eye he continues. "Gnasher give Gath wise council, listen well. Wear small clothes when doing kata, sand scorpions live in region. If scorpion sting low hanging fruit, fruit swell up like bloated rotting Gemsbok and burst. Would hurt very much and get bloody mess where Gath like to dance about barefoot." Gnasher opens his mouth in what looks like the beginning of a growl but the twinkle in his eyes make it appear more like a smile. He then, shouldering his heavy flail, returns to his resting spot until the camel boy brings him his camel to leave.
Gath smiles warmly and chuckles. "Thank you for the advice, Gnasher, but being naked is the only way my goddess can completely see me. If I clothe myself it would be like hiding, or withholding, a part of myself from her." When the gnolls makes eye contact he reciprocates.
whatever his opinion of the Beastmother, he does seem to have genuine concern for my well being...
"What you say is wise council, but I trust the Everlight to protect me while I worship and if a scorpion does bite my low hanging fruit I will trust her to heal me or call me to her bossom," he explains. "Now, come and get some breakfast with me and you can tell me how it is that you came to be traveling with a human caravan."
leaving his resting spot Gnasher follows Gath to the food area, instead of dipping into the communal pot he wanders off behind the tent area and returns with what appears to be the rib cage of a large antelope, sitting on his haunches beside Gath he points to the mountain rangers they are approaching, and begins to tell his tale.
"Gnasher tribe called 'Red Claws' lead by Charook seed of Yaenit loyal to Lamashtu. Carrion King send envoy chieftain called Kikkling, to 'Red Claws' to join Rovagug. Charook refused. Kikkling made war on 'Red Claws' and took few survivors as slave." Gnasher stops speaking and spits in the sand, a very human expression. He then crunches into a rib and continues.
"Gnasher was young and hid with hyena, fighting off enemy hyena, Gnasher alone escaped. Heard human caravan, followed human caravan. in time Bahram Ibn Parumartish ask Gnasher join caravan, became tribe. Bahram teach worship Abadar, thank for good trade. Dahrehn head of guard teach weapons, teach desert ways and teach security. Gnasher live with caravan tribe six years." He stops speaking long enough to tear another rib off of the cage and cracking it open sucking the marrow out.
"When majordomo Garavel announced reprisals on Carrion King Gnasher gained Bahram permission to join. So go to kill gnolls who serve Rovagug and avenge 'Red Claws.'" After sucking the marrow out of the rib he continues gnawing on it until it is gone. He then asks:
"Why does Gath dance to Dawn Flower, Dawn Flower give fire like Abadar give good trade, yes?"
"Fire, yes," Gath answers, "and also healing, and light, and forgiveness."
Earlier
As the caravan first assembles to depart for Kelmarane, a handsome young man speaks quietly with Garavel and then works his way down the line of camels taking the time to introduce himself to each and every person individually. He has the tanned skin and curly brown hair of most humans in this region but his yellow eyes look almost golden in the sun and there is an otherworldly grace to every move he makes. Making use of the few languages he knows, he does his best to speak to each person in their native tongue. "Peace be on you," he repeats over and over in Kellish and Osiriani, and occasionally Taldane, "I am Zagathoth , but you may call me Gath; I look forward to traveling with you."
When he arrives at Mital's camel he looks up into her eyes and then stands in awkward silence for a moment. Looking away with a somewhat sheepish grin he says, "મારા લેડી માફી , હું ક્ષણભરમાં તમારી સુંદરતા દ્વારા મૂક ગઇ હતી. તમને શાંતિ પર હોય છે. હું તમારી સાથે મુસાફરી કરવા માટે આગળ જુઓ." He begins to walk away, shaking his head, then turns and calls back, "I'm Gath, by the way."
As Gath approached Mital, it is clear that the fiery woman is less than familiar with camels as a riding animal. She seems to be attempting to bribe the creature with a cactus apple so that it will lower itself and allow her to climb on its back. She looks like she is about to be successful too when she is interrupted by the Sarenrite cultist.
A little gasp escapes her as she turns at the surprise greeting. A warm smile crosses her lips as she hears her native language. She gives Gath a gently appraising look and seems to have quickly forgotten any annoyance she may have had at losing her progress with the camel.
"શાંતિ તમારા પર હોવું," she replies in Ignan. "My name is Mital, daughter of Purmar. I too look forward to journeying with you on this adventure, my lord," she continues, ending with a slight bow. After the greetings are given the caravan must get underway so she returns to attempting to coax the camel into letting her ride it.
Ahh, few men can compare to Master Zaim in the physical perfection department. But it is a blessing that the view on this trip will not all be sand and blood.
------
The next day
As Gnasher and Gath return to camp following Gath's morning devotions, they find Mital placed on cooking duty. She's apparently fried up a few bland flatcakes for breakfast.
As the two approach they can hear her muttering in a foreign language. "हम एक लाख आशीर्वाद के बारे में सोचना चाहिए।"
She looks up at her new partners when they get closer to the fire pit. "Ahh, my lords. It appears that the Pactmasters feel that we would benefit from a minimalist approach to provisioning." With that said she scrapes the last flatcake out of the pan and onto a small pile, indicating they are ready for consumption.
"And that reminds me, you need not fear Master Gnoll. Our patrons are aware of the carnivorous nature of your people and have given us the fine gift of this unidentified jerky," she says as she pulls a few strands of dried out mystery meat from the caravan's provisions satchel. She shakes her head in disgust as she offers it up to Gnasher.
During the day the sun beat down upon Redeemed, making it hot within his second skin of leather and iron, though it bothered him little – it was nothing compared to the fire inside. At first he was mesmerized by the view of endless land and sky afforded him on his perch, high up on the swaying back of a large camel.
It is so large. So empty. We make it emptier by being here.
By noon of the first day he cannot not stand to look at the emptiness any longer, and instead hangs his head and studies his own hands, first one, then the other, then back to the first, always keeping one on the saddle to steady himself; slowly turning each over under his scrutiny, now spreading out his fingers, now curling them into a fist, day after day.
Beautiful.
At night it cools as the backdrop of the sky goes dark, and thousands of lights stand against it. The first night he is fascinated by this, but then the dawn comes and lights up the sky, leaving only the bright sun.
When she comes she burns them all away. They must be sinful.
From then on he keeps his eyes earthward in the night, finding rocks to smash with his hammer. Squatting down and laying all the pieces out on the ground before him he reassembles them, picking up each piece and studying it in his hand before tracing a finger across it, eliciting a red glow of heat, and joining the seemingly molten side to the next piece, then repeating the process. All the while he gently rocks back and forth, giving voice to a quiet chant:
"હું તૂટી વસ્તુઓ સુધારવા છું;
વસ્તુઓ વસ્તુઓ ગુંદર ધરાવતા હોય છે , સમારકામ છે
હું શું કરી શકો છો શ્રેષ્ઠ થાય છે. "
Things are mended, things are glued,
I have done the best I can do.”
Redeemed pays no heed to the bustle of camp around him. He sleeps next to the fire, curling up on the ground in his armor. When he wakes he stretches, then fills his canteen and takes his day’s rations. Mealtime is the only time he removes his helmet, revealing a leather hood with small holes for eyes and mouth. He mutters over his food and drink before consuming it, causing steam to escape from his waterskin and his food to smoke and char.
On the first morning he watches Gath go about his routine as he squats by the campfire’s embers, entranced by the fluid grace of the dancer’s movements.
He told me he is Gath. He has been burned by her ankh. It is a very small burn. He must be a good man.
The gnoll standing nearby Zagathoth speaks with the dancer as he finishes his morning routine, and Redeemed’s trance is broken.
That man is a dog.
Redeemed turns his head to stare at the campfire that someone has rekindled while he watched Zagathoth until he is offered food by a woman, which he takes and retreats a short distance away. Removing his helmet and muttering over his morning’s repast, he eats.
The graceful young dancer smiles at the struggling chef and replies, "Thank you." He reaches out his hand, but instead of taking flatcakes he lifts the dirtied pan from the fire. With a few sing-songy arcane syllables and rythmic movements of his empty hand Gath evokes a minor magical effect and suddenly the pan is clean. He continues to hum and gestures as the utensils become clean one at a time, and then the dirt and sand fall from Mital's clothes.
Smiling he finally grabs a flatcake, then quietly wanders off eating it and spontaneously cleaning things as he goes.
"And that reminds me, you need not fear Master Gnoll. Our patrons are aware of the carnivorous nature of your people and have given us the fine gift of this unidentified jerky," she says as she pulls a few strands of dried out mystery meat from the caravan's provisions satchel. She shakes her head in disgust as she offers it up to Gnasher.
Stopping his conversation with Gath, Gnasher's attention drawn to the girl in the soiled garment. Noticing the juxtaposition of the airy dancing costume and the great ruby headpiece she wears on her head, he stops and moves near her. First sniffing her and then the mystery meat, accepting the meat with relish, swallowing it whole without chewing.
Mildly confused by her statement he shrugs his shoulders, in a very human-like motion, as he smacks his jowls together, relishing the 'mystery meat' and responds. "Wisdom dictate fear is appropriate, if gnolls catch foe alive, gnolls eat foes alive or make slaves, not sure which worse."
As he begins to leave he turns back around and says "Food was given, thanks appropriate, 'thank you' if it pleases, call by name: 'Gnasher'" He then turns to go back to his nap until they leave.
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Sitting poised on a lone white whithered tree trunk, a leg crossing daintily over the other, Priscilla scribbles furiously into a moleskin journal, her quill twisting this way and that across the page like a kind of frantic dance. One she knew all to well. The movement stops suddenly as Priscilla scans her most recent work for signs of any inspiring sparks of creative genius but instead finds her face twisting in frustration at the lack of it.
BoIIocks.
With a fierceness that nearly splits the tip from her writing instrument, Priscilla dramatically crosses out her most recent entry and sharply snaps the ledger shut.
Stowing the source of her mental anguish away in her pack with a pout, Priscilla places her chin in her hands and her elbows on her knees, resigning herself to staring off at the shapes of golden dunes mingling in waves with the soft grey twists filling the air from the sounds of a soft wind. She had found that wind was the most interesting color/noise phenomena she had experienced as it seemed to almost be completely different wherever her travels led her. Granted this was the farthest she'd ever been outside of Korvosa but seeing that even the wind here possessed such natural beauty, she couldn't help but wonder what other treasures this land held. What secrets lay ripe for the solving?
Damnit all.
Even in this glorious and hearty land, my muse eludes me. Perhaps if I partook in some measure of menial labor and connected with the salt of the earth it would shake my ideas from their cage of blandness?
Priscilla snorted unceremoniously.
The noise however seemed to spurn a subtle stir of movement a few feet from her foot , causing her to involuntarily tilt her head out of curiosity. After a few brief intense seconds of analyzing the now motionless patch of dirt, her dull green gaze softens and she stands pressing the bulk of her weight on her cane for assistance. As she does so though, the golden crackling speech of a nearby young woman fills her vision briefly and she turns to address the radiant questioner, momentarily taken aback by her beauty, obscured thought it was by her ratty outfit. Priscilla gestured with a lone finger upward towards the wide brimmed reddish hat that sat low on her forehead.
"THIS crimson travesty of a coxcomb is most undoubtedly from last season. Unfortunately it's the only one I own that keeps the bloody sand out of my hair. Pray tell, is this the height of fashion from wherever it is that you hail, sweetie?"
The last bit of her statement rolls off of Priscilla's tongue like honey as she slowly takes in the image of golden eyed woman, fixating briefly on the ruby atop her forehead.
"Regardless. I don't mind your forwardness in the slightest. In fact I encourage it! Both in speech and thought. Deception is often the strategy of the weak minded and our time is far too precious to waste on chicanery. But this little fellow..."
Priscilla motions with a quick gesture of her cane held in an ink splotched hand towards a small patch of dirt no bigger than four inches across, which appears to be moving ever so slightly.
"...thrives on it.
Latouchia Parameleomene, I believe. They have rastellum-er, barbs on their fangs that help excavate the little burrows like this one. You see how it lays those lines of silk outside its home? Just in case something frolics too closely aaaand-"
As Priscilla moves the cane closer, lightly tapping the dirt in front of the quivering clump, a dark brown fiendish looking arachnid leaps out and snaps at her fashionable crutch, tapping at it with its legs before scurrying back into its habitat as quick as it came.
Priscilla gives a wistful smirk and sighs with an air that indicates she's pleased with her self. But by the time she turns to meet the young exotic looking young woman's gaze , her smile has twisted into something more akin to condescension.
"What I do mind though, is being referred to as "Mistress". You are not my slave, and I am not your master though such a relationship could be arranged if you feel it necessary..."
After waiting an appropriate amount of of time for her words to sink in, Priscilla adjusts her glasses and begins to stride away, deeper into the camp. But just as she reaches the nearest tent she promptly stops and quietly speaks without turning, her posture poised and refined.
"You may, however, call me Countessa. Or Priscilla, if you are brave enough to feel us equals."
Priscilla then gracefully resumes her stride to see if what the other members of the caravan generously refer to as dinner, is being served.
Nemeris sat cross-legged in the center of his tent, hunched over several ink-riddled pages. Only a small sliver of light cut past the tent's entrance, but a soft glow nonetheless filled the small shelter - emanating from atop the arcanist's staff, which somehow stood completely straight in the center of the tent. Once more, his stomach let loose an angry growl. Nemeris halted his quill momentarily to offer his waist an angry glare. This is becoming a distraction.
Looking back down at his work, he sighed. Arcane diagrams and neatly arranged paragraphs of cipher filled the pages in front of him, but he felt like he had barely begun. A large stack of virgin parchment pinned beside his cot by a bottle of wine was evidence of how much he has left to do. Unfortunately, he was unlikely to complete any more work until this gnawing hunger was dealt with. He had tried to work through it, but smells being shed by the campfire had slowly broken down his resistance.
I suppose I should also meet my traveling companions. A day had passed since they set out, and having spent the entirety of that time sequestered in his tent, Nemeris had yet to engage in introductions.
Pushing himself to his feet with an audible groan, the arcanist set his papers neatly upon his bed so that the ink could dry, and pushed past the tent entrance into the hot desert air. As he left, he snapped his fingers and the light atop his staff winked out.
Squinting against the sunset, Nemeris dusted off his trousers and picked his way toward the campfire. As he neared, he could make out from among the group a gnoll engaged in conversation with what looked to be (unless he was mistaken) an ifrit, while a keleshite man stood by, gracefully magicking the cookware clean. ( to identify race: Ifrit and Aasimar)
What an interesting menagerie. He mused. As he approached, each of the trio got up in turn and left the fire. When Nemeris arrived, he found nothing but clean pots and pans. It appeared that he had missed dinner. As if in agreement, his stomach quaked audibly. He clutched at it in annoyance, and wandered off to see if anyone in the caravan was still cooking.
If all else failed, there was some rock-tough jerky sitting in the bottom of his satchel.
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Priscilla spends most of her late mornings fruitlessly toiling away at her new book.
Though as a symptom of her writers block she doesn't mind people interrupting as it feeds the nature of procrastination. Her love for conversation currently outweighs her writers instinct. Occasionally, she breaks her usual routine of sleeping late to spend her writing sessions near Gath so as to watch his martial display, a look of awe, with a hint of jealousy often spread across her face.
Her days are spent cataloguing fauna and flora she encounters near the caravan. For a time she was even collecting live specimens, a childhood practice now adjusted to a more academic level, but quickly ran out spare jars requisitioned from the wagons.
When not observing the wildlife she can be found studying one of her impractically heavy tomes and occasionally conversing with any soul who appears to be of merchant class or higher. If none are to be found, she resolves herself to one sided conversations with the guards or the troupe, preferring to listen rather than dominant the talk with tales of fashion or politics that hold no sway in this land. If any of these workers appear to need assisstance however, Priscilla is quick to wordlessly aid them, whether it's simply holding a post steady or collecting spilled items from the desert floor.
On rare nights, the occasional crack of a whip can be heard outside the reach of the firelight but more often than not the air is filled with sharp curses of pain as the weapon is undoubtedly mishandled. Occasionally, the proud woman will come stamping back into camp bearing a recent scrape and go to bed early, too enthralled in her tantrum to eat.
------
Some later day
Priscilla crawls out bed in the late morning and spends more time than usual on her appearance. Despite not having mirror, she had become quite adept at using any nearby unmanned blade, mostly remembering/caring to return it.
Approaching the fire pit, she catches sight of several members having taken their food and wondered away. But two individuals near the fire pit stand out to her. The first being a a staff wielding middle-aged man in average vestments that appearing to have a chic twist, which put a smile on her face. The second being the rosey skinned woman from the day before. Feeling a tinge of pity(or was it guilt?) at the sight of the poorly garbed woman, decides to join her. Priscilla nears the group and gives a brief courtsey before proudly addressing her title.
" I am Countessa Priscilla Martzia de Lacrimosa. It is an absolute pleasure to meet you as much as I'm sure it is a joy for you all to be meeting me."
Priscilla then delicately takes a seat near the fire. Biting her lip, she guardedly eyes the flatcakes as if judging their worth, before rolling her eyes dramatically and taking one.
"Is everyone else allergic to discourse or are they just as bloody tired of this heat as I am? Certainly the food is a bit pedestrian but nothing to get their knickers in a twist, over. "
Priscilla turned the flatcake in her hand before gingerly picking a piece off and roughly chewing through it with a barely contained grimace. She smiled knowingly at her breakfast companions and inhaled sharply.
"So, what grand adventure do you believe today will bring us, my dears? My guess is more sand,-"
Priscilla leans in and quietly to the golden eyed girl and whispers.
"-but I have been wrong before. Don't tell anyone."
When Gath spots the older gentleman looking forlornly at the cleaned pans he trots back to the fire. "Hi, I don't know if you remember me but I introduced myself the day we set out- I'm Gath. The leftovers all get stored in the supply tent to dry out before they're fed to the camels. Come with me and I'll get some for you."
At breakfast he tries to smile when the countess begins complaining. "They say that hunger is the best spice," he jokes before offering a short prayer to the Dawnflower. "May I?" he asks reaching out one hand towards her cake. He rubs his fingertips together and a golden dust sprinkles down it. When she takes another bite it tastes of honey and figs. He makes his around to do the same for anyone else who would like it. "As for grand adventures, I believe this route was likely chosen purposefully to avoid any unnecessary adventures."
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Priscilla's vision fills with soft spirals as Gath envokes the chant to his maker, the color of which is not disimilar to that of the swarthy man's magic. Seeing verbal casting through her chromesthesia always intrigued her as it seemed to possess an ineffable quality always inspired wonder in her.
One of the few perks this bloody curse of mine.
Gazing at the food Priscilla is momentarily suspicious, but her stomach growling quickly makes it into a passing notion. Priscilla takes a small bite of the cake and her eyes widen. Then a larger one and exclaims in the man's native tongue.
كنت أتمنى لو كان السحرة حول أكثر في كثير من الأحيان
Grabbing a few more cakes from the pile, Priscilla shoved them towards the caster expectantly.
"And you make a fair point. I dont mean to whinge, I simply expected our journey to contain more swashbuckling and forbidden magics. From all the stories I've read, such feats are commonplace. Take these cakes for example, bland and forgettable, they're almost not worth the effort. Spicing them as you did however, has brightened my day considerably."
Priscilla smirked widely and adjusted her glasses.
"But perhaps you're right. Maybe these cakes are all the adventure I require."
Once her flatcakes are done, it seems that everyone assigned to their small camp finds his way to her cooking fire.
Taken aback by the strange behavior of the masked man, Mital serves him his flatcake wordlessly as he scampers off to eat it alone.
He reminds me of those strange people Master Zaim spoke of, the ones in Avistan who worship a god of pain. She involuntarily shudders as she thinks of the night she spent with Zaim after that particular story. His mind is certainly broken enough to be the follower of that kind of god.
Mital smiles and gives a laugh like the ringing of a small brass bell when Gath flavors the terrible food and cleans up her soiled garment. The airy dancing outfit is now no longer stained but returned to its silken form of pink and blue.
"Hah, thank you! I had hoped to learn that particular trick myself, but you know the magic comes when it wills. Maybe from watching you I will pick it up," she says to the handsome Keleshite with a friendly wink.
Mital recalls the strange encounter she had with the exuberant Chelish woman earlier in their travels as she approaches for some flatbread.
Truth be told, she wasn't sure what to make of the woman. She had hoped to bond over talking fashion- it always seemed to work with harem girls- but instead she had gotten a lecture on (shudder) spiders.
Still, always put the best face forward. "Contessa, thank you for partaking of my flatcakes," she says as she serves the woman her share. Gath is nearby to spice up the food with his spell, and Mital chuckles when Priscilla jokes with her.
"I do not know how often you are wrong, my lady, but I will take your word for it."
As Gnasher snatches up the jerky, expressing his confusion about her mention of fear, Mital starts to explain herself.
"Oh, no, my friend, it is just that I didn't think you would..." but it is too late. Gnasher is already gone and curled up for his mid-morning nap.
I know better than to disturb a sorcerer if he doesn't want to be disturbed.
With little to do besides stack the skillet, plates, and cooking utensils thanks to Gath's cleaning magic, she does so and retires to her tent.
Returning a moment later she puts a note on the cookware for the magician should he emerge late for a meal. Unfortunately she is still accustomed to thinking in Vudrani, and the note is in that language.
मैं तुम्हें नाश्ता याद किया कि खेद है। क्या आप मुझे आप के लिए खाना बनाना चाहते हैं, तो मेरे डेरे से मुझे बुलाने करें।
अपने विनम्र सेवक,
मिताली परमार]
I am sorry that you missed breakfast. If do you want me to cook for you, then please call me at my tent.
Your humble servant,
Mital Purmar
"હું તે સમજવું કદાચ પાપ આ સાફ. "
Redeemed raises the steaming waterskin to his lips and takes a long, slow draught.
"હું તે પેટ ભરવું કદાચ પાપ આ સાફ. "
The flatcake chars in his hand, thin wisps of smoke rising from it as he brings it to his mask to eat, when Zagathoth appears, apparently offering to do something to his food. Redeemed hesitates a moment before holding out his biscuit, onto which Zagathoth sprinkles some glittering sand before nodding with a smile and walking away. Redeemed brings his newly seasoned meal up to his mask, apparently simply to stare at it for a while.
"હું તે પેટ ભરવું કદાચ પાપ આ સાફ. "
Redeemed takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully, then stares at Zagathoth as he slowly consumes the rest of the cake.
This food tastes better. The naked man is Gath. He made my food better.
Once finished, he replaces his helm and continues to squat away from the fire, either studying the group gathered there or staring off into space - it's hard to tell.
"Purge this of sin, lest I ingest it."
"Purge this of sin, lest I ingest it."
Several more days pass as Garavel leads your procession through the arid wastes. The majordomo appears to have some manner of understanding where Almah has made her camp, although the only difference you can tell between where you were the night before and where you are now is that the Pale Mountain is growing. Every day brings you closer to that cursed peak, even if your surroundings seem never to change.
Possessing some form of prescience, Garavel turns to look back at the rest of the party. "We have arrived. The Sultan's Claw awaits just beyond this rise." As soon as the craggy tree appears over the next hill, it becomes obvious why it earned its name. Five immense, mostly leafless branches climb into the sky, causing the growth to look more like a giant skeletal talon than a thing of living wood.
A caravan of a half-dozen wagons and a large tent clustered around the distinctive tree comes into view. Camels in a nearby pen prance in agitation, and a clutch of confused goats and livestock wander the grounds around the wagons. Perhaps a dozen men and women rush around the campsite, chasing down an animal or hastening toward the center of the cluster, near the Sultan’s Claw, with pails of water in their hands. The cause of the commotion is soon apparent. One of the wagons is on fire!
"Trouble." Garavel observes. "We must hurry." Without delay, the majordomo cracks the reins of his camel and the beast begins to race down the hill towards the camp. Your camels follow suit.
Lush orange and red flames engulf an elaborate wooden wagon emblazoned with painted moons and stars. A gout of smoke pours from an open door, and as you approach an ill wind blows a number of colorful fortune-telling Harrow cards from inside the wagon. As you shift your eyes away from the wagon, embers from the fire blow onto the dead wood above it and the whole of the Sultan's Claw erupts into brilliant flame.
The central flap of the elaborate tent flies open and a regal woman who can only be Almah steps out into the firelit night. “Douse that flame!” she shouts to the men surrounding the wagon before turning in your direction. “Ah, Garavel!” she says. “And just a moment later than the nick of time, as usual.” Looking specicfically past her second in command and directly at you, Almah barks out a simple order before running off toward the blaze: “Find some way to help!”
The scene around you is one of pandemonium. Almah, Garavel, and four soldiers dressed in the distinctive red chitin-plate armor of the Pactmaster Guard run back and forth with buckets between the burning wagon and an uncovered wagon about 20 feet away. The latter contains a huge barrel of drinking water.
Four burly men and women struggle with an enclosed wooden wagon within feet of the burning wagon, hoping to move it to safety before an errant spark causes it too to burst into flame.
An elderly man kneels beside a burnt man in leather armor, tending to his wounds. Another injured person lies nearby, forgotten in the commotion.
A collection of pigs, goats, and sheep unsettled by the flaming wagon have some how escaped from their pen and scatter across the campgrounds. A middle-aged human camel driver and his wife do their best to wrangle the panicking animals, but their efforts are quickly
being overrun by the chaos of the situation.
Gnasher, spends his time watching the humans talk and interact, involving himself in conversations when they do not appear to be leading to work. He continues keeping watch most of the night and napping as time allows during the day. He makes a habit out of eating any leftovers that are meat, as well as the offal, bones and hide of any killed animals, leaving the vegetable leftovers for the camels.
Riding a camel in the caravan, dozing in and out of sleep he ponders. I like this group, they will make a good tribe. Redeemer is odd enough they don’t seem to mind having a gnoll along; and between Mital’s cooking and Gath's magic there is almost no work to do. The Priscilla lady seems to know a lot of languages, maybe she will teach me. Best of all they seem to be alert, no one has fallen asleep on watch and I haven’t even had to threaten them a second time, they are much better guards than Bahram’s ever was. I still don’t know what to think of Nemeris he says he is a magician, he seems old, well if he can’t survive out here we will learn soon enough.
Hearing Garavel make his announcement Gnasher awakens himself to full attention, Seeing the Craggy tree for the first time Gnasher makes a mental note of its location determined to remember in case things don’t go as planned. Seeing the wagon on fire, at the same time as he hears Garavel yell, Gnasher curses under his breath.
”აფეთქება, ისინი არ რამ მხოლოდ დამწვრობა, მიდიოდნენ უნდა დააყენოს ცეცხლის გარეთ.”
Gnasher looks to the shadow of the Pale Mountain into the distance. I could say my camel ran off and find my way back after the work is done, or I could just leave. No, I need to let these humans know I am trustworthy, anyway the fire may burn something of value, may as well get this over with.
Gnasher rushes his camel toward the chaos. Seeing the four burly men and women struggle with an enclosed wooden wagon within feet of the burning wagon, he drops off of his beast of burden ignoring the other yelling as he runs to the front of the unmoving wagon. Unconsciously he begins to laugh
As he allows his frustration with the Idea of working to boil over into rage. His paws grow into overly large claws, with which he grasps the wagons tongue, his eyes grow red, his fangs enlarge and he begins to froth at the mouth, his brown hide takes on a red-orange cast to it, he bellows at his fellow laborers.
Pull blasted pink hairless plant eaters, Do not make Gnasher regret helping with work!
Gath spurs his camel onward quickly when the trouble becomes apparent. When it registers what is happening with the drinking water, he heads straight for that wagon and the people with buckets...
"" he shouts, "do not use up the drinking water or we'll all die of thirst! Fill your buckets with sand to choke out the flames, and move whatever you can away from the fire!" While he yells he grabs a bucket, or shovel, or tray, or whatever implement he can find for tossing heaps of sand onto the wagon, and begins doing that.
Beautiful. They are burned. Heal burned. Stay burned. Redeemed thinks of his old skin, hiding beneath his new, and shudders. Stay free from sin.
Redeemed breaks out of his trance as his camel suddenly starts forward at a much more vigorous pace. Steadying himself on the saddle, he looks up just in time to see the tree burst into flame – a twisted, skeletal claw wreathed in glorious fire, grasping at the sky. He holds his right hand up before his face, adjacent to the Sultan’s Claw, and compares the two.
Beautiful.
There is a woman shouting at Garavel, then she seems to look right at Redeemed and shout - ”Find some way to help!”
Redeemed looks about, seeing Garavel, Zagathoth, the dog man, and others racing about to help either pull things away from, or put out, the fire. Confused, he dismounts from the camel as best he can, the creature’s frantic gait making it more difficult than usual for him to think.
What are they doing? Fire burns sin. I do not understand. Why do they save sin?
Slowly walking towards the blaze amidst the chaos, unsure what to do, Redeemed comes upon the untended, injured figure. He stops, squatting down beside them, and sees they're covered in burns. Despite this, they seem to still struggle for life.
”Your sins have burned away. You are very lucky.” He reaches out a gnarled hand, placing it upon the figure’s forehead.
Seeing that they have been saved from death, Redeemed leaves whatever burns remain. They will scar. Scars will remind them. Remind them of fire. Remind them of sin. Satisfied, Redeemed looks about to see if there are any others he can assist who have been cleansed of sin and yet survive.
Round 2 Standard: Casts cure light wounds hit points of healing on the injured figure.
EDIT: Changed some of Redeemed's thoughts at the end - sounded a little too preachy.
Dismounting from his camel amidst the chaos, Nemeris surveyed the scene, searching for a way to be of use. While he lacked the spellcraft to manage such a large fire, he could certainly be of use in other ways.
If only I still had my scrolls. He frowned. Nemeris had left Quantium with a rather diverse array of spell scrolls, but they had been lost alongside several other prized possessions several years prior in a sudden storm encountered off the coast of Absalom, nearly taking their owner with them.
As he hastily hitched his camel to one of the wagons removed from the commotion, an errant sheep, it's coat slightly singed, ran into him, nearly knocking him over. He had to quickly step aside as several more animals ran past in an effort to escape the fire.
He called after them. "Supper, come back!"
Crouching down, Nemeris grabbed a handful of fine-blown sand and let it run through his fingers. With his other hand, he traced careful, practiced symbols through the air, a light purple hue of energy trailing his motions. Gently, he murmured an incantation in draconic, his words growing outward and carrying across the sand.
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Priscilla glares for just a moment too long at the card betwixt her fingers, its edges slowly smoldering as her companions race to curb the chaotic scene. Caught up in her focus ,she winces involuntarily at the Gnolls garbled barks but ultimately agrees with his sentiment. For a moment she considers tossing the divining tool into the night air without another thought, her hand lifts outward to flick it away, but a very illogical itch at the back of her mind causes her to scoff and instead she stuffs the card behind a plate in her outfit.
Her eyes flick back toward the pandemonium, taking stock in the efforts of the group while assessing where best to place her skills. Nemeris seemed to be taking on the unruly livestock, hopefully managing better than that bumbling couple. The leather-bound helmeted fellow seemed to be stalking amongst a group of wounded but appeared oddly focused on the blaze...almost fascinated. I certainly hope his intentions are to assist rather than something barmy or obscene. So hard to trust a bloke whose face you've never seen.
The camp is lit not only from the blaze and the moon above, but to Priscilla, a torrent of motley crimson and heavy yellows flow rigedly from panicked shouts of people and animal alike. mingling with the white haze of the fire. With enough time wasted observing, she spurns her camel forth into the kaleidoscopic scene.
A high and unsettling whining laugh cuts through the noise and color in a trembling black wave, drawing Priscilla's eyes to their Gnoll companion. Red furred and long of talon, the creature appears as a devil amongst the bedlam.
Unfortunately for Priscilla, her mount groans in disagreement and begins to ignore the simple commands Garavel had taught her. Whether disapproving of Gnasher's piercing chortle, or being brought so close to the fire and anarchy, it begins frantically pacing this way and that, giving Priscilla more than a little trouble on her dismount. After a brief but disgraceful display, Priscilla lands arse first on the ground. Brushing herself off in a huff after a moment of shock, she spits back at the creature in a series of barks, furious for being discharged so unceremoniously.
"მაქცია! თქვენ გაქვთ ჩემი სისხლიანი ნებართვა ჭამა ამ foul არსება ერთხელ ჩვენ მეშვეობით აქ!"
Pushing her injured pride aside, Priscilla then wheels around to focus on the fire. Heeding the sound council of Gath, she grabs a nearby bucket and fills it with clumps of dirt and sand making her way around the the back of the wagon where several desperate peoples splash bucket after bucket onto the inferno.
Examining the vehicle briefly, Priscilla is reminded of the Varisian Reader Wagons from her books with their high wheels and ornate displays. From what I can recall all of them had chimneys of a sort, though the smoke billowing across the top obscured its roof made it impossible to tell. The fire appeares to have emanated from within. If it possesses a chimney then it would be worth queclching that end first.
"The back first! Cover the back end! If the first started anywhere its there!"
But just before pitching even a single bucket onto the torched wagon, Priscilla is struck with an idea, causing a small smile to roll across her face.
Priscilla draws close enough to the flame that it begins to make her eyes water, finally standing within eight or nine feet, she stops to unconconsiously nod in approval of her positioning in relation to the wagon.
Priscilla then takes in a short breath and begins concentrating, her eyes pinching closed. A soft mist begins to twirl about her pointed boots pulling from the darkness of her mishapped shadow as it practically dances in in the flickering light of the fire. As the young woman continues to focus, the fog seems to build and plume pushing out ward from her in all directions. What was only moments ago a few wisps of perspiration, turns into a practical cloud that slowly envelops her and the area around nearby.
The mist coils and twists around the flaring trolley, until its smothered in moisture and blocked from view. The campsite no doubt dims from the act but the obscuring haze stops just outside the edge of the wagon but twenty or so feet into the darkness behind Priscilla. Her body relaxes from the cool air rising against it, higher and higher until billowing past her satisfied face but just before being consumed, her eyes flick open, revealing them to be black as sin
"Let's see you burn now..."
Mital does not have much time to admire the stark beauty of the Sultan's Claw before the chaos of Lady Almah's camp overwhelms her.
Shades of the raid on her father's palace briefly flash before her eyes as she gasps. Frozen for a moment on her camel, a gust of hot wind from the burning caravan brings her to her senses. Without thinking she slips from the beast, seeing her companions already hoping into action.
With a quick catalog of the magic at her command, Mital comes to the conclusion that there is little she can do to help with it. Instead, she simply rolls up her sleeves and grabs a bucket. Filling it with sand as Gath commands, she begins to toss it onto the rear of the burning caravan.
Almah, Garavel, and the soldiers take after Zagathoth almost immediately, using sand instead of water to fight the flame. Combined with the mist created by Priscilla, the blaze seems to subside steadily.
The mercenaries struggling with with the wagon step aside before the hulking gnoll, but when it appears to help, they jump back into the fray. Combining their efforts with his, they are able to drag the wagon out of danger.
Redeemed's magic has saved the dying woman, although she is still unconscious. The elderly man tending to the other wounded looks up from trying to force his patient to drink a potion with trembling hands. "Thank you, stranger," he shouts over the din. " I have this one."
Finally, Nemeris's quick thinking and spellcraft has saved the majority of scrambling animals, dropping them into a deep slumber. A few pigs and cow still run loose around the dying fire.
His bright red eyes glaring at the four humans when they momentarily step away from the wagon at the sight of him, resisting the urge to snarl, they make the right decision to grab back hold of the tongue as they all pull together. I do not eat living sentient beings, I do not eat living sentient beings, I do not eat living sentient beings, like a mantra he continues mentally reminding himself, as the wagon moves and he releases the wagon tongue and his anger.
His hide no longer reflects the red and oranges of the fire, his eyes no longer glow red, his paws return to their normal size as he wipes the froth from his mouth; he turns to the four humans and presents a smile that still looks more like a snarl and tells them, "Gnasher is name, we came to help with Garavel."
Slightly fatigued Gnasher goes to Zagathoth as a few people still dump sand on the smoldering ruin. "Sand smart idea, save water. Humans like smart well formed leaders. Word to wise, do not let expanded caravan see dancing low-hanging fruit, may keep them from following when would be best." Opening his mouth and lulling his tongue in a gnoll smile he points to the animals."
"gnoll chase, them run further, Gnasher will circle wide, scare back this way, also let Gnasher see anything drawn to fire, Gnasher will shout out if trouble come."
Now fully revived from his ordeal, Gnasher runs straight north and begins to widely circle the camp making Gnoll barks and chirps to scare the loose animals back to the humans. He also keeps a keen eye out for any approaching danger.
Now that the flames are somewhat under control, and others are heaping sand upon them, Gath moves quickly up to the wagon. Shielding his face with his sleeved arms to minimize any burns, he peers into the wagon to make sure there isn't anyone trapped inside...
...but gets a face full of mist and billowing smoke and can barely see his own arms. "Is there anyone in here?!?"
”I am Redeemed.” He stares at the man’s trembling hands for a moment before leaving him, wandering through the chaotic scene and looking for any other wounded.
Have others burned? Others to awaken from fire?
If he finds anyone injured and staying in place, he will heal them; if not, he eventually makes his way before the blazing Sultan’s Claw, where he stands transfixed by the sight.
Mital spends the next few minutes working diligently to end the blaze in the caravan. After it is completely out she moves over to Garavel.
"My lord, the fire in the caravan is out. Do you want use to try to put out the Sultans claw," she says, nodding in the direction of the gnarled tree.
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As the crackling of the fire from deep within the mist begins to subside, a guffaw of triumph escapes from Priscilla.
I knew it would work! But truly, was there ever any doubt?
Priscilla steps out from beyond the mist, dusting the excess moisture from her silk sleeve and scans her surroundings for signs of the arsonist or to see if her companions required a well manicured hand.
Priscilla narrows her eyes as she catch sight of the hulking Gnoll launching itself across the desert floor after the straggling flock. She bites her lip as a pang of jealousy from the sight hits her.
Why does he get to wear the animal on the outside?
With the wagon fire extinguished, all that remains is to watch the Sultan's Claw burn. No amount of sand or water could be thrown on to the dead tree to prevent its final moments. Even now that you have been summoned into Almah's grand tent, the occasional sound of a burnt branch crashing to the ground punctuates how close the caravan had flirted with disaster.
You sit alone in a central room of the tent. Numerous, plush cushions surround a low table upon which sits a cold hookah. Several flaps in the fabric lead off to separate rooms and a pair of braziers burn low, filling the tent with heat and dim light. Before you can get comfortable, however, Almah strides into the tent and sits opposite the party. Her fine robes are blackened by soot and her white silk keffiyeh has fallen away to reveal shoulder-length black hair ringed by a tiara of shining brass disks. Her hair is curly, an uncommon trait among the Qadiran people of Katapesh. Despite her slightly disheveled state, it is clear that rumors of her beauty were not false.
"Thank you for your assistance in battling the fire," she begins, her voice calm and firm despite the very recent danger. "If it were not for your timely arrival, I fear to think of what more damage might have been caused." She pauses, considering what to say next.
"Eloais is dead. It was his wagon that burned and Garavel informed me that his body has been found among the wreckage. He always burned candles in there, but the man was no fool. I do not believe that his death was an accident."
"I will not suffer traitors and saboteurs in my expedition. The mission is too important for these inconveniences. You six and Garavel are the only members of my entourage that were not present when the fire started, and thus, are the only ones whose innocence I can prove. You have served me admirably once, and I ask that you do so again. I would like you to investigate the matter. Search the wreckage for clues and question the others. Find out what you can and return to me."
Do you have any questions?"
Redeemed glances at Almah then quickly lowers his eyes, the sight of her causing his head to burn hotter. Staring at a cushion, he listens to her entreaty.
She commands Garavel. She tells me I am innocent. The fire was… sin. I do not understand. I am innocent. But someone here is guilty.
Redeemed speaks, his voice made strange and hollow by his helm. ”I am Redeemed. I will protect against sin.” He slowly looks around at the others gathered in the tent, then points to each of them in turn. ”He is Gath. He is a good man. He dances. She is Contessa. She writes things. She is Mital. She cooks things. He is…” Redeemed seems to struggle for a few moments, pointing at Nemeris. ”…he is a man. He stays in his tent. He is Gnasher. He is a dog man. He watches the watchers.” He turns back to face Almah.
”We help Garavel. We will help him find the guilty.”
Mital keeps her eyes averted as Almah enters, only taking quick glances at the woman who is her superior in this endeavor.
She's pretty enough, though I don't know if she'd make it into Master's harem. Though if the stories are to be believed she must make quite a conversation partner.
Mital smiles and bows to Lady Almah after Redeemed's little speech. "It seems our friend has piercing insight into our natures, Mistress," she says.
"I do have question regarding this investigation. I know a woman of a great house such as yourself may have many who wish her ill, but is there anyone in particular you suspect of this crime?"
A lead beyond what we find in the wreckage might be good, in case we don't find anything Mital reasons internally.
@Redeemed Thanks for taking the plunge. I didn't want to be the first to post myself :).
"Thank you, Redeemed," Gath replies, "I saw goodness in you too, in the way you brought healing to those the fire had left wounded."
When Almah finishes he's ready to set out but instead sits quietly while Redeemed and Mital talk with her.
As Gnasher patrols around the encampment, occasionally spooking on of the stray cattle or swine back to the herders, he keeps his keen eyes and nose watching for any obvious sighs of attack. "I am surprised that none of the larger predators were drawn to the fire. We are getting closer to the hunting grounds of the carrion king, it will be good to draw the blood of these traitorous Gnolls." Believing the strays have all been turned back and that there was no imminent threat Gnasher returns to the camp just in time to see the team going into Almah's tent.
Following along behind the rest of the team, Gnasher sits on his haunches eschewing the cushions, not feeling comfortable in such a high humans abode. "Some humans will put up with gnolls seeing them as necessary evil, few want to share their tent with them, so no need to be pushy."
Listening to Redeemers flowery speech and watching the expensive pleasure slave address the lady; Gnasher waits to see what other questions the humans would ask."The slave girl has asked a good question, who are her enemies?" Watching Zagathoth, Gnasher wonders "Why is Gath not speaking more, he seems the natural leader. Of course with his pretty looks and dancing, maybe I misjudged him and he is some other form of pleasure slave I have heard about. What did he say? 'I saw goodness in you too...' is he flirting with the burned one? It matters not, maybe the gnoll-speaker will lead" Gnasher turns to see what questions the rest of the team will ask as he thinks harder about the situation.
Nemeris sat comfortably on one of the larger cushions. It was a comfort he was unused to, having grown used to sitting on the ground when not saddled across the back of a camel. He gazed at he hookah, wishing he hadn't broken his pipe before he set out, before tuning into the conversation.
When Almah finished, Nemeris sat quietly while the others talked, waiting his turn. This "Redeemed" was an interesting fellow. He seemed simple, but doubted the man would be here if he had nothing to offer.
He jumped into the conversation. "Do you believe the goal was to destroy the caravan, or was Eloais the target... or perhaps something of value he was in possession of?" He paused and pointed outside the tent. "We should search the remains of Eloais' wagon, once the embers have cooled."
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"A murder?"
Priscilla stands slowly with intent before pacing around the tent in thought, one hand thoughtful on her chin and the other clasped around the tarot card in her vest.
"How wonderful!"
Priscilla jerks her head suddenly towards Almah, before nodding in realization of her potentially innaprorpiate declaration.
"Urm-With all due respect, of course. Pity about your diviner. Deepest sympathies to his loved ones and all that." Her face solemn with all the sincerity she can muster, she breathes in sharply.
"But our lovely scholar is correct!"
Priscilla ceases her pacing at the mouth of the tent with her arms crossed and faces the group with a poorly hidden smile. "We'll need someone to search the wreckage for clues of how the blaze began. Intentional? Possibly. Suspicious? Absolutely." Her left pointer finger extendeds towards Nemeris."Perhaps you and I could see to it?"
The Countessa turns towards the more attractive members of the group and holds her hands out diplomatically."Now there are bound to be plenty of witnesses, but in my well documented experience, people love attention more than they do the truth, so a discerning ear is required for this sort of work. Not to mention a honeyed word might assist in prying truth from these stubborn caravan folk. Mital? Gath?"
Finishing her statement with a closed fist to her open palm, Priscilla wheels back to Almah. "And now for you Lady Almah; a follow up to Mital's excellent question. Was Eloais truly the only casualty in this unfortunate accident? Is everyone else accounted for? You seem to suspect sabotage however I don't wish to rule out the slow siege theory. Desert raiders picking us off one by one in the dead of night! Burning and kidnapping, as they are want to do! Perhaps...are lovely Gnasher could search the nearby dunes for signs of intruders."
After tapping her cane for a few seconds against the rug covered earth, Priscilla leans slightly towards
Redeemed. She raises a hand as if to touch his broad shoulder, but after an awkward beat, retracts it. "And while I am loath to waste your unrivaled skills of observation my leather clad friend, someone needs to see that body properly buried."
Priscilla's eyes wonder to the frightening man's scarred fists. "On the other hand, considering those burn marks on yours, you may have some...crucial insights into the nature of incineration. Feel free to accompany any one of us."
Priscilla positions herself in the middle of the room near the hookah and lets her new found friends soak in her wisdom. With a hand on her hip and the other palming her cane to the ground, she smiles wryly.
"And of course, all of these are merely simple suggestions to help streamline this endeavor. I mean -it isn't like this is what I do for a living, no?."
The game is afoot! Priscilla thinks to herself, barely containing her elation.
"Ah, this one speak with intelligence, she is cold and calculating, she giggles and smiles what does she know that I do not?" Gnasher nods his head in agreement with Priscilla's observations. "What she does for a living? How very odd, I thought we were Almah's employees to reform a town or some such nonsense, matters not as long as I get to kill traitorous followers of the carrion king."
Responding to Priscilla's directive, Gnasher observes, "When Gnasher circled food, no enemies in sight, if..." he pauses for a moment scratching under his chin for a moment, then continuing "attackers exist, very sneaky was escape." Lifting his lips and lulling his tongue, which resembling a snarl appears to be a gnoll smile, he continues; "Gnasher happy to look carefully again." then turning to Mital and Gath, "If Mital and Gath not get answers, Gnasher help, Gnasher ask questions different way."
turning his attention from the group he looks to Lady Almah, pulling his tongue in his mouth, being as respectable as possible he asks "Lady Almah, one who burned, him have enemies from camp?"
Almah leans back on her cushion, looking pensive. "There is nobody in this caravan that Garavel did not personally vet. I can't imagine one of them moving against me and who I represent. I don't have a suspect in mind."
She turns to Nemeris. "I don't know what the motives might have been. You're welcome to inspect the caravan."
"I will leave you to your task. For now, I've lost a friend and I would like to rest. Please return to me if you find something."
---
"... Perhaps...our lovely Gnasher could search the nearby dunes for signs of intruders."
"The gnoll-speaker, her name is Lady Lacrimosa has asked me to search the dunes for intruders, Lady Almah did not contradict those orders, If that is the chain of command, so far, so be it."Having been dismisses by Lady Almah, Gnasher stands, turning to Lady Almah and bowing then turning to Priscilla, "Gnasher will do as commanded." Then turning to Gath he opens his mouth, pulling his lips back and lulling his tongue, in his snarl-like gnoll smile he adds; "Remember, Gnasher can help get answers." Winking, he turns and leaves the tent.
Gnasher quickly leaves the tent area. Drawing his axe and shield to be prepared, he runs a wide circle around the caravan, keeping his gnoll eyes peeled and sniffing the air for any immediate threat.
After running a wide loop around the caravan and returning to the relative safety of the camp, he puts his weapons away. Then going to the burned out wagon's area he begins to carefully search the area around the Wagon looking and sniffing for anything truly out of the ordinary.
"I would be glad to begin interviewing people," Gath replies to Almah, "Thank you for entrusting us with this vital task, we will endeavor to get to the bottom of the matter quickly."
With a bow, and a charming smile, he turns from Almah to his companions, "Gnasher will search around the outskirts of the camp for any signs of unexpected visitors, or people fleeing while Prascilla and Nemeris search the wreckage... Redeemed, Mital, you are both welcome to join me if you like, or we can split into two groups to speak with people faster."
Finding nothing of interest on your circuit, you return to the ruined wagon. The interior is nothing but sooty ashes and ruined fortune-telling paraphernalia. The charred, skeletal remains of Eloais have not been moved, to preserve the potential crime scene. Remnants of a Harrow deck, dirty and singed, lie spread out around the wagon.
As you cautiously search the area around the fire, you do pick up an odd set of tracks, distinct from the many human footprints that trampled the area during the fire. Dozens of tiny paw prints, like those of a jackal, dart up to and around the wagon.
Mital gives a deep nod to Zagathoth. "I am happy to help you with this task Gath. Perhaps while you speak with our Chaplain I can comfort Lady Almah. It seems that the death of her friend has affected her deeply."
After she has said this she goes to Almah's side, putting to use her years as a companion to help soothe the great lady's sorrow. She has spent many years both comforting her Master after a setback, and her fellow concubines when they had displeased Zaim.
If the gods smile on me, I may be able to get some useful information out of our Mistress, she thinks.
Gnasher lopes across the broken set of hills covered in rocks and cacti that surrounds the encampment not surprised that this second sweep only produces the same arid bareness and same smells of burnt flesh and sweaty stink of fear. Shaking his head as he returns to the camp. 'I have done as I was asked, now I will search the camp'
Focusing on the area around the wagon, Gnasher resists the urge to gnaw on the burnt bones 'Almah would not be happy if I ate her friend, even if he were dead all ready' As he spreads out from the fire, the smell of the fire and burned flesh overpowering everything else but he is able to notice odd small foot prints the size of a jackals. 'those are odd prints I wonder what the significance is.'
As Gnasher pondered the small prints, he catches the smell of gnoll on the wind, overpowering the smell of chard wood and flesh. Turning quickly starring into the darkness 'Should I bark a warning, I saw no gnoll sign, out here I doubt if they are friendly.'
As he stares into the darkness he sees the silhouette of a man, hiding behind the wagon. 'A man, why does a man smell like a gnoll' Barking in gnollish. "რატომ იმალებოდა? ერთ-ერთი, ვინც სუნი, როგორიცაა მონსტრი"